by Derek Fee
There was a pregnant pause. ‘Somewhere offsite and where neither of us are known.’
‘Have you been to the Titanic Centre yet?’
She laughed. ‘No.’
‘It’s the safest place to meet. Everyone who goes there is either a tourist, or a schoolchild. I haven’t met a native of Belfast who has actually visited it. I’ll meet you in The Galley café at four o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘Well?’ Rodgers stared across the desk at Jennings.
‘I don’t know,’ Jennings said. ‘Wilson almost convinced me that he was telling the truth. But he’s a devious bastard, and a consummate liar. What do you have from your side?’
‘I passed the message to Jackson, who isn’t exactly pissing himself. The Carlisle business was the only possible link with Wilson or Davidson, and as far as Jackson is concerned the operation was as clean as a whistle.’
‘I don’t like hubris. We both know that no operation is ever as clean as a whistle. There’s always a flaw, even in what looks like a perfect plan. Make Jackson go over every aspect of the operation.’
‘I already have. Nothing was left to chance. The appointment with the hospice was cancelled, the wife was out and, according to Jackson, Carlisle died with a smile on his face.’
‘You know Gibbons. Could the old fool have made the whole thing up?’
‘Jamsie was fond of a drink or two, but why should he bother to approach me with a cock and bull story? What was in it for him?’
‘How did he know that Davidson was looking into Jackson? Nobody in the force even knows the names of the officers in your service.’
‘Don’t forget we used Jackson in the operation against Wilson.’
‘Not one of your more successful outings. Do you think that Wilson is looking for something on Jackson for revenge? It doesn’t really fit with his character.’
‘Well, I don’t exactly think that Wilson has put Jackson on his Christmas card list.’
‘Put a tail on Davidson. Not Jackson, someone else. Let’s see where he goes and what he does. Then we can make up our mind what to do about him.’
Rodgers stood up slowly. ‘I was against the Carlisle operation. The man was dying anyway.’
Jennings picked up a file. ‘But not fast enough.’
Peter Davidson sat in the conservatory where Jackie Carlisle had taken his last breath. He was finishing his coffee and looking across at Carlisle’s widow Irene. He had loved quite a few women in his lifetime, and he had been honest enough to realise that in many cases the love he professed was simply lust. Things were different with Irene. Maybe it was because he was older now and a lot wiser, but what had started off as a piece of opportunism when Irene had come on to him had, over the months that they had been intimate, grown into the most genuine love that he was capable of. Every time he looked at her he felt a warm glow in his chest. In a few months, he would be finished with the PSNI. It had been a hell of a ride, a lot of ups but also a lot of downs. The main point was that he had survived. As long as he and Irene were together, there would never be the spectre in his future of the dreaded security job in a shopping mall, or taking the tickets in a car park.
Irene refilled his coffee and offered him another chocolate biscuit. ‘Do you really think you have this Jackson fellow?
‘We’re close. I’m meeting your neighbour later. If he identifies Jackson, Wilson is going to haul the bastard in and confront him. Whatever way that interview goes, there’s sufficient evidence to prove that Jackie’s death was murder. Then you can go back to the insurance company and get them to review the file.’
Irene cuddled up to him. ‘You’re the smartest detective in the whole world.’
Davidson knew that certainly wasn’t true, but he wasn’t about to disabuse Irene of her opinion.
She picked up a brochure from the table. ‘I can’t wait to get away from this cold country.’ She flicked through the pages. ‘What do you think of this one?’
Davidson looked at the advertisement for a three-bedroomed villa with swimming pool in Tenerife. A few short months ago, this would have been a dream. ‘I love it.’
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘We’re going to buy it as soon as the money comes in from the insurance. Then we’re going to move there and spend the winter in the sun.’
‘You’re not going to keep this place?’ They’d never really discussed what was going to happen to the Hillsborough house. Davidson assumed it was Irene’s to dispose of as she wished. It was worth in the high seven hundred thousands, leaving plenty of change after the villa was purchased.
She cuddled closer. ‘This house will go to my son when I die. It’s already arranged.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be on the deed of the Spanish house.’
If I last that long, Davidson thought. Although he and Irene were getting on like a house on fire in and out of the bedroom, it would be her name on the insurance cheque. At that point, he would have served his purpose, and she would be well within her rights to show him the door. In that event, he would probably be grateful for the security job in the nearest shopping centre. But that was in the future and it might never happen. He finished up his coffee and turned to give her a hug. ‘I love you, Irene.’
‘And I love you, Peter. You’re ten times the man that Jackie Carlisle was. I spent most of my life as an appendage to that egomaniac. What a bloody waste. You’ve given me more joy in the few months that we’ve been together than I had in the previous twenty years. I can’t wait to get away together and start a new life.’
He held her close. He wanted so much for it to be true.
When Davidson left Irene’s house, he didn’t notice the nondescript young man loitering at the end of the road. He crossed to the neighbour’s house and rang the bell. When the door was answered he took his warrant card and showed it. ‘Mr Cooney, DC Davidson.’
Recognition came into Cooney’s face. ‘I remember, you’re looking into Jackie’s Carlisle’s death.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘What the hell do you want now?’
‘I’d like to show you some photos. Perhaps you can identify the man in the white jacket.’
‘Then I suppose you’d better come inside.’
They went into the living room and sat on the couch. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ Cooney asked.
‘Nothing for me, thanks.’ Davidson took four passport-sized photographs out of his pocket and laid them side by side on the coffee table. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’
Cooney stared at the photos moving them sideways after he examined each one. ‘This one here.’ He tapped the photo of Simon Jackson. ‘This is the guy wearing the white jacket who went into the house.’
Davidson took out an A4 pad from his briefcase. ‘I wonder would you please write out a short statement for me to that effect and sign it. I’d also like you to sign and date the back of the photo that you’ve identified.’
Cooney sighed as he took the pad and pen. ‘Will this end up in court? I’m very busy at the moment.’
‘Hard to say, sir, depends where we go from here.’ That’s what Davidson loved about Joe Citizens. They enjoyed nattering on about what they would do in a crime situation, but when the chips were down and they were sitting in court looking at some beast covered in tattoos, they generally had an urgent need to visit the toilet. Not that Davidson blamed them. During his time in the force, he had met the worst of the worst, men and women who killed and maimed in the name some ideology from the Middle Ages. And in their midst were the psychopaths taking advantage of a free pass to the bloodbath. He watched as Cooney signed the back of Jackson’s photo, and then carefully wrote his short statement.
‘That should cover it.’ Cooney handed back the pad and pen.
Davidson read the statement. It would probably be enough to bring Jackson in. ‘Very good, sir, this will do for the present. I’ll get this ty
ped up and I’ll be back to have it signed.’ He stood.
‘You mean we’re not finished?’
‘Just one more signature on the typed-up version, we’ll try to be quick so that we cause the minimum disruption.’ He slipped the pad into his briefcase and returned the photos to his jacket pocket.
They walked to the front door together and Davidson walked back to his unmarked police car. He looked across the road at the Carlisle house and pondered returning to visit the lovely Irene but decided it was best to go back to the station instead.
As his car drove down the street, a man came out of the shadows and walked up to the Cooney house. He took out a notebook and wrote the house number down then went to a car parked down the road and sat into the passenger seat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Wilson had been wrestling with the problem of Hugh Royce’s whereabouts over the past three years. While he believed that people could go off grid, Ulster was not an easy place in which to do it. Dealing with the bureaucracy doesn’t make it easy for a start, and disappearing among a population of 1.8 million souls takes some doing. How had Royce managed the almost impossible? He could think of one man who might have the answer to that question and he had met him in the company of Jock McDevitt. Reluctant as he was to involve the reporter from the Chronicle, he had no option.
‘And how is my best friend today?’ McDevitt said when he answered the phone. He was in the newsroom writing up his piece for the morning edition. ‘Want to hear my lead for tomorrow’s paper?’
‘Not really, I need another one-on-one with Mouse,’ Wilson said.
‘I see you’re not in the mood for small talk today. I’m afraid that the one-on-one isn’t going to happen. I’m sorry, Ian, but I’m not about to put contacts I’ve cultivated for years at risk. Mouse was emphatic when I dropped him off. You got to ask your questions, and you got your answers.’
‘What if the questions weren’t the right ones?’
‘This isn’t a drawn cup-tie, there are no replays. Mouse has no problem slipping me a few titbits, but he has no desire to become a police snitch. And I pay better.’
‘I’m not laughing. My back is to the wall on this Royce killing. The guy is a ghost. He retires from the PSNI, divorces his wife, hits the junkie trail and disappears. I need to find out where he disappeared to.’
‘It might be as simple at Kathmandu.’
‘In which case I’m screwed. You give me Mouse, and I’ll give you a scoop, how’s that?’
‘A bit like tying a carrot in front of a donkey’s face that he’s never going to get. I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask Mouse the question for you. And you still owe me this scoop of yours.’
Wilson thought for a minute. He certainly wasn’t going to get any help from his friends in the Drugs Squad. McDevitt’s proposal was probably the best deal on the table. ‘Okay, I need to know where Royce has been for the past three years. How soon will you be back to me?’
‘I’m putting the piece for tomorrow to bed. I’ll contact Mouse when I’m through. What about a drink this evening at the Crown, seven o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘That’s the plan.’ Pratley sat back and smiled at Jennings. He’d outlined his plan for fitting up Wilson. It involved a car crash, the planting of drugs in Wilson’s car and the responding officers finding them. ‘The frame is perfect. The bastard will never get out of jail.’
‘That’s because with a hair-brained scheme like that, the bastard will never be put in jail. That kind of frame would be all right to run on your criminal friends who have a track record with drugs. Wilson, on the other hand, is a squeaky-clean police officer who has never been involved in either handling or using drugs. However, we don’t need to get Wilson into jail, we just need him to be preoccupied with a personal problem for a while. I think I’ve come up with something that might have the desired effect. In contrast to your flight of fancy, it’s simple and it might actually work.’ And thankfully it doesn’t include any input from Pratley and his crew, he thought. ‘Listen and learn.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Galley café is located in the atrium of the Titanic Centre in East Belfast. Wilson ran past the place most mornings, but he had never visited the exhibition. In the same way, he supposed, that there were many Romans who had never visited the Coliseum. At ten minutes to four, he was seated at a table enjoying a black coffee and a chocolate cake that was off the scale in calorie content. Kane arrived and bought her own coffee.
‘I got your message,’ Wilson said when she sat down.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She sipped her mint tea.
‘I followed up on Payne’s death. I paid a visit to the farm in Ballyward and spoke to his aunt. She was pretty adamant that his death wasn’t an accident. Apparently, she’s been complaining for years, but nobody was taking a blind bit of notice. I left the place convinced that she had a point.’
‘Good for you, and how does this affect Professional Services?’
‘I’m coming to that. I asked Professor Reid at the Royal to review the initial post-mortem. She’s convinced that Payne was murdered. There are bruises on his back that are consistent with him being forcibly held down in the slurry tank. She’s going to contact the coroner and ask to have the inquest reopened.’
Kane sipped her tea and looked at Wilson over the top of the cup. She’d heard a lot of rumours about him. It was said that he only needed the sniff of a murder to get on the trail. She was aware of that reputation when she sent him the cutting from the newspaper. ‘That must be comforting for his aunt.’
‘There are lots of questions surrounding the murder, specifically who put the pressure on Payne’s back. But that’s going to be my business. However, there is an issue of the possible involvement of Professional Services in the murder. How did the killer know that Payne was the whistle-blower? The only answer I can come up with is that your unit must have had a giant leak in it. You were supposed to have been the only ones who knew Payne’s identity. I assume that it was never mentioned in the interview with Royce.’
‘You assume right. Although the PSNI Code of Ethics gives no guarantee of confidentiality to an officer reporting misconduct in the service, we do everything possible to maintain confidentiality where the issues are serious. In this case, all documents relating to Royce were marked ‘sensitive’ and had a restricted circulation. Also, the computer files relating to the case were encrypted and password protected.’
‘But someone found out that Payne was the source of the accusations against Royce and by extension the Drugs Squad.’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Do you think that your unit is leak-proof?’
She shook her head.
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘I think we’re done here.’ She started to rise and he put his hand on her arm.
‘I think I know who’s behind Payne’s death. I think that Royce was involved in corruption, but he wasn’t alone. I’m going to bring this whole mess to light, and when I do I’m going to get the name of the person who leaked Payne’s name and I’m going to put him or her in the dock as an accessory.’ He took his hand from her arm and she stood up.
‘Good luck.’ She turned on her heel and walked away.
He went to the counter and ordered another coffee. He’d hoped that she might be more open to helping him. But she had probably already crossed a line by sending him the newspaper article. A lot of PSNI colleagues were going to be trapped in the net he was planning to cast. Some of them would be in the Drugs Squad, some would be in Professional Services and some might even be in Castlereagh. It was a risky road that he was going down but wasn’t it always.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Wilson called into the station and learned that there was nothing new in the Royce investigation. There was a copy of an email from Reid to the coroner in which she made an excellent case for having the inquest on Payne reopened. It was written in
such a way that the coroner would have difficulty in refusing. He thanked God daily that he had someone like Reid in his corner. There was no point to an evening briefing and the team drifted off between five and six. Wilson was anxious to meet McDevitt, so as soon as the squad room was empty, he left. McDevitt was ensconced in Wilson’s snug when he arrived and looked like he’d been there for some time. ‘You owe me fifty quid,’ McDevitt said as soon as Wilson sat down.
‘Cheap at twice the price.’ Wilson put a fifty-pound note on the table and McDevitt scooped it up. ‘Your royalty cheque didn’t arrive this month?’
‘Sales are down.’ McDevitt finished his pint and pushed the bell to summon the barman. ‘My agent tells me that we’re losing traction.’
‘That doesn’t sound too good.’
The barman stuck his head in and McDevitt placed the order.
‘Apparently it’s not,’ McDevitt said. ‘I’m drowning my sorrows, sort of.’
‘Wait until the film comes out. Anyway, most book sales are paperback these days.’
The drinks arrived and McDevitt paid. They picked up their glasses, toasted each other and drank.
‘Enough of the foreplay,’ Wilson said. ‘I assume the fifty quid was for Mouse. Did he come through?’
‘Used to be a fiver in the old days.’ McDevitt took a drink.
Wilson put on a hard face. ‘Don’t play with me, Jock. What have you got?’
‘You’re not going to be happy.’ McDevitt moved his hands in a circle over the table as though he was cradling a crystal ball. ‘I see fifty quid flying away for no result.’
Wilson was beginning to wish he’d arrived two drinks earlier. But when McDevitt was playing the crazy leprechaun, it was as well to play along. ‘Where was Royce living?’
‘Mouse hasn’t a clue. He hadn’t seen Royce in years before he saw him in Donegall Square. That’s what aroused his interest.’