Death to Pay

by Derek Fee

  The forensic team had arrived by the time Wilson had carried out his cursory examination. He prayed that this murder site would yield more than the previous two. At least, he now knew where he had to concentrate. He joined Moira and Davidson on the driveway into the house and slipped out of his jumpsuit. A uniform took it from him and placed it in a refuse bag. ‘Peter, we’ll need to carry out a house to house. At a wild guess, I’d say we’re looking at some time last night. Round up a few uniforms and start now while the iron’s hot. You can start with that lot,’ he nodded at the group of onlookers. He noticed Maggie Cummerford in the middle of the group taking notes as she talked to what he assumed were neighbours. He caught her eye and beckoned her to the crime-scene tape.

  ‘When you didn’t turn up at the briefing this morning, I thought we were finished with you,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Since the profile’s finished, and I didn’t get anything that the other reporters had except for the woman angle,’ she pulled a small recorder from her pocket. ‘Do you have any comment on the latest murder? On the record of course,’ she clicked the button and shoved the recorder towards his mouth.

  Wilson stood quietly until she pressed the button shutting the recorder off. ‘How did you get here so fast?’

  ‘Radio tuned to the police frequency, is there a serial killer murdering old ladies? Did this old lady know the other old ladies? Is it open season on old ladies in Belfast?’

  Wilson yawned. ‘Not trying to start a panic are we?’

  ‘Am I boring you?’

  ‘I’m sure my superiors will be holding a press briefing later to-day. Don’t forget all those questions about the serial killer. That’s what sells papers. Got a name for her yet?’

  Cummerford laughed. ‘Why not the old-lace killer? By the way, my editor is not so impressed with my profile of you.’

  ‘Told you I was boring.’

  ‘I wonder is there any way that we can make you more interesting.’

  ‘I’ll leave that with you,’ he looked along the road and saw the blond mop at the top of Stephanie Reid’s head bouncing along with her business-like stride. He moved away from the tape and met her as he was entering the gate. Reid was already suited up in her blue jumpsuit.

  ‘Who’s your little friend?’ she asked.

  ‘Journalist.’

  ‘Close friend?’ she smiled.

  ‘No. The body is in the back bedroom. Time of death exact as possible would be useful.’

  She looked to where Moira and Davidson were standing. ‘Oh my God, the Rottweiler’s here,’ she made a growling sound as he walked up the short driveway and into the house.

  ‘Is there any chance that Reid is on the killer’s list?’ Moira said as she joined him. ‘If not I might be tempted to bash in that head myself.’

  ‘We have our line of enquiry,’ Wilson said. ‘Those eight women or even a smaller group of them were involved in something pretty nasty. They pissed off someone so badly that more than twenty years later, somebody has come back to seek revenge. We need to find out what the nasty deed was, and who it affected. Those documents that you’re making such heavy weather of must contain some, or all of the answer.’

  ‘Look, Boss,’ Moira didn’t like defending herself, but she was busting a gut for her boss. ‘During the seventies and the eighties half of Belfast was informing on the other half who were themselves at times informing on the other half. So just about everybody was saying something about somebody. It was like the Salem witch thing. If you didn’t like someone, you put out a story about them. The documents are full of crap and if there’s any mention of someone with a bit of power the heavy black pencil has been used. In other words, I’m doing my best.’

  ‘I wasn’t criticizing,’ He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I know you’ve been burning the midnight oil on this one, but now that Boyle is no longer with us that’s where our best chance lies. Peter can handle things here.’

  Moira pursed her lips. ‘So I get to spend my day reading twenty-year old rumour and innuendo.’

  ‘If that’s where the answer lies, you’ll be the first to crack the case.’

  ‘Meanwhile Peter will be out here doing the real detective work. Who said that it isn’t a man’s world?’ Moira noticed Reid exiting from the front door of the house. ‘Tell Peter I’m taking the car.’ She strode down the road.

  ‘Did someone take away the Rottweiler’s bone,’ Reid said as she joined Wilson.

  ‘I always think that it’s a mistake to make an enemy when one doesn’t have to,’ he said. ‘And I certainly wouldn’t want to have DS McElvaney as an enemy.’

  She laughed. ‘OK, forget the crack about the bone.’

  Wilson smiled. He liked women with a sense of humour.

  ‘See I can make you laugh.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Working solely on temperature I would say somewhere between nine and eleven o’clock last night. I may be able to give a more exact time when I examine the contents of the stomach. It appears to be raining older ladies.’

  ‘That and our friend McIlroy.’

  ‘They’re connected?’

  ‘I doubt it. Except that it’s a bit of a coincidence him being gunned down this week, and I don’t really like coincidences.’

  ‘I’ll autopsy her tomorrow. I’d love you to attend. I feel we’re really getting to know one another. But I suppose I’ll get the Rottweiler again.’ She walked off in the direction of her car growling as she went.

  CHAPTER 54

  Detective Constable Eric Taylor was a methodical policeman. He was the epitome of Wilson’s commitment to plodding. In his ten years in the Murder Squad, he had never actually broken a case, but he had generally provided some nugget of information that allowed Wilson and his old sergeant George Whitehouse to catch the criminal. He spent two days digging away at the Ivan McIlroy murder without turning up anything that might be considered a nugget. He revisited the crime scene and spoke to many of McIlroy’s friends and acquaintances and still nothing. He spent an hour listening to the phone messages on the Crimeline and nothing. His primary objective was to develop a timeline of McIlroy’s movements prior to the murder. However, criminals didn’t exactly advertise their movements. McIlroy’s circle was made up of people in the same business, and they were reluctant to discuss whether or not they had seen or met with the dead man in the two days before his death. Taylor read and reread his notes. He examined the crime scene photographs and the forensic evidence. The obvious conclusion was that McIlroy’s murder was the result of a falling out among thieves. Wilson had discounted the possibility that McIlroy had been the first casualty in a gang war. Taylor had spoken to McIlroy’s wife and two of his girl friends, and they had all ruled out a crime of passion. McIlroy didn’t display or attract passion. The women were universally scared out of their wits by him. Where to go next? While Wilson, McElvaney and Davidson had gone to the latest crime scene, Taylor had decided to take a second trawl through the denizens of the ‘Black Bear’ public house. All conversation stopped as he pushed in the front door of the pub. He looked behind the bar. There was no sign of a coffee machine. ‘No chance you have a coffee machine, I suppose?’ he asked the barman

  ‘Yes,’ the barman picked up a jar of instant coffee and a kettle from the back of the bar. ‘This do you?’

  Taylor sighed. He was a bit of a fanatic about coffee. ‘Aye, make me a cup.’

  The barman opened the jar of instant coffee. ‘I think it’s been about two years since anyone asked for a coffee.’ He scraped at the jar with a spoon. ‘I don’t suppose it’s gone off.’ He deposited the spoon of dubious coloured granules into a cup and plugged the kettle into an electricity socket. ‘It was an American tourist on a ‘Troubles’ tour. He sipped the coffee and left it on the bar. I don’t think he liked it.’

  ‘Forget the coffee,’ Taylor said, the sight of the granules had been enough. ‘Give me one of those yuppie waters and open the bottle in front of me.’


  ‘We don’t often get peelers in here,’ the barman flipped the top off a bottle of water and put it and a dirty glass on the bar. ‘Two in one week, are you guys turning this into one of your haunts? That’d be some fucking joke.’

  Taylor ignored the glass and drank from the bottle. He wondered who else had been to the pub. It was his job to research the timeline. ‘Fat chance of that. When was the other Peeler in?’

  ‘Two or three days ago, having a right old natter with Ivan.’

  ‘Gerry, need you a minute,’ a man wearing a leather jacket called from a corner table.

  The barman immediately left and went to the corner. Taylor looked into the mirror at the back of the bar. The leather jacket had pulled the barman down to him by gripping his collar and was whispering in his ear. He watched the barman nod and then make his way back to the bar.

  ‘That’ll be two pound fifty,’ the barman said when he had taken his place behind the bar.

  Taylor finished the contents of the bottle and tossed three pounds in coins onto the bar. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘No,’ the barman scooped up the coins and sent them into the till. He returned with a fifty pence piece making sure the other customers in the pub saw him returning the change.

  ‘Pity about the coffee,’ Taylor said. ‘I think you and I are going to meet again very soon.’

  Ronald McIver sat alone in the squad room. The other members of the team were either out at the Boyle murder site or following up on the Rice and Morison cases or trying to find him. He knew he needed psychological help. Perhaps a couple of visits to a shrink would get the snakes out of his head and make him whole. Maybe. He wasn’t sleeping, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from darting from face to face wondering whether they could detect in his face that he was a murderer. His concentration was gone to pieces. He’d tried to focus on the tasks that Wilson had given him, but he found his mind wandering or maybe not even wandering but not there at all. Eric Taylor was on the McIlroy case full time. There was very little to work on but Eric was methodical. He would eventually find a scrap of evidence, and he would prod away at it until he opened it fully. It would lead to another piece of the puzzle and so on until it arrived at him. There was a sense of inevitability about it. He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He was so bloody tired. He wanted to confess and go to sleep. But as long as there was a chance that he could get away with killing McIlroy, he was going to take it. The chance might be slim, but it existed. He needed to get out of the office. He was convinced that Wilson was watching him. No, he was sure that Wilson was watching him. Maybe Wilson already knew. But how could he? There was no evidence. He was in the centre of the investigation, and he knew that they had found nothing to incriminate him. McIlroy was already on his way to being designated as another unsolved killing. There were hundreds maybe even thousands of them in the Province. He turned as the door to the squad room opened, and he watched Eric Taylor enter and move to his desk.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked when Taylor sat down.

  Taylor looked up as though the question had woken him from his thoughts. ‘Still faffing about with the McIlroy timeline. Pity the bloody bugger didn’t keep a diary in his pocket.’

  ‘You’ll get there,’ McIver said because he knew that was what he was expected to say. He was hoping for the opposite. ‘I’m off home early for lunch. The wife’s not well. If the Boss asks I’ll be back this afternoon.’

  Wilson needed some time to think and assimilate the latest happenings, so he decided to take a walk around the Archvale estate. He wandered along the labyrinth of roads each containing small bungalows of exactly the same type. His mind was totally concentrated on his job. Kate was right. The time for drama was past. They could spend weeks or months going over the whys and wherefores of the miscarriage but in the end, it was what it was. The baby was gone and if the gynaecologist was to be believed it was probably better off never having been born. It was time to move on and concentrate on real life. Three women were murdered in a most violent fashion. All three were members of the Shankill Branch of the women’s UVF during a particularly troubled period of Ulster’s chequered history. They had made progress but not enough to point at either the motive or the murderer. He meandered along the peaceful roads. This was the Ulster that most of the residents wanted. Streets clear of burnt-out vehicles, rows of neat houses with well-tended gardens and tarmacadam driveways. The problem, as exposed by the Boyle murder, was that beneath the façade of peace there existed the potential for violence. Maybe Kate and her friends who wanted a Peace and Reconciliation Commission had the right idea. Perhaps the evil of the past needed to be brought out into the light and exposed for what it was. Maybe people who hated each other simply because they had different religious beliefs might understand that they shared a common humanity and a desire for a better life for all. He turned a corner and saw the police cars ranged across the road. This was the reality. The past revisiting the present and an elderly lady lying in her bedroom with her head caved in. He walked toward the vehicles and saw Peter Davidson standing with a group of uniforms. He nodded at him and moved to the side. ‘Any news from the house-to-house?’ he asked.

  ‘Old guy a few doors down though he saw a young woman at the door sometime around ten o’clock. She was holding some kind of bag. He can’t remember what she looked like, but I think another go around with him might produce more. Other than that, nothing.’

  Just then two mortuary attendants wheeled out a body bag containing the remains of Joan Boyle and put her into an ambulance.

  ‘I think we’re done here. Forensic inside?’ Wilson asked.

  Davidson nodded.

  ‘Tell them to pay special attention to the bathroom?’

  Davidson sighed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ok, I’m out of here,’ Wilson moved in the direction of his car.

  ‘Any chance of a lift back to the office?’ Davidson called after him.

  ‘Get the uniforms to give you a lift.’ Wilson had no intention of returning to the office. The office equalled administration and right now he wasn’t up to dealing with some idiot’s version of organisational management. He took out his phone and called Kate’s office.

  ‘Kate McCann and Company,’ the Secretary said.

  Wilson identified himself.

  ‘Miss McCann is in court, but I can get a message to her if you want,’ the Secretary said.

  ‘Don’t bother, does she have a lunch appointment?’ He heard the shuffling of papers.

  ‘It doesn’t look like it, and her order for a sandwich is here.’

  ‘Cancel it and tell her I’ll pick her up at twelve thirty.’

  She was sitting in her favourite café on Botanic Avenue. She had taken a seat by the window so that she could watch Belfast go by. She hadn’t been able to believe that they had found Joan Boyle’s body so quickly. She had planned a phone call later in the day and had almost fallen off her chair when she heard the police radio call that a body had been found in a house in Archvale. After the exertions of the previous night, she would have preferred a extended stay in bed, but she supposed that would be impossible. The ball hammer she used was at the bottom of the Lagan. The poncho, the clothes and shoes she had worn had been burned to a crisp. She even destroyed her underwear. Then she showered in hot water and scrubbed her skin until it almost bled. If she had left even a smidgen of Boyle’s blood on her person, she deserved to be caught. She knew that there was no such thing as the perfect crime. Criminals, no matter how smart they thought they were, leave behind some clue that eventually leads to them ending up behind bars. She had carried out three murders and as far as the smartest detective in Belfast was concerned, she hadn’t left a single clue. Wilson and his team were flailing around in the dark. They were now aware that a woman was possibly the murderer, but it could also be a small man. How many people fitted that description in Belfast? Hundreds, possibly even thousands. She though about the Boyle murder and realised that she had made a seriou
s error with Lizzie Rice and Nancy Morison. Joan Boyle had died knowing why she had to die. It was amazing to see the change in her face when she knew that she was dying in revenge for the death of a woman she considered to be a ‘skank’. At the door, Boyle had looked like a kindly old woman but lying on the carpet knowing that she was about to die for her crime, she turned into a spitting crone. She saw her reflection in the window glass. She didn’t look like a thoughtless murderer. Then again, murderers didn’t have a specific look. If that was the case, a lot more people would be in jail. She’d read the research about the areas of the brain that lit up like Christmas trees when the psychopath did his work. Killing made her feel powerful. Men and women out in the street moved across her vision. She wondered what secrets lay hidden behind their faces. Some of them had to be liars, others cheaters and some even possibly, like her, murderers. She was that blind lady holding the scales in her hand. In a society based on justice, the organs of state would have avenged her mother. But they failed miserably. She didn’t even have a grave to visit. Which one of those men and women rushing past the window of the café would not harbour vengeance for the killing of a loved one? How many of them would be capable of carrying that vengeance to its ultimate conclusion? How many were like her? Remorse was for the weak, and those without a valid crusade. The McIlroy murder was a magnificent distraction. She could not have planned it better. It muddied the water. They had to decide whether it was linked to the Rice, Morison and Boyle killings and confused the issue of motive. It bought her more time. And her work was more or less done. It was almost time to get out of Dodge. She drained her café latte and waved at the waitress to provide her with a refill.