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

by Derek Fee

  Wilson sipped his tea while he listened to Browne’s story. If he knew Nicholson, then there was evidence somewhere of some major indiscretion by Browne. Nicholson was too clever to say so openly because that would mean that an illegal surveillance had taken place. They’re always probing for a weakness around him. They never give up. Their feud with him will not end until they force him out of the PSNI.

  ‘I’m glad that you decided to tell me,’ he said when Browne had finished. ‘Trust is the most important quality of my team members. Don’t look so worried. Nothing between us is going to change. Nicholson probably has something nasty on you, but if it’s only sexual and it’s not with a minor, then they have nothing. Mind you, they can always transfer you. My problem is that I don’t want to lose you. And as long as I know that you’re the “watcher”, I don’t have to think about anyone else.’

  Their heads were almost touching as they leaned across the table and spoke in hushed tones. ‘I’m sorry, Boss, I should have told you when Nicholson gave me my instructions.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll work something out.’ It was time to get on with the business at hand. ‘Let’s go see Walter Hanna.’ He stood up and started walking to the interview room. If anyone who really knew him had been watching, they would have noticed that his shoulders were drooping slightly.

  By the time he reached the interview room, Wilson had steeled himself for what was, for him at least, the last battle in the investigation into Thomas Kielty’s death. He and Browne entered the room and saw that Hanna and his solicitor were already seated. Wilson sat down and saw a small business card on the table in front of him. Unlike his son, Walter had gone to a major Belfast firm for his legal representative. Hanna’s solicitor was a caricature of his profession, balding, pale faced, overweight and wearing a pinstriped suit. The leather-bound notebook and the gold pen completed the picture. Wilson dispensed with the greeting and instructed Browne to get on with the proceedings. He’d sat in rooms like this for a great part of his life and faced up to criminals who had perpetrated horrors on their victims. He never found it a pleasant experience. Browne completed the preamble and asked those on the other side of the table to identify themselves, which they did.

  Wilson sat back and began. ‘I have to inform you that we have made significant progress with our investigation since we last spoke. A search of your home yesterday has already produced two pieces of important evidence, a pair of Night Owl binoculars belonging to Jock McDevitt that had been removed from the crime scene and a Browning nine-millimetre that we believe to be the murder weapon. We have taken two sets of fingerprints from the gun and we believe that they will correspond to those of you and your son Henry. We also have a statement from your accomplice, Aiden Keenan. In the light of all this evidence, I was wondering whether you would like to revisit your earlier statement that you were not at the scene of the murder of Thomas Kielty and the attempted murder of Jock McDevitt.’

  Hanna looked straight ahead. ‘No comment.’

  Wilson looked at the solicitor, who suddenly had an important observation to commit to his notebook. He turned to Browne. ‘Detective Sergeant would you please do the necessary?’

  Browne stood, and instructed Hanna to do the same. Hanna rose slowly, showing no emotion. Browne arrested him for the murder of Thomas Kielty and the attempted murder of Jock McDevitt.

  After they both sat down, Wilson asked Browne to terminate the interview, which he did. As soon as the red light went off on the recorder, Hanna stared across at Wilson. ‘You’re a dead man.’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard that threat, and it probably won’t be the last. I have a feeling that your killing days might be over. You’ll certainly go down for the crimes for which you have been charged. I have no doubt that additional charges will be forthcoming when your affairs are properly investigated. You may make all the idle threats that you wish. As you lie in your cell, try to think about the people whose lives you’ve cut short. If they don’t completely occupy your mind, spare a thought for your wife and son whose lives you have also managed to ruin.’ He turned to Browne. ‘Get him out of my sight. Take him to the desk sergeant for charging.’

  Browne walked round the table and pulled Hanna to his feet.

  The solicitor rose. ‘I will need to consult with my client.’

  ‘Of course,’ Wilson stood. ‘Please speak with the desk sergeant.’

  Hanna spat in Wilson’s face. ‘You’re a dead man. I have friends.’

  Hanna’s solicitor took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Wilson. ‘I apologise for my client, Superintendent.’

  Wilson wiped the spittle off his face with the handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. ‘No need, it’s par for the course.’ The solicitor left and Wilson was alone in the interview room. He took out his mobile and called Davis. ‘It’s over, Ma’am,’ he said as soon as she came on the line. ‘Three men charged, a confession, a Queen’s evidence and a monster. I’m glad that the PPS are here to clean up the shit.’

  ‘Good job, Ian. You sound tired.’

  ‘Just another day at the office, Ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll pass on the good news to HQ. There’ll be a press release, especially with the Chronicle connection.’

  ‘I’m sure there will be, Ma’am.’ And your name will be prominently mentioned. ‘I hope the release will mention the good work of the team and the contribution made by our colleagues in Armagh.’

  ‘Point taken, Superintendent.’ She cut the communication.

  Wilson needed a drink but would settle for a cup of coffee so he made his way to the cafeteria. He had just sat down when Gibson joined him.

  Gibson’s smile stretched almost from ear to ear. ‘Well done, Sir. I hear that all three have been charged. It’s a hell of a result.’

  Wilson finished his coffee and looked up from his cup. ‘It appears it’s a day for confessions.’

  Gibson’s smile faded. ‘Sir?’

  Wilson didn’t speak but looked into Gibson’s eyes. He thought that he saw fear there, but he wasn’t sure, and anyway who was he to cast the first stone. ‘Perhaps I should begin with a confession of my own. The first day I met you back in Tom Kielty’s farmhouse, I was sure that I saw a conspiratorial look pass between you and Reverend Hunter. It made me think that perhaps you weren’t totally committed to bringing Kielty’s murderers to justice. And then there was the question of the incompetence of your initial investigation. Is there something that you’d like to confess?’

  Gibson was speechless. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I was never SIO on a murder case before. I’ll stand up for being naïve, but I wanted justice for Kielty as much as you did.’

  Wilson wondered what Professional Services would make of an accusation against Gibson. He doubted that his feelings would be enough for them to bring a case of perverting the course of justice that would lose Gibson his job. Did he even want Gibson to lose his job?

  He decided to put his concerns aside. ‘I want you to draw up charges against Reverend Hunter and also against Dr Hook. They probably won’t stick but it’ll give them the fright of their lives. They’ll think twice before they help a criminal like Hanna again.’ He saw the look on Gibson’s face. ‘Don’t worry, the cases probably won’t even get past the PPS. Some smart-arsed solicitor will think up a defence. I’d like to do the same for the idiots that alibied Hanna for the murders he committed in the past. They’re the real culprits but that’s just a pipe dream.’

  ‘It’s been an experience working with you, Boss.’

  ‘I hope that you’ve learned a few lessons. There’s a very small gap between doing the right and the wrong thing. Jumping from one to the other can lead to a fall into a very deep chasm. You understand?’

  Gibson nodded his head. ‘Thank you, Boss.’

  ‘Thank me by always doing the right thing from now on. Get to work on charging those two idiots.’ At the end of an investigation with a positive result there was elation but there was also
a feeling of emptiness. He suddenly felt very tired. It was time to get back to Belfast.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Harry Graham was back in his least favourite room in the world, the autopsy suite at the Royal Victoria Hospital. He was suited up and standing across the steel table from Professor Reid. They were both examining the remains of the victim from the burned-out car. Despite the best efforts of the Forensic team to remove the body intact, several pieces were so badly burned that they had disintegrated on contact. Thankfully, because of Graham’s squeamishness in the presence of blood, there would be no slicing and dicing today.

  ‘What do you think?’ Graham asked. Almost twenty-four hours later the smell of burning flesh was still in his nostrils, or so it seemed.

  Reid moved along the side of the table examining the remains. ‘ We’ll probably have to assume that he was alive in the boot of the car although I’d prefer to believe that he was dead. We’ll probably never establish an exact cause of death. What you really want to know is who he is.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s male.’

  ‘Pretty sure, the bone structure is that of a man.’

  ‘What about identification?’

  ‘Fingerprints are out of the question. The fire removed every ounce of flesh from the fingers. Our second line of attack would normally be the teeth and the possibility that he attended a dentist locally but the teeth have also been incinerated.’

  ‘But you can get DNA from the bones?’

  ‘That might have been a possibility but in this case there’s a problem. Whoever is responsible for murdering this man added a nice little twist. There was some level of accelerant in the boot, possibly some petrol. Whatever it was, it created a very high local temperature that was something approaching that of a crematorium. I read a research paper lately where DNA has been extracted from heavily burned bodies by the use of very esoteric chemicals and state-of-the-art processes. I’ll have to look into the research more deeply and maybe contact the researchers. But in the end it will be a cost issue.’

  ‘Is it a very expensive process?’ Graham was aware that budgets in the PSNI were stretched. The only effect on him was that he couldn’t get as much overtime as he wanted.

  ‘It’s an increasing scale. Fingerprints are the cheapest. Dental records, where they exist, are next. When you get into DNA, the cost starts to get significant. And when you get into state-of-the-art processes the cost can go through the roof.’

  ‘So what are the chances that we’re going to find out the identity of this poor bastard?’

  ‘By the time I’m finished I should be able to give you an idea of the height. He was a very slight man, possibly underweight. There’s an element of guesswork in that but there’s so little of him left that anything else would be total speculation.’

  ‘You’ll give us a report?’

  ‘By this evening.’

  Graham was already on the phone by the time he was leaving the Royal. Thanks be to God, the investigation in South Tyrone was winding down, which meant that the boss would be free to manage the investigation into the deaths of Gillian McAuley and whoever was in the boot of the Beemer.

  Those who knew Peter Davidson well would have remarked that there was a spring in his step. They would, however, have had no idea that it was put there by Irene Carlisle. To use the biblical expression, Davidson was not unknown to women, but he had passed through a particularly lean period recently. When he had rung the bell on the door of the Carlisle house in Hillsborough, he hadn’t expected to spend the night. However, the widow Carlisle was in great need of consolation and Davidson was happy to oblige.

  Davidson had arranged with Graham that he would have another go at questioning Artie Ward, so he made his way from Hillsborough directly, if belatedly, to Earlscourt Street. The house where they had found Gillian McAuley was still sealed with crime scene tape. He rapped on Ward’s door and wasn’t really surprised when there was no answer. He was resolved to do his best to jog Ward’s memory except he was sure that memory loss wasn’t the problem. He rapped even harder on the door. He was about to get physical with the door when one of the neighbouring doors opened and an older lady stuck her head out.

  ‘Would ye lay off the fuckin’ noise, I’m tryin’ to get a grandchild off to sleep here.’

  Davidson sauntered in the direction of the lady. He produced his warrant card.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Ward.’

  She laughed. ‘Fuckin’ peeler, ye give me a card with your picture on it and ye think that ye’r God Almighty.’ She began to withdraw her head.

  Davidson stuck his foot in the door. ‘Have you seen Artie Ward?’

  She looked at the foot in the door and saw that he wasn’t about to leave without an answer. ‘He’s away since early this mornin’. Fancy taxi pulled up and away he went. Normally leaves the key with me when he goes to visit his daughter, but this time nothin’.’

  ‘Do you have his daughter’s address?’

  The sounds of a child crying came from inside. ‘No, she lives somewhere in Scotland, damned if I know where. Now, will ye get ye’r foot out of the door and let me get that child off to sleep.’

  Davidson did as she asked. Ward had flown the coop and probably wouldn’t resurface until he felt the hue and cry over McAuley’s death had died down. By that time, he would be able to legitimately claim that he couldn’t rightly remember what the men who had been with her just before she died looked like. The boss would not be best pleased. Davidson headed back to Tennent Street and it wasn’t Artie Ward who was on his mind.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Wilson was running on empty as he sat in the passenger seat on the way back to Belfast. He had already received texts from the chief constable and that rat Nicholson congratulating him on a job well done. Neither text had given him pleasure and he immediately erased them. They were the perfunctory responses he expected from his leaders. Their plaudits meant nothing. If he had failed, there would have been no recriminations but a black mark would have been added to a personnel file that didn’t officially exist and that he would never have the benefit of seeing. The only positive he took from the texts was the knowledge of the hurt it must have caused Nicholson to praise his efforts. Young Hanna’s confession and Keenan’s evidence, along with the murder weapon, should be enough to put Walter Hanna behind bars for a long time. He hadn’t been lying when he’d promised to follow up on the cases where the Browning had already been used. He would dig as deeply as he could, but he wasn’t optimistic about the result. The cover-up for those murders had been solidly established. At least Hanna would be off the streets for a significant period, and that was all he could hope for. They were on the outskirts of Belfast when Wilson’s phone rang. He didn’t recognise the caller ID.

  ‘They’ll let me out if someone half-reasonable will come and collect me, and you were the person I immediately thought of.’

  Wilson laughed when he recognised McDevitt’s voice. ‘I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour.’

  McDevitt was sitting in the reception area at the Royal, holding the envelope containing his discharge documents tightly in his left hand. His right arm was in a sling and he was dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans that Wilson had bought for him.

  Wilson assisted him in standing. ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

  ‘Yes.’ McDevitt staggered slightly as he started to walk. ‘I need to be out of here. There’s nothing more they can do for me and I’ll mend quicker in my own home. They’ve informed my GP and he’s going to drop in on me every evening.’

  Wilson knew the feeling and it was too late to argue about it. The paper in the envelope was McDevitt’s ticket to the outside world.

  On the way to McDevitt’s house on Argyle Street, Wilson brought his friend up to date on the investigation.

  ‘Bollocks,’ McDevitt said when Wilson had finished.

  Wilson smiled. ‘I thought that you’d be pleased we got the bastard who tried to kill you.’
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  ‘Can you imagine the number of front-pages I could have got if I hadn’t been the one lying in hospital?’

  ‘Don’t worry, the Chronicle did you proud. But listen, don’t even think of going back to work yet.’

  When they arrived at McDevitt’s house, Wilson opened the door and allowed McDevitt to enter first. The pile of snail mail in the hallway would have given credence to the theory that letter-writing is not yet dead, except that most of the letters had transparent panels on the front.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be celebrating in the Crown this evening?’ McDevitt looked up in time to see a disapproving look on Wilson’s face. ‘You’re right, I’ll just have to miss it.’

  ‘I left a hundred quid with the sergeant in Armagh to give the uniforms a drink. They deserve it. I have to go. It seems that death never takes a rest in this city.’

  ‘Something tasty?’ McDevitt asked.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  The team had assembled in front of the four whiteboards. The one dedicated to Jackie Carlisle was turned towards the wall while the three summarising the information on Josh McAuley, his mother and the corpse from the burned-out Beemer faced into the squad room. Wilson stood beneath the boards and examined each in turn. He faced the team. ‘Good job, Siobhan.’ Her face reddened. ‘OK, Harry and Peter, talk us through the boards. There must be something additional that’s been omitted.’

  Half an hour later they had been through everything that was known about the deaths of the McAuleys and the unidentified corpse. Graham finished by summarising the results of the post-mortem.

  Wilson was disappointed that no new information had surfaced during the presentations. ‘Josh McAuley dies as a result of a savage beating possibly at the hands of his mother or her partner, Mickey Duff. We know him and we know what he’s capable of. We start looking for the mother and she’s nowhere to be found. Then suddenly she turns up at one of her old haunts and gives herself a hot shot, whether by accident or design, possibly because she’s overcome with grief.’ He noticed the sceptical expressions on both Harry’s and Peter’s faces. ‘OK, the grief part is unlikely. The question is do we mark her or Duff as the person who beat the shit out of the boy?’