Cold in the Soul

by Derek Fee

  ‘I hope you find Roger safe and well. He’s a very dear friend.’ Heavey fought back a theatrical tear.

  ‘We’ll do our best.’ He didn’t know whether it was natural intuition or the experience of almost twenty years on the job, but he doubted he would bring Roger Whyte safely home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Wilson went to the whiteboard as soon as he arrived back at the station. He’d zeroed in on Whyte’s apparent wealth as the motive for his disappearance. ‘Anyone used Whyte’s credit card since July 12th?’ he asked O’Neill.

  ‘No, boss. As far as anyone can tell there’s been no sign of Whyte since July 12th.’

  ‘You dig up any relatives yet?’

  ‘His father died when he was young, I’ve asked for the death certificate. His mother raised him, and she’s in a care home in Bangor. I think she might be the best source of information on other family members.’

  ‘She must be the next of kin. So she’d inherit if anything happened to her son.’

  ‘Unless he left a will.’

  ‘Where are Rory and Harry?’

  ‘They’re out checking the timeline. Heavey and Whyte had lunch in Deanes on the eleventh. That looks like the last sighting of Whyte before he disappeared.’

  That made Heavey a more important witness than Wilson had realised. He took out his phone and called Browne. ‘Any news on the forensic inspection?’

  ‘Tomorrow, at the soonest.’

  ‘You didn’t find a will during your search of the flat did you?’

  ‘No, but I can pass the message on to Forensics to look for one.’

  ‘Do that, and see if they can find any correspondence from a lawyer as well. We need to know who the beneficiaries are.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’

  Wilson put his phone away. He was on his way back to his office when the duty sergeant stuck his head around the door. ‘Bloke downstairs, something-or-other Matthews, wants to come up to see you.’

  ‘Send him up,’ Wilson said. Senior Investigating Officer Matthews was turning out to be more trouble than the brains at HQ had expected. He continued into his office and was seated by the time Matthews knocked on the door.

  Wilson motioned him in and pointed at the visitor’s chair. ‘Can I offer you a tea? It’s from a machine, so the quality will be inferior to that available in the chief super’s office.’

  Matthews gave a wan smile. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Matthews took out a notebook and placed it on the desk. He flicked through a couple of pages. ‘I’ve never seen an event so easy to understand. The would-be assassin is fled and vanished and all we’re left with is your recollection, some bullet holes and some shell casings. There are no witnesses. How fortunate that the whole event took place outside the public’s gaze.’

  ‘Some people might look on that as a positive. None of us want innocent bystanders caught up in an exchange of gunfire.’

  ‘Perhaps that was why the assassin attacked while you were in the warehouse.’

  Wilson recognised a cynical remark when he heard one. ‘Those kinds of people don’t tend to be model citizens, but I’ll remember to ask him why he chose the warehouse when we catch up with him.’

  ‘If you catch up with him.’

  ‘I suppose I have a more positive view of the PSNI’s abilities.’

  ‘This whole affair is hardly worth the expense of an investigation.’

  ‘I understand it’s obligatory in the case of an officer firing his weapon.’

  ‘It is. But why do I think that I’m being snowed?’

  ‘What gives you the impression you’re being snowed?’

  ‘I know there was a shoot-out in the warehouse and you’ve been upfront about using your weapon. I’ve checked with all the local hospitals and nobody has shown up with a bullet wound. And you are also unscathed. You are one lucky man.’

  ‘That’s what the doctor said when I woke up in hospital after being caught in the bomb blast. I wasn’t so sure considering that half my right thigh was torn up and my rugby career was over. But both there and in the warehouse, I suppose I was lucky to survive. It beats the hell out of the alternative.’

  ‘And so was your assailant.’

  ‘We were both lucky.’

  ‘The fact that it is all so clear-cut smells wrong to me. Why didn’t he keep firing? An assault weapon trumps a Glock 17 any day of the week.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t expecting me to shoot back.’ He told himself to keep the answers short and concise.

  Matthews stood. ‘People say that I worry too much about trifles. They say that I’m pedantic, but I think the job we do is important.’

  ‘I tend to agree with you.’ And them, Wilson thought.

  ‘Would you agree to a polygraph?’

  ‘I’d consider it an insult to be asked to take one.’

  ‘There are a few more things I have to look into, so I might be back.’

  ‘I’ll still be here.’

  Maybe there was more to the Royal Bahamas Police Force than Wilson had imagined. There were several good reasons why HQ had buried the real events at the warehouse, not the least of which would be the Garda DCI on the scene, and the dead body, and the need to explain why someone wanted Wilson dead. It wasn’t in his nature to lie. But he was so far committed that it would be difficult to pull out. His reason for playing along was personal. If all the facts of the shoot-out came out, HQ would be obliged to put him on administrative leave, which would open the door for Reid to insist on a move to California. He wasn’t dismissing the idea, but there was something he had to do before he would be ready to leave Belfast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The team stood at the whiteboard, to which details had been added hourly. Browne gave a rundown of his and Graham’s activities. They had spent the afternoon checking Whyte’s movements on the eleventh of July. Whyte was a gentleman of leisure and spent a good deal of his time in the old-fashioned pursuits of reading, writing and dining with friends. All that was missing was the butler. It was apparent from his diary that Whyte didn’t cook. He took breakfast every morning at Clements Café and a black-clad waitress confirmed that he had breakfasted there regularly until recently. She wasn’t sure when she had seen him last but the twelfth was a good estimate. He was a creature of habit and his breakfast of choice was a pot of Earl Grey tea and a bagel with scrambled egg.

  Browne and Graham had moved on to Deanes restaurant where, after a quick check with the reservations book, it was confirmed that Whyte had lunched with a guest there on the eleventh. None of the wait staff remembered what time he had left, but the credit card receipt for the bill showed that Whyte had settled it at 14:31. The guest’s name written in the diary was Charles Heavey. They then went to Whyte’s flat at Elmwood Mews to take another look at the neighbourhood. It was a residential area where there were always people milling around. But would anyone remember a middle-aged man and tie it to a specific day, especially if it was the day before the biggest holiday in the province? It was something that might amuse the uniforms.

  ‘We must do a proper canvas of the area,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Uniforms and a flyer,’ Moira said.

  Wilson nodded. ‘Siobhan make up a flyer and we’ll have one in every house. Use the missing person template, the black-and-white photo and specify the eleventh and twelfth of July.’

  ‘What else do we have?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘The credit card payment at Deanes was the last use of the card,’ O’Neill said. ‘I’ve gone through most of the financials and it appears he’s made two large payments to his friend Charles Heavey, ten thousand pounds each time.’

  ‘Heavey told me Whyte was generous,’ Wilson said. ‘Now I know what he meant.’ He turned and looked at Browne. ‘What do we know about Heavey?’

  ‘Not much,’ Browne said. ‘I’ve only met him casually. Can’t say I like him.’

  ‘As far as we know,’ Wilson said. ‘He
’s the last person who saw Whyte alive. Siobhan, run a check on him and see why he needed to borrow twenty thousand pounds. I still favour the money motive here. We also need to speak to Whyte’s mother. I need to be out of Belfast tomorrow and I fancy a trip to Bangor so I will visit the nursing home. Did anyone check if Whyte had a mobile phone?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘Then find out.’ He looked at Browne. ‘You didn’t see one at the flat?’

  ‘No, boss. When I was there with Heavey he didn’t mention a mobile phone.’

  ‘Any idea what the significance of that is?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘We should get on to technical and take a look at his calls and messages,’ Moira said. ‘Also we could ask them where the phone is now.’

  ‘If it’s still charged,’ O’Neill said.

  ‘Keep working on the timeline,’ Wilson said. ‘Whyte might have met someone after he left Deanes, either that or Heavey is in the frame.’

  Browne didn’t much like the sound of that.

  ‘Keep at it,’ Wilson continued. ‘The investigator from the Police Ombudsman’s Office might be around tomorrow looking for me. Tell him I’m busy.’ He started towards his office.

  Moira touched his arm. ‘A word, boss.’

  He motioned her to follow him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked when they were inside the office.

  ‘I’m doing nothing while waiting for something to happen on this Helen’s Bay case. I’ve been running through what we have on Best and Hills, but neither has an obvious link to Helen’s Bay. I suppose it’s out of the question to go down to Best’s club and ask them.’

  ‘I don’t think you’d get very far.’ He sensed Moira’s frustration. Working a case where there is little or no evidence is no pleasure. There has to be movement and Helen’s Bay was at a full-stop for too long.

  ‘I need action, boss.’

  ‘I can’t pull Rory off the Whyte case. He’s the one that initiated it. And I haven’t decided whether to involve you with Carlisle yet.’

  ‘I’ve been through Peter’s file. There’s enough to bring Helen McCann in for an interview.’

  ‘Her seat wouldn’t be warmed when the highest priced lawyer in town would knock on the door demanding her release, and we’d be left with egg on our faces. When I bring her in, I’ll have enough evidence to put her away.’

  ‘And if you bring her in, boss, it’ll look personal.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Peter did a hell of a job. A lot of the dots are already connected. It’s a pity the Jackson guy has disappeared. Peter could have him for the assault and that might squeeze him on the Carlisle murder.’

  ‘You haven’t met Simon Jackson. When you do, you’ll understand why that scenario will never happen.’ Wilson’s phone beeped. He looked at the message. It was from McDevitt: ‘It’s been confirmed. Meet at the usual place?’ Wilson sighed.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Senior Investigating Officer Matthews is smelling a rat in the official version of what went down at the warehouse. He’s one of those guys who will poke around in a dead fire to find the only ember still lighting and then fan it until the fire is raging again. I might appreciate his dedication if he were focused on someone else.’

  ‘You have to make sure he doesn’t find that ember.’

  ‘You’re a university graduate. Was it Shakespeare who coined the phrase “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive”?’

  ‘No, it was Walter Scott.’

  ‘Well he was right. Matthews is irritating me and that’s not an easy thing to do. The text was from McDevitt. He claims that he has proof that I’m the officer involved in the shooting. That means there’s a leak at HQ and the whole story is within an inch of coming out.’

  ‘Then HQ will have to deal with it.’

  Wilson was glad she was back. They worked well together and he liked her. He had ambivalent feelings about the failure of her relationship with Brendan. He was sad for her that things hadn’t worked out in the US. She deserved something more than being a detective sergeant in the PSNI. But Moira was looking happy for the first time since she returned.

  ‘I want to take over Peter’s file.’

  ‘This assassination shit is because of that investigation. You don’t bring down people like Helen McCann without collateral damage. I don’t want that to be your future.’ He stood up. ‘Get off home. McDevitt is waiting for me in the Crown. Maybe I can convince him not to publish the story, but with McDevitt there’ll have to be a quid pro quo.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Browne was standing outside the dump on Broadway that Vincent Carmody called home. The rundown building must be one step away from being condemned. He had visited Vinny’s place several times while they had been together. Every time he recalled their brief fling bile came into his throat. They had met within weeks of his arrival in Belfast and a wiser head would have observed the scene before jumping in feet first. Their time together had been a salutary experience for him and it would not be repeated. He fingered the lock-picks in his pocket. He knew he was on a fool’s errand. Unless Vinny returned, Heavey would continue to link the Whyte and Carmody disappearances and his relationship with Vincent Carmody would be exposed. He would be compromised and Wilson would take him off the case in a heartbeat. He approached the front door and bent to open the lock. The piece of crap opened almost immediately, and he pushed inside. The two-up-two-down house had been split into upper and lower flats with a staircase on the left-hand wall. Carmody occupied the ground floor. The door to the upper flat was hanging off its hinges. He used the picks to open the white panel door on the right of the stairs.

  The living room looked like a bomb had hit it. Carmody could have used some of Whyte’s OCD. Browne didn’t like to think that he had been so obsessively in love with Vinny that he had ignored the filth the man lived in. He imagined the fun the forensic team would have lifting fingerprints. The place looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months so no doubt his prints would be found here too. It wasn’t the fingerprints that bothered him though, it was someone viewing the text messages that had passed between Vinny and him. He could feel his face reddening as he moved through the litter towards the rear of the building. It was already bad enough being pointed out as the gay copper. What would his colleagues think when they read the lovelorn messages he’d sent?

  The kitchen was a mess of dirty plates, burned pots and oil marks on the ceiling and walls. Trash was overflowing from a black bag in the corner. A stack of empty pizza boxes sat inside the back door. If the rats hadn’t already taken up residence, they soon would. He opened the fridge and got the sour rancid smell of stale milk. Without touching the bottle, he bent and read the label. The milk was out of date by two weeks. The fridge was empty save for a single plastic bag on the middle shelf containing Carmody’s stash of pot and a couple of pills. He remembered Carmody’s body. There wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on it.

  He moved on to the bedroom and had a sudden memory of him and Vinny lying naked on a foul mattress. Tears came to his eyes. How could he have been so fucking stupid?

  It was clear that Carmody hadn’t been home for some time. How much time was anyone’s guess. The whole scenario was a screw-up. A part of Browne knew he should tell the team about this second disappearance. Another part said, if Whyte appears tomorrow, you’ll look like a fool, and if you add Carmody to the list and they both turn up, you’ll be the village idiot. The smart strategy was to see where the Whyte investigation went before bringing Carmody into it. If the boss’s theory was correct and Whyte’s disappearance was money-related, there would be no link to Carmody, who didn’t have a penny.

  He made his way back through the living room and closed the door of the flat behind him. He opened the front door and found himself face to face with a young woman. She was small and frail with arms as thin as pipe cleaners. Her face was lived-in and her hair had streaks of green and red in it. She could be anythi
ng from fifteen to thirty.

  ‘I saw you goin’ in, so I did,’ she said.

  ‘My friend lives here.’

  She looked him up and down, and her brow furrowed. ‘You’re a friend o’ that wee rat Vinny?’

  Browne nodded. There was a look of disbelief on her face.

  ‘You smell like a peeler.’

  ‘I’m just a friend.’

  ‘Where the fuck is he then?’

  ‘I thought you might know.’

  ‘I gave the wee bastard twenty quid three weeks ago for to buy me some pot and I haven’t seen the thievin’ fucker since. My boyfriend is gonna kill him if he doesn’t give me me money back.’

  ‘Do you remember what day you gave him the money?’

  ‘Do I look like I walk about with a fuckin’ calendar in me pocket?’

  Browne produced his wallet. ‘If you remember, I might help you out.’

  She stared at the leather wallet. ‘It was the week after the twelfth. I remember it was a Friday so that would be what, the eighteenth?’ Her eyes never wavered from the wallet.

  He removed a twenty-pound note and handed it to her. ‘I’ll get it from Vinny when I see him.’

  She snatched the note from his hand. ‘Aye, good luck wi’ that. You can’t trust the sodomites, that’s what me da always says.’ She gave him a sly smile, pocketed the money and walked up the street.

  Browne rushed off in the opposite direction. He’d been a fool to come here. Vinny was off God only knew where. And that young woman would remember that Browne had been to his flat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘I’ve been here since four o’clock and I’ve only just got a snug,’ McDevitt said. ‘These bloody tourists are a plague.’

  Wilson dropped on the seat. ‘God be with the old days when the tourists wouldn’t come to Belfast because they were afraid of being bombed or shot.’