Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  Davidson took a card from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the table.

  Gibbons took it and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Have you been to Windsor Park lately? Linfield are a disgrace this season.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Browne came back to the office after lunch complaining about the pain in his feet, which he felt might be the beginnings of frostbite. He also came back empty handed. Many of the residents of the Antrim Road had installed CCTV systems, but in every case the camera was pointed at their gate. Nobody in the vicinity of O’Reilly’s pub had installed CCTV. It was a dead end. O’Neill had contacted Traffic and they promised a disk with whatever footage was available for the hours in question. It was going to be an unenviable job to go through the footage. Wilson was finishing his cafeteria lunch of tuna salad on soggy white bread and weak tea when Graham knocked on his door. He dumped the remains of his meal into the wastebasket and decided he was finally finished with cafeteria food. ‘You’ve nearly got your colour back,’ he said when Graham entered.

  ‘I hate that place.’ Graham didn’t bother to sit. ‘Dead bodies don’t bother me, but when I see the chest opened and all the crap that’s inside my stomach does somersaults. Why is it always me that has to attend the autopsies?’

  ‘I thought I did you a favour, keeping you out of the cold.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘The professor did her normal efficient job of slicing and dicing. Royce wasn’t exactly the healthiest man alive, but he had a lot of years left in him. The two shots to the chest did for him, the shot to the head was for good measure.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Royce had been a junkie. His arms are covered with old needle marks. The professor estimated that the track marks could be as old as two years. She wasn’t able to narrow the time of death down more than eleven p.m. to two a.m. The full report will be here this evening and Professor Reid said, if you want, you can contact her with any questions. How did the press conference go?’

  ‘We managed to avoid the issue of Royce being a former PSNI officer, for now. The journos will be all over this by the end of the day and I wouldn’t be surprised to see that fact highlighted in tomorrow morning’s newspapers.’

  ‘The phones will be going crazy. It’ll be on the radio by now and TV this evening.’

  ‘That’s not your problem but following up on those calls will be.’

  ‘Thanks, Boss, you’re really giving me some class jobs. Every crazy in Belfast will be on the line peddling whatever half-assed theory they have concerning the murder. It’s the ones who claim to have the alien responsible in a kitchen cupboard that I can’t stand. A lot of people out there need professional help.’

  ‘First priority is to discover Royce’s address. Any call that gives us a location gets priority. In the meantime, I want you to contact the former Mrs Royce and tell her that, despite her reticence, she’s going to be interviewed by us either at her home or at the station; the choice is hers.’

  ‘On it,’ Graham nodded and left.

  So Royce had been a junkie but was clean for at least two years. Wilson wondered whether that happened before he was drummed out of the force or after. He supposed it was an occupational hazard for members of the Drugs Squad. The job obliges them to be around drugs and pushers who spend money like water. The temptation must be there daily. He knew that Davidson had encountered similar problems when he was in the Vice Squad. The thin line between the police and the criminals goes a long way back, and there is plenty of historical evidence to show that the line has often been crossed. That thought cut deep with him. His own father was committed to justice but managed to betray that commitment. Given that fact, he wasn’t going to judge Hugh Royce too harshly.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At exactly three o’clock there was a knock on Wilson’s door. He looked up to see an attractive young woman and motioned her in.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Lucy Kane, Professional Services,’ she said as she walked forward with her hand outstretched.

  Wilson stood and shook. ‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, please sit down.’ Kane looked to be in her early thirties. She had short dark hair, a pale Irish face that was attractive rather than beautiful and a slim lithe body that was shown off by a blue trouser suit. She was either a regular member of a gym or a dedicated runner.

  ‘Apparently your chief super has been speaking to mine,’ Kane said, taking a seat directly facing Wilson.

  ‘That’s the way it usually works.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we’re not able to release files that we’ve been working on, but I’ve examined the Hugh Royce file and I’m permitted to answer your questions up to a limit. The case was before my time, so everything I tell you is what I learned from the file.’

  ‘And the limit is?’

  ‘I can’t name any of the witnesses.’

  ‘That’s reasonable. Tell me why Royce was asked to leave.’

  ‘There was an allegation from a fellow officer that seized drugs had disappeared from storage and been replaced by sachets of flour. When the allegation was investigated, it was shown to be true. There was evidence that the thefts were systematic. We were about to launch a full-scale investigation of the squad when Royce’s name came to the fore.’

  ‘Was there any specific evidence against him?’

  ‘Only the allegation by a fellow officer.’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘Royce was presented with the allegation and what little evidence we had. He was told that Professional Services was about to launch a full investigation and if it was established that he had stolen the drugs, he would be charged with corruption and if found guilty, would receive a long custodial sentence.’

  ‘Were you confident of a successful prosecution?’

  ‘From what I’ve read, I’d say the investigation would have been costly and might not have been successful.’

  ‘So the option that was put to Royce was to resign or risk jail on a corruption charge?’

  ‘That is my understanding.’

  ‘So presumably he was asked to sign a prepared letter, and he just did?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Was the signing of that letter not an admission of guilt?’

  ‘Not in law. We had no direct evidence against him. He was simply resigning from the force.’

  ‘Was the full investigation ever completed?’

  ‘No, the fact that Royce accepted retirement was construed at the time as a valid reason to short-circuit the investigation. I got the impression from the file that my colleagues were overjoyed because the budget for the full investigation might not have been approved.’

  ‘Who made the decision to offer Royce retirement?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘It’s not in the file?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened to the officer who made the allegation?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Do you know that Hugh Royce has been murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you for a favour. You can refuse and I won’t be offended. If it compromises you in any way, I’ll understand. I don’t want the name of the officer who made the allegation, but I would like to know what happened to him. You can look at his record. I’d like to know if he’s still in the Drugs Squad, or even still on the force.’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Royce was shot twice in the chest and once in the head, which indicates that someone wanted him very dead. The killer left almost no forensic evidence, down to taking his shell casings with him, which suggests either a professional hitman or possibly a police officer. Royce was a former Drugs Squad officer drummed out for corruption on nothing more than an allegation, and the autopsy shows that he was an addict but has been clean for at least two years. Something is stinking to high heaven here, and it just could lead back to the PSNI. I think that
it’s in everyone’s interest to look into what happened in the past. I don’t need the name, only what happened to him.’

  ‘I may have to discuss this with a superior.’

  ‘Be my guest. Don’t forget, we’re all on the same side.’

  She started to rise. ‘While I was at it, I took a look at your file. You sail pretty close to the wind.’

  ‘But I’d never sign a retirement letter without substantial evidence against me.’

  She smiled. ‘You obviously weren’t guilty of sexual harassment.’

  ‘That was the conclusion of the investigation.’

  ‘I hope your luck hasn’t changed.’ She turned towards the door. ‘I’ll be in touch, maybe.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wilson watched her leave the office. She was a step up from Coyne and Gillespie, the two assholes who tried to railroad him for the screw-up in the Worthington investigation.

  He reflected on Royce’s retirement. It was a bit too pat. Royce was presented with a series of allegations, and immediately folded. Yet the man had been a detective constable, hardly the type to throw himself under a bus. In Wilson’s experience, men who end up under the bus were thrown there by someone else. He was trying to reconcile the man in the HR photo with the dishevelled figure in the snow outside O’Reilly’s. Royce looked like he had fallen on hard times. There was clearly a lot more to learn about him and Wilson had a feeling that most of it would not be pleasant.

  His computer made a ding indicating the arrival of an email. It was the autopsy report from Reid. He downloaded the file and started reading. Ten minutes later he had finished and forwarded the file to the rest of the team. Royce wasn’t about to die naturally anytime soon, and if it wasn’t for three nine-millimetre slugs, he would still be in the pink. The contents of his stomach showed that he’d dined royally on fish and chips and a cola. His body was covered with old needle marks. He had serious gum disease and tooth decay. The good news was that he hadn’t gone the full distance with the drugs. Something had happened to make him stop. A good man had gone bad and then had somehow restored himself. Wilson needed a drink. He took out his mobile phone and texted Reid: The Crown six thirty? He had an immediate positive reply. Maybe the Royce autopsy had depressed her as well. He wondered, and not for the first time, how she could do her job.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The evening briefing had taken place in an air of disappointment. They were thirty-six hours into the investigation and they still had no line on Royce’s address. The picture of the man was coming together very slowly. The victim was a welter of contradictions, and more worryingly, the years since his departure from the PSNI appeared to be a total mystery. Wilson had relayed the content of his discussion with Kane and it was clear that there had been some corruption in the Drugs Squad that Royce was involved in. Why else would he have rushed to accept the resignation letter? It was becoming increasingly important to learn about Royce and the missing years. None of the information they had amassed so far could be construed as being the basis of a motive for his murder. Wilson had informed Davis of the progress so far and indicated that the response to the appeal would be critical. Graham had stayed on to handle whatever calls had come in and the rest of the team had headed for the exit.

  Wilson went straight to the Crown, where he found his snug unoccupied and settled himself to await the arrival of Reid. He had just started on his first pint when the door opened. The smile faded from his face when he recognised the new arrival as DCI George Pratley, the head of the Drugs Squad. They had never worked together but had met on a senior officers’ management course a few years previously.

  ‘I heard this was your regular watering hole,’ Pratley said as he entered the snug. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘I was wondering when I was going to see you,’ Wilson said.

  Pratley sat down and laid the glass he was holding on the table. ‘How so?’

  ‘Hugh Royce was one of your guys.’ Pratley had put on some weight since Wilson had seen him last. He took in the cashmere coat, the English leather shoes and the expensive looking watch. They must pay higher salaries in the Drugs Squad, or else Mrs Pratley must be bringing home a lot of bacon.

  ‘Poor Hugh,’ Pratley sipped his whiskey. ‘He had a hell of a lot of potential. I even thought that someday he might replace me as the head of the squad.’

  ‘They rise high before their wings melt and they fall to ground. How did it happen?’

  ‘No idea. Maybe he needed money at home. Maybe it was because we were after the likes of Gerry McGreary and Sammy Rice and they managed to corrupt him by force. I never found out.’ He leaned back for the bell. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m okay for the moment.’ He watched as Pratley ordered himself a refill.

  ‘I looked at his record,’ Wilson said. ‘He was a smart boy, too smart to screw up his career for a couple of quid.’

  ‘Word has it he lifted two kilos.’

  ‘That’s a lot of weight to move.’

  ‘Not if you sell it back to where it came from.’

  Pratley’s drink arrived and he paid for it. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’ he asked Wilson before he let the barman go.

  ‘Absolutely. Did you stay in contact with him after he retired?’

  ‘For a while,’ Pratley drank half his glass. ‘Bitch of a wife divorced him a few months after he left. She didn’t understand the phrase “for better or worse”. You talk to her yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you do, don’t believe a word the bitch says.’ He took out his mobile phone and brought up a picture of the dead body that had been circulated on the Internet. He turned the phone to show Wilson. ‘I never thought that Hugh Royce would end up like that. What line of enquiry are you following?’

  ‘We’re looking at everything right now. The last years are a bit of a mystery, but we’re trying to fill in the gaps. Someone wanted your pal Royce dead.’

  ‘He’s not my pal.’

  ‘Sorry, I got the impression that you were close. If you were building him up to take over the squad, you must have been mentoring him. What went wrong?’

  There was a knock on the door and Reid put her head round the corner. ‘If you’re busy, I’ll wait at the bar.’

  Pratley stood. ‘No, no, I’ve got to be away, things to do, places to be.’ He finished his glass and manoeuvred himself passed Reid without touching her. At the door he turned back to Wilson. ‘If I can help.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Wilson replied, making room for Reid.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked as she settled herself and leaned over to kiss Wilson.

  ‘That was DCI George Pratley, the head of the Drugs Squad.’ He pushed the bell.

  ‘Double gin and tonic. And what was he doing here with you?’

  ‘That’s a very interesting question. Ostensibly he was telling me how much he cared for poor Hugh Royce, but he never once exhorted me to find the bloody murderer. Mind you it’s been a few years since they served together.’ The barman arrived and he ordered the drinks. ‘We’re off home after this one. We’re both bushed and an early night is on the cards.’

  ‘Is that a threat or a promise?’

  ‘Probably both.’

  The drinks arrived and he paid.

  ‘I saw you on the news, very senatorial. Davis looked a little stressed.’ She clinked glasses and drank.

  Wilson finished his pint and put the glass away. He was still thinking about his conversation with Pratley.

  Pratley left the Crown and hailed a black taxi. He sat in the back, gave his address and pulled the glass divider across. He took out his mobile phone. ‘It’s me. I just had a drink with Wilson. He’s nowhere on the Royce business.’

  ‘We know, now get off the phone.’ Davie Best cut the communication. Fucking mobile phones, there was always someone listening somewhere, worst invention ever. Who was he kidding? In the course of the past year, he had set up an intelligence operation to
rival that of the PSNI and the British military. He hated to admit it, but Pratley had been right about Royce. The stupid bugger had gone rogue and was about to spill on their drugs operation. There was no way that could be allowed to happen, and it was probably necessary for Royce to die. There was big money involved and the people further up the line who financed the operation wouldn’t hesitate at taking a serving copper out. Mr Wilson had better be wary.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wilson returned from his run to find not only his breakfast on the table but also a copy of the Chronicle with a handwritten message on the top: Compliments of your pal, Jock, call me. He called out for Reid, but she had already left for the Royal. He wolfed down a bowl of cereal while he read McDevitt’s front-page article. The Chronicle saw Royce’s death as the start of a turf war between different drug gangs. Wilson was sometimes amazed at McDevitt’s ability to get at information and then twist it in ways that only a journalist could. The article emphasised Royce’s past as a Drugs Squad officer and even had outline details of his fall from grace. Royce’s face stared out from the first page under a headline ‘The First of Many?’. At least McDevitt had included the PSNI’s call for witnesses. Wilson ignored McDevitt’s ‘call me’ request; he didn’t need to speak to McDevitt at that moment. It would not be a civil conversation.

  The team assembled before the whiteboard at nine o’clock. Some of the details from the forensic report and the autopsy had been added.

  ‘Anything from the phones, Harry?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘They’re not exactly flooding in, Boss,’ Graham said. ‘It appears that our friend Royce kept himself to himself.’

  ‘Either that or he mixed in company that doesn’t want to communicate with the PSNI,’ Wilson said. ‘Any anonymous callers?’

  ‘Most are anonymous,’ Graham said. ‘The only ones who give their names are the flakes. The bottom line is that we haven’t had one call that gives us an address.’