Death to Pay (18 page)

No response. Mary was on planet Mary.

He’d called in sick but he would have to face work sooner rather than later. Sammy Rice and his gang would soon miss McIlroy. Maybe they’d already missed him. They would begin scouring Belfast. It would be better if the police found the body first. A call to the confidential police number was in order, but it would have to be made from an outside phone. And he would have to find some way to disguise his voice. Wilson would ask to hear the tape and might recognise him. It was strange thinking of ways of escaping from his boss. The crime seldom caught the villain but the cover-up almost always did. He was going to have to be super- careful. He stood up. ‘I think I’ll get you that cup of tea now, love,’ he said to the unresponsive figure at the other side of the room.

CHAPTER 36

They parked in virtually the same spot outside the Mortuary at the Royal Victoria as they had two days previously. Wilson got out of the car slowly then he, and Moira made their way into the mortuary building.

Stephanie Reid was already gowned and waiting. ‘I thought that you were in a hurry with the autopsy,’ she said as Wilson entered. ‘I have several clients to-day, and I was tempted to make a start on some of the others.’

‘You’re in a happy mood this morning,’ Wilson said accepting a surgical gown from Reid’s male assistant. He nodded at Moira, and she made her way to the observation room.

‘Does she go everywhere with you?’ Reid asked.

‘She happens to be my sergeant and a bloody good one she is too,’ he said pulling on his gown.

‘I suppose it’s no harm that she’s also attractive,’ the smile in Reid’s eyes was mischievous but was not accompanied by a smile on her lips.

‘Already spoken for,’ Wilson put on the green gown. ‘The lucky lad is a visiting professor at Queens.’ He glanced toward the observation room and saw that Moira was busy with her notebook. He realised that without the microphone she couldn’t here what was being said in the theatre.

‘From what I’ve heard that never bothered you before,’ Reid whipped a white sheet off the corpse and handed it to her assistant. The naked body of Nancy Morison was fully exposed.  Reid clicked the overhead mike. ‘The body is that of a female of approximate sixty-five years of age. ‘ She did a rough examination of the body noting the marks left by the Taser. Then she picked up a small circular saw and clicked it into life. She started work on what was left of the head.

One hour later, Reid picked up the shower attachment and sluiced the blood off the metal table. While she worked she spoke for the microphone. ‘Nancy Morison died from a blunt trauma to the head. Pieces of a concrete block were still present in the wound. At least three points on the body have marks consistent with an electric shock being administered. An examination of the skin around the mark would indicate that the shock would have been of such a level as to render the deceased powerless. Fluids have been gathered and will be sent for a toxicity screening. The contents of the stomach indicate that the deceased ingested a considerable amount of alcohol in the hours preceding her death. Death would not have been instantaneous. Time of death was between eight and ten in the evening. ‘ She clicked the microphone off.

‘Same killer?’ Wilson knew it was a rhetorical question.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Reid came and stood beside him. She glanced up to ensure that the microphone was off. ‘I saw the article on your partner in the newspaper.’

Wilson didn’t respond.

‘She seemed very professional, very antiseptic. Is she good in bed?’

Wilson made a grimace.

‘Gentleman to the end. I’m told that I’m very good in bed, very professional but certainly not very antiseptic. You know that we’re going to screw each other.’

‘It’s not going to happen,’ Wilson said staring into her blue eyes. His penis was telling him he was a liar. He was trying to ignore its opinion.

‘I’m not looking for a relationship. I won’t interfere with your little miss antiseptic and the future genius she’s about to produce. I just want to screw.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find someone who feels the same.’

‘I know that you feel the same, but you’re trying to deny it. Why bother? What about that drink to-night?’

‘No thanks,’ he looked toward the observation room and saw Moira packing up her stuff. She glanced into the theatre, and they locked eyes before she exited.

Reid smiled. ‘Looking to your attractive sergeant to save you from the big bad lady who wants to screw your brains out?’

Moira opened the door and walked towards them. ‘Got it down, Boss,’ she said holding up the notebook.

‘We done here?’ Wilson asked Reid.

‘The autopsy’s finished. Sorry I can’t make it for that drink.’

Sneaky bitch, Wilson thought. The idea was now planted with Moira that he had asked Reid for a drink.

‘Just as well,’ Wilson said making for the door.

‘I’m almost afraid to ask but what that was all about?’ Moira said as they walked to the car.

‘Nothing,’ Wilson said.

‘Never kid a kidder. I told you that woman is a maneater and she’s decided that she’d like to take a few bites out of you. I couldn’t hear the words, but I was watching the body language. Are you sure there isn’t something you’d like to tell me?’

‘I’m sure. I think that Brendan is Americanizing you. Either that or you’re watching too much daytime television. We’ve got some bugger out there who is killing former members of the Shankill Branch of the women’s UVF. We know that there were at least eight members in the group. Two of them died naturally, and two have been murdered in the past few days. I think it’s time we got our skates on and found the missing four. Any one of them could be the next target.’

Moira pressed the alarm release button on the car key. She really respected Wilson, but he was a man and men sometimes followed their small friend instead of their brains. Wilson had already proved that he wasn’t the exception to the rule. Maybe she would have to have a word with Professor Stephanie Reid before too long.

CHAPTER 37

Jimmy McGreary was already organised with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Wilson had no idea where the biscuits had come from but assumed the Desk Sergeant had a secret stash that could be produced for special visitors. The godfather who ran the drugs, prostitution and protection rackets in Central Belfast was certainly a special visitor. McGreary was involved in Loyalist paramilitary activity virtually all his life. He had marched on his first twelfth of July at the age of three and had done his first stretch for petrol bombing a Catholic family out of their home at twelve. McGreary had been a footballer in his youth and had played for Linfield, the Protestant team in Belfast. In those days, he was known as ‘Slim Jim’. The man that sat before Wilson in the soft interview room weighed in at one hundred and forty kilos, or twice the weight at which he had played football. Throughout the ‘Troubles’, he had climbed the paramilitary ladder and had played his part in sectarian murders and intimidation. Nothing had ever been proven against him, but the British Government considered him a sufficient threat to intern him in Long Kesh along with other suspected terrorists. When he exited detention after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, he found that he was at the head of his local paramilitary group. Peace had brought with it a dividend for McGreary in that he could concentrate his efforts on his criminal activities.

‘Mr Wilson,’ McGreary said through crunching biscuits. ‘I’m right fond of this new kind of policing.’ He looked around at the soft furnishings. ‘It’s no like the peelers of old. It’s like being invited to tea at the Europa. Big improvement, big improvement.’

‘I didn’t realise it had been so long since we’d had a chat on the premises,’ Wilson said taking a seat directly across from McGreary.

McGreary slurped noisily at his cup of tea. ‘My lawyer wanted to come along, but sure I told him Mr Wilson only wants to have a wee talk,’ he raised his eyebrows.

‘That’s pretty much it,’ Wilson said. ‘Just a friendly chat, for the moment.’

McGreary smiled but made no comment.

Wilson looked at ‘Slim Jim’ McGreary. With his rotund stomach and fat florid face, he could have been used as the poster boy for Santa Claus. He had grown a beard since Wilson had last seen him and added a few pounds as well. He may have looked like a genial character from a Dickens novel, but it would be a huge mistake to expect even a drop of the milk of human kindness from Jimmy McGreary. He had been ruthless on the football field, and he carried that ruthlessness into his criminal activities. ‘You know that I’m investigating the deaths of Lizzie Rice and now Nancy Morison?’

‘Aye, it’s a rum business,’ McGreary nodded and slurped his tea.

‘We’ve pretty much discounted the sectarian angle, and we’re wondering whether Lizzie’s death had anything to do with Sammy.’

‘Lizzie was a wild wee bitch,’ McGreary laughed. ‘We used to say that she give it away with Smarties. I often wondered whose Sammy is. He might even be my auld fella’s.  I know he had more than one go at Lizzie. There’re lots of people who have something against Lizzie but the other wee bitch is a bit of a mystery. I’ve never even heard of her.’

‘What about somebody moving against Sammy?’ Wilson asked.

‘Bollox,’ McGreary pushed his empty teacup away. The plate of biscuits was already devoured.  ‘Sammy’s a vicious wee tyke. He’s also fairly well connected if you know what I mean.’ McGreary rubbed the side of his nose with his right index finger. ‘Big in the Lodges is our Willis. He’s nobody’s fool. If someone is out to mess with him, they’d better be prepared. Sammy doesn’t take prisoners. So you could say that Sammy and me are bound to remain friends.’

‘So nobody in the ‘life’ was involved in Lizzie’s death?’ Wilson asked.

‘What ‘life’ are ye talkin’ about, Mr Wilson,’ McGreary sat forward with his ample stomach resting on his knees. ‘I’m a small businessman who runs a couple of snooker halls and pubs. I’m not in any ‘life’. You peelers have your heads up your arses about me. Lizzie Rice is yesterday’s news. Nobody gave a shit about her when she was alive and nobody much cares now that she’s dead. Maybe dying the way she did gives Sammy and you some ideas but if someone wanted to give Sammy a message, they’d go closer to home.’

‘Lizzie is close to home.’

McGreary smiled. ‘Aye, Sammy will cry a few crocodile tears at the funeral, but he hasn’t been involved with Lizzie for years. Sammy only cares about Sammy, and if I wanted to strike at him, I’d go for his business. That’s the thing that’s closest to Sammy’s heart. If he has one.’ McGreary pushed hard on the two side of the chair to lever himself into a standing position. ‘Now it’s been pleasant having a cuppa with you, but I’ve some business issues to attend to. I’d be grateful if you’re finished with me.’ He stood up and waddled towards the door.

‘Waste of bloody time,’ Wilson said as soon as he returned to the squad room.

Moira looked up from a pile of files. ‘No sign of a Loyalist feud then?’ she asked.

‘Loyalist feuds tend to leave a lot of male bodies strewn around. I’ve seen a few of them so far, and they manage to be an exclusively male preserve. McGreary said that he’d never heard of Nancy Morison, and I believe him. I’m becoming more convinced that her death might be linked to membership of that group of women in the photo.  We can’t check that theory until we talk to one of them. Peter really needs to locate one of the four missing women.’ Wilson walked over to Harry Graham’s desk. CCTV footage of cars and pedestrians was playing on his computer screen. Graham was busy watching grey time elapsed stills of people walking along a road. ‘Anything?’

Graham shook his head. He held up five DVD boxes. ‘Early days.’

‘No sign of Ronald?’

Again a shake of Graham’s head.

Wilson went into his office. He sat down at his computer and scanned his e-mails. None had the red tags that denoted urgent. He opened a scanned copy of the preliminary forensics report on the Morison murder site. The result of the cast taken of the tyre tracks was not included. There were prints on the concrete block, but it had been handled by the bricklayers on the site and by the workers in the builder’s providers yard and also possibly where it had been manufactured. There was a cost estimate for establishing a series of elimination prints with an assessment of the utility of such an exercise. There was a request for budget approval that required approval by an officer higher than his pay grade and stood a snowball’s chance in hell of being agreed. He often wondered why there was never any talk of budgets in television series concerning crime scene investigation. He opened up his word processor and typed a short report of his interview with McGreary. He concluded that there was virtually no possibility that McGreary was involved in the deaths of Lizzie Rice and Nancy Morison. He sent the report by e-mail to Spence and Jennings with a copy to Harry Graham for inclusion in the murder book. Having completed his priority work, he turned to his e-mails. It was the equivalent of diving into a barrel of shit.

CHAPTER 38

Ronald McIver had spent the morning cleaning and re-cleaning his gun until he was sure that a cursory examination alone would not be enough to show that it had been fired recently. Across the room, his wife watched him at his work without showing a flicker of life.  When he had finished reassembling the Glock, he loaded it and noticed for the first time his wife’s eyes widening. She thinks I’m going to shoot her; he thought. Or maybe she thinks that I’m going to shoot myself and leave her to fend for herself. Neither course of action had come into his mind as he was cleaning the gun but both had their attractions. Mary was compos mentis for less and less time and withdrawn for more and more of the time. Her mother had suffered the same disease, and he had watched her disintegrate when she was put into a care home. He remembered one particular occasion when he would gladly have shot the old woman to put her out of her misery. Despite what those who speak of the sanctity of life may think, there is no dignity in a life of incontinence, incoherence and mindlessness. He looked across at his wife and wondered how she would fare if his crime was discovered, and he was put into prison. He wondered how he would fare if he was put into prison. His former Superintendent, Joe Worthington, took the easy way out by putting the Ruger into his mouth and blowing the top of his head off. He looked down at the Glock. He didn’t think that he was capable of taking his own life. At this time yesterday, he hadn’t thought that he could take another persons life, but he had done so. It was strange what we’re capable of when put to the test, he thought. He wasn’t thinking about time when he was cleaning the gun, but he would soon have to report the dead body in the deserted school. There was little or no chance of the body being found and although McIlroy was a mindless thug, it was unfair to leave his body undiscovered and his loved ones worried about him. That was if such a man has any loved ones. He might be a murderer, but he wasn’t a monster. McIlroy needed to be found. He wondered where he might find a public telephone. They were few and far between these days. And quite a few of them were in the range of CCTV cameras. He would have to buy a new SIM card, make the call and then throw the card away. There would be no way they could trace it to his mobile phone. He rubbed his temples. There were so many things that he had to think of in order not to be caught. Maybe he should throw himself on Wilson’s mercy. There would be a lot of suspects for McIlroy’s murder. The case could very easily remain unsolved. All he needed was his boss’ help in the cover up. He could make a case about having to look after Mary. But that wasn’t going to happen. Wilson was a straight shooter. The best plan was to keep covering up. After all, he would be central to the investigation. He would know where it was going, and he would be able to take appropriate steps to keep himself out of the frame.  He put the Glock back in the holster. For a second, he thought that he could see a look of relief in his wife’s eyes. He put the gun on top of the bookcase in the living room. He put on his jacket and kissed his wife good-bye. ‘I’m just going to the corner shop,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I’ll be back soon. I’ll get some cakes, and we can have a real afternoon tea.’ His wife’s lips were limp to his kiss, and she continued to stare into space.