by Derek Fee
‘Shit,’ Wilson said. ‘Royce wasn’t sleeping under a bridge. We need to find out where he lived and who his associates were. Has the wife been contacted?’
‘Yes, Boss,’ Graham said. ‘She’s expecting us to call to her house this morning.’
‘Okay, keep at it. Rory, follow up on the forensic report. The sooner we have news on the gun the better. Siobhan, get me what you can on DCI George Pratley and follow up on the CCTV from Traffic.’
Davidson joined him on his walk back to the office. ‘I’m meeting some of the Technical Branch guys today about locating those calls. What if they ask me for paperwork?’
‘Tell them it’s a murder investigation. We don’t need paperwork.’
Wilson sat at his desk. It was forty-eight hours since he had stood over the dead body of Hugh Royce, and they had made only minimal progress. He was about to start on his emails when the phone rang.
‘Did you like the article?’ There was a trace of mirth in McDevitt’s voice.
‘Feck off. And thanks for raising the scare level of Joe Citizen. After reading your piece, they’ll be expecting a re-run of the St Valentine’s Day Massacre.’
‘That’s what newspapers are for these days. The blokes at the top want the general population to be pissing in their pants. By the way, you didn’t bother to call me. That was very remiss of you, because I’m about to pull you out of the quicksand again.’
‘How so?’
‘I want you to meet a mate of mine. He’s very shy and he won’t meet you at the station or anywhere there are a lot of people. But he knows things about your friend Royce.’
‘Where and when?’
‘You know the car park at the entrance to the Black Mountain?’
‘I’ve been there. When?’
‘Eleven, and come alone. My mate is not only shy, he’s also very nervous.’
‘I’ll be there and this had better be good.’
‘It will be.’ The line went dead.
Wilson tried to concentrate on his administrative tasks but his mind was flying around like a ball on a squash court. Maybe McDevitt was right about a potential turf war and perhaps Royce wasn’t the first victim. He was certain that the body found in the burned-out BMW at Helen’s Bay was that of Mad Mickey Duff, a known character in the drugs business. Perhaps Mad Mickey was the first victim. Belfast definitely didn’t need a turf war between drugs gangs. It would litter the street with bodies. Davie Best had taken over the drugs operation of the Rice and McGreary gangs. But who else was on the scene? And in the background there was the armed vigilante group Republican Action Against Drugs, which had admitted responsibility for killing several drug dealers. The more they progressed on the Royce murder the more muddy the waters became. He gave up on the administration. He’d have just enough time to interview the former Mrs Royce before meeting with McDevitt and his mate.
Mrs Sharon Parnell, lived in a two-storey semi-detached house on the Shore Road in Greenisland, a small community north of Belfast.
‘Come on in.’ Parnell opened the door to Wilson and Graham. She was in her late-thirties and casually dressed in loose jeans and a blue cotton top. Her hair was dark with a reddish tinge and she had a pleasant open face.
Graham showed his warrant card as they entered.
‘It’s okay.’ She looked at Wilson. ‘I saw you on the telly.’
‘Always wise to check,’ Wilson said, following her into a small living room to the left of the entrance hall.
‘It’s still freezing out, so I suppose a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss? The kettle is already on.’ Parnell appeared nervous, but then again no one likes a visit from the police no matter how innocent they are. ‘Please sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Wilson and Graham sat together on a couch and listened to the sounds of a kettle being boiled and crockery being loaded onto a tray. Parnell returned after a few minutes with a laden tray. She played mother then sat when both police officers had cups of tea in their hands. ‘I really don’t know how I can help. I haven’t seen Hugh in years.’
‘We’re still at the stage of building up a picture of Hugh Royce.’ Wilson sipped his tea. ‘You were still married when he retired from the force?’
‘Yes, we lived in town at the time. I married Hugh when I was twenty-one and he was twenty-six. I was a bit naïve I’m afraid.’
‘He liked being a police officer?’ Wilson asked.
A wistful look came over her face. ‘Loved it, couldn’t have been prouder when he was made a detective constable. His heart was nearly bursting out of his chest when he received the letter.’
‘You had no family?’
‘No, at first we waited and then we tried. Nothing happened. We were talking about IVF, but it isn’t cheap. About that time Hugh started to change.’
‘In what way?’ Wilson asked.
‘He became more secretive. There was always something happening in the job that kept him out late and on edge. I had to learn to walk on eggshells around him.’
Wilson had the feeling she wanted to say more. ‘This is a murder enquiry. We want desperately to find the person, or persons, who murdered your ex-husband, so if there’s anything that you think might help us, I’d like to hear it.’
She didn’t reply and sat with her hands restring on her lap.
‘Something happened when he was in the Drugs Squad?’ Wilson asked to break the silence.
‘He wasn’t happy there. We had more money coming in because of all the overtime he said he was doing. But I think the overtime was bullshit. I smelled other women on him. He’d changed and it wasn’t a change for the better.’
‘You know that he was accused of corruption,’ Wilson said.
‘Yes, but that wasn’t the Hugh I knew.’
‘He signed the resignation letter.’
‘That broke him. He came home the night he resigned and shut himself off in the bedroom. I went to comfort him and I heard him crying.’
Wilson put down his teacup. ‘I don’t understand how someone who was so positive about the job would have signed the letter so willingly.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Have you met George Pratley?’
‘Yes,’ Wilson said.
‘I think that man is in league with the devil,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘It was Pratley who changed Hugh. I don’t know about any corruption, but I know that Hugh wouldn’t have done anything without Pratley’s say-so. Pratley wasn’t just a boss, he was a kind of guru who dominated Hugh.’
Wilson and Graham looked at each other.
‘Pratley went up and up, and Hugh was just the fall guy,’ she continued. ‘Why Hugh? Why didn’t they look at some of the others in the squad? I’m sure that Hugh wasn’t the only one involved.’
‘What happened after Hugh retired?’ Wilson asked.
‘Money kept coming in from somewhere, but our relationship floundered. Hugh wasn’t the man I married and when he started to use, I decided that I’d reached the end of the road and I got out. It was bad enough to see Hugh heading for the gutter, I wasn’t going to follow him there.’
‘The autopsy report mentioned that Hugh’s body was littered with needle marks. What was he on?’
‘I didn’t see any needle marks. I thought he might be snorting cocaine or doing pills. I’m not up on drugs so there might have been other stuff. I got out pretty soon after it started.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘Once or twice at the court hearings. He didn’t fight the divorce. There were no kids and we both went our separate ways.’
‘And you never met again?’
‘I saw Hugh one time I was in town. He was with a group of men walking along Donegall Square. I ducked into a shop to avoid him.’
‘Do you know where he was living?’
‘No, sorry.’
Wilson stood up. ‘Thanks for your help. I don’t think that we’ll be bothering you again.’ He and Graham sta
rted to leave the living room and Parnell followed them.
She put her hand on the door handle. ‘Hugh wasn’t a bad man. He certainly didn’t deserve to die a violent death. I hope you get the man who killed him.’
‘So do I,’ Wilson said as she opened the door.
The Black Mountain is probably the most prominent feature of Belfast’s landscape as it towers over the city from the west. Wilson deposited Graham at the station and drove west skirting the Peace Wall before heading through Whiterock Grove and Hannahstown to reach his destination. There was still a covering of snow on the peaks and the clouds were hanging low over the hills, threatening some form of precipitation. Wilson pulled into the car park just off the Divis Road and saw that it was empty. He was ten minutes early. As he waited the first spits of sleet began to fall. Twenty minutes later he was contemplating leaving when McDevitt’s car pulled up beside him. Wilson turned and looked into the Mercedes. McDevitt was in the front seat. His passenger was in the rear and was wearing a black balaclava with holes cut for the eyes and the mouth. Wilson got out of his car and slipped into the passenger seat of McDevitt’s car.
‘No one about?’ McDevitt asked.
Wilson wiped the sleet off his jacket. ‘You must be kidding. Nobody is stupid enough to be up here in weather like this, present company accepted.’
The man in the back seat of the car laughed.
‘This is Mouse,’ McDevitt said. ‘Mouse and I go way back. He’s one of my major sources for information on the drugs trade.’
‘Hello, Mr Mouse,’ Wilson said.
‘Good to meet ye, Mr Wilson.’ The accent was West Belfast.
‘The floor is yours, Ian,’ McDevitt said. ‘If Mouse can help, he will. If it’s too sensitive a question, he may decline to answer. The main point is that Mouse will not incriminate either himself, or any of his confederates, is that understood?’
‘Understood,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m not interested in drugs except where they intersect with the investigation into the death of Hugh Royce.’
There was no sound from the back seat.
‘You were acquainted with Hugh Royce?’
‘Aye, I knew him.’
‘Do you know where he was living?’
‘Aye.’
‘Where?’
‘Mr McDevitt has the address.’
Wilson looked sideways at McDevitt, who was smirking. How I would like to stick a charge of interfering with a police investigation on that smart bugger Wilson thought. He knew it wasn’t going to happen and wondered what quid pro quo the journalist was going to extract from him for Royce’s address.
‘How do you know where Royce was staying?’
‘He hadn’t been around for a wee while, more than a year maybe. So when I saw him in town I wondered why he was back on the scene, and so I followed him.’
‘Was Royce a member of your firm?’
‘No.’
‘But he was a member of a rival firm?’
‘Aye, he used to be. That’s why I followed him.’
‘He worked for Davie Best?’
Mouse laughed under his balaclava. ‘Nah, he worked for a bigger firm than Bestie.’
Wilson was momentarily nonplussed. As far as he knew, Davie Best ran the biggest firm in Belfast. The combination of the old Rice and McGreary mobs had to be the biggest firm in the city. ‘If it’s not Davie, who’s the biggest firm in the city?’
In the silence of the car, Wilson could hear the steady beat of the sleet hitting the roof and the windshield.
‘I’d have thought that someone who’s been around as long as you would know who the biggest firm in the city is,’ Mouse said when he finally spoke. ‘You ought to know because you’re a member. The PSNI is the biggest firm in Belfast. That’s the firm that Royce belonged to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Wilson’s voice was strained.
‘Think about it,’ Mouse said. ‘You boys can take anyone in competition off the streets. You decide what shipment gets through and what shipment gets stopped, what runners get lifted, who is left alone. You can fabricate evidence against a rival to your firm and put them out of business. You can form alliances with other firms and kill off new firms before they get established. You guys are the firm. And Hugh Royce was working for you.’
‘He retired from the force,’ Wilson said.
‘But he didn’t retire from the firm.’
‘Do you know who is in charge?’
Mouse tapped McDevitt on the shoulder. ‘We’re done here.’
‘No, we’re not,’ Wilson said sharply.
‘No breaking of the rules, Ian,’ McDevitt took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Wilson. ‘We can talk about what you owe me later. Mouse has done his part and now you have to do yours. Have a safe trip back to Belfast.’
Wilson took the slip of paper and looked at the address. He opened the door and was hit by a blast of ice-cold rain. He turned back and looked at the man in the rear of the car. ‘You wouldn’t be bullshitting me?’
‘No bullshit, Mr Wilson.’
Wilson stood outside the car, letting the rain beat against his bare head. McDevitt reversed past him and drove out of the car park. He looked down over the city with the sleet stinging his eyes and drenching his clothes. He knew of the venality of politicians and of most of the hierarchy of his own organisation, but the thought that the corruption ran so deep shocked him. He ran his fingers through his hair. He had a feeling he had just opened Pandora’s box and what he was going to find inside scared the hell out of him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wilson drove back to the station. On the way, he had called Graham and told him he had Royce’s address. He arranged to pick him up and told him he should bring along the key found in Royce’s pocket. The address on the paper turned out to be a large three-storeyed red-brick house in the Malone Road area that had been turned into a homeless shelter. They parked in front and entered the building. There was a young man on the reception desk and Graham produced his warrant card as they approached.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ the young man had a lanyard around his neck that gave his name as Nick Baily.
‘Good afternoon, Nick,’ Graham said. He introduced himself and Wilson. ‘We’re making some enquiries about someone who has been staying here.’
‘Most of the residents are out for the day,’ Baily said. He pulled a registration book out from under the counter. ‘Give me the name and I’ll see if he’s still with us.’
‘Hugh Royce,’ Graham said.
‘The name seems familiar,’ Baily said. He started to scan the pages, then stopped. ‘He booked in with us three days ago.’ He looked puzzled. ‘But he doesn’t appear to have stayed overnight. What’s this about?’
‘Mr Royce was found murdered on the Antrim Road two days ago.’
‘Yeah,’ Baily said. ‘I remember it now. It was on the news yesterday.’
‘And it was in the papers,’ Graham said. ‘We were asking for information on Mr Royce and his possible whereabouts.’
Baily could see the way the two police officers were looking at him. ‘Because of the weather we’ve been busier than usual. The name didn’t register with me until you said it. I don’t read the papers and there was nothing on my newsfeed.’
Holy God, it wasn’t on his newsfeed, Wilson thought. But he was willing to bet that what the Kardashians had for breakfast was.
‘Was he assigned a bed?’ Graham asked.
Baily consulted the register. ‘Yes, on the second floor.’
‘We’ll need to take a look,’ Wilson said.
‘Of course.’
Graham produced a plastic evidence bag containing the key. ‘Does this look familiar?’
Baily held out his hand and took the bag. ‘It could be one of our locker keys.’
‘Can you check in your book if Mr Royce had a locker?’ Wilson said.
Baily was getting nervous. ‘Yes, he had a bedside locker.’
‘Has his bed been reassigned?’ Graham asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How about his locker?’ Wilson asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Take us upstairs,’ Wilson said.
Baily led them up a flight of stairs. The first floor had been converted into a series of dormitories with beds in rows. At the foot of each bed was a locker. Baily checked the numbers on the side of the metal-framed beds and stopped near the far wall of the room. ‘This was Mr Royce’s bed.’
‘Did Royce stay here regularly?’
‘I have no idea,’ Baily said. ‘I’m a volunteer so I only work here when they need me. There are some regulars, but an effort is made to house them. We mainly deal with people who are happy enough on the street but who want a bed when the weather turns nasty.’
Graham had inserted a key in the locker at the side of the bed and turned the key. He opened the door and put on a pair of latex gloves before reaching inside. He pulled out a small kit bag, laid it on top of the bed and opened the zip. He took out a clean polo shirt, a pair of cheap jeans, three pairs of underwear and three pairs of socks, laying each item on the bed as he withdrew them.
‘Is that it?’ Wilson asked.
Graham turned towards his boss. ‘Royce travels light.’
‘Most of the men don’t have a great deal of possessions,’ Baily said. ‘But a small kit bag is a bit extreme.’
Wilson nodded at the locker. ‘Anything else in there?’
Graham dipped into the locker and took out three books. One was instantly recognisable as a leather-bound Bible. The other two were paperbacks. He placed the books front cover up on the bed.
Wilson looked at the paperbacks. The author was Richard Pearson and the titles were self-explanatory: God at My Right Hand and The Hard Road to God. He’d never heard of this Pearson character, but the religious genre wasn’t his usual bedside reading. ‘See is there anything inside.’
Graham picked up the books and flicked through the pages. ‘Nothing, but they’ve been well-read.’
‘Bag them.’
Graham put the books in individual evidence bags before carefully repacking the kit bag.
‘We’re taking this stuff with us,’ Wilson said when Graham was finished.
