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

by Derek Fee

  She laughed. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, Ian.’

  ‘The result of good solid police work.’ What bullshit, he thought. He’d known from the start who the culprits were. It had only been a matter of luck to nail them. If McDevitt hadn’t suddenly splashed the cash on an expensive pair of binoculars, and if Henry Hanna hadn’t felt the urge to remove them from the scene, they probably would have gotten away with it.

  ‘I think I know why they dislike you so much.’ There was a softness in her voice.

  ‘And you’re going to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t think that I have to. Have a good evening, Ian.’

  ‘Good evening, Ma’am.’ He could have offered to go to the station and have a celebration drink with her, but he didn’t. She was learning fast how to massage those who required it. When she had perfected that skill, she would move on to master skewering her underlings. It didn’t mean that she was a bad person. It just meant that she had learned to play the game by the rules the hierarchy set.

  Wilson had just closed his phone when it pinged indicating the arrival of a message. He opened it, anticipating Reid as the sender. Instead, he saw Duane’s name at the top. The message as usual was short: Celebration drink? He wasn’t prepared for an evening with Duane. He texted back one of the shortest words in the English language.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  After supervising the removal of the corpse from the BMW, Reid had to decide whether to go back to the Royal or to call it a day. She had chosen the Royal. Her emotions had been on a rollercoaster since she’d learned of her mother’s diagnosis. Life was short. Her biological clock was rapidly approaching twelve and she had rejected the idea of motherhood as she progressed in her field and failed to meet Prince Charming. Then she’d met Ian Wilson. It was supposed to be a fling, just some good times spent in each other’s company and as much sex as they both could handle. Working with death each day makes one want to grasp as much of life as possible. When she was younger she’d spent hours in the shower after a day of slicing up dead bodies and handling organs that no longer worked.

  Since the previous evening, she had been giving more thought to where things were going with Wilson. She seemed to be on automatic pilot. Her days were spent carrying out post-mortems or giving lectures, while she spent the evening alone in her flat or with Wilson. Her life resembled a model train that runs in a circle on the same piece of track past the same scenes. Her phone beeped. She looked at the rectangular box in the centre of the screen. At the top was the name ‘Ian’ and directly beneath was the message: Home, 15 minutes, I’ll bring Chinese. She thought for a few seconds then headed for the car park. Was it time to get off the train or to commit to staying on-board?

  Rory Browne received a call from ACC Nicholson at Castlereagh just as he left the chief superintendent’s office. A half-hour later he was sitting in Nicholson’s office, staring into the stern face of the man he assumed owned him. ‘Assumed’ because he wasn’t sure that Nicholson was definitely aware of his sexual orientation. He felt that the ACC had implied as much though when he had requested him to spy on Wilson.

  ‘DS Browne,’ the ACC drew out the name. ‘You are a source of disappointment to me. I have been expecting you to report to me on Wilson’s activities on a regular basis, but as of now, I have received nothing.’ Nicholson had received that day an e-mail from Deputy Chief Constable Jennings complaining that he was not being kept sufficiently abreast of what Wilson was up to. He was aware that the ruling classes were pushing for the return of the former deputy chief constable, and it was only a matter of time before they were successful. Every period of rehabilitation must come to an end.

  ‘I can’t report on what’s not there.’ The angst that Vinny had caused him over the past few days had stiffened his resolve to stand up to Nicholson. If they wanted to push him out of the job, then so be it. ‘So far Detective Superintendent Wilson has followed procedure to the hilt.’

  Nicholson looked at Browne, another convert to the myth of Ian Wilson. He thought about the envelope in his drawer and the photos contained therein. They made him sick. He toyed with the idea of putting them on the table and wondered if Browne would be so defiant while he looked over pictures of him penetrating his effeminate boyfriend. But the photos had been taken without authorisation and in some quarters would be seen as material gathered in a blackmail scheme. Best to keep what he knew to himself. Men like Browne shouldn’t be policemen. If it were up to him, he would turn the clock back to when homosexuals were reviled. ‘I am of a mind to give you one more chance but only on condition that you bring me something soon that can be used against Wilson.’

  Peter Davidson had showered and drank a large whiskey. He could have returned to his small flat but instead he drove to Hillsborough and parked outside Irene Carlisle’s house. What the hell was he thinking? Why would a woman like her have any interest in a wreck like him. He’d been there and done that and had earned the T-shirt. Maybe he’d picked up the signals wrong. And what about the boss? He’d be furious if he found out. A seasoned detective was not supposed to become involved with the widow of a man whose death he was investigating. He put his fingers on the ignition key but didn’t turn it. He looked at himself in the driving mirror. He didn’t look so bad for an old wreck. You only live once, he thought, as he removed the key from the ignition and got out of the car. He tried to put on his most confident air as he walked up the driveway and pushed the doorbell.

  Wilson sat on the couch in his apartment. He stared out through the picture window at the lights of Belfast and sipped his final Jameson. On his lap he could feel the head of the sleeping Reid. They had talked, mainly about her mother, over their Chinese takeaway. He didn’t like to see her suffer so much emotionally. She had tried to reach her father but he was apparently in some part of Zambia, an enormous country where there was no mobile service in the bush. She wasn’t even sure that he would be interested. He, like his son, had moved on and wasn’t prepared to forgive and forget. He thought of his own mother in her small cottage in Nova Scotia. Some day he would have to face the same issue that Reid was facing. He wondered whether he would be wracked with guilt when the time came. It was no wonder that all the great dramas were written about familial relationships. His thoughts moved on to the Hannas. He was concerned for the elderly woman who was facing life without her husband at home. Nothing was ever going to be the same for her. A life of stability was about to disappear in a puff of smoke. Wilson couldn’t deny his own part in that change, but he was not the principal actor. He looked down at Reid. She looked so beautiful as she slept; it would be a pity to wake her and take her to bed. He felt something big was coming. He had no idea what it was, but change was in the air.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Armagh station was buzzing when Wilson arrived at nine a.m. He had told O’Neill to remain in Belfast and had instructed Armagh to dismantle the incident room in Aughnacloy. He had a perfunctory meeting with the Armagh chief superintendent at which he indicated that the case should be wrapped up by lunchtime. He then had to decide on the order in which he was going to interview the men currently on charge. It was imperative that he put all three in the dock. With that in mind he decided to start with Henry Hanna and to conduct the interview in the company of DS Gibson.

  Henry looked like he had spent a restless night. It wasn’t just the fact that he was unshaven and dishevelled, but his eyes were red-rimmed and the nervous ticks that he had exhibited the previous day were present on a larger scale. Wilson entered the interview room carrying a large evidence bag containing the Night Owl binoculars, which he placed on the table. He stared at Hanna’s solicitor, who was so young that Wilson assumed he might be just out of college. He didn’t know which man at the other side of the table was the more nervous. He sat down with Gibson at his side. ‘Henry, I want you to understand that you are still under caution.’ He looked sideways at Gibson. ‘Please.’

  Gibson gave the usual preamble and the young solici
tor had to give his name twice, the first attempt being inaudible to those in the room.

  Wilson began, ‘Henry, is it still your contention that you were not present in Aughnacloy at or about three o’clock in the morning of the fourteenth of September? And is it further your contention that you were never present in the field where Thomas Kielty and Jock McDevitt were shot?’

  Hanna couldn’t take his eyes off the bag containing the binoculars. ‘No comment.’ Hanna had received a message from his father through one of the officers at the station. He was to sing dumb.

  Wilson held up the plastic bag containing the binoculars. Hanna’s eyes followed the movement. ‘This is a pair of binoculars that was found in your room at your parents’ house. Do you recognise these binoculars?’

  ‘No comment.’ Sweat was beginning to roll down the side of Hanna’s face.

  ‘Are these binoculars yours?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘No comment.’ The tone was more flat. Defiance was fading.

  Wilson produced a small evidence bag with an invoice inside. He placed it on the table. ‘This is the sales invoice for a pair of Night Owl binoculars made out to Jock McDevitt. The serial number on the invoice matches that on these binoculars. Mr McDevitt claims that he had these binoculars with him the night he was shot. Can you explain to me how these binoculars got from the field where Thomas Kielty and Jock McDevitt were shot to your room?’

  Hanna looked at his solicitor for assistance, but there was none coming from that quarter. ‘No comment.’ This time the words were drawn out and Hanna slumped across the table.

  ‘Can we take a break while my client composes himself?’ the solicitor asked.

  There was a knock on the door, a police officer entered and handed Wilson a plastic evidence bag containing a Browning nine-millimetre pistol. Wilson had choreographed this little piece of theatre before he entered the interview room.

  Hanna raised his head and looked up as the bag was passed to Wilson. He leaned back slowly from the table.

  ‘May we continue?’ Wilson asked.

  The solicitor looked at Hanna, who nodded.

  ‘I am showing Mr Hanna a Browning nine-millimetre pistol, which was found behind a false electrical socket in his parents’ bedroom. Do you recognise this gun?’

  Hanna was about to say no comment but felt it was useless. Instead he nodded.

  ‘For the tape please,’ Gibson said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have lifted a set of fingerprints from the handle of this gun. Will those be your fingerprints?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘We have taken a second set of prints from the gun. Will those prints belong to your father?’

  Hanna jumped out of his seat. ‘My father wasn’t there. I’m the only one to blame. I shot Thomas Kielty and Jock McDevitt. You have your man. Now let my father go.’

  If only life were so simple, Wilson thought. ‘Please remain standing Mr Hanna.’ He looked at Gibson.

  Gibson stood facing Hanna. ‘Henry Hanna, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Thomas Kielty and the attempted murder of Jock McDevitt. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Wilson waited while Gibson closed the proceedings. Hanna sat with his head in his hands.

  ‘Bring him to the desk sergeant.’ Wilson sighed and shook his head. The real culprit was sitting in one of the other interview rooms. Walter Hanna was a murderer who walked because of the circumstances of the time. Creating that myth had led his son into the position he found himself in. He stood up and went outside. He had done his job.

  Browne was waiting when he exited. He was surprised when Wilson didn’t look pleased. ‘You got him.’

  ‘I never like to see a young man go down.’ He was going to nail the elder Hanna as well. How the poor woman back in Moy was going to manage a farm on her own he didn’t know, but it wasn’t his problem.

  ‘Let’s see what Mr Keenan has to say. You’re with me on this one, Rory.’ They went to the second interview room, entered and sat facing Keenan and O’Grady. They both looked ready for the fight.

  Browne did the preliminaries. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Wilson looked at Keenan. ‘You remember I told you about the prisoner’s dilemma. Well that ship has sailed. I’ve just arrested Henry Hanna for the murder of Thomas Kielty and the attempted murder of Jock McDevitt.’

  ‘Then I suppose my client is now free to leave,’ O’Grady said.

  Wilson gave a wry smile. He looked directly at O’Grady. ‘I really don’t think so. You see the murder was committed as part of a criminal conspiracy. All those involved in the conspiracy can therefore be considered to be equally guilty of the murder. I assume you have already explained this to your client.’

  The look on Keenan’s face left no doubt that this was not the case. There was a quick whispered conference between O’Grady and his client.

  ‘You intend to prosecute more individuals for a murder where you have already arrested the culprit?’ O’Grady said.

  ‘I intend to prosecute everyone who was there that night in Aughnacloy. The interviews carried out with Henry Hanna to date have centred on the murder and attempted murder. I intend to have further interviews with him at which the criminal conspiracy will be the subject.’

  Keenan and O’Grady held another whispered conference. ‘My client wonders whether there is some possibility of him assisting the prosecution in this case.’

  ‘And what would he expect in return?’

  O’Grady lifted his arms out wide. ‘That could be discussed with the PPS.’

  ‘So you wish to continue this discussion with someone from the DPP’s office?’

  ‘I do,’ O’Grady said.

  ‘And at this point I am not agreeable to this request.’ Wilson had anticipated this move and had requested a barrister from the PPS to be present in the station. ‘However, I would be prepared if Mr Keenan would show good faith.’

  ‘What sort of good faith did you have in mind?’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t want to allow Mr Keenan to make a deal without him giving me something now.’

  ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’

  ‘Mr Keenan should admit that he was present in Aughnacloy in the early morning at the site of the murder of Thomas Kielty and the attempted murder of Jock McDevitt and that he was there in the company of Walter Hanna.’

  O’Grady had been around long enough to see what Wilson was angling for. He held another whispered conference with Keenan. ‘So you simply want Mr Keenan to state that he was at the site of the murder in the early hours of September fourteenth and that he was in the company of Walter Hanna.’

  ‘For the moment, yes. I will, of course, also take great interest in his dealings with the PPS. For the tape please, Mr Keenan.’

  Keenan leaned across the table. ‘I was present in the early hours of fourteenth September at the site where Thomas Kielty was murdered and an attempt was made on the life of Jock McDevitt, and I was with Walter Hanna at that time.’ He looked up at Wilson like a schoolboy who had just recited his poetry and sought his teacher’s approval.

  Wilson nodded, then turned to Browne. ‘Rory, please.’

  Browne stood up. ‘Please stand up, Mr Keenan.’

  Keenan looked at his solicitor, who nodded.

  Browne proceeded to arrest Keenan. As soon as he was finished, he closed the interview and switched off the tape recorder. He took out one tape and put it in his pocket and handed its twin to O’Grady, who placed it in his briefcase.

  Wilson stood. ‘Before you go, Mr Keenan, I’d be grateful if you’d satisfy my curiosity.’

  Keenan smiled. ‘If I can.’

  ‘Hanna’s a former UDR sergeant and leader of the local UVF. He’s probably been involved in murdering Catholics and prominent local Republicans. You’re allegedly the commander of the local IRA. You’re suppos
ed to be sworn enemies. How the hell did you ever start working together?’

  Keenan looked at O’Grady then turned to Wilson. ‘This united Ireland stuff is all a load of guff. Talk to the boys who gave up half their lives for the fight for freedom. They were sold a bill of goods and today they recognise that fact. The same goes for the men on the other side. I have more in common with Hanna than I have with the political hacks in Stormont. Hanna and me are a politician’s worst nightmare and there’s a load more out there just like us.’

  Wilson turned to Browne. ‘Before the end of the day I want a police statement from Mr Keenan. Now, by chance, there’s a lovely lady from the PPS waiting outside.’ He started for the door.

  ‘Superintendent,’ O’Grady said extending his hand, ‘remind me never to get on your wrong side.’

  Wilson turned back and shook hands. ‘Don’t worry, it’s a bit crowded over there already.’

  Wilson and Browne left the room and found the solicitor from the PPS’s office directly outside. They ushered her in.

  Wilson started walking towards the cafeteria. ‘I think we have time for a cup of tea and a biscuit before we land the big fish.’

  ‘Boss, I need to speak to you,’ Browne said, walking after him.

  ‘Over a cup of tea, Rory, and there’s no need to look so bloody serious. We’re just about to produce a result.’

  You’re wrong, Browne thought. I have every reason to look so bloody serious. The detective sergeant was not looking forward to explaining that he was on the hook to Nicholson and that he had agreed to report back on Wilson’s ‘irregular’ activities.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR