Death to Pay (24 page)

‘Ian,’ she made directly for him with her hand outstretched. ‘It’s great that you’re here. Would you please come with me to one of the family rooms.’

The ‘family room’ didn’t sound good. ‘Is she OK,’ Wilson said grabbing the consultant’s hand.

‘I really need to speak to you in private,’ she said quickly. She took him by the arm and led him back along the corridor. The gynaecologist pushed open a door, and they entered a room with a comfortable couch and a coffee table. There were magazines and newspapers strewn across the coffee table.

‘I’m sorry, Ian,’ the gynaecologist said as soon as she closed the door. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid Kate has had a miscarriage. She’s lost the baby.’

‘What!’ Wilson shouted. ‘She was fine this morning.’

‘Ian, please sit,’ she guided him to the couch. ‘This is not unusual. Fifty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Luckily, most of them occur before the woman realises that she’s pregnant. Fifteen percent of recognised pregnancies end in miscarriage.’

Wilson was too stunned to speak. He realised that the gynaecologist was holding his hand.

‘The causes of miscarriage are not well understood,’ she continued. ‘Most miscarriages that occur in the first trimester are caused by chromosomal abnormalities in the baby. Chromosomes are tiny structures inside the cells of the body that carry many genes. Genes determine all of a person's physical attributes, such as sex, hair and eye color, and blood type. Most chromosomal problems occur by chance and are not related to the mother's or father's health. There’s no reason why Kate and you won’t have a successful pregnancy in the future.’

‘How’s Kate?’ Wilson asked.

‘As you can imagine, she’s distraught. Like most women, she blames herself, but nothing could be further from the truth. The problem was with the embryo. The miscarriage was a way of clearing up that problem.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘Yes but remember there is no blame here, and you are a strong and sympathetic man. You’re going to need those traits in the coming days. The pain of losing the baby will pass.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go.’

They stopped outside a door to a private room. ‘Kate’s physically fine. I want her to stay overnight. We have to do a short surgical procedure called dilation and curettage to remove tissue from the uterus. I’ve told her she has to take it easy for a while.’ She pushed opened the door and ushered Wilson in.

Kate was lying in a hospital bed with her head away from the door. Wilson walked to the bed and sat. He put his arm around her and hugged her. She immediately began to sob uncontrollably. He held her tighter. ‘It’s all right,’ he said kissing her on the neck. ‘It’s part of life.’ He tried to turn her towards him, but she resisted.

‘I lost our baby,’ she said haltingly through the sobs.

‘It had nothing to do with you,’ he said. ‘It was just nature’s way of telling us that there was something not quite right.’

She turned towards him. Her face was paler than he had ever seen it, and her eyes had dark circles under them from crying. Her blond hair was wet and lank on her head. ‘That’s what you say now. But tomorrow when you realise that there’s no more baby, you’ll sing a different tune. You told me so. You said I was working too hard. Maybe you were right.’ She buried her head in the pillow.

He lifted her head up and held it in his large hands. ‘I love you. The gynecologist said there’s no reason we can’t have a successful pregnancy. We’ll get over this together.’

‘I’ll never get over this,’ she said through sobs. ‘And neither will you. Every time you look at me you’ll remember that I’m the one that lost your child.’ She pushed her head into his breast.

‘Don’t be silly. We’re not unique and there are lots worse things that could have happened.’

‘Promise me that you’ll never blame me,’ she said looking up at him.

‘I’ll never blame you,’ he said and kissed her forehead. The phrase never say never came to mind.

She looked into his eyes. ‘And promise me that nothing will change between us.’

‘Nothing will change between us,’ he said.

She slumped back on the bed.

The door opened, and the gynaecologist entered with a nurse. ‘We need Kate for a few minutes, Ian,’ the gynaecologist said. ‘She won’t be receiving visitors for a while, but you can come back this evening.’

Wilson lifted Kate’s head and kissed her on lips that seemed lifeless. ‘I love you,’ he said before placing her head gently on the pillow. ‘See you this evening.’

CHAPTER 49

The small estate of Archvale lies in the townland of Newtonabbey in the North of Belfast. Peter Davidson arrived in the labyrinthine housing estate after a short twenty-minute drive from central Belfast. The estate consisted of interlocking streets all containing similar small bungalows. This was the opposite of the rabbit warren of Victorian houses constituting both the Catholic and Protestant areas of West Belfast. Each of the bungalows was detached, and most had a small garden in front. Others had eschewed the garden and created an off-road parking space. Davidson took the precaution of printing out a map from his office computer, and he piloted his car to a spot directly outside the house he was seeking.  Without the map and street numbers, it would be impossible to identify a particular house.  The residence he was looking for resembled every other house in the street except that Davidson noticed it was a little more rundown than its neighbours. He parked his car and made his way up the short driveway.

‘Yes,’ the woman who opened the door to Davidson was in her sixties with short curly grey hair and a pleasant face. Her blue eyes stared at him across the chain holding the front door at an angle. She was dressed in a housecoat over a pair of jogging pants, and a heavy-knit sweater.

‘Detective Constable Peter Davidson,’ he held his warrant card extended. ‘I called you yesterday.’

The woman made a show of examining the card before unlatching the chain. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘You can’t be too cautious. Although it’s pretty safe around here with so many people on the streets and all, I’m careful who I let in.’

‘Quite right too,’ Davidson said as he crossed the threshold.

As soon as he was in, she closed the door and slipped the chain back on. ‘I’m Joan Boyle, by the way,’ she said leading him into the living room.

‘I’m pleased to meet you Mrs Boyle,’ Davidson sat in the chair that Boyle indicated. The living room was neat and tidy but in need of redecoration. The carpet covering the floor was threadbare and a couch and two easy chairs that had seen better days dominated the small room. A petite coffee table was placed directly in front of the couch and a 32inch flat-screen TV sat in one corner.

Joan Boyle sat on the couch facing Davidson’s chair. ‘I have no idea what the police want with me, don’t you know. I’ve been fretting all night thinking that I might have done something wrong.’

‘There’s no need to worry I’m part of the Murder Squad, and we’ve been looking into a series of crimes that I’d like to talk to you about.’

‘Oh my God,’ she brought her hands up to her cheeks. ‘What would I know about murders? I hardly ever leave this little house.’ She seemed to be thinking of something. ‘You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, I suppose.’

‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Davidson smiled in order to reassure Boyle that she had nothing to worry about. As soon as she left the room he stood up and examined the photographs that stood on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. There were photographs of Joan Boyle and a man who could have been her husband taken in Malvern Street. A small boy stood between them. There was a series of photographs of a young man, one in Army dress uniform and others drinking with friends. The door opened behind him, and he quickly retook his seat.

‘I hope you like banana bread,’ Boyle said moving to the coffee table and setting down a tray holding a teapot, two cups, a milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate holding two pieces of cake. She poured two cups of tea. ‘I’ll let you do the milk and sugar yourself.’ She sat and watched him as he put two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk into his tea. ‘Now that we’re settled, how can I help you?’

Davidson sipped his tea. ‘You’re originally from the Shankill?’

‘Aye, born and bred,’ she put sugar and milk into her own tea and sipped.

‘You knew Lizzie Rice?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Faith and everybody in the Shankill knew Lizzie. It was terrible what happened to the poor woman.’ She looked up sharply as though something had suddenly dawned on her. ‘You’re investigating the murder of Lizzie and that unfortunate Morison woman.’

‘I’m one of the team investigating those murders.’

‘Who could have done such a terrible thing?’

‘Don’t worry we’ll find them.’ he produced the photograph of the women’s UVF group. ‘Do you recognize this photograph?’ he asked.

She took the photograph from his hands, took a pair of glasses from her housecoat and put them on and then examined the photo. ‘I don’t think that I remember this.’

‘Look at the banner. It’s says ‘Shankill Women’s UVF Branch’. That’s you, third from the left.’

She smiled. ‘Aye, I was a bonnie lass. All the boys were after me.’

‘Can you think of any reason from those days why someone would want to kill Lizzie and Nancy Morison?’

She though for a moment and then looked down to the left. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Lizzie and Nancy. Sure we were only supporting our men back then. We made tea and sandwiches and things like that.’

And Molotov cocktails for burning Catholics out of their homes, Davidson thought. ‘The feedback we get from the people we talked to in the Shankill is that your group was a little more active than that.’

‘Then you’ve been told lies.’

‘You didn’t go to Lizzie’s funeral?’

‘I haven’t been back to the Shankill in years. We moved out here more than ten years ago. My husband, God rest him, won a couple of pounds, and we managed to buy this wee place.’

‘Do you remember any of the women in the photograph?’

‘It was years ago. I’ve lost contact with everyone.’

‘You’ve read about Lizzie and Nancy’s murder. Both of their heads were crushed in. Do you have any idea why someone should kill them like that?’

Joan Boyle’s face went white and her hands shook. The photograph dropped from her hand and fell on the floor.

Davidson bent to pick it up. He put it on the coffee table facing Boyle.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have a bit of Parkinson’s, and you’re beginning to upset me.’

‘There’re eight women in that photograph. Two of them have died naturally, and two have been murdered. We think that the reason those two women were murdered has something to do with this group of women. We think that the four women still alive are in danger. It’s vitally important you tell me anything you might know that will help us find the person that killed Lizzie and Nancy.’

Boyle removed her glasses and rubbed her hand through her hair.  Then she looked left again. ‘I know nothing. Now I’d be grateful if you’d leave me alone.  I’m an old woman, and you’ve upset me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Davidson said standing up. ‘Whoever killed Lizzie and Nancy is still out there. They may be finished, but we don’t think so. If you remember anything, I suggest that you call me immediately.’ He took a business card from his pocket and left it on the coffee table at the same time he lifted the photograph and put it in his pocket. ‘My mobile number is on the card so you can reach me day and night.’ He started toward the door of the living room. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

She followed him out of the living room and opened the door for him. ‘I’ll call if I remember anything,’ she said before closing the door.

Davidson walked down the short drive and stood beside his car at the pavement. He looked back at the house in time to see the curtain flutter from the window of the front room. Joan Boyle had a secret all right. It might just be the secret that’s getting her old friends killed, but she wasn’t about to give it up yet. That meant that the secret was deep and dark. He wondered just how deep and dark it might be.

She watched the car pull away from the pavement. She hated the Peelers. At one time, they were all for the Loyalists, but now they were licking up to the Taigs. An independent police force, my arse. She moved to a small desk in the corner and opened the top drawer. She took out the same photograph that Davidson had shown her. Those were the days. They ruled Belfast with Lizzie as their leader. Now the Taigs were part of the Government. She spat out of the corner of her mouth. If only they hadn’t killed the bitch. That was the beginning of the end. The bitch deserved to die, but it pissed off the top brass in the organization. There was no way she was going to inform to the Peelers on her comrades. Even if it cost her life.

CHAPTER 50

Wilson’s mind was in turmoil when he reached the station. He made his way to his office and closed the door. Moira, Ronald and Harry were in the squad room but the look on his face was enough for them to give him a wide berth. His and Kate’s child was dead. That wasn’t quite true. Their child had just never existed. He was neither a philosopher nor a doctor, so he wasn’t about to argue with himself about whether the child comes into being at the moment of conception or at the moment of birth. The reality was simple. There would be no child. Well not this time anyway. Time would heal the hurt. Kate must be feeling absolutely dreadful. This morning when she woke she had life growing in her womb. This evening all traces of that life would have been scraped and washed away. He held his head in his hands. He had told Kate that nothing would change but deep inside, he knew that things would never be the same again.

‘Boss,’ Moira had opened the door and stood in the gap.

He looked up and could see from her face that she was seeking some explanation for his mood. ‘Kate lost the baby,’ he said. ‘A miscarriage, I’d be grateful if it didn’t go any further.’

‘Sorry, Boss,’ she came inside and closed the door behind her. ‘Poor Kate, she must be devastated, how is she?’