Cold in the Soul

by Derek Fee

  Moira stared at the picture. ‘I’ve seen this face somewhere in the past few days, but for the life of me I can’t remember where.’

  ‘It’ll come back to you.’

  ‘It’s almost there … ’

  ‘I know that feeling.’

  ‘I’m building a dossier on Helen McCann. She’ll be a tough nut to crack. To finish it you may have to drive a stake through her heart.’

  ‘I might have trouble finding it.’

  ‘I know we’re building a case on the Carlisle murder, but maybe her Achilles heel is located somewhere else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Since she’s been able to count, she’s been involved with money. Do you know anyone who handles millions of pounds who’s squeaky clean?’

  ‘That’s not our line of business. Jackson murdered Carlisle, but McCann was pulling the strings. Our business is to get Jackson and sweat him until he gives us McCann.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about that possibility.’

  ‘I’ve read the file. What was the motivation behind killing Carlisle? The man was dying. Carlisle knew something or was about to do something that ran contrary to McCann. What if there’s a conspiracy and there are others involved?’

  ‘Nobody said it would be easy.’ He’d already come to the same conclusion as Moira. People like Carlisle weren’t removed without a bloody good reason. The road would be long and hard and he was glad Moira would be on it with him.

  ‘When I was a little girl, I didn’t play with dolls. I was addicted to puzzle books. Look where my misspent youth has landed me.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  O’Neill didn’t bound into his office, and the news she brought wasn’t what he expected.

  ‘The departing crowd from the Queen’s Film Theatre is the last sighting of Whyte I can find.’

  ‘Print some copies of two frames: one of Whyte and the man at his shoulder leaving the cinema and a separate close-up of the young man’s face. If that was the last sighting of Whyte, that young man was possibly the last person to see him alive.’

  O’Neill left the office and returned five minutes later with the photographs.

  ‘Put this last sighting photo on the whiteboard, and well done.’

  O’Neill smiled and nodded.

  She’s bloody good, he thought as he watched her leave. Too bloody good for this place. Someday she’ll wake up and discover that there’s a lot more to her than being a DC in the PSNI. But for the moment she was his DC and he would get every ounce of value out of her.

  He picked up the phone and called Davis. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘You were already on my agenda.’

  Browne watched the activity involving Wilson, Moira and O’Neill. In the other corner of the room, Graham appeared to be having difficulty keeping his eyes open. Browne had given up on the Helen’s Bay inquiry. Several of the drone clubs had reported back that none of their members were flying in that area on the day in question. His only interest was the Whyte and Carmody investigation and he was annoyed at his exclusion. He watched the boss leave, carrying what looked like photos.

  O’Neill returned from the coffee machine, blowing on the liquid in the cardboard cup. She put the cup on her desk, picked up a photo and stuck it on the whiteboard. Browne couldn’t contain his curiosity. He stood, stretched and walked around the room. He felt Moira’s eyes on him. He was no actor, so trying to appear nonchalant was out of the question. He stood at the whiteboard and studied the photo O’Neill had put up. He recognised the background as Queen’s Film Theatre because he often went there. Roger Whyte was in the middle of a group of people leaving the theatre. He stared at the people around him. There were several people he had seen before. Belfast was a small city and the gay community was tight-knit. O’Neill had written ‘The last sighting of Whyte’ on the board. He continued to stare at the faces around Whyte.

  Davis sighed as Wilson entered, closed the tome she had been reading and tossed it on a stack of reports. ‘They talk about the paperless office and then they drown you in paper.’

  Wilson dropped into the visitor’s chair. ‘I’d run a thousand miles if I ever had to do your job.’

  Davis’s jacket was over the back of her chair and the heat had obliged her to remove her black bow tie and open the top two buttons of her shirt. ‘I think that is a very unlikely occurrence. I assume you’re here to brief me on the Whyte investigation.’ Her tone was more business-like than usual.

  Things must not be going well with Jack, Wilson thought. He’d tried to warn her. He put the photo on her desk. ‘The last sighting of Roger Whyte.’

  She picked up the photo and looked at it. ‘Queen’s Film Theatre. Nothing after this?’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘I’m interested in the young man at his shoulder. Don’t ask me why, but I want to find him and ask him a few questions. And there’s only one way to do that, which is why I’m here.’

  ‘I thought you were media shy.’

  ‘I am, so no personal appearances this time. Get this photo on the news and say that we’re interested in talking to anyone in this photo. We’ll crop it so only three or four people other than Whyte are in the photo.’

  ‘Do you think the guy you want will respond?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, we’ll increase the pressure by putting out a request for him alone. According to Duane’s friend from Quantico, we’re looking for a narcissist who is a consummate liar and likes to manipulate people. It’s an invitation a guy with a profile like that won’t be able to refuse.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The TV news this evening and tomorrow morning and the Chronicle, online and print versions.’

  ‘The media people will be pleased. Get the electronic versions ready.’

  ‘Did someone kick your dog today?’

  ‘Need to know.’

  ‘Don’t let them grind you down just when we’re getting used to each other.’

  ‘My eldest son has been doing drugs and my ex is full on with the blame game. I should have stayed home and done my duty as a wife instead of being the main provider for our family. Some days I’d like to wring that bastard’s neck.’

  ‘That can be arranged.’ Wilson saw that she was not in the mood for humour. ‘It’s a phase. With luck, he’ll come out the other end and put it down to experience.’

  ‘We might have a junkie on our hands.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a word with him?’

  ‘Do you have a lot of experience of being a parent?’

  Wilson didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,’ she said. ‘There’s enough stress in this job without having the ex on the phone bending my ear.’

  ‘I understand. The offer still stands.’

  ‘Thanks, and it’s appreciated.’

  ‘Don’t forget, meet the problem head on.’

  ‘I’m going for a family meal this evening. Funny, I feel on edge about it.’

  ‘It’s a problem that needs solving. Just don’t let it turn into a slagging match.’ He stood. ‘If I can help.’

  ‘I know. I’ll call Media Affairs and ask them to get the photo on the wire straight away.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Wilson walked through the door of the Crown and saw only a few tourists snapping away with their mobile phones. He concluded that summer was coming to an end. He received a nod from the barman and pushed open the door of the snug that was normally reserved for his use. The photo from Queen’s Film Theatre would be on the six o’clock news and O’Neill had confirmed that it was already on the online version of the Chronicle. She had cropped the photo so that only Whyte and three other men appeared in it.

  ‘Who’s been a naughty boy then?’ McDevitt sat in the corner with a half-drunk pint of Guinness on the table.

  Wilson feigned surprise and sat. ‘What’s on you
r mind, Jock?’

  McDevitt took an iPad out of his satchel, turned it on and put it on the table. The photograph of Whyte leaving the film theatre stared up at them. ‘Friends don’t stab their friends in the back. They give their friends scoops.’

  ‘There was a question of time.’ A pint of Guinness arrived for Wilson and he ordered a fresh one for McDevitt. ‘But you’ll be there at the finish line.’

  ‘Tell old Jock all about it.’

  ‘Not now.’ Wilson had never met a journalist he fully trusted and that included McDevitt. ‘But you’ll have the scoop.’

  A smile lit up McDevitt’s face. ‘I have your word on it? The summer’s been light on crime.’

  ‘Burglaries are up.’ Wilson sipped his pint.

  ‘Burglaries don’t make the populace’s pulses race. Murders do.’

  ‘I’d hate to have a job like yours. Wishing people dead by violence.’

  ‘I hear the Police Ombudsman’s Office has more or less cleared you.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ve been down the Ballymacarrett Road talking with some residents. Following in the Ombudsman’s investigator’s footsteps, you might say.’ He took a business card from his pocket and tossed it on the table. It was one of Matthews’ cards. ‘Everyone I talked to had one of those. You’d swear he was up for election to the City Council.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You’re a devious bastard. I want to know what you did that was so bad someone wanted you dead. There’s got to be a hell of a story in that.’

  Reid stuck her head in the snug before entering. She air-kissed McDevitt and kissed Wilson hard on the lips. ‘Gin and tonic.’

  Wilson ordered. ‘Why the furtive look around the snug before entering?’

  ‘I wanted to make sure that Mezrich wasn’t here.’

  ‘I thought he was leaving today,’ Wilson said.

  ‘So did I, but he called me this afternoon about a forensic pathology session that was starting in Quantico in three weeks’ time and would I be interested in attending. He invited me to stay with him.’

  ‘The hell,’ Wilson said. ‘What did you say?’

  Reid’s gin and tonic arrived, and she sipped. ‘I told him my agenda for the month was already full. But I’d think about it.’

  ‘Who the hell is Mezrich?’ McDevitt asked.

  Wilson ignored the question. ‘That guy has some gall, I have a good mind to sort him out.’ He looked at Reid’s face and saw that she was smiling. In the snug’s corner, McDevitt was chuckling to himself.

  ‘Got you,’ Reid said. ‘But I appreciate your reaction.’

  Wilson laughed along with them. This was what Belfast was about, a fantastic pub, good company, a few pints of the black stuff and the craic.

  Howard Timoney was sitting in the Student’s Union bar at Queen’s University when he looked up at the television in the corner of the room and saw a picture of himself. The shock almost made him spill his drink and wasn’t lost on his companions.

  ‘Seen a ghost?’ one of them said.

  Timoney smiled. He thought about Whyte. ‘You might say that.’ He quickly composed himself by breathing deeply. It was inevitable that the police would search every bit of CCTV that contained Whyte and it was equally inevitable that they would come upon him somewhere. He had been super-careful, but he knew that sooner or later he would be interviewed about either Whyte or Carmody. Both men were dead and buried and would never be found. He had nothing to worry about. He’d check the recording of the news when he returned to his flat, but it was clear that the police were asking for the people in the photograph to come forward and help with their inquiries. And that was what he would do. He was composed. They had nothing on him and he would give them nothing, and neither would the other men in the photo. He would be a helpful citizen. ‘Another round?’ he asked, and his companions nodded. He walked to the bar with a spring in his step. He was about to inflict the ultimate indignity on them. They would interview the killer of Whyte and Carmody and set him free to kill again.

  Moira had been outside the Europa Hotel and fancied a drink. She had been about to cross the street when she’d seen Reid enter the Crown. She’d done a swift turnaround. Instead, she picked up a one-person rogan josh from M&S and headed home, where she ate her microwaved curry and drank a half-bottle of red. It was a poor substitute for the gourmet food she’d enjoyed on Frank Shea’s balcony in Boston. Perhaps her mother was right. She’d promised her parents that she would visit at the weekend, but she didn’t fancy another lecture from her mother on what a silly bitch she’d been. She dumped the remnants of her meal into the bin. Would it be an evening of TV or would she delve further into the life of Helen McCann? Maybe she was a silly bitch. She pulled out her laptop and fired it and her printer up. She checked the Chronicle’s website and saw that the photo of Whyte had been uploaded. There was something about the Jackson guy trying to force itself to the front of her brain, but it wasn’t quite there yet. She got on with her background reading on McCann.

  Browne was standing at the bar in Kremlin. It was after eleven, and the place was heaving. Before leaving the squad room, he’d raided O’Neill’s desk and took a copy of the photo of Whyte’s last sighting. At home, he’d engraved the faces of the men on his mind. He had seen one or all of them previously but couldn’t remember where. The bar was heaving and the jam-packed bodies made it difficult to concentrate on individual faces. Somehow or other he would locate the killer and beat Moira and Wilson to the punch. He’d prove that he was just as good a detective as anyone else in the PSNI. He waved at the barman and ordered another drink.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Wilson arrived at the station feeling invigorated. There was a point in every case where the balance swung in favour of the police. It might take days, weeks, months or even years, but if you tease the problem enough, and you don’t become disheartened, the nugget of information finally appears that springs the lock. He prayed that the final photo of Whyte was that nugget.

  ‘We’ve gone the distance on this one,’ Wilson said to the assembled team. ‘We’ve gone by the book, but the deck was stacked against us from the start. No corpse, no crime scene to process and no forensic put us at a disadvantage that is difficult to overcome. There were no witnesses to interview, the door-to-door on Whyte and Carmody came up with nothing, and the confidential phoneline was a bust. We’ve hypothesised a motive, and we hit a dry well. Now, our options are limited.’ He tapped the photo on the whiteboard. ‘This is the last sighting of Roger Whyte, and it’s all we’ve got. We caught one break on this case, and that was Whyte’s character. We could trace his movements on what we believe was the last day of his life. Beyond this point we have nothing.’

  ‘So we go back to our desks and pray?’ Moira said.

  ‘We don’t have that luxury,’ Wilson said. ‘And do you know why. Because there’s someone out there who has killed twice, and who will kill again if we don’t stop him. That’s the reason we don’t just sit with our thumbs up our collective arses. We look at what little evidence we have from 360 degrees. We keep looking at it until it’s ingrained in our minds. And we also pray. We do anything and everything that gets us one inch further ahead.’ He wanted to see hope on the faces of the team. It was there, but only in small quantities.

  The first call came an hour later. Graham was manning the confidential number and he raised his hand to signal to the team. He jotted down the name Michael Fenton. Moira joined him and he put the call on speaker-phone.

  ‘Mr Fenton,’ Graham said. ‘Detective Sergeant Moira McElvaney has joined me on the line.’

  ‘Mr Fenton,’ Moira said. ‘We’d like to thank you for coming forward so quickly. You probably heard on the radio or television that we are searching for Roger Whyte. The last image we have of him on CCTV is leaving the Queen’s Film Theatre on the eleventh of July.’

  ‘Aye,’ Fenton said. ‘I was there that night wi
th some friends. But I know nothing about Mr Whyte. I see myself in the photo, but he’s only a face in the crowd.’

  ‘We’d still like to talk to you,’ Moira said. ‘Maybe we can jog your memory. We can interview you at your home or you can drop into the station.’

  There was a pause on the line. ‘I’m at work at the minute. I’ll drop by Tennent Street during my lunch break.’

  ‘We’d be very grateful,’ Moira said. ‘Ask for DS McElvaney or DC Graham at the reception. It won’t take long, and you’ll soon be on your way.’

  ‘I get off at one and I’m not far away.’

  ‘We’ll expect you after one then, and thanks again for responding.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Siobhan,’ Moira said. ‘Michael Fenton, everything you’ve got on him.’

  O’Neill got busy.

  Moira gave a thumbs-up sign to Wilson.

  The second call came half an hour later. Graham and Moira did the same double act and Kevin McBurney was scheduled for a visit to the station at five o’clock.

  The third, and last, call came just before midday. Howard Timoney would be available to visit the station at two o’clock.

  At twelve-thirty, Wilson sat behind his desk with three dossiers in front of him. O’Neill had worked her usual magic and had assembled all that was publicly known about the three men who had called.

  ‘They all contacted us,’ Moira said. ‘Does that mean they have nothing to hide?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Wilson said. ‘Or perhaps one of them has something to hide, but he’s confident we won’t discover it.’ He’d read the three dossiers. ‘On the surface, all three are law-abiding citizens, and that’s pretty much what I expected. They attended a talk on queer cinema but in itself that meant nothing. All three are most probably film buffs.’ He would have to wait to see them in the flesh. ‘You and Harry handle the interviews. No rough stuff. I never told you, but Heavey complained about the way you handled him.’