by Derek Fee
‘Mr Wilson, what can I do for you?’ Best sat behind a large mahogany desk on which only a computer monitor sat.
‘Hello Davie,’ Wilson looked round the large room and saw Eddie Hills loitering on a chair in the corner. ‘You’ve come a long way from the day you turned up at the station after being worked over by Sammy Rice and his boys. Now there’s a name to conjure with. I wonder where Sammy is today.’ He turned and looked at Hills. Best and Hills had become inseparable of late. He would write a note to Intelligence with this observation. ‘I’ll bet even your closest buddies have no idea.’
Best’s expression never changed. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to do a comic turn. This is a strip joint not a music hall.’
Wilson stood in front of Best. ‘We’re finding dead bodies in and around Belfast that appear to be associated with you. We’re beginning to think that it’s a bit of a coincidence.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. None of my associates has died recently.’
‘I was thinking of Mickey Duff, who happened to get himself incinerated in a stolen BMW at Helen’s Bay. And now we have Hugh Royce, shot to death outside a pub on the Antrim Road.’
Best looked over at Hills. ‘Do we know a Mickey Duff or a Hugh Royce?’
‘Never heard of them,’ Hills said.
‘Then it’s a coincidence that both Duff and Royce were involved in the drugs trade and you’re the largest supplier of drugs in the city.’
‘Good God, Mr Wilson, I’ve a good mind to take a case against you for defamation. Did you hear that, Eddie?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Hills said. ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson accused you of being the largest supplier of drugs in the city.’
‘I’m a club owner and a businessman,’ Best said. ‘I take steps to ensure that nobody sells drugs on the premises. If you hear different, give me the evidence and the person involved won’t put their foot inside this club again.’
‘You’re aware that there’s a drugs war going on in Dublin that’s already claimed fourteen lives?’
‘I read the papers,’ Best said.
‘I don’t want the same thing happening here. In fact, I’m not going to allow it to happen.’
‘You’re talking to the wrong man.’
‘I very much doubt that. Sooner or later we’re going to come up with a piece of evidence on the Duff murder.’ He turned and looked at Hills. ‘And when we do, that chair in the corner is going to be empty.’
‘My, my, Mr Wilson, you are in form today,’ Best said. ‘Defamation of character followed by threats against an innocent man. Have you been drinking? I think it’s time you left.’
‘You’re right; there’s a smell in here that turns my stomach. But I’ll be back, and when I am you won’t be so cocky.’ Wilson turned and walked towards the door. He looked at Hills as he passed. ‘Be seeing you.’
‘That man is turning into a right royal pain in the arse,’ Best said when the door closed on Wilson’s back.
‘Maybe we need to take care of him,’ Hills said.
Best sighed. ‘It’s something we might have to consider.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DCC Royson Jennings had been forced to cancel his staff meeting to accommodate CS Bobby Rodgers. The man was apoplectic and incomprehensible on the telephone. Now he sat before Jennings, telling his story of the demise of Jamsie Gibbons the previous evening.
‘The last bloody thing he said was that Peter Davidson was investigating Simon Jackson. Then the stupid old fart croaked before I could get another word out of him.’
‘Who was this Gibbons character?’ Jennings said. He didn’t have the length of service of people like Rodgers who seemed to have been in the force forever. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Before your time. He finished up as an inspector.’
‘How the hell did he know that Davidson was investigating Jackson?’
‘No idea, the old bastard was breathing his last. I asked him, but it was too late. The question is: why is Davidson investigating Jackson? You’re the boss, you’re supposed to know what’s going on with the rank and file.’
‘Yes, like I’m supposed to know what’s going on in Special Branch.’
Rodgers took the point. ‘What’s Davidson working on?’
‘There are two investigations underway: the body that was incinerated along with a car in Helen’s Bay and the Royce killing a few days ago. The burned body still hasn’t been identified and apparently all the forensic evidence was destroyed in the fire. As far as both murders are concerned, the Murder Squad is still faffing around looking for a lead.’
‘And Jackson has bugger all to do with either.’
‘You’re sure of that?’ Jennings noticed the intonation in Rodgers’ voice.
Rodgers didn’t reply.
‘But Jackson has been involved in something,’ Jennings continued.
‘He handled the Carlisle business for us.’
Jennings could feel his sphincter loosen. ‘That piece of business has been closed definitively.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Jennings steepled his fingers in front of his face. It couldn’t be. The coroner had already issued a death by suicide verdict. His first thought was that Wilson was involved somewhere, but he discounted the idea. The man was a liability, but he wasn’t stupid enough to launch an unofficial investigation into a death that had already been ruled on by the coroner. Davidson must be acting alone. ‘You know Davidson better than me. Why would he be investigating Jackson?’
‘I looked up his file and he’ll be retiring soon, so I can’t see him taking on something like this out of the blue.’
‘Is there any possibility that the Carlisle business wasn’t totally flawless?’
‘None. Jackson is one of my best men. He’s former military, you know the type, everything is always by the book.’
‘Then why do you look so worried?’
‘Because I know Wilson, and if he’s involved, we definitely have something to be worried about.’
‘Not if, as you say, the operation was sound.’
Rodgers didn’t reply.
‘What do you suggest we do?’ Jennings asked.
‘First we have to find out why Davidson is on Jackson’s back.’
‘So you believe this Gibbons character?’
‘Isn’t it wise to? I’ll pass the message to Jackson and tell him to rein things in for a while. We don’t want any more of a problem than we already have. Gibbons’ little outburst cost me a good night’s sleep.’
‘Not like you, Bobby, you’ll have to give up the young women, it’s heart attack land for a man of your age.’
‘Very bloody funny. I have a bad feeling in my water about this. Something isn’t right.’
‘Maybe your pal Gibbons was hallucinating, maybe Jackson is right and the murder was faultless. The coroner has ruled it a suicide. Maybe we have nothing to worry about. And if we have, maybe we can take care of it.’
Rodgers stood up. ‘I believed that until last night. I’ve never been remorseful for the things that I’ve done but last night … ,’ his voice tailed off.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He didn’t want to hear about Rodgers’ encounter with his ghosts of the past, present or future.
‘Aye.’ Rodgers turned and exited the office.
Jennings sat back in his chair. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He did what he did and that was the end of it. The people who suffered because of decisions he made deserved it. Still, he was going to have to report to Lattimer. The Carlisle affair was far too sensitive for him to handle alone.
Peter Davidson’s ears should have been burning but weren’t. He was sitting in Clements Café enjoying a coffee and a scone with fresh cream and strawberry jam. He’d phoned Jamsie Gibbons early in the morning and learned the sad news. Jamsie’s wife had misunderstood Davidson’s relationship with her late husband and related the circumstances of his death. Davidson wasn�
��t so happy to hear that the head of Special Branch had been in attendance at the demise. He assumed that Gibbons was following up on his promise to find out about Jackson. But bringing Rodgers into that quest would not have been the smartest move. He had six months to finish the investigation. They were close to having enough evidence to go upstairs. He looked out at the people hustling along Donegall Square. The bitter northeast wind was still blowing and everyone was wrapped up against it. Irene and he had been talking about the future, and they had decided that as soon as he retired and the insurance business was sorted, they would head for Spain to buy a villa where they could spend their future winters. He was even entertaining thoughts of making Irene the third Mrs Davidson. But in his mind this beautiful future all hinged on him proving that Irene’s husband was murdered and the implications for the insurance payout. Gibbons was gone and although Davidson had considered other possibilities for information on Jackson, none of them met the required level of trust. He decided to concentrate on the second phone and that meant a visit to Belfast International Airport.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DCI George Pratley was in conference when Wilson called requesting a meeting for Rory Browne. As soon as Pratley put the phone down he turned to his number two, DS John Wallace. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He started to laugh. It was a hell of a coincidence to receive a call from Wilson when he and Wallace were discussing how to frame him.
‘What did he want?’ Wallace asked.
‘He’s sending his sergeant over to get a read on the characters in the Belfast drugs trade and to find out what we have on Royce. He’s afraid that we might be looking at a turf war like the one they’re having in Dublin at the moment.’
‘There’s precious little chance of a drugs war when Best controls eighty per cent of the market.’
‘But he doesn’t know that. His other big worry is that some outfit like Republican Action Against Drugs is taking out low-level operatives.’
‘Those outfits are just protection rackets. The pushers who don’t pay up are the ones that get hurt.’
‘You’re a cynic, John.’
‘I don’t like it, Guv. This is all down to the Royce killing. We don’t need the spotlight shining on us.’
Wallace wasn’t the sharpest tool in the chest, but sometimes he hit the nail on the head. Royce had to go. Killing him had been the right decision, but it had put Wilson on their trail and everybody knew that Wilson couldn’t be bought, which was his bad luck. ‘Where’s the rest of the gear that we confiscated on the last bust?’
‘I have just over a kilo in my desk.’
‘Planting it isn’t the problem, but how do we manufacture a reason for the search?’
‘What about a driving offence? Then they search his car and they find the gear. It’s a lot easier to plant it in his car than in his apartment.’
‘We’ll need help.’
‘Best can give us a civilian for the accident and we’ll have some of our uniform pals ready to respond.’
‘Let’s work on it. I want it to be seamless, no loopholes.’
‘I’m on it.’
‘And you deal with this Browne guy. Spin him some bullshit about who the major players are.’
Wallace nodded. ‘I’ve heard about Browne. He’s a regular at Kremlin.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Leave it to me, Guv. I’ll make sure he remembers his visit to the Drugs Squad.’
Rory Browne was cold and tired when he rolled up at Musgrave Street station. He wasn’t sleeping well, and during a visit to his parents the previous weekend his mother had expressed concern at the dark circles under his eyes. He’d come out a year after he left college and since then he’d had an awkward relationship with his father. Generations of Browne men had been many things but gay wasn’t one of them. Although he was enjoying working with Wilson and the team, he was still ambivalent about his future as a police officer. Homosexuality might be accepted on paper in the PSNI, but he was aware of the looks he sometimes received from his colleagues. Maybe he was being overly sensitive, but he had accepted that it was bothering him. He checked in with the duty sergeant and asked for DCI Pratley. The sergeant made a phone call and indicated that DS Wallace would be down shortly to speak with him. He sat on a bench facing the reception and tried not to get irritated at the delay.
‘DS Browne?’
Browne raised his head and was craning his neck by the time he was looking at the man’s face.
‘DS Wallace, John to you, the boss is busy so he told me to take care of you.’
‘Call me Rory.’ Wallace was a big man in every sense of the word. He was at least six inches taller than Browne who was five feet ten. He sported a Viva Zapata moustache and had a three-day growth of beard. His barrel chest was almost bursting through a polo shirt and his thighs stretched his jeans. He wore a thick gold chain round his neck. If Browne didn’t know he was a police officer, he would have taken him for a drug dealer, which he assumed was intentional.
‘Let’s do this in the cafeteria,’ Wallace said. ‘I’ll stand you a cup of the worst coffee in Belfast.’
‘You obviously haven’t been to Tennent Street.’ Browne followed him through a door and along a corridor until they reached the cafeteria, where they procured two coffees and sat at an empty table.
‘What can I do for you?’ Wallace asked when they were settled.
‘We’re sure that the body in the burned-out car at Helen’s Bay is Mickey Duff. My boss is worried that Duff and Royce might be the first casualties in a drugs war. You were in the Drugs Squad at the same time as Royce?’
‘I was his sergeant.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘Nice guy, at first. Our squad has a lot of contact with drugs and dealers. The drugs are the equivalent of the hookers in Vice. You need to keep your hands off. Royce started to taste the forbidden fruit, and pretty soon he was off his head ninety per cent of the time. Then everything went downhill fast until he left.’
‘And after he left?’
‘I heard that he was dealing for a while and then nothing. I was sorry to hear that he’d been topped.’
Browne looked across the cafeteria and saw a group of men looking in their direction. He thought he saw them laughing. I’m becoming paranoid, he thought, and put the scene from his mind.
Wallace looked over his shoulder at the group and winked out of sight of Browne.
‘What about the idea of a turf war?’ Browne asked.
Wallace turned back, a smile still on his face that exposed two rows of small teeth. He brushed back his long black hair with his hand. ‘We’ve got the Chinese, the Russians, the East Europeans and the locals all distributing. We have contacts with all of them, and so far we haven’t heard anything about a turf war, but it’s possible.’
Browne looked at the table of men again. One of them made a comment to his colleagues that sent them into loud guffaws.
‘Checking out the talent?’ Wallace asked.
‘What did you say?
‘Word around is that you’re a pansy.’
‘I think you should be careful what you say. I have a good mind to report you.’ He could feel his cheeks burning
‘What for? I was only making a remark I would have made to a man checking out a group of women.’
Browne stood up. He contemplated throwing the remnants of his coffee at Wallace, but he knew that would get him nowhere. ‘I’m going to remember you.’
‘That’s your prerogative. It’s just locker-room talk as the man said.’
Browne didn’t start breathing properly until he reached the street. He knew he should expect to meet people like Wallace. Homophobia had been institutionalised in the police force for many years, and people like Wallace weren’t about to change. He had two choices: he could quit or he could remain and fight the prejudice. He hadn’t made up his mind which way to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After leaving Davie Best’s
club, Wilson returned to the station. He’d learned nothing from Best and had probably managed to put him and Hills on their guard. If the turf war scenario proved correct, Best would be right at the centre of it. That would mean Duff and Royce had to be working for the opposition. Whoever that was. Best had amalgamated two drug operations and was the acknowledged major drug player in the city. And yet neither he nor any of his associates had been arrested or jailed. He was still pondering that fact when he sat behind his desk and saw a folder lying on his computer keyboard. He opened it and found a note on the front from O’Neill indicating that the file contained all she could find on the death of DC Colin Payne. Wilson sifted through the twenty pages in the folder. There were newspaper articles, statements from Payne’s aunt and the first responders, and the autopsy and inquest reports. He started with the newspaper articles and worked his way through the rest of the papers. Payne reported one of his colleagues for corruption and a few weeks later he was dead. That was one hell of a coincidence and Wilson didn’t believe in coincidences. There was a phone number for Payne’s aunt at the end of her statement. He picked up the phone and dialled the number.