by Derek Fee
‘But Royce is dead.’
Pratley let out a deep breath. ‘Maybe you’re right. Perhaps we can sit this one out.’
No, we can’t, Jennings thought. There was far too much money involved. ‘We must remain calm. It’s possible that nothing will come of the investigation. Wilson reports to me so I’ll let you know if you’re in danger. Then you can run.’
‘Thank you, Roy, I knew I could depend on you.’
It was like soothing a child, something Jennings had never done. ‘In the meantime, our friend Best is expecting a large shipment from Holland next week and he would be very annoyed if anything should interfere with it.’
‘I’ll make sure it arrives safely.’
Jennings put on his most reassuring smile. ‘Leave Wilson to me.’
Pratley started towards the door.
‘Don’t worry, George, I’ll be in touch,’ Jennings said. He watched Pratley leave. He was a dead man walking but he would just be a dead man if Best got wind that he was about to run. The updates from Davis on the Payne and Royce murders were encouraging. Wilson’s team had made virtually no progress on the Royce murder and any evidence there had been in the Payne murder would have disappeared years ago. Why then did he feel so apprehensive? There was something he was overlooking. But what was it?
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Wilson was sitting on his couch looking across the river. The cold snap had returned but this time the snow hadn’t stuck. The investigations were stalled and the only choice he had was to plod on. Reid was working late again, trying to catch up after California. He thought about their last day in Santa Monica, sitting in a restaurant facing the Pacific with the sun beating down while they tucked into a meal of fish and salad. Maybe it is time to leave the cold and wet island where he’d been born. The intercom sounded. If it was Jock McDevitt, he was going to be shown the door. He wasn’t up for the journalist’s probing this evening. He lifted the phone reluctantly.
‘Are you fit for having a short word with me?’
‘Not tonight, Jack.’
‘We need to talk, Ian. Is Stephanie in?’
‘No.’
‘Then buzz me up.’
Wilson was bothered by the idea that Reid’s absence was important. He left the door open and went into the kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he said when he heard the door close.
‘Not right now.’ Duane walked into the living room.
‘What’s so important?’
‘Maybe you should have a drink.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘Remember I told you we had intelligence on a meeting in the south of France concerning a hit on a police officer in Belfast.’
‘I remember.’
‘The contract has been made. The hit man is one of our usual suspects and he generally fulfils his contracts.’
‘And this involves me how?’
‘The information we’re getting on the target has firmed up. It looks like it’s you. What are you working on at the moment?’
‘A murder case that might involve corruption in the Drugs Squad.’
‘The guy who took out the contract is member of a Dublin drugs gang. That must be the connection.’
Wilson could think of another possibility, but he didn’t care to mention it. He knew someone who lived in the south of France and who had a very good reason for wanting him dead. The murder of Jackie Carlisle would cause a major scandal closer to home. ‘You passed along the intelligence?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Where do we go from here?’
‘You watch your back and you keep your weapon handy.’
‘For God’s sake, Jack, this isn’t the Wild West.’
‘We’ve had fourteen murders in the south related to a gang war over drugs. They’ve turned Dublin into a war zone and they’re not worried about collateral casualties. The money to be made from drugs is staggering. As far as they’re concerned, if you’re meddling in their business, you’re a legitimate target.’
‘I think I’m ready for that drink. What about you?’
‘Jameson. Are we friends?’
‘Always, Jack.’
Wilson poured two glasses of whiskey and went to the picture window. ‘How will it happen?’ He handed Duane his drink.
‘They’ll try to get close.’
‘Timing?’
‘The meeting was yesterday. I don’t think there was a time on it. You must be seriously pissing someone off.’
The door opened and Reid tossed her bag on a chair before taking off her coat. ‘Hello, guys, it’s a bitch out there.’ She walked into the living room rubbing her hands together and saw the serious expression on both their faces. ‘Okay, whose dog died?’
Wilson walked forward and kissed her. ‘Jack, just dropped in to say hello.’
‘I am not the little woman,’ Reid said. ‘And I never will be the little woman. What the hell has the two of you looking like a bomb just hit?’
Wilson and Duane looked at each other. ‘She’s one tough lady,’ Duane said. ‘I think you should tell her.’
‘Jack has intelligence that there’s a contract hit out on a PSNI detective,’ Wilson said. ‘He has no evidence who, but he’s afraid it might be me. I’ve told him it’s rubbish.’
Reid went to the bar and poured herself a drink. ‘That settles it. I’m taking the job in Los Angeles, and you are not getting yourself killed for nothing. Maybe you should have left the Payne thing alone.’ She came close to him. ‘We’re getting out of here tomorrow. I’ll cancel the rental on the house in Venice Beach.’
‘No we’re not. We don’t run.’ He looked at Duane for support. ‘We take it as it comes.’
Reid looked at Duane. ‘What do you say, Jack?’
‘It’s one of those occasions when I have to agree with Ian.’
‘There’s a smell of testosterone in the air,’ Reid said. ‘And an excess of that hormone is not associated with good decision making.’ She looked at Wilson. ‘I don’t want you to die.’ Her eyes were glassy.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ Wilson said. ‘Jack has passed the intelligence to HQ and they’ll act on it. There’s no proof that it’s me.’
‘Tell me who else causes as much trouble?’ she said.
Duane finished his drink. ‘I have to go, but I’ll stay in touch.’
Wilson walked him to the door. ‘Thanks for the heads-up.’
‘Stay safe, Ian, and remember to keep your weapon handy.’
Wilson closed the door and turned back to Reid. She was wiping tears from her eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Jackson and Leslie were sitting in a black SUV on the Shankill Road, fifty yards from the front door of the Mountainview Tavern. They were dressed in all-black gear and had balaclavas on their heads ready to be pulled down over their faces. Jackson had been following Davidson all day. It appeared that the detective was taking his retirement to heart and had embarked on a daylong pub-crawl. Since it was now late at night and Davidson was getting unsteady on is pins, Jackson had assumed that the Mountainview was the last stop. He’d called Leslie and asked him to join a little operation with him.
‘You’re sure the chief has approved this?’ Leslie said.
‘I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.’ Jackson had learned in the army that sometimes you had to take the initiative when the officers dithered.
‘So, run it past me again.’
‘We lift Davidson, bring him to this abandoned house that I know, find out what he’s been up to and what Wilson knows, and then we’re out of there.’
Leslie stared at his superior. Something didn’t feel right. His first inclination on receiving Jackson’s phone call was to call Rodgers for verification. He was beginning to regret not following his intuition. Although it was cold, Jackson was sweating and his eyes were wild. Leslie wondered whether he was on something. Was it too late to pull out now? ‘I’ll nip out and get us a couple of teas.
’
‘No, he could leave any minute. We have to be ready to roll.’ Jackson had debated whether it was wise to use Leslie but lifting Davidson was a two-man job. Sometimes beggars can’t be choosers. There was no way he was going to let a fucking has-been like Davidson put him in jail.
Davidson had spent the day following Wilson’s instructions, which involved him spending hours in various hostelries exchanging stories with old ex-coppers. He’d learned that Pratley was, by and large, deemed to be a worthless scumbag who had arrived at the rank of DCI by licking the arse of every superior he served under. None of the old timers had known Wallace, but it was their considered opinion that if he was close to Pratley, he must be as big an arsehole. While acquiring this information, Davidson had been required to drink an inordinate amount of beer. So much so that he had to cancel a date with Irene. There was no way he wanted her to see him in the state his investigation had left him in. It was after ten o’clock when he finally concluded his last ‘interview’. After a day of reminiscing with multiple retirees, he was thinking how incredibly lucky he was to have tumbled into Irene Carlisle’s arms. Not for him the worries of whether to put the heating on or eat something more nourishing than beans on toast. He was still bathing in the glow of his golden future when he left the Mountainview. He had chosen that pub because it was the closest to his residence, a two-bed terraced house in Ainsworth Drive, which he rented from a mate for the princely sum of one hundred and fifty pounds per month. He bundled himself up against the cold as soon as he closed the pub door behind him. He’d been a fool to cancel the date with Irene. He could do with her warm body curled round him.
Davidson’s little house was across the street and he stepped gingerly into the road, aware that his senses weren’t exactly on high alert. He reached the other side of the Shankill safely. The street ahead of him was dark and empty. He was halfway home when he heard a screech of brakes and turned to see a black SUV pulling up beside him. He blinked his eyes as he saw a figure dressed in black from head to foot jump out of the body of the car and hit him on the head before pulling him into the vehicle. Davidson’s survival instincts didn’t exactly spring into action and he was inside the SUV before he tried to push the black-clad figure off him. He received a second blow to the head for his trouble and the lights went out.
When he came to an hour or so later, Davidson had the mother of all headaches. He tried to move his hands, but they were secured with several turns of grey plastic adhesive tape to the arms of the chair in which he sat. The room was pitch black and he blinked his eyes in order to get better focus. He smelled vomit and he could taste bile in his mouth. He assumed he was the originator of the smell. His senses were still addled, but he knew that he was in considerable danger. He hadn’t been a random pick-up on the street. The chickens associated with the Carlisle investigation were coming home to roost. He fought to clear his head, but his eyes kept closing and he found himself falling into short disturbed sleeps. Finally, he woke and started to recognise some of his surroundings. Directly ahead of him was a window that had been blocked up with concrete slabs. The chair he was sitting on was the only piece of furniture in the room. The floor was bare boards and the door to the room hung awkwardly off one of its hinges. The old floral wallpaper was peeling off the walls. His lips were dry and he felt his hair matted at the place where his assailant had hit him. He winced as his stomach cramped and he expelled a stream of vomit across the room directly in front of him. The last pieces fell on his chest. He’d never felt so tired in all his life, but he tried to keep his eyes open. There was no sign of the black-clad man who had bundled him into the back of the SUV. There had to be a driver because the man had jumped out as soon as the car stopped. That meant there were at least two of them. He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.
The next time he woke, Davidson found two men dressed in black with balaclavas over their faces standing in front of him. His chair had been turned round one hundred and eighty degrees and he was now facing a wall instead of the blocked-up window. The smell of vomit was overpowering.
‘You’re a dirty bugger, Davidson,’ Jackson said. ‘You’ve made a right mess of this place. I suppose we should be grateful that you haven’t shat yourself, yet.’
Davidson lifted his head as far as it would go. He was figuring the heights and weights of the two men for future reference. That was if there was going to be a future. He tried a smile. The man who spoke probably wasn’t a native of Belfast, there was an English overlay on his accent.
‘You’ve been playing in the wrong backyard. Get that fucking smile off your face.’ Jackson punched him hard in the side of the head.
Davidson’s head rocked and a pain shot through his body.
‘Does your boss know what you’ve been up to?’
Davidson spat out a tooth and some blood. ‘Fuck off.’
Leslie was moving round the room. Beating up a fellow officer wasn’t on, but he wasn’t about to get into an argument with Jackson. The man had a reputation and he looked like he was on the point of losing control.
Jackson punched Davidson hard in the ribs. Leslie thought he could hear a crack.
‘Does your boss know what you’ve been up to?’ Jackson said.
Davidson was wracked with pain. He’d never been known for taking a punch well, but he was damned if he was going to answer the question. They didn’t know whether he was acting alone or under Wilson’s orders. Maybe it was time to give them a lie. Then again, if he did that, there was very little chance he was getting out of this room alive. His head came up just in time for Jackson’s next punch to land on the left side of his cheek. He shot back in the chair. The bugger really could hit. He was beginning to feel dizzy.
Leslie moved from the back of the room and pulled Jackson’s arm. ‘What the hell is going on here? I didn’t sign up for this.’
‘This,’ Jackson pointed at Davidson, ‘is what we do. You’d better get used to it.’ He lifted Davidson’s head. Why wouldn’t the bastard answer the question? Davidson’s eyes seemed to be disappearing up into his head. Jackson leaned in close to his ear. ‘Does your boss know what you’ve been up to? Answer me and all this stops.’
Davidson was thinking of his wonderful future with Irene, but it was looking fuzzy like a mirage fading into the distance. Life isn’t fair. Just when everything was going so well. He started feeling a searing new pain in his left arm. It was followed by a tightness in his chest and he was having difficulty breathing. Oh God no, he thought, I’m having a heart attack.
Davidson’s head rolled and Jackson pulled back his first preparing to launch another punch.
Leslie grabbed his hand and pointed at Davidson. ‘There’s something wrong. Look at him! I think he’s having a heart attack.’
‘Saves us the problem,’ Jackson said. ‘Let him die.’
‘No,’ Leslie started pulling off the tape that bound Davidson’s arms to the chair. He tried to pull Davidson to his feet, but they both tumbled to the floor.
‘Leave the bastard,’ Jackson shouted and launched a kick at Davidson’s head that caught him a glancing blow on the temple.
Leslie pulled a gun from his jacket. ‘I will fucking shoot you if you move even one inch. There’s no way that the chief sanctioned this. You came here this evening intent on killing this man. It’s not going to happen, I’m not going to be a part of that.’
‘You fucking wimp, I should have chosen someone with a pair of balls. You have no idea who or what you’re screwing with.’ Jackson thought about rushing him, but the gap between them was too great. Even an amateur would get off a shot, and that might be enough. He stared into Leslie’s eyes. He’d faced men with guns before and he reckoned the little bastard would fire.
Davidson was lying on the floor, wheezing. The room was getting dim. He could hear the men arguing, but he had no idea what they were saying.
Leslie kept his gun trained on Jackson while he removed his mobile phone from his pocket. He dialled 99
9 and asked for an ambulance at the address of the abandoned house. ‘I think you should leave,’ he said when he’d finished.
Jackson moved to the door. ‘You have no idea what you’ve done. You’re finished in Special Branch.’
‘Get out. Neither of us should be here when the ambulance arrives.’
Jackson went through the door and Leslie returned the gun to his pocket. Maybe this was the end of his career in Special Branch. If it were, there would be repercussions.
Davidson’s eyes had disappeared into his head and his breathing was barely discernible. Suddenly he stopped breathing. Leslie felt for a pulse in his neck and there was nothing. He quickly located Davidson’s clavicle and moved two fingers up. He started to pump rhythmically, one hundred and twenty compressions per minute. ‘Come on,’ he shouted as he pumped. He was young and strong and he kept up the rhythm until Davidson gave a short breath. Leslie felt for the pulse in his neck and it was there. He could hear the siren of an approaching ambulance. It was time to split. ‘Sorry pal, but you’re on your own now,’ he said as he stood up.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Wilson glanced at the clock as the noise of the telephone at his bedside woke him. It was three o’clock in the morning, a bad time to get a phone call.
‘Sorry for the call, sir, it’s Sergeant Burns at the station.’
‘Go ahead, sergeant.’
‘It’s DC Davidson, sir, he’s in the Royal. The officers who attended say that he was pretty badly beaten and he appears to have suffered a heart attack.’
‘Will he be okay?’
‘I don’t know, sir. The first responders said he was in a bad way.’
‘Thanks for calling.’
‘No problem, sir.’
Wilson swung out of bed, closely followed by Reid. ‘It’s Peter,’ Wilson said. ‘He’s been badly beaten and suffered a heart attack. He’s at the Royal.’ He started putting his clothes on. ‘It’s all my fault.’