by Derek Fee
‘Concreted into someone’s floor, lying in a boghole or at the bottom of the Lagan.’ Rice clenched his fists. ‘If I find out for sure that McGreary’s behind Sammy’s death, this city will run with blood. And the first head to roll with be that fat bastard’s.’
Graham straightened. ‘I’d advise you that you are speaking to police officers, and making threats like that could rebound on you.’
Rice leaned forward again. ‘You think I care. That crazy bitch Cummerford murdered my wife and now my son may also be dead. You think I care what happens. If you want to stop a bloodbath, you better find out what happened to Sammy before I do.’ He pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Personally, I hope I’m the first to find out. If I’m going to be killed, I want it to mean something. And I’m taking McGreary and his mob with me.’ He turned and walked to the door leaving Wilson and Graham to look after him.
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Graham said when the door closed. ‘Back to the bad old days. What do you think, boss?’
‘I don’t think we’re going to find Sammy Rice alive. We may not even find his dead body. But I sure as hell think we have to find out what happened to him, and why. Because it’s not about lining up Sammy for the murders of Grant, Malone and O’Reilly anymore, it’s about stopping a gang war.’ He stood up. Willie Rice wasn’t the kind of man who made empty threats. If he wanted the streets of Belfast to run red with blood, he had the means to make it happen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wilson ordered Graham and Davidson to follow up on the whereabouts of Sammy Rice. It was time to inject some urgency into the search for him. Although he would prefer it not to be the fact, he was forced to agree with Willie Rice that his son was probably no longer in the land of the living. He would have to establish that fact before moving on to investigate who might have ended Rice’s life. For a start, Graham and Davidson would have to find out what Rice was doing in East Belfast and what caused him to abandon an expensive car in the area. That was priority number one. Priority number two was to get more bodies on board as quickly as possible. It was early afternoon, and he had asked the prime candidate for sergeant to come for interview at three o’clock.
Detective Sergeant Rory Browne arrived at three o’clock on the dot. The desk sergeant accompanied him to Wilson’s office and then left.
Wilson stood to greet the new arrival and shook hands. The handshake was firm and strong. Browne looked younger than his twenty-nine years. He was slightly over six feet and had mousey brown hair stylishly cut. He was handsome in a manly way and the only feature out of place on his face was his nose that had been broken and badly set. His brown eyes were intelligent and his smile when he shook hands was full and engaging. A short beard of reddish-brown hair covered what Wilson thought was a weak chin.
‘Please sit down,’ Wilson said flopping back into his chair in a relaxed manner. ‘Did you just come over from Coleraine?’
‘Yes, I left just after receiving your email’ Browne’s accent was recognisable as mid-Ulster.
Wilson opened the file on his desk. ‘Graduate entry,’ he read aloud. ‘Degree from Coleraine University in French and Psychology.’ He looked up at Browne who was staring directly at him. He noticed that Browne was licking his lips to wet them occasionally. ‘I doubt you’ll be needing much French if you come to join us here.’
Browne forced a smile.
‘Joined the force at twenty-three after two years voluntary service overseas,’ Wilson read.
‘I taught in a school outside Arusha in Tanzania,’ Browne added.
Wilson nodded. He knew it was the fashion for young graduates to spend a year or two in Africa. ‘Very fulfilling I’m sure.’
‘Doing God’s work is always fulfilling,’ Browne said.
Wilson sighed inwardly. He had been born a Christian but somewhere along the line he had fallen off that particular wagon. What he had seen of sectarianism in the intervening period had convinced him that religious fervour was to be avoided like the plague. He reminded himself that he would have to be careful to observe the religious niceties should Browne join the squad. He continued to read. ‘Three years on the beat, then two years as a detective constable and a rapid promotion to detective sergeant. What makes you want to join us here in Belfast?’
‘I’m looking for a challenging position and your squad seems to fit the bill. I’m not saying that Coleraine is not challenging it’s just that Belfast is where the action is.’
‘And you like action?’
‘I love the work. I’ve always wanted to be a policeman. University was only a way of getting in and on a fast track.’
‘You didn’t like being on the beat?’
‘Some aspects I liked and some I didn’t. I’m not into community policing. I think it’s important but I want to work in the investigative branch.’
‘And there aren’t enough investigations for you in Colerain?
Browne reddened. ‘Some burglaries, muggings, car theft, the usual crimes.’
‘But no homicides?’
‘No.’
‘So you have no experience in investigating murder?’
‘No.’
‘So what can you bring to my squad aside from the ability to converse with a suspect in French?’ This was the point where Browne would either sink or swim.
‘I think I’ve been pretty successful in the investigation I’ve led so far. I know I have no experience in murder investigation but I’m a quick learner, and I’m here to learn from you. I am one hundred per cent loyal to my superior and you can count on me for backup. I came here to tell you that I absolutely want this job and that you won’t be sorry if you take me on.’
OK, so it was swim. Wilson slowly closed the file. Browne might turn out to be another George Whitehouse and he certainly wasn’t Moira McElvaney but maybe there was enough material to mould him into a decent investigator. ‘I’ll pass the message to the administration that you’ll be joining the squad as soon as we can get the paperwork through. The CC assured me that it would be more or less immediate so you can start packing your bags. You start here next week. What about family? I notice that you’re not married.’
Browne shuffled uneasily in his chair. It was the first time that Wilson saw his confidence slip. There was something there but he wouldn’t be the only officer on the force with family issues.
‘I’ll be coming alone,’ Browne said.
‘Well, see you soon then.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Browne gushed. ‘You won’t regret taking me on.’
‘If I do, you won’t be here for long. How did you break your nose, rugby or boxing? And, by the way, I don’t like “sir” or “gov”, you call me boss.’
Browne smiled. ‘Neither. I was playing with my nephew and I tripped and fell on my face.’
Wilson smiled. He would have preferred rugby or boxing. He stood up and extended his hand. ‘Welcome to the squad.’
Browne took his hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Thank you si. ... boss.’
One down, one more to go, Wilson thought. He knew he should have brought the young man to meet Chief Superintendent Davis but that would have to wait. Davis would be pissed off at him but he didn’t have time to play the organisation game.
Thirty minutes after Browne left the desk sergeant showed Detective Constable Siobhan O’Neill into his office. Her name instantly recognised her as a Catholic. There would be no need for supplementary questions about school or area she came from. The woman who entered his office was in her early thirties, she had dark straight hair cut short and she was carrying more than a few extra pounds in weight. Her face was pale and round. Her eyes were the most striking feature in her face. Wilson had rarely seen such beautiful blue eyes. She was dressed in jeans and a loose jacket. He stood to greet her extending his hand. She took it in a loose grip.
‘Please, sit,’ Wilson said indicating the chair that had been so recently vacated by his latest recruit. ‘Detective Constable O’Neill.’<
br />
She nodded.
‘Fourteen years on the force,’ he read from her file. ‘Ten years in uniform and four years in Dunmurry, expert in computer systems. How come?’
‘Used to be my hobby.’ She was sitting upright. ‘They needed a computer person and I was the only applicant. It was a case of “in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king.’’’
‘What’s your investigative experience?’
‘I’ve worked mainly as a member of a team. I’m not going to pass myself off as a potential SIO. I’m more a background worker bee and I’m a good copper with a lot of grassroots experience.’
He flicked through her assessments and saw that her view of herself was mirrored by her superiors. He thought that she might make a very suitable replacement for the departed Eric Taylor. ‘We sometimes work strange hours. I notice that you’ve never been married.’
‘I take care of my mother. She has Alzheimer’s and we have a carer. Working odd hours isn’t a problem.’
‘I wasn’t trying to pry into your private life,’ Wilson said. He felt slightly embarrassed.
‘I prefer to put all my cards on the table. I don’t expect you to pass on that information immediately, but I’m sure that the other members of the squad will find out in their own way.’
‘I can respect that. Your beat was West Belfast. You know most of the characters?’
‘Since they were in short trousers.’
‘Why do you want to join the squad?’
‘You want the real answer?’
‘Yes.’
‘You. I heard you speaking at the police college. I wasn’t in the class but I was at the back of the room. Your speech was funny and witty but what came across most was your passion. I knew that if there was ever a chance to work with you I would take it.’
Wilson could feel his face redden. ‘I’m glad I got my passion for the job across. I’d like you to join us here. Is there anything you’d like to ask?’
‘Not really. I just want it clear that I’m not coming here to make the tea or fetch the biscuits.’
‘Nobody comes here to make tea or fetch biscuits. I’ll get started on the paperwork this afternoon. You’ll be joining as soon as the papers have been put through.’
‘Thank you for giving me the opportunity.’
‘You may not be thanking me in a couple of weeks.’ He stood and extended his hand. ‘Welcome to the squad.’ The handshake this time was firmer.
Wilson was satisfied with his first day back on the job. He’d injected a little urgency into the Rice investigation and recruited two new members of the squad. He was happy enough with Browne and O’Neill but squad dynamics are a peculiar thing. It was like sport, the team had to be more than the sum of the players. If the team weren’t together, the results would be less than expected. Making sure the team operated properly was his job.
CHAPTER NINE
‘I see that normal service has been resumed.’ Jock McDevitt’s head appeared in the snug several second before his body followed it.
Wilson looked up from the file he was reading and then closed it after carefully marking the page. He had lost almost two months of work and needed to catch up as quickly as possible. He put the file away in a tote bag that had the logo of a well-known British supermarket on it. He’d never owned a briefcase and he wasn’t going to start now.
McDevitt sat down and dropped his messenger bag on the floor. ‘How was your first day back at the grindstone?’
‘Strangely normal,’ said Wilson as he pushed the button signalling the waiter.
‘Thanks, I could kill for a pint,’ McDevitt said. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
‘I have the feeling that with you every day is one of those days.’ The waiter popped his head through the serving hatch and Wilson ordered a pint of Guinness for McDevitt and a refill for himself.
McDevitt picked up his bag and rooted around in it. He pulled out an A4 sheet of paper and put it on the table. ‘I’d like to have your professional opinion on this.’ He pushed the paper towards Wilson. ‘It’s not the original. That’s back at the office.’
Wilson picked up the paper. It was a sketch of a rough map. Several geographical features were shown and there was a road marked in one corner of the map. Lower down there was either an ‘x’ or a cross and the name Evans beside it. He put it back on the table. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to give me more information.’
McDevitt took a slug from his Guinness. ‘God, but I needed that.’ He picked up the paper. ‘As far as I can tell it’s a map of Ballynahone bog. But the intriguing fact is the name Evans beside that cross. Ever hear of Alan Evans?’
Wilson shook his head.
‘Some sort of Commie politician from the 1980s. A bit before your time, and mine for that matter. He was stirring things up. Going on about sectarian conflict being a cover for the class war. He disappeared on his way back to Belfast from a meeting in Downpatrick. He and his car were never found. This map purports to indicate his final resting place.’
‘I think I’ve had a bellyful of historical crimes. I hope you didn’t pay good money for this tosh.’
‘My source wanted ten thousand. He settled for a grand.’
‘Enough said. It’s not like you to fall for a scam like that.’
‘If I’m wrong, it’ll be the first time my bullshit detector has failed me. So you think it’s a hoax?’
‘Remember Hitler’s diaries?’
McDevitt smiled. Perhaps he had paid a grand for a pig in a poke but true or not it would get him back on the front page of the Chronicle.
‘You’re surely not going to run with this piece of trash?’ Wilson said.
McDevitt took several sheets of paper from his bag. ‘I spent the afternoon writing up the story. Of course, I’ve had to give Evans a little more prominence than he deserved but there’s a lot of interest in the “disappeared”. Mind you if it had “McConville” instead of “Evans” on the map it would be pure gold. But beggars can’t be choosers. Most people have no idea who Evans was and what some of his dingbat ideas were. I had to create that picture for them.’
‘Who’s the source?’ Wilson was close to finishing his second pint. It was approaching his cut-off limit.
McDevitt pushed the button and ordered another round. ‘I assume you’re not driving tonight.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘I’m celebrating my return from the dead.’
‘Yeah, how the hell did that happen? I was sure they’d hung you out to dry.’ There’s definitely a story in that. ”Top cop returns to post after proving father to be murderer”. ‘The public would lap that up.’
‘I just used up life number five, only four more to go. And the public wouldn’t give a shit about my pathetic story. If you haven’t worked that out, I’ll bet that your editor has.’ Wilson finished his Guinness and set his empty glass aside. ‘Am I wrong or are you trying to avoid answering my question? Who’s the source of this particular hoax?’
The waiter deposited the new drinks and took the empty glasses away.
McDevitt sat up straight in his chair and put a serious look on his elfin face. ‘I am a professional journalist and I will never reveal my sources. You can put me in jail and throw away the key but I will never tell. Mind you, I’ll cheat and lie to get a story but I’ll maintain the only ethical stance that we journalists hold.’
‘I thought so. Take my advice and don’t run with this story. You’re putting yourself out on a limb and someone will see through it.’
‘Too late.’ McDevitt proposed a toast with his glass of Guinness. ‘Jock McDevitt hits the front page tomorrow with a scoop.’
‘It’s your funeral.’ Wilson clinked his glass and drank. McDevitt was opening a box that many in Ulster would like to see closed forever. It was alright to talk about the “disappeared” as long as you were talking about Pinochet’s Chile, or Argentina or even the drug wars in Mexico. It was part of Ulster’s unsavoury past that paramilitaries, particul
arly the IRA, executed individuals and disposed of their bodies in a way that they would never be found. This practice only succeeded in refusing closure to the families of the dead. There could be no wake, no funeral and no grave to lay flowers at on the anniversary of death. There would only be uncertainty and longing. Like their co-sufferers in Latin America, the families of the “disappeared” in Ulster jumped on any excuse to remind the population of their suffering. This was the box that McDevitt was opening with his story on the map and Evans’s disappearance.
‘So,’ McDevitt said, ‘any news of the luscious Kate McCann?’
Wilson sighed. He had enjoyed the evening thus far but mention of Kate was like rubbing a raw wound with sandpaper. Kate had cut him off completely. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since she had declared their break as final.
‘Wrong subject,’ McDevitt said. ‘Not over yet?’
‘Over and done with.’ Wilson finished his Guinness and pushed the button.
McDevitt frowned. ‘Like that, is it? As the man said, nobody ever found the answer to a problem in the bottom of a bottle.’
‘Two Finns go into a bar. One points at the beer pump and lift up two fingers. The barman pours two beers and the men start to drink. Ten minutes later one of the men points at two empty glasses and the barman refills them. One of the men picks up his glass and says, “Skol!”. ‘The second man turns to face him and says, “Did we come here to talk or did we come here to drink”?’ ‘Enough said.’
CHAPTER TEN
Although Gerry McGreary depended on the people of Belfast as customers for his drugs, prostitution and protection rackets, he had chosen to live in a five bed-roomed mini-mansion in Upper Malone close to Dunmurry Golf Club. The house was reached by a leafy lane and one of his soldiers was placed strategically at the entrance to deter unwelcome visitors. Since he was in a phoney war with the Rice gang, he had added a second man as a precaution. Sammy Rice might no longer have been on the scene but Willie was a vicious old bastard who had very little to lose. And it would take a deaf, dumb and blind man not to work out that the prime suspect for Sammy’s disappearance was his main rival. McGreary’s advances into Rice territory had been steady and planned. It wasn’t so much a turf war as a turf takeover. Nobody had died. Well, nobody had died yet. McGreary was not so naive as to think that there would not be an eventual repercussion to his territorial encroachments. He sat in his favourite chair in his lounge. The walls were festooned with memorabilia from his days as a football idol. There were football jerseys he had worn himself and several that more famous players he had played against had gifted him. Interspersed with the jerseys were photos featuring McGreary and famous footballers. Nobody who looked at the three hundred and twenty pound man sitting in the voluminous chair would believe that Gerry McGreary once had an incarnation as ‘Slim Ger’ McGreary.
