by Derek Fee
‘Where are we going on this, Boss?’ Taylor asked.
‘I don’t know. We need to start shaking the bushes to see what falls out.’ He tried not to show his desperation.
‘What about the timelines for Grant and Malone?’
‘Any progress?’
Taylor shook his head.
‘Stay with it, but follow up on the Infrastructure Agency stuff as well.’ He could see the look on Taylor’s face. He was dealing with a seasoned copper who knew the ropes and who was well aware that he couldn’t split himself in half. ‘Prioritise the timelines. If we could put Malone and Grant together, at least we’d know we were on the right track.’
CHAPTER 43
Jock McDevitt wasn’t a car enthusiast, and for that reason, he drove a black 1990 Mercedes 190e Sedan. He had bought it second-hand when it was five years old, and had stuck with it through thick and thin. He hadn’t been in Hillsborough in many years, so it took him a little more time than normal to find the Carlisle residence. He drove into the driveway and parked directly in front of the entrance. He switched off the car, and sat looking at the house and garden. It was the kind of residence that many people aspire to but never actually get to own. Not bad for a boy from West Belfast with no education, he thought as he scanned the well-tended gardens. He knew Jackie Carlisle for more than twenty years. Carlisle had ridden the tiger that was the ‘Troubles’ and instead of being eaten by the beast, he had come out the other side as a relatively astute politician. At least he seemed to care in some way for the people he represented. But politicians weren’t supposed to get rich from politics. It was true that Westminster was full of millionaires, but the majority had either inherited it or made it in business. The Carlisle residence spoke of money, but friend Jackie had neither inherited it nor made it in business. McDevitt climbed slowly out of his car and closed the door. He stood on the step at the front door and waited for a few moments. He’d heard that Carlisle was on his last legs. He’d been brought up in a journalistic tradition that said you should push on people when they were at their most vulnerable. He conned his way into this interview with Carlisle by proposing to write a piece for the Chronicle on his political legacy. Politicians of whatever colour have one sin in common, vanity. He pushed the bell and waited. A grey-haired lady who McDevitt recognised from a photo as Carlisle’s wife eventually opened the door. He introduced himself, and she led him through the house to a conservatory at the rear. McDevitt’s journalist eye took in the furniture and art that adorned the rooms. His appreciation of art was not something that was widely known about Jackie Carlisle.
The old man smiled but didn’t rise from his chair when McDevitt was led into the conservatory. ‘Long time no see, Jock,’ he said.
McDevitt turned to thank Carlisle’s wife, but she had discretely withdrawn. The withdrawal had been so unobtrusive that it must have been practised over many years. ‘Good to see you too, Jackie.’ He walked forward, and they shook hands.
‘Put your arse on a chair.’ Carlisle pointed at a wicker chair at his side.
‘You’re looking well.’ McDevitt sat in the appointed chair.
‘You always were a terrible fucking liar.,’ Carlisle leaned back. ‘What’s this crap about you wanting to write a piece on my political legacy? My old doll might swallow that rubbish, but I didn’t come up in the last shower.’
‘I feel exposed.’ McDevitt laughed. Carlisle might be on his way out but he was no fool.
‘So what do you really want?’
‘Word on the street is that you’re very ill.’
‘Three to six months, no way out.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
‘Don’t bullshit me. You didn’t come here to commiserate with me about my impending departure from life.’
‘You were present at some of the most important events in the history of this Province. We’ve never had the pleasure of a truth and reconciliation commission, so there are a lot of issues out there that may never be resolved. I was wondering whether you might be interested in clearing up a few points before ...’ He left the sentence hanging.
Carlisle laughed. ‘You must be desperate for a scoop, Jock. Look elsewhere. I’ll make my peace with God. The people of Ulster will have to decide on my legacy based on the information they already have.’
‘I’ve always been amazed’, McDevitt continued, ‘that there’s been so much resistance from all sides to giving the public a detailed explanation of the events of the ‘Troubles’. After all, the struggle against Apartheid was equally vicious. Equally large numbers of people on both sides died horrific deaths. How come the participants in Ulster have been so resistant to coming clean about what they did?’
‘We’ve already done our bleating in front of the TV cameras. If you want to see contrition, go to the offices of the BBC or Ulster Television and look at the way we thumped our chests and said that we were wrong. Like I said, I prefer to be judged by God than by television, or by you for that matter.’
‘I’ve been a journalist in this Province for more than twenty years,’ McDevitt said. ‘I’ve drank with some of the worst murderers on both sides, and I have the paunch to prove it. And in the process, I’ve listened to some of the strangest stories. Some were clearly bullshit, but others had at least a kernel of truth.’
‘It’s time for my nap,’ Carlisle said. ‘There’s nothing for you here, Jock.’
‘OK. Let me tell you a little story before I go. Around the 1920s, a group of wealthy Unionists got together and created an organisation they called the Circle. The purpose of the Circle was to preserve the Union with Great Britain at all costs. They already had the Orange Order and the Masonic Lodges, but they needed a body that could coordinate action. Membership of the Circle was a lot more limited than either the Orange Order or the Masons. It contained the good and the great but at the top were the wealthy. They called themselves the Inner Circle. These people had a different agenda from the rank and file of the organisation. They were concentrated on maintaining their wealth and power. The organisation continued through the Second World War and was still operating when the ‘Troubles’ exploded in the late 1960s. People have always wondered at how well organised Protestant resistance was, the strikes, the organisation of the paramilitaries, the manipulation of the Westminster government.’
Carlisle yawned.
‘The people at the top were still the wealthy, and they saw some potential for them to increase their wealth while giving lip-service to the preservation of union with Britain. Ulster was an embarrassment to both the United Kingdom and the European Community. The EC was established on the rule of law and democracy while terrorists openly walked the streets in a province of one of its biggest members. So major efforts were made to buy peace in Ulster. That meant an influx of money from Westminster, Brussels and, of course, Washington. This was manna from heaven for the Inner Circle. There was so much money flying around to appease the communities on both sides of the sectarian divide that some of it inevitably vanished.’ McDevitt smiled. ‘Well it didn’t so much as vanish as make its way into pockets that were already well lined. Don’t worry; the Inner Circle was not unique. What happened here has parallels in Iraq and Afghanistan after the American invasion.’
‘Is your fairy tale coming to an end? I’m beginning to drop off.’
‘I’m nearly done. The Circle and their bosses in the Inner Circle will stop at nothing to ensure that their part in siphoning off millions of pounds of aid meant for Ulster does not come to light. They’ve murdered before but always under the guise of sectarianism. Those who stepped out of line or who had loose tongues ended up with fancy funerals. The big question is, what happened to all that money?’ He purposely looked around the interior of Carlisle’s house. ‘Where did all that money go?’
‘I can see a story like that coming out of an excess of the devil’s buttermilk. Only a sot could come up with such a fanciful story. Now I really am tired. It’s time you were away.’
&nb
sp; McDevitt rose to leave. ‘Do the right thing, Jackie. They’re going to continue bleeding this Province dry. They’ll make the bankers who brought us to the brink look like errant schoolboys. We have no evidence that the bankers actually murdered people. But the Inner Circle and the bankers were born of the same bitch, greed.’
‘Get out, Jock!’ Carlisle’s voice was a screech. ‘And don’t come back until I’m dead.’
CHAPTER 44
Wilson breathed a huge sigh of relief as he replaced the handset of his phone. He reminded himself to be kinder to Jock McDevitt. The information had proved to be solid, and they now had the first break in the murders of Brian Malone and David Grant. They had their prime suspects, and they had a basis for the investigation. What they didn’t have was any real physical evidence. His computer made a pinging noise, and he brought up his emails. It was Peter Davidson, and he opened it instantly. There were two photographs. One of a thin-faced individual who would not have looked out of place in one of the Halloween movies. The second photo showed a bald elfin face, and continuing the movie analogy, he might have been a hobbit in a Peter Jackson film. Wilson printed the two photos and strode into the squad room. He marched up to the whiteboard and pinned the two photos to it. He wrote on the top ‘Prime Suspects’ and wrote the name of each underneath their photos. Moira had returned and he was aware of her and Eric’s eyes boring into his back. They both stood up and walked forward.
‘McDevitt’s information proved solid,’ Wilson said. ‘Baxter and Weir, two Glasgow villains, current whereabouts unknown. Both were in Belfast the night that Malone and Grant died.’
Moira and Eric moved forward and examined the two photos.
‘Moira,’ Wilson said. ‘Now we’ve got something to look for on those CCTV pictures. We’ll have surveillance photos of both when Peter arrives back this evening. Until then, we look for the faces. They have to have been around Malone’s and Grant’s places sometime that evening, so find them. Eric, you stay with what we discussed earlier today. Harry should be back shortly, and we’ll hold a briefing when he arrives.’
Harry Graham attended the whole of the O’Reilly autopsy, but learned absolutely nothing. The conclusion was that O’Reilly had taken a flier from a fifth-floor window in the Tannery Building and landed on a BMW 520. The principal injury was to the head but there were multiple broken bones. So what was new? He followed up with a visit to Watson Accountants where he learned that O’Reilly had never expressed a desire to jump out of a window. The word ‘suicide’ didn’t even appear in his lexicon. The only thing he had learned at Watson was that accountants were indeed the most boring people on earth. It was dead end after dead end. He took out his phone as he left the Watson office and called the chief of the forensic team. ‘Anything on the prelim?’ he asked.
‘We’re still processing the evidence from the apartment.’ The head of the team answered. ‘There are plenty of fingerprints about the place, and we’ll run them as soon as we finish collating them. We’re processing the fingerprints from the forced door of the garage, but I wouldn’t hold out too much hope. I’ll let you have the full report as soon as we’re finished.’
‘Thanks, we’re pretty desperate. Anything you can come up with will be gratefully accepted.’ He put the phone back in his pocket. He stood for a moment in front of the office building. He could return to the station, or he could check out the forced door at the Tannery. He couldn’t see any advantage in going back to the office since there was nothing he could do that would be useful, so he decided to make his way to Castle Street.
Moira went back to her screen. Someone managed to get her a 27-inch monitor, so that at least made watching the CCTV more or less bearable. She made a note to thank Wilson personally. Her ability to concentrate was something that she had prided herself on, but that ability had been sadly lacking in the past week or so. The news that Brendan would definitely have to return to Boston was like the Garden of Gethsemane for her. She wished that this particular chalice would just go away, and that life would go back to the way it was before. But that wasn’t going to happen. Life was a forward motion event that was more about change than stability. She looked at the screen and was afraid that she had missed something while her mind was wandering. She wondered whether she should go back to the beginning of the disk. She really was beginning to lose concentration. The business with Brendan was seriously affecting her ability to do her job. That wasn’t Brendan’s fault, it was hers. It was up to her to make the decision. She had spent far too long weighing up the pros and cons. Life would only get better when she decided to either go or stay. She looked at the screen. Traffic proceeded down the streets around Ashley Avenue. Going back over the CCTV she had already viewed wasn’t an option. She would continue and hope to God that they would come up with something.
CHAPTER 45
Richie Simpson had had better years. In fact, Simpson had been having a bad year ever since Jackie Carlisle had been obliged to give up running the Party due to ill health. Simpson had always considered himself the heir apparent. He had assumed that when Carlisle disappeared into retirement, he would rise chrysalis-like and be embraced as the new Messiah. The opposite was the reality. The Party had proven to be a vehicle for Carlisle and him alone. As soon as the great man had departed the political scene, so had most of the Party members. Simpson had found himself in charge of a political movement that was in terminal decline. He had devoted ten years to cleaning up Carlisle’s shit and provided that very necessary quality for his boss, deniability. Carlisle was as dirty and corrupt as any politician in history, but as far as Joe Public was concerned, he was squeaky clean. When the Party died, so did Simpson’s source of funding. Under Carlisle’s umbrella, he was somebody. After Carlisle’s departure, it amazed him the number of people who wouldn’t return his phone calls. He was still getting a few pounds from his handlers in British Intelligence, but even that was declining since the information he could provide them was total rubbish. The Brits might be a lot of things, but they weren’t dumb, and they weren’t about to pay for something they could learn in any pub in Belfast. He had visited a Job Centre, but his lack of specific skills had been an impediment in even getting an interview. It appeared that nobody needed a fixer. Therefore, he was a little surprised when Carlisle called him. First, he didn’t expect to hear from his mentor again, and second, he was surprised by the weakness in the voice. The strong booming voice from the slight body was Carlisle’s trademark. The meeting was scheduled for his former boss’s house in Hillsborough. Money was so tight that Simpson was reduced to the indignity of taking the bus, and completing the journey on foot. He had never been to the Hillsborough house and was taken aback as he surveyed the residence from the driveway; at least £800,000 he thought to himself as he took in the red-bricked building and the surrounding gardens. Jackie had done well for himself. He knocked on the front door.
‘Richie,’ Agnes Carlisle beamed as she opened the door.
Simpson basked in the warmth of the smile that greeted him. ‘Agnes, good to see you.’
She opened the door wide. ‘You’ve lost weight, Richie,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You need to put a bit of flesh on your bones. He’s waiting for you in the conservatory. We’re having a procession of people to see him these days.’
Simpson walked through the living room. The wall and tables were covered with the photos that had once adorned the walls of the Party’s office in Central Belfast. The Great Man had shaken hands with US presidents, British prime ministers and even with a couple of Irish pop stars who considered themselves the saviours of mankind. Simpson was currently living in a two-up two-down in the Shankill. The Hillsborough house was dreamland for him. He walked into the conservatory and looked around for Jackie. His eyes fell on the shrivelled creature wrapped in a blanket sitting on the sofa. Was this the political giant who he had worked with for more than ten years? The man who had bestridden the Shankill now looked like a monkey wrapped in a blanket.
/> ‘What’s up, Jackie?’ Simpson asked.
‘Sit down Richie.’ Carlisle could see his wife hovering in the background. ‘It’s alright, dear,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t let Richie tire me out.’ He waited until his wife left the room. ‘You should practise your facial expressions in front of a mirror. I know I look fucked, but I don’t need to see it in your face.’
‘Sorry, Jackie.’ Simpson took the seat beside the sofa. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘You’re not exactly looking in the pink yourself.’ Carlisle tried a smile.
‘Times are hard.’
‘Maybe good times are coming.’
Simpson sat back. Getting into bed with Carlisle was like playing with a tarantula. You might survive, but then again you could end up with a poisonous sting. ‘So, I suppose you didn’t bring me here to admire your house or to note down any famous last words.’
‘At least we’ve established two things.’ Carlisle winced in pain. He would need an injection of morphine soon, but the nurse from the hospice wasn’t due for another two hours. ‘I’m on my last legs, and you’re broke.’
‘Things didn’t go so well after you left.’
Carlisle smiled despite the pain. Richie wasn’t the dumbest man in the Shankill, but he’d never really got it. He’d thought it was all about manipulating the hard men. That was because that was his forte. He’d never grasped that it was about appealing to the punters. To survive and prosper, you needed to drag the punters with you. Richie, unfortunately for him, wasn’t exactly punter-friendly. It had been no surprise to him that things had fallen apart after he’d retired. ‘I may have something for you.’
Simpson was having the typical fight or flight feeling except instead of fight it was submit. Carlisle had always been able to talk him into doing shit he wouldn’t normally countenance. If he kept his arse on the chair, he would be roped into one of his former boss’s plots. If he had half a brain, he’d leave now. But he smelled money and he needed it badly. ‘Something that’s going to drop me in the shit?’
