Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  ‘Not that I can think of offhand, but I’ll set my mind to it. It’ll be a difficult trick to zone in on Jackson without setting off an alarm somewhere. In this city the walls really do have ears. And if our boy catches on that we’re looking at him, I’m a bit too old for the rough and tumble.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’ A couple of months ago Davidson had seemed down in the dumps and retirement was looming, but carrying out an investigation on his own seemed to have given him a new lease of life. But Wilson was forced to agree. Davidson was exposed, and maybe it was time to replace him with a younger officer. But Wilson was going to need both Graham and Browne on the Antrim Road investigation. And possibly Davidson too. ‘Okay, let’s proceed quietly. Get what you can on Jackson. Was the neighbour who saw the car with the two men able to identify him?’

  ‘He’s been away since. He’s a vet working on some kind of aid project in Uganda. He’s back next week.’

  ‘Show him the photo and get a statement. The more paper we have the better if we’re going to drag Jackson in.’

  Davidson nodded. ‘Next week, Boss, for sure.’

  ‘Also, get on to the tech guys. That phone made only two calls before going dead, one to the hospice to cancel the appointment and then one when the job was done. Get them to pinpoint the location of both the sending and the receiving phones for the second call.’

  ‘I’m on it. What’s with the business on the Antrim Road?’

  Wilson filled him in on the body at O’Reilly’s pub. ‘Harry’s in charge of the house-to-house and Rory is trying to lay hands on the registered owner of the car.’

  ‘If it was a professional hit, the guy must have some connection to organised crime, and in this city that means Davie Best.’

  That thought had already occurred to Wilson. ‘That’s a distinct possibility. But first we have to identify the victim. Then we might be able to find some connection to Best’s operations. I might need you at some point on this investigation.’

  ‘You know where I am.’

  Wilson smiled. ‘I never know where you are these days. Just push the Carlisle investigation forward, but carefully.’

  Davidson stood up. ‘I’m on it.’

  Finlay was as good as his word. The photos were on Wilson’s computer by early afternoon. He brought them up one after another and examined them in detail. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had met the victim, but he had no idea where or when or, indeed, in what context. He sent the file on to O’Neill with a request to start a whiteboard on the crime.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The squad stood around the whiteboard for the evening briefing. Four crime scene photos shot from various angles were attached to the board. Wilson turned to Browne. ‘Any news on Donaldson?’

  ‘There’s no one at the house,’ Browne said. ‘The neighbour says that he’s away a lot and the physical description doesn’t tally with our victim. They haven’t seen the Polo for at least a couple of days.’

  ‘Donaldson could have sold his car on to either the victim or a third party,’ Graham said, ‘and they haven’t bothered to re-register the car with the DVLA.’

  ‘Our victim isn’t Donaldson,’ Wilson said. ‘It’s our primary task to find out who he is. If we had a name, it might give us some idea as to why someone wanted him dead.’

  ‘This is the clearest picture we have of his face,’ O’Neill attached a photo on the board. ‘It’s not one that the public would like to see, but giving it to the media might be the fastest way to find out who he is.’

  Wilson looked at the photo of a face with the rictus of death clearly on it. The media would love it, but he doubted that PSNI media affairs would agree to the release.

  Davidson was standing at the rear of the group. ‘I’ve seen the guy somewhere before. I think he might have been a copper.’

  ‘I’ve had that feeling since I saw the corpse this morning,’ Wilson said. ‘But if he’s a copper, surely someone would have come forward and said that he was missing.’

  ‘Maybe he’s no longer a copper,’ Davidson said. ‘I’m trying to dredge him up from somewhere deep in my memory. Name is something like Harry or Hubert. My memory is gone to pot.’

  ‘We’re nine hours into this investigation and we haven’t managed to identify the victim,’ Wilson said. ‘Not exactly a stunning performance.’ He knew what the hierarchy in Castlereagh would make of it. Deputy Chief Constable Jennings would use it as a stick to beat both him and his chief super.

  ‘Not our fault, Boss,’ Graham said. ‘No identification on the body, and the car’s registered to a guy who’s missing and obviously isn’t the victim. The stations won’t take a missing persons’ report for someone who hasn’t been missing for more than twenty-four hours. What are we supposed to do?’

  ‘The people upstairs won’t be interested in our excuses,’ Wilson said. ‘We need to get our thumbs out of our arses on this one. Someone will be going on TV tomorrow and we better have a name by then.’

  Browne took a disk from his pocket. ‘This is the CCTV from the pub.’

  ‘Give it to Siobhan,’ Wilson said. He turned to Graham. ‘Anything from the house-to-house?’

  ‘Nothing, except five very disgruntled uniforms. It wasn’t the day for knocking on doors.’

  ‘Maybe we should get a leaflet out,’ O’Neill said.

  ‘I think the media is a much better bet,’ Wilson said.

  O’Neill was working on her tablet. ‘Look at this, Boss.’ She held the tablet up for Wilson. It was mobile phone footage of the scene outside O’Reilly’s pub. It showed clearly the body lying face down in the snow. ‘It was uploaded this afternoon on the Chronicle website.’

  ‘The cleaner,’ Wilson said. ‘That Hanley character, we should have known better.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ O’Neill said. ‘The TV stations will pick it up for the news this evening.’

  Wilson tried to hide his annoyance. The ubiquitous mobile phone was everywhere these days. That wouldn’t stop him giving Hanley a rocket the next time they met. ‘So much for having a bit of time to get the investigation on the road. Hanley would be smart to keep away from me for the duration.’

  ‘Just someone looking for the main chance,’ O’Neill said. ‘These days there’s always someone around with a mobile phone with a camera. He probably made a few hundred quid from that bit of footage.’

  ‘Not Harry or Hubert,’ Davidson said, more to himself than the group. ‘The guy’s name was Hugh something or other. I think he used to work drugs when I was in Vice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Wilson said.

  ‘It was a while ago, but I’m pretty certain. The surname will come to me eventually.’

  ‘Siobhan,’ Wilson said. ‘Get me someone in the Drugs Squad on the line.’

  O’Neill went to her desk and picked up the phone. Wilson watched her speaking and working on her computer at the same time.

  ‘I sent the photo over by email for confirmation. The victim was a former detective constable named Hugh Royce. He left the PSNI four years ago.’ O’Neill said when she re-joined the group.

  ‘Okay,’ Wilson said. ‘Everyone has overtime. I’ll square it with the chief super. Before we leave here tonight I want everything we have on former Detective Constable Hugh Royce.’

  Yvonne Davis was generally in the station way beyond closing time. Either that, or she was in some meeting in Castlereagh that lasted well into the evening. There was no such thing as overtime for senior staff, high levels of dedication were expected.

  Davis didn’t mind staying late at the office, or sitting listening to colleagues spouting rubbish at a meeting. It was better than the alternative, which was sitting in front of the television with a microwaved meal on her lap. Somewhere along the way the life that she had foreseen for herself hadn’t quite panned out. She had kicked her husband to the kerb because of his marital transgressions. It was one of the great ironies of life that the breakup had led to an improvement in
his situation while her life had crashed. To her children, she was the mother who was never at home. Because of her absences on PSNI business there was the inevitable drift of the children towards their father. When he left, they hung on for a while before moving to live with him. The lesson she learned was that it pays to be the bastard in the relationship. She was thinking about how twisted life could be when she heard a knock on the door. ‘Come in.’

  Wilson entered and sat on the chair in front of her desk. ‘We’ve identified the victim. He’s a former PSNI detective named Hugh Royce. He used to work in the Drugs Squad.’

  She ran the name through her mental Rolodex. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘I thought I recognised the corpse this morning, but it was Peter Davidson who identified him during the evening briefing. We’re looking into his life now.’

  ‘His connection with the PSNI makes things awkward. I’ll have to pass this information upstairs. How long ago did he leave?’

  ‘We’re checking that now. Siobhan O’Neill said four years. Hopefully it wasn’t last week.’

  ‘We’re going to be dragged into it?’

  ‘Possibly, it depends where the investigation goes.’

  ‘You and I are hanging on here by a thread. The Armstrong affair was the last straw for some people.’

  ‘Meaning DCC Jennings.’

  ‘While you were sunning yourself on a beach in California, I was faffing around here trying top come up with a reasonable answer for what happened. For God’s sake, a government minister you were investigating for murder was abducted and executed. I found myself in the middle of a shit storm.’

  ‘It looks like you coped well, and it was probably character building.’

  ‘With more than a little help from the chief constable.’

  ‘You make a lovely couple. And just for the record, I wasn’t sunning myself, I was watching my partner’s mother die, and then I helped bury her.’

  Davis moved a stray hair away from her face. It was her nervous tell. ‘I know and I apologise for the remark. We do, however, seem to be staggering from one crisis to another.’

  ‘Noel Armstrong murdered two young women. He was also responsible for the deaths of people in his own organisation, and he was protected, possibly by someone in our organisation. They should be asking questions of the people who covered up his crimes not the ones who were trying to put him away. But I suppose that would be too much to hope for.’

  She stared at him. ‘In the meantime, Jennings has the whip hand on us. I hope to God the Royce killing has no political overtones.’

  ‘On the surface it doesn’t look like it.’

  She opened her top drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘As they say in the States, I’ll have to take a rain check. The rest of the team are still working and I should be there with them.’

  She poured herself a shot of whiskey but didn’t drink. ‘We’re not out of the woods on the Armstrong affair.’

  ‘Do you think someone might have leaked my theory about Armstrong?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t suppose you have anyone in mind?’

  He didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m keeping an eye out, but so far I don’t think anyone on the team was responsible.’

  She picked up the glass and drank it in one swallow. ‘We’ve survived the initial storm. Don’t create another one. Armstrong is in the ground and a couple of cases have been closed. His colleagues are not making any noise for obvious reasons. I hope the people upstairs are ready to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  Chance would be a fine thing. Wilson stood and nodded. ‘Have a nice evening, ma’am.’

  She put the glass into the bottom drawer of her desk. ‘You too, Ian, thanks for keeping me informed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two men sat in the empty car park of Cliftonville Golf Club. The course was closed due to the inclement weather, and the clubhouse was deserted, which suited the occupants of the car perfectly. Eddie Hills sat behind the wheel of the 750 Mercedes while his boss, Davie Best, sat in the passenger seat. Best was the chief of the mob that controlled much of the crime in Belfast. He glanced to his side as a silver BMW 325 pulled up alongside. He watched as a man got out of the BMW, opened the back door of the Mercedes and settled into the back seat.

  ‘About time,’ Best said.

  ‘I was held up at the station.’ DCI George Pratley sat back and rubbed his hands together. He was glad the engine was running and the heat was turned up. It was brass-monkey weather outside.

  ‘George, I’m afraid you might have fucked up,’ Best said.

  ‘That’s your opinion. I did what had to be done.’

  ‘That’s the problem. It didn’t have to be done. And if it did, it wasn’t your place to take the decision to do it.’

  ‘I suppose it would have been handled better by your pet Doberman,’ Pratley said.

  Hills took his hands off the steering wheel and turned to look at Pratley. It was a look that would send a shiver through the strongest of men. Best put a hand on Hills’ shoulder. ‘Did anyone ever tell you not to poke a bear?’

  ‘Royce was about to rat us out,’ Pratley said. ‘I took an executive decision to eliminate him.’

  ‘Who told you that you were a fucking executive?’ Best said. ‘You’re so far down the chain of command that there isn’t even a name for the position you occupy. We understood that Royce had the potential to become a risk to the organisation and we would have taken care of that risk when it became overt. If he was going to be eliminated, I should have been consulted.’

  ‘Nobody knew Royce better than me,’ Pratley said. ‘I worked with that man for three years. Hell, I was the one who recruited him. He was a junkie, and junkies can’t be trusted. Royce knew things that could get us all put away.’

  ‘Royce knew things about you that could get you put away.’ Best turned to stare at Pratley. ‘You’re the only one who knows the next step on the ladder.’

  Pratley felt a tingle run up his spine. The inference in Best’s words was clear enough. ‘I was protecting our arrangements. Royce was hell-bent on going to the authorities and spilling his guts. That would put the focus on the drug business and my squad. Right now, you’re raking in the money because of my cooperation. What happens if I go down?’

  ‘We’ll deal with that problem when it arises,’ Best said. ‘Stick to your own business and don’t even think of taking another executive decision. We’re way beyond the days when you used to sell Rice and McGreary their own gear back. You’re a partner in the firm now, a very junior partner.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Pratley said. ‘The hit was clean. It will be another unsolved murder to add to the list. What’s done is done. A possible rat has been eliminated. It should encourage a spurt of loyalty in the rest of your employees if nothing else.’

  ‘You go back to your cosy little house,’ Best said. ‘And keep doing what you’ve been doing. We’ll let you intercept a shipment soon so that everyone will think what a great job you’re doing. But we’ll want the gear back, mind.’ Best put his hand out and felt the material of Pratley’s coat. ‘Nice coat, cashmere if I’m not mistaken.’

  Pratley nodded.

  ‘We’re done here,’ Best said. ‘Get the fuck out.’

  Pratley opened the door and slid out into the cold night. He shivered as the cold hit him. McGreary and Rice were schoolboys in comparison with Best and that crazy fucker Hills. He climbed back into his car and turned on the engine. He needed a drink. No, he needed a lot of drinks.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Hills said as soon as the back door closed. ‘Mad Mickey was one thing. Royce is another. Peelers tend to stick together and although Royce was a wrong one, they’re not going to let it go easily. Wilson is no dummy. He’ll soon start to add two and two together and he might end up with five.’ Hills moved the Mercedes away from the edge of the car park. He made a point of shining his headlights o
n the man in the BMW. ‘I think the wrong man might have been killed.’ His voice was soft but full of menace.

  ‘You might be right there,’ Best said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The team, minus Peter Davidson who apparently had a meeting that couldn’t be cancelled, had been at their computers and on their phones for almost two hours when Wilson called a halt. Davis would be screaming at him for approving overtime without consulting her first. He had phoned Reid to explain the late night only to find that she was happy to remain at the Royal. He wasn’t the only one with a backlog and hers was considerably larger. They’d agreed to meet later for a drink at the Crown.

  The whiteboard was gradually filling up. The victim was already named at the top and beneath was a photograph that had been emailed over from HR at Castlereagh. It showed a very different Hugh Royce from the one Wilson had seen at the crime scene. The photo had been taken seven years earlier for Royce’s warrant card, when he was a clean-shaven man with carefully coiffed fair hair above his clear blue eyes, straight nose and dimpled chin. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since, and its effect on Royce hadn’t been positive. O’Neill had managed to pull Royce’s service record from the main computer. PSNI officers’ personnel files are confidential under the Data Protection Act. They contain annual appraisals and hierarchical notes and memos, and because of the legislation can be viewed only by the individual officer and approved personnel. There was a rumour in the force that another more secret personnel file existed, but that was only a rumour, or was it? So what O’Neill had was a resumé of Royce’s career in the PSNI. She had already transferred the information to the whiteboard. Harry Graham had busied himself called up contacts to see if they had any anecdotes to offer on Royce, or his working environment.