by Derek Fee
‘We’ve been on site since seven and I left Dublin at five,’ Duane whistled loudly and the four men looked in his direction. One, the smallest member of the crew, walked towards them.
‘This is Dr Keane,’ Duane said when the small man joined them. ‘He’s the head honcho of the ground radar crew.’ Duane indicated Wilson. ‘This is Superintendent Ian Wilson of the PSNI. He’s in charge of this operation.’
Keane extended his hand to Wilson who took it. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.
‘Likewise,’ Wilson replied. Keane was about thirty-five and Wilson was obliged to look down at least a foot to lock onto his eyes, which were hidden behind glasses that were obviously powerful since they made his eyes look enormous. Keane was bareheaded and his curly hair had already turned grey.
‘Dr Keane is a geophysicist,’ Duane said. ‘It means he’s an expert on finding things that are underground.’
‘A bit of a simplification,’ Keane said. ‘Nice to have met you superintendent, I better get back to the crew.’ He turned and headed back towards the other three men.
‘Full of chat, that boy. Boring little prick.’ Duane opened the side door of the van and took out a thermos. ‘Coffee?’
‘Why not?’ Wilson said.
Duane poured two cups from the thermos and passed one to Wilson. ‘We have some chocolate biscuits in there somewhere.’
‘I’ll pass.’ Wilson sipped the coffee. It was surprisingly good and certainly hadn’t been made from instant granules. It was almost ten o’clock. The ground radar team had been working for three hours.
‘They’ve nearly finished the grid,’ Duane said nodding at the team. ‘These guys are the best. If there’s someone down there, they’ll find him. You really don’t need to be here. I’ll keep you informed about what’s happening.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Orders from above, this is a PSNI operation. It’s only a matter of time before the media find out that something interesting is going on here. It would be a little embarrassing if the only person they could find to interview was a member of the Garda Siochana.’
‘Have you been upfront with me on the significance of this guy, Evans?’
‘Absolutely, the guy wasn’t connected. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m usually around because the IRA are involved. I can’t see their hand in this one. And my boss is holding something back.’
‘So, what are you thinking?’
Duane didn’t answer immediately. Sinn Fein, the political arm of the IRA were becoming a force on the Southern political scene. It would be embarrassing if one of their leaders could be proven to be directly connected to one of the “disappeared”. He was sure that was the reason why he was on site but he wasn’t sure he should discuss that theory with a PSNI officer that he barely knew. ‘They don’t pay me to think,’ he said.
‘I can relate to that.’ Wilson was also asking himself why Nicholson had contacted the Garda Siochana. ‘What do you and I do now?’
‘Did you bring a deck of cards with you?’
Wilson shook his head.
‘You’re lucky, I did.’ Duane produced the cards from his jacket pocket. Before the day was out he and Wilson would know a lot more about each other.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Davie Best was at his usual post, a table in the rear of the Queen’s Tavern in the Woodvale Road. His boss, Gerry McGreary sat across from him. Best hated McGreary but he kept that fact to himself. He knew he would make a much better boss of their crew but McGreary had set up the crew from scratch and most of the men owed their allegiance to him. Anyway, Gerry was getting fatter by the day and it was only a matter of time before the Grim Reaper, in the form of a heart attack, stroke or diabetes, came to call. Best had often thought about accelerating the process, but assassinating McGreary while he was still popular with the crew was a high-risk strategy. He contented himself that in time he would become the head of the crew and he must simply bide his time. McGreary and his principal lieutenants were busy discussing the forthcoming war with Willie Rice. Personally, Davie Best couldn’t wait for the action. Being at the top of a crime gang wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It was a round of collecting money from brothels, protection from shops and other businesses and counting the proceeds from their drug business. Best often thought that he might as well have gone to college and studied accountancy. It was that bloody boring. Most of the day was spent in a dark corner of the Queen’s Tavern bullshitting with other members of the gang. At the moment, it was a talking shop about how they were going to handle what was left of the Rice gang. Best was only half listening when he heard the name ‘Richie Simpson’ and he immediately sat up. ‘What about Simpson?’ he said.
One of the men at the table said, ‘The arsehole was in the Brown Bear last night pissed as a newt and spoutin’ some shite about killin’ someone.’
Best was instantly alert. ‘And what?’
‘And nothing, nobody was takin’ a blind bit of notice of the man. He was out of his head and talkin’ a load of crap.’
‘Who was with him?’
Best’s colleague named Simpson’s companions and Best relaxed. They were all well known to him and he doubted Simpson’s admission was believed.
‘Then that wee bastard McDevitt arrived and pulled Simpson out of there.’
‘The journalist at the Chronicle?’ Best asked.
‘Aye, a right little arsehole, Simpson was hardly capable of walkin’ and McDevitt was makin’ a meal of carryin’ him out.’
Best slumped back in his chair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. McGreary was right. Simpson was a weak link. He thought he had him in his pocket but in fact he had created his own threat. Word on the street was that the hunt for Sammy Rice was on again. Best prided himself on his ability to read people and he knew that Wilson wouldn’t stop looking until he had an answer for Sammy’s disappearance. First he would have to deal with Simpson. Dead or alive he was going to end up as the patsy for getting rid of Sammy. As soon as he was through with the day’s business with McGreary, he was going to find the fucking wimp and deal with him.
A pall of silence fell over the pub. Best looked up and saw that two men had entered and were looking in his direction. One he recognised as Harry Graham, one of Wilson’s men. It was inconceivable that Simpson had already spilled his guts and Wilson had bought the story. One of McGreary’s lieutenants stood up and barred the Peelers’ path to the rear of the pub. Best watched as Graham leaned forward and spoke into the man’s ear. The man glanced over his shoulder at McGreary waiting for a signal. McGreary nodded and the man stood aside.
‘Mr McGreary,’ Graham said.
‘Harry fucking Graham,’ McGreary said. ‘Who’s your pal? Haven’t seen him around.’
‘Detective Sergeant Browne,’ Browne said.
‘Where’s the wee Fenian bitch with the red hair? We had a plan for her,’ one of the men at the table said and the rest laughed.
‘State your business or piss off,’ McGreary said.
‘We need a word with Davie,’ Graham said.
Best sat forward. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘The boss would like to have a word with you in private,’ Graham said. ‘He was wondering whether you might like to come down to the station with us.’
‘Am I being arrested?’ Best said.
Graham looked at the group. The faces of the men around the table were no longer smiling. He had pulled most of them, and knew that things could easily turn nasty. ‘We hope that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘We simply want you to help us with our enquiries.’
‘Concerning what?’ Best asked.
Graham shrugged his shoulders. ‘The boss just told us to bring you in. I think he has a friendly chat in mind.’
Best looked at McGreary. He could almost see the fat man’s brain whirling in the centre of his head. It appeared to be moving slowly. The attention of the two Peelers and the group at the table were on McGreary. Finally he nodded.
Best turned to Gr
aham. ‘I’ll be along when we’re finished here.’
‘No can do,’ Graham said. ‘My instructions are to bring you to the station.’
Best looked again at McGreary who nodded. He stood up. He was going to devise something very special for Simpson if he was the reason he was being lifted. Simpson’s balls would be well and truly roasted before he was dispatched, Davie Best had already promised himself that pleasure.
Jock McDevitt rose late. He had been struggling with his new role as an author until the wee hours. He was making himself a cup of coffee in his kitchen when he remembered Richie Simpson was in his car outside. He left the coffee, dressed quickly, picked up his keys and went outside. Thankfully, his motor was still where he had left it. But there was no sign of an occupant. He saw that the door was unlocked. The bastard had left his car unlocked on a busy central Belfast street. It was a miracle it was still there. He opened the driver’s door. He was immediately assailed by the ammoniacal smell of urine. I am going to kill the bastard, he thought. There was a group of Polish guys who cleaned cars in McCausland’s car park in Grosvenor Road. He could drop the car off there. The Poles wouldn’t thank him, but there was no way he was going to clean up Richie Simpson’s piss. Even getting the car to Grosvenor Road would be a trial. He had one of those masks they used for the SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) virus that he’d picked up in Bangkok. Where the hell might it be? He could kick himself for bothering to reply to his tout’s text message. Richie Simpson as a killer didn’t compute. However, he was intrigued by the possibility. What if there really was a story there? Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he should pass the information along to Wilson. Maybe he should. Wilson would drag Simpson in and give him the Belfast equivalent of the third degree. That would pay the bastard back for pissing in his car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Wilson was digging into his Cajun chicken, chorizo and red pepper linguine in the Maghera Inn. Across from him, Duane had already polished off the full meal version of chowder accompanied by a plate of wheaten bread, and had turned his attention to a main course of pulled bbq brisket and onion rings. They had eschewed wine with their meal and both were on their second pint of Guinness. Their driver had brought his own sandwiches and sat outside in the Land Rover with a flask of tea. Wilson had received two telephone calls just before lunch. The first was from Browne telling him of the events at the Brown Bear and that Best was currently sitting stewing in an interview room. The second call was much more intriguing. He knew it must have hurt McDevitt to give him the news about Richie Simpson. Some of Wilson’s best collars had been made because some idiot had sat in a pub bragging about how clever he’d been. McDevitt had been quick to discount Simpson’s drunken story. Wilson would have to think on it. During the call with McDevitt, he became aware of the feeling he’d had that Simpson had been involved in something nefarious in the past. The death of Robert Nichol, ostensibly at his own hand, had always bothered him. If he hadn’t been so involved in a case of serial murderer at the time, he might have followed up Simpson’s involvement more diligently. But it was what it was. It bothered him that he might have missed out on what could have been a murder. But the system was not failsafe and there was more than one murderer walking free around the streets of Belfast. You could only deal with what you had. And right now, that was the disappearance of Sammy Rice and the hunt for the body of Alan Evans.
Duane looked up from his plate. ‘A penny for them.’
Wilson had a flash of déjà vu. It was a phrase that he associated with Kate McCann. ‘They’re not even worth a penny. I’ve got a missing gang boss who may or may not be dead and I need him to clear up some murders.’
‘Terrorist related?’ Duane asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. Most of the old paramilitary gangs have morphed into criminal gangs. It’s about money now and corruption, not politics except for some of the diehards on the Republican side.’ He pushed his mostly finished plate aside. ‘How do you think things are progressing in at the site?’
‘The radar guys will let us know when they find something,’ Duane stuffed a forkful of pulled pork into his mouth and washed it down with Guinness. ‘You married?’
‘Widower.’
‘How?’
‘Cancer, what about you?’
‘Divorced Irish style.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We signed a separation agreement ten years ago but the knot has never been broken. We’ve been in a state of war ever since. The breakup was my fault, the late hours, the drinking and the danger. She didn’t like the idea that the IRA was threatening my family and me. For me it was part of the job, for her it was mental torture.’ He turned again to his plate but didn’t eat. ‘I don’t mean to insult you but sometimes I wish this end of the island had been detached and floated off into the Atlantic.’ He picked up his glass of Guinness. ‘We’re a sorry lot.’
Wilson didn’t join the toast. He noticed that the barman had heard so he nodded in his direction and made the signal for the bill. ‘We should get back.’ Wilson stood. ‘This one is on me.’
‘No way.’ Duane started to put his hand in his pocket but Wilson stopped him.
‘Just this once,’ Wilson said. ‘You’re the visitor.’
Duane smiled. ‘My turn in Dublin, OK?’
‘OK,’ Wilson walked to the bar where the barman was ringing up his bill.
‘You the Peelers workin’ up at the bog?’ The barman put the bill on the counter.
‘Why?’ Wilson asked.
‘You’re wastin’ your time. There’s nothing up there. I’ve lived here all my life and there’s never been any activity around there except for the environmentalists who flood the place.’
Wilson removed some notes from his wallet and laid them on the counter. ‘I suppose you’ll be happy enough when the journalists and TV crews arrive.’
‘To hell with the money,’ the barman said. ‘We thought that we were finished with that crap. Diggin’ up the dead only brings trouble. If that man is up there, he’s been at peace for the last thirty years. Why not leave him in peace?’
‘Because somebody is responsible for his death and that person should pay.’
The barman scoffed. ‘After thirty years, the sod that put him there has probably joined him.’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’ Wilson turned and found that Duane was standing directly behind him. ‘We’re off.’
They walked to the door together. ‘You’re a little too good to be true,’ Duane said as he opened the door. ’Either that or you were wanking that man.’ A broad smile creased his face. ‘I’ve been on to the crew, nothing so far. If you have business in Belfast, now would be the time to tackle it. Things could get hectic if we find a body.’
Wilson opened his mouth to protest.
‘Don’t worry,’ Duane said. ‘If we find someone, you’ll be the first to know.’
They walked towards the Land Rover. ‘I’ll drop you back at the site,’ Wilson said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Davie Best was getting testy. According to his watch, he’d been sitting in the interview room for more than three hours. In that time, his only diversion was drinking two cups of tea and eating a canteen ham and cheese sandwich that contained little or no ham or cheese. Over the past hour, he had risen several times to bang on the door but with little effect. He’d been mulling over in his mind what reason Wilson could have for pulling him in. It had to be Sammy. Maybe Wilson had already got to Richie Simpson and the arsehole had spilled his guts. If that were the case, Ray Wright, the other man who had been present when Sammy was dispatched would be sitting in the room next to his. He was about to start breaking up the furniture when the door opened and Wilson entered closely followed by the new detective sergeant. They didn’t speak but sat on the two chairs at the other side of the table.
‘About bloody time,’ Best said.
Wilson laid a file on the table and nodded at the
tape recorder. ‘Do the necessary, Sergeant Browne, please.’
Browne turned on the tape and when it was running stated the time and those present.
Wilson opened the file and took out a photograph of the warehouse where they had found the bloodstains. He turned it to face Best. ‘Sorry for the delay. Do you recognise this building?’
Best made a drama out of picking up the photo and examining it. ‘Looks familiar, but then again one warehouse looks like another.’
‘I’ll ask the question again,’ Wilson said. ‘Do you recognise this building?’
‘I think I was there once,’ Best said.
‘Do you know that this warehouse is the property of Sammy Rice?’
So it was about Sammy. Best decided he would have to tread carefully. He wasn’t at the “no comment” stage yet. ‘Yes.’
‘And under what conditions did you visit this warehouse?’
‘I was a guest of Mr Rice.’
‘When did you visit the warehouse?’
