Death to Pay

by Derek Fee

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Lean on him. I’ll go higher, but I want information from the horses leading the charge not just from the owner in the stands watching the race. Something that affects us is going down, and I want to know what it is. And I want the bastard behind it.’

  CHAPTER 32

  The hostess ushered Wilson to the table. The other seven guests were seated and had already started on their meal. Kate looked up from her plate and raised her eyes to heaven. It wasn’t the first time he’d been late for a formal dinner, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. These kinds of networking dinners were a feature of Kate’s life but not his. For him, listening to the lawyers, doctors and politicians drone on was on a par with a visit to the dentist. And Ian Wilson detested his visits to the dentist.

  ‘Apologies,’ he mumbled as he took the only vacant set at the table. ‘Busy day.’

  Each guest had a place card set before them with their names printed on it. The host and hostess had the seats at the top and bottom of the table with the other six guests arraigned on either side. Wilson quickly glanced at the place names and saw that this evening’s guests were from the legal and political milieu. How Roy Jennings would love to be in Wilson’s seat. It was a mark of the difference between the two former cadet colleagues. Jennings would squeeze every ounce of benefit from a relationship with a woman as well connected as Kate. He turned to the lady to his side and recognised her dark features and brooding demeanour. Her place card said Ellie Smith.

  ‘No riots to-night?’ his host said from the top of the table. He was a judge, who had put many rioters in jail.

  ‘They appear to have run out of steam,’ Wilson answered and started on his plate of smoked salmon. He thought about where he would prefer to be, and it was almost anywhere else.

  ‘Ian is more concerned with the two murdered women than with the riots,’ Kate interjected.

  ‘Lizzie Rice,’ the judge said absent-mindedly. ‘Had her up before me once but the prosecution case feel apart. Horrid woman. You must be awash with suspects.’

  The other guests at the table laughed. Except for Kate and Ellie Smith.

  ‘We’re working our way through them,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Ah, so an arrest is imminent?’ the judge remarked.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. However, I am hopeful that you’ll get the opportunity to pass judgement on the murderer.’ Wilson ducked his head toward his plate.

  The host moved the conversation on smoothly to the next subject involving some raucous goings-on at the Stormont Assembly. Kate was actively involved in giving her opinion on the latest political fracas. Wilson relaxed. He was now fully integrated into the conversation, and the concentration would no longer be on him.

  ‘Are you following the rugby?’ Ellie Smith asked.

  ‘As much as I can. We’re pretty busy right now.’ The main course of roast lamb, scalloped potatoes and steamed vegetables arrived.

  ‘I’ve been reading about the murders,’ Smith said. ‘They’re quite gruesome. Reminds me of the last days of apartheid. People can be incredibly cruel. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Soweto necktie?’

  ‘It made the papers, although in description only,’ Wilson looked up the table and saw Kate in animated conversation with the host. She really was a phenomenon. The combination of brains and beauty was terrifying. He looked into Ellie Smith’s face. She certainly would not have been called beautiful and there was a kind of sadness in her eyes. He wondered what had happened to cause it. ‘How are you enjoying Belfast?’ he asked.

  ‘I could do without the weather,’ she laughed, and it animated her face. ‘But I’m enjoying trying to help Kate progress this idea of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. I understand that you don’t approve of the idea.’

  ‘I think it’s a lost cause. People here don’t want to rehash the past. We’ve already had the principles on television doing the mea cupla bit. There are still a lot of bodies out there that people don’t want to talk about.’

  ‘Don’t you believe that those who were involved in atrocities should be punished?’ she asked.

  Wilson laughed. ‘This is Northern Ireland. We have people who committed murders sitting in pubs drinking pins of Guinness while they should be languishing in jail. ‘

  ‘It was part of a political settlement,’ the politician sitting across from Wilson said.

  Wilson looked around the table and realised that the other dinner guests were listening to his conversation with Ellie Smith. ‘I’m a policeman,’ he said. ‘That means that I uphold the law and gather evidence that puts criminals before the courts. What happens after I pass the file to the Director of Public Prosecutions is not my business. But it burns me up when I see people that I know have broken the law in the worse possible way living like normal citizens.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in rehabilitation?’ the Judge said from the top of the table.

  ‘My views are simple,’ Wilson said. ‘I investigate crimes, and I catch the perpetrators. If you or our political friends think that it is expedient to let them go, that’s your business.’

  ‘The murders you’re investigating at the moment, where do you think they come from?’ Smith asked. ‘The method is quite cruel. You may feel like murdering someone, but you don’t generally want to cave their heads in. There’s obviously some unresolved issue behind the murders. A Truth and Reconciliation Commission might have resolved whatever pain is causing the killer to react.’

  Seven pairs of eyes stared at Wilson. He was uncomfortable being the centre of attention. ‘I have no doubt that the two murders have their genesis in the past. The Rice murder was carefully planned and carried out, the Morison one less so. There is undoubtedly a motive. As there is in most murders. This isn’t a barroom brawl that ends in a stabbing. There is someone out there who wanted these two women to die. When we find the why, we’ll find the who.’

  The main course plates had been removed by a waiter and desert plates distributed. It was all very civilized. Murder among the educated classes was a topic of dinner conversation not an everyday reality despite at least three lawyers being present. ‘You cannot transpose an idea from South Africa to Ulster. You have to be from here to understand the context,’ Wilson said.

  ‘But I am from here,’ Smith said quietly.

  ‘But you spent most of your life in South African,’ Kate said from down the table.

  ‘That’s right. I went there when I was very young. But Ulster still means something to me. That’s why I’m so interested in helping out here.’

  The deserts were passed around.

  ‘I have to side with Ellie on this one,’ Kate said. ‘We will never have real peace in the Province until we fully understand and accept our responsibility for what happened during the ‘Troubles’.’

  Seven pairs of eyes looked at Wilson again. ‘No comment,’ he said and started on his blueberry tart.

  ‘We come from different worlds,’ Wilson said as they settled into Kate’s car. She was always the designated driver since she had reduced her alcohol consumption to almost zero since becoming pregnant. Although he had wanted to attack the Judge’s fine whiskey, he had refrained for Kate’s sake. ‘Those people wouldn’t last a day on the streets.’

  ‘Well it’s lucky for them that they’ll never have to go there. We can’t all be white knights titling at windmills.’

  ‘But ultimately they belong to the class of people that free the murderers I catch.’

  ‘And I belong to that class too?’ there was a tremor in her voice.

  ‘You’re the most beautiful and intelligent woman I’ve ever met and most days I wonder why the hell you hooked up with me. You’re at home with judges and Members of the Assembly. I’m a home with criminals, junkies and paedophiles. Your friends exude power. The people I deal with generally have broken lives.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like it if you were a barrister,’ she said softly. ‘You’re worth ten of the people I deal with every day pri
ncipally because you have integrity and empathy. They only think of themselves and how they can get ahead. I don’t want the fact that I have to live in that world to come between you and me. I want our child to have two parents who love each other but who can reconcile the fact that they are different.’

  He put his hand on her knee. ‘Loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I know that we have to mix with your colleagues and the people who can advance your career, but I sometimes feel that they’re slumming when they’re looking at me and talking about what I do.’

  ‘Why don’t we have that nice female sergeant of yours and her boyfriend over for dinner and what about Donald Spence?’

  He smiled. ‘Forget the dinner. Next time we’re having a pub thing I’ll give you a call. You should meet them in their natural habitat.’

  She pulled into their parking space and manoeuvred herself out of her seat belt. She leaned over and kissed him. ‘I love you and so will our child.’

  Wilson kissed her and smiled. In his mind, he was wondering what would happen on the day that his world and Kate’s would collide.

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘I hated this fuckin’ dump,’ Ivan McIlroy moved through the corridor which ran through the centre of the building that used to be East Belfast Comprehensive School. The walls of the corridor were covered in graffiti, and the doors had been stripped from the classrooms. There was an acrid smell of stale urine and faeces in the air. ‘I’m glad they closed the bastard, and if they need someone to burn it down, then I’m their man.’ He turned and looked at Ronald McIver, who was walking directly behind him. ‘Happy days, eh!’

  McIver didn’t answer. He wanted to get this meeting over as soon as possible so that he could get back home and relieve his sister-in-law who was babysitting his wife. The circle of life was completing for the woman he loved more than anything. After coming into the world, she had been babysat and now on her way out she required babysitting again. It was a sad reflection on life.

  ‘What was wrong with the ‘Black Bear’?’ McIlroy asked when McIver remained silent. ‘Do you want to relive our schooldays?’

  ‘I don’t want to be seen talking to you,’ McIver said his voice deadpan.

  McIlroy laughed. ‘Fuckin’ Peeler. I’m a busy man. What have you got?’

  The two men stood facing each other on either side of the corridor. ‘Nothing,’ McIver said. He took the roll of notes McIlroy had given him at their previous meeting from his pocket and tossed them across the corridor.

  McIlroy caught the roll and looked at it. ‘You’re doin’ it for nothing?’ He tossed the roll of note into the air, caught them and put them in the pocket of his donkey jacket.

  ‘I’m not going to inform on the work of my team,’ McIver said putting as much steel as he could muster into his voice.

  McIlroy frowned. ‘I thought that I made myself plain in the ‘Bear’. It’s like the Taigs. Once in never out. You’re my man and no matter what you say you’re goin’ to feed me what Wilson is up to.’ His smile exposed a row of brown teeth. ‘I don’t give two fucks about you. I could hurt you real bad like I used to when you were a wain. But I prefer to do a bit of business with your old lady.’

  McIver threw himself at McIlroy. The two tussled for a moment before McIlroy punched McIver hard in the stomach. McIver doubled over, and McIlroy was about to launch a right cross to his head when he stopped. He didn’t want to mark his face, in case he would have to explain the injury to Wilson.

  McIver leaned against the wall of the corridor. He was struggling for breath. A tear of frustration came out of the corner of his eye. He was about to betray a man who had been nothing only good to him. His wife was going to be used to coerce him into helping a group of criminals and thugs. He looked at McIlroy’s smiling face. He remembered that same smiling face in this corridor as its owner extracted lunch money from the few children whose parents could afford to give it to them. He had been a thug then, and he was a thug now. He fished around in his pocket and came out with his service pistol, a Glock 17.

  ‘Put that fuckin’ thing away, or I’ll tear your fuckin’ head off,’ despite the bravado there was a tremor in McIlroy’s voice.

  ‘No,’ McIver raised the Glock and pointed it at McIlroy.

  ‘Let’s be reasonable about this,’ McIlroy held his hands out and took a step forward. Something over seven feet now separated the two men.

  ‘No more steps forward,’ McIver said. McIlroy’s eyes were dilated. They reminded McIver of a rat’s eyes when it’s cornered. He remembered that a rat is at its most dangerous when it’s cornered. He held the gun as steady as his hand and his heightened emotional state would permit.

  ‘Put the gun away,’ McIlroy said. He was about to piss his pants. He pushed the little bastard too far. Shouldn’t have threatened the wifey, he said to himself. The wee bastard has nothing else in his life. ‘I was only kiddin’. I wouldn’t harm you. After all, we go way back.’ He looked around the derelict building. ‘We had some great times here.’

  McIver’s brain was racing. He was in a very bad place. McIlroy was vicious, and he wouldn’t forget that he had pulled a gun on him. Something very bad would happen to him when his usefulness was over. He couldn’t betray Wilson, and he wasn’t about to put his wife’s life in danger. He didn’t care about himself. He should have gone to Wilson before it went this far. They could have pulled McIlroy in. But he would have been out as quickly, and then he would come looking for McIver.

  McIlroy could almost see the wheels spinning in McIver’s brain. This could go either of two ways. McIver could put the gun away, or he could pull the trigger. If it was him that was holding the gun, it would only go one way but the wee man didn’t have his balls. There was still a chance that he could get out of this. He opened his arms wide in a peace gesture. ‘Ok, pal. We’ll forget about you bein’ our man in Wilson’s team. Think about it. There’s nothing wrong with Sammy wantin’ a few minutes with the man that murdered his mother before handin’ him over to the peelers.’

  McIver suddenly realised that he was the rat in the corner and not McIlroy. There was only one way out. Although he had possessed a gun since the first day he had joined the Force, he had never thought that he would ever have to use it. His life was over whichever way he jumped. McIlroy and the Rice gang would murder him and his wife as quickly as they would drink a cup of tea. Killing McIlroy would remove that threat but would ultimately lead to him being caught and jailed. But maybe not.

  McIlroy prided himself on his ability to read people’s faces. It had saved his life before. The wee man was coming to a conclusion, and it wasn’t going to be a good one. There was only one possibility, and that was if he could cover the seven feet quicker than McIver could fire. He tried to see whether the safety was still on, but it was obscured from his view. It wasn’t much of a chance, but it was his only one. He launched himself forward.

  The gun bucked in McIver’s hand. He moved to the side and fired again. The sound reverberated around the corridor, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears.

  The bullet caught McIlroy in the chest and stopped him dead. He looked down and saw blood already staining his shirt. He looked up and saw McIver. Fuckin’ little rat, he thought. Killed by the biggest wanker in the school. A second bullet hit his chest, and he fell to the ground.

  Detective Constable Ronald McIver moved forward in a daze. He bent and put his fingers to McIlroy’s neck. There was no pulse. He searched McIlroy’s pockets to see if had had a weapon. McIlroy was unarmed. He stood and looked down at the body at his feet. He realised that he had visualised this situation in the past. McIlroy had been his tormentor at school, and he now had a vivid memory of imagining how he would kill him. He had just murdered his tormentor in cold blood bringing to life his imagination. There were extenuating circumstances. McIlroy went for him. In the end, it had been self-defence but he had been the one holding the gun. He should call it in. He would be banged up. They might buy the self-defenc
e but they might not. That would mean jail time. Then there was the question of Sammy Rice. Would he be prepared to let bygones be bygones? Or would he wait for the right moment and have some inmate plant a knife in his chest? And who would take care of Mary during all this? He bent down and checked McIlroy’s pulse again. Nothing. He took the roll of notes from the pocket of his jacket. A sudden thought struck him. What if McIlroy had told Sammy about him? His body shook involuntarily. He put the gun into his pocket and added the roll of cash. He noticed the two ejected shell casings in the corner. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. He leaned against the wall of the corridor and wept.

  CHAPTER 34

  Wilson flopped onto his ergonomically designed office chair and opened the newspaper. Maggie Cummerford made the front page, surprise, surprise. The PSNI was stumped on the Lizzie Rice murder, but they were developing some lines of enquiry on the Nancy Morison case. There was an interview with Morison’s husband who declared his wife to be a paragon of virtue, a regular church-goer and a visitor to the sick and destitute. He could think of no possible reason someone would want her dead. Join the queue, Wilson thought. There was an article on the Lizzie Rice funeral decrying the continued practice of turning what should be a family affair into a political event. There were pictures of the flag-draped coffin and the funeral cortege. The shots fired were glossed over. Nobody wanted to admit that decommissioning didn’t really mean decommissioning. There were still plenty of guns out there, and they were in the hands of people who really shouldn’t have them. This was Ulster. Of course, there was the normal crime. Husbands killed wives, usually their own, and vice versa. Lovers killed their partners. Idiot teenagers stabbed other idiot teenagers. The crimes would be solved quickly, and some smart-arsed barrister would dredge up a nefarious political motivation for the crime. Political crimes could lead to early release as had already been proven by the various amnesties tagged on to political settlements. A secondary article discussed the riots. They were a bit of a damp squib according to the correspondent. Twenty-two people had been arrested, and four policemen were in hospital, the result of a mini-riot Ulster style. Some damp squib for the injured. Wilson slowly turned the pages of the newspaper bringing himself up to date on the life of the province. He stopped dead on page eight. A picture of Kate dominated the centre of the page. ‘Brilliant Young QC In Line for Top Job’ was the headline. He quickly ran through the article. It was a resumé of Kate’s life and career. Thankfully, he didn’t appear in it. She was being touted as a candidate for Director of Public Prosecutions. If she succeeded, she would be the youngest person to have attained the post. Kate and he had never discussed money since they had lived together. He stuffed as much as he could into a jar in the kitchen each month, and Kate used it as she saw fit. The apartment was Kate’s, and she had steadfastly refused to accept that he should pay for the privilege of living there. He knew that she made a lot of money but when he saw her supposed annual income published in the article he almost fell off his chair. Kate earned a multiple of his salary. He picked up the telephone and called her private number.