Death to Pay (12 page)

‘Do you believe that? Jennings wouldn’t put a journalist in here unless there was a reason. That man could give lessons to Machiavelli’s Prince.’

‘It might have something to do with that Harrison business. Word was that she was kicked hard because the Chronicle had to apologise and retract the story she wrote about you. Maybe she holds a grudge against you.’

‘Something doesn’t smell right,’ Wilson said leaning forward.

Moira shuffled uneasily. ‘I saw Professor Reid in your office. You seemed to be very friendly.’

‘And this concerns you how?’ he was piqued.

‘I’m a woman, and I recognise the type. She’s set her sights on you and you better be careful how you handle her. It may turn out to be an easy lay, but it’ll be an expensive one in the long run.’

‘Kate’s pregnant, for God’s sake. We’re about to have our first child.’ He knew he was being defensive. He hadn’t been able to say that he wasn’t interested in Stephanie Reid, and he hated himself for it. Moira was too bloody smart to miss signals.

‘All the more reason to give Reid a wide berth.’

‘Point taken. And how’s your good professor?’

‘He’s intelligent, funny and sort of good-looking in a quirky kind of way.’

‘So you’re going to marry him?’

‘Been there. Done that. Don’t much care for a repeat. We’ll see how things go. Speaking of Brendan,’ they both laughed. ‘He asked me to ask you whether you’ve ever considered a woman for the Lizzie Rice murder. He was talking to some friend of his in Quantico discussing another case in the States and the question of women killers came up. It appears that in many cases the female of the species is more brutal than the male when it comes to killing.’

‘I knew that I opened Pandora’s Box when I agreed to meet the Professor. Call me cynical but I don’t like profilers or psychics, and I certainly wouldn’t like the professor to be discussing my cases with his friends in Quantico.’

‘Glad to see that you’re open minded.’

Wilson could see Cummerford wandering around outside his office.  He let out a large sigh. ‘Play time is over. Send her in. Let’s see what she’s up to.’

‘Careful, Boss, in more ways than one. ‘

Maggie Cummerford let her leather messenger bag drop on the floor as she sat in the chair facing Wilson. ‘The funeral was a bummer,’ she said. ‘Nothing happened.’

‘What did you want, murder and mayhem?’

She leaned back in the chair. ‘Some decent copy; tears, threats of retaliation, old colleagues running for the plane or boat to get away from internecine warfare. Something to titillate my editor and the masses.’

‘That’s what it’s all about, titillating your editor?’

‘For now, yes.’

‘And I titillate your editor so much that you insinuate yourself into my investigation?’

‘You titillate me, and when I’m finished writing about you my editor will be titillated too.’

‘And that’s the only reason that you’re here, there’s no hidden agenda?’

‘Not on my part, no.’

‘So where did this titillation come from?’

‘You’re a legend, you just don’t know it.’

‘And neither do the people of Northern Ireland, and maybe that’s the way I want to keep it.

‘No can do. Ex rugby star, forced out of the game by an injury sustained in the cause of duty, top cop with a string of high-profile cases behind you, partner to a top barrister flagged for higher things, rubbing shoulders on a daily basis with the top personalities in the Province. Of course, the man in the street wants to know about your life. The average man in the street wants your life.’

‘Not if they knew how boring it is. Come on, you’ve seen it yourself. It’s just plodding. Look at the Lizzie Rice case. Two days down the line and we haven’t a single lead. There are a million and a half people in Ulster and quite honestly any one of them could be guilty of murdering Lizzie Rice. We’re exactly nowhere. As far as my partner and I are concerned, you’re never going there, and I wouldn’t try if I were you. What are you really after?’

‘A job on the Times or maybe crime correspondent on Sky News. But that won’t happen unless someone notices me. And you’re my path to being noticed.’

Blind ambition, Wilson thought. That would make Jennings and Cummerford bedfellows.  ‘I hope you make it; I genuinely do,’ Wilson said. ‘You know the old Chinese curse – be careful what you wish for because you might get it. Now it’s time for me to do a bit of plod. So get lost.’

CHAPTER 23

The squad room was eerily quiet. Ronald McIver was alone in the large room. He opened the drawer to his desk and looked at the roll of notes held together by an elastic band. He counted them several times already. There were ten twenty-pound notes, forty tens and eighty fives. It was his equivalent of thirty pieces of silver, one thousand pounds for becoming a Judas. It was a small enough price. He closed the drawer and sat looking at his computer screen. Although his eyes were fixed on the screen, he saw nothing. He spent the morning enquiring into the life and times of one Ivan McIlroy. Although they had been at school together their lives had diverged in major ways. They became mirror images of each other. He was a police officer and a deacon at the church. McIlroy was a member of the UVF and a thug. He had married Mary and McIlroy had a history of abusing women, lots of women. McIver trawled the databases for information on McIlroy. His police file was substantial citing more than twenty arrests for everything from grievous bodily harm to arson to causing an affray. Then there were the arrests for beating up women, five in all but a lot more suspected. All the cases were dropped due to the victims withdrawing their evidence. However, despite the accumulation of charges, he had only one conviction. He was sentenced to six-months probation for affray. It was justice Ulster style. Sammy Rice obviously coated his lieutenant in Teflon. Nothing appeared to stick to McIlroy. McIlroy was an evil bastard and no doubt now McIver was inextricably linked to him via the bundle of grubby notes sitting in his drawer. He looked at Wilson’s office. He was about to betray his boss and mentor. McIver had never thought of himself as a Lundy, the reviled traitor to the Protestant people of Ulster. Ian Wilson was good to him. He had supported him when he had been having his minor nervous breakdown. And he was about to thank him by working against him for a reprobate like McIlroy. The thought made him feel sick. But what option did he have? McIlroy had a history of violence against women so the threat he had made against his wife hadn’t been an empty one. And Mary wasn’t just any woman. She was vulnerable and sweet, and she was suffering from early dementia. At first, he thought that she was simply becoming forgetful but the instances of the gas being left on and the keys to the house being mislaid had multiplied. There were the difficulties in reasoning and the impairment in language. The doctor had called it mild cognitive impairment and had suggested tests that had confirmed early onset of Alzheimer’s. They had been devastated but at least there were no children. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being abused or raped by McIlroy. He looked again at Wilson office. He’d have to find a solution.

CHAPTER 24

Nancy Morison was more than a little tipsy. She’d spent the morning at the funeral of her good friend, Lizzie Rice. She had been one of those who had gone from the house in Ballygomartin Road to Townsend Street Presbyterian and on to Balmoral Cemetery. And her feet could tell the tale. She’d put on her most comfortable shoes, but they weren’t snug enough to counteract the hours of standing and walking. Still it was a wonderful service. The pastor had given a beautiful speech, and the singing of the hymns had been heavenly. Sammy put on a spread at the Black Bear public house with sandwiches and plenty of booze. There had even been rousing renditions of the ‘Sash’ and ‘The Protestant Boys’. In all, it had been a lovely day except for the fact that she would never see Lizzie again. They had both been born on Malvern Street six months apart. Lizzie was the elder, and those six months set her out as the senior partner for all their lives. Lizzie led, and Nancy followed. Lizzie was the boss of their class at school with Nancy her able lieutenant. Lizzie always got the best-looking boy friends. Billy Rice had been the handsomest young man in the Shankill, and Lizzie had set her sights on him. Nancy wanted him too but when Lizzie told her that she was going to have him, she dropped out of the race. She giggled to herself. Billy’s looks didn’t last long. He took to the lager like it was mother’s milk and his slim figure soon ballooned. She’d looked at him at the funeral, and he looked fucked. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be following Lizzie. She stumbled a little. How many vodkas had she had? She tried to count back, but the drinks kept flowing so it was all a blur. Sammy must have put a fortune behind the bar, although she’d heard that he owned the ‘Black Bear’ so he was really paying himself. She stopped and opened her bag. She had had a packet of ciggies earlier in the day, and she was sure that she still had at least one left. She had a Eureka moment as she discovered a battered cigarette at the bottom of her bag. She pulled it out and stuck it in her mouth. There was no sign of her lighter in the bag. Where the fuck was the stupid little bugger? She swirled her hand into the mass of rubbish in her bag but there was no sign of the lighter. A young man passed her by and she moved to ask him for a light, but he was past her before she could get the words out. ‘Fucker,’ she called after him. She stood on the path with the bent and broken unlit cigarette in her mouth. She had difficulty remembering where she was. Her total concentration was on getting a light for her cigarette.

‘Hi, Nancy.’

Nancy turned her concentration from the cigarette to the sound of someone calling her. She looked at the road and saw that a car pulled up beside her. A young woman lowered the window and was speaking to her. She smiled although she didn’t recognise the figure in the car.  She bent her knees slowly and looked into the car. The silly bitch at the wheel was wearing one of them hooded things that hid her face. Maybe she can give me a light. Nancy staggered over to the side of the car.

‘Get in. I’ll drive you home,’ the young woman said opening the door for her from the inside.

‘Do you have a light? ‘ Nancy said although it came out as j
ewhavalit
.

‘Yes,’ the young woman said. ‘Get in.’

‘Fuck it,’ Nancy said and got in the car.

They immediately moved off from the kerb. Nancy’s bag was still open, so she closed it. She looked up at the woman driving. ‘I don’t know you,’ Nancy slurred the words. She was happy to be in a car because of her aching feet. ‘Whose cub are you?’

‘You met me once,’ the young woman said and took a Taser from the side pocket of the car and it one movement pressed it to Nancy’ side.

A bolt of electricity shot through Nancy. She convulsed, and collapsed in her seat.

‘Just think about ice cream,’ the young woman said giving Nancy a second jolt.

They drove in silence now out of Belfast on the B102 through Andersonstown and on to the Stewartstown Road. When they reached the southern suburb of Dunmurray, the young woman turned left into the countryside. She had selected the site over the past few days. It had to be quiet, but the body had to be discovered quickly. They drove for half an hour before they came to the spot she had chosen. She pulled into the side of the road and looked across at Nancy. Seventy kilos, she estimated. It would be a haul, but she would manage it. The house was being constructed twenty yards from the road. The foundations were already put down and concreted. Blocks were stacked around the foundations to facilitate the bricklayers’ work.

Nancy Morison began to stir. She looked out the window of the car and saw that she was in the countryside. She was confused and feeling more than a little sick. She could taste bile in her mouth so a puking session wasn’t too far away.  She remembered walking along Cambrai Street in the centre of Belfast. She was desperate for a ciggie. Then she remembered looking for a light. She suddenly became very afraid. She looked beside her and saw the woman in the hoodie with the electrical gadget in her hand then she felt the bolt of electricity hit her again, and she lost consciousness.

The young woman dragged Nancy Morison out from the passenger side of the car and hefted her up with difficulty onto her shoulder. She marched along the rough stone path leading to the foundation staggering over the uneven ground. The old woman was a dead weight, but she managed to get her up onto the concrete foundation.

Nancy came around and found herself lying prone on her back looking up at the sky. This was a nightmare. It must be the drink, she thought. She saw dark clouds scudding across her vision. Looks like rain, she thought. She wondered what she was doing here lying on her back on the cold concrete. She remembered the electric shock and felt her bladder collapse and warm pee flood her knickers and form a pool around her bottom. Suddenly, there was a face directly above hers. She had no idea who her tormentor was. ‘Please,’ she forced the word out of her mouth.

The young woman looked at her as though she were some kind of specimen. ‘It’s important that you don’t move during the next part of the operation,’ she said. ‘So I’m going to have to give you another little shot.’ She held up the electrical gadget with the two points like horns and rammed it into the old woman’s chest.

Nancy’s body convulsed, and she voided herself. The smell of fresh excrement was immediately in the air.

The young woman picked up and large concrete block from the nearest stack and held it as high as she could before smashing it down on Nancy Morison’s head.

The concrete block split the old woman’s skull as though it were a coconut. The point of impact was the forehead and crown of the head. Brains and cranial blood spilt out onto the concrete foundation. Death was painful but instantaneous.

The young woman looked at the body for a few moments and then smiled. ‘By the way, thanks for the ice cream,’ she said.