Cold in the Soul

by Derek Fee

  Wilson had put a limit of seven o’clock on work. Reid was already at the apartment and the steaks were in the fridge. Browne and O’Neill had left, but surprisingly Graham was still beavering away at his desk – what was rare was wonderful. Moira knocked on his door and he motioned her in.

  ‘Hard day, boss?’

  ‘Hard night followed by a hard day.’

  ‘Out dancing, were we?’

  ‘Something like that, dinner followed by multiple whiskeys, soft music and good company.’ He caught the look in her eye. ‘Missing Brendan?’

  ‘We had our moments but overall no. It had to go to the next step for him and that’s what burst the bubble. I wasn’t the person he wanted me to be.’

  He opened his filing cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle of Jameson.

  ‘No Crown tonight?’ Moira asked.

  ‘A quiet night at home, dinner, television.’ He poured two shots and passed one to her.

  ‘Stop, you’re making me jealous.’

  They touched glasses and drank. ‘You didn’t come here for a nightcap?’

  The door opened and Graham popped his head in. ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’

  Wilson smiled. ‘The more the merrier, pull up a seat.’ He fetched a third glass, gave Graham a shot and added a small measure into his and Moira’s glasses.

  ‘The old crew,’ Graham toasted.

  ‘The old crew,’ Wilson and Moira said together, they touched glasses and drank.

  There was a moment of silent nostalgia.

  Wilson looked at Moira. ‘There’s something on your mind.’

  ‘I think there’s something going on with Rory.’ She looked at Graham.

  ‘I knew things would be difficult at first,’ Wilson said. ‘He probably views you as a threat.’

  ‘It not that, boss,’ Graham said. ‘There’s something on Rory’s mind and I don’t think it has anything to do with Moira.’

  ‘Maybe it is my fault,’ Moira said. ‘This job does strange things to people, we all know that. I might just be over-reacting, but this evening when you asked whether anyone had anything to add, I was sure he was about to speak. I saw the words on his lips, but he never said them.’

  ‘And the way he behaved when we divided up the list of names wasn’t normal either,’ Graham said. ‘Something is up, boss.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’ Wilson finished his whiskey. ‘Off home with the both of you, I promised to leave by seven and I am a man of my word, especially when I give it to Steph.’

  Moira and Graham finished their drinks. ‘Night, boss,’ they said in unison as they left the office.

  Wilson tried to read the report on the disposition of office furniture, which was compulsory reading for the next senior officers’ meeting. Something in his bones told him that he had better get hold of the reins of this investigation. Moira was one of the most intuitive coppers he had ever worked with. If she was sure that something was up with Browne, then he was ready to believe it.

  Reid had recorded the news report on the press conference and they sat on the couch watching while the steaks sizzled on the grill pan. ‘Davis looks good,’ she said. ‘She’s more confident these days.’

  ‘Probably the result of Jack’s confidence-building techniques.’

  She punched him on the shoulder. ‘You’re terrible. You look good too, considering the shape you were in when you got up this morning.’

  ‘I know this doctor who has a special stock of hangover cures.’

  ‘You and Davis make a good team.’

  ‘I was apprehensive when Donald left. We’d worked together for a hell of a long time. But Davis is turning out to be all right’

  ‘Donald was your replacement father, and you were the son he never had.’

  ‘Moira thinks there’s something up with Rory.’

  ‘I’d listen to her if I were you.’

  ‘It’s got to be something to do with Whyte.’

  She stood and went to the stove. ‘Whatever it is will have to wait until tomorrow. Get the plates out and let’s enjoy dinner.’

  Browne sat in the darkened living room of his flat. He had reached the point of no return. There would be a price to pay now when Wilson found out about Carmody. At the very least he was responsible for wasting the team’s time. He could also be accused of perverting the course of justice. That could end his career. He hadn’t wanted to expose his links with a male prostitute. And by trying to prevent that, he had undermined his professionalism. He had tried to convince himself that Carmody’s disappearance wasn’t linked to Whyte’s. They had nothing in common: they were different ages, they had different backgrounds and levels of education, they lived different lives at opposite ends of the social scale. But deep down he knew there was a connection. Deciding to conceal Carmody’s disappearance had been a misguided act of self-preservation. He would tell Wilson tomorrow and accept whatever sanction his boss deemed appropriate.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Wilson left his apartment building energised by his run, a shower and a breakfast of poached eggs on avocado toast. The sun had been beating down since early morning and the sky was clear blue. It was turning out to be the best summer in decades. Citizens of the province who worked outdoors were sporting tans, some continental holidays were being cancelled, a hosepipe ban had been introduced to conserve water, and guesthouses in coastal towns were booked out. It would be a summer that people would never forget. Wilson was just thinking that nothing bad could happen on such a beautiful day when he saw Colm Matthews climbing out of a car parked across the road from his building. He cursed.

  ‘Good morning, detective superintendent.’ Matthews crossed the road to join Wilson. ‘Fabulous morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Colm. I was just thinking the same thing.’

  ‘I saw you and Chief Superintendent Davis on the news last night. She’s a very polished performer. You two are a formidable team.’

  ‘Rumour has it she’s destined for great things.’

  ‘A rising tide lifts all boats.’

  Wilson smiled. ‘Not in this case, I’m happy where I am.’

  ‘Have you got time for a walk and maybe a coffee?’

  ‘Why not?’ They walked towards the Titanic Centre.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I accosted you at your home,’ Matthews said.

  ‘I was wondering about that.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you outside the office.’

  ‘Unofficially you mean.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ They passed the SSE Arena and Matthews led Wilson towards the group of shops facing the river. ‘The coffees are on me.’

  Wilson waited on a concrete bench outside and looked out over the Lagan. The water was a deep shade of blue and there was a steady stream of walkers making their way along the path leading to the Titanic Centre.

  Matthews returned carrying two cardboard cups. He passed one to Wilson. ‘I’ve discussed your case with my boss. He’s decided that there’s nothing to investigate.’

  Wilson covered his sigh of relief by blowing on his coffee to cool it.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what really happened?’

  ‘Unofficially?’

  ‘Unofficially.’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a high-level political individual. It’s shaking the tree and those responsible are getting nervous. The theory is that they wanted me off the case. I went to the warehouse because Sammy Rice was murdered there and Sammy was linked to these people. The hitman took his chance. He didn’t get me and I didn’t get him. The case is so sensitive that it can’t become public knowledge.’

  ‘The people in the PSNI look on us like we’re Keystone Cops, not proper police officers.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘We always do a professional job.’

  Wilson sipped his coffee. ‘I’m impressed with your work, and I’d be proud to serve alongside you.’

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sp; A small boat was heading down Belfast Lough and out to sea.

  ‘I appreciate that. It’s not pleasant investigating police officers who have excellent records and just once get involved in something illegal.’

  ‘I’ve been the Professional Services route more than once.’

  ‘I’ve seen the records.’

  ‘I’m all about results. I deal with evil people who do evil things and should be brought to book for their deeds. The manual sometimes ties our hands with protocols and procedures that have been developed for ideal situations. Sometimes we’re forced to step outside the boundaries. But that doesn’t mean acting illegally.’

  ‘That makes us the guardians of the guardians and it’s a role we take seriously.’ Matthews stood and dumped his coffee in a trash bin. He held out his hand to Wilson. ‘Good luck.’

  Wilson shook. ‘And you.’

  Matthews walked a few yards and turned. ‘You tell a good story and it’s important that you stick to it.’

  Wilson didn’t consider himself a habitual liar, but he worked in a job where the truth was sometimes blurred. As Matthews disappeared around the corner of the concert hall, he dumped his coffee and stood up. They’d both done what they had to do.

  Wilson had just settled in his office chair when Browne knocked on the door and entered, the frown lines on his forehead told their own story. He marked one up for Moira. ‘Spit it out, Rory.’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss, but I’ve been holding information back.’

  ‘There had better be a good reason.’

  ‘That’s the point, boss, there isn’t.

  ‘What’s the information?’

  ‘Another gay man is missing.’

  Wilson straightened. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘A younger gay man, Vincent Carmody, has been missing for the past couple of weeks.’

  ‘And you’ve known this for how long?’

  ‘Since Heavey first spoke with me about Whyte.’

  ‘What class of an eejit are you? Why the hell would you withhold this information? Do you have any idea of the repercussions?’

  ‘Carmody and I were lovers a while back. I was already involved when I discovered that he was obsessive and sometimes worked as a male prostitute. I broke it off with him.’

  Wilson remembered seeing Browne with a young man in Victoria Street. They looked happy. ‘There’s no harm in that.’

  ‘I didn’t want my connection with him to come out. He lives in a hovel in Broadway and when Forensics dust it, my fingerprints will be all over the place. They ‘ll drag me into the investigation and you’ll have to take me off the case.’

  ‘You are one stupid bastard.’ He was struggling to see where this bombshell was leading. One thing was certain: Rory would be off the investigation immediately. ‘Is there a link between the disappearances of Whyte and Carmody?’

  ‘I don’t know, boss.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve gone missing together?’

  ‘That thought crossed my mind. But people who know them both don’t think so.’

  Wilson motioned to Moira, who he knew was watching them.

  She entered the office and closed the door. ‘Boss?’

  ‘We have a second missing gay man,’ Wilson said. ‘A Vincent Carmody with an address in Broadway.’

  Moira wrote in her notebook.

  ‘Rory was personally involved with Mr Carmody and won’t be able to help us with the investigation. So you’ll be deputising for me from now on. Rory will take over the Helen’s Bay case.’

  Moira didn’t look at Browne.

  ‘This puts a different complexion on the Whyte investigation. We need to find out whether the two disappearances are linked,’ Wilson continued.

  ‘And if they are?’ Moira said.

  ‘Let’s not go there until we have more proof. We need to have a profile on Mr Carmody. There are two new lines of inquiry: Whyte and Carmody might have disappeared together, or one might be responsible for the disappearance of the other. Get Siobhan to pull everything she can get on Carmody.’ He turned to Browne. ‘You can help with the profile of Carmody, after that you’re out. I’ll give Finlay a call. I want Carmody’s place given a thorough examination. And I want to look at it myself before they start. I’ll meet you downstairs after I give the chief super the news.’

  Browne knew that Wilson wasn’t referring to him.

  ‘What the hell was he thinking?’ Wilson said as they parked outside Carmody’s address. ‘We’ve lost a lot of time because of Rory.’

  ‘Put yourself in his shoes, boss,’ Moira said. ‘No one wants their sex life paraded for public consumption. I know he can’t be part of the investigation, but I’m not happy about replacing him. Rory looked devastated. Losing the case is a bitter blow and I don’t like profiting at someone else’s expense.’

  Wilson had seen the shattered look on Rory’s face. Some repair work would have to be done down the line. If there was something down the line. The kind of mistake that Rory had made left the whole question of his career hanging in the balance.

  On the positive side, perhaps Carmody’s involvement might clear up Whyte’s disappearance. It wouldn’t be the first time that a date had ended in an argument. Wilson had already handled cases where a prostitute and john had done each other harm. However, there was another possibility. Perhaps the same person had disappeared Whyte and Carmody. He prayed that they were looking at the former scenario and not the latter.

  Wilson did the honours with the lock-picks even though he knew the door would not have withstood a good kick from a twelve-year-old. Browne had told them that Carmody inhabited the ground-floor flat. Wilson opened the door and they slipped on their latex gloves as they entered. People often exaggerate when they describe the residences of others, but Browne was right when he called Carmody’s abode a hovel. A visit by the Council would lead to the house being condemned. The first thing that hit them was the stench of decay. The living room was in such disarray that Wilson wondered whether it was its natural state or somebody had trashed it. ‘Finlay and his team will have their work cut out with this place.’

  Moira had moved to the back of the flat and returned to the living room. ‘The smell is coming from the kitchen. The electric is on the meter and has probably been off for weeks. There’s milk in the fridge that’s over two weeks passed its use by date. I need a shower after just looking at it. The bedroom and kitchen are in as big a mess as this place.’

  ‘Mr Carmody was not house-proud.’ Wilson wasn’t the neatest, although the women in his life had imparted training, but Carmody wasn’t just untidy he was a dirty bugger. One thing was sure: Carmody had been gone for more than two weeks. Also, money wasn’t the motivation for his disappearance.

  ‘No blood anywhere around,’ Moira said. ‘Although there might be anything under this mountain of crap.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Finlay found Shergar under that mess.’ Wilson moved on to the rear of the flat. He gave the kitchen a miss. The bed looked slept in and it had been months since the sheets had last met a washing machine. He was surprised that his sergeant had been in this place. Maybe at that time it wasn’t in such a state, but it was still an unpleasant thought. It showed what an almighty drive sex was. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Moira was rooting around in a press in the living room. She came up with a photo album. She flicked through the pages. One person featured in many photos and she assumed she was looking at Carmody. Some might consider him good-looking. He had fair hair and a thin moustache in one large black-and-white photo. His features were regular. Nothing stood out. His eyes might be blue and were his best attribute. His mouth was small and his lips thin. He was not her type. Someone stuck the photo to the page with some gum and she wriggled it free. They would need it for a flyer. She put the album back where she found it. ‘Meet Vincent Carmody.’ She handed the photo to Wilson.

  He dredged up the memory of the young man he had seen with Browne on Victoria Street. It was the
same guy. ‘I wonder where Mr Carmody is now.’ People like Carmody disappear without a trace and are seldom found. The reason is simple. Nobody gives a damn whether they live or die. It was why the Yorkshire Ripper got away with murdering thirteen women before he was convicted, many of those women were prostitutes so they didn’t count. You only had to look around the flat to see that Carmody’s world was in the shitter. Now some bastard had taken away the only thing of value he had: his life. There were dozens of people like Carmody in every city in the world. They were just one segment of the used and abused.

  ‘A penny for them, boss.’

  ‘My thoughts aren’t worth a penny, like Mr Carmody,’ Wilson replied. ‘We need to find this man though; somebody has to care what happened to him.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The team assembled at the whiteboard. Wilson had stuck the photo of Carmody beside that of Whyte. ‘We have a second disappearance,’ he announced without indicating the source of the information. ‘This is Vincent Carmody and we haven’t yet established how long he’s been missing, neither do we know his movements. It might be important if we can link Carmody with the disappearance of Roger Whyte. Where are we on the CCTV?’

  ‘We have cameras all over central Belfast,’ O’Neill said. ‘And there are several in Howard Street. I’ve already requested the footage from our cameras and I’ve contacted the businesses in the area to ask for their footage. I’ve received two disks and I’ve started on them. It’s not helpful that the days in question were holidays with thousands of people on the streets.’

  ‘Keep at it,’ Wilson said. ‘Any calls to the confidential number?’

  ‘The usual cranks,’ Graham said. ‘Only one or two worth following up, which I’ve passed on to the uniforms for a preliminary look.’

  ‘What do we know about Carmody?’ Wilson said.

  ‘Vincent Carmody, born to Mary Carmody on 23 March 1993, father unknown,’ O’Neill said. ‘Mother died when he was sixteen from an overdose. Social Services tried to house him in a shelter to help him complete his education, but he kept running away. There was a question of sexual abuse, but it was never fully investigated. He found his way to the streets. He has had a couple of jobs. He worked in a warehouse for a year and seemed to get his life on track but then quit. Three arrests for shoplifting; no convictions. His last arrest was for soliciting. The investigation is still pending.’