Dark Circles (17 page)

CHAPTER 40

Sammy Rice spent the morning dealing with business. Big George had driven him to the Brown Bear where he had an office above the bar. Rice ran a diversified business. If all his interests had been in the official economy, he would have been a conglomerate. Aside from his legitimate businesses of taxis, building construction and pubs, he had interests in drugs, protection, prostitution and people trafficking. The legal side of his businesses were necessary to launder the proceeds from the illegal side. Sammy Rice was rich beyond his wildest dreams, but still lived, for the most part, among the people who had made him rich, the Loyalists of West Belfast. Rice hadn’t bothered to read the
Belfast Chronicle
. As far as he was concerned, O’Reilly had joined Grant and Malone in the morgue, and all three were no longer a threat to his business. He was more than pissed off with Jackie Carlisle and the toffee-nosed fuckers he represented. He’d been paying tribute to Jackie and his friends for more than twenty years. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. He had the muscle and the money-making machine. They had the connections with the bankers, politicians and judges. His business was turning over millions and without them he would have had a hard job hiding it all. But he was beginning to be a force himself. Soon, he wouldn’t need them and their so-called financial acumen. He had money stashed all over the place, some of it in banks and some invested in legitimate business. So Jackie and his friends were outliving their usefulness. By midday, he had already snorted £300 worth of coke and drank half a bottle of Remy Martin. He was feeling like a Lord of the Universe.

‘Boss,’ Owen Boyle pushed open the door of Rice’s office. Rice’s normally blond hair was streaked and matted. His typically tanned face was red and a little bloated. ‘We got someone downstairs wants to talk to you.’

‘What?’ Rice looked at his lieutenant.

‘Arsehole called McDevitt is down in the bar.’ Boyle tossed a copy of the
Chronicle
onto the table. ‘He’s the crime guy on the
Chronicle
.’

‘I thought he’d flown the coup.’ Rice laughed. ‘A couple of people wanted him dead very badly. He has one up on them, since they’re the ones that are pushing up daisies. Tell him to come up.’

Rice sat back and read the lead article in the paper.

‘Sammy.’ Jock McDevitt walked into the room. ‘Good to see you.’

Rice pushed his chair back and motioned McDevitt to a chair in front of his desk. ‘I thought you were no longer with us.’ He laughed at the double meaning.

McDevitt smiled. He spent most of his adult life in the company of criminals. If he were honest, he would have to say that he found a lot of them not only interesting, but also charming. Sammy Rice was in the section that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Rice was one dangerous psychotic motherfucker; it was as simple as that. ‘I spent a few years on the crime beat in Glasgow.’ He decided to keep things down-to-earth with Rice.

‘You took over from the bitch that murdered Lizzie.’ Rice spat the words out. He poured himself a large measure from a bottle of Remy.

‘It was a bit of an embarrassment for the paper,’ McDevitt said. ‘They decided to bring back someone who wasn’t a serial killer.’ McDevitt’s mouth was dry, and he ran his tongue over his lips. He was hoping Rice was going to offer him a drink. He had the feeling it was a forlorn hope.

‘What do you want?’ Rice asked taking a slug from his glass.

McDevitt nodded at the paper on the desk. ‘I’m following up on the mini murder spree here in Belfast.’

Rice’s brow furrowed. ‘So why come to me?’

‘Well I suppose I’m really looking for information on the Grant murder.’ McDevitt could feel a bead of sweat running down the back of his neck.

‘So why come to me?’ This time there was an emphasis on ‘me’.

‘Before I came back I was crime correspondent on the
Scotsman
. I’ve got pretty good contacts in Glasgow, and one of them gave me a story about Belfast.’ He stopped and watched Rice’s face. It was expressionless. ‘I hear that a team of mechanics was engaged by someone in Belfast to take out two men. The reason the story was so good was because they decided to make the second murder look like a gasper gone wrong. That rang a very big bell.’ McDevitt stared at Rice. He wasn’t sure but he thought he could see a residue of white powder at the base of his nostrils.

A slow smile spread over Rice’s face. ‘You certainly have a pair of balls, Jock. You come here to my place of business with some cock and bull story about Glasgow mechanics, and insinuate that I might be involved. I should be annoyed. Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back. You wouldn’t like me if you made me angry.’

This wasn’t the first time that Jock McDevitt was threatened. But it was the first time that he felt like going to the toilet post threat. ‘Can I take that as a no comment?’ McDevitt asked trying manfully to control the quiver he could hear in his voice. ‘My contact in Glasgow intimated that I should speak to you.’

There was a tick in Rice’s right eye. ‘Old arseholes like you drop dead every day of the week, you know. I mind my own business, and I advise you to mind yours. Now piss off.’

McDevitt eased himself out of the chair. ‘What about that guy who decided to take a leap from his window in the Tannery last night?’

Rice picked up the
Chronicle
. ‘Just read about it. Another victim of the fucked-up economy.’

‘The Peelers don’t think that he jumped. I wonder who might have pushed him.’

Rice stood up and spread his hands on his desk. ‘Piss off now or I won’t be responsible if anything happens to you. And don’t come back. And don’t forget we know where you live.’

McDevitt backed out of the room.

Boyle watched McDevitt as he descended the stairs to the bar. Then he pushed open the door and saw Rice in a rage scattering papers all over the room.

‘The next time I see that boy, I’m going to fucking kill him.’ Rice was breathing heavily. ‘He knows about the boys from Glasgow and he’s heard my name. I thought you said that those boys were tighter than a duck’s arse.’

‘They’re professionals.’ The ‘fickle finger of fate’ looked like it was going to land on Boyle, and he was aware of what that could mean. ‘Anyway they’re already on the Costa and they won’t be back soon.’

Rice poured another brandy. The bottle was almost empty and he was swaying. ‘It’s on you if this gets back to me.’

Boyle knew where this was going. He was the one who had made the arrangements with the boys in Glasgow. He had to use Rice’s name to get the introductions. But, it was him who had paid over the money and placed the contract. There was one degree of separation between him and Rice. The police might conclude that he was acting for Rice, but there was no proof. Other than his word, and a good brief would make that worth a thimbleful of spit under cross-examination. Closing in on the boys from Glasgow meant they were closing in on him.

CHAPTER 41

Moira was having a bad day at the office. She had struck out with Malone’s boss, and her interview with his sporting friend had been equally unproductive. She didn’t feel like going back to the station, so she was sitting in the window of Starbucks in Victoria Square. It was a typical spring day; what had started so well had become sheets of rain being blown across the city by a howling west wind. Due to its situation in a passageway leading to the Victoria Square Shopping Centre, Starbucks was in a prime position to examine the effects of the weather. There was a steady stream of drenched denizens of Belfast moving past the window. She watched their faces as they passed. They were mostly pale after a tough Irish winter, huddled into their coats or hidden beneath their umbrellas. Ireland was all about weather, and the weather was generally bad. She found herself wondering what the weather was like in Boston today. It had to be better than what she was looking at through the window. Maybe she would Google it when she went back to the office. Or maybe not, since that would be a step in recognising that she was seriously thinking of going with Brendan. But it shouldn’t be just about the weather. Would she have a better life in Boston? Would Brendan be able to come good on his promise that she would get a Green Card? And the big question, could she ever trust a man again? Life was short, and she could spend too much of it as she had that morning. How would Wilson react to her departure? He had survived before she arrived, and he would survive after she left. He was not part of the equation. She had two weeks in which to make a decision. Or maybe she didn’t have to decide right away. She could join Brendan later. She sipped her coffee. It was time to get back to the office. There were hours of CCTV to view.

DC Peter Davidson arrived at Glasgow International Airport at three o’clock in the afternoon. He caught a taxi outside the main terminal for the 13-kilometre trip to the centre of Glasgow. He’d heard the airport being described as ten minutes from the centre, but he had never made it in that time on any of his visits to Glasgow. Davidson had been part of a RUC liaison group with Strathclyde Police during the period when there was a free interchange between Loyalists in Belfast and Glasgow. It took almost twenty-five minutes to arrive at the HQ of Strathclyde Police in Stewart Street. The office, a concrete block painted in two shades of blue with rows of small windows looking out on the street, hadn’t changed in the five years since he had seen it last. He paid the taxi making sure to get a receipt that included the one pound fifty tip. He was just closing the back door of the cab when he felt a slap on his shoulder. He whirled around and looked into the face of Detective Sergeant Ross Brown of the Strathclyde Police.

‘Welcome to Glasgow,’ Brown said pumping Davidson’s hand. ‘Long time no see.’

‘It’s been a while.’ Davidson stood back to look at his mainland colleague. Brown was one of the few men who could stand up to Wilson. He stood six feet two in his stocking feet and a wild crop of straw blond hair topped his large head.

‘I thought you’d at least be a sergeant by now,’ Brown said moving in the direction of the concrete ramp which led to the front entrance.

‘We’re not all ambitious bastards like you,’ Davidson said. ‘Anyway I don’t want to leave Belfast.’ In reality he had no interest, other than money, in moving up the line. He liked to do what he wanted and right now that meant staying with the Belfast Murder Squad.

‘What about?’ Brown rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture for money.

‘Man doth not live by bread alone,’ Davidson smiled.

Brown pushed in the main door. ‘Born again?’ he asked.

‘Not really.’ Davidson laughed. ‘It just means I’m happy with what I’ve got. When I get fed up, I’ll move on under my own steam, not because some administrator wants me somewhere.’

‘We on for a few pints tonight?’ Brown pressed for the lift.

‘I’m on the seven o’clock Easyjet, so pints are out of the question.’ The lift stopped, and they got on.

‘Easyjet?’

‘Budgets,’ Davidson said. ‘We can’t even afford an overnight. Anyway we’re strapped staff-wise at the moment.’

They got off at the fifth floor and walked down a corridor. Brown knocked at an office door. ‘My Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘Courtesy call.’

Davidson sighed.

After ten minutes of platitudes to the DCI, Brown led Davidson to his office. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Brown said. ‘You have two murders carried out on the same evening. And you have information that two professionals from Glasgow were engaged.’

Davidson nodded and removed a thick file from his briefcase. ‘Two possible murders.’ He took two of the photos taken by Reid at Grant’s, and put them on the desk. ‘The pathologist doesn’t think this was an accident, and neither does my boss.’

Brown looked at the photos. ‘Aye, not a case of shit happens.’

‘We got a tip that some mechanics from Glasgow were involved.’ Davidson opened the file and removed a sheaf of black-and-white photos. ‘These are photos of everyone who checked in for flights to Glasgow on the day of the murders, and the next day. It’s a long shot but maybe our boys are in here somewhere. If I were them, I would have used the ferry from Larne to Stranraer. It’s more anonymous.’

‘You said the murders were supposed to look like natural deaths.’ Brown laughed. ‘If you can call erotic asphyxiation a natural death. They might have used a plane if they were confident enough that they were in the clear.’

Davidson passed over the batch of photos.

Brown started going through the photos turning over those that were irrelevant. He whistled at the photo of a very beautiful young woman. He showed the photo to Davidson. ‘Any idea where this one’s staying?’ He smiled.

Davidson returned the smile. ‘You’re the detective, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.’

Brown put the photo aside and continued through the file. He was about halfway through when he stopped. ‘Now there’s a familiar face.’ He turned the photo so Davidson could see it. It was of a tall thin man. ‘Frank Baxter, a very bad man, suspected of being involved in contract killings here in Scotland and down south.’ He continued through the photos and picked out a second. ‘Wee Dougie Weir, small but more dangerous than the most poisonous creature in existence. Dougie and Frank have been known to operate together. We’d really like to get something on either of these two to put them out of circulation, but up to now they’ve been like Teflon, nothing sticks. These are your boys alright.’

‘Only one problem,’ Davidson said. ‘There’s not one iota of evidence at either of the murder sites. Even if you were to pick them up tomorrow, they could stonewall us. There’s nothing physical to tie them to the crimes.’

Brown picked up his phone and spoke with one of his colleagues. ‘There has been no sign of either man in Glasgow in the last few days,’ he said when he put the phone down. ‘I’m getting copies of their sheets made up so that you can take them back with you. They’re on the national database for pretty minor stuff but we have a more comprehensive file on them here. Given the situation with the evidence, where do we go from there?’

‘That’s beyond my pay grade. At least we now have a good idea of who the murderers were.’

‘It’s a pain in the arse but you’ll probably never see them in the dock for it.’

‘It won’t be the first time.’ Davidson bundled up his photos. Earlier, he had wondered whether he was on a wild goose chase. At least it was progress, although it was only progress of a kind. They might know who committed the murders but what the hell could they do about it.

A female uniform entered the office and handed Brown a file. He looked at it briefly before passing it to Davidson. ‘Everything we think we know about Baxter and wee Dougie. Lots that we can’t prove.’

‘Thanks.’ Davidson took the file and without looking at its contents put it in his briefcase.

Brown looked at his watch. ‘Four twenty,’ he said. ‘You need to be at the airport at six. That gives us an hour and a half to drink a few beers and we might even have time to complain to each other about our bosses.’