Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear.’

  ‘I know, but like Mouse said, he’s not a psychic. He’s certain that Royce wasn’t in Belfast. One day Royce was wandering around central Belfast, the next day he wasn’t’.

  ‘Is that what I get for fifty quid?’

  ‘Don’t you think you got your fifty quid’s worth at the Black Mountain.’

  Wilson nodded, finished his drink and pushed the bell. Reid arrived at the same time as the barman and Wilson expanded the order to include her.

  ‘You look great.’ McDevitt toasted her with a glass containing the dregs of his Guinness. ‘The tan hasn’t faded yet. Either that or you’re boosting it on a sun bed. But there’s no doubt that California suited you. I thought the both of you might have stayed on. At least you would have avoided the shite weather.’

  ‘I think he’s been here since four o’clock,’ Wilson said. ‘He’s drowning his sorrows because his book is losing traction.’

  ‘Poor old Jock.’ Reid leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Wait until the film comes out.’

  ‘That’s what yer man said.’ McDevitt turned to Wilson. ‘I may be a bit in my cups, but I’m not forgetting the scoop.’

  ‘All in good time,’ Wilson said.

  The barman arrived with the drinks and Wilson paid him. He put a pint in front of McDevitt. ‘One for the road.’

  McDevitt picked up the pint and looked at it. ‘I was looking forward to a session, but I can see that you love birds want to be away.’

  ‘I’m bushed,’ Reid said. ‘And I’m away to Coleraine first thing in the morning to give a speech at the university that I haven’t written yet.’ She sipped a gin and tonic.

  ‘So, you’re going to piss off and leave old Jock to get drunk on his own.’

  ‘No,’ Wilson said. ‘We’re going to piss off and put old Jock into a taxi that will take him home.

  ‘And why the hell am I going there?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The duty sergeant pulled Wilson aside as soon as he arrived at the station. He pointed at a small man sitting alone on a bench in the reception area. ‘He’s been here since seven-thirty, waiting to see Harry, but I think you might deal with him.’

  ‘One of the phone calls?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Something to do with the Volkswagen Polo.’

  Wilson walked across to the man. ‘DS Wilson, I hear you want to speak with DC Graham. We work together.’

  The man stood and barely reached Wilson’s shoulder. ‘My name’s Tom Donaldson and I think you boys are holdin’ on to my car.’

  ‘We’ve been looking for you.’ Wilson looked back at the duty sergeant. ‘One tea and one coffee in room one.’ He turned back to Donaldson. ‘Please follow me.’

  They sat in the interview room facing each other.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Five days in Tenerife tryin’ to get out of this terrible weather, I came back to find no car and this business card in the door.’ He tossed Graham’s card on the table.

  ‘You own a Volkswagen Polo with this registration number.’ Wilson gave the number of the car from O’Reilly’s car park.

  ‘I do surely. I loaned it to a friend of mine and he was supposed to leave it outside my house when he was finished with it and post the key in the letter box.’

  ‘And would this friend be Hugh Royce?’

  ‘He would indeed.’

  ‘When did you arrive back in Belfast?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Then you aren’t aware that Hugh Royce is dead.’

  ‘Holy God, no.’

  ‘He was murdered four days ago.’

  ‘Murdered you say.’ Donaldson put his head in his hands. ‘Who would murder poor Hugh? He was a harmless wee git.’

  ‘But he was your friend.’

  ‘He was.

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘As the social workers say, I have a history of substance abuse. A couple of years ago I attended a church meeting where Richard Pearson was speaking. At the time I was doin’ a bottle of vodka a day. Something clicked in my head. I suppose I was inspired by him and his message. Anyway, he convinced me that I could turn my life around. I followed him to his commune on Rathlin Island. That’s where I met Hugh.’

  Wilson remembered the books in the locker in the homeless shelter. ‘What was Hugh doing there?’

  ‘Whatever he was asked to do, just like everybody else. Richard was all about renewal. Everybody at the commune had a problem, and they were there to learn how to deal with it. When I finally realised that I didn’t need drugs and booze anymore, it was time to leave.’

  ‘And Hugh was still there?’

  ‘He was like part of the furniture.’

  ‘And you didn’t see him again?’

  ‘Not until he visited me just before I left on holiday. He called on me just as I was about to leave. I offered him the keys to my house, but he said he’d made another arrangement. He took the car keys though. It was bloody cold and I think he didn’t have much money. We had a cup of tea and then I was away to the airport.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he was back in Belfast?’

  ‘He said he had some unfinished business, but he didn’t say what it was.’

  ‘Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill him?’

  ‘Everyone in Rathlin had something in their past that they were trying to come to grips with. Most people think that substance abuse is the answer to their problem whereas in reality it becomes the problem. I never found out what Hugh was trying to forget.’

  ‘Our forensic people have your car,’ Wilson said. ‘I’ll see that it’s returned to you by lunchtime.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who killed Hugh?’

  ‘We’re following a line of enquiry.’

  ‘I hope you get the bastard.’

  ‘So do I.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Wilson was thinking about a trip to Rathlin Island as he ushered Donaldson out of the station. He was about to head for the squad room when he got a nod from the duty sergeant and a finger pointing upwards indicated that he was required in the chief super’s office.

  Wilson knocked on Davis’s door and pushed it in. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  ‘What have you done now?’

  Although Davis was frowning, Wilson had the impression that her real mood wasn’t so heavy. He was wondering whether it had anything to do with Jack Duane. ‘I’m as innocent as a new-born babe. Who says that I’ve done something?’

  She stood up and picked up her cap. ‘We’ve received an urgent call from HQ. Our presence is required by the DCC, and I don’t think it’s to discuss the weather. Any idea what may be up?’

  Wilson held the door open for her. ‘With the DCC you never know.’

  ‘I have a very bad feeling about this,’ she said as she passed him.

  ‘Strange, so do I.’

  Their sense of apprehension was confirmed when they entered Jennings’ office and found Assistant Chief Constable Clive Nicholson in attendance. It certainly wasn’t going to be a ‘tea and biscuits’ meeting. They took their seats directly facing Jennings. There was to be no morning greeting either. The silence in the room was deafening and ominous.

  Jennings shuffled some papers on his desk before taking up a buff-coloured file. He showed it to Wilson. ‘Detective superintendent, do you have any idea what this is?’

  Wilson doubted he had ever seen the file. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I received this file late last evening. It’s the conclusions on the investigation by the Garda Síochána into the murder of Noel Armstrong. Assistant Commissioner Nolan sent it to me personally. It has also been sent to the minister. It makes very interesting reading. The gardaí have been very thorough in their investigation.’ Jennings paused and laid the file in front of him.

  ‘Are you aware of what happened to Minister Armstrong?’ He removed a photog
raph from the file and placed it on the table in front of Wilson and Davis.

  They both looked at Armstrong’s dead naked and bruised body. ‘He was tortured and then shot,’ he continued. ‘The gardaí have identified the perpetrators of this vile act. They have been interviewed and all of them have ironclad alibis. The gardaí have concluded that they will probably never be brought to trial.’

  Wilson, who had heard all this from Duane, had no idea where Jennings was going.

  Jennings tapped the file. ‘One section of the report covers the issue of how the IRA got wind of the fact that Armstrong was possibly a tout as well as a murderer. I’m sure it’s of interest to you that they have concluded that the PSNI was the most likely source of that information.’

  Wilson could feel the storm clouds gathering over his head. What in God’s name had Duane done to him.

  ‘I was reminded,’ Jennings continued, ‘of a meeting in this office when you requested me to let you arrest the minister for questioning in the murder of Rasa Spalvis. Suddenly two and two made four. You felt yourself baulked in pursuing Armstrong, and in order to serve your twisted version of justice you consigned this man to his death without judge or jury.’

  Wilson knew there was no point in responding. He looked across at Davis and saw that her face was white.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson, you are suspended from duty pending an internal investigation into whether you were responsible for leaking information to a terrorist organisation in breach of the PSNI Code of Ethics Article 3, Privacy and Confidentiality. Would you please surrender you warrant card to ACC Nicholson.’

  Wilson withdrew his warrant card and handed it to Nicholson.

  ‘You will surrender your weapon to Chief Superintendent Davis immediately. You are not to return to your office, and I have given instructions that it is only to be opened by the investigating officer and or his assistant. A senior officer is being supplied by an outside police force, in this case from Scottish Police. He will arrive in Belfast tomorrow. Your suspension is valid until the result of the investigation into your conduct has been completed, at which time suitable administrative action will be taken. Do you have anything to say?’

  Davis put her hand on Wilson’s arm indicating that he should remain silent.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Wilson said. ‘And it will be proven to be so. In the meantime, you are seriously compromising two murder investigations.’

  ‘You may leave,’ Jennings said. ‘CS Davis will make suitable arrangements in relation to the management of your squad to ensure that there will be no disruption of the investigations underway.’

  Davis and Wilson stood together and walked to the door. As soon as they were outside, Davis turned to face Wilson. ‘There’s no truth in it, is there Ian?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Not that the idea didn’t cross my mind. I wasn’t happy with Armstrong escaping justice for two murders he committed and others that he may have had a hand in, but I certainly didn’t leak any element of the investigation to anyone.’

  They started walking towards the lift. ‘What are we going to do?’ Davis asked.

  ‘We’re not going to panic. DS Browne is a good man and a decent detective. Put in a DCI or DI who will give him free rein until I’m cleared.’

  They stepped into the lift. ‘I don’t trust Jennings,’ Davis said. ‘He must have something more than the Garda Síochána’s report. What if you’re not cleared?’

  ‘I don’t trust him myself. They can’t frame me for this one because I didn’t do it.’ Who was he kidding? Jennings would do everything in his power to influence the investigating officer.

  They exited the building and climbed into her car. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Drop me off at the station and I’ll pick up my car. My weapon is at home. I’ll drop it off when I get a chance.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot Jennings. The guy from Scottish Police won’t be here until tomorrow, and I haven’t had a day off in I don’t know how long. I was thinking of visiting Rathlin.’

  ‘Rathlin Island? In this weather?’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  On the way back to the station, Wilson looked up Rathlin Ferries and sent a text to Duane that read ‘What the F##k have you done to me?’ Then he called Reid and told her what had happened in Jennings’ office. The explosion on the line was clearly heard by Davis and the driver, and both were suitably shocked to hear a lady use such language. He placated her as best he could and told her that he was taking the day off and heading for the north coast. He’d explain everything when they met in the evening. He picked up his car and headed off immediately on the M2 north towards the Antrim coast. His destination was fifty-five miles and a good hour and ten minutes from central Belfast travelling within the speed limit. Since the ferry left at eleven o’clock and he pulled away from the station just before ten, he had little respect for the speed limit. As soon as the investigating officer arrived from Scotland, he would be totally occupied with establishing his innocence. If he failed, it would be the end of his career in the PSNI. There was a mountain of evidence of collusion between the RUC and Loyalist paramilitaries, but most of the police officers responsible lived to claim their pensions without serving a day in jail. But the PSNI was a new start, and he had no doubt that Jennings would go the full distance in implementing the Ethical Code Article 3. He was on the outskirts of Belfast when his phone rang. He slipped it into the hands-free set and pressed the green button.

  ‘Is it true, Boss?’ Browne’s voice was strained. ‘You’ve been suspended.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘The chief super has put me in charge until she appoints someone else. We’re all shocked here. They blocked your office, nothing and nobody in or out until the bloke arrives to investigate. What will I do?’

  ‘What you’ve been trained to do. Keep pushing the cases forward. You’re not a schoolboy, you’re an experienced DS and you have to behave like one.’

  ‘Where are you, Boss?’

  ‘I’m having a day out.’ He broke the connection.

  Just before Ballymena his phone rang again. He saw the caller ID and took the call.

  ‘I just heard,’ Duane said. ‘That idiot Nolan jumped the gun. We were supposed to discuss the final draft before the report went to Belfast and unfortunately I wasn’t in Dublin.’

  ‘At least Davis has a smile on her face.’

  ‘Consenting adults, Ian, don’t worry, we know you had nothing to do with leaking information, especially to the IRA. As a good Prod, it’s not in your DNA. But I’ll bet you thought about it.’

  Wilson didn’t reply.

  ‘They took your warrant card and gun?’ Duane asked.

  ‘I’m on suspension, what do you think?’

  ‘I’m going to Belfast this afternoon, I’ll drop in.’

  ‘Don’t bother, with friends like you who needs enemies.’

  ‘Just remember, I am your friend. I had no hand in what happened and if I can put things right, I will.’

  ‘I might hold you to that.’ Wilson broke the connection.

  Maybe Jennings had him this time. All he needed was for some IRA man to come forward and swear that it was him that had leaked the information. And there were plenty of people in Belfast who would be celebrating when his career was dumped into the toilet. The only real hope was that the guy coming from the Scottish Police was a proper copper by Wilson’s definition.

  Ballycastle is a small town located on the northern coast of County Antrim. Its main claim to fame is as the setting for the annual Auld Lammas Fair, a Northern Irish institution. Wilson dispensed with sightseeing and drove directly to the harbour, parked his car and was the last passenger to board the ferry to Rathlin Island. The accommodation on board the small ferry was basic but the crossing took only half an hour or so to arrive in Church Bay. The sun was shining on Rathlin, but there was still a bitterly
cold northeast wind blowing. Wilson made his way up from the quay to McCuaig’s Bar.

  ‘What can I do for ye?’ the barman said as Wilson strode up to the bar.

  ‘A hot black coffee, please.’

  ‘You off to the bird conservancy?’ The barman turned and started making a coffee.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Didn’t think you looked like a twitcher.’

  ‘What do I look like?’

  The barman looked over his shoulder at Wilson. ‘I’d say you look like a peeler. And I hope that you’re here on holiday.’

  ‘I’m here to look someone up.’

  The barman placed a coffee on the bar in front of Wilson. ‘Since there are only just over one hundred of us on the island, I can probably help you.’

  ‘Fella called Richard Pearson.’ Wilson sipped the coffee that was thankfully piping hot.

  The barman smiled. ‘I thought for a minute that you were talkin’ about a local. I hope you’re goin’ to drag him back to the mainland where he belongs.’

  ‘He’s not popular?’

  ‘We’re a funny crowd here. Tightknit doesn’t even come close to describin’ us.’

  ‘Therefore, he’s not popular.’

  ‘He keeps himself to himself and that’s how it should be.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’ Wilson sipped his coffee, which was sending a stream of heat through his body.

  ‘Turn right outside the door and head back past the harbour and the Manor House, then take a right turn just past the Water Shed café. After about half a mile, you’ll come to a couple of stone cottages set in from the road. That’s Pearson’s place. What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of.’ Wilson finished his coffee and paid.

  ‘We have fresh fish and chips for lunch.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be back.’ He wondered how these places survived the winter.

  The walk along the Rathlin coast was spectacular and he was sorry when the cottages described by the barman came into view. He could see how a place like Rathlin could bewitch someone. He hadn’t thought about Jennings and his problem since he put his foot on the island. He opened the cast-iron entrance gate and walked into a rough stone area that formed a courtyard between two large cottages set in an L-shape. Just beyond the cottages he saw a young man working in a vegetable garden. He went to the largest cottage and rapped on the door. There was a noise inside and a few moments later a young woman appeared.