Yield Up the Dead

by Derek Fee

  Both men nodded.

  ‘What the hell are you waiting for? On your way.’

  Browne and Davidson left the room quickly.

  Wilson sat in his chair behind his desk. They were finally going to clear up Sammy Rice’s disappearance and his probable murder. Simpson would place McGreary and Best at the scene of Rice’s murder. It would be direct evidence. He would immediately get a search warrant for McGreary and Best’s homes. He needed to find the weapon that had been used to kill Rice and he needed to find the body. McGreary would hire the best barrister available and only a watertight case would put the two of them away. Step one was getting Simpson back to Belfast.

  As soon as Simpson finished the phone call with Wilson, he needed to use the toilet. He was still wondering whether he had done the right thing. There was still two hours to change his mind. He could clear out of Bundoran and head south. He could disappear for a second time only this time he wouldn’t contact Wilson. But how long could he stay ahead of the posse? Wilson would still be looking for him and McGreary would be right behind him. He lay down on the small bed in his room. In two and a half hours the die would be cast. It was all about survival. He prayed that Wilson would be his best shot.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Willie Rice was sitting in the living room of his son’s house in Ballygomartin Road. He was staring at two photographs that had been taken by the cleaning lady from the whiteboards in the murder squad room. His son’s photo was at the top of one of the whiteboards. Underneath was the legend “wanted in relation to the murders of David Grant and Brian Malone currently missing”. Willie had no idea whether his son was involved with the murders but Sammy had been off the rails for months and was liable to do something stupid. Under the legend was a photo of the warehouse in East Belfast and a close-up of the bloodstains on the floors. The smaller bloodstain had been identified as belonging to Davie Best, Gerry McGreary’s right-hand man. The larger one had Sammy’s name on it. He wondered how that had come about. Despite his reputation as one of the main gang leaders in Belfast, the police had never lifted Sammy. Willie knew that his son had protection at the highest level. To his knowledge Sammy’s DNA had never been taken. So, how could the police have identified the larger bloodstain as Sammy’s? Willie had been on the dry for almost six weeks. He knew that he needed to have his wits about him if he was going to keep things together until Sammy returned. He stared at the large bloodstain. What the hell was he thinking? If that was Sammy’s blood, he wasn’t coming back. Sammy’s disappearance and McGreary’s encroachments on his territory weren’t his only problems. Three months previously he’d noticed blood in his piss. He’d waited a month until he visited a doctor and when he did it was bad news. In the course of a year, his life had turned to shit. His wife, Lizzie, had been murdered and was now in the ground in Roselawn Cemetery. His son had disappeared and was almost certainly dead. Then he was given a death sentence by the oncologist. Maybe there was such a thing as karma. Perhaps his wife and his son were paying the price for his misdeeds. He’d followed the progress of the dig in Ballynahone. They’d managed to unearth Evans and the tart that was with him. Evans and the woman weren’t the only two that he’d killed. He never thought of his victims. They didn’t swirl around in his head and keep him awake at night. That was the stuff of films. Now he was on his way out, he wondered whether Evans, the tart and the others would be waiting for him on the far side. Maybe there was time for one last fling. There was no great enthusiasm within his crew for a war with McGreary. But if it were ever confirmed that McGreary had murdered his son, there would be hell to play. He looked at the bottles of booze sitting on the sideboard. He would give anything to get off his head but he knew that would get him nowhere. He missed Lizzie and he missed Sammy. They hadn’t been much of a family but things might have been different if they hadn’t been consumed by the “Troubles”. But that was all water under the bridge. He was alone and he was dying. His future consisted of a hospital or hospice bed and a nation of pain. That wasn’t going to happen. He stood and went to the corner of the room. Pulling back the carpet he lifted the two loose floorboards and took out a chamois bag. He replaced the boards and sat down. The chamois bag was in his lap. He opened it slowly and revealed a Beretta 70 .22calibre pistol. It was his favourite weapon for over thirty years and had been used in seven murders. It was about to be used again.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Sir Phillip Lattimer was driving towards the family pile outside Ballymoney. He had spent a very pleasant evening in the company of some German businessmen. They had dined at EIPIC in Deane’s and enjoyed a very good meal. There was only one problem. His driver had texted earlier in the evening and called off sick. It was too late to arrange an alternative driver. Lattimer didn’t mind driving himself to and from Belfast. In fact, at this time of year he positively enjoyed it. However, when he entertained potential business partners, he was fond of having a few glasses of wine with his meal. The current police approach to drink driving precluded him for imbibing his usual amount of alcohol. Still, it had been a productive dinner and Lattimer was sure that he would soon be adding another directorship to his already long list and depositing a six-figure sum in his bank as a result. He was therefore in a very good mood and didn’t notice the Toyota Landcruiser that slid in behind him as soon as he left Howard Street. He had arranged some female companions for his new German friends, and he was looking forward to their golf game at Royal Portrush the following day. All was well in Sir Phillip’s world as he steered his BMW 750 north and out of Belfast. He turned on the radio and chose a disk of Karajan and the Berliner Philharmoniker playing Beethoven’s Symphony No 7. He decided to take the M2 and drove north listening to the music and watching the evening light fade. With a bit of luck he would be at Coleville within the hour where he would enjoy a stiff brandy in the study before retiring. He would limit himself to a single drink since he was due on the tee at ten in the morning. The road was relatively clear and he made good time to the junction of the A26 heading north. The Landcruiser had kept pace with him on the way out of Belfast but dropped back by fifty metres when they moved onto the A26. Lattimer kept the BMW just under the speed limit although the car occasionally tried to power ahead like a racehorse that was being held back. He skirted the town of Ballymena and kept moving north. Just outside the town of Cloughmills, he turned onto the A44. Darkness had already descended and the trees that lined the road cast ominous shadows. In many areas the tops of the trees had grown over the road joining their colleagues on the other side giving the effect of driving through a dark tunnel. He was five miles from Coleville Hall when he noticed a large four-by-four closing rapidly on him. Some of the young bucks in the area should never have been given a driving licence, he thought as he watched the dark shape approaching in the rear mirror. He smiled when he thought about the way he and his friends used to drive around these quiet country roads. The four-by-four was now directly behind him and he could see two dark shapes in the front seats. There was a straight road coming up and it would be the ideal place to let them past. As soon as he hit the straight, he dropped his speed. The four-by-four overtook him and pulled in front. Suddenly it stopped and if it hadn’t been for the fantastic brakes on the BMW he would have driven into the other car. The passenger door of the four-by-four opened and a man got out. Lattimer almost wet himself when he saw that the man was wearing a balaclava and holding a pistol in his right hand. He dropped his hand down to the gear lever to put the car into reverse. There were two reasons he didn’t engage. First, he would have to reverse at speed around a sharp corner, and secondly the man who exited the car was pointing the gun directly at him. Oh Christ, he thought, I’m going to die, just when everything was going so well.

  The man with the gun opened the driver’s side door. ‘Out,’ he said simply

  The driver from the four-by-four got out of his car carrying a black bin bag. He joined his colleague. Both men were well built and their features were totally
covered by the balaclavas. They were dressed all in black and wore beanies on their heads. Only their eyes showed.

  Lattimer got out of the car. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ he pleaded. He was about to fall on his knees but the driver grabbed his sleeve and kept him standing. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ the driver said.

  Lattimer started undressing but his hands were shaking so much he had difficulty undoing the buttons of his shirt. He stopped and looked at the two men. ‘I have money. I’ll pay you well.’

  The man from the passenger side pointed the gun at him. ‘He said get your clothes off.’

  Lattimer returned to unbuttoning his shirt. He wanted to cry. The driver held out the bin bag and Lattimer dropped his jacket and shirt into it.

  ‘The rest,’ the driver of the four-by-four motioned at his trousers. ‘You can leave your underpants on.’

  Lattimer was working hard at controlling his sphincter. After all, he came from good stock. His ancestors had fought with King William at the Boyne. He removed his trousers, then his shoes and stockings and placed them in the bin bag. Finally, he stood on the side of the road in his underpants.

  The driver closed the bin bag. ‘Your watch.’

  Lattimer stared at the gold Rolex Datejust on his left wrist. He started to unfasten the clasp. At this moment, he would have handed over his wife for their pleasure. He handed over the watch. £25,000, he thought as he passed it over. It would have been cheap at twice the price. Phillip Lattimer’s skin was valuable, to Phillip Lattimer.

  The driver of the four-by-four dropped the watch into his pocket and took out a mobile phone. He took a picture of Lattimer standing on the side of the road in his underpants with his ample stomach hanging over the waistband. He then started walking back towards his vehicle.

  The man with the gun motioned Lattimer into the BMW.

  Lattimer took his place behind the steering wheel and waited.

  The man with the gun retreated down the road and climbed into the four-by-four. The car moved off at pace down the straight.

  Lattimer fell across the steering wheel and tears of relief streamed down his face. What the hell had that been about? It didn’t matter. He had survived. It wouldn’t just be a small brandy in the study. It would be several large brandies. He wondered whether his wife was in bed. He wouldn’t like her to see him arriving in his underpants. There would be too many questions. After he composed himself, he started the car and moved slowly forward. His hands were still shaking.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Wilson spent the evening at his desk. The thought that he hadn’t eaten in seven hours never came into his mind. The results of the DNA had confirmed that the woman in the single grave was indeed Francis McComber. He was still waiting on the DNA confirmation on Alan Evans. A mountain of paperwork had built up over the past week. Most of it was rubbish but there were a couple of minor fires that if left undone, might graduate to fully-fledged blazes. He kept his eye on the clock as he ploughed through the emails and the reports that had piled up on his desk. It was almost eight thirty when Browne called and confirmed that they had picked up Simpson and were on their way back to Belfast. Their estimated arrival time was eleven o’clock at night. Wilson looked at the pile of papers before him. It was going to be a late night. He decided to work until ten o’clock and then take a short nap.

  The sound of his mobile brought him out of his nap. Browne and Graham were ten minutes away. Wilson had arranged for the interview room. He rose slowly from his chair and stretched. He went downstairs and waited in the reception area.

  ‘Late night, boss?’ the duty sergeant said.

  ‘It’s going to be a lot later. You have any tea on?’

  ‘We always have a pot on brew during the night.’

  ‘Organise four cups of tea for the interview room.’

  Five minutes later Browne and Davidson entered the station with Simpson between them. Wilson led the three towards the interview room. Simpson looked like a wet rag. His hair was lank and looked stuck to his head and he was gaunter than Wilson remembered him. The four men entered the interview room. Simpson wasn’t shackled. He was a witness not a criminal. He slumped into a chair on one side of the table. Wilson and Browne sat opposite him while Davidson stood at the door.

  ‘You look like you could do with a good night’s sleep,’ Wilson said when they were seated.

  Simpson lifted his head. ‘You don’t sleep too well when you’re being pursued by the Peelers on one hand and Davie Best on the other.’

  ‘You made the right choice,’ Wilson said. ‘We’re going to record and video this interview. I’m going to ask Detective Sergeant Browne to do the preliminaries.’

  Browne turned on the recording equipment and identified the four men in the room. When he had finished, the door opened and a uniformed constable entered carrying a tray on which there were four cups, a jug of milk, a plate of digestive biscuits and a few sachets of sugar. He placed the tray on the table. Then he left.

  ‘We wish to ask you some questions relating to events that took place in a warehouse at ...’ Wilson looked at Davidson who gave the exact address. ‘Do you wish to have a solicitor present?’

  Simpson shook his head.

  ‘Please speak for the tape,’ Browne said.

  ‘No,’ Simpson said. ‘I want to place it on the record that I have been promised police protection and entry to the witness protection programme for my evidence.’

  ‘Would you like to tell us in your own words what happened in the warehouse?’

  ‘Gerry McGreary and Davie Best had lured Sammy Rice to the warehouse on the pretence that he was going to meet Big George Carroll. Instead McGreary, Best, Ray Wright and me were waiting there. As soon as Rice arrived, they disarmed him. Best had something personal against him. He hit Rice and knocked him to the ground. Then Rice was shot in the head.’

  Wilson frowned. The statement was just one step above “no comment”. It was going to be a long night. ‘Who was present when Sammy Rice was shot?’

  ‘Best, Wright and me.’ Simpson took one of the cups and poured three sachets of sugar into the tea.

  ‘Where was McGreary?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘He left just before Rice was shot.’ Simpson sipped his tea.

  Davidson moved from the door and placed a cup in front of Wilson and Browne and took one for himself.

  ‘But he gave the order?’ Wilson put a shot of milk into his tea. It wasn’t good news that McGreary wasn’t present. He would claim that the others acted without him.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘OK, why did they decide to kill Rice?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘They didn’t say. Maybe it had something to do with business.’

  Wilson leaned forward. ‘You’re standing in a warehouse in East Belfast and one of the city’s main gang leaders is lying on the floor. Who made the decision to shoot him? Was it McGreary or Best?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘We have a real problem here, Richie,’ Wilson said. ‘To join the witness protection programme you have to be a witness. It’s in the title of the programme. So far, you’re falling short of that description. You better start remembering something soon or I’m going to toss you out on the street, and you know what that will mean.’

  Simpson rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t thought that telling the truth would be so hard and there were parts of the story of what happened in the warehouse that he would rather keep to himself. However, it was becoming clear to him that Wilson was going to keep on probing until he had every scrap of the story. He had two choices: he could let Wilson drag the story out of him or he could start telling what he knew. Whatever choice he made the results would be the same. Wilson would have the truth. ‘Maybe I should start at the beginning.’

  Wilson could see that Simpson had decided to tell the full story. The only need for questioning would relate to clarification.

  ‘It al
l began with a visit to Jackie Carlisle,’ Simpson began. He related how his former mentor had paid him £5,000 as a down-payment to arrange the killing of Sammy Rice. He had tried to enlist the Fenians but had failed. Davie Best had got wind of his search for a hit man to kill Sammy. So, when Sammy had tried to kill Big George Carroll, Best and Wright had lured Sammy to the warehouse on the pretext of meeting Big George. There they had outmanoeuvred him and taken away his weapon. McGreary had left before Rice was dispatched. Simpson had left before Best and Wright had dealt with the body.

  ‘Good man, Richie,’ Wilson said when Simpson finally stopped speaking. ‘You were there when Rice was shot. Who pulled the trigger?’

  Simpson remained silent.

  ‘Come on, Richie,’ Wilson said. ‘We’re almost there. Best or Wright, which one pulled the trigger?’

  ‘They made me,’ Simpson shouted. ‘They put Sammy’s gun in my hand and told me if I didn’t pull the trigger I’d go first. I had no choice, they were going to kill me if I didn’t do what they said.’

  Wilson, Browne and Graham looked from one to the other. This was a twist that they hadn’t planned on. ‘You fired the shot that killed Sammy Rice?’ Wilson said after a short delay.

  Simpson didn’t answer.

  ‘Where’s the gun?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Best took it.’ Simpson’s eyes looked glazed. ‘He dropped it in a plastic bag. It’s still got my fingerprints on it. He called it his “insurance” on my silence.’