by Derek Fee
‘Can we have the locker key back?’ Baily asked.
‘Not for the moment,’ Wilson said. ‘We’ll drop it by when we’re finished with it.’
‘What do you make of it, Boss?’ Graham said as soon as they were in the car and on their way back to the station.
‘He didn’t look much like a street person,’ Wilson said. ‘The clothes in the kit bag were washed and ironed, and I’ve never seen so few possessions. It’s the kind of thing you’d bring on a weekend away.’
‘My thoughts exactly, but it doesn’t solve the problem of finding the place Royce calls home.’
‘There are lots of people like Royce out there. Their lives disintegrate on them and they just drop out. The majority of them are gamblers, junkies or alcoholics. Royce could be calling a deserted hay barn outside Strabane home. And if he is, we’ll never find it.’
Back at the station, Wilson went directly to his office. He was beginning to get a picture of Hugh Royce. He was the only child to older parents, had no siblings, he was probably searching for a father figure when he encountered Pratley, who proceeded to mentor him. Perhaps he had been groomed in the same way a paedophile grooms a child. Wilson was beginning to believe Mouse’s story about the PSNI being a firm. Pratley had a lot to answer for.
The white envelope on Wilson’s desk had his name on it. He opened it and took out the single sheet of paper it contained. It was a photocopy of an article from a newspaper dated four years previously. The headline of the article read ‘Freak death of PSNI detective’. The article went on to report that Colin Payne, a detective constable working in the Drugs Squad of the PSNI, had died while helping to clean a slurry tank on his aunt’s farm. It was the twentieth death related to the cleaning of tanks on farms in the past ten years. An autopsy had shown that Payne was not overcome by fumes, as in other cases, but had been drowned in the slurry.
Wilson motioned to O’Neill and she entered the office. He picked up the envelope. ‘Who delivered this?’
‘I’ve no idea. A uniform came up and dropped it on your desk.’
Wilson picked up the phone and called the duty sergeant. ‘An envelope with just my name on it was delivered in the past few hours, any idea where it came from?’
‘No idea, sir, it’s been pretty busy here this morning. Someone must have dropped it in.’
‘There was an officer from Professional Services here yesterday, DS Lucy Kane, any sign of her today?’
‘Sorry, Boss,’ the duty sergeant said.
‘Okay, it’s not important.’ Wilson put the phone down. He saw that O’Neill was still in the office. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
Wilson was certain that the envelope had come from Kane and that Colin Payne was the officer who had reported the corruption in the Drugs Squad. He was also sure that Hugh Royce had been thrown under the bus to spike any further investigation of corruption in the Drugs Squad. But where did that leave him with the motive for Royce’s death?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Peter Davidson sat across from the two young officers from Technical Branch manning their computers. He was from the generation that had to work hard to use a mobile phone, and he had never gone beyond using his computer as a word processor. What happened inside the machine, and the wonders that it produced, were beyond his comprehension, and of no direct interest. The room was like something out of Star Wars with the walls covered in screens on which arrays of numbers were displayed. As far as Davidson was concerned, the age of the nerd had well and truly arrived. He had already outlined his mobile phone problem and the two young men had nodded sagely as he told them what he would like from them.
‘No problem,’ the serious one with the wire-rimmed glasses said as soon as he was finished.
‘Should this request come through official channels?’ the equally serious bald man asked.
‘It’s a murder enquiry.’ Davidson didn’t consider these technical guys to be proper coppers. They wouldn’t know an arrest if it jumped up and bit them on the leg. But obviously they had been tarred with the bureaucratic brush. ‘If we make a request through channels, some bloody bureaucrat will leave it on his desk for a week. And we’re going to lose precious time. I thought that you guys were outside all that “through channels” bullshit.’
The two young men looked at each other. They were computer geeks first and police officers second. Davidson had hit just the right note with them. ‘Okay,’ the first serious one said. ‘Give us the phone number and the date.’ His fingers flashed over the keys.
Davidson put a piece of paper on the desk with the number and date on it. Fingers continued to move faster than he could follow. These guys were cut from the same cloth as O’Neill. This was the new world of policing, and he wasn’t a part of it.
‘The base number was pinging off a tower in Hillsborough,’ glasses serious guy said. ‘It was static for quite a while. There was one call made.’ He called out a number and Davidson wrote it carefully in his daybook. ‘The receiving phone was at Belfast International Airport. The call lasted less than thirty seconds and the receiving phone went dead five minutes later.’
‘Has the number been reactivated?’
‘No, my guess is that the receiver ditched the SIM card, the battery and possibly the phone.’
If the investigation into Carlisle’s death wasn’t so bloody dangerous, Davidson thought, it could actually be fun. He now had another phone number that he could investigate. His next stop would be Belfast International to see whether any discarded mobile phones had been found on that date. ‘Thanks guys, it’s been an education.’
‘This one was on the house, ould lad,’ the second young officer said. ‘The next time, go through the normal channels.’
Davidson bristled at the ‘ould lad’ remark but realised he must look like a fossil to the two young men. He smiled beneficently and stood up. ‘Fucking arsehole,’ he said as he left the room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Deputy Chief Constable Royson Jennings was examining the latest reports on the progress in the Royce murder enquiry submitted by Yvonne Davis. If he’d been given the chance, he would have counselled against taking Royce out, but Pratley had jumped the gun. He was still regrouping after the Armstrong fiasco. He had no idea what had gone wrong, but he had a feeling that whatever it was, Wilson was at the centre of it. If only he could prove that Wilson was involved somehow in Armstrong’s death. The bastard had somehow covered his tracks. Dublin had reported that they were certain that the IRA had discovered Armstrong’s treachery, and he had been murdered because of it. Luckily Armstrong would soon be ancient history, making it highly unlikely that his role in protecting him from prosecution for killing two prostitutes would ever see the light of day. It had been a close call, but Armstrong’s demise would eventually suit all their ends. It was an ill wind that didn’t blow someone some good. And now there’s this business with Royce. Ever since Wilson had stumbled inadvertently across the Circle, things had been deteriorating. Meanwhile Chief Constable Baird was cementing his power. There was a knock on Jennings’ door.
‘Enter,’ Jennings looked up from the reports to see George Pratley closing the door behind him. ‘Sit.’
Pratley took one of the visitor chairs. ‘You wanted to see me.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘Royce was a danger to all of us.’
And you in particular, Jennings thought.
‘He couldn’t just have stayed lost,’ Pratley continued. ‘Everything was going ahead smoothly and then he reappears like some long-lost prodigal.’
‘And that’s why you decided he had to die?’
‘He threatened the whole operation.’ He was going to use the ‘executive decision’ explanation but decided against it.
‘And who made you God?’ Jennings crashed his fist onto his desk. ‘You don’t make life or death decisions. You follow fucking orders. Didn’t you ever get that message into that thick skull of yours? And now we hav
e Wilson and his crew on the trail.’
‘Then get him off it.’
‘Easier said than done, you numbskull.’
‘You’re the bloody deputy chief constable.’
‘Even with that grandiose title my powers are limited.’
‘Then we need to give him something else to worry about.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Drugs could be found in his apartment, or his car.’
‘You’d have to have a valid reason to search.’
‘Not having a valid reason never stopped us before. We need to fit Wilson up and we have plenty of guys on the force with experience in doing that. If he’s fighting a drugs charge, he won’t have any time for investigating Royce’s murder.’
Jennings thought for a few minutes. He was aware of Helen McCann’s plan to destroy Wilson by making him the one who exposed his father’s involvement in murder. It was a subtle plan that depended on attacking Wilson psychologically. There was merit in Pratley’s idea but very little subtlety. If it were managed properly, it might ruin Wilson professionally and even force him out of the PSNI. And that would be a happy day for all concerned. ‘Have you discussed this with anyone?’
‘Nobody other than you.’
‘Put a plan together and I’ll pass it upstairs.’ Jennings knew that McCann would jump at any plan that involved Wilson’s demise. The woman had developed a pathological obsession where Wilson was concerned. He smiled when he realised that so had he. ‘I want every possibility covered. Wilson is as slippery as a snake and I don’t want him slithering out of this. And I want total personal coverage – there can be nothing to link me with this plan.’
‘I’ll put something together in a few days.’
‘Make it a priority. I want to rubber stamp every iota of the plan before we pass it up.’
‘Understood.’
‘You can go.’ Jennings watched Pratley leave. He was a good man to have at the coalface dealing with the likes of Davie Best and his gang, but he wasn’t a strategic thinker. That was Jennings’ area of expertise. Pratley and Best would use a sledgehammer to crack a walnut. Helen McCann would put subtle pressure on the nut so that it cracked itself. He lay somewhere between the two. Setting up Wilson wasn’t going to be easy and wasn’t without attendant risks, but it was certainly worth a try.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wilson cancelled the evening briefing. He needed to reflect on the day’s happenings. He knew that he should inform Davis immediately, but that was the last thing he was going to do. The Armstrong affair had freaked her out, and he could just imagine what a murder case possibly involving police corruption would do to her. Since her arrival as Spence’s replacement, his squad appeared to be lurching from one crisis to another. Then again why should he believe a single word that came out of Mouse’s mouth? The guy was obviously a minor criminal and a snitch. He was trading information for money with McDevitt. The best strategy was to continue investigating Royce’s death as a simple drug-related killing. He had already identified several possible scenarios that didn’t involve police corruption, but he knew in his bones that Pratley and his crew were up to their necks in it. They may not have been the ones that pulled the trigger on Royce, but he had an inkling that someone from Pratley’s squad had done for Payne. He needed to share, but whom was he going to share with. He trusted Donald Spence, but the path they were about to embark on was dangerous and Spence had earned a peaceful retirement. He was going to have to play his cards close to his chest and pray that Republican Action Against Drugs claimed the killing. Unfortunately, he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Browne knocked on the door and pushed it open. ‘News from Forensics, Boss, they found the spent slugs and the gun used to kill Royce was definitely a Browning Hi-Power and it was clean. There’s no sign of it on the database.’
‘There’s still no sign of that Donaldson guy?’
‘Not a whisper.’
‘Okay, Rory, that’s enough for today. We’ll start again tomorrow.’ He looked into the squad room and saw that O’Neill and Graham were still at their desks. ‘Tell the others they can go.’
‘You off too, Boss?’
Wilson nodded at the pile of paper on his desk. ‘This is what’s waiting for you at the end of that promotion ladder.’
‘I don’t like that game, there are too many snakes.’
‘Truer words were never spoken.’
DCI Jack Duane sat in a hired car outside Tennent Street station. He had taken up his position at five o’clock on the dot and watched as the day shift disgorged from the building on their way home. As soon as he saw Siobhan O’Neill exiting the door, he started the car and began to inch forward. He pulled level with her and lowered the passenger side window. ‘Looking for a lift?’
O’Neill stared into the car. She’d seen Duane in Wilson’s office and was aware that he was a policeman from down south, but she’d never been introduced to him. ‘I’m okay, I only live a short distance away.’ She continued walking.
‘I really think you should take the offer of a lift,’ Duane said, keeping pace with her. ‘We have something to discuss.’
For the first time in weeks, O’Neill felt a dart of fear. She stopped and the car stopped too. She knew she really didn’t have a choice. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘A friend. Now open the door and sit in.’
She held the handle for a few moments before pushing the catch and opening the door. She sat in the passenger seat and closed the door behind her.
‘Busy day?’ Duane asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I think we should go somewhere we can have a drink and a nice chat.’
They drove in silence until Duane pulled up beside Kelly’s Cellars in Bank Street. They got out and entered the pub.
‘What can I get you?’ Duane asked.
‘Bloody Mary, double.’ Her confidence was returning. The pang of fear she had felt on the street had been replaced with the resolve to stay cool and not give anything away. Duane was smooth. He dressed well and was handsome in a rugged kind of way. But he was also old enough to be her father. That might appeal to some women but wasn’t really her thing. He took their drinks from the barman and moved to the end of the room, away from the crowd gathering at the bar. They sat at one of the round tables.
‘Sláinte,’ Duane raised his pint glass and O’Neill lifted hers and touched his. They both sipped their drinks. ‘For such a nice wee lassie, you caused me an almighty amount of shite,’ Duane said.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ The pang of fear returned.
‘You know who I am?’
‘You’re a peeler down south.’ She drank to hide her nervousness. There was something about this man that bothered her. She felt he could be dangerous.
‘I am that. But I am also your best friend if you’re honest with me, and a fearsome enemy if you lie. I’m looking into the murder of Noel Armstrong. Some gobshite from Dundalk Garda Station is the SIO. So there’s no possibility of finding the culprit.’
‘I still don’t get what this has to do with me.’
‘My dear wee lassie, it has everything to do with you. You’re the one that put the finger on Armstrong.’
She opened her mouth to speak and Duane put up his hand. ‘Remember what I said. Don’t lie to me.’
She closed her mouth and didn’t speak.
‘The IRA leaks like a sieve. I knew the name of the shooter the day after the murder. He’ll never do a day in jail because he has an ironclad alibi. I also know that they tortured Armstrong to get a confession out of him and that a part of that confession had to be about strangling your friend Bridget Kelly and that poor Eastern European woman. So, you can understand that I also know the name of the person who set the whole train in motion.’
She finished her drink. ‘My turn, a pint?’
Duane nodded. ‘Don’t run.’
‘I’ve no intention.’ She went to the bar and returne
d with two drinks.
‘Don’t think that shopping Armstrong to the IRA didn’t cross Wilson’s mind. He wanted justice for those women just like you did. But he didn’t have your emotional involvement.’
‘What happens now?’
‘Armstrong was a scumbag murderer who probably got what he deserved, but we’re not the ones who make that decision. I want your word that this is the last time you’ll cross that line.’ He sipped his drink.
‘You have it.’
‘I researched you. You’re a clever wee thing who could be making ten times your copper’s salary in the private sector. Maybe that’s where you should be. Just in case another emotional case comes up.’
‘You’re not going to turn me in?’
‘What purpose would that serve? Did you pervert the course of justice? Probably, but the men who protected Armstrong did a much better job of it than you, and it cost people their lives. Let’s say that this time you were more on the side of the angels but only marginally mind you. By the way, Muldoon shopped you. Don’t go there again.’
‘Ronan always was a piece of shit.’
He nodded and drank. ‘I agree. It’s been a great pleasure having a drink with such a fine young lady, but I need to be away.’
‘You have a hold on me.’
He stood up. ‘Only if you cross the line again. Can I drop you somewhere?’
‘I think I’ll stay for another.’
‘We’ll not speak of this again.’
As Duane’s broad back disappeared through the pub door, she let out a long sigh. Her hand shook as she lifted the glass to her mouth. Had it been worth it? She knew in her heart of hearts that it was. If Duane passed on the intelligence to Wilson, would he bring a charge of perverting the course of justice against her? She assumed he would, and she was quite prepared to answer for her crime if she had to. After all, hadn’t she only been upholding a fine tradition of the RUC in colluding with outside elements.
