by Derek Fee
‘For the duration.’
‘For the duration.’
He watched her as she stood up and moved into the squad room. He had spent a large part of his life with athletes and he recognised the way they move. He had no idea what her sport was, but he knew that she was good at it. He walked round the desk and picked up the cardboard box. It was going to be an interesting afternoon. He was being given a unique experience, a look into a Professional Services investigation.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
George Pratley was a twenty-year veteran of the PSNI and during that time he had never felt fear. All his experience told him that he had nothing to worry about, and yet, as he stopped on Chichester Street to light a cigarette, he couldn’t disguise the shake in his hand. He was certain that there was nothing to tie either him or Wallace to Payne’s death. They had waited until the old woman left and they were well away by the time she returned. A week ago, Payne had been a death by misadventure; today, there was an open verdict and Ian Wilson was on the case. That was enough to put the willies up even the most hardened criminal. A week ago, he had been safe; now, he was in danger. Everything he’d done had been to preserve the scheme they had set up first with Rice and McGreary and then with Best. Who was he kidding? Payne and Royce had been murdered because they represented a direct threat to him. As soon as he’d left the court, he’d called Jennings. The DCC had refused to take his call. That was a first. Did the little bastard know something he didn’t? Maybe they were preparing to throw him to the wolves. If they did, he wouldn’t be the only one to go down.
Royson Jennings was not in the office to take Pratley’s call. He was walking across the lobby of the Fitzwilliam Hotel in Victoria Street, from where he had taken the lift to the sixth floor, marched along the corridor and knocked on the door of room 610. The door was opened by Eddie Hills, who immediately stood aside. Jennings entered and walked into the large bedroom. Davie Best sat at a table that had been set with afternoon tea. A cake-stand stood in the centre of the table beside two cups, a milk jug and a sugar bowl.
Jennings removed his cap and put it on the table. He sat in the free seat without greeting either man.
‘Tea?’ Best asked. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer something from the bar?’
‘Tea will be fine. I don’t drink alcohol.’ Jennings was aware of Hills somewhere behind him.
Best poured tea for them both and pointed at the milk and sugar. ‘Help yourself. You’ve heard the result of the Coroner’s Court this morning?’
‘Of course.’ Jennings had known thirty seconds after the verdict was announced.
‘This could seriously alter our business arrangements.’
‘How so?’
‘Pratley and probably Wallace are fucked. Payne’s murder was an amateur job. They should have left it to the professionals.’
‘Yes,’ Jennings sipped his tea. ‘The professionals might have stuffed his body in the boot of a car and set it on fire. That wouldn’t have attracted any attention at all.’
‘They’re going to go down and Pratley knows too much.’
‘Pratley won’t blab. He knows the consequences.’
‘I wouldn’t like to bet a million pound on it, and that’s the cost of the next shipment.’
‘Wilson might not be able to nail him.’
‘Killing Payne was stupid, killing Royce was insane and Wilson’s no dummy. I’ll bet he’s already linked both murders.’
‘Correction, Payne is simply an open verdict. Murder hasn’t been established.’
‘I’ll bet the investigation started the minute Wilson walked out of the Coroner’s Court. One of my guys was there and he saw the look that passed between Wilson and Pratley. Wilson may not be certain yet, but he suspects. We need to have a plan. There’s too much at stake.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Don’t be so naïve. Pratley has to disappear.’
‘To join Sammy Rice, no doubt.’
Best finished his tea in one gulp. ‘An interruption in supply is unacceptable.’
‘And so is precipitate action. Wilson will have to report to me on the progress of the investigation. If he crosses a red line, I’ll be the first to know.’
‘And I’ll be the second. The British Army taught me to look at all the options. In this case there aren’t too many.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
The team stood before the new whiteboard that was packed with details of Colin Payne. ‘Okay, Siobhan,’ Wilson said. ‘Talk us through it.’
O’Neill stepped forward. ‘Colin Payne,’ she pointed at a portrait photo of Payne attached to the board. ‘Twenty-eight years old, unmarried, joined the PSNI at twenty-four, previously a paramedic first responder, three years on the beat, then made detective and was assigned to the Drugs Squad. A native of Castlewellan, his parents still live there.’ She pointed at a second photo showing a slurry tank surrounded by crime scene tape. ‘About four years ago he was helping his aunt on her farm at Ballyward, when he apparently fell into a slurry tank and drowned. Every year there are a fair few agricultural accidents, and problems with cleaning slurry tanks rank high among them. The local plod quickly decided that they had such an accident on their hands and behaved accordingly. If there was any forensic evidence at the site, it was quickly destroyed.’ There was a photo of police Land Rovers and an ambulance attached to the board. ‘There was a post-mortem and the pathologist’s conclusions were that Payne had fallen into the tank, been overcome with fumes and drowned. The coroner agreed and issued a verdict of accidental death. The boss somehow made a connection between the death of Hugh Royce and Payne and Professor Reid reviewed the post-mortem and came to the conclusion the Payne was held down, in other words he was murdered.’ She pointed at a photograph of Payne’s back taken during the first post-mortem. ‘A reopened inquest this morning returned an open verdict, which leaves it up to us to prove murder.’
‘Very impressive, Siobhan,’ Wilson said. ‘And I’m sure you’re all wondering how I made the connection between Payne and Royce. For the duration of this investigation we are going to be assisted by our colleague DS Lucy Kane from Professional Services.’ He noticed the look that passed between Graham and Davidson. ‘Lucy will be a member of the team while she is with us and is not here in her capacity with PS. Understood?’
Four heads shook in unison although Graham and Davidson looked sceptical.
‘Lucy,’ Wilson said. ‘If you’d be so kind.’
Kane changed places with O’Neill.
‘DC Payne got in touch with Professional Services off his own bat. It’s usually difficult to find whistle-blowers. He’d been in the Drugs Squad for just over a year and he’d been taken aback by the number of times well-planned raids were just a little late at the warehouse. He’d also noticed that when they did succeed in locating the drugs, there was never anyone to arrest. The clincher for him was when he was aware that there was a discrepancy between the drugs that were confiscated in a successful raid and the drugs that were lodged in the station. He was a conscientious officer, so he ignored the peer pressure and came to us. It was obvious that something was up in the squad, but we had no proof concerning who might be involved. We launched an investigation and we were preparing to interview the whole squad when Hugh Royce came forward and more or less confessed. HQ was delighted. The investigation would have cost maybe half a million pounds and Royce owning up like that was a major saving. He signed the resignation letter and as far as PS was concerned we’d got rid of the bad egg. Payne had his fatal accident a month later.’
‘Nobody connected the dots?’ Graham asked.
‘Everybody was screaming accident. My boss wrote a note at the time to HQ but nothing came of it. Then there was the coroner’s verdict. End of story.’
‘Let’s assume that Royce was involved, but he wasn’t the only one,’ Wilson said. ‘How could someone else know that Payne was the whistle-blower? I assume PS didn’t broadcast his name.’
‘
On the contrary,’ Kane said. ‘His name was a closely guarded secret.’
‘Obviously not closely guarded enough,’ Davidson said.
‘It still doesn’t answer how you connected the two deaths, Boss,’ Browne said.
‘We knew that Royce had resigned because of possible corruption in the Drugs Squad so I made a request for information on the PS investigation. I was refused, but then I received a copy of a newspaper article on Payne’s death anonymously. The article stated that Payne was a DC in the Drugs Squad. That’s why I went down to Ballyward.’
‘Anonymous?’ Davidson said.
‘In a plain white envelope with no name attached,’ Wilson said. ‘I take it where I can get it. I’ve had a chance to review the PS investigation into the Drugs Squad and Lucy’s briefing was perfect.’
‘Okay, Boss, so how come PS is working with us,’ Graham said. ‘I’ve never seen that before.’
‘Above your pay grade, Harry,’ Wilson said.
Browne was about to speak.
‘And yours too, Rory.’
‘Okay, Boss,’ Browne said. ‘It’s great that we have another case, but it doesn’t look like we have much in the way of evidence. There’s no forensic material.’
‘I never said it was going to be easy. I’ve already spoken to the aunt, Agnes Bagnell. She was away to Castlewellan at the time Payne died. My guess is that whoever murdered Payne waited until she left. Ballyward is a country area and people there are curious about strangers. We have to go back to basics on this one. We’ll need to talk to the first responders and the local uniforms as well as the neighbours. Maybe we’ll end up with nothing, but we have to try to stir old memories and hope that something falls out. We’ll distribute jobs tomorrow.’
Wilson turned towards his office and was joined by Davidson.
‘I need a word, Boss.’ Davidson couldn’t hold the existence of his relationship with Irene Carlisle to himself any longer.
‘It’ll have to be later. I’m already late for a meeting upstairs with the chief super.’
‘Five minutes, Boss.’
‘Later.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY
‘Satisfied?’ Davis said.
‘It’s another case, but I think it’ll help us crack the Royce murder.’ Wilson noted that Davis appeared more relaxed than usual.
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me how you got Professional Services to add themselves to the investigation?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘This is going to end badly, like Armstrong.’
‘I think so.’
‘You can thank your lucky stars that Russell was in charge of the enquiry.’
‘I do, maybe I’ll drop her a note.’
‘I think she would appreciate that. Where are you on the Royce murder?’
‘Nowhere, the forensic material is no help. We have a picture of a Skoda with false plates, but we can’t identify the driver. It looks like Royce went to O’Reilly’s to meet someone. But who the hell makes an appointment for twelve midnight on a lousy winter’s evening?’
‘The sun has just passed the yardarm so we can safely have a drink.’ She reached into her drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jameson and two glasses. ‘I think we can have one and only one.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
She poured two measures and passed a glass to Wilson. ‘Cheers and please try not to get into any more trouble.’
‘By the way, what’s this business with Jack Duane?’
‘Ever hear the phrase “mind your own business”. I’m not a sixteen-year-old with my hormones running wild and neither is Jack. And you’re not my father.’
Wilson sipped his drink. ‘I don’t like coincidences and the IRA finding out that Armstrong was a tout was a little too convenient.’
‘You think you would have nailed him?’
‘I would have tried. I don’t believe in summary justice. Even scum like Armstrong deserve their day in court. The ones I’d really like to get are the people who cleaned up after him when he murdered Bridget Kelly.’ Jennings had been the one responsible for the false alibi and Wilson was sure that he was also the one who disappeared the original file.
‘How are things at home?’
He had to think before he spoke. ‘Good, Steph is back at work but still in the grieving process. I think her time in the States unsettled her a bit.’
‘Tell me about it. Put me in the Californian sun for a couple of months and it would take wild horses to get me back. I go to bed thinking about walking along a sun-kissed beach. You actually did it.’
‘Peter Davidson is leaving soon, we should be thinking about a replacement.’
‘You obviously have someone in mind.’
‘Moira McElvaney, my old sergeant, she’s back from a sabbatical. She’s one of the best detectives I’ve ever worked with. I’d like her back in the squad.’
‘Two sergeants and two constables, same number of chiefs as Indians. Might be a little conflict on the horizon. Where is she now?’
‘Vice, she’s covering for that asshole Deric Beattie.’
‘You mean the one who was anonymously shopped to Professional Services for taking money from the Lithuanian pimp you interviewed in Liverpool?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Any idea who shopped him?’
Wilson shook his head and they both laughed.
‘I’ll keep her in mind,’ Davis said. ‘What will Jennings make of it?’
‘He’ll block it.’
She drained her glass. ‘Then we’ll have to do something about that.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Wilson sat alone in the snug at the Crown. Reid was working late and would drop by to pick him up on her way home. In anticipation of a few drinks more than usual, he’d left his car at the station. Jennings would know that he had spoken to Margaret Whiticker and he probably surmised that she had revealed his role in covering up the murder of Bridget Kelly. That meant that for the first time Wilson posed an existential threat to him. Jennings was a dangerous foe. He had tried to get rid of Wilson by quasi-fair means and had failed. There was a probability that someday he would try means that weren’t at all fair. Wilson looked at the drink on the table. There were days when he felt like getting totally blasted. It was the uphill battle against the ‘unseen hand’. Nothing was ever what it seemed in Northern Ireland. There was always something afoot under the table. Since the Assembly was constituted, the politicians had also caught the disease. They had been elected to rule but spent inordinate amounts of time undermining each other. He was tired of knowing who the culprits were and being unable to put them away. But Spence had taught him that it was part of the job. The guilty very often get away with their crimes, even the most heinous of crimes. Ulster wasn’t the only place where you could hurl a hand grenade into a crowd of mourners in a graveyard and be considered a hero. Sometimes he wondered whether it was all worth it. Maybe he should have taken up the coaching offers he’d received when he retired. He could have become a pundit, appearing on TV and writing a weekly column for the Chronicle. But he knew that wouldn’t make him happy.
There was a knock on the door and Moira McElvaney stood in the gap. ‘Am I bothering you?’
‘Not at all, come in.’ He pushed the bell for service. ‘Your ears must have been burning this evening.’
She sat. ‘Why is that?’
‘Peter is retiring in a few months and I was discussing possible replacements with the new chief super. I told her I want you back in the squad.’
‘That’s why I came home. It took me a while to realise what I was doing here with you was what I wanted. I wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.’
‘Someday you may regret not taking the option of the husband and the two point four children.’
‘Maybe.’
The barman arrived and Wilson ordered for both of them.
‘Are you and Reid happy?’ she asked.
‘Yes, we are. I lov
e her and I hope to God that she loves me.’
‘And Kate McCann?’
‘That finished a long time ago. She’s getting married to some investment banker or entrepreneur from Ballymoney. The announcement was in the Chronicle a few months ago. I’m sure her mother is over the moon.’
‘And you never think of her?’
‘Hardly ever. What about you? It all seemed to be go when you left here with Brendan.’
‘Life happened, I never saw myself as a Stepford wife. You remember the film?’
He nodded.
‘Brendan is climbing the career ladder at Harvard and I wasn’t ready to travel on his coat-tails.’
‘It’s never the same when you go back. Eric is gone and Peter will be away shortly. We have a new sergeant, Rory Browne. He’s young and doesn’t have your innate talent for the job. Eric’s replacement is a young woman, Siobhan O’Neill, who is a kind of computer whiz-kid. Nobody knows quite what she’s doing working for the PSNI.’
‘And you and Harry are fixtures. One more for the road?’ She pushed the bell.
‘Why not, isn’t it the Irish curse?’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Davidson and Graham were having an after-work pint in the Rex bar on the Shankill Road. They sat in the corner away from the regulars, most of whom knew them.
‘I wanted to tell the boss about me and Irene but he was in a hurry upstairs,’ Davidson said as soon as they were settled. ‘It might affect the validity of the evidence I’ve collected.’
Graham took a large draught of his Guinness. ‘You’re a right gobshite, you should have told him sooner. You just didn’t want to queer your pitch with the widow.’