by Derek Fee
Wilson could have written the script of Carmody’s life the minute he’d seen his flat. The poor man was on a one-way street from the day he had been born: no father, junkie mother, truant at school, lucky to have avoided reform school, abused by people and the system. ‘Harry, get on to the uniforms and organise a door-to-door on Broadway. We’ll interview anyone who saw Carmody or who can tell us anything about his movements. His disappearance poses more questions. Are Whyte’s and Carmody’s disappearances connected? Did they know each other? Did one murder the other? Where are they now? We can stand here all day developing questions, but what we really need are answers.’
Moira’s phone rang. ‘Sorry, boss.’ She listened, spoke and put her phone away. ‘Heavey’s downstairs.’
‘Take Harry with you.’
When they entered Interview Room 1, Moira and Graham found Charles Heavey seated and drinking a cup of tea. If being interviewed by the police bothered him, he didn’t show it.
Moira did the introductions while Graham turned on the recording equipment.
‘Detective Sergeant Browne not available today?’ Heavey asked.
‘He’s busy,’ Moira said.
‘I saw Chief Superintendent Davis and Superintendent Wilson on the news last night,’ Heavey said. ‘It looks like you’re finally serious about finding Roger.’
‘We are very serious about finding Mr Whyte,’ Moira said. ‘This is a preliminary interview and there may be a follow-up.’
‘Understood; anything I can do to help.’
‘We’re looking into Roger Whyte’s life and I understand that DS Wilson has already interviewed you.’
Heavey nodded.
‘Another area we’ve looked at involves Mr Whyte’s financial affairs,’ Moira said. The smile faded from Heavey’s face. ‘Mr Whyte was very generous to his friends, several of whom received sums ranging from tens to hundreds of pounds.’
‘Yes, Roger was rather wealthy and had made some shrewd investments. He liked to share his good fortune.’
‘Sharing his good fortune to the tune of twenty thousand pounds appears a little excessive.’ Moira removed a bank statement from her file and put it on the table in front of Heavey. ‘We have highlighted two transactions in particular. Both were made to you six months ago.’
Heavey had gone from relaxed to uncomfortable. ‘I had reverses in the market and Roger agreed to bail me out. A futures contract went against me and my stockbroker called in the money.’
‘Had you made arrangements to repay the loan?’ Moira asked.
‘Of course, we’d arranged for repayment.’
Moira took out a series of bank statements and laid them out on the table. ‘Can you please show me a single repayment that you’ve made?’ Heavey looked like he might bolt for the door. Sweat appeared on his brow, he broke eye contact and rubbed his collar. Moira reckoned rubbing the collar was his primary nervous habit. He was no longer relaxed about the interview; he’d seen where she was leading him.
‘I hadn’t started. Roger told me he didn’t need the money and I could repay him at my discretion.’
‘And now Mr Whyte has disappeared. That’s rather convenient for you, isn’t it?’ Moira asked.
‘Now look here, I was the one who informed Detective Sergeant Browne about Roger’s disappearance.’
‘And you think that exonerates you?’
Tears were forming in Heavey’s eyes. ‘I liked Roger. I wouldn’t do anything to harm him.’
‘Let’s move on to Vincent Carmody,’ Moira said. ‘You also told DS Browne about his disappearance. What was your relationship with Carmody?’
‘Oh God, I need to go to the toilet.’
Graham stood. ‘Please come with me, sir.’
Moira turned off the recording device and closed her file. Heavey wasn’t guilty of harming either Whyte or Carmody. He didn’t have the balls. He was guilty, however, of abusing his friend’s generosity, but there was no criminal law against that.
Five minutes later Heavey and Graham returned and retook their seats. Graham started the recorder.
‘Feeling better?’ Moira asked. ‘Would you like water?’
‘I want my solicitor,’ Heavey said.
‘Dr Heavey,’ Moira began. ‘This interview is not under caution and we have no plans to arrest you. We are simply exploring lines of inquiry. Please relax. We were discussing Vincent Carmody. What was your relationship with him?’
‘I want my solicitor,’ Heavey said.
‘We will call your solicitor if you wish, but I assure you it is unnecessary. You may not know our procedures. If we intend to arrest someone, we must first caution them. You have not been cautioned. You are here because we need your help if we’re to find out what happened to your friend.’
Heavey paused for a moment. ‘I sometimes paid Vincent for sex.’
‘At his flat?’
‘Are you joking, I’d be afraid I’d get rabies if I took my clothes off in that dump. We had sex in different places. Sometimes at my flat, sometimes in a hotel.’
‘Did Roger Whyte use Carmody for sex?’
‘I don’t know, but I assume so.’
‘They knew each other?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Can you think of any reason they would disappear together?’
Heavey shook his head.
‘Do you think that either of them was capable of violence?’
‘Quite the opposite. They were both gentle people. Vincent could be a little intense, but I never felt afraid in his company.’
She made a note to see whether Heavey had ever been the victim of violence. She nodded at Graham, who switched off the recorder. ‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.’
Heavey bolted from the room without replying.
‘Making for the nearest pub if I’m not mistaken,’ Graham said as they stood up. ‘You never lost it, Moira, I wouldn’t like to be in your crosshairs.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
They were the same distance up shit creek as they were when they first got the news about Carmody, and there was still no sign of a paddle, Wilson thought. Moira had briefed him on the interview with Heavey. It was her opinion that he had nothing to do with either disappearance, and he trusted her enough to accept it as fact. The problems remained the same: no bodies, no crime scenes, no forensic evidence and no clear motive. Money had looked good as the motive, but no one was about to benefit from Whyte’s death, except a brace of charities. Heavey would be obliged to repay Whyte’s estate, so even he wouldn’t benefit. It was all going nowhere and the clock was ticking. Wilson knew that evidence was like a pool of water sitting on earth: it seeped away as time passed until there was nothing left.
He had agreed with Davis that they wouldn’t announce the disappearance of Carmody. McDevitt wouldn’t be as slow as them to join the dots, and the LGBT community would soon be marching in the streets demanding police protection from a serial killer of gay men. Not that Wilson had discounted that theory; in fact, it had risen to the top of his list of possibilities. It was one thing to follow that line of enquiry, but it was another to create a panic by raising the spectre of a serial killer. Ulster had had its fair share of serial murderers, many of whom were currently walking the streets. They had declared their crimes as ‘political’ and been set free in the name of peace. But it took a certain mentality to, for example, stab someone twenty-three times, and it had nothing to do with peace.
Wilson’s mentor, Donald Spence, had trained him in the plod theory, and that was what they were applying at the moment. Moira and O’Neill were reviewing CCTV footage. Next to them Graham was manning the phones, looking for the gem of information that might unlock the case. He had done as much as he could in relation to Whyte. If there was anyone alive out there who had information about Whyte’s movements, they would have seen a news broadcast, read an article in the Chronicle or heard a friend speak about it by now. Somebody knew what happened to Whyte and to Carmody. Assuming
they were dead, the killer knew. But it was likely that someone else knew. There was no such thing as the perfect crime. There was always a flaw and the trick was finding it.
The thrill of seeing his handiwork written about in the newspaper had worn off. He had taped The News and watched the two PSNI officers begging for help from the public. They were stumped, which only showed how smart he was. He had left no clues and that had forced them to beg the public to do their work for them. The sheriff in the US who had turned down a candidate because he was ‘too smart to be a cop’ had it right. Most cops were as thick as two short planks. He had gone on the Internet and looked up the two officers who appeared on the news. The male one was a macho former rugby player. Some idiot had written an article on Wikipedia saying how smart he was, and how many murderers he’d caught. You’re not so smart now, Mr Macho Rugby Player, otherwise you wouldn’t be out there belittling yourself by showing everyone that you know nothing. You haven’t even discovered that Carmody is missing.
He’d posted a note to the journalist on the Chronicle. He’d used his computer and printer, and worn gloves when he touched the paper and envelope. The message was simple: ‘Whyte isn’t the only one.’ It should have been delivered today. He looked forward to watching them on TV again, hoping for help to locate Carmody. Good luck with that. Some day he would tell Dr Rose how smart he was. He wondered if she would abide by doctor–patient confidentiality. If not, he could always kill her.
It was nearing five o’clock and McDevitt was finishing up a column for the next edition of the Chronicle. He hadn’t made the front page in weeks. Every day there was something new about Brexit and the impact on the border between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic. He was sick and tired of the posturing politicians on all sides. One developed red lines that couldn’t be crossed and the next developed blood-red lines in a stupid game of one-upmanship. The border had the same status for the people on either side of it as the Berlin Wall had had for Germans. The old border marked by blockhouses, barriers and customs men checking cars had disappeared without a whimper and to the delight of all but the most bigoted Unionists. Now it was raising its ugly head again. Everyone in the province knew what happened the last time there was a border. Nobody wanted to go back there.
McDevitt’s present concern was how to get his byline back on the front page. It might give a boost to the flagging sales of his book on the Cummerford affair. He shuffled the papers on his desk and the white envelope that had been clinging precariously to the edge finally fell off. He picked it up and looked at the postmark. ‘Who put this on my desk?’ he shouted above the noise of the newsroom. Nobody answered, which was what he should have expected. He felt the envelope to see if there was anything bulky inside. It was a stupid precaution. The local terrorists didn’t send letter bombs, if they wanted to blow you up, they did a proper job using a couple of kilos of Semtex.
He opened the top of the envelope with a silver letter opener his wife had given him on their first anniversary. It was the only anniversary present she’d ever given him as their marriage hadn’t lasted two years. He pointed the opening away from him and let the single sheet of paper tumble out. He shook the envelope but the sheet of paper was all it contained. He used the letter opener to prise the folded edges of the paper apart and pressed the paper against the desk. He read the message. He put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. ‘Get a photographer over here pronto.’ The protocol was that letters like this had to be handed over to the authorities immediately. But a picture and his accompanying article would force Brexit and the border off the front page. He looked up to see one of the junior photographers rushing towards him.
He pressed a button on his mobile phone and when it was answered said, ‘Ian, I think you should come over here immediately. I have something important to show you.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
‘The arrogant bastard.’ Wilson sat in McDevitt’s office chair, aware that half the people in the newsroom were staring at him. The single sheet of paper was on the desk, the two diagonal corners pinned down with blocks of yellow Post-it notes.
‘It’s genuine?’ McDevitt said.
‘This happens when we put out a call for information. Harry Graham once fielded a call from a woman in Glengormley who said that the aliens living in her kitchen cabinets had done it.’
‘Does that mean there isn’t another guy missing?’
‘Not as far as we know.’
‘You lie with the aplomb of a politician.’
Wilson had put on his latex gloves and picked up and folded the letter before replacing it in the envelope and dropping it into a plastic evidence bag. He popped the bag into his pocket. He watched McDevitt’s lips curl as he suppressed a smile. ‘I know you’ve taken a copy of this letter, which runs contrary to the agreement between the police and the press on evidence. If you print a story, we’ll deny its veracity and you’ll be embarrassed – if that’s possible. If you play ball, you might have a follow-up book.’ He saw the dilemma play out on McDevitt’s face. ‘By the end of the day, we’ll have a good two-dozen decent leads to follow.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘The world is full of eejits who have nothing to do but screw around in something that’s not their business. But we’ll check it out.’
‘What’s the news from the Police Ombudsman’s Office?’
‘Nothing official yet, but I’m reliably informed that no action will be taken.’
‘The boys in Castlereagh must be mighty relieved. But what about you? The person who wants you dead is still out there somewhere.’
Wilson kept his face blank. ‘Probably licking his wounds; these guys don’t like failure.’
‘Aye. I’ve been asking around Ballymacarrett, and the picture that emerges is very confusing, too bloody confusing. I think there might be more chance of a follow-up book there. Keeping the letter under my hat is a big ask.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He needed to get back to the station.
Moira was examining images covering Howard Street. They had already found an image of Whyte and Heavey leaving the restaurant. The two men had paused at the door for about a minute before Whyte moved off towards the City Hall and Heavey left in the opposite direction. They would have to download video from most of the cameras in central Belfast and put together a sequence following Whyte. It wouldn’t be easy and it certainly would not be enjoyable, but at least this time they had a computer wizard working alongside them. She had never expected police work to be as exciting as American TV shows make it out to be, but this really was tedious work. Nobody liked checking through hundreds of hours of CCTV, listening to the ramblings of lonely people on the confidential line, knocking on doors and scrabbling around trying to find clues. But at least they were doing something.
She looked across the room at Browne. His eyes stared forward and there was a vacant look on his face. He’d screwed up, but with luck he’d get over it. She had a fair idea what was going on inside his head because she’d been there. When things hadn’t worked out with her husband, she’d hit a wall of depression and hadn’t been able to pull herself out. Things only got better when she took herself to the local police station and turned the abusive bastard in. She hoped that Browne had enough resilience to ride out this rough patch.
Wilson handed the letter over to FSNI to check for fingerprints. He knew it was pointless. The envelope would be covered in them but none would belong to the sender and the letter inside would be pristine. McDevitt had opened the envelope with care and swore that he hadn’t handled the contents. There was a time when envelopes had to be licked and so DNA could be extracted from the seal, but modern envelopes only required the pulling of a tab to seal them.
They now knew that Whyte and Carmody were victims of the same killer. A secondary fact was that the killer wanted his handiwork recognised. He, or she, had probably been following the media coverage that Whyte had received. The letter was an attempt to push disclosure of Carmody’s disappearance. Wilso
n would not oblige. But he judged it safe to declare Whyte’s disappearance as a murder inquiry. He wondered how far the killer would go if they didn’t play ball with him. McDevitt would resist the temptation to publish the story of the letter for now, but his resistance had a history of crumbling.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Wilson looked at the whiteboard. A photo of Whyte and Heavey parting company on Howard Street was the only change since early morning. The team members were lounging at their desks. Like much of life, a murder investigation has a three-act structure. Act one is the crime, act two is the hustle and bustle of the investigation and act three winds the investigation up. The most important act is the middle one. It is also where all the hard work is done and where motivation drops. Moira and O’Neill were red-eyed and lethargic from staring at screens all day. Graham looked like he needed a drink and Browne sat slumped in his chair with his arms folded, staring into space. Wilson briefed them on the letter. ‘It’s from the killer, and I’m assuming he’s trying to show us how clever he is. We must play the game a little by his rules. We have no alternative. That’s what makes the CCTV and the public appeals so important.’
‘We’re doing our best, boss,’ Moira said. ‘We’ve interviewed all Whyte’s acquaintances. It doesn’t look like someone targeted him so we’re probably looking for someone he met by chance. It’s the kind of case that ends up going nowhere.’ She knew that motiveless crimes are the hardest to solve. They teach every young police recruit about motive, means and opportunity, but the most important is motive.
