Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m looking for Richard Pearson.’

  ‘Wait here, I’ll get him for you.’

  The cottages were freshly whitewashed and the stone courtyard was clean. There were two bicycles leaning against the wall of the smaller cottage. Wilson was still looking round when the door opened wider.

  ‘Hi, I’m Richard Pearson. Delores tells me that you’re looking for me.’

  The accent was certainly not Northern Irish and possibly not even Irish at all. There was a distinct American twang.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson of the PSNI. I was wondering whether I could have a word with you.’ The man in the doorway was just under six feet and cadaverous. His cheekbones and nose stood out of his pale thin face. His hair was grey and pulled back into a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. A pair of dark eyes stared at Wilson.

  ‘May I see your warrant card?’

  Wilson smiled. ‘I don’t appear to have it on me.’

  ‘Then come back when you do,’ Pearson said, closing the door.

  ‘I’m not here in relation to you or anyone on the island,’ Wilson said. ‘I want to talk about Hugh Royce. He was murdered in Belfast four days ago.’

  The door opened again. ‘You’d better come inside.’

  Wilson entered and the door closed behind him. He found himself in a very large country kitchen with a table running almost the length of the room. There were ten chairs on each side of the table and two larger chairs at the head and foot.

  ‘Please sit,’ Pearson said, indicating a chair beside the top of the table. ‘Can we offer you a herbal tea?’

  Wilson sat. ‘No thank you.’

  Pearson sat at the head of the table. ‘How was Hugh killed?’

  ‘You don’t have radio or TV here?’

  ‘It’s available on the island but we choose not to have it.’

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘Poor Hugh, he’d come such a long way.’

  ‘How long had you known him?’

  The young woman deposited a cup of tea in front of Pearson. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a tea, it’s very refreshing and made from herbs we collect on the island.’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘Hugh came to us just over two years ago. He was heavily addicted to heroin and had heard about our work here with drug addicts. We took care of him through his withdrawal. His suffering was great, but Hugh found God here and that meant that he found strength.’

  ‘That’s what you do here, rehabilitate drug users?’

  ‘It’s a place of prayer and contemplation. People come here for many reasons. Each one has his or her own demon. We try to help them in any way we can.’

  ‘How long did Hugh stay?’

  ‘He only left about six days ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He had some sins on his soul that he had been unable to excise.’

  ‘Did he tell you what they were?’

  Pearson remained silent and drank his tea.

  ‘You’re not a Catholic priest so there’s no problem about the confidentiality of the confessional,’ Wilson said. He had come expecting to meet a charlatan, but he felt that Pearson believed in what he was doing. In any event, nothing that Pearson was doing would be of interest to the PSNI. ‘We only want to find the man who killed Hugh. There’s nothing that you can say that will harm him now.’

  The young woman came and took Pearson’s cup away. He thanked her and turned to Wilson. ‘Hugh was a good man who had been forced to do things that he didn’t agree with. He lived a life that was false and ultimately felt responsible for the death of one of his colleagues. That knowledge sent him on a spiral of drugs and despair until one day he woke up and tried to end his life. He didn’t succeed and by chance when he woke up he saw an article describing our work here. He arrived on Rathlin the next day and stayed.’

  ‘We found no trace of him receiving welfare payments. How did he pay?’

  ‘We don’t ask for payment. But Hugh contributed from time to time in cash.’

  ‘How did he come by it?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘How did he intend to excise his sins?’

  ‘He didn’t say. I think he had a plan but obviously it didn’t work. He talked about working with some very unscrupulous people. We begged him to reconsider his proposed action. Hugh was very happy here. Have you any idea what will happen to his body?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know. We haven’t been able to find any direct relations and his former wife is unlikely to want to deal with the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Over the last years, we’ve been Hugh’s family. If it’s all right, we’d like to take care of the funeral arrangements. Hugh’s ashes will be incorporated into a tree that will be planted on the island. I think he would have liked that.’

  ‘I’ll see what can be done.’

  While Pearson had been talking, Wilson noticed a number of people entering the room and standing away from their conversation.

  ‘Would you like to join us for lunch?’ Pearson asked. ‘But I should warn you we’re all vegans here.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Wilson remembered the contents of Royce’s stomach. Maybe not all vegans, he thought. He stood up and extended his hand. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch about the disposition of the body.’

  Pearson took his hand and shook. ‘Fish and chips in McCuaig’s?’

  ‘Washed down with a pint of Guinness.’

  They both laughed.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Siobhan O’Neill’s first reaction on hearing about Wilson’s suspension was to run immediately to the chief super’s office and admit that it was her who leaked the information on Armstrong. She was on her way when she had to divert to the ladies’ toilets, where she threw up everything she had eaten that morning. Sitting on the toilet seat to recover, she took time to go through what might happen if she confessed. Talk in the office was that Wilson was being framed by the DCC. Nobody knew why. If O’Neill confessed, perhaps it would be seen as an act of loyalty and an attempt to have Wilson immediately reinstated. That might be the spin HQ would put on it. On the other hand, maybe she would be believed. Then there would be an investigation and in order to validate her claim she would be obliged to name names. That would put Ronan Muldoon in the frame and he might be charged with aiding and abetting a murder. She knew that she owed the bastard nothing. After all, he had given her up to Duane. But he might not be the only one to go down. She would do time for perverting the course of justice or for a more serious charge. Still, owning up was the right thing to do. Her phone rang and she opened the call.

  ‘It’s DCI Duane, where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the ladies, having tossed by breakfast. You’ve heard about the boss?’

  ‘Yes, and right now I don’t want you to do anything stupid like admitting your guilt.’

  ‘I can’t let the boss go down for something that I did.’

  ‘Noble sentiments, but Wilson isn’t going down. We both know that he’s innocent and that’s going to be the result of the investigation. You have to hold your nerve and let this thing play out.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  ‘You fall on your sword and you might just succeed in dragging Wilson down with you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nobody’s going to believe that you leaked information all on your own. It’ll just be spun that you were ordered by Wilson to leak. I’m working on a scenario where there was no leak, but it’s going to take a bit of time. So, no rash moves. Get back to work and act naturally.’ The line went dead.

  O’Neill stood up and exited the stall. Thankfully she had been alone in the toilet. She walked to the washbasin and ran the cold water, sloshing it with cupped hands onto her pale face. She looked in the mirror. She was a state. She sloshed more water until she started to feel better. She’d known when she’d entered the Muldoon house that she was crossing a line an
d might one day have to pay a price for doing so. She was still prepared to accept whatever came. She would wait and see how things played out, but there was no way she was going to let Wilson take the rap for something she did.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘Where are you?’ Reid’s voice was strained.

  ‘In McCuaig’s Bar in Rathlin enjoying their best fish and chips and a pint of Guinness.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Ian. Jennings is trying to end your career and you’re sitting on your fat arse in a pub on Rathlin scoffing fish and chips and skulling pints. Get your arse in gear or you’re handing your head on a plate to Jennings.’

  ‘There’s method in my madness. The investigating officer doesn’t arrive in Belfast until tomorrow. There’s nothing I can do until he arrives. So calm down.’

  ‘Calm down he says. I want to rip that rotten little bastard’s throat out.’

  ‘So do I, but we’d have to join a long line.’

  ‘Tell me, why Rathlin?’

  ‘Royce was part of a commune here run by a guy called Richard Pearson. I thought the guy might have been a con artist, but he appears genuine enough. All the people in the commune have problems that they’re working through. Royce was wracked with guilt for something he did and went to Belfast to sort things out.’

  ‘It all sounds very 1960s. Doesn’t this Pearson fellow know that communes had their day when Jim Jones dished out the Kool-Aid in Jonestown? Royce should have understood that there’s nothing dodgier than a reformed lowlife. Maybe in his case it was the reformation that got him killed.’

  ‘I tend to concur.’ He popped a piece of fish into his mouth and chewed.

  ‘You’re still bloody eating. The next time you go on an enforced holiday you might think about taking me along.’

  ‘You’re always too busy.’

  ‘Apropos of which, I just got off the phone with the coroner. I’d be understating it if I said that he was apoplectic. He came up with a dozen reason why he shouldn’t reopen the inquest on Colin Payne.’

  ‘And you came up with a dozen reasons why he should. How did you end up?’

  ‘He’s agreed to reopen the inquest.’

  ‘Great, that should put the cat among the pigeons with respect to our friends in the Drugs Squad.’

  ‘Do you enjoy playing with fire?’

  ‘Something is rotten in the Drugs Squad and it’s led to two deaths. And I don’t like people thinking that they’ve gotten away with murder.’

  ‘And that’s all you’ve got to worry about? You’ve been suspended from duty indefinitely and your career is on the line, and you’re sitting in a bar on Rathlin Island eating fish and chips and swilling Guinness. I’ve heard of sang-froid but you take the biscuit.’

  Wilson looked at his watch. ‘I have fifteen minutes to make the three o’clock ferry. I’ll be back in Belfast by five and I need to have a talk with McDevitt.’

  ‘You’re crazy, Ian, but I love you.’

  ‘I love you too and let’s try to keep it that way.’

  He finished his meal and paid at the bar. ‘You were right about the fish and chips. I don’t know whether I’ll be back, but I’ve enjoyed the trip.’

  The barman counted the money and saw that he’d been left a generous tip. ‘That’s a first for a peeler,’ he said, pocketing the change.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  DS Browne was leading the evening briefing and to his mind he was making a hash of it. He’d been called to the chief super’s office in the early afternoon and informed that since there was no senior officer available to take over the Murder Squad, the chief super would be handling the management herself. Which meant that he would be reporting directly to her for the foreseeable future. Some people might see that as an opportunity to shine, Browne saw it as an opportunity to screw up in a very major way. The atmosphere in the squad room was subdued. Browne stood in front of the whiteboard. No information had been added during the day. He looked at O’Neill. ‘Where are we on the CCTV from Traffic?’

  ‘They sent over a disk this evening and I’ve just started working on it. The system looks old and the images are a bit grainy, but I’ll go through it tomorrow.’

  Browne turned to Graham. ‘Anything on your side, Harry?’

  ‘I’ve rechecked all the calls we received after the appeal. Ninety per cent were from whack-jobs and the other ten per cent were genuine but turned out to be cases of mistaken identity. It’s just about closed itself down.’

  ‘Anyone got an idea as to how we can progress this investigation?’ Browne was becoming desperate.

  ‘The CCTV seems like the only avenue,’ Graham said. If the boss doesn’t return soon, he thought, we are in major trouble. It wasn’t the sergeant’s fault. He didn’t have the SIO experience.

  ‘Okay,’ Browne said. ‘We start again in the morning.’ He glanced across at Wilson’s office, which was locked and had crime scene tape across the doors and windows. How he wished to see that bulky body sitting behind the desk.

  Wilson arrived back in Belfast at five o’clock after an uneventful journey from Ballycastle. He was just entering the outskirts of the city when his mobile phone rang.

  ‘Boss, it’s Moira, I just heard.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Back in Belfast. I started in Vice last week. One of the sergeants there has been suspended.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you contact me immediately?’

  ‘Reintegration hasn’t been as smooth as I hoped. My family are threatening to disown me for coming back.’

  ‘It didn’t work out?’

  ‘If it had, I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I’m just coming into the city. Are you in Musgrave Street?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Although he felt like a drink, it was too early. He had set up a meeting with McDevitt for seven o’clock at his apartment and he couldn’t think of a better way to spend the next two hours than with Moira McElvaney. ‘Are you up for afternoon tea at the Europa.’

  ‘What the hell has happened to the Crown?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Europa in fifteen minutes.’

  Moira was sitting on a couch in the lobby when Wilson arrived. She looked good but a little drawn. Her red hair was tied back and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. He rushed across and hugged her. To the casual onlooker they would appear to be lovers. He eased her back into her seat.

  He looked round. ‘Brendan?’ He asked as he sat down beside her.

  ‘It didn’t work out.’ She looked away and round the lobby. ‘This isn’t exactly one of your hangouts, unless things have changed.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Brendan, he’s a nice guy. I’m keeping a low profile since this morning. I doubt that I’ll run into any coppers here, aside from you. Let’s have some coffee and you can tell me all about being back.’

  An hour later, they had updated each other on their lives. Moira hadn’t reacted as well as he had expected to the news that Reid was a fixture in his life. Otherwise it had been a nice cosy chat.

  ‘Can I help, Boss?’ Moira asked.

  ‘You didn’t ask me if I was guilty.’

  ‘I don’t have to. It’s not you, but that doesn’t mean that Jennings won’t fit you up for it.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘What’s it about? Why now?’

  ‘I think it’s about a murder case we’re handling.’ He saw the light in her eyes. She had turned out to be a naturally talented detective and would be a total waste in Vice. He told her about the body in the boot of the burned-out BMW and the Royce murder. He also told her about Reid and the reopening of the inquest on Payne. He could see the disappointment in her face that she was not part of the investigating team.

  ‘Jennings is involved somehow,’ she said.

  ‘He’s always involved somehow. The question is finding out where and how. I think Niccolò Machiavelli could have taken lessons from Royson Jennings.’
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br />   ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘I’m going to get you back on the squad. I don’t know how or when, but I’m going to keep at it until you’re back where you belong.’ He was thinking how much he’d love to have her in the squad right now. Browne was a good copper, but he wasn’t a patch on Moira.

  The wall clock in the lobby said six-thirty. ‘I’m meeting Jock McDevitt in half an hour. The guy who’s going to look into the allegation against me is arriving tomorrow morning, so I suppose I’ll be busy most of the day.’

  ‘You have my number from the call I made earlier today.’

  Wilson stood up. ‘It’s great to see you again. I was bloody annoyed with myself that I allowed you to escape. It’s not going to happen again.’ He hugged her and started for the door of the hotel.

  She watched him leave and felt that a part of her was missing. She knew that she had been right to return to Belfast. Now she needed her old job back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ‘Sorry,’ Jock McDevitt put a mock-up of the following day’s Chronicle front page on the coffee table in Wilson’s apartment. ‘Not my doing, the editor was adamant that it’s a major story.’

  Wilson hadn’t made the major headline, which had been reserved for the ongoing impasse between the political parties that was denying the people of Northern Ireland their legislative assembly. But neatly placed beneath the main story was the suspension of a senior police officer for alleged leaking of information to a terrorist organisation. Wilson wasn’t named, but he knew that in the tightknit community of Belfast his name was being broadcast in every pub and social gathering in the city. If Jennings succeeded, it wouldn’t be just the end of Wilson’s PSNI career, he would be branded a pariah amid demands for him to be tried as an accessory to murder.