Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  ‘Hello.’ The voice was female and frail.

  ‘Mrs Bagnell? Wilson asked.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, I’m looking into the death of your nephew Colin and I was wondering whether I could visit you.’

  ‘You can surely, I’ve been waiting for someone to do something since that boy died. I’ve been on to the local peelers for years but sure they don’t take a blind bit of notice of an old woman.’

  ‘Would it be okay if I came down now?’

  ‘Aye, I’m always here.’ She gave him an address in Ballyward close to Castlewellan.

  Wilson took the A1 from Belfast to the Castlewellan exit at which point he put the address of the Bagnell farm into his mobile phone. The disembodied computer voice led him to the Bann Road and brought him directly to his destination. The farmhouse was a neat, whitewashed two-storey house with a red door offset to the right and a single-storey extension built on the gable end. The area in front of the house was tarmacked and he noted the absence of animals in the vicinity as he drove in. He was pleased to see that he wouldn’t require his rubber boots.

  Wilson knocked on the door and an older lady wearing a housecoat opened it. He took out his warrant card and offered it to her.

  She took a quick look. ‘Get you inside before we both get our death of cold.’ She closed the door behind him and walked slowly towards the rear of the house.

  Wilson trailed behind her noting she had curvature of her spine. There was no way she was operating the farm. They entered a large country kitchen at the rear. The room was warm due to the presence of a solid fuel range. A rough wooden table already set with cups and saucers sat at the centre of the room.

  ‘Sit you down,’ Bagnell said. ‘I gave you an hour from Belfast and I just put the kettle down.’ She placed a plate with three slices of fruitcake in front of Wilson. ‘Detective superintendent you said on the phone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re interested in Colin’s death?’

  ‘I am.’

  She let out a sigh. ‘I’ve never believed that the boy fell into a slurry tank. He’d worked on this farm every summer since he was a wain.’ She poured hot water into the teapot and carried it to the table.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Someone killed him of course. Colin wasn’t his usual self that weekend.’ She poured them both a cup of tea. ‘He was out of sorts, nervous, edgy. Something was bothering him, but he didn’t want to talk about it.’

  Wilson sipped his tea. ‘A couple of weeks before he died he’d accused one of his colleagues of corruption and the man was forced to resign.’

  ‘That might have been it. Colin was a sensitive boy, wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘Were you here when the accident occurred?’

  ‘No, I was away to Castlewellan on a fool’s errand. When I got back he had already passed. Faith, it was a horrible business. I have no children and I wanted Colin to have the farm. He wasn’t fit for the police. He was a good God-fearing Protestant.’

  ‘Was there anything else out of place that weekend?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Nothing that I can think of. It’s all mixed up in my mind now, the ambulance, the police cars and all that business with the coroner. It almost did away with me.’

  ‘Did Colin come here every weekend?’

  ‘Aye, every weekend as regular as clockwork.’

  ‘He had a bedroom here?’

  ‘Aye, since he was small.’

  ‘Do you still have all his things in it?’

  ‘I do, kept it just as he left it.’ She stood up with difficulty and saw him watching her. ‘I’ve sold most of the land. There’s only twenty acres left, it and the house are with an estate agent. When it’s sold, I’ll be off to the old people’s home.’ She started to move towards the front of the house and beckoned him to follow. When they reached the stairs leading to the second floor, she stopped. ‘I’ll not go up with you. It’s the small box room at the end of the landing.’

  Wilson climbed the stairs and moved along the short corridor to the room at the end. He pushed the door open and entered. The walls were covered in old football posters that must have been there since Payne was a boy. There was a single bed against the back wall and a wooden wardrobe just inside the door. Wilson slipped on his latex gloves and went to the wardrobe. There were two work jackets and three pairs of old jeans on hangers. He searched through the pockets but found nothing of interest. They were obviously work clothes that were left permanently at the farmhouse. He pulled open the drawer at the base of the wardrobe and rifled through the shirts and underwear that it contained. He moved to the bed and looked underneath. He withdrew a battered leather suitcase and put it on top of the bed. He slipped the catches and raised the lid. He examined the old football programmes, school reports and photos of schoolboy football teams inside. He looked at the faces of the young boys but didn’t recognise Payne among them. He turned over one of the photos. On the rear was the legend ‘Down High School Junior Football Team 2004–2005’. He took out a photo of a stern-faced older man dressed in Orange Order regalia. Slowly he sifted through the memorabilia of Payne ‘s early life. Then he closed the suitcase and returned it to where he had found it. He looked up at the posters on the wall and noticed that one of them was askew. He reached out to straighten it and a sheaf of papers tumbled from behind and landed on the bed. They were photocopies of entries to the kind of notebook that all police officers are obliged to carry and keep up to date. There were approximately twenty A4 sheets, each covering two pages of notes. Wilson bundled up the sheets and then checked the other posters, but there was nothing behind them. He left the room and went downstairs. Mrs Bagnell had returned to the kitchen and was pouring a second cup of tea when Wilson entered.

  ‘I found some papers that I’d like to look at back at the station.’ Wilson sat and put the photocopies on the table.

  Bagnell looked at him. ‘Was my nephew killed for what’s in those papers?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘But he didn’t just fall into a slurry tank?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I knew it.’ A smile broke out on her face. ‘I told the peelers in Downpatrick that Colin wouldn’t make that mistake. All they said was that better men than him had died in similar circumstances. Will you get the bastard that killed that poor wee boy?’ There were tears in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m certainly going to try.’

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘I can’t ask any more than that.’

  Wilson stood. ‘I’ll bring back these papers when I’m finished with them.’

  ‘Keep them, I’ve no use for them.’

  ‘There’s an old suitcase under his bed containing old photos. Would you like me to get it for you?’

  She looked round the kitchen. ‘It’ll soon all be gone. It’s a sad fact of life, superintendent, but whoever buys the place will probably dump everything that’s in it, including the old photos, in a skip. There’s nobody left who cares anyway.’ She started to rise.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay where you are, I can see myself out.’

  ‘If you manage to find Colin’s killer, I’d appreciate it if you come and tell me. He was like a son to me.’

  ‘I’ll certainly try.’

  When he went outside, he turned and looked at the old house. There was a lot of history in there. Some was happy and some sad. The voices of generations had resonated around its walls. But to him, it was simply the scene of a heinous crime.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Peter Davidson arrived at Belfast International and went straight to the security office. The door had the logo of an international company that specialises in airport security. Davidson knocked and a middle-aged man dressed in a black uniform and kitted out like a regular police officer, complete with body cam and two-way radio, opened the door. David
son showed his warrant card and was invited into the office.

  ‘Michael Johnson, head security guard,’ the man said as soon as they were in the office. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to enquire about a piece of lost property,’ Davidson said.

  ‘If you lost it on a plane, you’ll have to contact the handling agent.’

  ‘No, it’s not mine and it wouldn’t have been lost on a plane. In fact, we think that it might have been dumped.’

  ‘What exactly are we talking about? You’re a detective, so I suspected you wouldn’t be here about a simple piece of lost property.’

  ‘I’m working a murder case. We have information that a mobile call was made to the airport and immediately after, the phone went dead and the number has never been used since.’

  ‘If it was dumped in one of the waste bins in the concourse, you’re probably out of luck. A lot of the guys simply tie up the plastic bags as they come out of the bins and put them straight into the dumpsters. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things that people put in the bins and the cleaners don’t usually fancy a rummage. Of course, if they copped a mobile phone it would be straight into their pocket.’ He sat down behind a desk and hit a few keys on the computer. ‘You have the time and date?’

  Davidson reeled off the date and the time of the last call to the phone.

  Johnson scrolled down with the mouse. ‘Nothing in the concourse, not so unexpected, I’m afraid. Let’s try the Causeway Lounge.’

  ‘The Causeway Lounge?’

  ‘That’s where the business class and VIP passengers hang out while they wait for their flights.’ He looked at Davidson. He didn’t think that there were many policemen who had the necessary cash to travel business class, much like himself. ‘You may be in luck. The cleaners in the business lounge are a little more careful because if a business passenger remembers leaving something in the lounge, and if they’ve disappeared it so to speak, we have to investigate. That can cost someone their job.’ He looked up from his computer and smiled. ‘Today’s your lucky day. It just so happens a mobile phone was found in the lounge that day.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  Johnson referred to the computer. ‘Nobody claimed it so it should be here someplace.’ He went to a locker at the back of the office and used a key from his belt to open the metal door. He searched inside and came up with a bog standard mobile phone. ‘Not exactly the model most of our business-class passengers favour.’

  Davidson took out a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and held it out. Johnson dropped the phone into the bag.

  ‘You’re going to find at least a dozen prints on that phone.’ Johnson sat back down at his desk and produced a small receipt book. ‘You have to sign for it.’ He wrote in the book and then handed Davidson the pen.

  Davidson signed the page and took the duplicate copy, which he dropped into the evidence bag with the phone. He put the bag in his jacket pocket and held out his hand. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Johnson shook. ‘Glad to be of assistance.’

  As Davidson walked back through the concourse, he could almost feel the heat of the phone in his pocket. This phone had been used only once to receive news of Jackie Carlisle’s demise. Whoever owned it had probably ordered Carlisle’s murder. And now he had possession of that phone. Things were getting very scary indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Wilson drove back to the station from Castlewellan. He was painting himself into a corner. The more he learned about Royce, and in particular about Payne, the more he felt their deaths were about what was happening within the PSNI’s Drugs Squad. That put him in a difficult position with Yvonne Davis and his own team. If the killings were related to corruption, Davis would insist that he bring in Professional Services, but he didn’t want to do that without more evidence. He had no idea how far the corruption might go. The more evidence he collected the more he felt he had to move the whole investigation upstairs. Also, he didn’t like keeping his theory from Browne and the rest of the team. He shouldn’t be the only one carrying the ball, in case whoever had arranged Payne’s death would turn their attention to him. As soon as he arrived at the station, he handed over Payne’s photocopies to O’Neill with a request to make additional copies and a secure digital copy. Then he went into his office and collapsed into his chair. He was being forced to peel back the layers of what was turning out to be a very rotten onion. Why couldn’t the Royce case have been a simple murder? A case of thieves falling out. Why the hell hadn’t Republican Action Against Drugs called in and claimed the killing? What had happened to commonplace murder? Had spouses stopped killing their partners? He made a mental note to ask God to send him a simple murder case that could be solved by forensic work and good old skills of deduction.

  He was contemplating heading home when his phone rang. ‘We’re wanted in Castlereagh, be outside in five minutes.’ Davis’s voice was business-like. He supposed that the visit to HQ was inevitable. McDevitt had been trumpeting on in the Chronicle about an impending turf war in Belfast with rivers of blood running in the streets. The population had been down that road before, and there had been mutterings from the religious and community leaders that the PSNI should be doing everything to avoid McDevitt’s version of the approaching apocalypse. Somebody at HQ, and that probably meant DCC Jennings, had got the message and decided that the troops needed some additional motivation.

  They sat in the back seat of Davis’s car. ‘Is there anything I should know?’ Davis asked as they pulled away from the station.

  Wilson almost lost control and laughed. There was so much that he was keeping from her that it was ridiculous. He comforted himself with the thought that it was for her own good, but at the same time he longed to return to the good old days when he shared everything with Donald Spence and vice versa. But Davis wasn’t Spence, who had been formed in the cauldron of sectarian violence. And while Spence had topped out at chief superintendent, Davis still had a chair waiting for her in HQ. ‘No, ma’am, you’re up to date on the current investigations.’

  She didn’t look convinced. Jennings was like a giant octopus with its tentacles wrapped round the PSNI. She had to steel herself every time she entered his office. And being associated with Wilson certainly didn’t help. Jennings would dig up every bit of rumour and innuendo on Wilson and use it against the both of them. They passed the rest of the trip in silence.

  Jennings was seated behind his desk when they entered. Although he had a ‘soft’ suite within his large office, he preferred to have his officers sit directly in front of him like errant schoolchildren.

  On entering, Wilson looked to see whether there was any sign of the ‘Greek chorus’ – those senior officers and acolytes of the DCC who were usually invited to his office to witness ritual humiliations. Thankfully, Jennings was alone.

  Jennings motioned to the two chairs directly facing him while continuing to concentrate on the documents on his desk. Wilson and Davis took their seats and waited patiently for their boss to finish his important task.

  ‘This Royce business,’ Jennings closed the file he had been working on and put it aside, ‘where are we on it?’

  Davis looked at Wilson, who took it as a sign to speak. ‘We’re following a definite line of enquiry.’

  ‘Which is?’ Jennings asked.

  ‘We are making a connection between the man found in the burned-out car in Helen’s Bay and the murder of Hugh Royce. We’re sure that the man at Helen’s Bay was Michael Duff, a mid-level pusher. We have information that Royce was also involved in some way in the drugs trade in the city. It might be, as is suggested in the Chronicle, the start of a turf war. Drugs have been flooding the city over the past few years and the profits accruing to the gangs have been rising.’

  ‘Is this your theory or your friend McDevitt’s?’ Jennings asked Wilson.

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘What is the disposition of your team?’

  Wilson looked puzzled. ‘We work as a
team. The only one with a general function is DC O’Neill because of her computer skills. The other members of the team carry out tasks that are assigned on a daily basis as the investigation evolves.’

  Jennings remained silent for a moment then stared at Wilson. ‘For example, what is DC Davidson working on at the moment?’

  Wilson could feel Jennings’ eyes on him. There are no coincidences, he thought. ‘DC Davidson is doing background checks on Royce and his associates. We’re building a picture of the man and trying to establish what he’s been up to since he left the force.’

  ‘And Graham?’

  ‘Concentrating on locating the owner of the car that was found at the murder scene and dealing with the responses to the request for information from the public.’

  ‘Davidson is retiring soon?’

  ‘In six months.’

  ‘He should be winding down,’ Jennings said.

  ‘We’re investigating two murders,’ Wilson said. ‘We need everybody that we have and a few others if you have any to spare.’

  Jennings frowned. ‘I would love to assist, but it’s not possible under the present budget regime.’ He picked up the file he had set aside and opened it. ‘You may leave.’

  As soon as they were outside Jennings’ office, Davis gripped Wilson by the arm. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Motivating the troops by showing leadership and concern?’

  ‘Quit the bullshit, Ian. There was something going on in there that I wasn’t part of. And it’s probably something that I should be aware of.’

  Wilson walked towards the lift. He knows that Davidson has been digging around, he thought. But how does he know? Maybe it was time to pull Davidson off the Carlisle investigation.

  Davis followed Wilson into the lift and they descended in silence. The car was waiting outside and they took their seats in the rear. Davis tapped her driver on the shoulder. ‘Alex, why don’t you take a toilet break.’