Death to Pay (7 page)

‘It’ll be alright, dearie,’ the woman with the yellow hair said. ‘Nancy’ll take you away for a wee ice cream. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

The little girl stopped crying. She nodded, and took the woman called Nancy’s proffered hand. She liked ice cream.

CHAPTER 16

It was one of those times when Wilson didn’t really want to go back to the office. The investigation was going nowhere fast, and he would have preferred to be out on the streets trying to drum up a lead than sitting behind a desk waiting for something to happen. It was one of the drawbacks of rank. As a young detective constable, it had all been about finding evidence and learning the game. When he moved up to detective sergeant, he’d taken on some responsibility for the work of the constables, but he was also on a learning curve to become an inspector, and then the exalted rank of chief inspector. It was what he and the other cadets aspired to when they were at Police College. Some cadets like Jennings took it to extremes of ambition while others were happy to truck along as constables for the rest of their lives. He knew that among his own team, the only person who had leadership qualities was Moira McElvaney. He had insisted that they make her up to detective sergeant but from now on it would be up to her how far she wanted to go. As far as he was concerned, he was happy to have made superintendent, and he had no desire to climb any further up the greasy pole to the rank of chief superintendent where he would be buried in a mound of bullshit administration. He had recently carried out the annual appraisals of his team and to a man they declared their ambition satisfied. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t like a few extra quid in their pay packets every month but in terms of job satisfaction, they were, by and large, happy.  Harry Graham had, he thought, finally accepted the fact that he would never be able to pass the sergeant’s exam. He didn’t know why Harry continually failed. He didn’t think that the man was dyslexic so perhaps it was simply a phobia with exams. Wilson had already put in twenty years on the Force. Despite the overt antipathy of DCC Jennings towards him, he had managed to reach a rank he had no desire to go beyond. Ian Wilson was a copper, and that’s what he always would be. 

Only Ronald McIver was present in the squad room when he returned. The other four members of the team were beating the bushes for a lead. As soon as he was settled behind his desk, he reluctantly opened his computer and clicked the mail icon. A flood of new e-mails filled the screen in front of him. He wondered whether this new technology was a blessing or an affliction. He knew what he thought. He selected one with the subject line ‘toxicology’. He clicked on the enclosed pdf and learned that Lizzie was marginally over the legal alcohol limit and Sammy Rice was over by the proverbial mile. He was glad he didn’t have Sammy’s liver. There was nothing else of interest. The second e-mail contained a revised forensics report. Nothing major there either only a few more finger prints were identified. Added to the report were the rap sheets of those additional people. None of them would have been welcomed in heaven judging from their past deeds. He worked quickly through the rest of the e-mails discarding the ones that had been sent simply to show the hierarchy that a particular officer was still alive and working on something extremely important. Then he dumped the e-mails in which he had been copied for no other reason than that he was a superintendent. Then he dumped the e-mails consisting of ‘things he should know about’ such as new rules concerning the powers of the Chief Super to amend the station organisation chart. Important stuff no doubt, but not very relevant to finding the murderer of Lizzie Rice. By the time he had cleared his e-mails he had done a considerable amount of work but the investigation into the murder of Lizzie Rice hadn’t moved forward by one inch.  He looked at his watch. It was lunchtime, and he had to choose. He hated eating alone in a pub.

CHAPTER 17

Deane’s restaurant in Howard Street is probably the best restaurant in Belfast. The main dining room exudes class with the white linen covered tables contrasting with the deep red of the walls and the dark brown of the wooden floors. Most people are highly delighted to receive an invitation to lunch at Deane’s but DCC Roy Jennings was an exception. He felt uncomfortable as he looked around the well-filled main dining room. A senior editor at the Belfast Chronicle had invited him and he was more apprehensive than usual at the reason for the invitation. He was not one to shy away from contact with the press. Ingratiating himself with editors and journalists was part of his strategy to attain the office of Chief Constable by establishing a positive press presence. Therefore, the prospect of a decent lunch allied to an opportunity to schmooze with a senior journalist meant that he had jumped at the invitation. When he had arrived at the restaurant to find the table had been set for three, his nose had been thrown a little out of joint. He had assumed that the lunch would be an intimate one where he could easily ingratiate himself with the senior editor. Exchanging confidences at a table of three was a risky enterprise since it reduced considerably the value of deniability. He was even more bothered when the senior editor arrived with none other than Maggie Cummerford in tow. Cummerford had until recently been the crime reporter on the Chronicle, but her star had waned after she had been obliged to retract a front-page story concerning a Professional Standards investigation into Ian Wilson.

‘Deputy Chief Constable,’ James Reilly extended his hand to Jennings, who took it and gave it a Masonic handshake. ‘I think that you’ve already met Maggie Cummerford.’

‘No,’ Jennings said. ‘I haven’t had that pleasure. Although, of course, I think I may have read some pieces by her in your paper.’ He extended his hand to Cummerford who took it and shook.  He noted that she dropped one of those messenger bags at the side of the table before taking his hand. Jennings was not a great ladies man. He was aware that many people considered him to be a homosexual, and he had done nothing to dissuade them. The truth was as usual somewhat simpler. All of Roy Jennings’ concentration was on attaining the highest post in the PSNI. He considered himself to be sexless, a being without desires for either men or women. When he looked at Cummerford he saw a rather petite, mousy haired woman of average stature. Her face wasn’t particularly attractive, neither was it plain. All the features were there in the right proportions, but none was striking enough to warrant remark. Her figure was boyish with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. She was, all features taken into account, the picture of the modern woman making her way in a man’s world.

Cummerford looked for something to wipe her hand with as she and Reilly took their places at the table. Shaking hands with Jennings left her feeling that she had just handled a three-day-old slimy fish.

‘I thought that we would be dining alone,’ Jennings picked up the menu. He never had any problem with weight other than he seemed incapable of putting flesh on his delicate frame. As a boy he had always been the weed of the class. But he liked to think that what he lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for in intelligence and cunning. He decided to stick to the Linen Lunch and ordered the Fish Cake.

Reilly and Cummerford also chose from the Linen Lunch menu. ‘Drink?’ Reilly asked. He was used to his lunch guests abusing the expense nature of the meal, but he didn’t think that Jennings was the type.

‘Water,’ Jennings said.

‘Three designer waters,’ Reilly instructed the waiter with a smile.

‘Roy,’ Reilly began when the waiter had departed. ‘I can call you Roy.’

Jennings bridled but was obliged to go with the flow. ‘Of course, James.’ He hoped that Cummerford would have the good sense not to call him ‘Roy’.

‘You may remember several months ago that we were obliged to retract, with an apology, and article regarding an investigation into Chief Inspector Wilson.’

‘Now Superintendent Wilson,’ Cummerford added through a mouthful of bread.

‘Vaguely,’ Jennings said. He remembered it only too well since Wilson used it to turn the tables on him.

The food was delivered, and Reilly began on it immediately. ‘So,’ he said through a mouthful of pork belly. ‘We have a little problem. You see we were not very kind to Maggie since we felt embarrassed that we had to print the retraction etcetera. For the past few months, she has been rehabilitating herself as you might say.’

‘Garden fetes, junior soccer matches, that kind of thing’ Cummerford intoned while screwing up her face.

Jennings played with his food. This was not the kind of lunch that he had anticipated. He wondered when Reilly was going to get to the point.

‘But Maggie is a rather clever girl,’ Reilly said patting Cummerford’s hand. ‘She permitted us to send her to Coventry, as it were, because she had something else in mind, and she was willing to wait for an opportunity to spring back at us.’

Jennings forked a piece of fish cake into his mouth. What the hell had all this drivel got to do with him? Had he been invited to lunch so that Reilly could play footsies with his employee. He hoped that his impatience was showing on his face.

Maggie Cummerford bent and took a small recording device from her messenger bag and placed it on the table. She pressed a button, and the voice of Chief Inspector Harrison could be heard loud and clear. After thirty seconds, she switched the recorder off.

‘It appears Maggie had irrefutable evidence,’ he nodded towards the recorder, ‘that the story she wrote, and we published was, in fact, true. ‘

If Jennings had not already finished eating, he might well have choked on his fish cake.

‘We have reacted,’ Reilly continued. ‘By reinstating Maggie as our crime reporter and there have been some financial repercussions which we do not need to discuss here.’

‘And this affects me how?’ Jennings asked.

‘You lied about the investigation into Wilson,’ Cummerford said quickly.

‘The investigation was unofficial,’ Jennings knew that he was on shaky ground. ‘Since it never existed officially then I was quite right in my statement.’

‘I assume that a freedom of information request will confirm that,’ Cummerford said.

Jennings looked at the young woman. He saw something that he missed in his earlier appraisal of her. It was a streak ruthlessness and ambition. He recognised it because it paralleled his own. His plan to put an end to Wilson’s career via the newspapers had not been bad one, but it was now in tatters. Harrison was a fool to let her record their conversation. ‘I assume that Detective Inspector Harrison told you that the information he gave you was off the record.’

‘It’s not on the tape,’ Cummerford said.

You devious little bitch, Jennings thought. ‘You obviously have something in mind,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ll be so good as to let me know what it is.’

‘I want to do a profile on Ian Wilson.’

Jennings mouth curled. He didn’t want Wilson to have any more profile than he already had. He was aware of Wilson’s reputation of being able to charm women out of their pants and he could just see the gushing profile that this young woman would produce. ‘You don’t need me for that.’

‘But I want access all areas. I want to follow him through an investigation and see how he works. The Lizzie Rice investigation is perfect. I need your OK to tag myself along to the Murder Squad team. I want to be embedded in the team.’

‘Out of the question,’ Jennings said.

‘Then I have no choice but to go in another direction,’ Cummerford said. ‘You ruined my career by lying. I have proof that you lied, and I have a legal opinion from the paper’s barrister that I have a case in law.’

Jennings was now on the horns of a dilemma. He had no doubt that this vicious little bitch was as good as her word. He would be exposing himself to some criticism from the Chief Constable if he acceded to her request, but he would end up in an unsavoury court case that might end his career if he didn’t do what she wanted. He concluded that it would be easier to handle the Chief Constable. ‘You cannot be allowed to interfere with the investigation. I will need the original tape, and a paper signed by you attesting that there are no copies.’

‘Understood.’

‘I’ll make the arrangements.’

‘To-day. I don’t want to be behind in the investigation.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll hear from you this afternoon. Now I’ll leave you two boys alone. I’m sure you have lots to talk about.’ She picked up her leather messenger bag and strode out of the restaurant.

‘I’m sorry, Roy,’ Reilly said watching her head disappear through the front door. ‘She had us over a barrel as well. Don’t blame me. Blame that stupid fucker who gave her the interview.’

Jennings had already buried Harrison in the bandit country of South Armagh, but he would have to think whether there was something further he could inflict on the stupid idiot. 

‘We’ll just have to grin and bear it,’ Reilly said raising his hand to the waiter. ‘Fuck this water stuff. I need a whiskey.’

Roy Jennings sipped his water. He was not known for either grinning, or bearing it.

CHAPTER 18

The Murder Squad team assembled in front of the whiteboard at two o’clock precisely. Wilson had rarely seen a whiteboard as blank as the one that stared back at him. There was a photo of Lizzie at the top with the indication ‘victim’ and some murder scene photos beneath it. Wilson noted that Moira had created a timeline on Lizzie’s movements prior to the murder on the right-hand side of the board. Aside from that, nothing.  ‘Moira, run us through the movements,’ he said

‘Lizzie and her friends have a bingo night every Wednesday. They normally bring a flask of vodka along so it’s a combination of gambling and drinking. You can’t say that you can set your watch by them because it depends on how they’re doing as to how long they stay. This week they did pretty well, or at least they finished up ahead. Lizzie was the big winner with 20 quid. She left the bingo hall at about nine fifteen,’ she indicated the timeline on the board. She stayed outside chatting and smoking for ten minutes or so and then started home on her own. Normally, she might have flagged down a taxi, but obviously she decided to hold on to her winnings. It would have taken her thirty minutes to walk home, so she arrived at approximately ten o’clock.’