by Derek Fee
‘Please sit.’ Hunter was all nervous energy as he led Wilson and Gibson to the couch.
‘You have a lovely house here.’ Wilson took a seat and watched Hunter take a captain’s chair from behind his desk and bring it in their direction. ‘I thought that the church had moved on from these kinds of properties.’
Hunter sat facing them. ‘They did. I own this house. I’m afraid I came late to the ministry. Before I entered the church, I was the manager of a farmer’s cooperative in Dungannon. A small inheritance from an aunt pushed me to answer the call from God to preach his word. How can I help you? I see that you’ve established some sort of police post in the disused building across from the bank.’
‘We call it an incident room,’ Wilson said by way of explanation. ‘It rather trivialises the death of a human being to call it an “incident” but that’s the normal police jargon. I wanted to follow up on our meeting at the Kieltys’ farmhouse. You were on the scene very rapidly.’
Hunter bridled. ‘As soon as I heard about poor Mr Kielty’s demise, I rushed to bring the succour of the Lord to his family.’
Wilson smiled benignly. ‘Very commendable. How exactly did you learn of Mr Kielty’s death?’
Hunter thought for a moment. ‘You know I can’t rightly remember. It’s a small village of course. News tends to travel fast in places like this.’
‘When I arrived at the Kieltys’ farm, you and DS Gibson were already there. Who arrived first?’
Hunter and Gibson looked at each other.
‘I think I was there first,’ Gibson said.
Wilson looked at Gibson. ‘And you were the one who informed Mrs Kielty and her son that Thomas was dead?’
Gibson looked reluctant to answer. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m confused by the chronology here.’ Wilson stood up and walked round the room. He stood in front of one of the photographs on the wall. ‘Procedure says that the police should inform the family first, how then did Reverend Hunter arrive at the farmhouse at almost the same time as DS Gibson?’ He appeared to be thinking out loud while examining the photograph. ‘You were a member of the Ulster Defence Regiment, Reverend Hunter?’ He continued to stare at the photograph.
‘Yes, I served my country in its hour of need.’
‘Nice photograph of your unit.’ The names of the men in the photo were printed at the bottom. Slap bang in the middle of the photo, standing to attention and staring at the camera, was Sergeant Walter Hanna. Wilson turned to look at Hunter. ‘Are you still in contact with some of your old pals?’
‘They’re not old pals and I haven’t seen most of them in years.’
‘Used to be quite a crossover between the UDR and the Ulster Volunteer Force.’ Wilson again appeared to be musing out loud. ‘A bit like the Old West where the law and the outlaw were hard to distinguish.’
‘We upheld the law,’ Hunter said.
‘I’m sure that you did. And I’m sure that the people of Ulster are grateful to you.’ Wilson nodded at Gibson. ‘You’ve been most helpful. I may need to speak with you again.’
Hunter’s face dropped. ‘I really have nothing more to add.’
Wilson and Gibson started for the door. Hunter rose slowly and followed them. Hunter opened the door and Wilson stopped for a moment. ‘In my job I find that people always discover that they do have something further to add. I’m sure that will be the case with you. In the meantime, I wonder would you try to remember who informed you of Tom Kielty’s death.’
Wilson smiled as he walked out to the driveway. Gibson joined him and they began to walk back towards Moore Street. ‘I really should have reminded Reverend Hunter about the penalty for impeding a police investigation. Perhaps I’ll do that the next time we meet. What do you think?’
Gibson walked on in silence for some moments. ‘Yes, I think that might be a good idea.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Harry Graham didn’t bother to go to the office and instead went directly to Earlscourt Street, which turned out to be a typical Belfast street composed of facing rows of Victorian red-bricked houses. Just like the street half a mile away where Graham had been brought up, it was a well-kept street with neat and well-maintained houses and therefore he had no difficulty finding the house that Bradley described. It was the only run-down house on the street and had been partly vandalised. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He moved to the side and looked in the window. The front room was piled high with trash of every description. He looked at the locks on the front door and fished around in his pocket for the set of picks he had thoughtfully placed there. He played with the locks for a couple of minutes before they sprang open. I must be out of practice, he thought, returning the picks to his pocket. Once he would have had them open in double-quick time; his misspent youth had taught him many skills.
He pushed the door in and found resistance at the base. As soon as the opening was wide enough to enter, he saw that the bottom was blocked by a mound of paper of every kind including local free papers, flyers advertising every service under the sun and miscellaneous letters. He had done a quick search of the property register the previous evening. The house belonged to a Michael Bradfield. A search under that name produced a couple of possibilities that turned out not to be the owner. There was a possibility that the original owner had died and had left the property to a friend or relative. But in that case the new owner would have had an interest in having his or her name added to the property register. A quick search of houses for sale showed that property in the area was selling for between fifty and seventy thousand pounds. No inheritor was going to turn down a bonanza like that.
Graham found himself in the hall of the small house. Someone had been active with a can of spray paint and their tag covered every inch of available wall space. Rubbish was strewn everywhere and the overriding stench of faeces, urine, rat droppings and decayed food was overpowering. It was apparent that McAuley and her boyfriend had moved on. He entered a small room to the left of the hall. There was a filthy cloth-covered sofa against the wall in which the front window was located. The walls of the room were covered with graffiti and the floor was ankle-deep in open tins, pizza boxes and hamburger cartons. The lounge led into a kitchen at the rear, which had also had the spray-can treatment. The smell of rat droppings was strongest in this room. Graham really didn’t want to venture upstairs, but it had to be done. There were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. Stained mattresses covered the floors of the bedrooms where trash was strewn about liberally. He stood at the door of the bathroom. The stench was unimaginable. There was no way he was going in, he valued his health too much. He made his way downstairs trying to push from his mind the image of a five-year-old child being brought up in a shithole like this. He was done. He opened the front door and found an elderly man standing on the pavement outside.
‘You from the Housing Executive?’
‘Police.’ Graham took out his warrant card and showed it to the man. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Artie Ward. You goin’ to do somethin’ about the state of that place? I’ve been onto the Housing Executive a dozen times. The place is a breeding ground for rats.’
‘You live here?’ Graham asked.
‘Aye, two doors down. And I wish to God that I was gettin’ out like others in this street. But I was born and raised here and I suppose I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.’
‘How long has this place been empty?’ Graham pulled the door shut behind him.
‘The guts of fourteen year. We tried to find the man who owns it but he’s disappeared without a trace. The Housing Executive aren’t gonna take it over ’cause they’re a crowd of lazy bastards. In the meantime, the squatters and the junkies have been makin’ hay in there and makin’ our lives hell into the bargain.’
‘There was a woman living in there with a child about a year ago.’
‘Aye, that wee prossie. Used to bring her tricks back wi’ her. Thanks be to Jesus she’s not here any longer.’
‘You’ve no idea where she went?’
‘No and I’ll be happy if I never see her again. I sometimes think of that poor wee wain she has with her. What sort of a life is she givin’ that wee child?’
‘No life at all.’ Graham took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to the man. ‘Now, Mr Ward, my phone number is on there. If the woman comes back or if anyone comes back, give me a call.’
Ward put the card in his pocket. Graham shook his hand and started walking towards the Springfield Road. It was time to get back to the station. But what he really wanted was a drink.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘I fancy a visit to the doctor,’ Wilson said as he and Gibson turned into Moore Street.
‘I really think we should call ahead. He might be busy.’
‘No, let’s surprise him too. Where do we find him?’
Gibson sighed. ‘He has a clinic on Moore Street. Two hundred yards straight ahead on the left, Dr Hook.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Great name! Why don’t you go to the crime site and see how Browne and the uniforms are getting on? I think I can manage the doctor all on my own.’
‘Yes, Boss.’ Gibson turned back in the direction of the incident room.
Wilson walked on, examining the faces of the people passing him on the street. The residents of Aughnacloy were good, honest Ulster stock, which he supposed could easily be translated into good Irish stock. Foreigners often thought that there were differences between the Irish inhabiting the Irish Republic and those resident in Northern Ireland. For instance, the southerners were red-haired while the northerners were blond or dark-haired. In reality, no such clear distinctions exist. The accents are different and there are specific characteristics such as meanness or the ability to work hard. But the faces of the people on the streets of Aughnacloy might as easily be seen on a street in Galway, Cork or Dublin. He looked towards the end of Moore Street and wondered what it would be like to live in a village of four hundred souls. He could imagine that there were people who sought the slow life of a rural village, but he wasn’t one of them. As he walked along, he noticed the way those passing him looked away or at the ground. He’d only been a few hours in their village and he was sure that every one of the four hundred inhabitants already knew his name, what he looked like and what he had for breakfast. He was mulling over this metaphysical observation when he looked to his left and saw a nameplate advertising the clinic of Dr John Hook. He assumed that there was no relation to the 1970’s troubadour who sang about loving a beautiful woman.
Dr Hook’s surgery was located in a modern building, which had probably replaced an older one given that the buildings on both sides were in need of restoration. Perhaps Dr Hook himself had purposely built his modern surgery. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that John Hook was supporting the theory that Tom Kielty had dementia. Wilson was now fairly certain that the dementia story had been made up on the hoof and that it had probably been the brainchild of Reverend Hunter. The ultimate purpose of the story was the protection of Walter Hanna. Although Wilson had by now established Hanna as his prime suspect, he knew that there was a long way to go before he could put the cuffs on him, and probably an even longer way to go before Hanna stood in the dock in Belfast Crown Court. For the moment all he had was McDevitt’s identification, and a good barrister would drive a horse and carriage through his recollections of that evening. While Castlereagh and the editor of the Chronicle might be calling for a quick solution, Wilson had no intention of rushing in where fools had obviously already trodden. Before he brought down the curtain on the drama of Tom Kielty’s death, he wanted a clear idea of the role played by all the participants. That would take time and would require effort. He rang the bell beside the door and a buzzing sound indicated that he should push the door in. He entered a large waiting room containing six empty chairs, a coffee table strewn with dog-eared magazines and a desk behind which sat a lady of indeterminate age.
She smiled pleasantly as Wilson entered. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I was hoping to meet Dr Hook.’ He moved in front of the desk on which stood a computer, printer and other office paraphernalia.
‘Are you on his patient list? I’m afraid I don’t recognise you and if you’re not on his list, Dr Hook can’t see you. You should go to your own GP.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t need to be on his list to see him.’ Wilson produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson, I would like to see Dr Hook on official business.’
The receptionist started to shuffle papers on the desk. ‘I’m afraid Dr Hook has been called away to an emergency. In fact, he’s cancelled his surgery for the morning and he may not even be back this afternoon.’
Wilson gave her his most charming smile. I’ll bet he has, he thought. ‘Would you please tell Dr Hook that I called by and that I will certainly return.’
The receptionist nodded.
Wilson placed his business card on the desk in front of her. ‘Tell him that the next time I call he should make a strenuous effort to be available because if he isn’t I might draw the wrong conclusion.’ He turned and walked out the front door. He pulled in a large breath of fresh air as soon as he exited the surgery. The room had an antiseptic smell that he didn’t care for.
Wilson started back down the road in the direction he had come from. He was casting his eyes around, familiarising himself with the village, when he saw a figure entering Salley’s restaurant. He only caught the slightest of glimpses, but he would recognise that figure anywhere. He crossed the road and walked the fifty metres to the front door of the restaurant and pushed the door in. Jack Duane was sitting at a table in the far left corner of the restaurant. Only two other tables were occupied and Duane was as far away as possible from them. Wilson walked over, pulled out a chair and sat down.
Duane smiled. ‘I ordered you a black coffee and a piece of cheesecake with blueberries on the top.’ There was a brown folder on the table in front of him.
‘How did you know that I saw you?’
‘I didn’t. I watched you enter the doctor’s office and waited until you came out. My belief in you as a detective is so strong that I only gave you a glimpse of me as I entered the restaurant.’
‘And you were so sure that I saw you that you already ordered for me?’
Duane nodded at the waitress who was approaching their table. Wilson turned and saw that she was carrying a tray with two coffee cups and two plates with segments of cheesecake on them. He turned back and waited while the waitress deposited the coffees and cake on the table. Duane gave her a beaming smile.
‘For the nth time, Jack, who the fuck are you?’
Duane laughed. ‘Want me to tell you how it’s done?’
Wilson nodded.
‘I told the waitress to bring me a coffee and a cheesecake and if someone came to join me at my table to bring the same for him. Then I impressed you by saying I was so sure that you saw me that I already ordered for you.’
‘You’re a hard man to keep up with.’ Wilson took a bite of his cheesecake and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee.
Duane pushed the folder over to Wilson. ‘I come bearing gifts. It’s everything we have on the IRA unit that’s been cooperating in the smuggling operation.’
Wilson took the folder but didn’t open it. ‘Is the information good?’
‘It better be.’ Duane started on his cheesecake. ‘We paid enough for it.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘We have a man on the inside.’ Duane started laughing. ‘The IRA has been penetrated more times than a sixty-year-old prostitute. We have to fight off “volunteers” trying to give us information. By the way, how’s the leprechaun doing?’
‘Alive and well.’ Wilson pushed the plate with a half-finished cheesecake away. ‘But I want to get him to Belfast as soon as possible. He identified one of the men on the road as a character called Walter Hanna, a former sergeant in the UDR and commander of
the mid-Ulster UVF.’
Duane frowned. ‘I know him, a bad bastard if there ever was one. Like I said in Belfast, we’re dealing with some bad dudes here.’
‘What’s with this bad dudes business?’
‘I just got back from two weeks at Quantico, that’s the way they talk over there.’
‘You get to go to Quantico?’
‘You’re only a simple murder detective.’ Duane stood up. ‘I’m a part of the war on terror. The bill is yours.’ He walked out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Peter Davidson spent the early part of the morning trying to see the best way ahead in the Carlisle investigation. Looking into the death of one of Ulster’s most controversial politicians was like opening a can of worms. If Carlisle was murdered, as his wife and the boss believe he was, whoever had planned and carried out the murder was heavy duty. The Rices and Gerry McGreary were gone. They were examples of the phenomenon of the paramilitary morphed into the criminal. The current crop of villains led by Davie Best had no political philosophy. Their goal was the accumulation of wealth.
Davidson had been born and bred in Protestant West Belfast. He had grown up with the Rices and the McGrearys of this world. As a young man, he had marched alongside them and other Orangemen, shouting the slogans of the day. Although he would never admit it, he had almost followed his peers in becoming a paramilitary. He eventually became disillusioned with running around the streets creating mayhem. His mother had completed the application forms for the RUC and changed his life forever. He didn’t know whether he should thank her or curse her. He’d been a copper for going on thirty years so he must have had some reason for staying on. Thoughts of retirement didn’t exactly fill him with joy. He doubted he would be spending it sitting by a pool in Spain sipping pina coladas. Well, not if his two ex-wives had anything to say about it. He imagined retirement as a job as a security guard in a shopping mall and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He looked around the squad room. This was his life. He’d entered this room on the day that he’d been made a detective and he’d sacrificed one of his two marriages for it. One of the vagaries of life was that one seldom knew the price one was going to have to pay for the decisions one made. Davidson had ended up with a job he loved, two women he used to love who now hated him and two children who wanted nothing to do with him. Except, of course, on those occasions when they got into trouble with the law. And his son’s liking for shoving white powder up his nose had kept him busy until the wee bastard took off for England. He might not be ready to retire yet, but he was getting on in years and he would dearly like to reach his retirement in one piece so Davidson wasn’t happy with the hand that the boss had dealt him now.
