by Derek Fee
‘So, it’s not over.’
‘It is for me. I have the murderers of the two men. I’ve secure the football, but now I’m passing it on to you.’
‘Who can I trust?’
‘That’s your problem.’ Wilson rose. ‘I promised Peter that I’d pass by the hospital on my way home.’
Baird extended his hand and Wilson took it. ‘I had lunch with CS Davis last week. She wondered whether you were worth the trouble you cause, but on balance she thought you were. I agree with her. If there’s something rotten in this organisation, I’m going to do my best to root it out.’
Good luck, Wilson thought but didn’t say. ‘I do have a small request.’
‘Go ahead, you earned it.’
‘We’re agreed that Peter Davidson will not be returning to duty.’
Baird nodded.
‘My old sergeant, Moira McElvaney, has returned from a sabbatical and is currently working in Vice. I’d like to have her back in my squad.’
Baird wrote a note. ‘You have it. And keep me informed on the Carlisle non-investigation. You’ve done a hell of a job. I’m glad you’re working for me.’
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Reid was waiting for him at the entrance to the Royal and she led him to one of the private rooms on the second floor. Davidson was awake and propped up on pillows. His eyes were black and puffy and his cheeks were badly bruised. He looked like he had gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson but had lived to tell the tale. Irene Carlisle was fussing over him like a mother hen. Reid drifted away to have a word with Davidson’s doctor and Irene installed herself in the chair beside his bed.
‘I hear that you’re out of the woods,’ Wilson said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘So they tell me,’ Davidson slurred. The swelling around his jaws made his speech sound like Daffy Duck.
‘We’re looking for Jackson, but he’s missing. You think it was him that worked you over?’
Davidson nodded. ‘Walked like he had a stick up his arse.’ He laughed and then stopped abruptly because of the pain.
‘Sounds like him.’
‘The other guy with him hung back. I don’t think he’d signed on for the beating. I have a recollection of someone giving me CPR before the ambulance arrived.’
Wilson made a mental note to check with the first responders. ‘You’ll soon be back on the job.’
‘He certainly will not,’ Irene said. ‘As soon as he’s out of this bed, I’m taking him to Spain to recuperate. He’ll be retiring as soon as he’s better.’
Reid had re-entered the room and was standing beside Wilson. She punched him in the arm. ‘Stop teasing.’ She turned to Irene. ‘Don’t worry, Peter won’t be going back to work.’
Davidson tried a smile, but it hurt. ‘Sorry, Boss, looks like I’m through.’
Wilson grasped his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Peter, I should never have put you in danger. All this is my fault.’
Davidson put his hand out to Irene who held it. ‘It was worth it, Boss.’
Reid tugged at Wilson’s arm. ‘Let’s leave these two love birds alone.’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Wilson allowed Reid to pull him away.
‘Peter was lucky,’ Reid said as they walked towards the lift. ‘The heart attack was coming. One of his arteries was totally closed and another was ninety per cent closed. It was going to happen and it could have been fatal.’
‘He said that someone gave him CPR at the scene.’
‘Probably a first responder. Is it important?’
‘I’d like to find out.’
‘There’ll be a log.’
‘I’ll have a look tomorrow.’ Wilson’s phone rang. It was Graham. He listened and then hung up. ‘It looks like our presence is required.’
The Murder Squad had taken over one corner of the Crown. Davis was in the middle of the group, which included Browne, O’Neill, Kane, Graham and McElvaney.
Graham came forward to greet Wilson and Reid. ‘How’s Peter doing?’
‘Great,’ Wilson said. ‘Irene will have him away to Spain as soon as he’s out of hospital. I think he may have landed on his feet there.’
‘It about bloody time. I took the initiative of inviting Lucy and Moira,’ Graham said. ‘It was a hell of a result, Boss.’
‘You did right, Harry, it was a hell of a result.’ But not only for us, Wilson thought. ‘Lucy was part of the team and Moira is replacing Peter as soon as the paperwork is through.’
‘What are you having, Boss?’ Graham said. ‘The CS has put two hundred quid behind the bar and the wife has given me a pass for the evening. I might have to take a sick day tomorrow.’
‘Need to know, Harry. Get me a pint like a good man and a gin and tonic for my lady friend.’
‘On it, Boss.’
Wilson wondered how long Graham had been celebrating. Davis came over and joined him and Reid. ‘I hear Peter is making good progress,’ she said.
‘Aye, he is,’ Wilson said. ‘But he won’t be back.’
‘I had a call from Baird. You shook him up a bit.’
‘Apparently it’s what I do.’ He reached past her and passed a gin and tonic to Reid before accepting a pint of Guinness.
‘The apple cart is well and truly upturned,’ Davis said. ‘But on the other hand, two murders have been cleared up and a cabal of corrupt police officers exposed. I think the chief constable will be able to sell it as a major result.’
Reid had drifted over to the group at the bar. Wilson toasted her with his drink. ‘All in a day’s work, ma’am. But I think we might have had a little help along the way.’
Davis sighed. ‘I don’t think I want to know what you mean by that.’
‘Pratley didn’t strike me as the suicidal type.’ Wilson had already checked with Finlay and there was no indication of others present in the caravan. Nevertheless, Wilson suspected that Pratley had been induced to kill himself to protect his masters.
‘Here we go again. Can’t you just accept that we’ve had a damn good result.’
Wilson looked over at Reid and saw that she was motioning for him to join the party. ‘I’m being instructed to forget about work and join the celebrations. How are things going with Jack?’
‘Mind your own business. I have to leave now as I have another appointment, but I hope you all enjoy the rest of the evening.’
Wilson walked over to stand beside Reid. Graham threw his arms round his boss. ‘Here he is, the best fucking detective in Northern Ireland.’
‘Only Northern Ireland?’ Reid said.
Jackson left the A8 and headed in the direction of the Baie des Anges at Cap d’Antibes in the south of France. He had put the address of the villa he was seeking into the Satnav. It led him directly to a set of nine-feet-high iron gates. He stepped out of the car and pressed the intercom set into the wall.
‘Oui,’ the voice came over the intercom.
‘I’m here to see Mrs McCann,’ Jackson said.
‘Madame is not receiving today.’
‘Please tell her that Simon Jackson from Belfast is here.’
‘And what is the purpose of your visit, Mr Jackson.’
‘Tell her I’m looking for a job.’
Author’s note
I hope you enjoyed this book. As an independent author, I very much rely on readers’ feedback. I know it’s a hassle, but I would be very grateful if you would take the time to pen a short review on Amazon. This will not only help me but will also indicate to others your feelings, positive or negative, on the work. Writing is a lonely profession, and this is especially true for indie authors who don’t have the back-up of traditional publishers.
Please check out my other books on Amazon, and if you have time visit my web site (derekfee.com) and sign up to receive additional materials, competitions for signed books and announcements of new book launches.
Derek Fee is a former oil company executive and EU Ambassador. He is the author
of seven non-fiction books. Dead Rat is the ninth book in the Wilson series, there are two novels featuring Moira McElvaney as the main character and two standalone books. Derek can be contacted at http://derekfee.com.
Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.
Copyright © Derek Fee 2018
All rights reserved.
COLD IN THE SOUL
DEREK FEE
PROLOGUE
He whistled as he dug. He had selected an area where the ground was loose and the digging was easy. Progress had been better than he’d expected. A hole three feet deep should do the job. Six feet long by two feet wide by three feet deep was the ideal in his experience. No inquisitive dog would ever stumble on a grave he had dug. He stopped digging and leaned on his shovel. The whistling had been unconscious. He recognised the tune as ‘You are my sunshine’. Where the hell had that come from? Was he ever anyone’s sunshine? Did he ever make anyone happy? He wasn’t about ‘happy’; he was about hate and about pain. He thought people should be able to see the hate in his face, but they didn’t seem to and that was to his advantage. He laughed at the body in the wheelbarrow. I’m certainly not going to make you happy. Or perhaps I did for a while. But it was always going to end like this. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and then returned to digging, changing the whistling to humming and singing a few words in between. The hole was taking shape. The evening was still bright and the air was still heavy after a day of blazing sunshine.
He had contemplated using a chainsaw to cut the bodies up and had even purchased a plastic jacket and trouser combination for the task. Then a police officer on a reality television show had said that murderers who use a chainsaw are stupid. Sawing the body simply spreads blood spatter all over the place and leaves lots of forensic evidence. He had reluctantly reconsidered his plans, realising it was better to be safe than sorry. His safety was always the primary consideration.
Ten minutes later he stuck the shovel into the loose earth he had piled up beside the hole and went over to the body. A pair of startled eyes stared back at him. The eyes could see and the brain could register, but the drug had paralysed the body. He saw a tiny movement and wondered what was happening behind those staring eyes. There was certainly fear, but there would also be horror at the prospect of being interred while still alive. He felt exultation. It was the feeling he lived for. No stimulant he had taken had ever come anywhere close to the feeling he got from taking a life.
Eager to finish, he began to dig with more gusto and a louder hum. It reminded him of the way black members of the chain gangs in the films sang to establish the rhythm of their work. Small droplets of sweat fell from his face into the hole. Another couple of inches and it would be perfect. He looked again at Browne’s body. Bye bye, Rory, he whispered and blew a kiss.
Two weeks earlier
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson’s eyelids fluttered and he forced himself to concentrate on what was happening around him. He was sitting in Chief Superintendent Yvonne Davis’s office and enduring the weekly senior officers’ meeting. It was an event he normally avoided like the plague, but he had run through his full list of excuses and was, therefore, obliged to spend a precious two hours of his life listening to the drivel spewed out by his colleagues. His own contribution had been the minimum acceptable. He had two active cases: the search for Sammy Rice, the former Shankill gang lord, and the ongoing investigation into the body found in a burned-out car in Helen’s Bay. There was a third investigation, but that wasn’t to be discussed, even with the senior officers. One of his detectives had proved that former political bigwig Jackie Carlisle had not died by suicide but had been sent to his maker with a hot shot administered by a Special Branch officer who was now missing. Davis and he had not informed HQ of the progress of that investigation. In the meantime, the colleague who established that murder had been committed, Peter Davidson, had retired and was sunning himself on a beach in Spain. Wilson glanced at his watch, hoping the officer speaking would take the hint. Davis looked as bored as him, but he supposed that she was responding to some edict from HQ saying she should meet with her senior staff once per week to prove that she had her finger on the pulse of her station. He pitied her.
Wilson came out of his reverie when he realised that everyone around the table except him was standing up. He thanked God under his breath and stood. He picked up one of the pads that had been left in front of every participant and slipped it into his jacket pocket. It was virginal and he didn’t want to advertise the fact by leaving it behind him. He was a member of the management team as Davis called it, and members of the management team took notes.
‘Ian, would you mind staying behind for a few minutes,’ Davis said as she moved towards her desk.
The rest of the management team filed out and closed the door behind them. They cast envious glances at him before they left. He supposed he was developing a reputation as the chief super’s pet.
‘Have you seen Jack?’ Davis sat behind her desk.
Wilson didn’t have to ask which Jack she was referring to. DCI Jack Duane of the Garda Special Branch appeared to spend as much time in Belfast as he did in Dublin, particularly since he and Davis had become an item. Wilson sat in a visitor’s chair. ‘I haven’t seen him in a week or so. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s been around for the past few days.’
Wilson had been surprised when Duane and Davis got together. Jack was a bit of a rough diamond, whereas she was a cool intellectual. Whatever the chemistry was between them, it was certainly working on Davis. When she had taken over as chief superintendent from Wilson’s old mentor Donald Spence, she often dithered, but lately she exuded confidence. She had also adopted a decidedly more female look in her fashion choices. ‘Is he here socially or on business?’
‘Both.’
‘And you’re telling me because … ?’
‘There was a briefing at HQ yesterday from DCC Jennings. He slipped in a piece of intelligence from Dublin that a police officer’s life is in danger. He made little of it by saying that the life of every police officer in the province is in danger. Then he cited the trouble in Derry. There was a smile on his face that I didn’t like. Jack’s sure it’s you who is in danger. Do you keep your weapon handy?’
He opened his jacket to show there was no gun.
‘That’s downright stupid. Jack says the hitman is well-known to the Garda Síochána and he’s the kind that over-weapons.’
‘And that’s why Jack’s in town?’
‘I think it’s part of it. He likes you and I don’t think he wants to see you dead; neither do I.’
She looked genuinely worried. ‘Okay, if it makes you happy, I’ll carry my gun.’
Her face creased in a smile. ‘Good man, with a bit of luck you won’t need it. I suppose the threat is linked to the Carlisle investigation. Davidson was getting too close to the real culprit and that’s why he was assaulted.’
If she only knew who the real culprit was, maybe she wouldn’t sleep so well at night, thought Wilson. ‘I think you’re right. He did a hell of a job. We wouldn’t be where we are on the investigation if it wasn’t for him. Thank God he didn’t pay the ultimate price for his good work.’
‘Any news from him?’
‘Just a postcard, one of those where you send a photo to some digital company and they make up an individual card. It’s a picture of him and Irene Carlisle sitting by a pool in Spain toasting us with cocktails. He looks pretty well recovered.’ Wilson was glad Davidson was happy.
‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’
‘The pity is that Simon Jackson’s in the wind. I’d like to give that bastard a taste of what he gave
Peter.’
‘No sign of him?’
‘Disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘How are things downstairs? Is Moira McElvaney fitting in okay?’
‘I don’t think that DS Browne is happy with the new situation.’
‘That I can imagine. How about the others?’
‘Harry worked with her before, so there’s no problem there. But Siobhan doesn’t appear to be onside just yet.’
She glanced at the papers in her tray. ‘Keep in touch, and the next time I see you I want to see a bulge in that jacket.’
He stood up. ‘Your concern is both touching and appreciated.’
‘You’re too much, Ian. Get back to work.’
CHAPTER TWO
He heard the argument before he opened the door to the squad room. Detective Sergeants Moira McElvaney and Rory Browne were standing in front of a whiteboard shouting at each other. The other members of the squad, Detective Constables Harry Graham and Siobhan O’Neill, were spectating. It was not the best example of team spirit he’d ever seen. He knew that reintegrating Moira into the team that already had a sergeant might prove problematic, but to say that she and Browne hadn’t exactly hit it off would be an understatement.
He marched up to the arguing couple. ‘Enough! I could hear you two down the hall. We have a rule in this squad: arguing is okay but shouting isn’t.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ Moira said. ‘You asked me to take a look at the murder book on the body found in the boot at Helen’s Bay. I was just pointing out some holes in the investigation and Rory took it as a personal slight.’
‘She seems to believe that she can make much more progress than me,’ Browne said. ‘Maybe I should just quit and leave everything to her.’