by Derek Fee
Reid came forward and removed the sheet exposing the naked body of the boy. ‘I carried out an autopsy on him this morning. I think he was murdered.’
Graham took one look at the child’s body and retreated a few steps. He had three children at home. His youngest girl was probably the same age as the child on the metal tray. He could see dark marks of the bruises on the face and body.
Wilson moved forward and examined the boy’s body. It was obvious that he had been badly beaten. He looked at Reid’s face and saw that she was affected. People sometimes forget that doctors are human beings. One of the guys he had played rugby with had given up medicine to retrain as an IT specialist. It seemed crazy until the guy explained that he was sick of being the bearer of bad news. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want the monster who did this put behind bars. I actually want him or her to suffer as much as this child has in his short life. I want you to take the file of the autopsy away with you and I want you to examine it until you feel the same revulsion I do for the person who could do something like this.’
Wilson looked at the child’s big toe and saw that the tag on it was blank.
Reid followed his gaze. ‘I checked with upstairs. The boy was dropped at A&E. The person who dropped him disappeared.’
‘So we have no name?’
She shook her head.
‘You’ve taken a DNA sample?’
‘Of course.’
Wilson turned to Graham. ‘Our first task is to find out this child’s name and then find his parents.’ He turned back to Reid. ‘Nobody’s been enquiring about the child?
‘Apparently not.’
Wilson looked down at the tiny body and felt the same revulsion as Reid did. The boy seemed younger than five. He was possibly undernourished because his ribs were sticking out through his pallid skin. It was certainly a crime. But was it murder? That wasn’t for him to decide. ‘We’re going to need some official notification.’
‘My autopsy conclusion is that this child was beaten to death.’
‘You’re overstepping your remit.’ Wilson knew he was being provocative, but it was important that the investigative process be properly launched. He was already in hot water with Davis over Carlisle. Another investigation brought up by him might cause problems.
‘What the hell are you talking about? My remit?’ Reid’s face was reddening.
‘You can conclude that the child died from the injuries he received, but you cannot conclude that he was murdered. You need to report your conclusions to the police and then we’ll run with it.’
‘And who the hell are you? I thought you and Harry were the police.’
‘I know you want the person who beat this child to pay, and so do I. But I’m beginning to get a reputation for launching my own investigations. My superiors are getting twitchy.’
‘When have you ever taken your superiors’, or anybody else’s, feelings into account?’
He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. ‘Hold on, I’m on your side. I am going to get the bastard who did this, but you know there are procedures we have to follow. It’s not like you to get this emotional.’
‘And the monster who did this might be a thousand miles away while some bureaucrat fiddles with the papers.’
‘Harry and I will start working on this straight away. What’s the name of the doctor who dealt with the case in A&E?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘OK, we’ll find out from the registrar.’ He regretted bringing Graham along now as he would have preferred to speak to Reid alone. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him.’
She took a deep breath and felt her heartbeat returning to normal. She could feel the heat in her face and she was embarrassed. She knew he was right. They were not Batman and Robin with the ability to act independently. She also knew that she was being unprofessional and that bothered her. She was tired. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a holiday. And she also felt that it had something to do with the fact that her own biological clock was approaching midnight, even though she had never wanted children – her experience of life convinced her that adding another individual to the planet wasn’t a good idea. She looked at Wilson and saw the concern on his face. She was fighting with the inclination to cry. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a tough week.’
‘I’m going to see Jock this evening,’ Wilson said. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘No, it’s a night for a hot bath and a cold bottle of Chardonnay.’
He was about to pursue his invitation when he saw that she wanted to be alone. He gripped her hand. ‘I’ll call later.’ He nodded at Graham. ‘Let’s leave via A&E.’
She squeezed his hand then let go. What the hell was happening to her?
‘Let me know how Jock is,’ she said, watching them leave. A part of her didn’t want Wilson to go. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable and she wasn’t sure that a hot bath and a couple of glasses of Chardonnay would improve matters.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It never rained but it poured, Wilson was thinking as he and Graham made their way through the hospital grounds towards the Accident and Emergency Department. A few days ago Sammy Rice was top of his agenda. Since then he’d had his best friend shot in a field in South Tyrone with no apparent motive, he’d launched a covert investigation into the death of a controversial politician and now there was the death of an unidentified child. And Reid was having a bad week. He’d never seen her like that before. She always presented a tough exterior to the outside world. He knew that there was a soft core inside, but she was a consummate professional. He would have to sort out a short holiday for her when both their workloads permitted – that was if the workload ever permitted. He had come to terms with their relationship, which left both of them with their individual lives while enjoying the time they spent together. When they entered A&E, the crisis in the National Health Service was evident. There was not one free seat in the waiting area, and several people had to stand. Wilson wondered if there was an epidemic in Belfast that he hadn’t heard about. He walked to the front of the queue at the reception and showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson, I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.’ He could hear the disgruntled murmur from behind him. The line of sick people saw him as a queue jumper.
The receptionist picked up the phone and dialled. She spoke quietly into the receiver then put the phone down. ‘First door on the right, the consultant is busy at the moment, but she’ll be with you as soon as she’s free. I’ll buzz you through.’
Graham waited for the buzzing sound and then pushed what turned out to be a very heavy door. Wilson looked back into the room and received dirty looks from the assembled would-be patients. Beyond the door, they found themselves in the main triage room.
‘You the policemen?’ a young nurse asked.
Graham nodded.
‘The consultant’s room is on the left. She’ll be with you shortly.’
They made for the room indicated by the nurse through a scene that had the look of organised chaos. They barely had time to look round the office when the door opened and a white-coated lady entered. She looked harassed. ‘How can I help?’ she asked, closing the door behind her.
Wilson explained their meeting with Reid.
‘I remember the child well.’ Her pleasant face had hardened. ‘We did our best for him, but I’m afraid his injuries were such that there was no chance of recovery. I must say that I’m equally as appalled as Professor Reid. I have no doubt that the injuries were inflicted by an adult and were the cause of death.’
‘The child was more or less dumped on your doorstep, I believe,’ Wilson said.
‘Yes, one of the security staff saw the man who dropped him. The fellow was there one minute and gone the next.’
‘And he had no identification on him?’
‘Nothing. His clothes were well-worn and filthy.’
Wilson was silent for a moment. How were they going to find out
the child’s name?
‘There must be some record of him somewhere,’ the consultant continued. ‘I cannot imagine that a child with that many injuries accrued over a period of time was not put on some watch list by Social Services.’
‘They would have been my starting point. But if that doesn’t work I suppose we’ll have to depend on the newspapers.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your help and excuse us for the interruption.’
The consultant shook their hands, led them into the main room and was immediately whisked away by a nurse. Wilson and Graham made their way back to the car. It was almost five o’clock and time to get on the road to Craigavon. Wilson was happy that he was a policeman and not a doctor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Community Hospice is located in Shandon Park in a leafy suburb of Belfast. Davidson steered the police car into the drive and turned left towards the parking area. Browne and Davidson walked back to the main building. There was no one at reception and they waited in the hall until a nurse arrived dressed in a blue and white candy-striped uniform with the words ‘Community Hospice’ stitched in red thread above her left breast. The two police officers showed their warrant cards.
‘We rang ahead,’ Browne said by way of explanation.
The nurse examined the warrant cards. ‘You’ll want to speak with Matron.’
The nurse disappeared and returned with a lady wearing a black uniform. ‘Good evening,’ she said.
They took out their warrant cards again.
‘Put those things away.’ Her face brightened when she saw Davidson. ‘Peter Davidson, how long has it been?’
Davidson shuffled uneasily. His father had died in this hospice and the memory of the event was brought back vividly by the surroundings. ‘Almost five years now, Matron. You have a good memory.’
‘You were a good son, Peter. Your father was proud of you. Please, let’s go into the day room. There’s no one there at the moment.’ She led them into a small room that contained two two-seater blue-covered couches and two easy chairs. They all sat. ‘Now that we’re comfortable. How can I help you?’
Browne wondered why Davidson hadn’t mentioned that he knew the hospice already. He decided to forge ahead and leave that explanation for another day. The plan was to concentrate on the issue of the morphine. ‘We understand that Jackie Carlisle had made arrangements to enter the hospice when his situation became more grave,’ Browne began.
‘That’s correct.’
‘There’s been some confusion as to where he obtained the lethal dose of morphine that ended his life,’ Browne continued.
The matron bridled. ‘Well, I can assure you that he didn’t get it here. Our drugs are kept under lock and key and are only dispensed as required. The log is maintained meticulously.’
‘That closes off one avenue of supply.’ Browne was disappointed, if would have made it easier if the morphine had been dispensed by the hospice. He could see a difficult road ahead establishing where the morphine had come from.
The matron straightened her skirt across her knees. ‘We did have an arrangement with Mr Carlisle whereby we would begin injections when the pain became significant. In fact, we had intended to visit him to begin morphine injections at a relatively low level the day he died. However, he called earlier that morning and cancelled the visit. Apparently he was feeling better.’
Browne and Davidson looked at each other.
‘Did you speak to Mr Carlisle yourself?’ Browne asked.
‘Good heavens, no, someone took the message and I simply cancelled the visit.’
‘Nobody checked whether the message was genuine?’
The matron looked confused. ‘Why should we? Mr Carlisle, or someone speaking on his behalf, cancelled a visit. It happens all the time.’ She looked at Davidson. ‘Doesn’t it, Peter?’
He tried to remember whether it had ever happened with his father and couldn’t recall a single case. He would ask his sister later and check whether she had ever cancelled a visit. ‘I’m sorry, Matron, I have no recollection of ever cancelling a visit.’
Browne stood. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Matron. I think we can safely say that the morphine didn’t come from here. The availability of drugs in the province is a serious matter, but we can see that the procedures you have in place preclude you from our investigation.’
Davidson and the matron followed Browne from the room. The matron spoke as they reached the front door, ‘I was very sad to hear of Mr Carlisle’s demise. In our conversations with him, I had the impression that he wanted to die with dignity. I really don’t consider taking one’s life dignified.’ She turned to Davidson. ‘Please come and see us again, Peter.’ She hugged him and offered her hand to Browne.
They walked back to the car in silence and sat in. ‘He was expecting a visit from a nurse with a shot of morphine the day he died,’ Browne said. ‘And it was cancelled. The question is by whom?’
Davidson turned the key in the ignition. ‘That’s what the boss would call one hell of a coincidence.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wilson arrived at Craigavon Community Hospital at a quarter to six. On the short drive there he had been thinking about Reid’s behaviour at the morgue. The sight of the dead child was distressing, but death was both his and Reid’s business. He was sure the boy wasn’t the first child that she had autopsied and concluded that she was suffering from stress. He wasn’t surprised. Dealing with death on a daily basis tends to do that to someone. For now though he was anxious to take a look at Jock. He needed to know what happened in the field in South Tyrone. He made his way to the ICU where he was obliged to gown up before entering the large ward. McDevitt was in the last bed on the right. The doctor in charge told him that Jock was being kept sedated. He was out of danger but there was no way he would be in a position to be interviewed. Again the doctor emphasised how lucky McDevitt was to be alive.
The silence in the ward was broken only by the humming of the various machines that were keeping the patients alive and by the rhythmic pinging of the heart monitors. Wilson reached the last bed and was confused for a moment. The man lying there didn’t look like Jock McDevitt, but when he ignored the oxygen tube in his nose and the various in and out tubes into his body he saw that it was indeed his friend. McDevitt had never been a giant, but now he appeared to have disappeared into his slight frame and it was clear that he was never going to forget the night he had been shot in a field in Aughnacloy. Wilson picked up the clipboard that was attached to the bottom of the bed. He glanced at the papers. It was mostly mumbo jumbo to him, but he noticed that Jock had been born in 1964. That made him fifty-three years old. Lying there he looked more like ninety. Wilson approached the side of the bed and looked at Jock’s chest as it rose and fell. He felt both relief that his friend had survived and frustration that he couldn’t yet speak to him. The investigation clock was running and he still had no idea what Kielty and Jock were up to in Aughnacloy. He touched Jock’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to get the bastard who shot you. But you better wake up soon and give us some bloody idea what you were doing in that bloody field.’ He thought he saw some movement in Jock’s eyelids. Just a small movement but it was there. He removed his hand and walked back along the line of patients. He’d been there himself and survived. He wished the same for everyone in the room.
As he removed his gown, he asked a nurse. ‘Where’s the policeman?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘What policeman?’
‘I thought Armagh PSNI sent over a policeman to guard McDevitt.’ Someone tried to kill the man less than two days ago for Christ’s sake.
‘I’m sorry, there’s been no policeman here.’ The nurse hurried off.
Wilson switched on his mobile and called Gibson’s number. It rang out. He called Armagh Police Station and was told that DS Gibson was not in the station. He cursed under his breath. In normal circumstances he would have driven over to Aughnacloy to visit the incident room, but he had no ide
a where it might be located. It was time to clear the air with Gibson. But that was for tomorrow.
As Wilson got into his car his phone pinged to indicate the arrival of a message. He opened it, hoping it was from Reid but not recognising the number. The message was short: Drink, the Crown, usual snug.
A little over half an hour later, Wilson pushed open the door of the Crown bar on Belfast’s Great Victoria Street. He had been a regular in the bar for more than fifteen years and generally had one of the snugs, or private rooms, at his disposal. As soon as he entered, the barman pointed towards one of the snugs. Wilson was intrigued by the phone message and apprehensive as he pushed open the door of the snug. The man who sat facing the door was almost as tall and as broad as Wilson. He was smiling broadly.
‘Hello, Jack.’ Wilson closed the door and sat on a stool facing DCI Jack Duane of the Garda Síochána Special Branch.
Duane pushed the bell summoning the barman. ‘Glad you could make it. Pint of Guinness?’
Wilson nodded. The barman’s head appeared in the hatch between the bar and the snug and Duane ordered the drinks.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Wilson said as soon as the hatch was closed.
‘Just up from Dublin for the evening and I thought I’d touch base with my old pal.’
Wilson smiled. There was no way that Duane was in Belfast by accident. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of guy that just happens to be anywhere. Don’t forget we have people in the PSNI just like you.’
The hatch opened and two pints of Guinness were passed into the snug while a ten-pound note travelled in the opposite direction. Duane passed a glass to Wilson and held up his own for a toast. ‘Fuck the begrudgers.’
