by Derek Fee
‘Rice and McGreary were old school. The people that are coming up have been raised differently. Rice said that we might be happy to get rid of McGreary and him today but that we’d be sorry tomorrow when we see the guys who are going to replace them. Now, fuck off and let me finish my paperwork. I hope it’s the end of a beautiful friendship.’
Duane stood up. He pushed the Jameson bottle across to Wilson. ‘You never know.’
Davie Best poured the end of a bottle of champagne into his glass. Three young men who could have been his doubles surrounded him. They were fit and sported short haircuts and their friendship had been honed in battle. They were sitting in the VIP area of the El Divino nightclub in Mays Market in the centre of Belfast and they were celebrating. Willie Rice had ripped the torch out of McGreary’s hand and had passed it to Best. Tomorrow, Best would declare himself the de facto head of the old McGreary crew. Within a week he would amalgamate the McGreary and Rice crews and a new era in the history of crime in Belfast would be written. He had every reason to celebrate.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The mood in the murder squad room was cheerful. The whiteboard section dealing with the murders of Alan Evans and Jennifer Bowe had been marked “solved” and Willie Rice’s photo had been added to the board. The section under Sammy Rice’s name was not looking so positive and that was reflected in the only non-smiling face on the team. DS Rory Browne didn’t like failure. He was beginning to wonder whether Wilson gave him the Rice disappearance because he knew it was going nowhere. Earlier in the day a solicitor had arrived at the station and indicated that he was now representing Richie Simpson. Two hours later, Simpson was retracting his testimony with regard to Rice’s murder and disappearance. He had been delusional when he had spoken to Browne and Wilson. There was no body and no murder weapon and without either or both there would be no case. Simpson was going to be bailed and would not be available for future interview without the presence of his new legal advisor. Wilson would now be seen as the hero of the piece while he would be cast as the idiot who let Simpson fade away.
Wilson noted that his new sergeant was not a happy camper. All the graduate fast-track officers were the same. They came from a background where they had performed. They were near the top of their class at school and they had earned their honours degrees at university. Their expectations were high and so was their need for achievement. Browne was no different. He’d made sergeant in quick time and looked forward to being an inspector as quickly. He could see that he was worried by the lack of a result in the Sammy Rice case. Perhaps Wilson should suggest that he examine the unsolved crime statistics. He scrubbed the section of the board dealing with Alan Evans’s murder. ‘Now we concentrate on Sammy Rice,’ he said.
‘What’s the point?’ Browne said.
‘Because we know what happened in the warehouse,’ Wilson said. ‘We just can’t prove it. Siobhan, any news on the CCTV?’
She shook her head.
‘It doesn’t stop,’ Wilson said. ‘The body and the weapon are out there somewhere. Sooner or later, the one or the other, or both will turn up. When they do, we’ll be ready. For now we keep looking at the CCTV. We keep an eye on Simpson. He’s no great loss. Without a body and a weapon, his evidence would have been useless.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ Browne asked.
‘Waiting for a break. Where we were with the Evans case thirty years ago. There’s a reason they call us “the plod”. Because that’s what we do. We’re not Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes. We’re PSNI officers. Some we win and some we lose and some we keep at in the hope of winning. Rory, you and Harry do the paperwork on Willie Rice. Peter and Siobhan will follow up on Sammy’s disappearance.’
‘And what will you do, boss?’ Harry Graham said laughing.
Wilson thought of the paperwork on his desk and the emails on his computer. ‘What they pay me for.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Wilson had never been for drinks in the Chief Constable’s office. So he was surprised when the CC’s personal assistant told him to be at HQ in Castlereagh at 20:00 sharp. Ten minutes after he received the call, Davis phoned and told him that she too had been invited. They could travel together. When they arrived, they found that they were members of a select group of four. The only other people present were Chief Constable Baird and Assistant Chief Constable Nicholson. Wilson was handed a whiskey and Davis opted for a sherry. When they were settled with their drinks, Baird drew himself up to his full height. ‘Cheers!’ He lifted his glass in a toast. ‘I want to congratulate our new Chief Superintendent on a job well done. You’ve only been the boss of the station a few weeks but you’ve already produced a stunning result.’
‘Excuse… ,‘Davis tried to interrupt. She’d done nothing. It was all down to Wilson’s team.
‘Now, now, Yvonne,’ Baird continued quickly. ‘There’s no need for false modesty here. You’ve done a brilliant job and if I’m any judge of character you’ll be joining us here in HQ in a very senior capacity. You won’t just break the glass ceiling, you’ll shatter it.’ He cast a glance in Wilson’s direction. He noticed a smile flitting across the head of the murder squad’s lips. He was fully aware that 90% per cent of the credit should go to Wilson and his team but they needed to push bright female officers. And Yvonne Davis was bright.
Wilson toasted Davis with his glass of whiskey and then drank half the contents. He knew exactly where Baird was coming from and he expected that most of the credit for the Alan Evans’s case would fall on Davis. The press office would be cranking out copy outlining the “stunning result”. Wilson might get a mention but he didn’t really care. He wasn’t as happy with the result as his big boss. Rice might go to jail but if he was as ill as he said he was, that was unlikely. They would never know why Jackie Carlisle was so anxious to have Evans murdered. And nobody was mentioning the body that had been removed from the morgue at the Royal Victoria. In Wilson’s eyes the result wasn’t so “stunning”. He looked at his watch and when he looked up he saw that Baird was staring at him. The Chief Constable put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder and ushered him aside from Nicholson and Davis.
‘No hard feelings,’ Baird said.
Wilson shook his head.
‘We need her to be a star.’ Baird dropped his hand from Wilson’s shoulder. ‘Donald was right. You have a talent for getting results. I’m glad you decided to come back.’
‘I wish I was as happy as you.’
‘Refill?’ Baird nodded at the bottles on his desk.
‘Thanks, but these kind of events are not my thing.’
‘We should have a drink soon, just you and me.’
‘Why not?’ Wilson felt the sentiment was genuine but he wouldn’t be waiting on Baird’s call.
Baird looked across at Davis. ‘Keep her out of trouble.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Baird looked at his watch. He walked back to where Nicholson and Davis were standing. ‘I’m sorry to break up our little gathering. I have a meeting with the Minister in fifteen and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ He finished his drink.
‘I’m so embarrassed,’ Davis said when she and Wilson were in the car. ‘The credit was yours. I tried to interrupt but he cut me off.’
Wilson smiled. He was beginning to warm to his new boss. ‘Don’t worry about it. You did your job and I did mine. We don’t do it for the praise.’
‘It’s not correct.’
‘It is what it is. You should be flattered. They want you at HQ.’ He sat back. Working at HQ would be Wilson’s worst nightmare. The administration associated with managing his small team was just about as much as he could handle. A day crammed full of meaningless meetings discussing reports that would never be implemented with individuals as bored as he would be was his version of Hell. If that’s was Yvonne Davis wanted, then she was welcome to it.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Wilson and McDevitt were sitting in the snug at the Crown. They
were on their third pint of Guinness and Wilson had brought McDevitt up to date on the Frances McComber situation. McDevitt was excited that the book he was working on would have its final chapter and asked whether he could record the conversation. Wilson had acquiesced. Rice would never be brought to trial for his part in hiding McComber’s body. The murder charges against him would be enough to put him away for whatever remained of his life. The test results on the Beretta 70 were back from FSNI. It was the gun that had killed Evans and Bowe. Willie Rice had been a busy man during the “Troubles”. Wilson found it strange that he had never been hauled in for an interview on any of the murders he committed. It was clear that someone had protected him. Perhaps Jackie Carlisle had been that somebody. Unfortunately, Jackie had spoken his last word.
‘You’ve been to see Maggie?’ McDevitt asked.
‘Yesterday.’ The combination of tiredness and alcohol was making Wilson sleepy.
‘What happens next?’
‘Reid has arranged for the body to be released and she’s going to be buried tomorrow.’ He thought about how much he owed Reid. She was always there when he needed someone, and she asked for so little in return. ‘I managed to obtain a plot in Roselawn. The service is at ten o’clock at the Presbyterian Church in Saintfield Road.’
‘Who’s paying for the funeral?’ McDevitt was about to push the button to order another drink.
Wilson put his hand over the button. He’d had enough. ‘It’s the least I could do. I wasn’t about to see her being buried in a pauper’s grave.’
McDevitt switched off his recorder. ‘That’s very noble of you. You don’t owe Cummerford or her mother anything. I suppose that’s not something that I can put in the book?’
‘We wouldn’t be best friends any longer if you did that.’ Wilson stood up. ‘I’m dog tired and I’ve a funeral to go to tomorrow.’
McDevitt stayed where he was. ‘Would it be alright if I turned up tomorrow?’
Wilson opened the door to the snug. ‘I’m certainly not going to stop you. I’m not expecting a huge attendance.’ He walked through the pub and headed for the front door. The pub was packed and he didn’t notice the two well-dressed young men detach themselves from the bar and follow him outside. It was heading on for ten o’clock and there was a sparse crowd of pedestrians on Victoria Street. He’d left his car at the station and since it was a fine evening he decided to take a short walk. He would at least go as far as Wellington Place and maybe pick up a cab there. He was just across the street from Jury’s Inn when a Range Rover pulled up beside him. Two men suddenly appeared at his back and ushered him toward the back door of the car. The door opened. Wilson was about to object when he recognised the man sitting in the rear. It was the MI5 man who used the name Boag.
‘Get in,’ Boag said.
Wilson looked at the two men standing at his shoulder. There were enough people on the street for him to make an issue of the invitation. However, he knew that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He smiled and climbed into the rear beside Boag. ‘I was wondering when you were going to crawl out from underneath your rock,’ he said as he settled himself.
One of the young men climbed into the passenger seat beside the driver and the car moved off in the direction of the centre of the city.
‘You’ve had a rather eventful few weeks,’ Boag said.
Wilson thought that Boag looked even greyer than usual. He wondered whether the MI5 man was well. ‘Thanks to you, no doubt.’
‘We had to retrieve the body,’ Boag coughed. ‘It was done professionally and with the minimum of disruption. We couldn’t have you running around contacting all sorts of agencies in an effort to discover her real identity.’
‘So Jennifer was one of yours?’
‘Not mine specifically. But she was working for us when she was killed.’
‘You were interested in Evans?’
‘We were becoming interested in him. It was an initial contact. We had no idea he was about to be killed. If we had, we would have pulled our operation to keep an eye on him.’
‘So you weren’t the ones that ordered the hit?’
‘God, no!’ Boag laughed which brought on a fit of coughing. ‘We’re evil bastards but we don’t kill our own. However, we are responsible in a way for what happened.’
‘So, this meeting is in the way of a confession.’
Boag smiled. ‘You’re an interesting character, Ian, which is why I like you. No, I’m not here to confess either for myself, or my organisation. Have you ever heard of Gladio?’
‘No, but it sounds Roman.’
Boag clapped. ‘Bravo, it was an organisation set up by the CIA and MI6 at the end of the Second World War. The Americans had this irrational fear of Communism, which they saw as spelling the end of their way of life. Unfortunately, we bought into their irrationality. Gladio was a paramilitary organisation set up in several European countries like Belgium and Italy, which would rise up against any attempt by the communists to take over the country. It was the usual CIA operation. Weapons were buried in caches and of course there was lots of money floating around. A lot of people became rich on the back of Gladio.’
‘What has that to do with Northern Ireland?’
‘There was a branch of Gladio set up here.’
‘Why the hell here?’
‘I have no idea of the thinking of the time. I suppose that you were considered unstable. Anyway, it appears the local leaders of Gladio thought Evans was about to lead a communist takeover of Ulster and organised his death. We had no idea what they were up to.’
‘But you know who they were?’
‘They’re all dead.’
A picture of Jackie Carlisle came into Wilson’s mind. He’d forgotten about the diaries. ‘You’re not going to tell me who they were, are you?’
‘No.’
‘But they killed your colleague and Alan Evans.’
‘Rice killed Alan Evans and our colleague. It’s best left like that.’
‘For you people.’ Wilson wanted out of the car. He preferred criminals to these people. ‘What happened to Jennifer’s body?’
‘She’s being buried with her parents.’
Wilson looked out of the car window. They had made a loop to the right at the city centre and they were approaching Ann Street. They turned left and crossed the river.
‘Has your curiosity been satisfied?’ Boag asked.
‘Not even remotely.’
They were approaching Queen’s Quay from the south. Boag leaned forward and said something to the driver who immediately pulled in to the side of the road. ‘Its been pleasant speaking with you again, Ian.’ Boag nodded at the young man in the passenger seat who descended and opened the door for Wilson.
Wilson shifted his weight to the right as he prepared to leave the car. ‘I’d like to say the same. Why don’t you people just leave us alone?’
Boag stared straight ahead.
Wilson climbed out of the car and the young man closed the door behind him. Wilson barely had his feet on the street when the car was gone. He started walking toward his apartment. Had he just been handed a line of bullshit or was Boag trying to explain the mess? Maybe the diaries he left with Gowan would contain the answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
The Presbyterian Church in Saintfield Road was a modern building that looked like a former NASA engineer had designed it. From the front it had the aspect of a rocket preparing for take off. The service had been dignified. Maggie Cummerford was delivered to the door by a police van ten minutes before the ten o’clock start time. The prison authorities had been gracious enough not to have her handcuffed. She sat in the front pew accompanied by a female warden. Reid and Wilson sat two pews back and McDevitt sat at the rear of the church. As soon as the vicar had finished the service, the five mourners accompanied by the vicar made their way to Roselawn Cemetery. The spell of fine weather had broken and the light rain, which had been falling when they entered the church, had become
a full-blown downpour by the time they reached the gravesite. It was Wilson’s curse that every time he attended a funeral the heavens decided to open. The mourners stood around the open grave for the final prayers and watched as the coffin was lowered into the earth. McDevitt was the first to detach himself from the group. He made the signal for a drink to Wilson who in turn shook his head. The female warden was leading Cummerford toward the prison van when they passed Wilson and Reid.
Cummerford stood directly in front of Wilson. ‘Thank you, Ian. I’ll pay you back when I can.’
‘No need, it was the least I could do. We screwed up all those years ago. She’s at peace now and I hope so are you.’
She put her arms around him and hugged him. ‘See you in six years or so.’ The female warden took her arm and led her away.
‘It appears I have a rival,’ Reid said as they walked back toward the road through the cemetery where he had parked the car.
He didn’t answer but put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him.
She smiled and slipped an arm around his waist. It was beginning to feel natural between them. Kate McCann would always hover somewhere between them like Banquo’s ghost hovered about Macbeth. But her presence was already beginning to wane. ‘Do you have plans for the rest of the day?’ she asked as they separated to climb into his car.
He sat behind the steering wheel. ‘I hadn’t thought beyond the funeral. I suppose I could go back to the station.’
‘Don’t be a bore. I’ve taken the day off. Let’s have lunch and I haven’t had time to visit the Titanic Exhibition. Then you might make me dinner.’
It sounded good. He’d never played tourist in Belfast. Today there were no bodies to be dug up, no murderers to interview and no spooks to spin him stories. He looked across into Reid’s beautiful face. He was such a lucky man. In general, the world he inhabited was black. Today he would try to let a little light in.
