Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wilson closed up the office at seven o’clock. Reid would already be at the apartment, no doubt luxuriating in a bath and hopefully removing the stench of dealing with dead bodies. It had been a week since she had spent the evening in her own apartment and it was getting near that time when they would have to discuss the logic of maintaining two residences. Wilson had been down that road with Kate McCann and he decided if that conversation were necessary, it would have to be initiated by Reid. He stopped at their favourite Indian takeaway and collected the meal that Reid had already ordered. He had no idea what was in the large plastic bag he picked up, but he assumed from the weight that Reid and he were not eating alone. The animated conversation he heard when he opened the door told him that his powers of detection were still fully operational. The only downside to his pride in being right was that he recognised the dulcet Galway tones of Jack Duane.

  ‘Dinner has arrived.’ He plonked the plastic bag on the kitchen table. ‘I wasn’t aware that we were entertaining.’

  ‘I think Jack was a bit nervous about begging a meal from you,’ Reid said. ‘So he took the easy route and asked me.’

  ‘I don’t see Jack being nervous, period.’ Wilson shook hands with Duane. ‘In town on business?’

  ‘Pleasure,’ Duane said.

  Wilson went to Reid, kissed her on the lips and then moved to his improvised bar, where he poured himself a large whiskey. ‘Now why don’t I believe that?’

  ‘God’s truth.’ Duane made the sign of the cross. ‘This beautiful woman has been filling me in on your adventures in California, and I was offering my condolences on the death of her mother.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re doing in Belfast or not?’ Wilson said.

  ‘Or not.’ Duane sipped his drink.

  Reid had opened the plastic bag and placed the contents in the centre of the dining table. ‘Jack has brought some nice red wine and we should begin while the food is still hot.’

  ‘How long are you here for?’ Wilson asked Duane as soon as they were settled at the table.

  ‘A day or two.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jack, do I have to drag it out of you?’

  ‘I’m briefing the minister and the boys in Castlereagh on the progress in the investigation into Armstrong’s death.’ Duane forked some chicken tandoori into his mouth.

  ‘And how is it going?’ Wilson asked.

  Duane looked at Reid.

  She frowned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’

  ‘We have a fair idea who the trigger man was but he’s got an alibi that we probably can’t break.’ Duane continued eating.

  ‘Any idea of how the IRA got on to Armstrong?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Apparently they’ve been looking for a mole for some time, and there were a lot of people in the organisation who bore Armstrong a certain amount of ill will.’

  ‘So, was it a coincidence that we were investigating him at the time for the Spalvis murder?’

  ‘It appears so.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me, Jack.’ Wilson hadn’t yet started eating.

  ‘We have the best contacts in the IRA.’ Duane put down his knife and fork. ‘That’s what they say. Armstrong had pissed off a lot of people in his time, and they were looking for a chance to nail him. His murder will stay on the books but don’t expect a result, that’s the message from Dublin. Enough business, the professor is getting bored and the case is already yesterday’s news.’ He turned to Reid. ‘If I had a fine house in California, I wouldn’t be sitting with a cold north wind blowing up my you know what.’

  ‘That thought had crossed my mind,’ Reid said.

  Wilson looked at her and she looked back. He’d been right. Belfast was no longer the only option for her.

  ‘You’re not eating, Ian,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry.’ He delved into the foil dishes.

  When the meal was over Wilson and Duane cleared up the dishes while Reid made a strategic withdrawal. Wilson poured two whiskies and he and Duane sat before the picture window looking out over the city.

  ‘How is she really doing?’ Duane asked.

  ‘Grieving but getting there. They’d gotten close by the end.’ He was thinking of his own mother. Nova Scotia was four hours behind Belfast, and he made up his mind to call her as soon as Duane left.

  ‘You two are good together. Pity about the business you’re in. What’s with this Royce killing?’

  ‘On the surface it looks drug-related. A couple of months ago we found a man in the boot of a burned-out BMW over at Helen’s Bay. We haven’t been able to identify the body, but we think he was a low-level pusher.’

  ‘Sounds like a turf war. We’re having one in Dublin at the moment that’s already left fourteen people dead, and apparently there’s a list with fifteen other names on it. I hope for your sake that there’s some other motive for the killing.’

  Wilson hoped that for his sake there was any other motive than the one he was thinking about.

  ‘I’m thinking of asking your boss out.’ Duane finished his drink and stood up. ‘Do you think she’ll accept?’

  ‘Are you serious? She’s ten years older than you.’

  Duane moved to the door. ‘I’m totally serious.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Former RUC detective James Gibbons walked out of the Orange Lodge 26 directly behind CS Robert Rodgers, the head of Special Branch. He had spent several days mulling over the conversation he’d had with Peter Davidson. He’d liked Davidson, who was one of the boys back in the day, but all that had changed with the advent of the PSNI. The RUC was there to protect the Protestant people of Ulster. The new force had tossed that sacred duty aside. Gibbons had stayed on in the lodge even though he wasn’t feeling the best. The drink and the fags eventually catch up with everyone, but he was sure that he had a few more years in him yet. He wasn’t happy with the pain in his chest and the shortness of breath he’d been experiencing lately. He’d go to the doctor tomorrow. His mind was focussed on his health when he realised that he had gone to the lodge so that he could have a word with his lodge brother. He owed Davidson nothing. And he didn’t like the idea of coppers keeping an eye on each other. There was no telling where that could lead. He’d been trying to have a quiet word with Rodgers all evening, but the big man had been in demand. Every time Rodgers was alone someone else beat Gibbons to the punch. The meeting had broken up, and this was his last chance to catch the man before he buggered off home. Gibbons tried to catch his breath as he accelerated his pace to catch up with Rodgers. ‘Bobby,’ he called.

  Rodgers turned and looked behind him. The smile faded from his face. It was that old fart Gibbons. The stupid old bastard was always harping back to the days they had ‘served’ together. ‘How are ye, Jamsie,’ Rodgers said over his shoulder and started to walk away.

  ‘Bobby, it’s important.’ Gibbons voice was a croak.

  Rodgers stopped. He needed to be away. He’d arranged to meet his girlfriend for a drink before heading off home to the wife. He turned to look at Gibbons. The poor old bastard didn’t look well, he was as pale as a ghost. He walked back.

  ‘Ye don’t look too well, Jamsie. Are ye okay?’

  ‘Aye, just a bit of angina, I’ll be all right when I catch my breath. I have something important to tell ye.’

  ‘Take it easy, man.’

  ‘That young pup Peter Davidson is asking about one of your boys.’

  Rodgers smiled. The only Peter Davidson he knew was nearly as old as Gibbons. The old boy must be going strange. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Aye, it is.’ Gibbons was struggling to remember the name Davidson had given him. Suddenly it came to him. ‘Some fella called Simon Jackson.’

  ‘Is that so. You’re a good man, Jamsie. Tell me about Davidson and this Simon Jackson.’

  Gibbons looked into Rodgers face and it seemed to get wavy all of a sudden. The pain in his chest was so intense that he couldn’t speak. He
tried to move his mouth but had lost control. His feet turned to jelly and he would have fallen if Rodgers hadn’t caught him. He felt himself being lowered to the ground. The pain in his chest was the only thing he could think of as he expired.

  ‘Get a doctor, for God’s sake,’ Rodgers shouted. ‘What about Davidson and Jackson,’ he shouted to the stricken man. ‘Stay with me, Jamsie. Try to keep your eyes open, man.’ It was no use; Gibbons’ eyes had rolled up into his head and he had the vacant look of the dead. He put his finger to the prone man’s neck but couldn’t feel a pulse. The old bastard was gone. Rodgers stood up and found their lodge brothers were surrounding them. Why in God’s name would Davidson want to know about Jackson? Peter Davidson was still working at the Murder Squad. And as far as he knew Jackson hadn’t killed anyone lately, although with Jackson you never really knew. As he started walking away he could hear the sound of an ambulance’s siren heading in their direction. If there were a way to kill a person twice, he would have throttled Gibbons for not giving the full information before he died. Davidson was looking into Jackson. They were going to have to do something about that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was one of those mornings when the run was obligatory. Wilson tore himself away from Reid’s warm body. They had made love in the early morning and then fallen into post-coital slumber. But Wilson’s dreams didn’t permit him easy repose. He seldom had dreams where gothic creatures flew at him causing him to recoil, but last night had been an exception. The only solution was to don his running gear and brave the cold in order to clear his head. There had been some rain overnight, raising the outside temperature by several degrees. Still, as he pounded his way towards the Titanic Centre, his breath turned to vapour when it hit the cold air. It was the kind of weather that gave his gammy leg trouble. He could feel the stiffness in his running style. There were two conflicting thoughts in his head. Although the consequences would be extreme, it would be expedient to believe that the deaths of Duff and Royce were the harbingers of a turf war. But when he thought about the carnage and the collateral deaths that might ensue, it was the last outcome he wanted. He didn’t need Jack Duane to point out the potential carnage created by drugged-up murderers wielding Kalashnikovs. He’d read the reports of the drugs war from Dublin, and their northern counterparts were equally vicious. That left the second scenario: the deaths were unconnected and Royce’s murder had its genesis in PSNI corruption. Dishonesty was not part of his brief in the organisation and would inevitably mean cooperating with Professional Services, and neither he nor they had a good reputation in that respect. By the time he had reached his turning point at the end of East Twin Road, he had developed a strategy for the investigation. The first line of enquiry would concentrate on discounting the turf war scenario. When that line of enquiry was abandoned, they would switch their concentration to potential corruption within the PSNI. His leg eased out considerably and the route back to the apartment felt easier. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with his leg and more to do with his decision to carry out the investigation methodically. He went straight to the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it. He was washed, shaved and dressed when he entered the living room and saw Reid sitting at the table talking to the computer. He leaned over her shoulder and saw the face of her brother, Peter, on the screen.

  ‘Morning, Peter,’ he said. He had no idea what time it was in Australia. ‘It looks like I’m on breakfast duty today.’

  ‘Morning, Ian, you’re looking good. Steph said you were out on a run.’

  ‘Cold as a witch’s tit out there. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you and your sister.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Wilson walked over to the kitchen, put on the coffee and started to whisk some eggs. Ten minutes later Reid joined him as he was putting the finishing touches to scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

  She kissed his cheek. ‘So domesticated. I saw on television that some footballer in the UK only learned to make instant coffee when he was thirty-seven.’ She sat at the table while he served her scrambled egg on toast and poured her a cup of coffee. She looked at the plate. ‘Not bad, what’s with this new Ian Wilson?’ She knew the question of moving in was the elephant in the room, but she wanted him to be the one to address it. Dealing with her mother’s illness and death had been traumatic for her. Although she was a medical professional who had worked with death all her professional life, she had been forced to reflect on her own life by closely attending to the death of her mother. She had spent the time asking herself indelicate questions about choices she had made. Now she needed to know what her partner was thinking. That conversation was coming soon and might be cathartic.

  ‘No ulterior motive,’ Wilson said. ‘What’s happening with Peter?’ He forked some egg into his mouth.

  ‘I wanted Peter to accept half of the Venice Beach house.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘It’s his inheritance as well as mine, but he turned it down. The hurt runs very deep with him. He wants nothing from his mother, but he has children and they should have something from their grandmother. However, Peter is intractable.’

  ‘You tried your best.’ Wilson felt that there was a question in there and it had something to do with Reid’s decision not to have children. He looked at her and the feeling that she was hiding something from him was there again. It was subtle and barely noticeable, but it was there. Maybe it had something to do with Peter and the inheritance. He hoped so, but his great fear was that it was going to affect their relationship.

  ‘What did you and Jack get up to when I went to bed?’

  ‘He’s going to ask Davis out.’

  She laughed. ‘You can say what you like about Jack, but there’s never a dull moment. Anything else?’

  ‘He thinks that the Royce killing has something to do with a drug turf war.’

  ‘But you don’t?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘And that’s why you didn’t sleep well last night.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I can give you a prescription for some mild sleeping tablets.’

  ‘That’s a road I don’t want to go down. I’m going to look into the possibility of a turf war. We’ve had turf wars before when the paramilitaries turned on each other. They’re not very pleasant.’

  ‘Nothing that we deal with is pleasant.’

  There it was again, he thought, the open door to a more meaningful conversation about where they were going. Why didn’t he take it? What was she hiding from him? He took the coward’s way out. ‘We should head off. I have a briefing in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yes,’ she started to clear up the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. ‘And I have some dead people to cut up.’

  He took her in his arms as she turned from the dishwasher. ‘It’s part of the grieving process.’ He kissed her gently.

  ‘Maybe.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The team gathered at the whiteboard for the nine o’clock briefing. Wilson stood in the centre, looking directly at the pictures of Royce as a young PSNI constable and his dead body outside the pub. ‘What do we now about Hugh Royce? He was an only child of elderly parents who died when he was still young. He joined the PSNI and was mentored by his DCI. Then he was forced to resign from the job he loved and he was divorced by his wife. After that it’s blank. What happened to Royce after he left the force and was divorced? People don’t just disappear. He lived somewhere. He made money somewhere. He maybe had a friend somewhere. We are professional investigators. Surely it’s not beyond our powers to find out what happened in this man’s life that obliged someone to pump three bullets into his body. We need to answer the questions relative to Royce’s life if we’re going to establish a motive for his murder. And when we establish the motive, we’ll be halfway to finding his murderer. Come on, we need results.’

  ‘What about his so-called colleagues in the Drugs Squad?’ Browne said. ‘If Royce was involved with drugs, they should be able to supp
ly some of the answers.’

  ‘Right,’ Wilson said. ‘This morning I want Rory to go personally and ask for whatever they have on Royce. I’ll ring ahead to Pratley.’

  Wilson turned to face the team ‘I know it might be a false trail, but we’re going to move ahead on the premise that the man in the burned-out BMW was Mickey Duff and that he and Royce are the first victims in a potential drugs turf war. If that hypothesis is correct, the Drugs Squad should have some idea of what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s just as likely that they’re the victims of a vigilante group like Republican Action Against Drugs,’ Graham said.

  ‘So far they haven’t claimed either death, and they’re not usually slow when it comes to claiming credit. Anyway, it doesn’t look like their handiwork,’ Wilson said. ‘They’re more sawn-off shotgun than two in the chest and one in the head. But I’m keeping an open mind on that.’ He looked round the team. ‘Anybody got any ideas on how we can fill in the gap in Royce’s CV?’

  ‘There’s nothing in the files,’ O’Neill said.

  ‘We still have Donaldson,’ Browne said. ‘Royce was staying at a homeless shelter. He had only a few pounds in his pocket. How did he get the money to buy a car? Maybe the car is still Donaldson’s.’

  ‘Or maybe Royce nicked it,’ Graham said.

  ‘Rory is right,’ Wilson said. ‘We need to find out what Royce was doing with Donaldson’s car.’ He looked at Graham. ‘No news on Donaldson?’

  Graham shook his head.

  ‘Nothing from the phones?’

  ‘A waste of time, Boss,’ Graham said.

  ‘Always remember that someone wanted this man dead pretty badly,’ Wilson said. ‘If our premise about a drug war is valid, why did they start on two low-level operators like Duff and Royce?’

  ‘What are you going to do, Boss?’ Graham asked.

  ‘I’m going to see the man at the top of the tree.’

  Wilson looked round the interior of Club 69. It was all dark wood, fancy drapes, an Olympic-sized bar area and the now-obligatory stage with the equally obligatory poles. Davie Best had obviously been watching too much of The Sopranos, Wilson thought. At ten o’clock in the morning, the club was empty of clients but full of cleaners clearing up the detritus of last night’s revels. Wilson hadn’t been invited to the opening of the club, and if he had been, he wouldn’t have gone. Maybe he was just old school, but Wilson thought there was a certain charm when the gang leaders spent their days in the back of a pub with their cronies. Like everything in life, the old criminals had been replaced by more business-oriented successors. He had no idea how much money Club 69 took in, but he was sure that it was augmented by whatever portion of Best’s drug profits needed laundering. He had phoned ahead and was told that Mr Best could see him at ten o’clock and that Mr Best had a busy day planned so he should try to be on time. It was like making an appointment to see a doctor. Wilson was standing in the centre of the bar area admiring the surroundings when he was approached by a young man in a flash suit and led to an office at the rear. The young man opened the door and stood aside to permit Wilson to enter.