by Derek Fee
Moira explained the two new lines of inquiry she had opened. ‘I might need Siobhan depending on how the inquiries proceed.’
‘Okay, let’s head home and get at it early tomorrow,’ Wilson said, bringing the briefing to a close.
Wilson had told Reid that he would meet her at the Crown as soon as she finished work. When he pushed in the door he encountered a sea of tourists taking selfies while downing pints of Guinness in front of the ornate décor of the pub. He hated the summer crowds, but it was the price he paid for having the most famous pub in Belfast as his local. Since the signing of the peace accord, Northern Ireland had entered a kind of golden age, embracing values that were continental as much as British. Tourists flocked to the Titanic Centre and jumped on buses promising a tour of the Game of Thrones sites. Restaurants and pubs served dishes other than boxty and Wilson’s favourite haunt wasn’t only a pub but a tourist attraction. The barman caught his eye and directed him towards a snug at the far end of the bar. Wilson nodded and signalled for a pint of Guinness. He pushed through the throng of smartphone-wielding tourists and entered the calm of the snug.
‘Who’s been a bad boy then?’ Jock McDevitt looked up from the book he was reading. ‘I knew you’d come in here sooner or later.’
Wilson sighed and settled himself into a seat across from McDevitt. ‘You’ve been quiet. What are you drinking?’
‘I’m off the booze.’ McDevitt put the book into his messenger bag. ‘I’m on antibiotics for a throat infection. Why didn’t you tell me someone was out to kill you?’
‘I’ve listened to this bullshit all day. I have no idea who started this bloody rumour, but I’m not involved.’ Wilson’s pint arrived and he paid.
‘Pull the other one. I have it on the best authority so you might as well let me into the secret. Off the record.’
Wilson sighed. ‘How’s the Hollywood business going?’
‘We’re in development. They’re looking for an actor who can lie while keeping a straight face. I’m not new to this game and I smell something very juicy in this story. I haven’t seen this level of cover-up in a long time. That “dissident republican” bullshit gets dragged out every time something spooky happens. You might as well tell me now because I’ll ferret out the truth.’
Wilson felt a sense of relief when Reid appeared. She kissed McDevitt on the check and Wilson on the lips before sitting beside him. ‘What are you fellows up to?’
‘There’s a rumour around that I’m the police officer who was shot at yesterday,’ Wilson said. ‘Jock has bought into this fantasy, so will you please disabuse him.’
‘Gin and tonic,’ Reid said.
‘Sorry.’ Wilson did the necessary.
Reid looked at McDevitt. ‘Ian is not the police officer involved.’
‘My God,’ McDevitt said. ‘He’s trained her to lie as convincingly as himself. Have you no shame, woman?’
Reid’s gin and tonic arrived. She glanced at the glass of water in front of McDevitt.
‘He’s on the dry,’ Wilson said.
‘You guys are a better double act than Hope and Crosby,’ McDevitt said. ‘But I’ll get the truth out of you yet.’ He picked up his messenger bag. ‘I must leave you, folks. I have an assignation with a confidential informant. But I’ll be seeing you soon.’
Reid waited until McDevitt left. ‘He’ll find out, you know that. Maybe you should confide in him.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘He’ll want to go further and I can’t have that.’
‘Why do I feel that we’re at the beginning of the end rather than the end of the beginning? You haven’t even told me the whole story.’
‘Someone tried to kill me because of what I know, but I also don’t know the whole story. The last thing I’ll do is put you in danger.’
‘I asked the hospital in LA to put the job on hold.’
‘And?’
‘They can’t, but jobs are coming up all the time and they want me.’
Every time she spoke about the job in LA he felt her longing. ‘Want to go and eat somewhere?’
‘No, let’s pick up some takeaway and a good bottle of wine. We’ll have a nice bath together and enjoy each other’s company.’
He finished his drink. ‘I think I love you.’
‘I think you do too.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He lay back on the couch. It was such a futile exercise, but he had to appease his parents. The irony of it was that they were the ones he held responsible for the way he was. He looked across at Dr Rose Aronowitz and wondered was it Freud who started the tradition of the Jewish psychiatrist. It was so like his parents to choose an Aronowitz over a Maguire. She was ten years older than him, lived with her husband in a four-bed detached house in Finaghy and had three children attending the local primary school. As soon as his parents insisted that he seek professional help and suggested Dr Aronowitz, he’d researched her on the Internet. When he agreed to be her patient, he stalked her, her husband and her children. He had a large gallery of photos of them and he knew more about their lives than they knew about each other. He had already decided that if she found out too much about him, he would kill her and her husband, maybe even her children. He often thought about killing people. In fact, he always thought about it. He’d heard that most men think about sex every ten seconds, but for him it was killing. Since he was a teenager, he had fantasised about killing just about everyone in his life. That included his parents, teachers and classmates. Most of all he would have liked to kill his classmates. There were parts of him that nobody should ever find out about. Parts he didn’t understand himself.
He watched Dr Rose as she made her notes. To carry out this charade, he had been forced to create another character, an alternate or an avatar. He’d always been good at drama. Maybe he should have followed up on it? Anyway, the character he created was gentle and didn’t want to kill anyone. However, he couldn’t be perfect. There were too many strange instances in his past. He had to have problems. Otherwise why would he be attending a psychiatrist? He’d discovered that Dr Rose’s brief was to find out why everyone who came into contact with him was left with the feeling that there was something odd about him. He suspected that his parents’ disquiet perhaps centred on their fear about what he might do to them. He couldn’t deny that he’d had fantasies about killing them, but there were elements of the perfect fantasy missing from that scenario. He had no desire to have sex with either parent. He had been in and out of therapy since his teen years and Dr Rose was the end of the road. What she didn’t know was that he had found the cure for what was bothering him all by himself. How could he tell her that the answer to his problem was his desire to drug homosexuals, rape them and murder them?
‘Tell me about yourself.’ Aronowitz’s tone was soft and professional.
Her eyes looked interested behind her large dark-framed glasses. Or perhaps it was her professional manner, and he’d find at the end of their session that she had covered her notebook with doodles. Telling her about himself was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d read dozens of books on psychology and had already made what he considered to be a credible diagnosis of his situation. He wondered whether he should present the symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder where he would display a grandiose sense of self-importance and entitlement, be preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited power, lack empathy and require excessive admiration. But that wasn’t even a character he could play. He opted instead for antisocial personality disorder, whose sufferers are deceitful and manipulative for personal profit or gain. That was something his parents would recognise straight away.
His research into psychology had made him realise the collage of mental disorders his whole life had been. If Dr Rose had his real story, she might even come to the same conclusion as him. He was one of those rare psychopaths willing to take his feelings of dissociation from the human race to the limit of torturing a human being before taking his life.
He lay back and re
eled off the life of the character he had created, beginning at memories from when he was three. He didn’t know how many sessions his parents had paid for and he didn’t care. He had a whole other life story ready to disgorge. It was a game he was good at and enjoyed playing. While his mouth was fleshing out the character he wanted Dr Rose to get to know, his mind was watching the films he’d made of the deaths of Whyte and Carmody. Whoever said that a human couldn’t think and operate on two levels hadn’t met him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As soon as Wilson had arrived at the station, the desk sergeant had pointed upstairs. When he entered Davis’s office, she was at the coffee table with a visitor. They both stood.
‘Ian, this is Senior Investigating Officer Colm Matthews from the Police Ombudsman’s Office.’
Matthews extended his hand.
Wilson shook. ‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson.’
Matthews had a firm handshake. He looked to be in his mid-forties and carried himself like a copper. His face was round and his eyes peered out from behind a pair of not very strong lenses.
‘I saw you play,’ Matthews let go his hand. ‘I used to play myself, at a much more modest level.’
Wilson fancied he could tell what rugby position someone played from their body shape. That would not be so easy today when some backs have the build of forwards, but it would have been possible in Matthews’ time. He was maybe five-feet-nine tall and had probably put on weight since he played. ‘Winger?’ Wilson guessed.
Matthews smiled. ‘How could you tell?’
‘It’s a gift.’
They sat and Wilson was pleased to see that it was a tea and biscuits meeting. He poured himself a cup of tea.
‘You’re over your ordeal?’ Matthews said.
‘I’ve been in an explosion,’ Wilson said. ‘Being shot at and missed doesn’t rate.’
‘The damage caused by the explosion finished your career,’ Matthews said.
‘Such as it was, yes.’ Wilson sipped his tea.
‘You’re far too modest,’ Matthews said.
‘Senior Investigating Officer Matthews wishes to launch the investigation into the shooting,’ Davis said.
‘Please call me Colm, my full moniker is unwieldy.’
‘All our full monikers are unwieldy,’ Davis said. ‘How long do you think the investigation will take?’
‘We’d like to move as quickly as possible,’ Matthews said. ‘There are always complaints from the press that we’re slow in getting the reports out, but we need to be as thorough as possible. That no one was injured eases the situation somewhat.’
‘We’re here to assist you in every way possible,’ Davis said.
‘Perhaps we could start with a visit to the scene of the shooting,’ Matthews said. ‘Perhaps DS Wilson might accompany me.’
Wilson nodded. ‘When would you like to go?’
‘Forensics have finished their work,’ Matthews said. ‘Would you be free later this morning?’
‘Is eleven o’clock all right?’ Wilson said.
Matthews nodded, stood and extended his hand to Davis. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
Davis shook.
Matthews turned to Wilson. ‘See you at eleven at Ballymacarrett.’
‘It’s a date.’
Wilson and Davis watched Matthews leave. ‘Be careful of that one,’ Davis said when the door closed. ‘You’re sure that you’re solid on the shooting?’
Wilson didn’t answer. ‘He’s not one of ours?’
‘No, before you came in we had a short meet and greet. He was an inspector in the Royal Bahamas Police Force for over ten years before he joined the Police Ombudsman’s Office here six years ago.’
‘So he didn’t come to Belfast for the sunshine. No connection to our friend at HQ?’
‘Jennings? Not on the surface. But one never knows.’
‘The octopus’s tentacles have a long reach.’
‘Why didn’t you and Jack arrest the shooter?’
‘On what grounds? Until he walked into the warehouse cradling an AK-47 he’d done nothing wrong.’
‘You could have arrested the quartermaster?’
‘They would have replaced him within hours. The only possibility of no casualties was when Brennan ignored my warning and started shooting. I suppose Jack and I should count our lucky stars that we prevailed.’
‘Just be careful with Matthews. You need to get this off your plate.’
‘Speaking of which, we’ve just launched a new investigation.’
‘Thank you for informing me. It must be insignificant if you’re telling me at the start.’
‘A man named Roger Whyte disappeared almost a month ago. His friends are very concerned for his safety.’
‘What about Missing Persons?’
‘They’ve passed the case to us.’
‘At your request, what’s the interest for you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I want to scratch an itch.’
‘Be my guest, as long as you don’t scratch it on overtime.’
Davis returned to her desk and watched the door close. He was a handsome devil and the perfect Shakespearean character, suffering as he did the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. A flawed man who engendered love and hate in equal measure. Some day he would come undone and she would be very sad. She sighed and went back to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Harry Graham missed Davidson more than he would admit. They had formed an attachment based on their shared background as Shankill boys and had developed a good social and work bond. He envied Peter his new life in the sun. He loved his wife, and the girls were a joy, but life was a struggle and would continue to be for the foreseeable future. Sometimes he hankered back to the old days when George Whitehouse was the sergeant and he, Peter, Eric and Ronald had laboured in the squad room. Happy days, he thought, but deep down he knew he was looking at the past through rose-coloured glasses. The new crew were more serious and drank less and that was for the best. They were a lot sharper than the old boys, probably because they were better educated. It was strange how the new coppers had evolved from the old timers much as Best and Hills had emerged from the old gangsters. He wasn’t sure which set was better. He wasn’t one of those who credited criminals like Sammy Rice with having some kind of honour code. Rice killed as easily as Best and Hills would.
‘Ready to go?’
Graham came out of his daydream and saw DS Browne standing at his desk. ‘Absolutely, sergeant.’
‘What’s with you, Harry? You looked like you were away with the fairies.’
They headed downstairs. ‘Family, kids, school, mortgage, it never seems to stop.’
Browne slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re never in bad humour, but I suppose the pressures of family life and the job must be hard.’
‘Wait until you have three small ones to clothe and feed and keep a roof over their heads.’ He realised what a stupid remark that was. Browne would probably never have the pleasure of rolling up a nappy full of shit, cleaning a bottom and slapping on a new Pampers. Things were changing though. Gay couples could adopt in other places, although that wasn’t likely to happen in Northern Ireland any time soon. Graham had learned to live and let live. He’d been raised in the Protestant heartland, but he’d long ago rejected the politics of division. He’d seen too much of the blood and gore it produced.
They took one of the station cars and drove to Elmwood Mews, parking in the yard in front of Whyte’s flat.
‘Let’s take a look.’ Browne climbed out of the car and knocked on the door several times. When he received no answer, he worked his magic with the lock-picks.
They put on latex gloves before entering the hallway. Browne climbed the stairs.
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Yes, once with one of Whyte’s friends. I thought I said.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘The boss knows.’
They entered the living ro
om together. ‘You take the bedroom and the bathroom.’ Browne indicated the area at the rear of the flat. ‘I’ll do the living room and the kitchen.’
Graham went towards the bedroom.
Browne went straight for the desk he had seen on his previous visit. A filing cabinet supported one side of the desk. He pulled out the large drawer revealing a series of files. Each had a small label at the top and the subjects were the ones found in any home. Seeing the neatness of the filing he felt that Whyte’s OCD would come in useful. There was a thick file of bank statements that would have to be examined in detail. He had requested a forensic team to examine the flat with a concentration on whether it was a crime scene. He removed the bank file and closed the cabinet; Forensics could deal with the rest. He picked up a diary from the desk. Whyte’s obsession with detail was opportune. His movements were annotated for every day of the week. Browne flicked through the pages and saw why Whyte was described as a creature of habit.
Graham did a quick search of the bathroom. There were more smelly bottles and antiperspirants than in his wife’s cabinet at home. There were six bottles with tablets in them, but he would leave those to the forensic boys as well. He moved on to the main bedroom. There was nothing of note. The room was as neat as a pin and the bed had been made with military precision. There were three books on the bedside table: two novels and a guide on investments to make in the next crash. Not another one, he’d survived the last recession, but he didn’t like to think what another cut in his salary would mean for his family’s future. They were scraping by as it was. He did a quick inspection of the floor but saw no signs of blood. The closets were fully stocked with clothes that looked expensive and the drawers were filled with ironed shirts, socks and underwear. The laundry basket in the corner of the room was empty. To Graham’s experienced eye, there was no reason to think that Whyte had come to harm in his flat. He went into the living room.
Browne handed him the diary. ‘You could set your clock by this guy.’
