Death to Pay

by Derek Fee

  ‘Aye, it’s a rum business,’ McGreary nodded and slurped his tea.

  ‘We’ve pretty much discounted the sectarian angle, and we’re wondering whether Lizzie’s death had anything to do with Sammy.’

  ‘Lizzie was a wild wee bitch,’ McGreary laughed. ‘We used to say that she give it away with Smarties. I often wondered whose Sammy is. He might even be my auld fella’s. I know he had more than one go at Lizzie. There’re lots of people who have something against Lizzie but the other wee bitch is a bit of a mystery. I’ve never even heard of her.’

  ‘What about somebody moving against Sammy?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Bollox,’ McGreary pushed his empty teacup away. The plate of biscuits was already devoured. ‘Sammy’s a vicious wee tyke. He’s also fairly well connected if you know what I mean.’ McGreary rubbed the side of his nose with his right index finger. ‘Big in the Lodges is our Willis. He’s nobody’s fool. If someone is out to mess with him, they’d better be prepared. Sammy doesn’t take prisoners. So you could say that Sammy and me are bound to remain friends.’

  ‘So nobody in the ‘life’ was involved in Lizzie’s death?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘What ‘life’ are ye talkin’ about, Mr Wilson,’ McGreary sat forward with his ample stomach resting on his knees. ‘I’m a small businessman who runs a couple of snooker halls and pubs. I’m not in any ‘life’. You peelers have your heads up your arses about me. Lizzie Rice is yesterday’s news. Nobody gave a shit about her when she was alive and nobody much cares now that she’s dead. Maybe dying the way she did gives Sammy and you some ideas but if someone wanted to give Sammy a message, they’d go closer to home.’

  ‘Lizzie is close to home.’

  McGreary smiled. ‘Aye, Sammy will cry a few crocodile tears at the funeral, but he hasn’t been involved with Lizzie for years. Sammy only cares about Sammy, and if I wanted to strike at him, I’d go for his business. That’s the thing that’s closest to Sammy’s heart. If he has one.’ McGreary pushed hard on the two side of the chair to lever himself into a standing position. ‘Now it’s been pleasant having a cuppa with you, but I’ve some business issues to attend to. I’d be grateful if you’re finished with me.’ He stood up and waddled towards the door.

  ‘Waste of bloody time,’ Wilson said as soon as he returned to the squad room.

  Moira looked up from a pile of files. ‘No sign of a Loyalist feud then?’ she asked.

  ‘Loyalist feuds tend to leave a lot of male bodies strewn around. I’ve seen a few of them so far, and they manage to be an exclusively male preserve. McGreary said that he’d never heard of Nancy Morison, and I believe him. I’m becoming more convinced that her death might be linked to membership of that group of women in the photo. We can’t check that theory until we talk to one of them. Peter really needs to locate one of the four missing women.’ Wilson walked over to Harry Graham’s desk. CCTV footage of cars and pedestrians was playing on his computer screen. Graham was busy watching grey time elapsed stills of people walking along a road. ‘Anything?’

  Graham shook his head. He held up five DVD boxes. ‘Early days.’

  ‘No sign of Ronald?’

  Again a shake of Graham’s head.

  Wilson went into his office. He sat down at his computer and scanned his e-mails. None had the red tags that denoted urgent. He opened a scanned copy of the preliminary forensics report on the Morison murder site. The result of the cast taken of the tyre tracks was not included. There were prints on the concrete block, but it had been handled by the bricklayers on the site and by the workers in the builder’s providers yard and also possibly where it had been manufactured. There was a cost estimate for establishing a series of elimination prints with an assessment of the utility of such an exercise. There was a request for budget approval that required approval by an officer higher than his pay grade and stood a snowball’s chance in hell of being agreed. He often wondered why there was never any talk of budgets in television series concerning crime scene investigation. He opened up his word processor and typed a short report of his interview with McGreary. He concluded that there was virtually no possibility that McGreary was involved in the deaths of Lizzie Rice and Nancy Morison. He sent the report by e-mail to Spence and Jennings with a copy to Harry Graham for inclusion in the murder book. Having completed his priority work, he turned to his e-mails. It was the equivalent of diving into a barrel of shit.

  CHAPTER 38

  Ronald McIver had spent the morning cleaning and re-cleaning his gun until he was sure that a cursory examination alone would not be enough to show that it had been fired recently. Across the room, his wife watched him at his work without showing a flicker of life. When he had finished reassembling the Glock, he loaded it and noticed for the first time his wife’s eyes widening. She thinks I’m going to shoot her; he thought. Or maybe she thinks that I’m going to shoot myself and leave her to fend for herself. Neither course of action had come into his mind as he was cleaning the gun but both had their attractions. Mary was compos mentis for less and less time and withdrawn for more and more of the time. Her mother had suffered the same disease, and he had watched her disintegrate when she was put into a care home. He remembered one particular occasion when he would gladly have shot the old woman to put her out of her misery. Despite what those who speak of the sanctity of life may think, there is no dignity in a life of incontinence, incoherence and mindlessness. He looked across at his wife and wondered how she would fare if his crime was discovered, and he was put into prison. He wondered how he would fare if he was put into prison. His former Superintendent, Joe Worthington, took the easy way out by putting the Ruger into his mouth and blowing the top of his head off. He looked down at the Glock. He didn’t think that he was capable of taking his own life. At this time yesterday, he hadn’t thought that he could take another persons life, but he had done so. It was strange what we’re capable of when put to the test, he thought. He wasn’t thinking about time when he was cleaning the gun, but he would soon have to report the dead body in the deserted school. There was little or no chance of the body being found and although McIlroy was a mindless thug, it was unfair to leave his body undiscovered and his loved ones worried about him. That was if such a man has any loved ones. He might be a murderer, but he wasn’t a monster. McIlroy needed to be found. He wondered where he might find a public telephone. They were few and far between these days. And quite a few of them were in the range of CCTV cameras. He would have to buy a new SIM card, make the call and then throw the card away. There would be no way they could trace it to his mobile phone. He rubbed his temples. There were so many things that he had to think of in order not to be caught. Maybe he should throw himself on Wilson’s mercy. There would be a lot of suspects for McIlroy’s murder. The case could very easily remain unsolved. All he needed was his boss’ help in the cover up. He could make a case about having to look after Mary. But that wasn’t going to happen. Wilson was a straight shooter. The best plan was to keep covering up. After all, he would be central to the investigation. He would know where it was going, and he would be able to take appropriate steps to keep himself out of the frame. He put the Glock back in the holster. For a second, he thought that he could see a look of relief in his wife’s eyes. He put the gun on top of the bookcase in the living room. He put on his jacket and kissed his wife good-bye. ‘I’m just going to the corner shop,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I’ll be back soon. I’ll get some cakes, and we can have a real afternoon tea.’ His wife’s lips were limp to his kiss, and she continued to stare into space.

  The local shop was only a few minutes away, but he would have to walk a considerable distance to find a shop selling SIM cards. He walked along trying to erase from his memory the prone body lying in the corridor of his old school and his part in putting it there. He eventually found the shop he was looking for and bought the SIM card he needed. He didn’t bother to look up at the ceiling directly over the cashier’s head. If he had he would have seen the small
camera taking a perfect picture of his face.

  CHAPTER 39

  ‘Where’s the fucker?’ Sammy Rice was feeling human again, and he wanted to get on with the search for the killer of his mother. He had given that task to Ivan McIlroy and suddenly there was no sign of the bastard. He looked at the two young men in the front room of his house in Ballygomartin Road.

  ‘No idea, Chief,’ one of McIlroy’s minions answered.

  ‘Wrong fucking answer.’ Rice grabbed the young man by the throat and forced him back against a wall. ‘You’re telling me that he’s disappeared off the face of the earth?’

  The man’s head was forced up, and his voice croaked. ‘We’ve tried all the usual haunts, and he’s not answering his mobile.’

  Rice removed his hand from the young man’s throat. ‘You don’t want to get me angry. Get out on the streets and find him. I want McIlroy here now.’

  The two men quickly left the room, and Rice heard the outside door closing. The quality of his men had gone through the floor. Five years ago, the people he hired looked like they could go twelve rounds with Joe Frazier. The current crop looked like they’d have difficulty going one round with David Bowie. Lizzie was in the ground, and Billy was back in his hovel in Malvern Street. He stuck two hundred quid into the auld man’s pocket before he left. The off-licence would be ringing up the till for the next week or so. He flopped into one of the armchairs situated on either side of the bay window. Billy was fucked. The drink was killing him, and he didn’t have the sense to kick it. It wouldn’t be long before he’d have to plant him too. His mind was only semi-clear, but he knew he was going to have to solve the riddle of Lizzie’s murder. It was something to do with him. He remembered the state of the auld bitch when he had picked her up from the mortuary. They didn’t just kill her, they’d almost left her without a head. The people he dealt with usually put a bullet into someone. The business with the head was strange. He thought about Jimmy McGreary. The fat bastard was capable of coming up with something like that. Their territories were banging up against each other. McGreary grabbed the most lucrative area of central Belfast. Now that peace reigned, more or less, the centre of Belfast had taken off. Despite the recession, business was booming and the yuppies, or whatever they called them these days, flooded into the upmarket developments close to their work. They had the money, and they had the need for recreational drugs. The visiting businessmen had the need for female companionship, and the businesses needed additional security. McGreary stole his pot of gold. Lizzie’s death could have been a feint against him, a pinprick to see how he would react. He tried to remember whether McGreary had a mother. He had never seen or heard of one. How to react? That was the problem. A turf war was out of the question. McGreary and he had similar numbers of men. They’d just end up pissing the peelers and the politicians off. He needed McIlroy. Ivan wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a gutter rat. Now he disappears just when he needed him most. Rice lifted his head slowly. He began to think the unthinkable. Perhaps McIlroy had gone over to the other side. McIlroy on McGreary’s crew would spell the end of him. He had no doubt that the next few days would be the defining moment for him as a criminal boss. The streets of Belfast would run red with blood before he would go down.

  CHAPTER 40

  Two police cars were pulled up outside the derelict building in the dock area of East Belfast when Wilson arrived. The phone call had come in just after two o’clock in the afternoon. The uniforms had contacted him as soon as they had verified that there was a body. Wilson picked up two white jumpsuits and threw one of them to Moira. She caught it while she was still signing them both in.

  ‘Maybe we should think of investing in a couple of these things for ourselves,’ Wilson said slipping the jumpsuit on. He pulled his shoulders in to accommodate the XXL version of the suit and told himself that not only was increased exercise necessary but so was a diet. The takeaways would have to go but considering his and Kate’s lifestyle that would be difficult to accomplish.

  ‘Is this our man again?’ Moira asked climbing into her suit.

  ‘Let’s go and find out,’ Wilson led the way into the building. He looked around the entrance. The foyer looked like a hurricane had hit it. Bits of masonry had been gouged from the walls, and some of the ceiling had collapsed. Where plaster still existed on the walls the graffiti spray painters had done their work.

  ‘It used to be a school apparently,’ Moira said as she joined him in the foyer.

  ‘I remember something like this,’ Wilson said looking around. ‘But it was before education became important.’

  A uniform appeared at their side. ‘He’s down there,’ he pointed the length of the corridor.

  ‘Were you the first on the scene?’ Wilson asked.

  The young officer nodded.

  ‘Give your name to DS McElvaney. We’ll need to talk to you later. and forensic will need to have elimination prints and DNA.’

  Moira pulled her notebook from inside her suit and wrote the officer’s name.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ Wilson said. He could see the shape of the figure half way along the corridor. The ground was littered with masonry, broken glass and plastic bottles interspersed with used syringes and condoms. The building had probably been used as a squat until it disintegrated to such a state that it was unliveable even for junkies. The forensics team were going to have a merry old time going through this mess. The body was lying on its side. He wouldn’t disturb it until forensics had photographed the scene. He removed a pen flashlight from his inside pocket and shone it on the face of the corpse. He bent to get a better view of the face. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said and cut the light off.

  ‘You know him?’ Moira asked.

  ‘Ivan McIlroy, he’s Sammy Rice’s right-hand man. If Lizzie Rice was bad, this is a disaster. We could be looking at a body count in double figures before we’re finished here.’ Wilson stood up straight.

  ‘His head looks to be in one piece,’ Moira said.

  ‘He’s been shot,’ Wilson said simply. ‘Two by the look of it. We’ll confirm when we flip him over. Ivan lived by the sword, so I suppose it’s no surprise that he died by the sword. Sammy has lost his mother and his right-hand man in the past few days. He’s not going to be a happy bunny, and he’s not the kind of man who’ll spend a lot of time sitting around wondering what to do next. That means we’re looking at a hell of a lot of trouble.’

  A noise at the end of the corridor indicated the arrival of the forensic team. ‘You people are keeping us busy these days,’ the team leader said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Wilson moved aside and he and Moira retraced their steps back along the corridor. His mind was racing. It didn’t compute. Three murders in as many days, two of elderly women on whom excessive violence was enacted. Now a third more classical Belfast hit. Something was going on but he had no idea what it might be. If McGreary was to be believed, there was no turf war. Lizzie was ancient history, and Nancy Morison was a nobody. But Ivan McIlroy was a heavyweight, and he was current. He was looking into Lizzie’s background for the motive, but perhaps he had been mistaken after all. Maybe it was about Sammy after all and McGreary had sold him a dummy. Perhaps Jennings was right to have McGreary pulled in. If so, it would be the first time Jennings called it right. Wilson’s hypothesis regarding the murders of the two women would be in tatters. His whole team would be following a line of enquiry leading nowhere.

  ‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ Stephanie Reid’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘I can see why Charlie needed a sabbatical. Although I’ve never heard of people calling Africa a sabbatical.’

  Wilson smiled. ‘Just trying to keep you busy.’

  ‘Or trying to avoid that drink and what might follow.’

  Moira joined them and Reid made a cat hissing sound.

  ‘I think they’re ready for you inside,’ Moira said sharply.

  Reid hissed again and made her way into the building carrying her small lea
ther bag.

  ‘I really do not like that woman,’ Moira said. ‘I always trust my first impressions, and that woman turns all my alarm bells on. And if she hisses like that at me again, I’ll give her a punch she won’t forget.’

  ‘And she’d have you for assault, and she would have won.’

  ‘Have you ever wondered why she’s not married?’

  ‘We know nothing about her,’ Wilson said watching Reid climb into her plastic suit. ‘Maybe she was and is no longer.’

  Moira reddened. It was a remark too close to the bone. ‘I put mine in jail. I wonder what she would have done with hers. Perhaps she’s a Black Widow.’

  ‘And maybe she’s just a diversion, and we don’t need to be diverted right now,’ Wilson turned back to Moira. ‘As soon as they’re finished, I want to take a look at the body again. In the meantime, I’m going to find somewhere locally that serves a decent coffee. I’ve had my full dose of Stephanie Reid for to-day, and I don’t want to be around when she exits. Don’t let them take the body away until I’ve taken a second look at it. ‘

  ‘What about time of death, cause of death, stuff like that,’ Moira said.

  ‘Your business,’ Wilson made a cat hissing sound as he walked away.

  When Wilson returned half an hour later Reid had already left. The crew from the Mortuary were loitering beside their van having a cigarette. Moira was in the foyer of the building.