by Derek Fee
McDevitt’s eyes opened slowly and he blinked as he tried to focus. He raised his right hand in a greeting and gave a thin smile. ‘Almost worth getting shot for.’ The voice was low and strained.
Wilson came forward and touched his hand. McDevitt grasped the hand and held it.
‘You gave us a bit of a scare,’ Wilson said.
‘Aye, I think I heard the chorus of angels but they were still a bit far off.’ McDevitt tried to push himself up but didn’t succeed.
Reid took the bed control and lifted the back up so that McDevitt was in a more or less sitting position. She started for the door. ‘I’ll just go off and check with the doctors. I’m sure that you boys have a lot to discuss.’
McDevitt kept a grip on Wilson’s hand. ‘Thanks.’ His voice was a whisper.
‘Nothing to thank me for.’
‘I knew I could depend on you. You saved my life.’
Wilson sat on a chair beside the bed. ‘The paramedics and the doctors deserve all the credit. I only answered your call.’
McDevitt nodded at a glass of water on the nightstand. Wilson took the glass and held it while McDevitt drank.
‘You know that you’re a bloody fool,’ Wilson continued. ‘You should have told me what you were up to.’
‘I didn’t know that I was about to get shot.’
‘I take it Kielty got in touch with you about smuggling going on in the area around his farm.’
McDevitt nodded.
‘He probably suggested that you check it out. You saw the potential for a couple of front-page stories so you decided to stake out the spot where Kielty had seen the smugglers.’
McDevitt’s thin smile turned into a wince. ‘You really are a detective. But it was bigger than just smuggling.’
‘We know. You might have got the story without getting shot if you’d just hung on.’
‘Kielty recognised some of the principals,’ McDevitt spoke haltingly. ‘He’d been a member of the UDR in the 1980s. He recognised his old sergeant, Walter Hanna. I checked him out. He’s a very bad man, Ian. He led a murder gang in mid-Ulster but your lot were never able to put him away.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
McDevitt nodded.
‘Don’t tell anyone else until we get you out of here and back to Belfast. And I mean anyone, including the local police. I’ve managed to have a uniformed policeman on duty outside your door. If Hanna knew that you’d recognised him, he might not stop at attempting to kill you.’
Reid came back into the room and sat on the bottom of the bed. ‘Your doctor says that you’ve got the constitution of a horse. He also says that you should buy a lottery ticket this week. I took a look at the X-rays and I second his opinion. You’re one very lucky man. He was quite insistent that we leave soon and that we don’t overtire you. Apparently, they would be very pissed off if you were to die on them after all the efforts they’ve made to keep you alive.’
Wilson stood up. ‘Remember, nobody. I’ll be back tomorrow. Now get some sleep and get well. I want you out of here and back in Belfast as soon as possible.’
Reid got up and lowered the bed with the control unit. McDevitt’s eyes were already shutting. She gave him a wave and led Wilson out of the room.
‘What’s the prognosis?’ Wilson asked when they were outside.
‘I wasn’t lying. He’s lucky to be alive. The bullet missed all the vital organs. They managed to stop the internal bleeding but he’d already lost a lot of blood. He should be on the mend quite quickly.’
Wilson could feel the relief surge through his body. ‘I want him back in Belfast as soon as he’s fit to travel.’
She looked at him. ‘Craigavon is every bit as good as the Royal.’ Then she realised that it probably had nothing to do with the quality of the hospital.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wilson contemplated abandoning the journey to Aughnacloy, but he didn’t fancy cancelling the meeting with Gibson. It was only a short half-hour trip from Craigavon and they would be there before seven, which meant that they would be back in Belfast by eight thirty at the latest. Wilson was looking out for the Ulster Bank when he saw the police Skoda Octavia parked across the street in front of a non-descript derelict-looking building. There was a large blue sign on the gable wall advertising a local garage and there were several vans stationed in the car park. The first thing that Wilson noticed was that the building had only three small windows. He pulled up close to the front door, which was ajar. Both he and Reid descended from the car and entered the building.
In the course of his twenty years in the force, Wilson had been required to endure a certain level of hardship. Beggars can’t be choosers when selecting buildings in which to set up an incident room. First choice always falls on a disused school building or a local hall that’s only rarely used. But the building he now entered was one of the poorest, if not the poorest, places he had ever encountered for an investigation team to work in. He could not begin to speculate on what the initial function of the building might have been. Gibson was sitting at a table that had been set up at the top right-hand corner of the large internal room. An ancient computer sat on the table in front of him. The only lighting in the room was a table lamp that stood on a desk. As soon as he noticed Wilson and Reid, Gibson closed the file he had been examining, stood up and walked the length of the inside space to greet them. Wilson introduced Reid in her professional capacity before she set off to explore the premises.
‘You’re sure this was the only available space in the village?’ Wilson asked as he looked round the room. The floor was concrete and the small windows transmitted almost no daylight. The building looked like it had been deserted for some time.
‘Aughnacloy isn’t Belfast,’ Gibson replied. ‘The building didn’t even have electricity this morning.’
‘I’ll be arriving with two members of my team tomorrow morning. We’ll need three more desks and three modern computers plus an Internet connection. The bills can be sent to ACC Nicholson in Castlereagh.’
Gibson had a quizzical look on his face. ‘Castlereagh being involved, taking the case away from the local responsible station, it’s all a bit heavy duty for the shooting of a local farmer isn’t it?’
‘You and I don’t get paid for making operational decisions,’ Wilson said, following Reid’s lead and examining the room. ‘By the way, I haven’t seen the results of the search of the crime scene.’
Gibson reddened. ‘I haven’t been able to mount the search due to lack of resources.’
‘What?’ Wilson was about to blow his top. He had arrived in Amateurville and it would be his balls on the line if the investigation didn’t result in a conviction. The crime scene should have been searched immediately. ‘I want ten uniforms in that field tomorrow morning. I don’t give a shit where you get them from but get them. I want them there at the break of dawn and I want them to go over every blade of grass in that field. Four shots were fired there, that means there are four shells somewhere. I want them. And I want anything else pertinent to this enquiry. And I want that field totally closed off until we’re finished with it. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Gibson almost stood to attention.
‘I don’t like being called Sir. But you can call me Boss. Now, do you think that you can manage everything before tomorrow?’
‘I’ll get onto Armagh immediately. I assume the chief superintendent has already been informed by Castlereagh.’
‘With Nicholson in charge, you can bet on it.’ Wilson took another turn around the room. ‘And get some cleaners in here. I assume that there are people who clean in Aughnacloy.’
‘I’ll check with the local businesses, Si … Boss.’
Wilson motioned to Reid that they were finished. ‘OK, I’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning with Detective Sergeant Browne and Detective Constable O’Neill. By tomorrow afternoon, I want the incident room fully operational.’
Gibson looked to have lost several inc
hes in height. ‘Yes, Boss.’
Wilson was still simmering when they entered the car.
‘I love you when you’re angry,’ Reid said as he started the engine. ‘You can buy me dinner tonight.’ They looked at each other. ‘And yes, I think I will be staying over.’
Gibson watched the car pull away from the building. He wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight. He took out his mobile phone and dialled. ‘I think we might have a problem,’ he said when the call was answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘You’ve been busy.’ Wilson looked round the incident room. He had been a little delayed leaving Belfast and had arrived in Aughnacloy a half-hour later than planned. The room had been cleaned and Gibson had managed to locate three passable desks and office chairs. Each desk had a modern computer with a flat-screen monitor on it and additional lighting had been placed round the periphery of the room. His efforts had made the room brighter and more inviting, and more like an incident room should look. It was far from perfect, but it would do. Wilson concluded that while Gibson might be shit at investigating murder, he could at least follow instructions.
‘I want DS Browne in charge of the search of the murder site. I assume the uniforms are already there.’
‘Yes, Boss,’ Gibson said. ‘I’ll arrange transport.’ He disappeared outside.
Wilson looked at Browne, who looked like he’d had a long night. ‘I want those shells. There should be at least four. I haven’t been able to speak with McDevitt about the number of shots fired, but if the shooter hit three out of four in almost total darkness while firing at running targets, we’re dealing with a hell of a good shot. I’m hoping that because it was dark and he was in such a hurry to get away that he didn’t try to search for the ejected shells, at the time or since.’
‘That sounds reasonable, Boss,’ Browne said. He’d had a busy night and he wasn’t keen on directing a group of uniforms on a search but it beat being under the gaze of the boss for the day. He was going to have to get control over his nightlife but it was hard to keep away from his new boyfriend. He wasn’t sure what love was but he found his thoughts straying to beautiful young Vinny every few minutes.
Gibson came back into the room. ‘Transport’s outside.’
‘On my way.’ Browne started for the door.
He was displaying a little too much enthusiasm to be away for Wilson’s liking, but they needed someone at the crime scene who would make sure that the uniforms did the job properly. Wilson walked over to Siobhan who was working on the computer. ‘All OK?’
‘The Internet connection is rubbish. I brought along a dongle from home. I just hope I can use the external access to get into the PSNI system.’
‘I’ll leave you to get me the information I asked you for in the car.’ By midday he wanted to know everything about the life and times of Walter Hanna and anyone who was associated with him. He had contacted PSNI Intelligence concerning the local IRA unit. Given Nicholson’s imprimatur, they agreed to provide him with information on the current characters and whatever surveillance photos they possessed. He was about to walk away but turned back. ‘Also make up a flyer asking for any information on the crime and print off a couple of hundred. Make sure the post office gets them and that one is delivered to every house in the village. Give them the phone number of the incident room. The flyer is second priority. When you’re finished I want you to set up the whiteboards. Get as many photos of the site and Kielty’s body as you can. Get onto FSNI and tell them you’re the liaison with the investigation team and that we need the forensic results from the site and the slugs recovered from Kielty and McDevitt as soon as possible.’
Gibson was watching Wilson at work. He could already tell that his reputation for ruthless efficiency was well deserved. ‘What would you like me to do, Boss?’
‘You’re going to introduce me around. I want to talk to the Kieltys again. This time individually. And I’d like to have another word with Reverend Hunter. Oh, and I’d like to speak with Kielty’s doctor. I’ve asked Professor Reid, you remember the lady who accompanied me last evening, to take a second look at Kielty’s brain for signs of dementia. When the uniforms are finished at the crime scene, I want them to go door to door and visit all the farms in the area. I find it difficult to believe that at least four shots were fired and no one heard a damn thing.’
Wilson turned away and so failed to notice the look of fear on Gibson’s face; perhaps it was just as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Let’s start with our old friend Reverend Hunter.’ Wilson stood outside the building housing the incident room and surveyed the village of Aughnacloy. The sun was up and he saw the village in all its glory. It perfectly fitted the description of a ‘one-horse town’. It consisted of one main street, Moore Street, and several side streets and boasted four hundred inhabitants. He doubted Reverend Hunter was a busy man. In fact he was a little astonished that the parish could support a priest at all. ‘I suppose you know where to find him?’
‘We could try the manse.’ Gibson was wishing that he was somewhere else, anywhere else. He had no doubt that Wilson was going to turn over every stone in the area and he was afraid that he might be found under one of them. ‘Perhaps I should give him a call?’
‘Let’s not. Can we walk there?’
‘In Aughnacloy you can walk everywhere.’
Wilson permitted Gibson to lead the way and they began walking along the main street. Gibson was wearing ordinary clothes, but Wilson could see from the stares they received that the residents of Aughnacloy were well aware of who he was. There is a streak in the Irish character that sees the police as ‘them’ and particularly so in the border area. The village itself was fairly pleasant and had a prosperous look. The advent of the European Union and the Good Friday Agreement had led to an explosion of trade across the border and villages like Aughnacloy had gained from the ease of movement between the two parts of the island. In a recent British referendum, Northern Ireland and Scotland had voted to remain in the European Union while England and Wales had voted to leave. Very few people in Ireland wanted a return to the bad old days of customs and border controls.
On this sunny morning, Aughnacloy looked bright and cheery, a bit like Wilson himself. He was pleased that Reid had opened up to him and it seemed to have the desired effect on her. In his experience with criminals, unloading a burden to someone else is often the first step in accepting the pain and moving on. They had visited their favourite Chinese takeaway and procured a decent bottle of wine. Reid’s spirits recovered and there was no more talk of destroyed childhoods or maternal misdeeds. Their loving was gentle and slow as it generally was these days. And she was still in his bed when he woke, which was the reason for his delay in leaving Belfast. Their relationship was developing a sense of permanence, although they both might deny it to themselves and each other. His dead wife was now simply a point in his history, along with his father. Both occupied a place in his heart that he only visited on rare occasions. His concentration was on the living not the dead. He had not quite reached that stage in his mind with Kate McCann but wasn’t far off. He still felt a tinge of regret whenever he thought of her but the past was the past and as far as he was aware time travel had not yet become a reality.
They turned into a narrow street and Wilson saw a small cut-stone church directly in front of them. He hoped Hunter would be at home. The manse, a fine two-storey house just outside the church grounds, evoked another era when the local parson was a person of importance in the village. In a drive to improve revenues, the Protestant churches in Northern Ireland had sold off many of their manses and supplied more modest accommodations for the clergy. The parson of Aughnacloy had seemed to have avoided that economy drive. The front door was opened by a lady, probably in her fifties, who was wearing a blue floral dress that marked her out more as a vicar’s wife than if she had ‘vicar’s wife’ stamped on her forehead.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a pleasant So
uth Tyrone burr.
Gibson stepped forward. ‘I am Detective Sergeant Gibson and this is Detective Superintendent Wilson, we’d like a word with Reverend Hunter, if he’s available.’
‘I hope that there’s been no further trouble,’ she remarked as she opened the door to admit them. ‘This is a very quiet village. We’re all appalled at what happened to poor Mr Kielty.’
‘No,’ Wilson said crossing the threshold, ‘there’s been no further trouble.’ He looked up to see Hunter exiting one of the rooms on the side of the hallway.
Hunter was examining some papers. ‘Who is it, dear?’
‘The police,’ Wilson said and smiled when he saw the effect on Hunter. The reverend cast a harsh look in the direction of Gibson.
Hunter recovered quickly. ‘Please come in. I was just in my study preparing my homily for Sunday service.’
Wilson followed Hunter back into the room he had just exited. ‘Yes, “the wages of sin is death” and that kind of thing.’ The study was a room that befitted a person of importance in the village. A mahogany partner’s desk sat directly facing a large bay window that looked out on the side garden. Bookshelves covered the walls and sagged beneath many hundreds of volumes. A leather button-backed couch was at the opposite end of the room and faced a marble fireplace. The walls were adorned with photographs of groups of men, some wearing suits and others in uniform. It was almost a perfect man-cave circa 1890.
