Death to Pay (11 page)

‘Anything more on Lizzie?’ Wilson looked at Moira.

‘Nobody’s talking,’ Moira said. ‘At least not to me. I hate saying it but maybe Peter should be the one pursuing this line. I haven’t heard one bad word about Lizzie. There’d be a bit of a contrast between Saint Lizzie of the Shankill and the woman accused of assault and abuse of her Catholic neighbours.’

‘What about the wake?’ Wilson asked.

‘The usual suspects,’ Peter Davidson said. ‘The good and the great of local and national Loyalist politics, community leaders and just about every Protestant resident of West Belfast. I didn’t stay long, the procession stretched half-way down Ballygomartin Road. Billy was sober for a change, but he looked like shit. I can’t believe that we got absolutely nothing from him. He was there. Maybe he was part of it.’ 

‘I doubt it,’ Wilson said. ‘If it was the reverse, I’d be willing to buy it. Lizzie was always the hard one. Billy was a bit of a fellow traveller. He did his stint in Long Kesh, but he wasn’t capable of much more than leading a riot. Unlike Lizzie, she was capable of anything. That’s why her background is so important. Peter, maybe you should talk to some people you know and see if anything useful falls out.  According to Moira’s profiler friend,’ Wilson smiled when he saw Moira redden. ‘The crime was very personal. The killer was someone who was hurt very badly by Lizzie, and this is revenge. Lizzie did enough bad things that affected the lives of her victims. This is our usual needle in a haystack search. He put his hand on Davidson’s shoulder. ‘You and I at the funeral. We leave here at ten thirty. No need for uniforms. Let’s see who shows up.’

Maggie Cummerford joined Wilson as he made his way back to his office. ‘I thought journalism was the most boring profession in the world, but I’m beginning to change my mind. Sitting around at a press briefing waiting for some dick to sprout inanities can make you feel like eating your head but at least it doesn’t really count. You guys faffing around day after day digging for a lead is equally mind numbing, but unfortunately it’s important.’

‘Where did you get that accent?’ Wilson asked.

‘New York,’ she pronounced it New Yoirk as a joke. ‘Two years at Columbia University doing a masters in journalism followed by a year on a free paper in the Village.’

‘But you’re from Belfast?’

‘Born but no quite bred. I left here when I was young and lived in England. Ergo, the accent. Bit of Belfast, bit of middle England and a little New York.’

‘How did you end up in England?’

‘Long story.’

‘Why did you come back to Belfast?’

‘Hey, who’s supposed to be asking the questions here?’

Wilson smiled. ‘Sorry, it’s what I do for a living.’

Cummerford stuffed her laptop into her messenger bag and hoisted it over her shoulder. ‘See you at the funeral. I have to get into position. They’re expecting the whole of the West Belfast to turn out.’

Wilson looked at the mass of paper on his desk and wondered how he was ever going to clear it. HQ was constantly talking about the ‘paperless office’ but at the same time requiring more and more pieces of paper to justify every facet of the work. Maggie Cummerford only saw the tip of the iceberg of police work. If she could witness the endless round of paperwork, the constant writing up of records and the assiduous keeping of notes, then Wilson wouldn’t blame her for eating her own head. At least, the paperwork kept his mind away from the Lizzie Rice case for an hour or so. He’d heard a lecture from a psychologist once who claimed that the mind was not capable of concentrating on two things at the same time. He was happy to report that his experience confirmed that conclusion. He had glanced at his watch several times and was finishing up his paperwork when there was a soft knock on the glass door of his office. He looked up to see Stephanie Reid standing at the door. She was dressed in her working clothes of black pants, white blouse and a red jacket.

‘Professor Reid,’ he said hitting the key to kill his computer screen.

‘I thought that we’d gone beyond the Professor Reid and Superintendent Wilson thing,’ she said entering the office.

Wilson looked into the squad room and saw that Moira was watching.

‘Stephanie, what can I do for you?’ Remember what you told, Kate, you randy bastard, Wilson thought to himself.

‘Remember I told you that I asked the forensic lab to run a few tests for me,’ she slipped easily into the chair in front of his desk.

‘Yes.’

She crossed her legs and looked into his eyes. ‘I thought that I’d drop by and give you the results personally. It appears that the assailant was somewhere between five foot six and five foot eight. You’ve got beautiful blue eyes. But I suppose you already know that.’

Wilson decided to ignore the compliment. ‘Great. There are probably only one hundred thousand people in Belfast who measure up to that.’

She smiled. ‘It’s another piece of the jigsaw.’

‘A very little piece. Why didn’t you pick up the phone to impart this important piece of information?’

She looked around his office letting her eyes dwell on a photo of Kate on his desk. ‘I wanted to see where you lived.’

‘I’d be a pretty sad individual if I lived in this station.’

‘And are you sad? You seemed a bit lonely last night. Your partner was pretty much the centre of attraction, but you didn’t seem to know too many people.’

He was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t know any of the people there. I thought that we’d already established that art wasn’t exactly my scene.’

She pouted. ‘See, that’s sad. Don’t you have any friends of your own.’

‘ It’s the reverse when Kate and I watch rugby at the weekend. At the game, we’re surrounded by my friends. The fact that we have different interests means that we have a wide circle of acquaintances. Do you have any friends in Belfast?’

‘Not really. I’m catching up. Perhaps you could help.’

‘I’m sure and attractive woman like yourself doesn’t need my help.’

‘I’d like you to be my friend.’

‘No problem. Charlie and I were friends. I thought that you were from Belfast.’

‘Originally, but I’ve been a lot of places since then. I got the feeling last evening that you and I could possibly become special friends.’

Sweet Jesus, Wilson thought. Why do you put temptation so much in my way? This woman could possibly have any man she wanted, and she’s decided to come on to me. He looked through the glass wall of the office and saw Moira was still staring at them. ‘I think we can be friends, but special friends might be out of the question.’ He glanced at his watch and was relieved to see the little hand between ten and eleven and the big hand at six. He stood up. ‘I’ve got to go. It’s Lizzie Rice’s funeral to-day, and you know the old cliché that the murderer always turns up at the funeral.’

‘Why do I get the impression that you’re running?’

Probably because I am, he thought. ‘I do have a job to do.’

‘Can we meet for a drink some time?’ she stood up but remained between him and the door.

‘I suppose so,’ he said putting on his jacket.

‘When?’

‘I’ll get back to you. Maybe when the case is over.’

‘Too long.’

‘I’m in a relationship where my partner is pregnant. I’m not about to do anything that will upset her so the drink will be in the context of a drink with lots of colleagues. Got it?’ He started to push past her to the door.

‘The car is ready, Boss,’ Moira stood at the door.

‘I must get back to the Royal,’ Reid said moving past Moira. ‘If there’s any further news from the forensic lab, I’ll let you know.’

‘Don’t,’ Wilson said when Reid was out of earshot.

‘She’s a maneater, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed it, you’re a man.’

‘Why me?’

‘That’s what they all say.’

On any given day, the predominant colour along the Shankill Road is royal blue. However, many of the shops and houses put out black flags. Virtually every shop has its version of the Union Jack and where it was of the flag variety, they were at half-mast to respect the passing of a Protestant legend.  All shops and other businesses in the area were closed for the duration of the funeral. The length of the Shankill was awash with people. The street along which the funeral cortege made its way from the Ballygomartin Road was lined with men, women and children many holding the obligatory plastic Union Jack flags.  The coffin was draped with both the Union Jack and the Red Hand flag of Ulster. A large wreath spanned the length of the hearse bearing the legend ‘
Lizzie Rice Patriot’
. The procession of hearse and mourners moved slowly down the Shankill Road before turning into Townsend Street. Wilson was already standing outside their final destination, Townsend Presbyterian Church. The church was a fine stone edifice sandwiched between a building housing the Northern Ireland Post on one side and the Townsend Industrial Park on the other. A part of the old Belfast stuck between two buildings representing the new. Wilson noticed that some idiot had painted the word ‘KILL’ on the red-bricked wall of the Industrial Park. The exhortation of the graffiti artist hadn’t mentioned who should be killed but this was Belfast, and it was left to the spectator to choose their own favourite victim. The large wooden double doors to the church had been opened, and a crowd had already gathered inside the railings surrounding the church. Townsend Street was cleared of parking to allow the cortege easy passage. Wilson’s vehicle was one of the only cars permitted beyond the police cordoned perimeter. One of the other cars allowed into the cordoned off area was that of Deputy Chief Constable Jennings. Wilson looked around for his big boss but found no sight of him. Jennings, as a representative of the PSNI, was already installed inside among the mourning Community leaders. It was another opportunity for the politically adept Jennings to press the flesh of the good and the great. The cliché of the murderer attending the funeral of his victim would be of little use today. Wilson scanned the huge crowd. Men and woman of all shapes and sizes swarmed around the church awaiting the arrival of the funeral party. The buzz created by more than a thousand people fell to a sudden hush as the funeral cortege entered Townsend Road. A group of men wearing sun glasses, black berets and black sweaters suddenly appeared before the church. Wilson recognised Ivan McIlroy and several of the thugs who had stormed the reception area of the station with Sammy Rice. The hearse, led by a piper playing a lament, drew up in front of the church and the crew wearing the dark glasses moved forward. The roof of the hearse was covered in a mountain of floral tributes. The coffin was slowly withdrawn from the hearse and was taken in hand by McIlroy’s crew. The crowd had increased to more than two thousand and Townsend Street was packed from end to end. Sammy and Billy Rice stood directly behind the hearse as the coffin was turned and the group proceeded in the direction of the church. Wilson and Davidson stayed outside the church and scanned the faces of the crowd. Wilson noticed Maggie Cummerford standing just inside the cast iron railings with notebook and pen in hand. He also saw camera crews from the BBC and Ulster Television, and he made a mental note to ask for the footage. Peter Davidson joined him at the edge of the crowd.

‘Shots fired over the coffin on the way down the Shankill,’ Davidson said. ‘Well out of the way of our people. The shots were heard, but nobody saw anything. The order is out from HQ, we’re to stay well out of the way.’

Wilson wondered whether the senior officer sitting in the pew inside was responsible for keeping his underlings well out of the action. They waited while the service took place and watched as the coffin was loaded into the hearse. Sammy Rice glanced at Wilson and Davidson as the cortege moved off in the direction of Balmoral Cemetery, its final destination.  It was not a friendly look.

‘Waste of time,’ Wilson said as he finished briefing the team on the Lizzie Rice funeral. ‘The usual suspects up to their usual business.’ He glanced towards the rear of the squad room where Maggie Cummerford sat tapping on her laptop. Wilson frowned. He didn’t like having an outsider, and a journalist, eavesdropping on the discussions between him and his team. He fired off an angry e-mail to the Chief Constable with copies to Jennings and his boss, Chief Superintendent Spence. To date, he hadn’t received a reply from any of the recipients. He looked into the faces of the team. The lack of progress was written large on their countenances. ‘Let’s meet again at six for a final briefing and for Christ’s sake try and bring me something we can run with.’

Moira touched his arm as he was about to move away. She hadn’t seen him this down since she had joined the team. ‘Do you want to talk?’ she asked.

He glanced over at Cummerford. ‘Only if we can do it in private, I’m afraid to go to the toilet here in case I find her in the stall with me.’ He motioned to Moira to follow him to his office.

Wilson flopped into his chair. ‘More than two thousand people on the street for the funeral of someone who should have spent time in prison, and I saw more than one murderer in the group outside the church. It makes my blood boil that people caught on camera murdering people can freely attend funerals and be treated as celebrities. There were at least three people there that I put behind bars. They should still be there, but because they murdered in the name of politics, they’re out and they can give me the middle finger. What’s the bloody point? Meantime, we are scrabbling around trying to find a lead.’

‘Something will break,’ Moira said with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. It was generally Wilson who provided the enthusiasm, but she had noted that he was more troubled that usual. ‘Don’t let Cummerford get you down.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘It’s all the rage now,’ Moira said. ‘Journalists are embedding themselves everywhere. Aren’t you following the Afghanistan thing? Every American platoon that goes out has some safari jacketed idiot along trying to win a Pulitzer Prize or something. The journalists are fed up reporting the news. Now they want to be part of it. Cummerford is just the tip of the iceberg. Her only purpose is to make a name for herself by writing a book on the investigation?’