Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  ‘But this witness was also the source of the information that the alibi was false.’

  ‘The witness provided the alibi.’

  ‘And Wilson used this information to establish Armstrong as the prime suspect?’

  ‘Armstrong’s fingerprint was found at the Kelly apartment and the file on the murder mysteriously disappeared. Wilson suspected high-level collusion aimed at protecting Armstrong. Therefore, he was a credible suspect.’

  ‘And you fully supported Wilson’s conclusion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you went together to seek the permission of the DCC to have Armstrong interviewed under caution?’

  ‘Yes, it was the next logical step.’

  ‘Was DS Wilson upset when the DCC refused to allow Armstrong to be interviewed?’

  ‘During the meeting he didn’t appear to be.’

  ‘And afterwards, did he express any frustration at the DCC’s decision?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did the DCC’s decision kill the investigation?’

  ‘Not in Wilson’s mind, he would have continued to look for evidence against Armstrong.’

  ‘I take it that you don’t believe that DS Wilson leaked information to the IRA that would lead them to suspect Armstrong of being a mole, and thereby leading to his death.’

  ‘You can take that as a fact.’

  Russell realised that no one had touched the tea. She picked up her cup and sipped. ‘I also take it that you get on well with DS Wilson.’

  ‘We are colleagues and I respect him as a fellow officer.’

  ‘Thank you, chief superintendent.’ Russell leaned over and switched off the recording.

  ‘When do you think the investigation will be concluded?’ Davis asked. ‘I need Wilson back as soon as possible. We’ve a heavy workload in this station.’

  ‘We’ll interview the team tomorrow.’ Russell drank the rest of her tea. ‘Of course, it would be an advantage to interview someone from the IRA, but we’ll probably have to stick to the evidence we have.’

  ‘Evidence from that quarter might be very unreliable indeed,’ Davis said. ‘Look at Wilson’s record. Is there anything there that is consistent with the allegation that’s been made against him?’

  Russell remained silent.

  ‘Are you free for dinner?’ Davis asked. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t talk about the investigation.’

  ‘I’ve already refused a dinner invitation from the DCC,’ Russell said. ‘I think tonight it’s going to be room service.’

  Davis smiled. Very professional, she thought.

  They stood together and shook hands.

  ‘What did you think?’ Russell asked Kane as they walked towards the lift.

  ‘She’s a high-flier who the rumour mill says is headed for the top. She’s not the sort to tie her colours to the mast for a lost cause. But the DCC isn’t going to forget that she’s not on his side.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The Special Operation Branch of the PSNI, most commonly known as Special Branch, is located in the Castlereagh complex, one of the most fortified buildings in Europe. The occupants of the complex are supposedly the safest citizens in Northern Ireland. The head of Special Branch, Robert Rodgers, would not describe his situation that day as safe. In fact, the man who gloried in the nickname of ‘Black Bob’ on account of the number of black operations he’d run was decidedly uneasy. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. He was supposed to be the one that made other people anxious. Although he’d never attended university, he had read every book on psychology he could get his hands on. With the arrival of the Internet, he’d studied the Stanford prison experiment and other experimental studies involving influence and fear. Black Bob had long ago accepted that chief superintendent was as high as he was going. Unlike his friend Jennings, he had no desire to grasp the brass ring. He was happy running black ops and being allied to the strongest power in the province, the Circle. The source of Rodgers’ unease was sitting directly in front of him. Sergeant Simon Jackson was one of the Branch’s top operatives. A former member of Military Intelligence, Jackson had a range of skills that Rodgers frequently called on. Up to now, Jackson had performed each of his operations with military precision. However, it was beginning to look like something had gone wrong with the operation to murder Jackie Carlisle. And there were a lot of people who would not like their pleasant lives disturbed by the possibility that their involvement in Carlisle’s death might be exposed.

  ‘Young Leslie here has been following Davidson since Jamsie spluttered out the fact that he was looking for information on you.’ Rodgers was looking directly at Jackson, ‘What he’s come up with is interesting.’ He turned, looked at Leslie and nodded.

  The young man shuffled nervously. ‘Davidson is shacked up with Carlisle’s widow. He’s at the house morning, noon and night.’ He tossed a series of photos on the desk showing Davidson and Irene Carlisle in clinches in the conservatory. ‘It’s obvious he’s shagging her.’

  ‘So fucking what?’ Jackson said. He was lounging in his chair. ‘Davidson as a detective isn’t worth the full of my arse of boiled snow. He’s a bummed-out old has-been, or never-was would be more accurate.’

  Rodgers looked at Leslie. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Over the past few days, Davidson has been twice to a house across the road from Carlisle that’s owned by a guy called Cooney. After his second visit, I followed up with Cooney and apparently Davidson has a statement identifying a man he saw entering the Carlisle house on the day of his death.’

  ‘And you think that man is me,’ Jackson said.

  ‘It was you,’ Rodgers said. ‘But how did Davidson find out that you were involved? To have Cooney identify you, Davidson had to show him pictures. Why was one of those a picture of you?’

  Jackson was sitting more erect. ‘I see what you’re getting at, chief. Maybe this has something to do with Wilson.’

  ‘Or maybe Davidson is acting on his own,’ Rodgers said. ‘I’ve been doing some checking and it appears that Carlisle had a hefty insurance policy. The coroner’s verdict of suicide voided that policy and cost Carlisle’s widow a cool half a million pounds. Davidson shagging her could be based on a quid pro quo of him proving that her husband was murdered.’

  ‘That operation was watertight,’ Jackson said. ‘I was in and out in a couple of minutes and Carlisle died with a smile on his face. I get pulled in and there’ll be a dozen guys who’ll swear I was somewhere else. They have nothing.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Rodgers said. ‘They have your name, and we don’t know where they got it.’

  Jackson was thinking back over the Carlisle killing. It had gone completely to plan. ‘I’d like to know that too. I’m not scared of Davidson playing at detective to get into Carlisle’s widow’s pants. But I don’t like to think that Wilson is behind this somehow.’

  ‘He’s got his own problems at the moment,’ Rodgers said.

  Jackson leaned forward. ‘Wilson is going to be a thorn in our sides until he’s put six feet under, and even then I’d make sure to drive a stake through his heart before he’s planted.’

  ‘We know that we have a problem,’ Rodgers said. ‘How are we going to solve it?’

  ‘Leave Leslie on the case,’ Jackson said. ‘Sooner or later Davidson will give up, or Carlisle’s widow will realise that she’s turned to the wrong man.’

  Rodgers nodded. That solution didn’t dispel his unease. It was a holding pattern and he didn’t like sitting on his hands when his gut told him that action was needed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  A stone’s throw from Rodgers’ office, Royson Jennings was in conference with his closest ally, ACC Nicholson. ‘That bloody woman refused my invitation to dinner.’ Jennings had met Russell earlier that morning. He knew better than to try to influence her at their first meeting. ‘I bet that Wilson has her eating out of his hand. Why in God’s name did they send a woman?’

  ‘I thought that
she came across very professionally.’ Nicholson didn’t look his boss in the eye, he was never comfortable when offering an opinion that was not in line with the DCC’s.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about her professionalism. I want her to find the allegation proven.’ Jennings had started having misgivings as soon as he had met Russell. It wasn’t just that women tended to respond positively to Wilson, it was the fact that she wasn’t looking to him for guidance. He disliked people who put forward the idea that their opinion had the same validity as his. ‘What has she been up to today?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I thought you’d given her someone from Professional Services to help her.’

  ‘I did, a young woman called Lucy Kane.’

  ‘A woman, you gave her a woman as an assistant. So now two women are investigating whether Wilson is guilty of leaking information to the IRA. Are you out of your bloody mind?’

  ‘I didn’t know at the time that Russell was a woman.’

  ‘I suppose the name Fiona might have been an indication.’

  Nicholson said nothing. He often wondered why Jennings was fixated with bringing Wilson down. He rather liked the man himself and no one could doubt Wilson’s record. But his own colours were firmly attached to Jennings’ mast and his opinions normally reflected those of his mentor. ‘Perhaps we were a little hasty in bringing the allegation. There’s no doubt that the IRA had the information that Armstrong was a tout, but Nolan might have been a little out of order to suggest that someone in the PSNI passed along that information.’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool. Wilson was the one who worked out that Armstrong was working for British Intelligence. He had to be involved.’ Jennings realised that he was trying to convince himself. Once again he had let his emotions rule his head in an effort to get rid of Wilson. He had jumped when he should have waited to see whether concrete evidence could be found, or perhaps manufactured. ‘Leave me.’ He dismissed Nicholson with a wave of his hand. He needed to be alone to think.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Wilson watched the final credits of the Wild Bunch roll up the screen. Peckinpah’s classic was one of his favourites, but Reid wasn’t into the genre so it had become a sneaky watch. He’d seen it so often that he could almost quote the dialogue from memory. The advantage of this level of familiarity is that while he was watching, a large portion of his brain was concentrating on something else entirely. And he had plenty on his mind. Some would say too much. There was nothing he could do about Russell’s investigation. But he could do something about Royce and especially about Payne. The young detective constable had been murdered and justice needed to be served. The problem was he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. Under normal circumstances he should go to his superior, but he had the feeling that Davis would insist on moving up the line and that meant Jennings. The morning edition of the Chronicle would launch another round of invective from HQ. McDevitt would protect his source, but even a deaf, dumb and blind man would know that he was somewhere behind Reid’s re-examination of the post-mortem and the request that the coroner reopen the inquest. There was only one place he could go for help and that was right to the top. When the chief constable had given him command of the Murder Squad, he’d said that he would always be available to help. Wilson was about to put that to the test. He took out the card with Norman Baird’s personal mobile number on it and called. It was answered quickly.

  ‘Chief Constable Baird.’

  ‘Ian Wilson, we have to talk.’

  There was a moment’s silence on the phone. ‘Does this concern your current situation?’

  ‘No, it’s a totally unrelated matter.’

  ‘I hear you were something of a rugby player.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘My son is playing in the School’s Cup semi-final at the Kingspan Stadium tomorrow afternoon. I thought you might be attending.’

  ‘I was definitely planning to go,’ Wilson lied.

  ‘Good, if you’re in the Grand Stand then I’ll probably see you there.’

  Wilson put the phone away. He was about to either make the greatest mistake of his life or solve two murders. If he were right about who the murderers were, it would shake the PSNI to its foundations. But there was a long way to go before that happened.

  He eased back in his chair. There was a third problem. Reid was no longer happy in Belfast. Perhaps it was the weather, or maybe the job had lost its lustre, or maybe the curse that invaded his relationships with women had struck again. The thought that he and Reid would no longer be together was painful for him. One way or another he was going to hold on to her. She was on her way home and he decided to play house-partner by setting the table for dinner. Neither of them was a great cook so dinner generally consisted of some kind of protein and salad, either that or they got a takeaway. He felt the small bulge about his belt. The morning run was going to have to be a more regular event. He was putting knives and forks on the table when the intercom went. He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Don’t put the phone down.’

  ‘Jack, I’m really not in the humour tonight.’

  ‘Let me up. I won’t stay long.’

  Wilson pushed the button releasing the door downstairs. Duane didn’t stop being a friend just because of Nolan’s memo.

  ‘Nothing I could do,’ Duane said as he entered the apartment. ‘Nolan’s a cantankerous old bastard. His pride wouldn’t let him say that he made a mistake.’

  ‘I’ve met a few cantankerous bastards in my time,’ Wilson said. ‘The problem is I believe he’s probably right. Someone leaked information on Armstrong and although justice was served in a perverse way, it wasn’t the right thing to do. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No, but I have an arrangement for later.’

  ‘Davis?’

  ‘A gentleman doesn’t say.’

  Wilson started laughing. Duane looked more like a pirate or a highwayman than a gentleman.

  ‘How did it go today?’

  ‘The investigator from Scotland is Superintendent Fiona Russell. She seems professional and independent. It’s more than I expected.’

  ‘I think we might all be wrong about who leaked the information. My contacts in the IRA tell me that they’ve been on to Armstrong for some time. He pissed off a lot of people when he was heading the ‘nutting squad’. Some of them wanted revenge.’

  ‘I’d like to believe that.’

  ‘I’m just passing on the message. Did you surrender your weapon?’

  Wilson nodded.

  Duane took a gun from his pocket and held it out. ‘I think you should take this.’

  ‘No way. I don’t do unofficial.’

  Duane put the gun back in his pocket. ‘It’s your funeral. I have one other piece of news. I don’t know whether you’ve already heard, there was a meeting on a yacht in the south of France last week involving one of our heavies from Dublin. The subject was a hit on a police officer in Belfast. The enquiry was preliminary, but our information is that the hitman in question was receptive. We’ve passed the information along to your Intelligence people.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘We don’t have a name, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. If anything more comes of it, I’ll get back to you. I have to go and I’m sorry again for landing you in the shit.’

  ‘No harm done, yet.’

  Wilson closed the door of the apartment. Duane wasn’t the type of individual to share information unless there was a good reason. Perhaps he’d already shaken the tree with the investigation into the Drugs Squad. But they’d only just started on the Drugs Squad and the meeting with the hitman had been last week. Maybe it had nothing to do with him, but then again, it might.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Siobhan O’Neill stood in the locked toilet cubicle taking deep breaths. It wasn’t working. She lifted the toilet lid just in time to send a stream of vomit into the bowl. She quickly flushed it away. So much for the calming eff
ects of the full Ulster breakfast. Replacing the lid, she sat down. She was about to be first up for interview with DS Russell. She’d spent the evening using visualisation techniques to imagine what the interview would be like and how it would go. She knew that the woman leading the investigation into the leak was an experienced operator. The smallest slip would be picked up, and then either she, or Wilson, would be in real trouble. She tried deep breathing again. She was due downstairs in ten minutes and needed the panic in her mind to recede. The breathing exercise gradually began to have the desired effect. She had nothing to worry about as long as she held her nerve. She took out a roll of mints and popped two into her mouth.

  Fiona Russell was sitting in the interview room at the station. She’d spent the evening replaying the interviews with Wilson and Davis and re-reading the murder book. It all appeared above board. Wilson and his boss had been calm and betrayed no signs of either lying or nervousness. She had reviewed their personnel files as she listened again to a recording of their evidence, and both were distinguished officers with impeccable records. There was little likelihood that they would throw away their careers, especially by cooperating with a terrorist organisation. But stranger things had happened and everybody has their breaking point. The main issue that nagged at her was the fact that there was no direct evidence that any information had been leaked. She had asked for and received the Garda Síochána memo relating to the investigation into Armstrong’s murder. It was very clear that the IRA had murdered him after torturing him into admitting his guilt for both betraying them and murdering two young women. The accusation of the involvement of the PSNI was an assertion of the SIO and completed without any evidentiary basis. In her experience, the existence of a crime was the necessary basis for an investigation. And to her mind there was no proof that a crime had been committed. Why then had there been a rush to put a senior officer under investigation? Wilson’s record was certainly one of a detective who had the habit of upsetting his superiors. However, he got results by doing so. There was something fishy about this whole investigation. The sooner she was finished and back in Edinburgh the better.