Dark Circles (19 page)

CHAPTER 45

Richie Simpson had had better years. In fact, Simpson had been having a bad year ever since Jackie Carlisle had been obliged to give up running the Party due to ill health. Simpson had always considered himself the heir apparent. He had assumed that when Carlisle disappeared into retirement, he would rise chrysalis-like and be embraced as the new Messiah. The opposite was the reality. The Party had proven to be a vehicle for Carlisle and him alone. As soon as the great man had departed the political scene, so had most of the Party members. Simpson had found himself in charge of a political movement that was in terminal decline. He had devoted ten years to cleaning up Carlisle’s shit and provided that very necessary quality for his boss, deniability. Carlisle was as dirty and corrupt as any politician in history, but as far as Joe Public was concerned, he was squeaky clean. When the Party died, so did Simpson’s source of funding. Under Carlisle’s umbrella, he was somebody. After Carlisle’s departure, it amazed him the number of people who wouldn’t return his phone calls. He was still getting a few pounds from his handlers in British Intelligence, but even that was declining since the information he could provide them was total rubbish. The Brits might be a lot of things, but they weren’t dumb, and they weren’t about to pay for something they could learn in any pub in Belfast. He had visited a Job Centre, but his lack of specific skills had been an impediment in even getting an interview. It appeared that nobody needed a fixer. Therefore, he was a little surprised when Carlisle called him. First, he didn’t expect to hear from his mentor again, and second, he was surprised by the weakness in the voice. The strong booming voice from the slight body was Carlisle’s trademark. The meeting was scheduled for his former boss’s house in Hillsborough. Money was so tight that Simpson was reduced to the indignity of taking the bus, and completing the journey on foot. He had never been to the Hillsborough house and was taken aback as he surveyed the residence from the driveway; at least £800,000 he thought to himself as he took in the red-bricked building and the surrounding gardens. Jackie had done well for himself. He knocked on the front door.

‘Richie,’ Agnes Carlisle beamed as she opened the door.

Simpson basked in the warmth of the smile that greeted him. ‘Agnes, good to see you.’

She opened the door wide. ‘You’ve lost weight, Richie,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You need to put a bit of flesh on your bones. He’s waiting for you in the conservatory. We’re having a procession of people to see him these days.’

Simpson walked through the living room. The wall and tables were covered with the photos that had once adorned the walls of the Party’s office in Central Belfast. The Great Man had shaken hands with US presidents, British prime ministers and even with a couple of Irish pop stars who considered themselves the saviours of mankind. Simpson was currently living in a two-up two-down in the Shankill. The Hillsborough house was dreamland for him. He walked into the conservatory and looked around for Jackie. His eyes fell on the shrivelled creature wrapped in a blanket sitting on the sofa. Was this the political giant who he had worked with for more than ten years? The man who had bestridden the Shankill now looked like a monkey wrapped in a blanket.

‘What’s up, Jackie?’ Simpson asked.

‘Sit down Richie.’ Carlisle could see his wife hovering in the background. ‘It’s alright, dear,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t let Richie tire me out.’ He waited until his wife left the room. ‘You should practise your facial expressions in front of a mirror. I know I look fucked, but I don’t need to see it in your face.’

‘Sorry, Jackie.’ Simpson took the seat beside the sofa. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘You’re not exactly looking in the pink yourself.’ Carlisle tried a smile.

‘Times are hard.’

‘Maybe good times are coming.’

Simpson sat back. Getting into bed with Carlisle was like playing with a tarantula. You might survive, but then again you could end up with a poisonous sting. ‘So, I suppose you didn’t bring me here to admire your house or to note down any famous last words.’

‘At least we’ve established two things.’ Carlisle winced in pain. He would need an injection of morphine soon, but the nurse from the hospice wasn’t due for another two hours. ‘I’m on my last legs, and you’re broke.’

‘Things didn’t go so well after you left.’

Carlisle smiled despite the pain. Richie wasn’t the dumbest man in the Shankill, but he’d never really got it. He’d thought it was all about manipulating the hard men. That was because that was his forte. He’d never grasped that it was about appealing to the punters. To survive and prosper, you needed to drag the punters with you. Richie, unfortunately for him, wasn’t exactly punter-friendly. It had been no surprise to him that things had fallen apart after he’d retired. ‘I may have something for you.’

Simpson was having the typical fight or flight feeling except instead of fight it was submit. Carlisle had always been able to talk him into doing shit he wouldn’t normally countenance. If he kept his arse on the chair, he would be roped into one of his former boss’s plots. If he had half a brain, he’d leave now. But he smelled money and he needed it badly. ‘Something that’s going to drop me in the shit?’

Carlisle’s face twisted in an amalgam of a grimace and a smile. He could have auditioned for the part of a gargoyle. ‘If you’re not interested, say so now. I really don’t have the time to waste.’

‘How much?’

‘Let’s say £15,000, not all for you unfortunately. If I tell you about this, there’s no road back.’

Simpson thought about the money. He could certainly use it. But he wasn’t going to get it for nothing. It was decision time. He was aware that if he agreed to go on, there really would be no way out. Carlisle didn’t take prisoners. ‘Okay, what do I have to do?’

‘Sammy Rice is out of control. He needs to disappear.’

Simpson could feel immediate pressure in his bladder. ‘Sammy fucking Rice disappear. You’re joking, right.’

Carlisle shook his head. ‘No joke.’

Simpson was sorry he hadn’t trusted his initial reaction to run. ‘Sammy is probably the most dangerous man in Belfast at the moment. He’s surrounded by a mass of henchmen all of whom would decapitate anyone who came close to their leader. He is pretty much untouchable.’

‘So was Lennie Murray. It needs to be done. The question is, are you the man to organise it?’

‘What exactly do you have in mind?’ Simpson’s heart, which had almost exploded out of his chest, was beginning to return to its normal rhythm.

‘Sammy has enemies on two levels. The drugs business is profitable but volatile. There’s always some snotty-nosed bastard looking to take the place of whoever is the ‘man’ of the moment. Sammy has already become one of his own best clients, so it’s only a matter of time before someone wants to move up. You know the people around him. Surely one of them wouldn’t mind being the boss.’

‘And the second level?’

‘Sammy and his father were involved in some bad things during the ‘Troubles’. There are more than a couple of Fenians who wouldn’t mind seeing Sammy paraded down the Shankill in a box. You have contacts there. Use them.’

Simpson felt beads of sweat running down his neck. Maybe he was in an episode of
Mission Impossible
. He’d already been given his mission and his reward for accomplishing it. The only element missing was the plan, and it was dawning on him that he was going to have to come up with something. ‘How much time do I have?’

‘The sooner the better.’ Carlisle was stunned for a second. He still had the power of life or death over people. He remembered sitting in the doctor’s office and hearing his own life sentence. He had always considered himself to be a strong individual, but when he heard the fateful word ‘terminal’ he’d wanted to cry. He loved life and the thought of leaving it filled him with sadness and fear in equal measure. Now it was likely that Sammy would precede him to the pearly gates. Maybe he was doing him a favour. At least Sammy wouldn’t have to spend months thinking about dying, and putting up with the pain. There would be no time to settle his affairs. Sammy had lived by the sword, and it was fitting that he should die by the sword. What did that make of his death? His body was slowly killing itself. What did that say about him?

‘I’ll need money up front,’ Simpson said.

Carlisle fished around at the base of the wicker sofa and produced an envelope. He handed it to Simpson. ‘That’s £5,000 to kick it off. The rest when the job is done.’

Simpson took the envelope, opened it and looked inside. ‘I’ll let you know when I have it organised.’

‘Don’t bother. I don’t need to know the details. I’ll read about it in the
Chronicle
.’ Carlisle leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘It’s been good to see you again, Richie.’

Simpson could see that their meeting was over. He tried to think of some clever parting remark but repartee wasn’t his strong suit. He had known Carlisle for a long time, but he realised that they had never really been friends. He was simply his dirty tricks man. ‘I’ll drop by when it’s done.’

‘Don’t bother. The next place we’ll meet is not in this world.’

Simpson looked at the frail figure before him. Carlisle was almost at death’s door, but he was still capable of ordering a murder.

Simpson stood and proffered his hand.

Carlisle looked at the hand as though deciding whether to take it or not. He extended a bony hand and gave Simpson a quick handshake.

Simpson turned and walked towards the door. He was thinking that agreeing to kill Sammy Rice could get a person killed. It which case, maybe it would be him that would be standing beside Saint Peter to greet Carlisle.

CHAPTER 46

Harry Graham stood in front of the Tannery Building. There were two entrances, one for the apartment building and one for the garage. He walked slowly around the building. If someone had gained access, there were three possibilities. They could have entered by the front door of the apartment section of the building, but that would have meant buzzing someone in an apartment to open the door. There was a camera system on the door that allowed residents to view their guests before opening the main door. Second, they could have entered from the garage but that would have been seen on the garage CCTV. Third, they could have gained access from the taxi station. The door-to-door enquiry had established that no resident had permitted an entry that evening. The garage CCTV had been checked and showed no unauthorised entries. The process of elimination indicated that the taxi station was the most probable source of entry. He made his way to the office of the taxi station holding out his warrant card as he entered the office. ‘Detective Constable Graham,’ he said. ‘Who’s in charge?’

A short fat man with a head of woolly black hair looked up from the papers on his desk. Every inch of his body that was exposed, excluding half his face, was covered in tattoos. ‘Just what we need for a perfect day, a visit from the Peelers,’ he said smiling through a mouth full of decaying teeth. ‘If it’s about the jumper, we don’t know anyone living in the building. They don’t mix with our sort.’

Graham saw the second man in the office take a quick glance at him before returning to his work.

‘Our forensic people found a forced door from the garage to the apartment. Maybe someone got into the apartment building that way. But there’s nothing on the garage CCTV. If that’s the case, could they have gained access to the garage via the taxi station?’

‘They could have but they didn’t,’ Woolly Head answered.

‘How can you be so sure?’ Graham asked.

Woolly Head sighed and pointed at a clapped out computer. ‘Look around, man, lots of valuable stuff around here. We’d be out on our ear if we didn’t lock up securely every evening. If someone came through here, they’d have to break in. Check it out. No break-in.’

Graham noticed a furtive look from the second man. ‘So maybe they had a key.’

‘No way,’ Woolly Head answered. ‘You finished with the questions?’

Graham smiled. ‘For now. But I think I may be back, so don’t go anywhere. What are your names?’

‘Mickey Mouse,’ Woolly Head said.

‘Now you’re really on my radar,’ Graham said. ‘I think I might be able to find you on the police computer so maybe you shouldn’t make me try.’

Woolly Head thought for a moment. ‘Mikey Dolan.’

‘And?’ Graham turned to the other man in the office who had kept his head down.

‘Billy Boyle,’ he said without looking up.

Graham wrote the names into his notebook. He had just finished when it dawned on him that Sammy Rice had a lieutenant named Boyle. He put his notebook away and removed two business cards from his pocket. He placed the cards on the desk. ‘You think of anything give me a call.’

Dolan picked up the cards. ‘Definitely,’ he said as he tore the cards in two and dumped them in the wastepaper basket.

Graham turned back to Dolan. ‘I’m pretty sure we’re going to meet again.’ He turned and walked through the door. He was going to make a case of Mikey Dolan. And he was going to check up on Boyle. If it turned out he was connected to Rice’s lieutenant, it might be worth hauling him in.

Moira’s eyes hurt. She opened her bag and removed the mirror she used to put on her make-up. Her eyes were red. She had spent the afternoon looking at CCTV from traffic cameras in the streets around Ashley Avenue. She picked up a cup of cold coffee and drank it. It tasted terrible. She put down the cup and put her hand on top of the mouse. She moved the film forward. She stared as the black cab came into view. Then she stopped the film. There were definitely two men in the rear of the cab. She used the mouse to close in on the cab. The driver was so big that he almost blocked the two figures behind him. She moved the film forward hoping to get a better view of the rear of the cab. They were heading straight for the camera which meant the driver was constantly blocking a clear view of the passengers. She stopped the film and walked to the whiteboard. She concentrated on the faces of Baxter and Weir. She returned to her seat and increased the focus on the passengers. One was tall and one was short but only a fraction of each face was visible. She was suddenly excited. It could easily be Baxter and Weir. She printed off the best picture. Unfortunately it was grainy and not very clear. Then she focussed on the driver and printed his picture. She changed the focus to the cab’s registration number and printed it off. She took the three pictures and walked to Wilson’s office.

‘I think I may have something,’ she said as she entered the office.

Wilson looked up from the papers on his desk. ‘Let’s see it.’

‘I’ve been reviewing the CCTV footage from the streets around Ashley Avenue. There’s no camera on that street, so I’ve concentrated on what we’ve got. Early in the evening, we have a black taxi with two passengers. It’s impossible to get a good shot of the passengers. The driver is a giant who takes up most of the front of the cab, so I don’t have a real good picture of the occupants.’ She tossed a picture of the driver onto the desk in front of Wilson. ‘This is the best picture of the occupants that I can come up with.’ She put the second picture on the desk. ‘You can’t really see them, only part of their faces. But I’d bet a month’s pay that those two are Baxter and Weir.’ She dropped the final picture on the desk. ‘That’s the registration of the cab.’

‘Okay.’ Wilson was looking at the three pictures. ‘We need to track that taxi for the whole of that evening. Traffic has a mechanism for picking out the registration number from the CCTV footage.’  He shouted for Taylor through the open door.

‘Boss.’ Taylor stood in the doorway.

Wilson passed the picture of the driver to Moira who handed it on to Taylor. ‘Who is he?’

Taylor smiled. ‘Big George Carroll, they should design a special car just for this guy. He works for Sammy Rice.’

‘Now that’s interesting,’ Wilson said. ‘But we mustn’t jump to conclusions. If Big George works as a taxi driver, he might very well have picked up two passengers in the course of his job.’ He passed the pictures to Moira. ‘Get this stuff up on the board. Eric, what do we know about Mister Carroll?’

Taylor passed the picture to Moira. ‘He’s been associated with Sammy Rice since he was a kid. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer but what he lacks in brain, he makes up for in brawn. I’ll have to check the computer but as far as I can remember we’ve never had Big George inside but there have been plenty of rumours linking him to demanding money with menace. And it’s generally money that was owed to Sammy Rice. Those menaced have a habit of withdrawing their complaint before it gets too far.’

‘So we have no problem making Carroll a person of interest,’ Wilson said. ‘However, we should definitely speak to him. Find out where we can locate him.’

‘Locating him may not be the problem, Boss,’ Taylor said. ‘Getting some sense out of the headful of fluff he carries around on his shoulders might be a little more difficult. People who have interviewed Big George say that it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “no comment”.’

‘Moira, Traffic, track that cab,’ Wilson said. ‘Eric, keep working on the Infrastructure Agency but find out where we can find Mister Carroll.’

Moira and Taylor left the office.

Wilson watched them as they set about their tasks. They were both good coppers. There was hardly a murder squad in the world that could handle three apparently separate murders, but the Belfast murder team was certainly trying. It was strange how one piece of information inevitably led to another. That was what Wilson’s theory of momentum was about. That was why forensic evidence was so important and the lack of it a severe impediment. Forensic opened doors, pointed at suspects, created that chink leading to the next link in the chain. He was about to get back to his beloved paperwork when he felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognise the number. He pressed the green button.

‘Good afternoon.’ The voice was female and the accent upper-crust Oxford. ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson?’

‘Speaking,’ Wilson said.

‘Please hold. I have Laurence Gold for you.’

Wilson cursed himself for taking the call.

‘Detective Superintendent,’ the voice was the deep baritone that Wilson had heard in court on several occasions, ‘thank you for taking the call. I was wondering whether we could arrange a meeting.’

‘You may have noticed from the newspapers that I’m currently investigating the death of David Grant and then there’s the business in Castle Street last night.’

‘I fully understand.’ Gold’s voice dripped like honey. ‘However, we really must talk. The Cummerford case is due for hearing within six weeks, and I am reliably informed that the date has already been set. There are still elements of the case that require clarification.’

‘What elements?’

‘I have an aversion to discussing briefs over the phone. I have a slot available at ten a.m. tomorrow morning. Would that be convenient?’

‘I can’t say. Events tend to move fast and in all sorts of directions on a murder investigation.’

‘I’ll expect you at ten. If it’s not possible for you to make it, I’m sure you’ll let my office know. By the way, how is the Chinese Wall between you and my learned colleague holding up?’

‘We don’t talk about the case at home if that’s what you mean,’ Wilson said sharply. He could have added that lately they weren’t talking about anything at all.

‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from professionals like you and Kate. See you tomorrow morning at ten.’ The phone went dead.

Wilson put down the handset. What element could Gold be interested in? It couldn’t have anything to do with him and Kate living together. His team had already spent considerable resources in helping the prosecution with its case. He was hoping that Cummerford would plead guilty and save them the bother of the trial. They had her bang to rights. There was no doubt that she had murdered the three women she blamed for killing her mother. Now she wanted to waste more of his scarce resources through a lengthy trial. He looked at his watch. It was almost six o’clock and time to review that day’s progress with the team.