by Derek Fee
Hills stole a car and filled the tank with petrol before driving to the dump that Duff called home. When he knocked on the door, it was opened by the minder Best had sent to babysit Duff. Hills told him to disappear and the guy almost kissed his hand. Babysitting Mad Mickey Duff wasn’t for the fainthearted. When Hills entered the living room, Duff was chilling in an armchair surrounded by half-a-dozen empty cans. The TV in the corner of the room was tuned to a sports channel broadcasting a snooker tournament. He was dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants. Hills had spent the afternoon formulating his plan. He was aware that Duff’s nickname had been earned and that anything that could alert him to an impending problem was likely to have repercussions.
‘We’ve got a small problem.’ Hills cleared an empty pizza box off a chair and sat down. ‘The peelers have found the tart and discovered that you were her latest boyfriend. So now the spotlight is on you. They’re going to autopsy her and God only knows what they’ll find. Davie has decided that you have to lie low for a while.’
‘But I didn’t do nothing.’ Duff was scratching at a sore on his arm.
‘You killed the kid, remember? Then you and I gave his mother a hot shot.’
‘Yeah, but I’m cool. I got the kid to the hospital and there’s nothing to tie us to the overdose.’
Hills leaned forward. It would be useless to explain to Duff that the kid was almost dead when he was dropped at the hospital and that the police weren’t as dumb as most criminals would like to think. ‘It’s not up for discussion. The decision has already been made. Pack a bag, you might be away for a week or so. At least until the peelers get fed up looking for you.’ Duff looked like he was thinking things over. ‘Don’t worry, Davie has arranged everything for you. There’s a TV with a satellite connection, a fridge full of beer and plenty of food, plus you get two hundred a day for sitting on your arse.’
Mickey smiled and started towards the back bedroom. ‘I’ll be right with you.’ He was thinking that even if it only lasted a week he’d be up fourteen hundred quid, for nothing. It was a no-brainer. He packed a gym bag and went back into the living room. Hills was on the phone and he finished the call as soon as Duff entered. Duff wasn’t afraid of many men but Hills was fucking creepy. A shiver ran down his back.
The two men stared at each other and Hills wondered whether Duff suspected that something bad was about to happen. If so, he’d do him right in this room. He stood up and started for the door, closely followed by Duff. A dark blue BMW 520 was sitting outside. Hills moved to the rear of the car and opened the boot. ‘Inside.’
Duff tossed his gym bag into the boot and started for the passenger side.
Hills sighed. ‘No, Mickey, you in the boot.’
‘Fuck that!’
‘Every peeler in Belfast is looking for you. Say someone sees you riding up front in a Beemer and we get stopped. You’ll only be in there for a half-hour and then you’ve got your feet up watching the snooker for the rest of the day.’
Duff thought about it for a few seconds and then clambered into the boot. Luckily it was roomy and someone had taken the trouble to put a blanket down. The only problem was the plastic jerrycan of petrol that constrained his feet. The boot door closed and Duff found himself in the dark. Hills climbed into the driver’s seat, he took a piece of plastic from beneath the seat and put it on the windscreen directly in front of him. Then he put on a flat cap, dark glasses and a scarf. He started the car and headed east in the direction of Holywood. He drove quietly, making sure to respect the speed limits. Eventually he turned off the A2 at Craigdarragh Road and drove towards Helen’s Bay. He made his final turn at Coastguard Avenue and continued almost to the edge of the sea, where he ran off the road onto an empty patch of ground. He picked up a road flare from under the front passenger seat, ignited it and tossed it into the back seat where some straw had been packed. Then he started walking in the direction of a public car park. He didn’t look behind him when he heard the rush of air indicating that fire had taken hold. He was almost at the farm when the car exploded in a ball of flame. He walked across the parking lot at the farm and sat into the passenger seat of a Toyota Land Cruiser. He nodded at the driver, who started the car and drove out of the front gate, heading in the opposite direction to the fire. In the boot of the BMW, Mad Mickey Duff was already dead and burned beyond recognition.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
In the interview room in Armagh PSNI, Wilson and Browne sat across the table from Walter Hanna, who sat stoically staring into space.
‘Mr Hanna, you are still under caution.’ Browne switched on the tape and gave the date, time and names of those present. He turned to Wilson.
Wilson looked directly into Hanna’s eyes. There was something new there that he didn’t recognise. He thought that perhaps it was fear and the feeling was new for Hanna. ‘I’m afraid that we’re going to be here for a while. We’ve informed your wife and told her not to expect you home today.’
Hanna didn’t move a muscle.
‘Would you like to have a solicitor present?’ Wilson asked.
Hanna didn’t speak.
‘I’m afraid I need a reaction for the tape.’
‘No.’
This was not going to be easy. Wilson was dealing with a man who had been interviewed many times for serious crimes and had walked away without being charged. ‘You may remember at our last meeting I asked you where you had been on the night of the thirteenth of September into the morning of the fourteenth. Would you please confirm that you told me that you had some drinks with your son and then went home to bed. And that you didn’t leave the house until morning.’
Hanna didn’t speak.
‘It’s not a new question,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m simply asking you to confirm that’s what you already told me.’
Hanna thought for a few moments. ‘Yes, I had a few drinks and went home to bed.’
‘And, of course, your son and your wife will attest to that.’
‘Yes.’
Things were warming up, Wilson thought. He opened the folder on the table in front of him and showed Hanna a photograph of the area outside Aughnacloy where Kielty had been murdered. ‘Do you know this area?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you there in the early morning of the fourteenth of September?’
‘No.’
So much for things warming up. Wilson produced a photograph of Aiden Keenan and put it on the table. ‘Do you know this man?’
Hanna scarcely looked at the photo. ‘No.’
Wilson pushed the photo closer to Hanna. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes you know him or yes you don’t know him?’
‘Yes, I’m sure I don’t know him.’
‘I have shown Mr Hanna a photograph of Aiden Keenan, who has been identified by PSNI Intelligence and the Garda Síochána as the OC of the mid-Ulster IRA.’
Wilson took another photo from the folder and placed it on the table. It was a still taken from Duane’s film of the encounter in the car park in Benburb. ‘Can you please tell me who the two men shown in this photo are?’
Hanna’s eyes flickered when he saw the photo, but he didn’t speak.
There was silence in the room as Wilson waited for Hanna to respond.
‘I ask you again, Mr Hanna, can you identify for me these two men?’
‘Solicitor,’ Hanna said.
‘I have just shown Mr Hanna a photo of himself and Aiden Keenan sitting together in the car park of the Bottle of Benburb pub.’ He stared at Hanna. ‘Keenan is your sworn enemy. He represents an organisation that wants to unite the island. This is the organisation that you fought tooth and nail for for thirty years. Yet, in this photo, Keenan and yourself are acting like long-lost friends. How do you explain this about-face on both your parts?’
Hanna stared directly ahead. ‘Solicitor.’
‘When did both of you agree to work together in a criminal enterprise that led to the death of Thomas Kielty?
‘Solicitor.’
Wilson put the photos back in the folder, closed it and looked at Browne.
‘Interview suspended at,’ Browne checked his watch, ‘fourteen fifteen.’ He switched off the tape.
Wilson stood up. ‘In case you’re wondering, we do have a tape of your conversation with Keenan.’ For the first time, he saw despair in Hanna’s eyes. As he and Browne left the room, he said beneath his breath but loud enough for Hanna to hear. ‘So much for the wolf, let’s see what the cub has to offer.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Reid had been about to make the first incision in the body of Gillian McAuley when the strains of The A-Team theme came from Harry Graham’s pocket. Graham was standing beside her in the autopsy room at the Royal Victoria and had already suited up and steeled himself for what was ahead. The call was from Wilson, asking him to prepare the search warrant for the Hannas’ house and farm. ‘Sorry, Professor, I’m required urgently at the station. Can you let me have the autopsy result by e-mail?’ He didn’t wait to receive Reid’s withering reply.
An hour later, Graham was standing in Davis’s office with the request for a search warrant in his hand. It was the first time he had been one on one with the new chief superintendent.
‘Sit down DC Graham.’ Davis indicated the chair facing her desk.
Graham complied and laid the search warrant on the desk. Graham’s previous two bosses had been men so a woman boss was a novelty. He’d seen her photo on the noticeboard when she had been appointed but she looked better in the flesh. She was a fine-looking woman but a bit severe for his taste.
Davis saw the way that Graham was looking at her. God but they were all the same. Despite indications to the contrary, policing was still a man’s world. She pulled the paper towards her and read it carefully. ‘Not the first search warrant you’ve prepared I take it.’
‘No, Ma’am.’ Graham knew that the boss sometimes kept things from the hierarchy and he had no desire to put his foot in it. His instructions were simply to prepare the search warrant for Davis’s signature and then arrange for the search to begin at five o’clock in the evening.
‘I take it that you’ve been working with Superintendent Wilson for quite a long time.’ Although she had her pen in her hand, she still hadn’t signed the document.
‘Almost eight years.’ Graham wished that she would just put her name on the paper and allow him to get on with the job. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen.
‘I have written a performance report on Superintendent Wilson and the HR Department insists on what they call a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree appraisal. That means not only me and his peers, but also those who work for him should be part of the process. What’s your opinion of the superintendent as a boss?’ She seemed to be ignoring the warrant.
Graham felt on safe ground. ‘Probably the best copper I’ve ever worked with.’
‘And you trust him?’
Graham was a little taken aback. Of course he trusted the boss. Where was this bullshit going? ‘I’d follow him into a burning building.’
‘There are some people who think that his impulses send him in the wrong direction.’
‘Then they’ve never worked with him. I’ve never known the boss to be wrong. He’s not one of those guys who rush at a problem. He considers everything before he acts.’
‘Then if you were me, you would immediately sign this search warrant and trust that he had got it right?’ She was impressed at the level of confidence Wilson’s staff had in him.
‘In a heartbeat.’
When she had run Wilson’s request past Grigg earlier in the day, he had advised her to tread carefully, which was hierarchy-speak for don’t do it. Wilson had a reputation for hanging his superiors out to dry, but he also had a reputation for solving murder cases. Everything in life is a gamble. She signed the search warrant and passed it to Graham. She hoped that she hadn’t just signed herself out of a job.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The good news from Graham that the search warrant had been signed was balanced by the bad news from Gibson that Aiden Keenan couldn’t be found. Neither his wife nor Gerry O’Grady had any idea where the IRA man was. Wilson texted Duane: If you have Keenan, I need him. Bring him back. He signalled for Browne to follow him into Henry Hanna’s interview room.
Henry was pacing the floor as they entered the room. He had been interviewed before but not by senior officers. Wilson wondered whether, if he had been left much longer, he might have worn a track in the floor from walking back and forth. Wilson and Browne sat down at the table.
‘Sit down, Henry,’ Wilson said and waited until the young man sat in the chair facing them. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wilson and this is Detective Sergeant Browne. This is an official interview and will be recorded by this machine.’ Wilson indicated the recording device at the edge of the table closest to Browne. ‘You have already been cautioned. Are you ready to begin?’
Hanna nodded and Browne did the preamble.
Wilson placed the folder on the table. ‘Can you tell us where you were on the night of the thirteenth of September and the early hours of the fourteenth?’
‘I had a few drinks with my father in Spencer’s in Moy and then we went home. My father went to bed and I watched TV for a while and then went to bed.’
Wilson took out the photo of the area where Thomas Kielty had been killed and put it on the table. ‘Do you know this area?’
Hanna was sweating. ‘I’ve been past there.’
‘You weren’t there in the early hours of the fourteenth of September?’
‘No.’
Wilson removed the photo of Keenan and put it on the table. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘No.’
Wilson suspected that the son had been groomed by the father to keep his answers short. It was what it was and he would just have to plod ahead as he had planned. He explained who Keenan was and what position he held in the IRA. He then put the photo of Walter Hanna and Keenan on the table. ‘Our intelligence says that your father is the head of the UVF in mid-Ulster.’
Hanna didn’t answer but sat up straighter.
‘What do you think your father is doing colluding with the OC of the mid-Ulster IRA?’
Hanna leaned across the table. ‘My father is a loyal Ulsterman, unlike both of you. He’s proved himself plenty of times.’
Wilson bundled up the photos and put them back in the file. ‘Your father is a common criminal who may be responsible for turning you into one as well. I’m holding you and your father for twenty-four hours, after which I may apply for a twelve-hour extension. Neither you nor your father is leaving here until I have the man who murdered Thomas Kielty.’
‘I want a solicitor,’ Hanna said.
‘Do you have one in mind?’
Hanna shook his head.
‘For the tape,’ Browne said. ‘Mr Hanna shook his head.’
‘One will be provided.’ Wilson looked at Browne, who terminated the interview and switched off the tape.
Gibson was waiting when they exited the interview room. ‘I saw the interview with Walter Hanna and I was just watching the interview with Henry. Looks like both of them have gone the solicitor route and we still don’t have concrete proof that they were there.’
Wilson tapped Gibson on the chest with the file. ‘It’s not over until it’s over.’ They walked together towards the CID office. ‘Do you have any plans for this evening?’ Wilson asked as they stood at the door of Gibson’s office.
‘Not really, why?’ Wilson was acting way too friendly.
‘I need you to drive me somewhere about four thirty.’
‘Anywhere special?’
‘I don’t know yet. Just be around when I knock on your door.’
Wilson and Browne walked along the corridor towards the reception area. Browne waited until there was no one around them before asking, ‘What’s going on, Boss?’
Wilson walked him out of recep
tion and into the car park. ‘There are a couple of things I’ve been keeping to myself.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Harry Graham was in the briefing room of the station. Seated in front of him were a squad of uniforms and a team of Forensic officers. He was just completing his briefing when the desk sergeant interrupted and told him that he was wanted. They were scheduled to leave in ten minutes for Hanna’s farmhouse and he needed this diversion like he needed a hole in the head. When he entered the reception area, the desk sergeant passed him the phone.
‘DC Graham,’ he said, just as a flood of speech came over the line. ‘Take it slowly. What’s your name?’
The voice on the line was that of a young man in a high state of excitement. ‘PC Francis Cole, we’ve just found a burned-out car on the edge of the sea at Helen’s Bay.’
Graham didn’t need this. ‘This is the Murder Squad at Tennent Street. Call it in to your own station. We don’t deal with burned-out cars.’
‘But there’s a body in the boot,’ Cole continued.
‘Cordon off the area and for God’s sake don’t trample all over the place.’ He handed the phone back to the desk sergeant. ‘Take the particulars and call DC Davidson on his mobile. Tell him everyone else is busy.’ He turned back towards the briefing room in time to see the two squads emerging and heading for the parking lot. He joined them. Holy God, he thought, it’s raining bodies.
Wilson learned that Graham and the units had left Belfast at the same time as he heard the news concerning the burned-out car in Helen’s Bay. He knew that Davidson would soon have things under control at the site of the burned-out vehicle and his priority was the raid on Hanna’s farm. Graham would arrive in approximately an hour and it would take Wilson twenty minutes. He decided he’d leave in half an hour and rendezvous with Graham on the side road leading to the farm. Gibson had arranged food for the Hanna father and son. It was going to be a long evening. His mobile pinged and he looked at the message. Duane had picked up Keenan and he would be delivered to the PSNI in Armagh. If the search of Hanna’s farm panned out, the whole case would be resolved before the night was out.