by Derek Fee
‘It’s not true.’ Wilson sat down in the chair. ‘Professor Reid intends to issue a conclusion that the injuries sustained by the child led directly to his death and that those injuries came about as a result of a vicious beating by a person or persons unknown. Since the child was dropped outside A&E at the Royal, she was most anxious to locate the parents and decided, unwisely in my opinion, to go to the Chronicle.’
‘And, of course, you as her,’ she searched for the word, ‘lover,’ she said finally, ‘were totally unaware of what she was up to.’
Wilson didn’t bother to challenge her choice of the words, giving tacit acceptance to the fact that he and Reid were indeed lovers. ‘Absolutely, I’ve been totally engrossed in the Kielty murder case and ensuring the safety of Jock McDevitt.’
‘ACC Nicholson almost had a canary when the Chronicle called him about a potential murder case that he knew absolutely nothing about. I had the bad luck to be sitting opposite him when the call arrived. I assured him that we were as much in the dark as him with regard to the poor child’s death.’
‘Would it help if Professor Reid called ACC Nicholson to explain the situation?’
‘Don’t be facetious, Ian. And don’t treat me like an idiot.’ She held up the newspaper again. ‘There’s going to be an outcry about this. A five-year-old beaten to death is going to have every child protection agency banging on the chief constable’s door. How quickly can you clear this business up?’
‘I think we can take it for granted that the mother and father are somehow responsible. We need to find them and get them into a room. It depends how long it takes to break them, but usually one cracks pretty quickly. I’m just about to have a briefing with the team. DC Graham knows Belfast like the back of his hand. I’ll put him and DC Davidson on the case straight away.’
‘The ACC wants to announce the arrest of those responsible as soon as possible. Now piss off and cover up properly the fact that you’ve already been investigating this case. I don’t want the ACC to find any trace of an investigation prior to the call from the Chronicle.’
Wilson stood up. ‘I’m off to Aughnacloy after the briefing.’
‘Don’t let me detain you. This evening at six, here.’
The team had already assembled at the whiteboards when Wilson walked into the squad room at eight twenty. This was an unprecedented display of enthusiasm. He noticed that Harry was looking sheepish. ‘Good morning all.’ He joined them at the boards. ‘And don’t look so rueful, Harry. Reid didn’t shop you. She took all the blame. I need you to cover whatever tracks you left yesterday. We don’t want the ACC to find out that we’ve been investigating a murder without his permission, which, by the way, we now have. So let’s start the briefing with Harry.’
Graham came forward and stood by the board. He looked at Wilson. ‘Sorry, Boss.’ He then gave a fairly solid account of his visit to Musgrave station and his contact with DC Bradley. He described his trip to Earlscourt Street and the examination of the deserted house. Gillian McAuley had disappeared and given that she inhabited the drug demi-monde, she could be anywhere. Maybe even somewhere outside Belfast or even outside the province.
‘I want her found,’ Wilson said. ‘And I want her found fast.’ He looked at Peter Davidson. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I’m going to screw you around again. I want you to help Harry to find this woman.’
‘What about Carlisle?’ Davidson said. He wasn’t too keen on the Carlisle investigation, but he didn’t appreciate being switched around so much either. ‘Mrs Carlisle has agreed to the phone records being released and I’ve already applied for them. I went to the hospice and had a word with the matron about releasing the phone records. She wasn’t cooperative, which is very peculiar. It makes me believe that there might really be something there. I don’t see why we have to put my investigation on the backburner.’ Davidson decided to omit the fact that he was anxious to meet Irene Carlisle again for reasons other than enquiring into her husband’s death.
‘We need to close the Josh McAuley case fast,’ Wilson said. ‘There’s going to be pressure from the public and the child protection lobby.’
Graham wasn’t impressed. ‘Then maybe they should start by looking at the role of Social Services. Bradley made a report about the boy being at risk. Nobody did a damn thing about it and now we have a dead child on our hands and the job of cleaning up their mess.’
Wilson put a hand on Graham’s shoulder. ‘I know, Harry, but it’s always our job to shovel up the shit. Make sure that you square things with DC Bradley. I don’t want her reporting that we were already investigation without authority. And find the damn woman. Given the kind of person she is, there’ll be a man around somewhere. Possibly not the boy’s father but someone that we’ll want to talk to.’
Wilson turned to Browne. There were bags under the bags under his eyes. This guy was seriously burning the candle at both ends. It was getting close to the time when he’d have to have a word. There were too many balls in the air for one of the team to go AWOL on him. ‘Rory, tell us about the search of the murder site.’
Browne was in the middle of a rambling briefing when Wilson’s mobile pinged. He looked at the message. The ambulance bringing McDevitt to Belfast had left Craigavon. He’d arranged for a police escort so he was pretty sure that McDevitt was now safe. Browne was finishing his description of the search.
‘Thanks, Rory.’ Wilson looked at Graham and Davidson. ‘I’ll be in South Tyrone all day but I’m on the mobile so call if anything breaks.’ He turned back to Browne. ‘Right everyone, we’re done. Rory, come with me.’ He started walking towards his office followed by Browne. They both entered and Wilson flopped into his chair. ‘Close the door.’ He waited until Browne complied. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in.’
Browne continued standing. ‘Sorry, Boss, I didn’t sleep too well last night.’ He wasn’t lying but neither was he giving the full story about the reason for his lack of sleep.
‘Everybody needs to be working at one hundred per cent at the moment. We can’t afford to carry anyone, especially not a sergeant. I’m not the only one on the team with a pair of eyes. Old hands like Harry and Peter will have noticed the bags under your eyes as well. Anything you want to tell me?’
‘No, Boss, just a bout of insomnia.’ Now he was lying and, although he had hidden his sexuality for years, it didn’t feel right. There was no way he could tell the truth, however. He knew it was irrational, but he’d fallen for Vinny big time.
‘Wilson wasn’t sure whether he was being lied to but he knew there was definitely something that Browne wasn’t telling him. ‘Go see a doctor and get some sleeping tablets. We’ll leave here in ten minutes.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Everything had changed for Davie Best in the past three months. One day he was Gerry McGreary’s dogsbody rambling around Belfast dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, squeezing money out of prostitutes and picking up the takings from the crew’s drug pushers. Now he is running the biggest crew in Belfast and walking around in a well-fitting Hugo Boss grey pinstriped suit. The ethos of the crew had changed utterly. The old farts who had sat around the table in the Queen’s Tavern had been retired. They squealed a little when they were told, but once they saw the men standing behind Best they decided to take whatever redundancy package they were offered. It was certainly preferable to the alternative. Their day was over. The Queen’s Tavern was not the haunt of the new crew. Best had bought a building on North Street close to the end of the Shankill Road and was in the process of setting up a nightclub. He was a businessman and his crew were associates. With Sammy and Willie Rice out of the way, the Rice mob proved rudderless and Best had quickly co-opted anyone who was willing to join his new crew. As a result there was now one criminal gang instead of two and the name of the game had changed utterly. The new mob was mostly made up of men who had served in the British Army and who were amenable to discipline. There were no carryovers from the 1980s and 90s. Best ran a
tight ship and the purpose of their enterprise was to make money. That meant staying under the radar of the peelers as much as possible. Until they were better established at least. Best had spent some time establishing links with crews in England and on the continent. The big money was in drugs and that was the part of the business he was planning to expand.
Best still lived in his mother’s house on Northumberland Street although, unbeknownst to her, he was currently seeking a more prestigious property. In the old days, people like Rice and McGreary had depended on the people they grew up with to protect them. That day was also gone. Best was awash with money and he had no reason to live with all the poor people. He was at breakfast when there was a knock on the door and his mother ushered Eddie Hills into the back kitchen.
‘Mornin’ Boss.’ Hills tossed a copy of the Chronicle onto the table and sat down. ‘What’s on today?’
Best finished buttering his toast. He’d considered Hills as his number two but the guy hadn’t the brains of a gnat. He was a driver/bodyguard and that was probably what he was most happy at. Best was still looking among the crew for someone to emerge with leadership qualities. The crew’s business interests were diversifying and he needed someone to hand the reins over to on occasion. ‘Same old, same old.’ Best looked up from his breakfast and saw that Hills was smiling stupidly. ‘What’s so fucking funny?’
Hills opened the newspaper and showed Best the front page. Best was a little surprised. Hills normally started the paper from the back and rarely got beyond the sports pages and only then to be stopped by the funnies. The headline was an article about some kid who had sustained injuries that led to his death. Some people shouldn’t have kids, he thought as he tossed the paper aside.
‘No,’ Hills cried. ‘You’ve missed it.’ He picked up the paper and showed Best the article again. ‘They’re lookin’ for the kid’s mother, Gillian McAuley. That’s the skank that Mad Mickey Duff has been bangin’ for the last month or so.’
‘Does she work for us?’ Best picked up the paper again and started to read with more interest.
‘Sometimes, when she needs the money, but Mad Mickey surely does. He’s one of our best pushers.’
The crew was getting bigger every day and Best only dealt with the men he had brought with him from McGreary’s mob. He tried to picture Mad Mickey Duff but failed miserably. ‘Why do they call him Mad Mickey?’
Hills laughed. ‘Because he’s fuckin’ mad, that’s why. The fucker’s put so much drugs into his body that the brain cells are all mixed up.’
Best put the paper down and picked up his tea. This was an occupational hazard when you ran a crew. You couldn’t exactly use psychological tests to see who might make a suitable employee. You took what was available and hoped that someday they wouldn’t drop you in the shit. Of course, there was a very strong hint in the nickname that something could go badly wrong with Mad Mickey Duff. ‘You think that Duff did this kid in?’ He sipped his tea.
Hills shrugged. He wouldn’t put anything beyond Mad Mickey, especially if he was on a drug-fuelled rampage. ‘Do we give them the skank?’
Best had managed to keep the crew out of the papers since McGreary’s funeral. He wasn’t like the old-time bosses. Everyone in the Shankill knew Rice and McGreary and knew what they were up to. Very few people knew Davie Best and that was the way he wanted to keep it. ‘I’ll think about it. In the meantime, get someone to contact Duff and tell him to keep McAuley under wraps.’
Best needed to find out how much Duff knew about their drug operation. If he knew the peelers, they wouldn’t stop at the woman, especially if she started bleating about her innocence. They’d move on pretty quickly to Duff. There was a murder conviction and a lengthy sentence waiting for whoever had beat the shit out of the kid. That’s a lot of leverage on a junkie.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Wilson and Browne dropped O’Neill at the incident room and left immediately for the Kielty farm. Gibson had sent a message that he was attending a meeting with the chief super in Armagh and Wilson wanted to take advantage of his absence to have a second round with Mrs Kielty. He knew it would be polite to call ahead and he didn’t feel right about dropping in unannounced on an elderly woman who had just lost her husband, but it was what it was and sometimes he had to do things that made him feel like a shit. They pulled up in front of the farmhouse, where another small car was already parked. As they approached the open door, they could hear several female voices and it became clear that Mrs Kielty had visitors. Browne looked at Wilson who nodded and pushed the door a little more open. ‘Mrs Kielty, it’s Superintendent Wilson.’ He walked into the living room and saw three ladies sitting around the table in the centre of the room. The women turned and looked at him. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Kielty. Detective Sergeant Browne and myself were just passing and we thought we’d pop in and have a few words with you.’
‘Sure you’re welcome, Superintendent.’ Mrs Kielty stood to greet them. ‘And I’m sure you’ll be having a cup of tea.’
Wilson looked at the two visitors and saw that they had no intention of leaving. After all, they were going to be spectators at an actual police interrogation. ‘I was hoping that we could have a word in private.’
Mrs Kielty looked at her visitors. ‘Sure we’re finished our tea and I’m sure Mary and Rose have other things that they have to attend to.’
Mary and Rose stood up and retrieved their handbags with the maximum amount of bad grace that they could muster. They both cast angry looks in Wilson’s direction before giving hugs to Mrs Kielty and heading for the open door, which Browne then shut firmly behind them.
‘Please sit down,’ Mrs Kielty busied herself at the range. ‘The tea’ll be ready in a minute and I baked some fresh scones this morning.’
Wilson took a seat. ‘We don’t want to put you to any trouble. It’s just that I felt you didn’t get much of an opportunity to speak the other day.’
Mrs Kielty poured hot water into the teapot and put it and two fresh cups on the table. ‘Sure I suppose I was still in shock.’ She went over to a built-in Welsh dresser, took down a plate and put six scones on it. She returned to the table, sat down and placed the plate of scones in front of Wilson and Browne. ‘Try them. I’m right proud of my baking.’
Browne poured tea for Wilson and himself and took a scone.
Mrs Kielty sipped her tea. ‘When do you think that they’ll release Tom’s body to us? We need to get on with organising the wake and the funeral.’
Wilson set down his cup. ‘I’m surprised that they haven’t already done so. Detective Sergeant Browne will get onto that immediately. I take it that your son has identified the body?’
‘Aye, two days ago. Tom had family over in Fermanagh and I want to give them good notice.’
‘I got the impression the last day that some people thought that your husband had dementia.’ Wilson said.
‘I thought that too but I wasn’t about to contradict the parson, not in company any road.’
Wilson smiled. He really liked the woman. She came from an era where the next county over was a long distance away and where ordinary mortals didn’t contradict their betters. He was thinking that it was a great pity that there were not more people on the planet like Mrs Kielty. He had no doubt that it would be a better place. ‘So your husband wasn’t suffering from dementia?’
‘Will you get away with it.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘Tom was as sharp as a new pin.’
‘And you know what he was doing in the field that night?’ Wilson asked.
Mrs Kielty stared into Wilson’s eyes. She fancied herself as someone who could look deeply into people. She thought that he looked intelligent, but there was a lot of sorrow deep inside him. ‘I always told him that his curiosity would get the better of him. It was the same during the Troubles. He was always interferin’ in other people’s business. I’m surprised that he didn’t get himself killed back then. He was always ramblin’ around at night. Even when we were married first, he
could sleep three or four hours and then he was wide awake. It’s a great gift for gettin’ work done.’
‘So he was out at night?’ Wilson was afraid they were going to hear the whole history of their marriage, but he also didn’t want to be unkind.
‘All hours of the night, wanderin’ all over the place. Any road, he came upon this group of boys moving farm machinery from the south to the north. There was something on the radio about thefts of farm machinery and he wasn’t slow at puttin’ two and two together. He thought of tellin’ the peelers, but he recognised one of the boys from up Moy way and he got a right scare. It wasn’t like him to be afraid. He tried to hide it from me but I knew him too well.’
‘Did he know the name of the man from up Moy way?’
She picked up the teapot and refilled her cup. She made a production of adding milk and sugar. Finally, she looked at Wilson. ‘Tom was in the UDR for a couple of years. He left because some of his colleagues were up to no good, if you know what I mean.’
Wilson knew what she meant.
‘The boy Tom saw was someone he knew from that time, name of Walter Hanna.’ She sipped her tea.
‘You’re sure?’ Wilson asked. It wouldn’t mean anything in court, but it confirmed McDevitt’s evidence.
Mrs Kielty nodded.
Wilson finished his tea and stood. ‘We’ve bothered you enough. Detective Sergeant Browne will make sure that your husband’s body is released as soon as possible.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘And I am truly sorry for your trouble.’
She took his hand and stood up. ‘You’ll get the one that shot Tom?’
‘You can count on it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Harry Graham and Peter Davidson had hit the streets as soon as Wilson left the station. The pubs, which had been a source of gossip and sometimes concrete information, weren’t open so they separated and hit up their usual contacts in the underworld. Davidson had worked in Vice for many years and, since McAuley had already been lifted for soliciting, he visited several of the houses that he knew operated as brothels. The madams he spoke to knew McAuley but as she was freelance they had no idea where she could be found. He was on his way up Linenhall Street, heading in the direction of City Hall, when he recognised one of his old contacts walking towards him. ‘Hard night, Teresa?’ he said as she was about to hurry past.
