by Derek Fee
‘You must have something very important to trade with.’
‘I can tell you what happened to Sammy Rice.’
Wilson decided to take a chance. ‘We already know that he was shot and killed in a warehouse in East Belfast.’ He could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. ‘And we know that Davie Best was there.’
‘Oh Christ,’ Simpson’s voice was cracking. ‘They’ll think I squealed for sure.’
‘So, you were there too?’
‘I’m not saying anymore. You fix it for me to be safe on the mainland and I’ll tell you everything. I’ll call the day after tomorrow. Jackie always said you were the most honest copper on the force. If you tell me that you’ve arranged what I’ve asked, I’m going to trust you.’
‘Give me your number?’
Simpson laughed. ‘I’ll call the day after tomorrow.’
Wilson said. ‘If I’m not in the office, here’s my mobile number.’ He called out his number. As soon as he’d finished, the line went dead. Simpson was in the wind again. It would be a race as to who found him first. Right now, Wilson was in the lead in that race. He’d had contact with Simpson but that lead could be easily cut and McGreary and Best could overtake him if they located the whereabouts of Simpson. Going dark takes money and skills that few people have. He had no idea how much money Simpson had but he assumed he was of limited means. Working as an assistant to a politician doesn’t normally develop the skills that are required to go on the run successfully although being an assistant to a politician in Belfast would certainly develop some evasive skills. McGreary had Loyalist contacts throughout the province. He might also be able to plug into Republican circles. Simpson would give him McGreary and Best. He would have preferred Rice but he was pretty sure that Sammy would not appear. He picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Is she available?’ he said as soon as the phone was answered. ‘Tell her I need to see her now.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Yvonne Davis was a thirty-year veteran of the PSNI. She had come up the hard way. After police college, she had spent ten years on the beat before being promoted to sergeant. It took another seven years to make inspector, then five more for chief inspector and finally eight more to arrive at the exalted rank of Chief Superintendent. She had survived years of sexual remarks and stopped counting the number of times her arse and breasts were touched, accidentally, of course. She had made a million cups of tea and suffered a thousand indignities. Along the way, she had lost her marriage and her husband, and if she was forced to admit it she had also lost her family. Her two sons and daughter rarely contacted her and she could understand why. She had never been there for them. They resented her not only for neglecting her role as a mother but also for neglecting it for something as pointless as breaking the glass ceiling. Her pursuit of the brass ring had cost her everything and as a prize she had been given charge of one of the most difficult stations in the most difficult city in the province. She was seeing a psychotherapist and she knew that she was drinking too much. Some days she broke into crying fits that left her feeling exhausted. She had hoped to ease herself into her new job but that had been a pipe dream. The common perception was that crime in the province was decreasing. That might be true for violent crime but her patch was replete with other crimes: burglary was rampant, drugs were everywhere, public order offences relating to alcohol, sexual offences and the ever-present hate crimes. She had come to the conclusion that someone at HQ hated her. And now Wilson wanted to see her urgently. She’d heard that Wilson attracted trouble the way shit attracted flies. And trouble was something that she certainly didn’t need at the moment. So it was with a deep sigh of resignation that when she heard the knock on her door she uttered the words ‘Come in.’
Wilson entered Davis’s office. His new boss looked tired. Running a station could do that to you. He had never harboured a desire to sit at the top of the tree and he never envied those that did. He could see by her face that his visit was an unwelcome one.
‘Sit!’ She pushed some paper aside and nodded at her visitor’s chair. “What’s the matter?’
Wilson gave her a condensed version of his conversation with Richie Simpson. ‘He won’t come in unless we can assure him of his safety. Quite honestly I don’t blame him. He can probably put two of the most dangerous men in Belfast behind bars. They’ve been scouring the city for him over the past few days and by now they’ve extended their search province-wide. We have the march on them at the moment but that might not last long. So the question is, are we going to comply with his conditions?’
‘Are we going to have to?’ She was contemplating another trip to Castlereagh and another discussion with Nicholson about budgets.
‘He won’t come in otherwise. And if you want an educated guess, the longer we wait the more chance there is that when he does come in, it’ll be in a pine box.’
‘And without his evidence?’
‘Without his evidence we have nothing. We can place Best in the warehouse where we believe Sammy Rice was murdered but we have no evidence linking him with the murder.’
‘How much time do we have?’ She was thinking about the decision making process in HQ.
‘We don’t have any. Simpson is here today. Tomorrow who knows where he’ll be. You’ll need to go to the Chief Constable.’
‘I’ll call Castlereagh.’
‘You want me along?’
‘No, I’ll go myself. When do you expect a call from Simpson?’
‘I don’t know. He’ll probably give us a day to get organised. Don’t accept a move to Scotland. McGreary will have contacts there.’
‘What about Ballynahone?’
‘Reid is doing the autopsies at the Royal. I sent DC Graham to attend. We have a name for the woman who was found in the communal grave. I’m having her checked out at the moment. We’re really stretched.’
‘Aren’t we all? Keep me informed and I’ll let you know how the Simpson business goes.’
‘Sorry for dropping all this in your lap.’ He stood up.
‘It comes with the territory I suppose.’ There was a tone of resignation in her voice.
‘It gets easier with time.’ He half-smiled. It was a lie but it was what she needed to hear. The truth would send her rushing through an open window.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Harry Graham hated autopsies. He had seen dozens of dead bodies during his career and corpses didn’t freak him out. It was all the messy things that were inside and had to be taken out, weighed, examined and put back in. He was already gowned up and standing to the side of the table that contained what was left of the corpse of the man taken from the grave in Ballynahone. It didn’t look like any corpse that Graham had ever seen. It was more like a large lump of brown mud with tattered bits of clothing. Professor Reid was busy hosing down the corpse with water. The mud and bits of earth were sluiced into the channels that normally drained away blood. The third occupant of the autopsy room, a female technician from FSNI, had fitted a fine mesh over the drain to catch any particles that might be washed away. Graham watched as the body gradually took on a shape that resembled a human being. Gradually bones, bits of skin and some hair appeared out of the mud. The bits of clothing that were freed by the action of the water were collected and bagged by the technician. After an hour of careful cleaning, the body of a man was exposed. Graham was amazed by the state of preservation. The skin was stained dark brown but the features were recognisable. ‘Amazing,’ he said when Reid had finished.
‘Not really,’ Reid said. ‘Bodies buried in bogs a lot longer than this one have been preserved. Bogs consist primarily of decayed vegetal materials that inhibits decomposition in organic material due to constant wetness, acidic makeup and anaerobic conditions. The presence of mosses in the bogs further aid in preservation, as they act as an anti-bacterial. When a body is buried in a bog the cold water prevents putrefaction, the conditions of the bog prevent decomposition of proteins and tissue in the body, and further the lack
of oxygen inhibits insect activity.’
Graham and Reid watched as the FSNI technician took photographs of the body from every angle. When she was finished, Reid pulled down the microphone and took up a scalpel. ‘The body is that of a male of somewhere between thirty and forty years of age,’ Reid said. The scalpel cut though the skin with the sound of a knife cutting through leather. An hour later, she switched off the microphone. ‘I need a coffee,’ she said to Graham. ‘And I’m sure your boss is anxious to hear from you.’ She strode off in the direction of her office.
Graham went out into the corridor, pulled out his mobile and hit the contact for Wilson.
‘Harry’ Wilson said when he answered. ‘What news?’
‘Professor Reid has finished the autopsy on the man.’
‘And?’
‘He was shot in the face. She recovered a.22 bullet from the skull. It would have made a right mess of his brain pinging around in there.’
‘What about the DNA?’
‘She thinks she has enough material to get a DNA sample. There was a FSNI technician here who bagged everything. We should have a ballistics report and a DNA analysis in a couple of days.’
‘Good man, stay where you are until the other two bodies are autopsied.’
‘What are you up to, boss?’
‘I’m off to Queen’s University to see a man about breaking a code.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The office of the Queen’s University Philosophy Department is located at twenty-six University Way. The row of three-storey Georgian red-bricked houses that were taken over by the university would once have been one of the most imposing and elegant addresses in Belfast. Wilson considered himself lucky to find parking on the street at the end furthest away from the official university parking. He placed his “Police officer on duty” card in the window before making his way to number twenty-six. All the houses in the row were associated with some department or other of the university. Number twenty-six had a series of stone steps leading though a small garden to a stout pink door. A brass plaque on the wall to the right of the door identified the building as the School of Politics, International Studies and Philosophy. Wilson pushed open the front door, entered and found that reception was in the first floor room directly inside the door. There were two ladies in the front room both sitting in front of twenty-three-inch computer screens. They looked up when he entered.
‘Superintendent Wilson.’ He stood in the doorway. ‘I have a meeting with Professor Gowan.’
‘First floor,’ the nearest woman said. ‘Up the stairs and end of the corridor. I think he’s in.’
‘Thanks,’ Wilson smiled. He made his way up the stairs to the first floor and located the room at the end of the corridor bearing the legend “Professor Michael Gowan”. He knocked and pushed the door open.
The room looked like a bomb had hit it. Papers and books were strewn on a bookcase, the desk and even the chairs. Queen’s University professors certainly hadn’t heard about the paperless office. A small man sat behind a desk that was so laden with papers and books that he was almost completely hidden.
‘Professor Gowan?’ Wilson asked.
‘Yes,’ Gowan stood. He was a slight man of advanced middle age. He was bald but had allowed the little hair he had to grow long at the back where it almost touched his collar. His eyes were a clear blue and his nose prominent. ‘I suppose you’re Superintendent Wilson.’ The accent was more English than Northern Irish.
‘Ian Wilson.’ He entered the room and closed the door behind him. ‘I got your name from George Tunney at FSNI.’
‘Yes,’ Gowan extended his hand and Wilson took it. ‘Please sit down, superintendent.’ He noticed that both his visitors’ chairs were in use. ‘Hand me that stack of papers.’
Wilson picked up the papers and handed them over. Then he sat on the chair.
Gowan took the papers and deposited them on a clear corner of his desk. ‘George and I play a game of chess every couple of weeks or so. How can I help you?’ Gowan was certainly English. Wilson thought the accent was Yorkshire.
‘George tells me that you’re something of a code breaker,’ Wilson began.
Gowan laughed. ‘I would consider myself more of a puzzler than a code breaker.’
Wilson took one of the black Moleskine notebooks from his pocket. ‘This notebook belonged to Jackie Carlisle. You may have heard of him, he was a local politician.’
‘This is the School of Politics, International Relations and Philosophy, superintendent. You don’t have to explain anything about politics to me. I am well aware as to who Jackie Carlisle was.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s a habit to think I have to explain everything. As I was saying, this is one of Carlisle’s notebooks. He’s been mentioned in a case and a lot of this book is in code. We don’t have code breakers in the PSNI so that’s why I’ve come to you. But as you might be aware the situation is sensitive. There may be issues of confidentiality.’
‘I understand, show me the notebook.’
Wilson handed it across and watched while Gowan flicked through the pages.
‘Interesting,’ Gowan said. ‘I’m intrigued. What’s the case you’re investigating?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘I’ll draw my own conclusions. The code associated with the letters is probably breakable. The symbols are quite another matter. I’d like to give it a crack. It all depends whether you’re ready to trust me when I say that what I find will stay between you and I.’
‘I need to find out what’s in that book and two others that I have in my possession. Right now you’re my only hope of accomplishing that. So, I have to trust you. How long do you think it’ll take you to crack the code?’
‘I have no idea. I’m not a professional code breaker. I’ll contact you when I have something. It might be tomorrow or it might be in six months. It depends how obtuse Mr Carlisle was.’
Wilson took a card from his pocket and handed it to Gowan. ‘My mobile number is there. Call me anytime, day or night.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Wilson decided to make a detour on his way back to the station. As he was leaving University Way, he telephoned Karin Faulkner and asked whether he could drop around. He was half-surprised when she said yes. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the imposing Faulkner residence in Stormont Wood. There was a vintage red Mercedes 280 SL parked in the drive. Before he could knock, the door opened and Karin Faulkner invited him in.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Wilson said. ‘As I’m sure you’ve heard, your ex-husband’s case is progressing.’
‘I read the papers.’ She led the way into the living room. ‘Has Alan been identified?’ She motioned for Wilson to sit down.
‘We’ve recovered the body of a man along with the bodies of two women. One of the women was in the same grave as the man. And I hasten to add that the man is as yet unidentified.’
‘I see.’ She sat opposite him. She was wearing a white silk blouse matched with a pair of black silk harem trousers. ‘It’ll turn out to be Alan. So one of the women was with him when he was killed.’
‘It looks that way. Did you ever hear your husband speak about a student called Jennifer Bowe?’
She paused for a second. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure? It was a long time ago.’
‘I’m quite certain. Alan and I never spoke of other women.’
‘Was he attracted to other women?’
She laughed. ‘He was a man. Aren’t they all?’
‘We’ve been struggling with a motive for killing your husband. We can’t think of any reason why either the IRA or the UDA might want him dead.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘In the absence of a political motive you’ve come to ask whether Alan might have been killed because he was having an affair with this student.’
‘That thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Have you decided whether it was the student’s former boyfriend or me who’s
responsible for the killing?’
‘It’s like Sherlock Holmes said, “When you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. ‘We’re not quite there yet. However, we are having difficulty formulating a hypothesis for murdering your husband and disappearing both him and this young lady.’
‘And a crime of passion would be a convenient motive,’ she said calmly. ‘I understand it’s a line of enquiry you have to follow but I assure you I had no part in my ex-husband’s death. He may have wandered but by the time he disappeared I wouldn’t really have cared less. Even then I was getting ready to divorce him. So be my guest. Look into my past. Do your job. Is that it?’
Wilson stood. She was a formidable woman and he had a feeling that she was telling the truth. That didn’t mean that he wouldn’t put it past her to commit murder. However, he could well imagine if she wanted rid of her husband she would go the legal route. ‘For the moment. The male was autopsied this morning and a DNA sample taken. I hope we’ll have a positive identification in the next day or so. We may need you to make a formal identification.’
‘He has a brother.’ She led him towards the door.
‘I’ve met him.’ Wilson followed behind.
‘I’d prefer if you asked him.’
‘I’ll see what we can do.’
She opened the front door and made way for him to leave.
He stood in the open doorway and turned back to face her. ‘One final question, did you know Jackie Carlisle?’
‘What a peculiar question. How is that relevant?’
“Did you know him?’
‘I met him once or twice. My current husband did some work for him at some point. ‘
‘So your husband and he were friends?’
‘That’s not what I said. They did some business together.’
‘Thank you.’ Wilson turned to go. ‘Please call me if you think of anything else, especially relating to Jennifer Bowe.’
