Death on the Line: A Northern Irish Noir Thriller (Wilson Book 7)

by Derek Fee

  ‘Sláinte,’ Wilson replied. They both drank. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re doing in Belfast or is the reason above my pay grade?’

  ‘Holy God, you are such a cynic. Can’t I drop in on an old friend without being given the third degree?’

  ‘OK, we’ll play it your way.’

  ‘Where’s that wee leprechaun that you hang out with.’ Duane sipped his drink. ‘You know the journalist fella.’

  The penny finally dropped for Wilson. ‘I thought you might have heard. He’s been shot over in Aughnacloy. You’ll be glad to hear that he survived. He’s in Craigavon Hospital in ICU.’

  Duane drained his glass and pushed the bell. ‘Lucky little bastard isn’t he? Being shot and all. Your round. Now how does a mild wee fella like that get himself shot?’

  The barman’s head appeared and Duane signalled two more Guinness.

  Wilson enjoyed playing the cat and mouse game. Only he wasn’t sure who was the cat and who was the mouse. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’re just being modest. The Ian Wilson I know wouldn’t be sittin’ idly by when someone had tried to murder one of his friends.’

  Wilson finished his drink, took a ten-pound note from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of Duane. ‘He would if he was told to.’

  The barman and Duane repeated the exchange of drinks and money. ‘Keep the change.’ Duane smiled.

  Wilson touched glasses with Duane. ‘This far and no further.’

  ‘Ah, Ian, I was hoping for a bit of a blast.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re on expenses?’

  Duane frowned. ‘I sometimes spend my own money.’ He sipped his drink ‘So you’re not in charge of the business in South Tyrone?’

  ‘Not yet. Why are you interested in the business in South Tyrone?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Duane took a mouthful of Guinness. ‘But my boss is and so probably are his bosses. They’re interested in anything that happens on the border between us and our northern brethren, especially when one man is killed and another is almost killed. Gunplay on the border is all right in a western film but in Ireland it makes people nervous. The little man hasn’t spoken yet, I suppose?’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘I was in Craigavon Hospital when I received your message. They let me see him. He’s alive but very poorly. We should be able to talk with him late tomorrow or the next day.’

  ‘You have a police guard on him?’

  Wilson was wondering how far he should go with the information exchange. So far it had been pretty much one way. To hell with it, he wanted the guy who had shot McDevitt. It didn’t matter how they got there. ‘Armagh is currently in charge. The SIO is a guy called Gibson. Up to now, he’s been pretty slipshod. I asked for a police guard this morning, but when I was in Craigavon this evening there wasn’t one.’

  Duane finished his drink and held up his glass. Wilson shook his head.

  Duane sighed. ‘If Armagh doesn’t do it, get a uniform down there from Belfast. Someone wanted McDevitt dead. They probably know by now that’s he’s alive. That means they’re not very happy.’

  ‘What are we talking about, Jack?’

  ‘Rumours, Ian, nothing that we can substantiate for the moment.’ He stood up. ‘If the rumours are true, we’ve all got a big problem.’ He slapped Wilson on the shoulder as he made his way to the door of the snug. ‘You’d best step lightly on this one. Like the guy across the pond with the comb over would say, we’re dealing with some potentially bad dudes here.’

  By the time Wilson reached the pavement in front of the Crown, Duane had disappeared, leaving him with the feeling that he had imagined the scene in the snug. Every time he had a discussion with Duane, he had the impression that the information exchange was in one direction only. Duane had mentioned rumours but hadn’t expanded on the comment. It worried Wilson. He removed his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled Gibson again. No answer. He sent a text message indicating that if there wasn’t a uniform on duty outside the ICU at Craigavon by the morning, there would be consequences.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wilson’s car was in the Great Northern Car Park. He wasn’t about to drive it home when over the limit, but he also wasn’t about to leave it behind. His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The Red Panda was the nearest eatery. It wasn’t his favourite, but he could certainly murder a Chinese meal and he needed something to soak up the Guinness. He took a seat by the window and ordered some crispy aromatic duck, pancakes and egg fried rice. He took out his mobile and checked his messages; nothing from Reid. Despite his concern for McDevitt, she was the first person that came to his mind. He was worried that she might be pushing herself too hard. Although their relationship was supposed to be adult in that they had sex together and passed time together, it wasn’t supposed to be clingy. That was the theory. The practice was that he wanted to spend most of his free time with her. He fingered his phone. Perhaps he should call her. He decided not to. If she was on edge, was he part of the solution or part of the problem?

  He was looking absent-mindedly out the window when he saw his sergeant walking along Great Victoria Street heading in the direction of the city centre. He first reaction was to knock on the window but then he saw that Browne wasn’t alone. His companion was a young man who looked to be in his early twenties. He was slim and had his blond hair in the type of stylish cut favoured by Premiership footballers. He was also a good-looking young man. Browne and his companion were talking animatedly as they passed the window of the Red Panda and neither glanced in his direction. Something clicked in Wilson’s mind. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. Browne was integrating well into the team. He was no Moira McElvaney, but then again his predecessor had been a one-off. And quite honestly, the man’s sexuality was his own business. But it was another element he would have to take into consideration. The police force, and in particular the PSNI, was no longer the homophobic reserve that it had once been. As a young man, Wilson had been shocked when one of the senior players on his rugby team had come out. That was then and things had certainly changed for the better since, but the homophobes were still out there. He watched the two men continue their walk. At that moment his meal arrived and he turned away from the window.

  Rory Browne stared into the beautiful face of his latest conquest. He couldn’t believe that someone so attractive had left the Limelight bar with him. They were on their way to The Spaniard for another drink and then on to Kremlin for some dancing. Browne was hoping that their evening would end in the bedroom of his flat on Adelaide Street. He had been in Belfast three months and he was amazed that he had jumped so willingly into the gay scene. Northern Ireland was not the most open place in the world for the LGBT community. Not so long ago one political leader had launched a ‘Save Ulster from Sodomy’ campaign. Some of the current ministers had made comments detrimental to the gay community and Northern Ireland was the only part of the United Kingdom where gay couples were prohibited from marrying. He was aware of the risk he was running. ACC Nicholson had already used his sexuality against him in forcing him to report to Castlereagh on Wilson. By right, he should have been in PSNI HQ that evening telling the story of Wilson’s rogue investigation into Jackie Carlisle’s death, but instead he had gone looking for sex and had hoped that he had found it in the shape of the young man walking beside him. He wondered whether he had a death wish concerning the PSNI. He had no doubt that Nicholson would do everything to get rid of him if he found that he was ignoring his instructions regarding Wilson. Walking beside this Adonis with the prospect of a night of sexual abandon, he didn’t really give a shit for Nicholson, or people like him, or the PSNI.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Wilson woke early. He put on his running gear and went for what he hoped would be a therapeutic jog. A light rain was falling as he exited the apartment building. The streets were empty and it was still dark. The run was part of his daily ritual, which he habitually broke.
He turned right heading along Queen’s Road. As his feet pounded the pavement, his mind ran through the issues dominating his life. Number one on the list was Reid, his concern about her behaviour of the previous day had leapfrogged over his concern for McDevitt, who was making steady progress in Craigavon. Further at the back of his mind was the murder of Kielty, the attempted murder of McDevitt, the possible homicide of Carlisle and the small boy lying in the morgue. He would have to run all day to give each of these issues their due. There was no way that he would be able to keep so many balls in the air. He had reached the junction of Queen’s Road and East Twin Road, which was his halfway point, and he was already soaked. He headed back. He needed several cups of coffee and some scrambled eggs before attacking the day.

  Wilson arrived back at his apartment having made several decisions, some of which his team might not be happy about. Before showering he picked up his mobile and called Craigavon Hospital. McDevitt was awake but uncommunicative and a uniformed officer was seated outside ICU. Both pieces of good news, and deserving of the smile that Wilson gave them. They would soon have some idea what happened in the field outside Aughnacloy and the reason why Thomas Kielty had to die.

  Wilson called the complete team together at the whiteboards at the end of the squad room. He noted that O’Neill had already established a board on Carlisle and had located it strategically out of sight. One of the two major boards was dedicated to the murders of Grant, Malone and O’Reilly. The murderers had been established as Baxter and Weir so, in effect, the crimes had been solved. However, the issue of the conspiracy still hung in the air. Wilson stood directly in front of the boards and faced his team. ‘We have to clear the decks and concentrate on the active cases we have at the moment.’

  He turned to Browne and Davidson. ‘We know that Sammy Rice was behind the murders of Grant and Malone, but we have to face the fact that unless someone accidentally stumbles on Sammy’s body we’re not going to find him. So the search for Sammy’s body goes on the backburner.’

  He looked at O’Neill. ‘Siobhan, take a photo of the board and disassemble it. We need the space. Put everything away carefully. We’ll use the board for our input into the Kielty murder and the McDevitt attempted murder. I’ll be in charge of that. Harry will help me when he has time. Unfortunately, the pathologist at the Royal Victoria has dropped another nice little problem into our lap.’ He then briefed the team on his and Graham’s visit to the morgue the previous afternoon. ‘The pathologist’s conclusion is that the child died as a consequence of a brutal beating he took at someone’s hands. We’re slightly hamstrung by the fact that we don’t know the child’s name, but I can’t believe that a child with substantial historical injuries hasn’t at one time been on the at-risk register. So, Harry, you need to obtain a photo of the boy from the morgue and circulate it to Social Services. Hopefully, some conscientious bureaucrat will recognise the child and we’ll be in a position to evaluate the situation more closely. The facts that the boy was dumped outside A&E, and that no one has come forward to claim him, don’t auger well for finding a couple of caring parents. I have the feeling that this one could get messy and that’s why I’m giving it to Harry, and I’ll help out when I can.’

  ‘So, we’re calling it murder?’ Harry asked.

  ‘For now,’ Wilson said. ‘There’ll be a coroner’s verdict but, considering the injuries, I doubt he’ll plump for either suicide or accidental death.’ He turned to Browne and Davidson. ‘Brief us on yesterday.’

  Browne began with a résumé of their interview with Irene Carlisle and then handed over to Davidson to give a rundown on their visit to the hospice.

  ‘Conclusions?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘There’s no doubt that Mrs Carlisle thinks that her husband was murdered,’ Browne said. ‘There are a lot of coincidences. Carlisle was expecting his first injection of morphine from the hospice on the day of his death. Someone cancelled that appointment. The morphine didn’t come from the hospice and Mrs Carlisle had total control over the house. She insists that if there were morphine and drug paraphernalia in the house, she would have known. You were right, Boss. There’s enough there to continue investigating.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe that someone with an ego the size of Carlisle’s would check himself out,’ Davidson chimed in.

  ‘We need to push ahead with trying to find out where the morphine came from,’ Wilson said. ‘And who cancelled the appointment with the hospice, was it a man or a woman? I suppose it’s a bit late to look for CCTV and anyway Hillsborough isn’t exactly covered with cameras. The residents of places like Hillsborough like to preserve their privacy. Get Carlisle’s phone records, both landline and mobile. There’s no chance of a warrant as we haven’t a shred of real evidence, so you’ll have to ask Mrs Carlisle for her permission.’

  Browne nodded and Davidson made a note.

  ‘Just look at the date of Carlisle’s suicide,’ Wilson continued. ‘I’ll bet there’s no call to the hospice. It’s a pity we can’t get the record of the incoming calls at the hospice.’

  Browne looked at Davidson and smiled. ‘Maybe there is a way.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ Wilson said.

  ‘My father died in the hospice,’ Davidson said. ‘During his stay I got to know the staff pretty well, but I have no idea whether they’d be willing to go that far for me.’

  ‘But you’re going to try,’ Wilson said.

  Davidson didn’t look entirely happy. ‘So it appears.’

  Wilson looked at the team. There was an energy that had been missing for the past few weeks. ‘You all know what you have to do, we’re done here.’

  Wilson went to his office and closed the door. He took out his mobile, flicked through his contacts and pressed and pressed “Gibson”. The phone rang four times before it was answered. Just enough to give the recipient time to look at the caller ID. ‘The elusive DS Gibson,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Sir,’ Gibson replied.

  ‘I called you last night and your phone rang out.’

  ‘I’m afraid I left my mobile at the incident room in Aughnacloy and I didn’t recover it until this morning.’

  Liar, Wilson thought. Then how had you received my text about putting the uniformed officer outside ICU? But Gibson had done that off his own bat, yeah right. ‘That’s unfortunate. I was in Craigavon yesterday evening and I wanted to drive over to Aughnacloy to visit the incident room. Except no one had contacted me about the location. I’m beginning to get the impression that I’m being purposely kept in the dark. I hope that I’m mistaken in that impression.’

  There was a delay on the line. When he spoke, Gibson’s voice was strained. ‘I’m sorry, Sir, we spent most of yesterday afternoon setting up the incident room. It’s in a disused building across the road from the Ulster Bank on Moore Street. The electricity had been cut off and we had some difficulty with the reconnection.’

  ‘We are fifty-four hours into the investigation into the murder of Thomas Kielty and we have precisely nothing. What’s happened to the bullets taken from Kielty’s body?’

  ‘They’ve been sent to FSNI.’

  ‘I have a contact there. I’ll put a rush on the analysis. What else have you got?’

  Again there was silence on the line. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that nobody in the vicinity of the shooting heard or saw anything.’

  ‘That appears to be the case.’

  ‘McDevitt is awake but unresponsive. I’m going to Craigavon this evening and I want to meet you at the incident room at eight o’clock.’

  ‘I would like to be present when you speak to Mr McDevitt. After all, I am the SIO.’

  ‘Then behave like one. Six o’clock at Craigavon Hospital.’ Wilson cut the communication.

  Wilson was losing his patience with Gibson. He’d been playing it cool by allowing Armagh to keep control of the case, but it was rapidly reaching the point where he would have to insist on greater involvement by his team. The chief sup
erintendent in Armagh might not be happy, but Wilson was becoming convinced that Gibson wasn’t up to the task. He would still have to use the local uniforms though and that might pose a problem as he wasn’t the top diplomat in the PSNI. But he did have the best case clearance record. There would be the objection that he was personally involved. He wasn’t about to argue that point, but he would counter with the argument that his personal relationship with one of the victims was tenuous at best and might give him an added incentive to produce a result. He wouldn’t be able to manage the investigation on his own. Another complication might be the mysterious appearance of Jack Duane. That meant the Kielty murder could have a political overtone, which in turn meant that there would be the inevitable input from Castlereagh and that would happen very soon. He couldn’t imagine the powers that be being happy with the ‘nothing new’ approach of Gibson. All in all it pointed to a quagmire.

  Meanwhile his team was rapidly reaching overload. He wasn’t about to drop the Carlisle investigation. And Reid would never speak to him again if he didn’t follow up on the death of the young boy. The best case scenario was that one of the child’s parents would confess to beating the shit out of the boy and they could close the case quickly and leave tidying up the evidence to CID for presentation to the Public Prosecution Service. That would free up Harry Graham, and Siobhan O’Neill was also on tap. He was beginning to see some light at the end of the tunnel. Mind you, that feeling had proven to be deceptive in the past. The key to the whole situation was lying in a bed in ICU at Craigavon. Wilson could hardly wait for the evening but knew that he was facing another day of clock watching.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Harry Graham was beaming within. He had never been a senior investigating officer and although Wilson hadn’t said the words, Harry was in charge of the investigation into the death of the child currently lying in the morgue at the Royal Victoria. He loved his job and, even though it meant less time with his young family, he wouldn’t change it for the world. He’d had opportunities to move, but he’d always turned them down. A week in Traffic or Crime would send him running up the wall. Then there was Wilson himself. There were few bosses like him on the force. He’d never known Wilson to screw a member of his team and you couldn’t say that about most of the arse-lickers in the upper echelons. He pondered the boss’s idea of getting a photo out to Social Services. He remembered the battered face of the young boy. How easy would it be to recognise him? A second consideration was whether any of the social workers would own up to having neglected the child to such an extent that he’d ended up dead. He had to start somewhere and that meant with his own colleagues in the PSNI. If a case of abuse is reported to Social Services, and if it is determined that the case is such that the child’s health might be impaired, there is an obligation for the PSNI to be informed. He walked over to Siobhan O’Neill’s desk. He hadn’t had much to do with her since she’d joined the team. He’d marked her out as a quiet, shy girl. She was never available for an after-work drink; there was something about her caring for an ailing mother. He pulled a chair over and sat down beside her. ‘Siobhan, I need your help.’