by Derek Fee
‘We bring it as far as we can,’ Wilson said. ‘I know it’s hard, but we have to keep following the leads. Tomorrow a man walking his dog might stumble across the body of Whyte or Carmody or both and then the odds turn in our favour. So, let’s have everybody back here nice and fresh tomorrow.’ The looks on the faces of the team showed they thought he was talking bullshit but part of his job description read ‘motivate staff’ and experience told him the guy who had written the letter wasn’t finished killing.
Wilson was in need of a little motivation himself, but Davis was attending an important meeting at HQ so he would have to look for it elsewhere. He called Reid and her assistant informed him that the professor was giving a lecture until six. Wilson texted her to meet him at the usual location as soon as possible.
The sun was still beating down and the air was hot when Wilson left the station. He’d heard that Northern Ireland was hotter than the Algarve. There has to a first time for everything. He had at least another hour before Reid would be free. There was no point in heading for the Crown because the tourists would be busy photographing every square inch of the pub and the snugs would be crammed. He wasn’t ready for any of that. Instead, he walked along the Shankill towards the city centre. From North Street, he turned left onto Union Street and proceeded to his destination on Donegall Street.
Northern Ireland had come a long way in terms of respect for people’s sexual orientation, but there was still a long way to go. The Scottish Plantation of Ulster in the seventeenth century had brought a strict Presbyterian brand of Protestantism that was still plain in Ulster life. Northern Ireland was the only part of the United Kingdom that forbade gay marriage, and there was a section of the population who wanted homosexuals and lesbians jailed.
Wilson stood in front of the Kremlin cocktail lounge. A set of gates constructed of vertical iron bars were open wide on each side of the entrance. Above, a statue of Lenin towered over him. He climbed the stairs and entered the bar. Thankfully there wasn’t a tourist or a mobile phone in sight. Inside was gay chic; red was the dominant colour and fluorescent lighting backlit the whole expanse. It couldn’t have been further from the stained wood and brass old-world look of the Crown. Wilson noted that only a few booths were occupied. He supposed it would be a different story later in the evening. He sat on a bar stool and laid his warrant card on the bar when the barman approached.
‘I’ll get the manager,’ the barman said.
‘Don’t bother, it’s not an unofficial visit. Pint of whatever you think I should have.’
The barman returned with a pint of fancy continental lager.
Wilson sipped. ‘Not bad.’
‘But you’d prefer Guinness.’
Wilson nodded. ‘Did you know Roger Whyte?’
‘He’s one of our regulars. I saw you on the news yesterday. People are talking.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘That the public acceptance of the gay lifestyle is only skin deep here. That there are still many people who discriminate against gays.’
‘Discrimination is a crime. They should go to the police.’
‘You guys don’t take gays seriously.’
‘Not true; one of my officers is gay. There are a lot of gay police officers. If I remember well, they marched in the last Gay Pride parade. Was Whyte in here around the twelfth?’
‘If he was and I remembered, I would have contacted you. The press conference yesterday has put people on edge.’
‘We haven’t established a motive yet for Whyte’s disappearance.’
‘When you’re sure, put it on the wire, until then our regulars will go on thinking that it has to do with him being gay.’
‘Was he popular?’
‘He liked to splash the cash, and anyone who does that is popular. But behind the cash, I think he was quiet.’
Wilson put a five-pound note on the bar.
‘That’ll be six pounds fifty please.’
Wilson whistled and fished out two one-pound coins and put them on top of the five. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Thank you, sir, that’s very generous of you.’
Browne had spent the day brooding at his desk. He had hoped Wilson would have felt able to flaunt convention and keep him on the Whyte and Carmody investigation. The letter to McDevitt confirmed the two disappearances were connected, and since the only thing the two men had in common was their sexual orientation, the motive was becoming clear. Except that no one wanted to admit that someone was going around Belfast murdering gays. Wilson might have taken him off the case, but he could still spend his spare time looking for the killer. He had all the information that the team had and one advantage besides, he moved easily in the gay community. There would be a lot of doors closed to the investigating team that would be open to him. He would start this evening. It would probably come to nothing, but it was worth a try.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The tourists had drifted off to have their dinner and the Crown was a more inviting place thanks to their absence. Reid was already sitting in a snug and working on a gin and tonic when he arrived.
He ordered a drink, kissed her and sat. ‘I’ve just had a pint of some fancy lager in Kremlin.’
‘It’s about time you came out.’
He told her about the letter sent to McDevitt.
‘Do you think it’s genuine?’
‘I don’t know. It might be a dingbat trying to mess us around. I hope I convinced Jock to hold off publishing it.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘How was work?’
‘You cut up one body, you’ve cut up them all. I read an article about a colleague who suffered from PTSD. He reckoned he’d cut up twenty-three thousand bodies, so I did a count of my own. I stopped when I reached five thousand, and considered what was ahead of me. Another eighteen thousand might qualify me to become a basket case.’
‘You do a very important job and you’re good at it.’ He took her hand. ‘Is it possible your mood has something to do with the death of your mother?’
‘I suppose there’s something niggling at the back of my mind about mortality and what the hell we’re doing here. It’s strange that someone who has been dealing with death for half her life should be so affected by one particular death.’
‘I thought I’d never get over my father’s death. I still have vivid recollections of his funeral, the coffin being lowered into the grave. I had a lot to live for, but I would have joined him that day. The pain was so intense. It eases though and we find the strength to go on. We accept and that closes the cycle.’
‘I’m a doctor, dickhead, you don’t have to explain the cycle of grief to me. Just keep supporting me.’
He kissed her. ‘Always.’
His phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. ‘Good evening, chief superintendent.’
‘Bad news,’ Davis said. ‘Another press conference tomorrow, this one to be attended by the chief constable. We’re both required.’
‘Whyte?’
‘It looks like DS McElvaney threw the fear of God into some poor gay bastard.’
‘Sounds like her.’
‘You two are quite a pair, you were made for each other. Anyway, Dr Heavey contacted the LGBT Coalition and said that he didn’t think the police were taking Mr Whyte’s disappearance seriously. They got on the phone to the chief constable to report the feeling among the LGBT community that Whyte was targeted because of his sexual orientation. The press conference is at midday and we’re due in the chief’s office at a quarter to. Thought I’d give you a heads up. You’ve spoiled my evening so why shouldn’t I spoil yours.’
‘Any sign of Jack?’
The line went dead.
‘Trouble?’ Reid asked.
‘Nothing we can’t handle. If we put it out that two gay men are missing, there’ll be a panic in the gay community. If we keep quiet about the second missing man and someone else goes missing, we have a problem.’
She finished he
r drink. ‘Let’s get an Indian takeaway and a bottle of red, kick off our shoes and binge on the Bodyguard.’
He stood. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Moira switched on her printer and brought up her folder of website documents mentioning Helen McCann. There wasn’t a lot of room in her cramped studio, but she had found space for a whiteboard and had already tacked a picture of McCann on the top. She had reread the Carlisle file a half-dozen times. She couldn’t believe that one of Ulster’s leading citizens had organised a murder, but the evidence was there. What was even more frightening was that a serving officer in the Special Branch of the PSNI had murdered Carlisle at McCann’s behest. McCann intrigued her and there was ninety per cent of the information iceberg yet to be uncovered. She downloaded a document and hit the print key. Her ultimate aim was to get inside the skin of Helen McCann by tracking her from birth to the present day.
Browne was out on the town. If the motive for the disappearances of Whyte and Carmody was their sexual orientation, then the answer would most likely be found in the close-knit gay community. This closeness was a legacy of having to exist in secret until relatively recently. Northern Ireland had been the last part of the United Kingdom to legalise same-sex sexual activity, and to end a lifetime ban on blood donation by men who have sex with men. The Save Ulster from Sodomy political campaign had driven the gay community further underground.
Browne was on a mission to redeem himself in the eyes of his superior, but he also saw his unofficial investigation as a test of his ability to be a police officer. He spent the evening drinking at several gay establishments. Everyone he encountered knew about Whyte’s disappearance, and there was a detectable level of concern that it might be motivated by his sexual orientation. By eleven o’clock, he had hit all the major gay pubs and had drunk a good deal more than he was accustomed to. He’d been propositioned twice but he declined. It was time to head home. His first foray may not have uncovered anything relevant to the investigation, but he wasn’t about to give up after just one night.
He was annoyed that there was no mention on the TV news of the Chronicle having received his letter and there was also no reference to Whyte either. Why? Whyte’s disappearance should be a major story; HE should be a major story. The police must have suppressed it.
Maybe he shouldn’t have hidden the bodies so well. He could always dig Whyte up. The body would be nice and ripe by now, with maggots crawling out of every orifice. He’d been careful, but there would still be DNA on the body. No, Whyte can stay where he is. There’s another way to keep the public interested in his activities. Someone else will have to die.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The fine weather had broken with overnight rain. The path along the Lagan was slick as Wilson pounded his way along his usual route. A cover of low grey clouds hung over the city and the air was charged with rain. The farmers’ prayers were being answered. There were few joggers out and as he neared the turn, Wilson was aware of feet splashing behind him. He felt a moment’s apprehension. What if there was still a price on his head? The feet behind sped up and he moved to the left in anticipation of being overtaken.
‘Rotten start to the day.’
Wilson recognised the voice. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Duane pulled level and they ran together, matching strides. ‘I thought it might be better if I didn’t come to the station. I went to the Crown last night, but you’d already left.’
‘Why did you drop off the radar?’
‘I had to make some arrangements, and then I heard about the Ombudsman’s investigation here. I figured it might be politic to keep a low profile and absent myself from Belfast.’
‘The words Jack Duane and politic don’t go together.’
‘I hear they’ve cleared you.’
‘It was tricky. The investigator, a guy called Matthews, wasn’t a pushover. And let’s be honest, the PSNI cover story was constructed out of gossamer. The more I had to repeat it the more I saw the flaws.’
‘All’s well that ends well though.’
Wilson slowed to a walk. ‘It’s not over, Jack. I need to see the ballistic report on Brennan.’
‘No problem, the bullets taken from his body were from a Smith and Wesson 38. We’ve identified the gun as a weapon used in another gangland killing.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? Either you or I shot that guy.’
‘I’ll send you the ballistics report. Maybe that will put your mind at rest.’
Wilson looked into Duane’s eyes. ‘How can you live like that?’
‘Someone has to deal with the shit end of the stick. Would you have preferred if it had been you on the autopsy table?’
Wilson didn’t reply.
‘I thought so. I’m in Belfast with someone I met at Quantico. You know the way we say things like “if you’re ever in Ireland, drop in and I’ll show you around” and we don’t really mean it. Well this guy took me up on it and I’ve spent the past four days showing him Connemara and Kerry. Today we’re off to the Giant’s Causeway and Dunluce Castle. He’s a Game of Thrones nut. I’ve taken about as much of him as I can, so I want you and Steph to join us this evening for dinner, my treat.’
‘Why am I sceptical about dinner with you and some guy from Quantico?’
‘No hidden agenda.’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
Duane ran and Wilson joined him. They escalated their pace until they were sprinting. People on the path moved aside as the two men ran at full tilt. After a hundred and fifty metres they slowed.
‘You’re not bad for an old man.’ Duane bent with his hands on his knees and pulled in great gulps of air.
‘Not so much of the old man.’ Wilson’s chest heaved.
‘Seven-thirty at Deanes.’ Duane turned and jogged back towards the city.
Wilson briefed the team on the upcoming press conference. There was nothing new on the confidential line, the report on the house-to-house on Broadway had come in negative and a couple of new CCTV disks had arrived. Carmody was a difficult man to track. Unlike Whyte, who stuck to the same weekly agenda, Carmody was like a free electron wandering all over the city. None of his neighbours could pinpoint when they had seen him last. He came and he went, where and when were mysteries. The investigation was becoming stalled. Browne was looking even more morose than he did the previous day.
At eleven-thirty, Wilson joined Davis and they went to HQ. CC Baird was alone when they were shown to his office.
Baird shook hands with Davis and nodded at Wilson. ‘Any news?’
Wilson shook his head.
‘We only have a few minutes,’ Baird said. ‘I’ll announce that the search for Roger Whyte is now a murder inquiry.’ He saw that Wilson was about to interrupt and put his hand up. ‘I know, we don’t have a body so technically he’s still missing. But we all know there’s little or no chance of finding him alive.’
‘If he turns up, we’ll look like fools,’ Wilson said.
‘I’ll take that risk,’ Baird said. ‘You’re our top murder man, do you think he will turn up?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Wilson admitted.
‘Jeffrey Carrington, the President of the Northern Ireland branch of the LGBT Coalition will join us. I’ll speak first, then he’ll say a few words and you two will handle the questions. Understood?’
Davis and Wilson nodded.
‘Then let’s do it.’ Baird picked up his cap from his desk and placed it on his head.
Wilson thought that Baird made an imposing figure in full uniform.
Carrington, who turned out to be a prematurely bald thirty-something-year-old with a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee, was waiting outside the office and joined the procession downstairs in Baird’s wake. The female constable who had led the previous press conference opened the door to the briefing room just as Baird and his entourage reached it. The CC led the way to the podium and sat in the centre seat, facing a barrage of microphones and recording d
evices set on a table. Two TV cameras were filming from the rear of the room. Baird motioned for Davis to take the seat on his left, Carrington sat to his right and Wilson took the vacant seat beside Davis. The constable did her introductory patter and handed over the microphone to Baird.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ Baird began. ‘I’ll be brief. You all know that we held a press conference here two days ago expressing our concern for the safety of Roger Whyte, who has been missing for about one month. I want to announce that we are upgrading this investigation from that of a missing person to murder. Detective Superintendent Wilson will be the senior investigating officer and I can think of no more capable officer on my force. His extraordinary record speaks for itself. I want to make one further point. The PSNI treats every investigation on its merits. There is no attempt to discriminate victims by race, gender, creed or sexual orientation. I would like to hand over now to Mr Jeffrey Carrington of the LGBT Coalition.’
Carrington didn’t stand but cleared his throat and leaned towards the microphone. ‘Good afternoon. Many of you will not know that Roger Whyte is a gay man. Unfortunately, and contradictory to what the chief constable has just said, the PSNI does not take seriously victims of crime who are members of the LGBT community. Roger Whyte has been missing for a month and only now are we seeing some significant action from the police. This situation is not unique to the province but is paralleled on the mainland. I am here today to express the disquiet of the whole LGBT community that there may well be a sexual motivation to Roger Whyte’s disappearance. Thank you.’ He sat back.
‘Questions?’ Baird asked.
McDevitt had his arm in the air even before Baird spoke. Baird pointed at him.
‘A question for the SIO,’ McDevitt said. ‘Does the PSNI believe that there is a sexual motive for Whyte’s disappearance, and now possible homicide?’
