Crossing The Line

by Catriona King

  “You told Davy we were going to customs as well as the harbour?”

  They’d reached the basement and climbed into Andy’s car before he replied.

  “Those points in Marc’s email need checked out so we’re heading to customs first then the harbour. Jerome Tomelty was a long-time guard at Mahon who’d apparently always wanted to join the harbour police, which he did in September.”

  “And the chief think there’s something suspicious about him?”

  As she asked the question she couldn’t think what. Davy had said the man’s background check was squeaky clean.

  “Maybe, maybe not, Marc didn’t say. But we need to tidy up some ends on the drugs side, and there was something that the others mentioned about their conversation with customs too, about drugs possibly being brought in on ships with a Baltic connection. Given that we’re now hearing rumblings about a gang called The Baltic Militia, with Tomelty leaving to join the harbour police so recently things seem to be stacking up. Marc told me the whole thing was starting to make him itch and I know what he means, hey.”

  Although, as Liam would tell everyone later, the oil that Craig had got covered in might have been contributing to his itch as well.

  ****

  Mahon Prison.

  The Murder detectives were five minutes into their interrogation of Jimmy Morris, because that’s what it had become, an interrogation not an interview, despite their initial intentions. The reason for the change of approach wasn’t because they’d looked at the lugubrious Loyalist and judged him uncooperative before he’d even opened his mouth, although his pugnacious, Neanderthal-like face, shaved head and bulkily muscled tattooed arms, folded defiantly as soon as he’d sat down opposite had given them a clue as to his likely disposition. It was a deliberately vicious appearance cultivated by hard men on the streets of Belfast in the same way as primitive tribes had once worn facial markings and sharpened teeth, and it growled, “See me? I’ll do you damage, boy. I’m a warrior that you really don’t want to fight.”

  But none of that had altered the tone of the interview from neutral to hostile, not even the swastikas and ‘KAT’, ‘Kill All Taigs’ acronyms embedded on each of Morris’ fists had done the trick, Taig being a pejorative term for a Catholic.

  All those had done was make the detectives yawn with boredom at their predictability, as if someone had decided to buy the fancy dress of a paramilitary for Halloween and had said to the shopkeeper, “I’ll have three of those tattoos and a couple of these” to fulfil the stereotype. A pair of knuckledusters and a baseball bat and Morris would have been ready for Trick or Treat.

  No, it had been something in the man’s gaze that had made the policemen change tack. Made them decide to sit forward rather than lounge back and to tighten their jaws instead of giving weak smiles; to be prepared to jump across the table and subdue the man instead of offering him a cup of tea. And that was their stance now as Craig stared into the windows to the Loyalist’s soul, such as it was, while Liam kept his glare firmly on Morris’ tattooed fists.

  What Craig saw in Jimmy Morris’ gaze disturbed him. Not the man’s arrogant, ignorant violence; he’d seen that plenty of times before, enough that he could have mimicked a paramilitary on either side simply by glaring, twisting his lips into a sneer and stepping back whilst simultaneously leaning forward, poised to spring.

  No, it was something else that he read there that made him certain Jimmy Morris was up to his neck in Derek Smyth’s death and more. A snide certainty and a wordless taunt that said, “Prove whatever you can, cop.” But there was something else too; lying just beneath that, something that Craig was struggling to interpret until he suddenly did. It was excitement! The excitement of someone who has a secret that they’re bursting to tell the world but can’t.

  It made the detective jump up urgently, startling his D.C.I. but startling the man opposite them even more, and he was halfway out the door before Liam rose to follow, nodding at the warder outside the room to keep Morris under guard. He loped after his boss, who was now running down the management suite corridor, shouting for George Royston at the top of his voice. When the governor appeared, half in and half out of his office door, Craig’s shout changed to a quieter, urgent insistence.

  “Where’s Filip Pojello? Where is he right now?”

  Royston’s response was to retreat into his office and then reappear. “He’s on free time, so he could be in his cell or the yard.”

  As Liam grabbed a passing guard and took off for the recreation yard and Craig and the governor raced to Pojello’s wing, an alarm was sounded somewhere in the prison. Their haste was wasted, what greeted them at the Lithuanian’s cell confirming what Craig had known the second he’d identified excitement in Jimmy Morris’ eyes. Filip Pojello was dead, discovered by the guard who pressed the alarm just a minute before. Still warm, but his appearance said that his life had ended in the same desperate way as Derek Smyth’s.

  Craig froze in position for a moment, deaf to everything but the blood pounding in his ears, his gaze fixed on the young man splayed at an angle across his narrow bed. Slowly the governor’s shocked cries pierced through his fog, returning him to reality, and with that he gave his disgust and fury voice.

  “Damn, damn, damn, damn.”

  A minute later Liam joined the men in the cell and in their horror. It was a brief moment of indulgence before their years of training kicked in.

  Chapter Nine

  Annette loved road trips, they reminded her of when she’d been a child and her family had taken one every Sunday, always heralded by her father rattling his car keys in the air and saying, “Who’d like to come with me on a run?” The word’s meaning then not the literal, fit version of run, involving trainers, pounding the streets and public sweating, but the clambering of his four offspring into the back seat of the old Rover Saloon that was his pride and joy and setting off at a pace with their mother in her rightful position beside him in the front. She had conducted them in rousing renditions of golden oldies like ‘Ten Green Bottles’ as they’d traversed the winding country roads towards mysterious locations like Tyrella Beach, The Giant’s Causeway, and her favourite of them all, the almost fairytale Antrim Glens, and it had instilled in the detective a love of being driven rather than driving, and joy in the anticipation of visiting somewhere new.

  Not the customs office; they were in and out of there in ten minutes, with Max Harding simply repeating what he’d told AAR the day before. But Belfast Harbour... now that was a place she had never been past the front gate of, and as her senior officer parked his sleek Toyota Supra, a treat to himself when he’d made D.C.S., beside a two hundred feet high warehouse that stood alone on a concrete promontory, the building’s size and isolation promising secrets and discoveries within that Annette couldn’t even guess at, she stared around the strange new land that they were in with all the wonder of the girl that she had once been.

  Even the less easily impressed Andy had to admit that he was awed. At the sheer acreage of Belfast’s Harbour estate, an expanse of land that stretched so far back towards the Irish Sea that he couldn’t see its end and had to guess at it from the shimmer of water in the distance, and at the number and enormity of the metal containers that were stacked and parked in colourful rows for miles on either side of where they stood. Anyone viewing the scene from above would have seen the police officers as tiny dots in a Brobdingnagian land of multi-coloured rectangles, bearing markings and logos that said they hailed from all over the world.

  The detectives didn’t get much time to look around them before a car pulled up alongside, a Land Rover bearing the distinctive livery of Belfast’s Harbour Police. A rosy-cheeked uniformed man with an enormous lantern jaw and lips far too big for his face stepped down.

  “I’m Chief Will Donovan, the boss around here. Can I help you? Members of the public aren’t allowed access.”

  Andy was just about to grumble that Alice hadn’t phoned ahead to say that they were com
ing, when he remembered that he’d promised to phone her when they were leaving customs and it had slipped his mind. He swallowed his groan and extended his hand.

  “This is D.I. Eakin and I’m D.C.S. White. I’m sorry to turn up unannounced, I had meant to phone ahead.”

  Donovan took his time checking the warrant cards that they passed across eventually nodding and shaking hands.

  “Whatever it is you want, we can’t speak here. Someone might drop a steel container on your heads.” He moved back towards his vehicle. “Follow me to Headquarters.”

  Andy motioned him to hold on for a moment. “Is an officer called Jerome Tomelty likely to be there?”

  Donovan furrowed his brow. “No, he’s on a day off.” His eyes narrowed warily. “Has Tomelty done something?”

  The Dungiven man didn’t say no, just, “We just need to ask you a few questions about him and it’s best if he’s not around when we do.”

  He turned back to his car to prevent the inevitable follow-up question and Annette jumped into the passenger seat. It took longer to get to the headquarters building than they’d expected, but as they passed another display of containers stacked two and three high she decided to just sit back and enjoy the view, winding down the window to get some fresh sea air in her lungs. She marvelled at how little she knew about the capital city’s docklands, given that it had been so wealthy and powerful in both the nineteenth century, for trade, and the twentieth, when it had built and moored ships so vital to the World War Two military effort that Hitler had sent planes across night after night in ninety-forty-one to bomb it to smithereens.

  The trip ended too soon for her and they were led into a two-storey glass building which reminded Andy of the science block at his old school. The similarities ended when they found themselves in a comfortably carpeted office being served coffee by a secretary; a blend so delicious that Annette found herself asking for its name.

  Donovan nodded his PA out before he answered. “It was a gift from a Brazilian ship’s captain. Not sold this side of the Atlantic, I’m afraid.”

  He rested back in a chair that seemed too small for him and rested his hands on an embryonic paunch, looking even rosier than before now that they were in a centrally heated room.

  “Right now. What’s this about Jerome Tomelty? I’ve had no problems with the man.”

  Andy set down his mug and folded his arms, girding himself to tell an uncomfortable truth.

  “We’re, well Inspector Eakin here is, a member of the Murder Squad.”

  Donovan lurched forward in his seat. “Tomelty murdered someone?”

  The D.C.S. rushed to correct him. “NO, no...” A third, weaker “No” landed like a coin that had fallen on its edge, slowly tipping over into, “well... any possible involvement has yet to be proved. That’s what we’re here to discuss.” His voice found its strength again, “Although you can’t speak about this with anyone. You understand?”

  The harbour policeman nodded, dumbstruck, and retreated further into his chair.

  “I think Annette could explain the murder aspect better, hey. I’m here because of a possible link with drugs.”

  It brought a widening of their host’s eyes but no further words so Annette outlined their case, omitting the name of the location and players, but Donovan worked out where they were discussing right away.

  “Tomelty was a guard at Mahon Prison so that’s why you want to ask about him, that much is clear.” He frowned, puzzled. “But he joined us in September, so did your victim die before then?”

  Annette understood his confusion; she was steeped in the case and she still found herself getting lost.

  “No. He died two days ago. When we mentioned Tomelty might have had a link with the murder we were speaking loosely, not that he actually did the deed.”

  It brought a sigh of relief from the police chief, although not a huge one.

  “I suppose that’s something. At least we can sleep in our beds without worrying that he’ll come to do us in. But I don’t like the sound of that loose involvement, so you’ll have to give me something more.”

  Andy edged forward in his seat. “That’s where the drugs come in, hey. We believe that there may have been gang involvement in the death and that it could be linked with drugs. I won’t bore you with how we got there but we have information that both local and immigrant gangs might be involved, specifically from The Baltic States.”

  Donovan’s apparent lack of surprise prompted him to continue.

  “We met with a customs officer-”

  He was cut off by a nod and, “Max Harding” being muttered in a weary voice.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “We had dealings a couple of months back, when we had a container painted with cocaine. And we’ve had a lot of counterfeit meds making their way in as well recently.”

  Andy nodded. “OK, well, Officer Harding told us that he’d heard rumours about contraband coming in from The Baltics, hey. That’s Estonia, Lat-”

  Donovan cut him off sharply. “I know the names of the bloody countries!”

  The words made the Dungiven man blush. “Sorry.”

  “Hmm... OK. But I’ll never understand why you lot seem to think we’re all dummies down here.”

  Annette went to deny it but he brushed her words away brusquely and carried on.

  “OK, so you’re saying there was a death at Mahon and your enquiries are leading you towards drugs and gangs being involved. How does any of that implicate Tomelty? I read his references and security check before I took him on and the man is clean.”

  He let Annette speak this time. “We’re not talking about implicating anyone. We just need to ask some questions.”

  It brought a sceptical grunt.

  “So ask your questions then, but be specific. I’m not allowing a fishing expedition without a warrant.”

  From being semi-affable and cooperative Donovan had turned into an obstruction and Andy knew just how to deal with those. He rose to his feet abruptly and took out his mobile phone.

  “Fine. Then we’ll get warrants to search these offices and every container on your dock.”

  They wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting a judge to sign for either on the flimsy evidence they had and Andy knew it, but he was banking that the man opposite wouldn’t want to be responsible for possible shipping delays up to wazoo.

  He was right. The harbour policeman waved him back down hastily.

  “Now, now, there’s no need to talk like that. I was only saying...”

  “And so was I. Now, can we discuss Jerome Tomelty?”

  A grunt said yes, so Andy put his phone back into his jacket and nodded to the Murder D.I.

  “Annette?”

  She took out her notebook and turned to a page near the back.

  “So, according to Officer Harding the period of peak smuggling of counterfeit medication has been since September, which coincidentally is when Jerome Tomelty joined you. The cocaine painted container appeared a few weeks later. We’re hearing rumours of our own paramilitaries and also Baltic involvement. We have reason to believe a group called The Baltic Militia may be involved. The BMs. Have you ever heard of them?”

  When Donovan’s forehead immediately knotted she knew the answer was yes and nodded him on.

  “We had a boat in from Lithuania in November with a big shipment that needed unloading overnight, so naturally enough the crew left the harbour workers here to unload it and took themselves off into town. Next morning I came onto a report from your lot at High Street about a sexual assault in a nightclub in the city centre. Dozy’s, or some other stupid name like that. Anyway, they’d arrested one of the Lithuanian crew and detained him for investigation; his ship had to leave without him.”

  Andy was wondering when the story would end when the punch line came.

  “He boasted that he belonged to The BMs, probably hoping it would scare the lads who lifted him into releasing him. But of course our coppers would never hav
e heard of that lot, probably thought he meant M&Ms or something, so they just ignored him and banged him up.”

  Annette sat forward eagerly, her phone already out of her bag. “Do you remember the sailor’s name?”

  “No, but your High Street boys could find it easily. He was nicked at the start of the month.”

  She went outside to call Jack Harris for the details while Andy asked general questions about how bad the drug import problem was. When Donovan couldn’t add anything more than Andy already knew the two men lapsed into silence, until Annette returned and gave the D.C.S. a nod and a fresh head of steam.

  “OK, on Jerome Tomelty. Have you noticed him having more money than he should have recently?”

  The harbour chief considered for a moment and then shook his head. “No. But then he’d have to be thick to flaunt it, wouldn’t he?”

  Good point.

  “OK, how about his associations? Has Tomelty been mixing with the crew or captains of particular ships, or ships from any particular region? Or has he made himself particularly helpful when any specific boats have arrived? Offering to help with security or the customs inspections perhaps?”

  This time Donovan’s considerations resulted in a reluctant nod. “Security. Especially on the ships carrying loads from Eastern and Northern Europe and Russia. And the customs inspections on them too. I thought it was just because Tomelty’s wife is Russian so he speaks the lingo like a native, and practically all of the crews speak a few words too even if they’re not from there, so he could chat with them.”

  “Except that unless you or the customs officers spoke Russian you couldn’t possibly have known what either side said.” The D.C.S. sighed heavily. “For all we know Tomelty could have been arranging to offload their drugs before customs got to them, hey.”

  Annette had a sudden thought and signalled to cut in. “Could we see your staff Rota for the next three weeks, please?”

  It would take them just past the last date marked on Derek Smyth’s calendar.