Death to Pay (28 page)

‘How’s it going?’ he asked when Taylor sat down.

Taylor looked up as though the question had woken him from his thoughts. ‘Still faffing about with the McIlroy timeline. Pity the bloody bugger didn’t keep a diary in his pocket.’

‘You’ll get there,’ McIver said because he knew that was what he was expected to say. He was hoping for the opposite. ‘I’m off home early for lunch. The wife’s not well. If the Boss asks I’ll be back this afternoon.’

Wilson needed some time to think and assimilate the latest happenings, so he decided to take a walk around the Archvale estate. He wandered along the labyrinth of roads each containing small bungalows of exactly the same type. His mind was totally concentrated on his job. Kate was right. The time for drama was past. They could spend weeks or months going over the whys and wherefores of the miscarriage but in the end, it was what it was. The baby was gone and if the gynaecologist was to be believed it was probably better off never having been born. It was time to move on and concentrate on real life. Three women were murdered in a most violent fashion. All three were members of the Shankill Branch of the women’s UVF during a particularly troubled period of Ulster’s chequered history. They had made progress but not enough to point at either the motive or the murderer. He meandered along the peaceful roads. This was the Ulster that most of the residents wanted. Streets clear of burnt-out vehicles, rows of neat houses with well-tended gardens and tarmacadam driveways. The problem, as exposed by the Boyle murder, was that beneath the façade of peace there existed the potential for violence. Maybe Kate and her friends who wanted a Peace and Reconciliation Commission had the right idea. Perhaps the evil of the past needed to be brought out into the light and exposed for what it was. Maybe people who hated each other simply because they had different religious beliefs might understand that they shared a common humanity and a desire for a better life for all.  He turned a corner and saw the police cars ranged across the road. This was the reality. The past revisiting the present and an elderly lady lying in her bedroom with her head caved in. He walked toward the vehicles and saw Peter Davidson standing with a group of uniforms. He nodded at him and moved to the side. ‘Any news from the house-to-house?’ he asked.

‘Old guy a few doors down though he saw a young woman at the door sometime around ten o’clock. She was holding some kind of bag. He can’t remember what she looked like, but I think another go around with him might produce more. Other than that, nothing.’

Just then two mortuary attendants wheeled out a body bag containing the remains of Joan Boyle and put her into an ambulance.

‘I think we’re done here. Forensic inside?’ Wilson asked.

Davidson nodded.

‘Tell them to pay special attention to the bathroom?’

Davidson sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘Ok, I’m out of here,’ Wilson moved in the direction of his car.

‘Any chance of a lift back to the office?’ Davidson called after him.

‘Get the uniforms to give you a lift.’ Wilson had no intention of returning to the office. The office equalled administration and right now he wasn’t up to dealing with some idiot’s version of organisational management. He took out his phone and called Kate’s office. 

‘Kate McCann and Company,’ the Secretary said.

Wilson identified himself.

‘Miss McCann is in court, but I can get a message to her if you want,’ the Secretary said.

‘Don’t bother, does she have a lunch appointment?’ He heard the shuffling of papers.

‘It doesn’t look like it, and her order for a sandwich is here.’

‘Cancel it and tell her I’ll pick her up at twelve thirty.’

She was sitting in her favourite café on Botanic Avenue. She had taken a seat by the window so that she could watch Belfast go by. She hadn’t been able to believe that they had found Joan Boyle’s body so quickly. She had planned a phone call later in the day and had almost fallen off her chair when she heard the police radio call that a body had been found in a house in Archvale. After the exertions of the previous night, she would have preferred a extended stay in bed, but she supposed that would be impossible. The ball hammer she used was at the bottom of the Lagan. The poncho, the clothes and shoes she had worn had been burned to a crisp. She even destroyed her underwear.  Then she showered in hot water and scrubbed her skin until it almost bled. If she had left even a smidgen of Boyle’s blood on her person, she deserved to be caught. She knew that there was no such thing as the perfect crime. Criminals, no matter how smart they thought they were, leave behind some clue that eventually leads to them ending up behind bars. She had carried out three murders and as far as the smartest detective in Belfast was concerned, she hadn’t left a single clue. Wilson and his team were flailing around in the dark. They were now aware that a woman was possibly the murderer, but it could also be a small man. How many people fitted that description in Belfast? Hundreds, possibly even thousands. She though about the Boyle murder and realised that she had made a serious error with Lizzie Rice and Nancy Morison. Joan Boyle had died knowing why she had to die. It was amazing to see the change in her face when she knew that she was dying in revenge for the death of a woman she considered to be a ‘skank’. At the door, Boyle had looked like a kindly old woman but lying on the carpet knowing that she was about to die for her crime, she turned into a spitting crone. She saw her reflection in the window glass. She didn’t look like a thoughtless murderer. Then again, murderers didn’t have a specific look. If that was the case, a lot more people would be in jail. She’d read the research about the areas of the brain that lit up like Christmas trees when the psychopath did his work. Killing made her feel powerful. Men and women out in the street moved across her vision. She wondered what secrets lay hidden behind their faces. Some of them had to be liars, others cheaters and some even possibly, like her, murderers. She was that blind lady holding the scales in her hand. In a society based on justice, the organs of state would have avenged her mother.  But they failed miserably. She didn’t even have a grave to visit. Which one of those men and women rushing past the window of the café would not harbour vengeance for the killing of a loved one? How many of them would be capable of carrying that vengeance to its ultimate conclusion? How many were like her? Remorse was for the weak, and those without a valid crusade. The McIlroy murder was a magnificent distraction. She could not have planned it better. It muddied the water. They had to decide whether it was linked to the Rice, Morison and Boyle killings and confused the issue of motive. It bought her more time. And her work was more or less done. It was almost time to get out of Dodge. She drained her café latte and waved at the waitress to provide her with a refill.

The offices of Kate McCann and Company were located in an office building on Oxford Street just around the corner from the Royal Courts of Justice on Chichester Avenue. Wilson pushed open the door to the reception area on the second story. Kate’s office covered the whole of the second floor and consisted of the reception area, three offices on one side of a corridor that ran the length of the building, and a large conference room occupied the other side. Studded walls enclosed the offices while the conference area was an all-glass affair. This was not the traditional law office with walnut panelling, antique partner’s desks and dusty cupboards. The office was one hundred per cent Scandinavian chic. Glass and plastic were the dominant materials. Wilson could see one of Kate’s juniors working away inside the conference room that also doubled as the company’s library. Rows of leather bound law books covered the solid walls of the room. Wilson glanced at his watch. It was almost twelve thirty. Kate’s office door opened abruptly, and he looked up to see Sammy Rice and a short man wearing a suit standing directly in front of him.

‘Mr Wilson,’ Sammy Rice said. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Nor I you, Sammy,’ Wilson stood up to his full height, which was some four inches taller than Rice. ‘I though that you and I had an understanding.’

Rice looked like he was thinking deeply. ‘You have me there, Mr Wilson.’

‘Oh ye of short memories,’ Wilson waved an admonishing finger. ‘Remember I advised you to stay away from certain people.’

Rice smiled. ‘Oh that,’ he looked at the suit beside him. ‘My solicitor and me are here on business. We’re looking to change our legal representation and my man here suggested that I talk to Miss McCann. Wonderful woman by the way, attractive and brilliant, what a combination.’

Wilson looked beyond the two men and could see Kate readying to leave. ‘I’ve taken enough of your time,’ Wilson said extending his hand to Rice.

Rice took Wilson’s hand and was not ready for the pressure that was immediately exerted on his fingers. He tried to resist, but he was too late. Wilson continued to squeeze, and it was all Rice could do to resist from screaming.

‘I think I remember that understanding now,’ he said slowly through clenched teeth. 

‘Good I was hoping that you would,’ Wilson released his grip.

Rice shook his hand to re-establish circulation and made for the door. ‘You’re fucked,’ he said under his breath as he passed Wilson.

‘What was all that about?’ Kate asked as she exited her office.

Wilson kissed her lightly on the cheek. She had recovered most of her colour. ‘Mr Rice is an undesirable character. He’s been on the wrong side of the law since he was strong enough to heft a Molotov cocktail.’

She smiled wanly. ‘You could say that about most of the people who cross the threshold of this office.’

‘But Mr Rice is a special case. He operates a diversified business that involves drugs, prostitution, protection and loan sharking. He could be described as a social entrepreneur since he was operating a system of payday loans long before the term became respectable. I have no desire to waste time discussing Mr Rice when my stomach is rumbling.’ He could almost touch the elephant in the room, but he could see that they were both ignoring it. It would become the subject that could never be discussed.

‘Good,’ Kate pushed him towards the door. ‘I concur. He just wasted half an hour of my time bullshitting me on how he wishes to change his legal representation. I got the distinct impression that his objective was something else. Perhaps it has something to do with that pissing contest in reception.’

Wilson held the door open for her. ‘You’re the local here. Where are we going?’

‘You invite a girl to lunch, and you haven’t even made a reservation,’ she said as they exited onto Oxford Street.

He hung his head. He felt they were playing a scene from a movie.

‘Just as well. I’m due back in court at two o’clock, so I suggest we make our way quickly to the Garrick on Chichester Avenue. They serve a mean pie.’

He held out his arm, and she took it. ‘I heard the news you’ve got another body. I hope that’s the reason for the belated lunch invitation.’

‘I couldn’t face the office,’ he said as they turned left in Chichester Avenue. ‘Three dead women and a dead gangster and I haven’t got a single lead. I can just imagine Jennings bending the Chief Constable’s ear. There’ll be lots of ‘I told you not to promote him’ going down and there is absolutely no doubt that if I don’t produce the goods in the next few days, there’ll be a move to get me off the case.’

‘So is this a working rather than a recreational lunch. Have you any idea what my time costs.’

One of his problems was that he did have some idea. ‘Let’s try both. You’re a lot smarter than me so let me run a few things by you,’ he pushed open the door of the Garrick and ushered her in. Every head in the room turned when they entered. Most waved at Kate. ‘Legal colleagues?’ he asked.

‘By and large,’ she said and steered him in the direction of the back bar.

CHAPTER 55

The team assembled, again minus McIver, at two o’clock in front of the whiteboards. A photograph of Joan Boyle was affixed to the board bearing the pictures of Lizzie Rice and Nancy Morison. A line of black whiteboard marker connected the three photographs. The essentials of what they knew about Joan Boyle had been written beneath her name. Davidson was busy during lunch.

Wilson was feeling re-energised after spending just over an hour with Kate. The miscarriage wasn’t mentioned, and their embryonic child was dispatched to the dustbin of history. Wilson wondered what had happened to the embryo, but decided that he really didn’t want to know. He found comfort in the philosophical argument that life didn’t exist until the child was born. He found it strange to converse so naturally with Kate. She was so compartmentalised that she had already put the event behind her. He’d always admired her incisive brain, but he was again reminded that there were other aspects of her character that he had not yet probed. He appreciated her grasp of detail as she questioned him about the facts of the three cases. He realised that he had been foolish trying to keep their worlds apart. It wasn’t always cataclysmic when worlds collide. Sometimes they coalesced to form something bigger than the sum of their parts. ‘Joan Boyle,’ he tapped the photo. ‘Former member of Lizzie Rice’s group, Peter interviewed her yesterday and called it right when he said that she was hiding something. Moira, briefing on finding the body.’

Moira stood forward and ran through the events of the morning up to the arrival of Wilson.

‘Thanks,’ Wilson took over again. ‘The pathologist thinks she died sometime between nine and eleven last night. We’ll have a better idea after the post mortem. Peter, the house-to-house?’

Davidson explained the extent and results of the house-to-house investigation. ‘I intend to return to interview the couple who saw the young woman at the door sometime around ten. Hopefully, they’ve been talking about the earlier interview, and something else may come to light.’

‘Do we think that Boyle was killed because she was about to tell us something?’ Harry Graham asked.