by Derek Fee
Wilson reconvened the team in front of the whiteboard. He tapped the HR photograph. ‘Hugh Royce was born in 1978 in Strabane and joined the PSNI in 2008. He spent the first three years as a uniformed officer in Derry. In 2011 he became a detective constable and was posted to the Drugs Squad here in Belfast. That’s when this photo was taken. In 2014 his career came to a dramatic halt when he was accused of corruption. He quit the force rather than face conviction and jail.’
‘He wasn’t the only one, Boss,’ Graham said. ‘There was a major anti-corruption push at the time, especially in the Drugs and Vice Squads. A couple of guys were arrested and tried, but the cost was astronomic. Someone across the water hit on the ploy of getting anyone accused of corruption to just resign. It was called the ‘23 pence solution’ because at the time that was the cost of a stamp.’ Graham didn’t bother to add that, Peter Davidson was one of those who had been presented with the resignation letter but he had refused to sign. It turned out to be the best strategy.
‘We need to find out how Royce went from this,’ Wilson pointed to the HR photo, ‘to this.’ He moved his finger to the crime scene photo. ‘Starting tomorrow we are going to comb through the life of Hugh Royce. He was married but divorced late in 2014. There were no children. We need to find his wife. We need to find out how he came by the car. So we still need to interview Donaldson. We need to find out where he was living and see what we can find there. Did he have friends in the Drugs Squad? Was he still in touch with them? Where did he work? Somebody killed him for a reason and we need to find that reason.’
‘Siobhan and myself have been through the CCTV from the pub,’ Browne said. ‘We have the patrons leaving early at eleven o’clock. Then the Polo rolls up at eleven fifty and parks where the camera can see it. A man gets out, probably Royce, and walks into the lee of the pub where he disappears, and that’s it. No sign of the killer, or Royce, after that because the camera is fixed and didn’t catch the action.’
‘We have to check for CCTV along the Antrim Road,’ Wilson said. He turned to Browne. ‘Harry got the shit end of the stick today, so it’s your turn tomorrow. If there’s any CCTV out there, I want to see it.’ He looked around at the faces of the team. Had one of them leaked the information on Armstrong? He might have done so himself if he’d had the opportunity – the idea had certainly occurred to him, so maybe he was as guilty as the real culprit. ‘Away home with the lot of you, we have a lot of work ahead.’
CHAPTER TEN
The barman nodded at Wilson as soon as he entered the Crown, a signal usually indicating that his snug was occupied but available. Wilson pushed open the door expecting to see Reid’s beautiful face and was instead confronted by journalist Jock McDevitt’s not exactly ugly, but certainly not beautiful, mug. The ruddy colour on McDevitt’s face indicated that he hadn’t just arrived.
‘Thanks be to God,’ McDevitt said as soon as Wilson was seated. ‘I thought my lonely vigil was going to last the whole night. Don’t you ever look at the messages on your phone?’
‘I was busy.’ Wilson had received eight messages from McDevitt in the course of the afternoon and evening. ‘I thought I might have met you at the Antrim Road crime scene this morning.’
McDevitt pushed the bell and ordered two pints of Guinness. ‘Too bloody cold. I sent along an intern. My body is still in California in terms of heat. But I don’t need to stand in the cold when my very best friend is the SIO.’ McDevitt had been in Los Angeles at the same time as Wilson trying to sell his book on the Maggie Cummerford case to a movie company. ‘Wasn’t that a wonderful meal we had in the Ocean Club in Malibu? They’re talking about Colin Farrell playing you in the movie.’
‘If that’s your attempt at indicating that I owe you, you’re knocking on the wrong door.’
The barman arrived and distributed the drinks. McDevitt handed over the money. ‘Poor bastard, shot on the coldest night of the year. The coldest night ever, for all I know.’ McDevitt was looking sideways at Wilson, who was sipping his drink. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’
Wilson toasted McDevitt. ‘Cheers.’
McDevitt raised his glass and smiled. ‘The people who say the Chinese are inscrutable haven’t met Lisburn man. You know I’ll find out.’
‘Aye, you will, when the press release is issued by the media service.’
‘So, my very best friend is not going to help me.’ McDevitt put on his sad clown look.
‘Not this time, Jock, it wouldn’t look good if you were way ahead of the posse.’
‘Yes it would because I’m always ahead of the posse.’
Wilson realised that he had finished his drink. He was about to ring for another round when he thought that McDevitt probably had enough.
McDevitt suddenly sobered up. ‘Get the next round in. I was on water until you arrived. I’ve had a lousy cold since I returned from LA, so make mine a hot whiskey.’
The door of the snug was ajar and Reid pushed in on the two men. ‘Did someone just mention hot whiskey? I’d love one thanks.’ She bent and kissed Wilson before sitting beside him.
Wilson pushed the bell and ordered the drinks.
McDevitt looked at Reid. ‘Did you ever hear that when the American Indians saved the life of one of their tribe they were responsible for that person?’
Reid shook her head. ‘Apropos of what?’
‘Your partner saved my life, and now he won’t help me.’
The drinks arrived and Wilson paid. He distributed the glasses. ‘Forget it, I’m not giving you the name of the victim. You’ll have it tomorrow along with the other media outlets. The subject is now closed.’
‘How did it go in LA?’ Reid asked.
‘We pitched the studios,’ said McDevitt. ‘There’s a lot of interest, but we’ll just have to wait and see. It’s a shot in the dark, so I’m still buying lottery tickets.’
Wilson’s stomach rumbled. ‘Let’s drink up and get something to eat. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Wilson arrived the next morning, the only person missing from the squad room was Browne. The cold spell was continuing and Browne would not thank his boss for giving him the job of searching for possibly non-existent CCTV footage. The other three members of the team were working at their desks. Wilson went into his office and fired up his computer. He checked his emails and saw that Finlay had already compiled a draft forensic report. The conclusion was that the killer had left no evidence except a badly deformed slug that had passed through Royce’s head and hit the concrete path outside the pub. The other two rounds had not yet been located. The slug was a nine millimetre and the markings indicated that it was fired from a Browning Hi-Power. That would be confirmed when Finlay found the other two slugs. The autopsy was scheduled for midday and Wilson decided to send Graham to attend. In the meantime, it was full steam ahead on finding out everything there was to know about Royce.
Wilson was just finishing the forensic report when O’Neill knocked on his door. He motioned her to enter.
She stood with a sheaf of papers in her hand. ‘I’ve been tracing Royce. I’ve checked the usual government channels, the Department of Social Welfare and Her Majesty’s Revenue Commissioners. Luckily there was only one Hugh Royce listed for the province. The problem is that there’s nothing recent. He’s not drawing the dole and he’s a bit behind with his tax declarations. I’m sure HMRC have been anxious to speak with him. I tried the housing register for his address while in the PSNI, but he no longer lives there. I have his birth certificate, his marriage certificate, his decree nisi and even his A level results.’ She put the relevant documents on the desk in front of Wilson. ‘There were three different addresses associated with his annual declaration for tax purposes. I did a search on them and they’re rental properties where he no longer resides. Next, I looked at his ex-wife. Her maiden name was Sharon Feeney and there’s no one of that name in Belfast, neither is there a Sharon Royce. I looked for marriages over the
past five years for her married and maiden names. There were seven in total but only two in Belfast. The husbands’ names are Roger Appleton and Bruce Parnell. I called the phone numbers associated with both. Sharon Feeney is now Sharon Parnell and she hasn’t spoken to or seen her husband since the day he signed the divorce papers. I told her that he was deceased and her only comment was “good riddance”. She doesn’t want to talk about her ex.’
‘That’s not her choice, we’ll talk to her whether she wants to or not. Give Harry the address and the phone number.’
‘It’s already in the murder book.’
‘Good job. We have no idea of his current address?’
‘He doesn’t own a property so I’m assuming he rents. If that’s the case, his residence could be anywhere.’
‘Any sign of him on social media?’
‘Nothing, he has no social media footprint, no Facebook, Twitter, nothing.’
‘Does he own a mobile phone?’
‘I’ve checked with the networks and he doesn’t have a contract. Might have a pay-as-you-go though.’
‘Looks like you’ve covered all the bases so far.’
‘There’s one more piece of information I unearthed. Royce was an orphan since the age of eighteen. The Royces were in their forties when they married. John Royce died from prostate cancer when his son was twelve. His wife, Diana, had early dementia and died six years later at the age of sixty-three.’
‘Fatherless at an impressionable age, motherless before he reached full manhood – not the ideal start to adulthood,’ Wilson thought of his own situation. He had lost his father and was estranged from his mother when he was scarcely eighteen. Maybe he and Royce had more in common than he would like to think. He was lost in thought when O’Neill spoke again.
‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘No, not right now, but I’m sure you’ll find something useful to do.’
‘I suppose you’re going to make a request for information from the public.’
Wilson turned to his emails and opened a message from Public Affairs. ‘There’s going to be a press conference downstairs at high noon, just the chief super and me. The hierarchy are treating us like pariahs since the Armstrong affair.’ He looked up to see her reaction. There was none. ‘Print me up a batch of copies of that HR photo, on proper glossy paper. The request for information from the public will go out on the evening news channels. We’ll have to downplay the fact that he was a PSNI officer who left in disgrace.’
Graham came to the door as O’Neill exited. ‘I’ve been ringing around trying to find out what Royce did to get himself fired. Nobody seems to know, or at least that’s what they’re saying. I know this is going to hurt, but you’re going to have to contact someone in Professional Services to access the file.’
Wilson frowned. ‘There’s no way that PS will respond to me, given our chequered past. I’ll have to ask the chief super to approach them.’
Wilson was frustrated with the rate of progress. They knew who their victim was, but nothing about him, especially not where he lived. There was little or no forensic evidence at the scene, and there had been no word yet from Browne concerning additional CCTV. The house-to-house had come up empty and they were going to look like a crowd of clowns on TV begging for the public’s help. But it was what it was. His watch showed it was fifteen minutes to eleven. Maybe something would break in the next hour.
He phoned Davis and brought her up to date, then he asked her to use her influence to have the PS file released to him. They needed to know why Royce had signed his career away. He forwarded the forensic report to the members of the team and asked O’Neill to include it in the murder book. He sat back and prayed for a miracle.
The phone rang half an hour later. It was Finlay and the content of the call wasn’t the miracle he’d been praying for. The initial search of the car had come up empty. They had found eight separate sets of fingerprints and they would eliminate Royce before checking the rest with the database. Wilson typed up the content of the call and forwarded it to O’Neill and Graham. He went into the washroom and splashed water on his face. Two weeks back in the job and all the benefit of the trip to the States had disappeared. He combed his hair and started down to the cafeteria, which had been commandeered for the press conference. A media person in the form of a young female officer was setting the scene up and ushering a group of journalists into their places. Two television cameras on tripods were facing the table on which a series of microphones and miscellaneous recording devices had been set. Heads turned as soon as Wilson made his way forward. Jock McDevitt winked as Wilson passed. Wilson ignored him and sat off-centre at the table.
Next Davis strode into the room in full uniform carrying a file under her arm. Her gait said that she meant business. She sat in the centre facing the cameras and looked at her watch. ‘I think that we’re ready to go,’ she said, nodding at the TV cameramen, who signalled back that they were ready.
She began reading from a note attached to the top of the file. ‘Yesterday morning the body of a man, now identified as Hugh Royce, was found outside O’Reilly’s pub on the Antrim Road. Mr Royce had been shot three times and was declared dead at the scene. We have established that Mr Royce was murdered at some time between eleven o’clock the previous evening and two o’clock yesterday morning. Detective Superintendent Wilson and his team are investigating the crime. Perhaps you would like to say something, Detective Superintendent.’
‘Thank you,’ Wilson said. ‘We are anxiously seeking anyone who might have been in the area of the Antrim Road when this crime was committed. Because of the foul weather, this normally busy thoroughfare was practically empty. If you saw anything, even if you didn’t recognise its importance at the time, please contact us at the number appearing now on your screen. We are also appealing to anyone who has information on Mr Royce, or his movements on the day of his death, to contact us urgently.’
‘There will be no questions,’ Davis said and stood.
Wilson followed suit. They started to leave the room. Several journalists shouted questions after them. As soon as they were outside Davis turned to him. ‘You can’t have Royce’s file from Professional Services, but someone will be in your office at three this afternoon.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Peter Davidson has spent what passed for a life as an RUC and PSNI officer. In the late 1980s he had been a uniformed officer policing sectarian violence. He often wondered what effect this seminal experience had on his low opinion of the human race in general. He became a detective constable in the 1990s, working in Vice. He lost his sergeant’s grade in the 2000s because of his liking for what the Toms were offering. To a large extent Ian Wilson and the Murder Squad had resurrected him. It didn’t quite return him to the naïve young man who had joined the force, but it at least gave him some belief in the decency of human nature. On the way there had been two wives and three children, but Davidson was never cut out to be a family man. He paid the wives off monthly and sent his children a present of money on their birthdays. He was beginning to give up on having a future when he met Irene Carlisle. She had given him a new lease of life, even though he feared it would be only a temporary one. Davidson fancied that he knew women, he’d had enough experience of them to make that assertion, and he feared that Irene’s dalliance with him was a passing fancy. As soon as she had the insurance money in her hand, he would be dumped. He was ruminating on this part of his future as he turned off North Street and headed up Union Street in the direction of his objective, the Sunflower Pub. Irene had bought him an expensive Barbour jacket as a Christmas present and he snuggled deeper into it as he faced into the cold wind that blew in his face as he turned the corner. He pushed in the door of the bar and felt instant relief from the cold. The man he had arranged to meet was sitting in the corner close to a compact stage area that was dominated by the large banner advertising Black Bush. He walked across the room and sat down at the small circular table.
‘
Peter, you old rogue, I thought you’d be retired by now,’ the man said as Davidson took his seat.
‘Aye, Jamsie, and I thought you’d be dead by now.’ Davidson didn’t know what age former Detective Inspector James Gibbons was, but he was certainly more than eighty. Gibbons had a head like a bowling ball and his bald pate was covered with liver spots. He sported two patches of facial hair on either cheek like some character from a Dickens novel.
‘I won’t last much longer,’ Gibbons said. ‘I told my children this was probably my last Christmas. That’s a fine jacket you have on you there.’
‘Christmas present. What can I get you?’
Gibbons glanced at the advertisement on the stage. ‘And make it a double.’
Davidson went to the bar and returned with two glasses of Black Bush.
‘Your health,’ Gibbons toasted and sipped his whiskey. ‘What do you want with an old fogey like me, young Peter?’
Davidson sipped his drink. ‘You still have contacts in the Branch?’
‘A few, but the good ones are dead and gone. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m looking for information on one of the current mob.’
Gibbons sipped his drink. ‘Bad idea.’
‘I’m trying to do it delicately.’
‘You couldn’t do it delicately enough. Those boys don’t like outsiders rooting around in their business. Take my advice and give it a miss.’
‘I just need a bit of background information.’
Gibbons emptied his glass and handed it to Davidson, who went to the bar and procured a refill.
Gibbons took the glass. ‘I still have a few contacts. What’s the guy’s name?’
‘Simon Jackson.’
Gibbons sipped his drink. ‘Simon Jackson.’ He rolled the name on his tongue. ‘Don’t know him. He’s after my time. The new ones are a different breed. I’ll ask about him very delicately.’