Death on the Line: A Northern Irish Noir Thriller (Wilson Book 7)

by Derek Fee

  The two PSNI groups met and progressed to the farmhouse. Wilson, accompanied by Gibson and Browne, went to the house and knocked on the door. After a short pause, the door was opened by Mrs Hanna, still dressed in her housecoat. ‘I’m sorry,’ Wilson handed her the search warrant.

  She looked at the paper and then at the group of officers directly behind Wilson. Her face hardened as she read the warrant. ‘You have some bloody nerve. You have my husband and son in prison and you come here to disturb an old woman.’

  Wilson guessed that there would be no offer of tea and scones this time. ‘We’ll try to do as little damage as possible, but you can help us by producing all the firearms in the house.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She spat the words out.

  Wilson stood aside. ‘Then I have to ask you to leave. One of the officers will keep you company.’

  She left the house reluctantly. ‘There was a time we could depend on the RUC but now you people are worse than the taigs.’ She spat on the ground at Wilson’s feet. ‘I want to call my son, the one you don’t have in prison.’

  Wilson nodded at Graham who handed Mrs Hanna his mobile phone and assigned a uniformed officer to stay with her in the yard.

  ‘You know what we’re looking for,’ Wilson said as the officers in their plastic overalls entered the house. He motioned to Gibson and Browne to follow him as he headed for the shed to the side of the house. ‘Whoever shot Kielty and McDevitt was a very useful shot. It was dark and the only light he had was the full moon that night. That means that he had a lot of practise with the weapon. Since there’s no firing range anywhere near here, he must have done his practising on the farm. If he did, there are going to be spent cartridges and perhaps even a spent bullet or two. Let’s spread out and move round the periphery of the house and sheds.’

  Wilson didn’t like firearms very much. As the only armed police force in the United Kingdom, every PSNI officer had to undergo firearms training. A gun was as much a part of the uniform as the cap and badge. In order to stay firearms qualified, Wilson was obliged to visit the PSNI range periodically. Walking around the sheds, he was surveying the ground and asking himself where he would choose as a firing range. The first place that he concentred on was the shed where he had seen the younger Hanna the day they had visited the farm to question his father. He entered the shed. It was obviously a storage area for the farm. The tools were stacked neatly on the walls and cans were placed on shelving units alongside spare parts for various farm machines. There was no sign of an impromptu shooting range. He moved cans and tools aside in search of holes in the inner fabric of the shed. There was nothing. Walter Hanna was a murderer who had managed to evade the law, he hadn’t done that by leaving evidence in plain sight.

  Gibson had moved in the opposite direction to Wilson. He was aware that somehow Hanna’s house of cards was about to come tumbling down and his only hope was that Hanna wouldn’t try to bring him down as well. After all, what had he done? Given Hanna information on the direction of the initial investigation. Some smart bastard might construe it as perverting the course of justice, which would mean losing his job and there might be some prison time involved as well. He should have known to keep things on the level when a bigwig like Wilson was involved. It would all hinge on what they would be able to prove. But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today’s was trying to help Wilson skewer Hanna.

  Wilson exited from the shed and looked round. Hanna had a history with guns from his days in the UDR. He was also the central character in the local UVF, rising to the top of that organisation. He wouldn’t have set up a shooting range in a shed. He would have gone for something where he could blast away. Wilson walked around the rear of the house and saw a copse almost a hundred metres behind the house. If he was setting up a home shooting range, that’s where he would locate it. He walked across the field separating the house from the wood and entered the copse. Several trees had been logged, creating a five metre wide and twenty metre long clearing. At the end of the clearing a mound of earth had been built up into a berm. In front of the berm, railway sleepers had been used to create a U-shaped enclosure that would ultimately hold a target. He had found his shooting range. Now all Forensic had to do was find some spent cartridges or bullets that they could match with the ones taken from Kielty and McDevitt.

  Wilson walked back to the house in time to see Graham exiting the front door holding a large evidence bag in his right hand. Inside the bag was a pair of binoculars. Graham nodded at him as he walked towards one of the Land Rovers where evidence from the house was being loaded. Wilson assumed that they had found McDevitt’s Night Owl Optics. He walked to the centre of the farmyard and called Graham over. He made sure that Mrs Hanna was within hearing range. ‘There’s a homemade shooting range at the rear of the house. Get some of the Forensic guys over there and find me some nine-millimetre parabellums that we can match to the slugs that killed Kielty. I want the rest of the team to tear that house to pieces. There’s a gun, or guns, in there somewhere and I want them. Lift every floorboard if you have to and search for cavities in the walls. I don’t care if you destroy the fucking place, just find me the gun.’

  Wilson could see the anger on Mrs Hanna’s face at the thought of her house being wrecked. That look was quickly replaced with one of defiance. If they found the gun, it was going to be without her help. Graham immediately went into the house and repeated Wilson’s order. Within minutes they could hear the sound of floorboards being lifted. Wilson looked over and saw tears in Mrs Hanna’s eyes. In that moment he was sorry for what they were doing to her, but they were doing it because her husband and son were murderers and criminals. He understood her loyalty and hoped that she also understood that he was simply doing his job. He walked round the farmyard until he heard a shout from inside and a request for a firearms officer. He waited several minutes before an officer exited the house carrying a rifle wrapped in plastic sheeting.

  The officer walked immediately to Wilson and showed him the firearm. ‘An L1A1 SLR, sir.’

  Wilson looked at the weapon, which appeared to have been kept in very good condition. ‘Give us the serial number as soon as possible.’

  The officer nodded and proceeded to place the rifle in a Land Rover.

  Wilson presumed that the serial number would match with a weapon that had once been ‘lost’ from one of the UDR arsenals. He looked at his watch. They were one hour into the search and they had already turned up what might be vital evidence in the Kielty case, and a rifle that might have been used in the commission of a crime. Not bad, but he wanted the nine-millimetre pistol. His phone rang, it was Reid. She’d been called out to the burned-out car and didn’t know when she’d be free. He told her where he was and that he would be late returning to Belfast. He promised to phone her whatever the situation.

  There was another call for the firearms officer and Wilson waited anxiously for the man to exit the house. When he did, Wilson tried not to let his disappointment show because the officer was holding a Sterling machine gun wrapped in plastic. Wilson nodded at him and the weapon was also stowed in the rear of the Land Rover. Probably another ‘liberated’ weapon, he thought. He and Browne were redundant at the search. Graham was capable of managing the search teams and Wilson was anxious to get back to Belfast to locate the invoice that would identify the binoculars as having been bought by McDevitt. He walked across to Mrs Hanna. “They’re going to find it and in the process give you a month’s work cleaning up. Why not tell us where the Browning is? We know that your husband held on to it.’

  She spat into his face.

  Wilson wiped the spittle off his face with a handkerchief and went inside the house. The place was a shambles. The couch on which he and Gibson had sat during their previous visit had been turned upside down and the webbing removed. Drawers had been emptied, their contents lying in piles around the room. A computer wrapped in plastic ready for transport sat on the floor. A police search was not a pleasant experience and was best avoid
ed, as the lady of the house was about to find out.

  Graham came downstairs holding a small plastic bag in his hand. ‘Looks like we found young Henry’s stash.’ He waved the bag and laughed. ‘Not enough to bang him up for though.’

  ‘Rory and I are for the off,’ Wilson said. ‘You stay here with DS Gibson until the place is cleared. Make sure they search everywhere. The gun is here somewhere.’

  ‘We’re not leaving without it, Boss. Any news from Peter?’

  ‘Not so far. Let me know when you find that damn gun.’

  Wilson went outside and found Gibson talking to the firearms officer at one of the Land Rovers. He walked over to them. ‘DS Gibson, a word.’

  They moved away to the side of the farmyard. ‘I’m going to interview the Hannas first thing tomorrow morning. I don’t want any delays. I want to be in a position to charge them before the twenty-four hours is up. So make sure the solicitors are present. Browne and I are heading back to Belfast. Have the evidence we’ve collected booked in to Armagh.’

  ‘Yes, Boss, anything else?’

  Wilson was wondering whether he had misjudged Gibson. He didn’t think so. Trust was still a little way off.

  He signalled to Browne and they moved off in the direction of their car. His mobile indicated the arrival of a message. It was from Duane: The package has been delivered. Wilson immediately called Armagh and arranged with the desk sergeant to have Keenan cautioned and placed in a cell. He would be interviewed tomorrow along with the Hannas. With a bit of luck the case would be out of Wilson’s hands by tomorrow evening. He and his men would have done their job. The PPS could deal with ensuring that justice was served.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Peter Davidson thought that he had seen pretty much everything in his thirty years as a policeman. He’d had the great misfortune to join the police in 1988 while the madness was still in full flow. He’d seen things then which he thought were the extreme in man’s cruelty to man. But the sight that greeted him at Helen’s Bay was up there with the worst. He’d arrived at the same time as the Forensic team and even the wizened chief of the team was shocked at the sight. The man in the boot of the burned-out BMW had been fried to a crisp. The body was in the foetal position and black from head to toe. If you looked carefully, you could still see small eddies of smoke where what was left of the flesh still smouldered. Davidson walked to the edge of the sea and looked across at the town of Carrickfergus on the other side of the lough. The burning car must have been visible for miles around. He’d already called in the licence plate of the Beemer and learned that it had been stolen earlier in the day in Belfast. He walked back and looked at the shrunken body in the boot. The pathologist wouldn’t have much difficulty determining the cause of death. He wondered whether the poor bastard had been dead before they had fired the car. He hoped so. If not, there was some evil bastard, or bastards, out there. He turned round when he heard the sound of a car approaching and smiled when he saw it was Wilson’s girlfriend. Davidson liked her. She was a looker and a brainbox as well. Why hadn’t he met someone like that before he met the first Mrs Davidson? Well, that was all water under the bridge. He watched Reid pull on her plastic oversuit. Some men have all the luck, he thought.

  Reid strode over to the car and stood beside Davidson. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘You tell me. The local guys were called out to a vehicle on fire. When the car cooled down, the first responders got a smell of fresh barbeque and decided to open the boot. They got a bit more than they bargained for.’ He nodded to where there were two mounds of vomit. ‘Big girl’s blouses the pair of them, they’re not making them like they used to.’

  Reid moved forward and examined the corpse in the boot of the car. There was still a strong smell of petrol and charred flesh. The sight of the body was not for the squeamish. The intensity of the fire had done a considerable amount of damage but the corpse was still recognisable as a human. People are always astonished at exactly how much it takes to render a body to ashes. It would be a hell of a job trying to identify the corpse. Most of the flesh had been burned from the body and the jaw and teeth had been totally destroyed. It would be a job extracting DNA from what was left. Reid turned round and found the chief of the Forensic team standing behind her. ‘I’d like to get the body out as intact as possible.’

  ‘It’s going to take time,’ the Forensic chief said. ‘And I’m afraid I’m not hopeful about the outcome. As soon as we start trying to remove the body it’s going to fall to pieces. This isn’t the first burned body I’ve dealt with but it’s certainly the worst case I’ve seen. All I can say is that we’ll do our best.’

  ‘Do you think the poor bugger was dead before the fire started?’ Davidson asked.

  Both Reid and the Forensic man stared at him. ‘I won’t know until I get the body on the table.’ If not, she thought, it was one hell of a way to go. ‘There’s nothing more I can do here.’ She turned to the chief of the Forensic team. ‘Take as many photos as possible and do your best to give me something that I can work with.’

  She walked back to her car and slowly removed her plastic oversuit. Death was an everyday event for her. It was her stock-in-trade. But it was different when it struck close to home. The previous evening she had cradled her mother’s head in her arms when she had learned of her impending demise. Professional detachment was reserved for people she didn’t know. She stowed her suit and bag in the boot of her car then sat behind the wheel. She had called her brother in Australia with the news and had received the expected response. His mother was already dead for him. He didn’t want to be informed when the day came. Her father was unavailable when she called. Earlier there had been tears when she’d seen her mother off at Belfast International. It was strange that in the end the fact that the woman who had borne her was about to die outweighed the pain she had felt at her mother’s rejection. Mistakes had been made that had shaped people’s lives, but they were now in the past. Nobody was supposed to die alone.

  She thought about the young woman whose body she had autopsied that afternoon. During the autopsy, she had to put from her mind the possible role the woman had played in the death of her son. But professional detachment only went so far. She remembered the small under-nourished and battered body of the boy. An overdose was an easy way out. Except she wasn’t totally sure that it was a suicide, or even an accidental overdose. She would need to know which was the woman’s dominant hand before she could make a call on that. She desperately needed to talk to Wilson, but he was off gallivanting in the Tyrone countryside, tearing a house apart. She turned the key and started the motor. Some people have all the fun.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Wilson spent most of the trip back to Belfast making and receiving phone calls. The search was still underway at Hanna’s farm and the charred body was in the process of being removed with great care from the boot of the burned-out BMW. He had dropped Browne off at the station with instructions to brief the chief superintendent on both the search and the evolving situation in Helen’s Bay. He then drove to McDevitt’s house and let himself in. There was a large stack of mail on the floor, which he gathered up and placed on the hall table. He went immediately into the study and sat at McDevitt’s desk. He opened the drawer and removed the file labelled ‘Accounts’. McDevitt’s filing was a microcosm of the man. As soon as he opened the file, dozens of pieces of paper tumbled across the desk. Wilson looked down at receipts of every shape and size and related to every subject under the sun. At this point, he was praying that McDevitt was as good as his word. He sifted slowly through the slips of paper, replacing each one already examined into the file. His eureka moment came five minutes after he began when he looked down at the bill for a pair of Night Owl Optics binoculars from an army-surplus store off Donegall Square. There on the bill was the magic serial number that he already knew would correspond with the serial number on the binoculars taken from the Hannas’ house. He placed the bill carefully in his wallet and returne
d the rest to the folder and replaced the folder in the drawer.

  It had been a long but productive day. The three men that he knew of who had been responsible for the death of Thomas Kielty would be charged with that crime tomorrow, others would follow. He was about to call Reid to let her know that he was free when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Graham. He answered. ‘Harry, slow down, one word at a time.’

  ‘We found it, Boss, a Browning nine-millimetre. The clever bastard had hidden it behind a false double electric socket in his bedroom. Do you want us to continue searching?’

  ‘Good work, Harry, I knew if it was there that you’d find it. Wind it down. Try to clean up the place a bit before you leave. You can book the gun and the other weapons in at Armagh on your way back.’

  ‘Thanks, Boss. I suppose a drink for the search teams wouldn’t be out of order.’

  ‘The bill’s mine and you’ll have some overtime coming on this one.’ Davis might fight him on that but he’d win in the end. It was too much of a result for her to be churlish.

  He phoned Davis at her office and gave her the news. ‘You can sleep soundly tonight,’ he said when he was finished. ‘You took the risk and it paid off.’

  ‘This time yes, but I’m afraid that my luck with you is going to run out some day. And then it won’t be all smiley faces.’

  ‘We can only live in the now. The team has produced a hell of a result. I’ll go through the motions with the Hannas and Keenan in Armagh tomorrow, but I reckon that by lunchtime they’ll be charged. It’s all over bar the shouting and there’ll be plenty of that. There’ll also be a lot of back slapping, so you’d better be prepared. Wear your stiffest tunic, if you want to spare your back.’