Cold in the Soul

by Derek Fee

  ‘Okay. It involves the attack on Peter Davidson.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  She showed McDevitt one photo. ‘See this man in the background.’

  McDevitt looked at the photo. ‘It’s hard to make out his face.’ He took a pair of spectacles from his shirt pocket, put them on and stared at the photo. ‘The glasses don’t help, he’s still a blur.’

  Moira had never seen McDevitt wearing glasses before. She supposed it was a vanity thing. ‘I think it might be the man who tortured and beat Peter. I need the photo files so I can confirm it.’

  The drinks arrived and Moira took out a twenty-pound note. McDevitt grabbed her hand. ‘The drinks are on me.’ He took the receipt from the waitress. He would claim the drinks as an expense later. ‘And what if you’re right?’

  ‘Then we’d know where to find him.’

  ‘You’re a right wee minx. The real question is what is the man who beat up Peter Davidson doing in a photo taken at Helen McCann’s house in France?’ He looked at her.

  Moira tried to keep her face blank.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve dealt one-on-one with a journalist?’

  Moira started on her second pint of cider. She was regretting her decision to contact McDevitt. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Moira, I think you and I will get along famously. Just like your boss and I. But you see there are a couple of rules that govern our relationship. And the greatest of those rules is reciprocity. That means that when I do something for you, you have to do something for me in return. It’ll cost me a big favour to get those photos for you. We’ll have to think of a piece of information you can give me in exchange.’

  ‘Like what for example?’

  ‘Like what the hell are you up to.’

  ‘I can’t say right now.’

  McDevitt tipped his glass to Moira’s. ‘I’m going to trust you, Moira, and I’ll get you your photos. Somewhere in the future, you’ll pay me back.’

  They both drank. Moira couldn’t dispel the feeling she’d just made a pact with the devil.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  The evening was kicking into full gear at Kremlin. Although he was a regular, Browne had to flash his warrant card to gain entry. It was high summer, the city was awash with tourists and Kremlin was the mecca for any gay or lesbian visitor to town or indeed anyone who wanted a good time. The music was pounding and the dance floor was packed. He bought a bottle of lager and scanned the sea of faces as he moved to the edge of the dance floor; some he recognised, some he’d had sex with, but most were unknowns. He chose a spot with a good view of the entire bar. He wasn’t there long when he saw Timoney, up on the balcony looking down over the mass of dancers. The intensity with which Timoney was examining the patrons made Browne wonder if he was scoping the crowd for his next victim.

  Browne had already made the jump that Wilson wasn’t quite prepared to make. He was certain Timoney had lifted Whyte and Carmody and killed them. He climbed the stairs to the gallery. Timoney was in the middle of a group. There was a gap on one side and Browne slipped into it. Every face was concentrated on the gyrating dancers. Slowly, by taking the place of people who left, Browne edged closer to Timoney. He was playing a dangerous game, putting his career and perhaps his life at risk, but it might be his only chance to redeem himself.

  Howard Timoney had drunk more than usual, but what the hell, he was celebrating. He’d spent the afternoon replaying the interview in Tennent Street over and over in his mind, and he was sure he had acquitted himself pretty well. The little ginger bitch was clearly a man-hater. He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger, and she was past marriageable age. He smiled at the writhing mass of men and women below. Maybe she was down there somewhere, she could easily pass as a tough butch. He had handled her. He wished the rugby guy, the guy they were presenting as some kind of stud duck detective, had been the one to interview him. Pulling the wool over that guy’s eyes would be a real coup. Still, he’d shown them he was smarter than them and the feeling was heady. It was like snorting cocaine: he felt omnipotent, he was a god. There was nothing they could do to stop him and he intended to send them a reminder of that very soon. He looked to his right and saw a good-looking guy in a pink shirt. He must have just arrived because he hadn’t been there the last time he looked.

  ‘Pretty jammed,’ Browne said, not speaking to anyone in particular.

  Timoney was about to let the remark go, but the guy sounded like he was from the sticks. It was a miracle they’d let him in. ‘It’s summer, it’s almost midnight and it’s Kremlin, that all adds up to a night of craziness.’

  ‘Is it always like this?’

  ‘Your first time?’

  ‘Yeah, I just moved here from Enniskillen. You have a great scene going on.’

  Timoney smiled and remembered childhood stories of country mice visiting the big city. ‘My name is Howard, but my friends call me Howie.’

  ‘I’m Rory.’ Browne extended his hand and they shook.

  ‘Well, Rory, now we’re acquainted, you can call me Howie. Can I buy you a drink? I’m celebrating.’

  Browne held up his bottle. ‘No thanks, I just got one. What are you celebrating? Is it your birthday?’

  ‘Not quite, but something like that.’

  Browne touched his bottle to Timoney’s glass. ‘Well, congratulations whatever it is.’

  ‘Do you know many people in Belfast, Rory?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve only been here a few weeks though. I’m work for an Internet start-up, and would you believe I’m the only man in the office.’ He laughed.

  ‘I think that you and I will be firm friends.’ Timoney felt Browne’s shirt and allowed his fingers to touch his skin.

  Browne smiled, despite the icicle that ran down his spine. ‘That would be great.’

  Timoney finished his drink. He took a small notebook from his pocket. ‘I’m a little in my cups tonight, Rory. Write your name and phone number in this book.’ He thrust the book at Browne. ‘Let’s get together tomorrow night, maybe somewhere a bit less noisy so we can chat.’

  Browne wrote his mobile number in the book and returned it to Timoney, who was a little unsteady on his feet.

  ‘Until tomorrow.’ He ran his hand along Browne’s cheekbone. ‘You’re pretty. I promise it’ll be an interesting evening.’ Timoney deposited his glass on the nearest table and made his way to the stairs.

  Browne’s hands were shaking. He started deep breathing as soon as Timoney was out of sight. He watched Timoney make his way through the throng below and waved when he turned to look up at him. Now he knew how a snake charmer felt. You watch them as carefully as you can because you know at any moment they can turn on you and strike. His bottle of lager was finished. He wanted to get away from the music and the dancing. He had either made a move that would make his career, or he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

  Timoney skipped past the bouncers and the queue. Life was beautiful. You think you’ll have to search for a suitable candidate, and then one drops right into your lap. Naivety will undo dear Rory, just like Whyte’s desperation and Carmody’s greed had done for them.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  The day had started off badly. Wilson had secured a junior detective to answer the phone, but Davis’s request for an overtime budget to cover surveillance of Timoney had been refused. There was not sufficient evidence to justify the manpower involved. He knew that it wasn’t really about evidence, or manpower, it was about money. Somewhere along the line the politicians had become complacent about crime and there would be hell to pay as a result. Graham was already on his way to Hillsborough to spy on the Timoney family residence. Moira and O’Neill were busy developing the life and times of Howard Timoney, and Browne looked like he had the kind of night Wilson’s wished he had had. Life with Reid was evolving into that pattern that every couple recognises. Great sex – when it was on they went at each other like cats in a bag – but they mostly derived pleasure just by being in e
ach other’s company. And as much as he missed the hard nights, he didn’t miss the hangovers.

  Somehow he would have to convince HQ that Timoney was a viable prime suspect. He reviewed the tape of Timoney’s interview. The guy wasn’t stupid. He would know they faced insurmountable odds in putting him away. It would be difficult to get him to confess. He would call his solicitor, keep his mouth shut and they would be obliged to set him free. The only way they would bring Timoney down would be with evidence, and there was precious little of that. The case might go cold for the next ten years waiting for Whyte’s or Carmody’s body to surface. That might never even happen. In the meantime, without some break soon, he was sure that someone else would be joining them.

  Browne had got to sleep at five o’clock in the morning. His mind had been busy mulling over the situation he had created for himself. He was handing himself on a plate to a man he believed had already murdered two people. It was a crazy manoeuvre. Somehow, Timoney had got the jump on both Whyte and Carmody. Browne was bigger and stronger than both of them and he was well able to handle himself. So, what did he have to worry about? Still, he was only human, and he was in fear for his life. He might be living his last few days. That thought had a sobering effect. How had his life been? Was he happy? Were all his decisions the right ones? Was this the ultimate demonstration that he wasn’t cut out to be a police officer? Or was it the opposite? What the hell was he trying to prove? What was his plan for a meeting with Timoney? He needed to discuss his situation with someone else, but who? Wilson would never allow him to meet with Timoney alone. Moira was Wilson’s ‘mini-me’ so if the boss was out of the question, so was she. That left Graham and O’Neill. Harry would never put his job, and his family’s future, on the line. Did Siobhan have what it takes to cover his back and keep his secret?

  Timoney woke with an unaccustomed hangover. The beauty of being a PhD student was that he was able lie in bed all day and there was no one to scold him. He remembered how he had felt the previous night: strong and purposeful. It was the same feeling he’d had when he raped and killed Whyte and Carmody. The same feeling he’d had when he buried them. He climbed out of bed and stood naked in front of a full-length mirror. The hours he had spent in the gym had certainly given him the body of a god. He picked up his notebook and saw where Browne had written his name and phone number, the poor little country mouse. He would have to choose the meeting place carefully, somewhere well out of the way of CCTV cameras.

  It had surprised O’Neill when DS Browne invited her for a coffee in the cafeteria. Her first reaction was to refuse, but she didn’t want to offend a superior. So she’d followed him down the stairs and ordered a coffee.

  Browne arrived at the table with a coffee and a tea. ‘Finding out lots of interesting things about Timoney?’

  ‘He’s a strange one.’ She relaxed. It would be a chat about the investigation. ‘His IQ is off the charts, but every school he attended was in a hurry to get rid of him. I rang around and the reaction to my inquiries was consistently peculiar. Nobody was willing to explain why they were so eager to see the back of him. One of his former teachers suggested that I should speak to his psychiatrist. But I can find no record of him visiting a psychiatrist.’

  ‘If I asked you to do something for me, would you?’

  O’Neill shifted on her seat. ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘I’ve done something without authorisation from the boss.’ He waited for a reaction that never came. ‘He knows Timoney is responsible for the disappearances of Whyte and Carmody, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He wants to find evidence, but, given Timoney’s IQ, he hasn’t left any lying around for us to find. If we don’t stop him, Timoney will kill again. And he’ll get better at it, which will make him harder to catch. Sometimes we have to give justice a helping hand.’

  She stopped drinking and looked at him with her mouth open. Did the phrase ‘give justice a helping hand’ mean he knew about her role in getting Noel Armstrong killed?

  ‘I spent the last few nights hitting the gay bars in town, doing some unofficial undercover work,’ Browne continued.

  O’Neill wasn’t at all happy with the direction the conversation was taking.

  ‘I ran into Timoney last night in a bar. We talked, but at one point the way he looked at me made my blood run cold.’

  ‘I really think you should be talking to the boss or DS McElvaney about this.’

  ‘Hear me out. The only way we’ll bring Timoney down is to catch him in the act.’

  ‘This is insane. You’d be risking your life. If you want to do that, at least get official approval.’

  ‘Have you never done something without official approval?’

  O’Neill stared back. That was the second pointed remark. He either knew or had guessed about her indiscretion.

  ‘I gave him my number and I think he’ll call me today,’ Browne said. ‘At least, I got that impression last night. I might be wrong. Maybe he’s just out for a bit of partying. If that’s the case, this conversation is just so much bullshit.’

  ‘But if he is the one who disappeared Whyte and Carmody?’

  ‘Then he might attempt to disappear me.’

  O’Neill looked into her empty cup. After what she had done, she had no right to judge her colleagues. What business was it of hers if Browne wanted to risk his life? ‘What do you have in mind?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Wilson flopped into his office chair. He did a quick scan of his emails, dumped fifty per cent and started on those marked with the red star indicating urgency. He surfaced from the email morass half an hour later and went into the squad room. O’Neill was busy writing on the whiteboard and he joined her. She jumped when she realised he was standing behind her. ‘You’re a little skittish today, Siobhan.’

  ‘You gave me a start, boss.’

  Wilson looked at the latest information on Timoney. He was a member of Mensa, had a chequered career in school but a stellar one in Queen’s, never worked a day in his life and had no social media presence. ‘That’s odd,’ Wilson said when he had finished reading. ‘He’s not on any social media platform?’

  ‘Nothing, he doesn’t even have a LinkedIn profile.’

  ‘What do we make of that, a twenty-four-year-old male who is not media savvy? I didn’t think such a person existed.’

  O’Neill shrugged her shoulders. ‘He could have a profile under a different name. If he has, it’ll take time to find it.’

  Graham joined them at the whiteboard. ‘I’ve just been out looking at the Hillsborough pile and it’s clear that old man Timoney didn’t lose all his money. I also checked in with the neighbours.’ He saw the look on Wilson’s face. ‘Don’t worry, boss, I was just a copper looking into robberies in the neighbourhood, and who didn’t like the look of the empty house. Well, the Timoneys are six weeks into a three-month world cruise. How the other half lives; the wife and I haven’t been on a family holiday for three years.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Harry, put your faith in the Brexiteers. They say the working man will soon be rolling in dosh.’

  ‘So, dreaming of a world cruise with the missus and three kids isn’t foolish?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘One point to note,’ Graham said. ‘Although the son lives in the city, he’s been a regular visitor to Hillsborough while his parents are on holiday.’

  ‘Good work, Harry,’ Wilson said, reading O’Neill’s record of Timoney’s school attendance on the board. ‘Where was he from 2011 to 2012?’

  O’Neill searched through her papers. ‘I found nothing.’

  ‘A year in Switzerland perhaps?’ Graham said. ‘Or being home-schooled, or maybe following the sun with mother and father?’

  Wilson looked at him. ‘We’re not sending you to Hillsborough again. If we do, you’ll come back a raving socialist.’ He turned to O’Neill. ‘We need to fill that gap.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Anything new on
the CCTV?’

  ‘DS McElvaney is still going through the discs,’ O’Neill said.

  ‘What’s next, boss?’ Graham asked.

  ‘If I knew, you wouldn’t be asking that question because we’d be doing it. Let’s keep building up the picture of Timoney and keep looking at the CCTV.’

  ‘Any news on the overtime?’ Graham asked.

  Wilson gave the thumbs-down sign.

  ‘No world cruise this year then,’ Graham muttered and headed back to his desk.

  Wilson stopped at Browne’s desk. ‘How is the Helen’s Bay investigation going?’

  Browne looked up from the report he was studying, revealing two red-rimmed eyes with black bags beneath. It was clear he was having trouble sleeping.

  ‘I’m following up the lines of inquiry that Moira identified. Most of the drone clubs have reported back negatively. I’ve been over Hills’ life from birth to the present day and found no connection to Helen’s Bay, but we don’t have records on family holidays or picnics.’

  A picture of Ronald McIver jumped into Wilson’s mind. Few people make it out the other end of police work unscathed. The injuries to the body usually heal. The effect on the mind is another issue. McIver had disintegrated on his watch. The signs had been there, but he had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he had failed to recognise them. The result of his neglect had been catastrophic for McIver and his wife. When he looked into Browne’s eyes, he wondered was he looking at a repeat of McIver. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m having a bit of insomnia, but otherwise I’m okay.’

  ‘There’ll be other investigations. Take time off and go see the doctor. Get some pills. I know you’re pissed at being taken off the Whyte and Carmody investigation, but you gave me no choice. If we get somebody for the murders, your connection with Carmody would present serious difficulties for the prosecution.’