by Derek Fee
Wilson was running through the possibilities in his mind. McGreary was almost certainly going to slide. They could try to get him for conspiracy but he doubted if the CPS would go ahead with a case. He wasn’t present when the deed was done and he didn’t give the order to Simpson. Best would contest that he instructed Simpson to shoot Rice and Wright would back him up. He could certainly get them for moving the body but when the gun was produced and the fingerprints checked, Richie Simpson would be in the frame. Richie had walked into the interview as a witness to a murder and was now the prime suspect. ‘Sergeant Browne, would you please do the necessary.’
Browne stood. ‘Mr Simpson would you please stand.’
Simpson stood up slowly.
‘Richard Simpson,’ Browne said. ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Samuel Rice. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later depend on in court. Anything that you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘You’re entitled to a solicitor.’ Wilson was genuinely sorry for Simpson. He believed him that Best and Wright had threatened him with death if he didn’t fire the fatal shot into Rice. But it was going to be hell to prove. Best and Wright were well-known hard men. They would be difficult to crack, if not impossible. They would do time for interfering with the body but only if Rory and Peter could find CCTV footage of them removing the body from the warehouse. It was going to be a very difficult case but that wasn’t his problem. He was paid to collect and present the evidence. The CPS would have to make the decision about whom to prosecute and for what. ‘I suggest that you take up the option.’
Simpson sat down heavily. He looked dazed. ‘What about our deal? I’ll give evidence against the others but you can’t put me in jail in Ulster. I wouldn’t last a week. What about witness protection? I wouldn’t have come here without assurances that I’d be protected.’
‘But you weren’t just a witness, Richie,’ Wilson said. ‘You were the shooter. For God’s sake, I understand that they forced you and I’m sure that your brief will make that case. But I’m equally sure that Best and Wright will point the finger at you.’ He looked at his watch and nodded at Browne.
‘Interview suspended at 23.45.’ Browne switched off the recording equipment.
Peter Davidson collected the cups and replaced them on the tray. ‘Richie, come with me,’ he said. ‘I think a rest in one of the cells would do you a lot of good.’ He put his right hand under Simpson’s left arm and lifted him up gently.
‘Peter.’ Wilson stood. ‘Book Richie in and my office in fifteen.’
Davidson nodded.
Fifteen minutes later Wilson sat in his office with his ergonomic chair tilted back as far as it could go. He had pulled a lot of late nights during his career but he had been younger and keener then. He had been on the job for more than sixteen hours and the thought of his bed was preeminent in his mind. The Rice case was in the toilet. The man who had fired the shot would probably go down and so would Best and Wright but on much reduced charges. The latter two would serve a relatively modest sentence and then only if Browne and Davidson could find CCTV of them moving the body. McGreary would walk. Best and Wright would never divulge the whereabouts of Rice’s body. It was a toxic cocktail for him and the team and a disaster for Richie Simpson. Browne and Davidson sat across the desk from him. They looked as shattered as him and Peter, in particular, was beyond the age for handling sixteen-hour days.
‘We need that CCTV footage.’ Wilson was afraid that Browne and Davidson’s motivation would dip with the uncertainty of a decent conviction.
‘I’m all in, boss,’ Davidson said. ‘My brain has turned to mush. At least it’s a result. Simpson was stupid and he’s going to pay the price. McGreary and his crew will be laughing up their arses at us. Sammy’s been removed from the scene and the damage will be minimum. ’
‘It is what it is, Peter.’ Wilson flipped forward in his chair. “It’s time to go home. Rory will continue with the interview of Simpson tomorrow morning. Call the duty solicitor. We need someone in the room with him. Find some bloody CCTV footage of Best and Wright moving the body. We’re probably not going to get them for murder, but I want them banged up for the most time possible. Rory, we need a search warrant for the houses of Davie Best and Ray Wright. We’ll pick them up tomorrow. And I want everything we have on both of them. If I remember correctly, Wright has a sheet as long as my arm. I’m off to Hydebank in the morning. I have to give Maggie Cummerford the bad news about her mother.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Hydebank Wood is the principal women’s prison in Northern Ireland and is located in a leafy suburb of south Belfast. Wilson’s meeting with Maggie Cummerford was scheduled for ten am, which gave him just enough time to brief his boss about the events of the previous evening. Davis was of one mind with Peter Davidson: identifying Simpson as the murderer of Sammy Rice was a result and would save the taxpayer the cost of putting him in the witness protection programme. Wilson wasn’t so happy with the turn of events. Simpson fired the fatal shot but somewhere in the background was Jackie Carlisle. What interest had Carlisle in having Rice assassinated? He could see why McGreary and Best might want to see the back of one of their main competitors. But Carlisle was a different matter. Sammy Rice held the key to the deaths of Grant and Malone. He was the ultimate paymaster for the murderers, Baxter and Weir. With Rice gone the motive for the murder of Grant and Malone might never be known. If Rice’s body wasn’t located, Best and Wright might possibly walk alongside their boss. That wasn’t a result. It was a bloody disaster. And that wasn’t the only disaster he was facing. The news on the use of a well-known weapon in the Evans murder would send the investigation back to the sectarian track which both Wilson and his superior knew was a rat’s maze that would probably lead nowhere. Wilson wasn’t in the best of moods when he arrived before the gates of the prison ten minutes before the appointed time of his meeting. The prison consisted of two sections, Ash House contained women prisoners who had been either sentenced or were on remand while the other section housed male juvenile prisoners. The prison, as its name would suggest, was situated in a wooded area and was surrounded by green fields. Wilson showed his warrant card at the gate and was directed to the visitors’ car park to the right of the female section of the prison. Hydebank Wood was not the kind of maximum-security female prison that watchers of TV programmes might recognise. Wilson was aware that one murderess was currently on the run after failing to return from a day release job. He checked in at the reception and was led through a series of gated corridors to an interview room. Like the interview rooms at the station it was antiseptic and sparsely furnished with only a steel table and four chairs. A female warder entered and opened the door permitting Maggie Cummerford to enter. He had forgotten how slight she was. Her red checked shirt looked baggy on her small frame and her hair had been cut short. She was wearing a pair of cheap jeans that were a little too long with the bottoms rolled up. She didn’t look like the person who had murdered three women by cracking their skulls open.
She smiled as she entered the room. ‘Hello, Ian, couldn’t live without me?’
Wilson stood up. The bad mood he had when he entered the prison was dispelled somewhat by Maggie’s smiling face and cheery manner. Knowing her as he did, he knew that initially prison wouldn’t dampen her spirit. But ten years was a long time inside and he knew the Maggie Cummerford who eventually walked through the gate to freedom would bear little resemblance to the woman who had entered. ‘Good to see you, Maggie.’
They sat down on opposite sides of the table and watched as the female warder closed the door and stood beside it.
‘How’s it treating you, Maggie?’ Wilson said when they were settled.
‘It’s prison, Ian, not Club Med. It’s all about treating us badly so that we won’t want to come back here. Quite honestly, there are a lot of places I’d rather be but I suppose I shouldn’t have murdered tho
se three bitches. So, this obviously isn’t a social visit, otherwise you would have waited until visiting hours. What can I do for you?’
‘We‘re pretty sure that we’ve found your mother’s body.’
Cummerford started to breathe deeply. She sat up straight but couldn’t fight back the tears that started to run down her face. Wilson reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief and passed it to her. The female warder came forward, took the handkerchief and shook it loose before passing it to the tearful woman.
‘Where was she?’ The words came out hesitantly accompanied by sobs.
Wilson explained how the search for Evans’s body had led to the discovery of a second grave, which contained the body of a woman who they had identified as Francis McComber from a DNA match.
‘They put her in a hole in a bog.’ Cummerford dabbed her face with the handkerchief and pushed it across the table. ‘I want to see her.’
Wilson pushed the handkerchief back. He felt that she would need it later. ‘There’s not a lot to see. You might find it distressing.’
She smiled. ‘You’re talking to someone who cracked open the heads of three old ladies. I don’t distress easily.’
‘It’s your choice. I’ll talk to the powers that be. I’m sure something can be arranged.’
‘Who will arrange the funeral?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ll find out. Have you thought about the big man in your story?’
‘I was a child. Every man was big.’
Wilson removed a picture from his pocket. It was a thirty-year old photo of Willie Rice. At that time, he still had a head of bushy black hair and a drooping Viva Zapata moustache. He pushed the photo across the table. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
She took the photo in her fingers and raised it. She stared for several moments before replacing it on the table. ‘I really want to say that he’s the “big man” that put me in the car, but I’m not sure. Who is he?’
‘His name is William Rice. Lizzie Rice was his wife.’
‘Maybe it’s time to let this one go, Ian.’
‘Your mother was murdered and her body hidden. The people who murdered her have escaped justice. So did the man who buried her. We failed you once, I’d like to redress that failure by putting the man that buried her behind bars.’
‘Let it go.’ She stood up. ‘When can I see her?’
Wilson stood up. ‘Call your solicitor. She’ll be able to help.’
She turned towards the warder. ‘Can I hug him?’ she asked.
The warder nodded.
Cummerford hugged Wilson. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his shirt. She looked up into his face. ‘You’re a good man, Ian. Under different circumstances I think we might have been friends.’
He moved away from her. ‘Take care of yourself, Maggie. I’ll make sure your mother is laid to rest properly.’
He walked back through the corridors to the front of the building. Maggie was a survivor. He wouldn’t be surprised to hear sometime in the future that she had done a runner, but for now she looked settled. There was still plenty of money in his bank account from the sale of the Malwood Park House. Some of it would go into making sure that Maggie’s mother didn’t end up in a pauper’s grave. He stood by the car and removed Willie Rice’s picture from his pocket. Deep down he knew that Rice was the “big man” that had loaded Francis McComber into the boot of his car before putting her into a hole in Ballynahone bog. If that was the case, Rice could also have been involved in the murder of Alan Evans and the mysterious Jennifer Bowe. The question was, how was he going to prove it?
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
‘The drinks and lunch are on me.’ Sir Phillip Lattimer deposited the trolley holding his Callaway golf clubs on the gravel area in front of the clubhouse of Portstewart Golf Club. It had been both a pleasurable, and profitable morning for Lattimer. The morning was spectacular, the sun set off the wild north coast of Northern Ireland perfectly and the walk around one of the outstanding golf courses in the British Isles was absolutely delightful. Despite the fact that he hadn’t slept very well, he was on his game and had trousered a cool grand from his playing companions having won the front and back nines, and the overall score. However, every time he looked at his left hand he was reminded of how scared he had been for his life the previous evening. But that was all in the past. He was desperately in need of a drink and he ushered his German guests into the imposing clubhouse and in the direction of the bar. He nodded at several of the members and passed a word with some of them. Each generation of Lattimers had been members of Portstewart Golf Club since it was founded in 1894. Phillip Lattimer was known by and knew every member of the club. He made his way to the bar and gave his and his companions’ order. His new colleagues were in raptures about their morning’s golf and Lattimer would use the afternoon to cement their business relationship. As he turned away from the bar with three drinks in his hand, his eyes were drawn to a well-dressed lady sitting by the window overlooking the eighteenth hole of the Strand course. He almost dropped the drinks when he recognised Helen McCann sitting alone and staring directly at him. He quickly deposited the drinks with his business associates and made his way to Helen’s table. He sat down and put his drink in front of him. “I didn’t realise that you were a member here?’
Helen smiled. ‘I’m not.’
His sipped his gin and tonic. ‘So what brings you here?’
She crossed her legs showing a pair of shapely knees. ‘I came to see you.’
‘I’m impressed. You actually took time out to catch me at my golf club.’
She smiled. ‘I’ve been reflecting on our last meeting and I’ve been somewhat upset that you were beginning to think that I might be irrelevant.’
‘Not at all,’ he interjected and then smiled.
He was about to continue when she put her hand up to silence him. ‘So, I wondered what I could do to show you how mistaken you were.’
The smile faded on his face. His father had warned him about Helen McCann but that had been twenty years ago. Although she was well preserved, her powers had certainly waned in the meantime.
She opened her bag, produced a gold Rolex watch and held it dangling in the air by the wristband. ‘I understand you lost this last evening.’ She dropped the watch on the table and pushed it across to him.
He didn’t have to pick it up to see that it was indeed his. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Does it matter?’ She opened her mobile phone and showed him a picture of himself standing on the side of the road wearing only his underpants. ‘Do you still think that I’m irrelevant?’
He looked around quickly to see if anyone in the bar was looking in their direction. Luckily everyone seemed blissfully ignorant of the photo on the mobile phone. ‘You bloody bitch.’
‘Now, now, Phillip, remember all that noble blood coursing through your veins. Remember you’re a gentleman. You, and the tawdry toadies that you call friends, will never make me an irrelevance as long as there is breath in my body. Last night was just a little demonstration. You pleaded and cried, and you survived. You should rejoice. The next time you might not be so lucky.’ Her face suddenly took on a hard look. ‘You do not make any decisions regarding the Circle without my express approval. You will not throw my husband to the wolves. And you will tell the young Turks in the Circle that the organisation is in good hands. Now, Phillip darling, your Kraut friends are wondering why you left them for an old bitch like me. Take up your watch like a good man.’
He lifted up his watch and slipped it onto his wrist. It used to be his pride and joy but now it was a symbol of his weakness in the face of Helen McCann’s strength. He stood up and went to the bar. He ordered a double brandy and put on his business face. The prospect of an afternoon of Teutonic conversation suddenly didn’t seem so appealing. He would have preferred to crawl into some dark spot and lick his wounds. But there was money to be made. He forced a smile onto his face as he made his way to the G
ermans’ table. As he reached it, he glanced at the spot where Helen McCann had been sitting. There was no one there.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
It was after eleven o’clock when Wilson returned to the station. He went immediately to the squad room. He saw O’Neill and Davidson hunched over their computer screens watching grey images from CCTV cameras. He hoped that sooner or later they’d chance upon some footage of Sammy Rice being loaded into the boot of a car. It would be their only hope of nailing Best and Wright. When he entered his office, he saw that there were two files on his desk. One bore the legend Davie Best and the other Raymond Wright. He sat at his desk and picked up the file on Best. It consisted of ten A4 pages most bearing official logos associated with the British Army. Best was born in Belfast and had a non-descript upbringing until he hit eighteen. He was picked up for selling drugs and at his hearing it was suggested that if he entered the army the charges would be dropped. It was ten years later that he reappeared in Belfast. In the meantime, if the documents in the file were accurate, the army had turned him into a killing machine. He had completed one tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. In both theatres he had seen considerable action. Before being demobbed in 2013, he was awarded the Operational Services Medal for Afghanistan. For the past three years, he had been rising through the ranks of McGreary’s organisation while at the same time keeping himself below the PSNI radar. It was apparent that Davie Best was someone not to be underestimated Ray Wright fell into a totally different category. He was as far above the radar as Best was below it. Wright was a prominent member of the UDA and had been arrested on no less than fourteen occasions for intimidating Catholics and making threats on the lives of several individuals. Despite the high number of arrests, Wright had only served one custodial sentence, two years for GBH. Whenever Wright was about to go to court, witnesses had a tendency to change their evidence. He could see no connection between Best and Wright in the paperwork. The latter had never been recognised as a member of McGreary’s crew. However, they were both hard men and hardened criminals. He didn’t relish the task of trying to break them down.
