by Derek Fee
PROLOGUE
Belfast is an unforgiving city in winter. Atlantic storms enter via Donegal Bay and head across country until they hit the Black Mountain and disgorge their cargo of rain upon the citizenry. But the Irish are inured to rain, even when it’s ice-cold rain. More pervasive is the wind from the Arctic, which howls down Belfast Lough and brings biting cold, hail and occasionally snow to the city before continuing on its way south. The residents of the city had already suffered three of what the television weather presenters termed ‘cold spells’ this winter. The fourth arrived that afternoon when the mercury began its fall to the bottom of the thermometers. A light dusting of snow followed, with a more appreciable fall on the top of the Black Mountain. By evening, the peaks wore their white caps like a group of old men huddled around a turf fire. The temperature had passed through zero at midnight on its way to minus five degrees, accompanied by a wind-chill factor of minus ten.
Hugh Royce bundled his padded jacket around him. He didn’t do cold. He pushed himself further into the recess at the rear of O’Reilly’s pub in North Belfast. He was only five minutes out of his car and already his feet felt like two blocks of ice, but at least he was sheltered from the wind. He looked across the empty parking lot and coughed. He had just recovered from a bout of the Australian flu and standing in the open during one of the severest cold spells to hit the city was not what he needed. He removed his hands from his pockets and blew into them. ‘Should have invested in a pair of gloves,’ he murmured to himself.
The building behind him was closed and lightless. The area in front of him had a soft covering of snow, and the footprints from his car to the point where he now stood were clearly visible. He looked at his watch, four minutes past twelve. He would give it a quarter of an hour. The trip back was going to be a bitch if there was ice on the road. His hands shook as he removed a cigarette packet from his pocket and eased a cigarette out. The first match he struck was extinguished immediately by a gust of cold wind. He bent his head to bring the tip of the cigarette closer and cupped the match in his hands. The cigarette caught. As he raised his head, a shadow flitted across the parking lot, but no one came forward. Must be seeing things, he thought, or maybe I’m going crazy. What sort of idiot agrees to a meeting outside a dark pub at midnight on the coldest night of the year? But he had come to Belfast to sort things out and if that meant freezing his balls off in the process, then so be it. He pulled on the cigarette, filling his lung with the sweet smoke. As he exhaled, he peered into the darkness. Nothing. Where the fuck are you, man? It’s not the night to be late. He looked at his watch again. The minute hand had hardly moved and the cold was creeping up from his feet, spreading the sharp pain all the way to the crown of his head. What if the bastard doesn’t show? As far as the others were concerned he was a flea on the arsehole of the world, a meaningless blast from the past. He thought about the shit decisions that had led him to be standing in an empty parking lot in the middle of a cold dark night in an effort to atone for his sins.
He turned his head quickly at a sound, but there was nothing there. Was he just imagining these fleeting shadows and scratching noises? Fear crept up his spine. His inner voice told him it was time to leave. Now all his attention was on his ears. There was definitely something out there in the darkness. He pulled on the cigarette. Fuck it, he thought. I’m out of here in two minutes and they can live with the consequences. He started counting off the one hundred and twenty seconds in his head.
As he reached one hundred he heard a definite noise from the other side of the pub. He turned his head and saw a black figure rounding the corner and heading in his direction. He smiled. Maybe everything was going to turn out and soon he’d be heading for the warmth of his billet. He peered through the darkness. The man who turned the corner had his face covered by a scarf and wore a beanie on his head. Royce’s smile faded when he saw the man remove a gun from his pocket. ‘In the name of God, man, don’t. You don’t have to.’ The shots came before he could get his hands up in a vain effort to defend himself. He felt the bullets slam into his chest and his legs were no longer capable of supporting the rest of his relatively light body. His last thought was that it was a hell of a night to die. He fell forward, then nothing.
The man who had shot Royce drew level with the body, pointed the gun at the dead man’s head and fired.
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson stood at the window of his apartment and surveyed the city of Belfast. It was seven o’clock and the city was just waking up. The snowy scene was straight out of a Christmas card. Snow temporarily covers the dirt and grime before it adds to the mess by becoming slush, he thought. He and his partner, Stephanie Reid, had returned to Belfast two months previously, having laid Stephanie’s mother to rest in California. The last few weeks in Venice Beach had been a whirlwind of funeral arrangements and the filing of legal papers. The upshot was that Stephanie was now a very wealthy lady having been left the bulk of her mother’s estate. It was a chalice that she didn’t really want. They could have stayed on, but Reid had felt she needed to get back to the routine of cutting up dead bodies for a living.
Wilson had been a little more reticent about his return to Belfast to resume leadership of the PSNI Murder Squad. The day he’d left Belfast for California he’d learned of the death of Noel Armstrong, a government minister whom he suspected of murdering two prostitutes and whom he had established was being protected by the security services. Armstrong’s death had left him dissatisfied. There was a certain rough justice in his demise, but he would have preferred to see Armstrong stand in the dock and be judged for his crimes. But that was never going to happen. Wilson had long ago given up the naïve idea that justice always prevailed. In his experience, it was generally perverted by one of the participants in the game. That was his main worry since he returned. Armstrong had been in the service of the British security service for more than fifteen years. Throughout that time, he had also managed to convince his colleagues in the Republican movement of his commitment to them. Until a few months ago. Somehow, they had learned of his treachery and they had executed him for it. How exactly had they discovered his duplicity? It was a question that had dominated Wilson’s thinking since he’d watched Armstrong’s funeral on television. It wasn’t the usual send-off afforded to a stalwart of the struggle to free Ireland. Where was the tricolour-draped coffin carried by the luminaries of the party Armstrong had served? Where was the volley of shots as the coffin was lowered? It all pointed to the fact that somehow his speculation about Armstrong’s double life had been passed on to the man’s comrades. Yet Wilson had told no one outside the investigation of his suspicions. The fact that he might have been the source of the leak nagged at him. He didn’t like to think a member of his squad was unreliable. He had turned those thoughts over in his mind a thousand times without coming to a conclusion. A secret in Belfast was something that only one person knew. Despite the so-called return to normality, the security services still kept a close eye on happenings in the province. It was also possible that Armstrong’s friends in the security services may have put the finger on him. Maybe they’d grown weary of cleaning up his mess. But the timing was ominous. Or coincidental, except that Wilson didn’t believe in coincidence.
Since his return Wilson had been watching the members of the squad to see who might have passed on the information. The obvious candidate was Siobhan O’Neill, a young Catholic detective constable who had recently joined the squad. Everything about her behaviour since his return ran against that supposition, and coming to that deduction required a level of religious profiling that was anathema to him. She was one of the most conscientious members of the squad. He’d run a check on her to see whether she had any Republican contacts and it had come up negative
. He’d also been watching the reaction of the three men on the squad and again had registered nothing. Perhaps he had called it wrong. He certainly hoped so.
‘Breakfast?’
Wilson turned and saw that Reid was already standing in the small galley kitchen. She looked radiant. He sometimes wondered what she saw in him. ‘Why not.’ Reid stayed over most nights although so far there had been no indication that she wanted to make the arrangement permanent. Bar her demand for wardrobe space. She had kept her apartment close to the Royal Victoria Hospital and stayed there when she wanted what she called ‘me time’. Wilson was not going to push the issue. He was happy with the current arrangement and if it was going to change, he wanted it to be a natural progression, not something that was forced by either party.
Reid popped four pieces of bread into the toaster. ‘Avocado toast and poached eggs,’ she announced.
‘How very Californian.’
‘You obviously haven’t looked outside.’
Wilson realised that he had been miles away. Armstrong was no longer any of his business. The body had been dumped a couple of hundred yards inside the Irish Republic, which meant that the murder investigation was in the hands of the Garda Síochána. More particularly in the hands of DCI Jack Duane of the Irish Special Branch, or whatever they called the group he worked for. He thanked God for small mercies, walked into the kitchen and kissed Reid. ‘I’ll make the coffee and set the table.’
‘I’ve got to hurry,’ Reid said, cracking an egg into the simmering water. ‘It’s a busy day and I hope the gritters have been out.’
Wilson slid his hand round her waist. ‘Maybe we should have stayed in California, you weren’t so rushed there.’
‘Maybe we should have.’
‘You really mean that?’
‘Sometimes, especially when I think that we could be having our breakfast sitting outside in the garden and looking forward to a day of sunshine.’
‘And now we’re back in grey cold Belfast.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re completely happy here.’
He was shocked. Was he completely happy in Belfast? He hadn’t really thought about it. ‘I thought you loved it here?’
‘You mean the part where we wake up in the morning in the dark, go to work in the dark and come home in the evening in the dark. Is that the part you think I love?’ She put the plates containing their breakfast on the table and started to eat.
‘There is an upside.’ He started on his meal.
‘Really? I’ll give you an hour or so to think about that.’
He could feel one of those uncomfortable moments hanging in the air. Where were they going? They would never be the couple next door, going to work in the morning and raising their children before the final act of drawing their pension. Reid had already led an exciting life. She’d travelled, experienced civil war. And her work at the Royal mattered. ‘It’s where we’re from. We’re at home here.’ He didn’t even sound convincing to himself.
‘I would probably have agreed with you this time last year, but now I’m not so sure.’ She finished eating and drained her coffee, then leaned forward and kissed him. ‘I’m late, you clean up.’
He watched her as she put on her coat, wrapped a scarf round her neck and covered her short blonde hair with a woollen bonnet. She waved from the door and was gone.
He finished his coffee and collected up the dirty dishes before stacking them in the dishwasher. There was no doubt in his mind that Reid had been distracted by her time in Los Angeles. He was a little out of sorts himself and he hadn’t lost his mother. But there was something she wasn’t telling him, and he was wondering what it was and why she was so reluctant to discuss it.
CHAPTER TWO
The temperature was hovering around minus one when Wilson left for the station. The snow was sticking but the gritters had been out and the early morning traffic had helped clear the roads. The residents of northern Europe would laugh at the level of panic a couple of inches of snow can cause in Belfast. The schools had been closed and consequently the traffic was lighter than usual. It was a good day for the locals to take a ‘sickie’. He was crossing the Lagan when his mobile phone rang. He recognised Detective Sergeant Rory Browne’s number and pressed the green phone icon.
‘Where are you, Boss?’ Browne was breathless.
‘Crossing the river on my way in.’
‘We’ve got a dead body. Cleaner opening O’Reilly’s pub on the Antrim Road found a guy in the car park. He thought it was a tramp until he saw the blood, and the bullet-hole in the head. The uniforms who responded called it in to us.’
‘I’ll head there straight away. You pick up a car and collect Harry. I’ll meet both of you there. And make sure the uniforms seal off the area and don’t screw up the crime scene.’
‘Already done and we’re on the way.’
Wilson glanced at the clock in the car. It was approaching nine o’clock. That meant there was no way he was going to make the senior staff meeting. He sighed with relief. There was nothing in his life worse than listening to some inspector trying to climb up the arse of the chief super. He knew where O’Reilly’s pub was so he took the M2 and fifteen minutes later he pulled in behind two police cars stationed across the entry to the pub and its car park. He got out of his car with some reluctance and walked to the boot, crunching the frozen snow underfoot. He took out a pair of blue plastic overshoes and slipped them on.
As he approached the strand of crime scene tape, a uniform lifted it to permit him to enter. He signed his clipboard and handed it back. ‘Where is he?’ Wilson asked.
‘Around the side, on the edge of the car park,’ the officer replied. ‘There’s an old Volkswagen Polo parked fifty yards away. Looks like he might have arrived in it.’
‘Where’s the cleaner?’
The officer winked. ‘In the pub, he insisted he was shocked and needed a drink.’
Wilson looked over at the two police cars.
‘They’re inside,’ the officer said. ‘It’s Baltic out here, sir. We’re taking it in turns to man the tape.’
Wilson nodded and started to walk around the edge of the pub. The snow had been disturbed – so much for preserving the crime scene. He’d just turned the corner when he saw the body. There was no snow on it. The snowfall the previous day had abated about ten o’clock in the evening, which meant that the man had been killed after ten. Wilson stood over the body, which was frozen solid by a combination of the low temperature and rigor mortis. Reid might have some difficulty in estimating the exact time of death. He looked towards where the car was parked and saw the line of footprints. Only one set, which meant they probably belonged to the victim. He heard another car screech to a halt and turned back to the front of the pub in time to see Browne and Graham exiting the vehicle. His feet were already beginning to sting from the cold and he sympathised with the uniform at the tape.
‘Get yourself inside and tell one of those other slackers to get out here,’ Wilson said as he passed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the uniform said before walking briskly into the pub.
‘Mornin’ Boss,’ Graham said. ‘Bit of a cold one.’
‘You could say that. There’s a Volkswagen Polo in the car park. Skirt around the edge and take a look. Call in the registration to Plate Recognition and find out the name on the book. Don’t go near it until Forensics have had a look. Rory, you and me inside. We need to have a word with the guy who found the body.’
Wilson felt instant relief in both his feet and his hands as he entered the pub. The heating wasn’t exactly blasting, but the temperature was a good ten degrees higher than outside. Four men were gathered at the bar. Three uniforms were cradling what looked like coffees, and a civilian had helped himself to a large brandy.
Browne took out his warrant card and showed it to the civilian. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Browne, this is Detect
ive Superintendent Ian Wilson, and you are?’
The man finished his brandy and poured himself a refill. He pointed at Wilson. ‘Aye, I’ve seen him on television. I’m Joe Hanley, I’m the dogsbody in this pub.’
Wilson estimated Hanley to be somewhere between fifty and sixty years old. He was slight with a pinched face, protruding eyes and a head of fuzzy grey hair. ‘You found the body?’ he asked.
‘Aye.’ Hanley sipped his drink. ‘And I’m not the better of it yet. I saw him as soon as I turned the corner of the pub.’
‘You didn’t panic though. You’ve probably seen dead bodies before?’
‘Aye, I worked in a funeral parlour in Glengormley,’ Hanley said. ‘But it’s the first one I saw shot through the head.’
‘You examined the body?’ Wilson asked.
‘Not a bit of it. I took a wee look at him and that was all.’
‘Did you recognise him?’ Wilson asked. ‘Was he one of the regulars?’
Hanley took a drink and then shook his head. ‘Never saw the bloke before.’
A radio crackled and one of the uniforms pushed the button and listened. He turned to Wilson. ‘Bit of a commotion at the tape, sir, they want you outside.’
Wilson nodded at Browne, who slipped quietly away.
‘So, you have no idea who he is?’
Hanley shook his head.
‘Give your address and phone number to my sergeant before you go anywhere.’
Hanley nodded and finished his drink. He was about to pour himself another when there was a shout from the door. ‘Put that bottle away or I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.’
Hanley immediately replaced the bottle and put his glass on the bar. ‘It was the shock, Mr O’Reilly,’ Hanley said. ‘It was purely medicinal.’
Wilson turned to look at the new arrival, who was dressed in a warm jacket and jeans and wore a Russian-style fur hat. His most prominent facial feature was his nose, which was purple-red either from the cold or a fondness for whiskey.