by Derek Fee
‘Can I use the toilet?’ Browne said.
Rice was still considering the DNA issue. ‘OK,’ he said without thinking.
Browne immediately left the room. He had no idea where the toilet was but he headed directly for the stairs. At the top of the stairs there were a series of bedrooms. He chose the largest, entered quickly and found an en-suite bathroom to the side. This was certainly the main bedroom. He entered the bathroom and saw a hairbrush and comb on the side of the washbasin. He removed a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and carefully pulled all the hair from the brush and comb before placing it in the plastic bag. Then he flushed the toilet.
Willie Rice had made up his mind, there’d be no DNA. He looked around the room. ’Where the fuck did that muppet go?’
‘The toilet,’ the minder said.
‘Find him,’ Rice shouted. ‘Now. I don’t want him wandering around the house.’
The minder rushed outside and almost ran into Browne. They re-entered the living room together.
‘We’re done here,’ Rice said. ‘Get the fuck out, the pair of you and don’t come back.’
‘So, no DNA,’ Wilson said.
‘Find my Sammy, that’s what you get paid for.’
Wilson turned and nodded to Browne. They both left the house. As they sat into the car, Browne took the plastic evidence bag from his pocket and handed it to Wilson.
‘Good man.’ Wilson looked at the hair inside the bag. ‘There’s got to be at least one sample of Rice DNA here.’ Willie was still a cute old bastard, Wilson thought. But he was going to find out whose blood was in that warehouse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The ground radar crew knocked off work at exactly five-thirty, much to the chagrin of Jack Duane. There was still plenty of light and the quicker the search area was covered the sooner that Duane would be back where he belonged. He phoned Wilson and gave him the news that the search had so far proved fruitless and that the crew would be back at work early the next morning. Duane had decided that Maghera was not exciting enough to spend an evening. He had booked a hotel in central Belfast and had imposed on Wilson to ‘show him the town’ as he put it. Although Wilson was reluctant initially, he could see the sense in extending the arm of friendship to a colleague who was as pissed off with the search for Alan Evans as he was. At eight o’clock, Wilson was sitting in his snug at the Crown enjoying his first pint of the evening when Duane pushed in the door and plonked himself in one of the chairs which complained by creaking loudly under his weight.
‘Mine’s a pint,’ Duane said as soon as he was settled. ‘And by God I feel I’ve earned it.’
Wilson pushed the bell and ordered the drink. ‘No luck today then?’
‘Depends what you call luck. We didn’t find anything, and I suppose it would be best for the both of us if nothing were to be found. ‘
‘How much of the area have they surveyed?’ Wilson asked.
‘A little less than half.’ The barman opened the hatch in the snug and handed a pint of Guinness through. Duane took the glass and immediately downed a half. ‘At this rate they might be through by tomorrow or the next day at the worst.’
‘Then you’ll be back in Dublin. This must be flat beer for an experienced professional like you.’
‘You can speak. A chief inspector and a superintendent screwing around in the middle of a bog, they must have money to burn. Either that, or this fellow Evans is a lot more important than you and I have been led to believe.’ Duane finished his Guinness and pushed the button summoning the barman.
‘I hope it’s not going to be one of those nights.’ Wilson drained his own glass.
‘Did you ever make any money out of the rugby?’
Wilson shook his head. ‘They went professional as soon as I decided it was time to retire. How about you?’ Wilson passed the two glasses to the barman and nodded.
‘Never made a penny. A hundred thousand people in Croke Park on All-Ireland final day and the players don’t take away a cent. Amateurs and proud of it, others would call it exploitation.’
Two fresh pints of Guinness were passed through the hatch. This time they clinked glasses before drinking.
‘How did it end?’ Wilson asked.
‘Not exactly in tears, when I started playing the manager said I wasn’t much for speed but he wouldn’t like to run into me. By the time I finished, I was so slow I was almost static but anyone who ran into me still knew all about it.’
The snug opened and Jock McDevitt stuck his head around it. ‘If it isn’t Burke and Hare.’ He pushed into the snug and slipped past Duane onto the bench Wilson was sitting on.
‘Who’s the leprechaun?’ Duane asked.
Wilson laughed. ‘Jock McDevitt, crime reporter at the Chronicle. Jock is known for his ability to get blood from a stone so no work talk.’
‘And Superintendent Wilson’s best friend.’ McDevitt stuck out his hand in Duane’s direction and pulled it back when he saw the look on Duane’s face.
‘What’s with the Burke and Hare thing?’ Duane asked. He was impressed that Wilson hadn’t introduced him by name.
‘You never heard of Burke and Hare,’ McDevitt said. ‘They were two famous grave robbers in Edinburgh in the 18th century. I hear a little rumour that’s what you two are up to.’
Wilson ordered a Guinness for McDevitt. ‘What Jock neglected to say was that Burke and Hare weren’t just grave robbers, they murdered most of the people they subsequently dug up.’
‘If the cap fits.’ McDevitt smiled. ‘I hope I haven’t interrupted an important conversation.’ He was aware that Wilson hadn’t introduced his drinking companion. That only meant one thing; his companion did the kind of work that required him to remain anonymous. McDevitt guessed he might be a spook, but a southern spook. The question was, what was a southern spook doing digging up a minor northern politician?
‘We were talking sport,’ Duane said. ‘What sport did you play?’
‘Chasing women.’ McDevitt took a pint of Guinness from the barman’s extended hand. ‘But my luck ran out when I caught one of them. I’m a bit of an expert on Irish accents. I bet you’re from Galway.’
Duane was surprised. He’d been in Dublin for a long time and his Galway accent had been modulated. ‘Close.’ Too bloody close, he thought. He hadn’t counted on spending the evening with a journalist. Perhaps he’d have to develop an alternative plan.
‘Any news from the front?’ McDevitt asked.
‘Why don’t you check with the PSNI press office?’ Wilson said.
McDevitt sipped his drink and smiled. ‘When you arrive in Ballynahone tomorrow morning prepare for the gathering of journalists who have nothing better to do.’
‘So, you won’t be there?’ Wilson noted that Duane was sitting glumly. He guessed that journalists were not among his favourite people.
‘I’ll be sending an intern.’ McDevitt was aware of a certain coldness from the direction of Wilson’s companion. It didn’t bother him in the least.
‘How’s the book going?’ Wilson asked.
‘Don’t mention the war.’ McDevitt took another sip of his drink. ‘I’m a two thousand words maximum man. Nobody told me how hard it is to write sixty thousand words on one subject.’
‘Have you been in to see Cummerford?’ Wilson saw that Duane had finished his drink. ‘Another?’
‘Pint of Guinness and double Jameson, then it’s an early night.’ Duane didn’t look too happy at the prospect of an early night.
Wilson gave the order.
‘Cummerford won’t see me.’ McDevitt continued the conversation. ‘I’ve even begged. Maybe you can intervene for me. She seems to have a fancy for you. Speaking of fancies, any news of Kate McCann, QC?’
Wilson saw the interest spring into Duane’s eyes. ‘That particular ship has sailed.’
The three men drank in silence for a few minutes.
‘Did you get my message about Richie Simpson?’ McDevitt broke the silence.
>
Wilson had put Simpson out of his mind. ‘Yes, something about admitting to a killing.’
McDevitt explained the message from his tout and his excursion to the Brown Bear. He didn’t stint on the details of the condition of his car or the curses of the Polish car cleaners.
‘Drink talk,’ Wilson said when he’d finished.
‘Maybe,’ McDevitt said. ‘I went looking for him to present him with the bill for cleaning the car. He’s nowhere to be found. And I wasn’t the only person looking for him.’
Wilson sat up straight. ‘Tell me.’
McDevitt had almost finished his pint. ‘I heard that a couple of heavies from McGreary’s crew were around his place and they’re asking questions around town about where he might be. There’s even talk of money being in it for the person who indicates his whereabouts.’
Wilson took out his mobile phone and contacted his new sergeant. The phone went immediately to voicemail. ‘Tomorrow I want to talk to Richie Simpson. Find him.’
McDevitt put down his glass. ‘I’m off. My publisher is going to squeeze my balls until I produce this bloody book. You two boys can continue talking about, eh, what was it? Oh yes, sport.’ He stood up laughing and walked out.
‘You have very peculiar friends,’ Duane said. He picked up his double Jameson and downed it. ‘I thought he’d never leave. Now let’s see what your capacity for drink is.’
Wilson had stopped listening. His mind was on Richie Simpson. What had Richie done to make him run away? And why did McGreary want him so badly?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Helen McCann sat in the Great Room of Coleville House. She could never be in this room without remembering her husband. James McCann had been a giant. She sometimes wondered what he could have achieved if he had entered politics instead of the law. It was inevitable that he would become the highest law officer in the land. He was by far the most intellectually gifted man she had ever met. He was more than thirty years her senior when she had met him as a fresh faced just-out-of-college financial analyst of twenty-two. She had followed up a first-class honours degree in economics at Oxford University with a master degree from Harvard as a Rhodes scholar. From the moment she clapped eyes on him, she decided that she would marry him. The Circle was his legacy and she would maintain it until her last breath. However, she could not dispel the feeling that she was trying to support a structure that was already collapsing. The man who sat at the table with her, Sir Philip Lattimer, was a pygmy in comparison to her husband. The men who had created and sustained the Circle were gone. Lattimer represented the new generation and she was aware that he saw her as an anachronism. Nothing would please him more than to pack her off to her villa in Antibes. All he needed was a reason.
‘They began looking for Evans at Ballynahone today.’ Lattimer was cradling a brandy in his hand. He had the ruddy look of a country squire. But although his day job was running an estate of more than five thousand acres, he was also an astute businessman who sat on the boards of more than a dozen publicly listed companies.
McCann smiled. Did Lattimer think that Evans might be the straw that would break her back? ‘Carlisle was a fool to keep a map of his final resting place. That piece of paper should have been incinerated immediately.
‘They’ll find him eventually.’ Lattimer sipped his brandy. Helen McCann was one of the best-preserved women he had seen. He had no idea whether nature or the plastic surgeon’s scalpel was responsible but, if required, he would guess her age to be fifteen years less than what he knew it was.
‘And?’
‘It was a decision of my father and your husband that put him in the ground.’
‘And both of them are dead.’
‘The police will still investigate.’
‘Let them. They’ll find nothing. All the principals are dead.’
‘Rice is still alive.’
‘He could give them Carlisle but no one else. And Carlisle is dead, so the trail ends there. But you have something in mind?’
‘We may be required to give an explanation that will close the case completely.’
‘Yes.’
‘Our Italian friends have ensured that the details of Gladio are well known. You can go on Wikipedia and discover that there was a branch of Gladio established in Northern Ireland. But you cannot find the names of the individuals who belonged to that branch of the organisation.’ He paused waiting for an answer.
‘Continue,’ McCann said.
‘Gladio is defunct. The weapons the Americans left behind are rusted antiques. The couple of million dollars they contributed to our coffers have been written off. I think we should already prepare a story that will put the murder of Evans to bed without exposing the fact that the money from Gladio helped to maintain and expand the Circle.’
‘And how will we do that?’
‘A document could be discovered here at Coleville Hall which would explain my father’s and your husband’s involvement in Gladio and their decision to assassinate a dangerous communist at the behest of their American masters.’
‘The CIA would issue a disclaimer.’
‘It’s the shadow world. Nothing is what it seems. Nobody would believe them.’
‘You want to hand them your father and James McCann on a platter. You want them to be labelled murderers.’ McCann’s voice was strident.
‘I want to separate the present from the past.’
McCann had always hoped that her daughter, Kate, would take over the mantle from her but she accepted that that hope was lost. ‘I won’t countenance such an idea.’
‘We need to have something in hand which explains Evans’s death.’
‘Well think of something that doesn’t sully my husband’s name.’
‘I have no intention of sullying anyone’s name. They will be presented as patriots who signed on to protect the free world from Communism. They were men of their time. It was the forties and fifties. It was the Cold War, and Evans was the only out-and-out communist we had.’
‘I’m not sure about this course of action. I’ll think about it.’
Lattimer finished his brandy. ‘The decision has already been taken. I just wanted to keep you in the loop.’
McCann was too old to register the shock she felt. In her mind she was the Circle. No decision could be taken without her accord. She smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I see. Perhaps you would have someone call my driver.’
‘Of course.’ Lattimer put his Waterford brandy snifter on the table and stood.
McCann waited until he had left the room to stand. She wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t stumble when her legs took her weight. It was the first shot in what might prove a short war. She walked slowly and deliberately towards the door through which Lattimer had disappeared. On the way she passed a mirror and glanced into it. She didn’t recognise the woman reflected in the glass. It could have been her mother. She immediately straightened her back. The reflection wasn’t the real Helen McCann. She still had control over the money and whoever controlled the purse strings controlled the Circle. She may have lost round one but the fight was not yet lost.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Richie Simpson slept fitfully. At some point in the middle of the night he had awoken to the fact that he was a dead man. He hadn’t become a dead man when he shot off his mouth in the Brown Bear. Neither had he become a dead man when Davie Best had forced him to put a bullet into Sammy Rice’s head. He had signed his own death warrant when he had accepted £5,000 from Jackie Carlisle to arrange the death of Sammy Rice. It was strange but he felt a certain peace when he realised that he was dead. It was something akin to the peace a suicide feels when they have made the decision to end it all. He had played every possible scenario over in his mind. The result of every one had him in a coffin at the conclusion, except for one. He could go to Ian Wilson and spill every detail of Rice’s death. After all, he had been forced to fire the fatal shot. He had no intention of following through when he had acce
pted the money from Carlisle. Wilson was a sensible man. He wasn’t sure that the PSNI had a witness protection programme but if they had Wilson would surely put him on it. He would have to become a bottle-washer in a restaurant somewhere in Cornwall but at least he would be still alive. And if his evidence managed to put Best and Ray Wright in jail, he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder. But what if they got off? Then he would be toast. There wasn’t a witness protection programme in existence that would keep him safe from the McGreary mob. But it was his only chance. He didn’t need to make up his mind now. He would sleep on it. If only he could sleep.
Davie Best rolled away from the woman he had been attempting to have sex with.
‘It’s alright darlin’,’ the woman said lighting a cigarette. ‘It happens to everyone. They say it’s stress.’
Best turned and punched the woman in the face sending the cigarette flying across the room. The woman tumbled off the edge of the bed and started crying. They were in a private room in one of the crew’s brothels. ‘Get your fucking clothes on and get out,’ Best said, ‘and keep your fucking mouth shut.’ Right now, he needed a good fuck not pop psychology from a prostitute. Davie Best had never failed to perform. He wasn’t supposed to feel stress. He had tramped across the Iraqi desert, and gone hand to hand with the Taliban in Afghanistan. He was as tough as they come. And yet, his erection had let him down. Richie fucking Simpson. He scarcely noticed the woman putting on her clothes and rushing from the room. He lit a cigarette and lay back on the bed. He pulled hard on it drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. You can run but you can’t hide, he thought. Simpson didn’t have much money so he wouldn’t run far. Ulster was a big province but he had connections everywhere. Sooner or later Simpson would stick his ugly mug above the parapet and when he did, Best would be there. ‘You’re fucking dead,’ he shouted.
