Dead Rat

by Derek Fee

  DS Kane entered the interview room carrying a briefcase in one hand and balancing a cardboard tray containing three cups in the other. She dropped her briefcase on the floor and laid the tray down gently on the table. ‘I sent out for these, take my word for it, the coffee in the cafeteria here is undrinkable.’ She put her hand in her jacket pocket and produced mini capsules of milk and sachets of sugar, which she scattered on the table beside the tray.

  ‘Siobhan O’Neill is up first.’ Russell lifted up a file. ‘A very interesting CV.’

  ‘Not your run-of-the-mill copper.’ Kane took one of the cups off the tray and dumped a sachet of sugar into it. ‘People with those kind of computer skills can earn a fortune in the private sector.’

  ‘Then what the hell is she doing in the police?’ Russell took one of the coffees, removed the lid and sipped. It almost scalded her lips.

  ‘Apparently it has something to do with her mother, Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Let’s have her in then,’ Russell said.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve been interviewed by the Complaints?’ Russell asked when they were seated and the preliminaries had been observed. It was obvious that the young woman was nervous. She’d turned down the offer of the third coffee. Russell decided that she’d snare it later. She hadn’t seen her bed until two o’clock in the morning

  O’Neill coughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what you do on the team?’

  O’Neill described the various tasks she performed for the squad.

  ‘So, you’re the brains of the outfit?’

  O’Neill laughed. ‘I wish, I’m more the general factotum.’

  ‘You never go out on an investigation?’

  ‘Not so far. I only joined the squad recently. I think that they’re breaking me in gently.’

  ‘Did you know Noel Armstrong?’ Russell had been clued in on the names issue in Northern Ireland. O’Neill was almost exclusively a Catholic name.

  ‘Only to vote for.’

  ‘Do you have any connections with the IRA?’

  ‘No, I’m not from a politically active family. My father died from cancer when my sister and I were young. Until recently I’ve been taking care of my mother at home. She’s just moved into a care home.’

  ‘I suppose that would have been checked before you joined the PSNI?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I suppose so.’

  ‘What was your role on the Armstrong investigation?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I maintained the murder book, collated all the interview reports and took care of the whiteboard.’

  Russell flicked through the murder book, it was exemplary. She turned to the photograph of the whiteboard at the end of the book. ‘Was it you who wrote the word ‘tout’ on the board?’

  ‘No. I added the information on the victim as it was developed. The minister was presented as a suspect and I assume the boss or someone else wrote ‘tout’.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Russell said and nodded at Kane who closed the interview and knocked off the tape recorder. ‘Off the record, do you think DS Wilson would leak information to the IRA?’

  O’Neill was breathing a sigh of relief internally. ‘If he did, it would go against everything that he believes in. He’s one of the most ethical people I’ve ever met.’

  ‘On a more personal note, with your level of computer skills, why did you join the police?’

  ‘I wanted to contribute to creating a better society. Making money isn’t what I’m about. All the money in the world can’t make my mother better.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Harry Graham was on his hands and knees testing the floorboards of the homeless shelter on the Malone Road. He had already spent two hours searching every nook and cranny for the mysterious evidence that Wilson felt had to be present. It really was way beyond looking for a needle in a haystack, at least there you knew there was actually a needle. Sometimes Wilson’s intuition led to a mountain of effort for zero result. There were no loose floorboards in the dormitory and the locker had no secret compartments. He had found no papers, no photographs, no USBs, in effect nothing. Graham needed to get a move on. He had never heard of the Pareto Principle but as a twenty-year veteran of the force, he knew instinctively that eighty per cent of what they did led nowhere and the other twenty per cent managed to trap the criminal. As he tested the floorboards close to the bed Royce had been allotted, he had already fixed in his mind that he was involved in an eighty per cent activity.

  It was almost time for his interview with DS Russell. He didn’t like Professional Services or whatever they called it in Scotland. No copper likes to have his professionalism questioned. But it would be naïve to think that there weren’t some bad apples in the force. He was aware that his old friend Davidson had been lucky to hold onto his job after an internal investigation. And the boss had come close once or twice. This time the allegation against Wilson was a serious one. If it succeeded, it might mean jail time and there were a lot of people at HQ who would be dancing a jig if that happened. There was no point continuing, the shelter didn’t hold the missing evidence. Another one of Wilson’s intuitions bites the dust. Graham left the shelter and strode to his car. He took his phone out of his pocket; it was time to give Wilson the bad news.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Davidson was in the lobby of the Merchant Hotel in Skipper Street. He looked up at the magnificent chandelier above his head and then at the marble floor beneath his feet and wondered who the hell had the money to pay for a stay in a place like this. Maybe when Irene got her half-a-million-pound cheque they might spend a night in this pleasure dome. He walked over to the concierge’s desk and waited behind a couple enquiring about restaurants for lunch. When they were finished, he stepped forward and produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Davidson, I’d like to speak to whoever manages the concierge desk.’

  The young lady manning the desk disappeared through a door behind her and returned some minutes later with a thin young man dressed in a dark suit.

  ‘May I see your warrant card please?’ The accent was French.

  Davidson presented the card again.

  ‘My name is Jacques Micheux, and I am the deputy manager in charge of the concierge desk. Do you mind if we speak in my office?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Davidson said, wondering if every employee in top hotels had to speak with a French accent.

  Micheux beckoned Davidson to follow him into the office behind the desk and closed the door. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘We’re making an enquiry about a telephone that was purchased by one of your staff,’ Davidson said. ‘The mobile was purchased at the O2 shop in Victoria Square on March 21st, 2016.’

  ‘And you know it was a member of our staff how?’

  ‘Because the buyer said that he was buying the phone for a client of the hotel. O2 detail all purchases.’ Davidson showed him a copy of the bill signed by the member of staff.

  Micheux walked to a cupboard and pulled out a ledger marked ‘2016’. He flicked through to the date in question and he ran his finger along the entries. ‘Ah! There it is.’ He turned the book round and pointed at the entry.

  ‘May I have a copy of that page?’ Davidson said.

  ‘It is most unusual.’

  ‘It’s in connection with a murder enquiry. It would be awkward for the hotel if we had to obtain a warrant.’

  Micheux let out a deep sigh and moved to a copying machine in the corner of his room. He copied the page and handed Davidson the A4 sheet.

  Davidson checked the sheet before folding it and putting it in his jacket. ‘Thank you.’ He opened the door and left. Outside he went immediately to the hotel lobby, took out his mobile phone and called Wilson. ‘Boss, I’m at the Merchant Hotel following up on the phone found at Belfast International. You’ll never guess who purchased it.’

  As soon as Davidson left the lobby, DC Leslie stood up from one of the chairs and made his way to the conc
ierge desk. He produced his warrant card and the girl went into the office at the rear.

  Micheux exited the office red-faced. It was raining policemen today.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Wilson’s mind lurched when he heard Davidson’s latest discovery. Many people put their head in the lion’s mouth as part of a circus act, but they had assured themselves beforehand that the lion was well fed. He had just woken up to the fact that his head was firmly in place in the lion’s mouth, and it was a lion that was always hungry. When he needed sleep most it just wouldn’t come. He finally slept but woke two hours later completely awake. He forced himself to stay in bed and slept fitfully for the rest of the night. When he finally clambered out of bed at seven o’clock, he was more tired than that when he’d lain down. Although he didn’t want to, he completed his run and ran the shower as hot as he could bear.

  Reid was in the kitchen fixing scrambled eggs when he entered. ‘I’ve left a prescription on the table for a mild sleeping pill,’ she said when he sat down at the breakfast bar. ‘You look like you-know-what warmed up.’

  ‘Ladies don’t speak like that.’

  She put a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of him. ‘I never claimed to be a lady.’ She put her arms round his neck and looked into his face. ‘I know you’re worried. It’s not like you. The one thing that always impressed me is your coolness under pressure.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m only trying to solve a couple of very complicated murders that probably involve members of the organisation I work for.’ He shot his head forward and kissed her. ‘As long as you stick by me I’m going to work my way out of this mess.’

  She moved away without speaking and brought her plate to the table. ‘Listen to your doctor and take the pills, a good night’s sleep is the basis of health. What’s your plan for the day?’

  ‘I thought I’d lie around for the morning watching daytime television and then there’s a School’s Cup game at Kingspan this afternoon, all in all a busy day ahead. What about you?’

  ‘Same old same old. What’s with the School’s Cup? Revisiting old glories?’

  ‘Bored.’

  The phone rang and Wilson picked it up.

  ‘Seen the Chronicle yet,’ McDevitt said.

  ‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ Wilson said.

  ‘The editor put the Payne story on the front page. I spiced it up a bit but not enough to annoy you. If this doesn’t flush the killer out, nothing will. Any idea when the new inquest will be held?’

  Wilson put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Did your coroner friend say when he would reopen the inquest?’

  ‘As soon as he has a slot, could be in days or weeks.’

  He relayed the information to McDevitt.

  ‘My article should put a little pressure on him. Gotta fly, crime never rests in this city.’

  If you only knew, Wilson thought.

  Reid was already putting on her coat and getting ready to leave.

  ‘No point in asking you to join me for a morning of daytime television.’

  She turned at the door and blew him a kiss. ‘Enjoy.’

  He cleaned up the breakfast dishes and made himself a second cup of coffee. Then he took a pad of paper and a pen and sat at the dining table. Royce was the key. He had hidden his disappointment from Graham concerning the search of the homeless shelter. He was certain that Royce didn’t come back to Belfast empty-handed. If he was going to put things right, he would have had something concrete. He started to sketch out his ideas on the pad. He had a feeling that daytime TV was going to be shelved.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  DCI George Pratley was apoplectic. A copy of the Chronicle lay on the desk in front of him with McDevitt’s story on the reopening of the Payne inquest facing up. He was pacing up and down behind his desk trying to regain control of his thoughts. His mind was racing. Wallace was standing in the centre of the office in stunned silence. Pratley’s stomach had collapsed when he’d read the story and he’d had to make an urgent trip to the toilet.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘That bastard Wilson is what’s going on,’ Pratley said. ‘Read the bloody story. Somehow or other he found out that Payne was the one who snitched on us. He’s had the post-mortem reassessed and the coroner has agreed to reopen the inquest. This time they’re going to get it right. I’ll bet that Wilson has an idea about what really happened in Ballyward. You don’t have to be a genius to know where the investigation is going to go.’

  ‘Then he has the link between Payne and Royce?’

  ‘Maybe, but whatever he has we’re in trouble.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we turn this situation over to Best and his crew? We’re only the small fry in this operation, but if we go down, so do they.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. If we go down, we’ll be the only ones who do. If we run to Best with this, he’s going to cut us off like a malignant growth.’

  ‘Then what the hell are we going to do?’

  ‘I think it’s a little late to sign a resignation letter and fade away into the sunset. We’re in this mire up to our necks.’

  ‘What about Jennings? He knew what we were up to.’

  ‘Are you joking? If we go to Jennings with this we’ll be dead by nightfall. Our only hope is that the coroner won’t want to admit that he screwed up last time and so continues to maintain a verdict of accidental death.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get a visa for Belize. When the shit leaves the fan on this one, you are I are going to be covered in it.’

  ‘We should take Wilson out, or put a bomb in the Murder Squad room and take them all out. We could blame it on the IRA.’

  Pratley looked at Wallace and shook his head. ‘Remind me never to play poker with you. You really know how to up the ante. Get the fuck out and let me think.’

  Pratley picked up the Chronicle. The Royce story was relegated to page five. He reread the story on page one. The state pathologist had asked to reopen the inquest, but he knew Wilson was behind it. He didn’t want to imagine what was happening in the office at the rear of Best’s club. The ganglord might be angry enough to stick his Rottweiler on them. This was all on that fucker Royce. Why couldn’t he have just stayed on his island and continued praying to his God? Oh no, the bastard had to get pangs of conscience about the drugs, and the money, and Payne’s untimely death. Some people could never leave well enough alone. What did the fool think he could accomplish? A disgraced junkie ex-copper, who the hell was going to listen to him? But he’d mentioned having evidence and that’s what had sealed his fate. It was all going to shit in a basket.

  Royson Jennings was shaken enough to cancel his first two appointments. The article in the Chronicle had come out of the blue. When the coroner changed the verdict from accidental death to unlawful killing, as he was sure he would, it would be the beginning of the end for Pratley and Wallace. Wilson had used his bitch of a partner to resurrect Payne. Risen from the grave, Payne’s story would put an end to their comfortable arrangement with Best. And there was nothing he could do about it. He slammed his fist on the table. He was the deputy chief constable of the PSNI and he could not get rid of this bloody nuisance. Every time he tried to skewer the bastard, Wilson managed to slip out of the net. He’d spoken to Russell the previous evening and, although she didn’t come right out and say it, it was apparent that she had found no evidence of a leak from the PSNI. She was going to turn in her report today and Wilson would be picking up his warrant card and weapon by early evening. Perhaps the only way to get rid of Wilson was to kill him. He was certain he wouldn’t be the only one having that thought today.

  Peter Davidson was having a lie-in, which he felt he was entitled to. He had done as fine a bit of detective work as he’d seen in his thirty years on the job. He’d developed the line of the investigation from the call to the hospice and he’d identified the two parties
who’d shared the line when the Carlisle job was done. He’d be retired soon and it would be good to have a result under his belt before he said his final farewells. He sat up in bed when Irene entered carrying a tray.

  ‘Breakfast,’ she declared, waiting for him to get into a comfortable sitting position. She placed the tray on his lap and climbed into bed beside him. ‘You are a clever boy.’ She kissed him on the cheek and removed a cup of tea and a piece of toast from the tray.

  Davidson smiled. It felt great to be in Irene’s good books. He’d informed her the previous evening that they were almost at the end of the road on the investigation and that they would soon be crossing the ‘t’s and dotting the ‘i’s. He didn’t give her any details of the who and the wherefore, and quite honestly Irene didn’t give a damn about anything other than proving the crime in order to collect the insurance money. She was not one who wished to be burdened with insignificant details like who had murdered her husband and why. She had been so excited that they were almost there that she immediately decided to celebrate and booked them dinner at the Plough Inn. A fine meal and a classic bottle of red was followed by as fine a romp as Davidson had enjoyed. It had been a perfect night and today there was nothing on the schedule except rest and recuperation.

  Yesterday, he’d been the last of the team to be interviewed by Lady Macbeth, as he’d termed DS Russell. He’d had extensive experience of being interviewed by Professional Services and he gave her his version of the facts, which backed up Wilson one hundred per cent. Jennings was obviously getting desperate. There were a lot of coppers in the PSNI who’d sell their grandmothers for a bit of filthy lucre, but Ian Wilson wasn’t one of them. He finished his tea and toast and set the tray on the ground before turning towards Irene. He put his hand out and felt her soft full breast. Please don’t dump me when you get the money, he thought.