Death to Pay (8 page)

‘So it’s a good guess that the killer was watching the bingo hall. He would then have to get ahead of her so that he could disable Billy and be there in time before she arrived,’ Wilson said. ‘Have we checked the bingo hall for CCTV?’

‘Not a sausage,’ Peter Davidson interjected. ‘The hall is on a major junction, so there’s a traffic CCTV which is concentrated on the junction itself. North Street has alleys, and the majority of the business premises are empty and boarded up. The ones that are still operating are more interested in paying their rent than in installing CCTV systems.’

‘Check the traffic CCTV for nine thirty last Wednesday,’ Wilson said. ‘See if you can spot Lizzie and see if you can see someone following her. With a bit of luck, we might get a lead.’ He tried to put more confidence into his voice than he felt. ‘What about the house to house?’

It was Davidson’s turn again. ‘House to house is finished, Boss. We’ve done all the streets in the vicinity and there’s not much point going any further out.’

‘What have we got?’ Wilson asked.

‘Nothing to write home about. I haven’t collated all the sheets from the uniforms but at a guess I’d say we’re goin’ to draw a blank.’

‘That’s not what I wanted to hear,’ Wilson said.

Davidson snorted. ‘This fucker must be some sort of ghost. It’s a tight-knit community, and they’re normally on the look out for strangers. I’m a bit confused that nothing has turned up.’

Wilson pointed to the scene of crime scene photos. ‘The living room looks like a slaughter house. There’s blood and brain all over the place. Please don’t tell me that the murderer didn’t get blood on his clothes. It’s just not possible. So someone walked out of the Rice house covered in blood, and no one noticed him. I don’t buy it. Go back to the streets. Interview everybody again. Somebody must have seen whoever came out of that house. There’s some auld biddy sitting at her window watching who walks up and down. Find her.’

‘You’re living in the past, Boss. The auld biddy that used to sit by the window, now sits in front of a 40 inch colour flat screen TV provided by the Social.’

The other members of the squad laughed and the tension was dissipated somewhat.

Wilson slapped his hand against the whiteboard. ‘We’re under the cosh and the clock here. There are going to be people on the streets to-night and every night until we find who killed Lizzie. Sammy is staying quiet for the moment, but don’t count on it staying that way. I don’t credit Sammy for a high level of emotional intelligence so this mourning that’s going at the moment is only to shore up his support in his enclave. As soon as Lizzie’s in the ground, Sammy is going to be out there competing with us to find the killer. And I don’t want him to succeed where we failed. Ronald, how are you doing on Lizzie’s background.’

Ronald McIver was sitting on the desk closest to the whiteboard. ‘Lizzie was no saint, as I’m sure we’re all aware. Back in the seventies and the eighties she was right in the middle of the ‘Troubles’. She headed up the women’s branch of the Ulster Volunteer Force in the Shankill and by all accounts, she was involved in a lot of unsavoury stuff. She was lifted a total of seven times and questioned about burnings and harassment, but she was never charged. She always produced cast iron alibis. So most of what I’ve managed to put together has come for contacts in the press. I tried a few old contacts in the paramilitaries, but nobody wants to talk about Lizzie except to say that she hasn’t been involved for the past twenty years or so.  In terms of people bearing a grudge against her, you could probably fill the Ulster Hall.’

‘It just get’s better and better,’ Wilson said. ‘We need to turn up some leads soon.  Which means that you guys are going to have to work your socks off until we develop a definite line of enquiry. So get to it. More interviews, check CCTV, talk to the women who were at bingo with her. Was she nervous? Had she been threatened? Bring me something.’

The group broke up slowly and moved back to their desks wordlessly.

Wilson was aware that he was transmitting the tension that he was feeling to the rest of his team. But that was part of being a team leader. Creating tension could be a bad thing, but it also could be good. It would depend on the person. Moira would put her back into the investigation, and it would be difficult to get her out of the office. She was also intuitive, which made her the best detective on the team. Peter Davidson would go into his shell until something broke. He was seldom the member of the team that sniffed out a lead. But he was a good solid detective in following up. Ronald McIver would continue to pound the computer keys and man the phones. Every team needed a researcher and that fitted Ronald’s character and his fear of the streets perfectly. Harry Graham would plod along making sure that the murder book was kept up to date and ensuring that all the rules and regulations were adhered to. Eric Taylor was the oldest on the team. He knew all the ropes and every copper in every station in Belfast. But he was one year away from retirement, and it was beginning to show. The members of the team had strengths and weaknesses, and it was his job to play to the strengths and minimise the weaknesses. He was hardly five minutes in his office alone when his phone rang. It was an invitation for a second visit to HQ in one day. A second invitation didn’t bode well.

Wilson was ushered directly into the DCC’s office as soon as he arrived at HQ. He was somewhat surprised to find Maggie Cummerford sitting facing DCC Jennings. He remembered Cummerford from her short stint as a crime reporter for the Chronicle, but he hadn’t seen her in some time. Then he remembered the wave at the press conference. ‘I can wait outside,’ Wilson said quickly. ‘Until you’re finished.’

‘This concerns you,’ Jennings said pointing at the second chair in front of his desk.

‘I don’t understand,’ Wilson moved slowly towards the chair and sat with some reluctance.

‘It appears that the Chronicle wishes to write a complimentary article about the PSNI, and it will be centred on the work of the Murder Squad,’ Jennings had his two hands together in a praying manner covering his mouth as he spoke. His voice was strained as though something was caught in his throat.

Wilson looked at Cummerford wondering what the hell was going on. ‘Sir, I am involved in perhaps the most difficult and without doubt the most politically charged murder case of my career. Perhaps it would be more appropriate for the Chronicle to highlight the work of some other section of the Force.’

‘The decision has been made,’ Jennings said sharply. ‘The Editor insists that, given your sporting past and the level of name recognition that you have, you are the optimum candidate to represent the new PSNI. I’m not sure that I share his opinion, but I have been prevailed upon to agree.’ He bridled at the smirk on Cummerford’s face. ‘This young lady will have total access to you and your team during the Lizzie Rice murder investigation. That access concludes when the investigation concludes.’

‘I’m afraid I must press the issue with the Chief Constable,’ Wilson said trying to take in the impact of having a journalist around during an investigation.

‘Please be my guest. The Chief has already given his approval. He thinks it will show the Force in a good light and to be open and transparent.’

Wilson was loath to give in. ‘Things may be said and done during an investigation that we would not want to reach the public domain.’

Jennings leaned back in his chair. ‘As I understand the brief, the focus is on you as an individual and not on the murder investigation. The article will not concern itself with the investigation or with any of your colleagues.’

Maggie Cummerford nodded when Wilson looked at her.

Something was very wrong here. He remembered that Cummerford had mentioned wanting to do a profile on him some months previously, but he had no idea how she or her editor had managed to convince the Chief Constable that having her follow him around during an investigation was a good idea. ‘I would like to have my objection recorded, and I will need a written confirmation that HQ has insisted on this action.’

‘Done,’ Jennings said simply. ‘Please wait outside. Miss Cummerford will join you shortly, and you can make arrangements. I have given instructions that Miss Cummerford is to be provided with a visitor’s badge.’

Wilson stood and realised that his fists were clenched. If this was another attempt by Jennings to undermine him, it was a damn clumsy one. He turned and made for the door.

‘I don’t like you,’ Jennings said when Wilson had left the room. ‘And I don’t like having my arm twisted.’ He removed the cassette from his desk drawer and pulled the tape out squashing it in his hand as it went. ‘You should be careful who you push against. Some people are apt to push back harder. You must take great care of yourself, Miss Cummerford. You may think that you have won a battle, but this was simply a skirmish. The battle is yet to come. Now get out of my office.’

Wilson was walking up and down outside Jennings’ office when Maggie Cummerford exited. ‘What in God’s name are you up to?’ he asked as he towered over her.

‘I told you months ago that I wanted to do a profile on you,’ she stood staring up into his face. The combination of American and Ulster accents was as soft as a summer rain. ‘You should have said yes then. You’re an interesting fellow – former sports star, head of the Belfast Murder Squad and partnered up with a leading light of the legal establishment with a baby on the way.’

‘Surely to God you could have done your profile without looking over my shoulder during a murder investigation.’

‘The opportunity was too good to waste. This case alone is a career maker for a journalist with the inside track. At the same time, I get to know you as well as any human can,’ she smiled. ‘Not in the biblical sense, although I might be up for that too before we’re finished.’

‘I need to get back to the station, and we need to establish some ground rules.’

‘I’ll take a lift. I don’t think DCC Jennings likes me.’

‘Join the club.’ 

CHAPTER 19

Lizzie Rice’s body was released at midday. Sammy Rice had barred his father from the mortuary. He was in control of events, and he wasn’t going to allow the auld fool to screw things up. Since the night of the murder, Billy had been buried in a whiskey bottle, and every now and then he came out with some shit about murdering ten Taigs for Lizzie. Luckily, nobody was listening to the bastard. The house in Malvern Street was still a mess. The crime-scene tape was gone, but Sammy hadn’t had time to have the blood and brain cleaned up. The hearse delivered the coffin bearing Lizzie’s body to Sammy’s house in Ballygomartin Road. Sammy had moved on from the two up two down in Malvern Street that he had been born in. The house in which Lizzie body would lie was a three-story bay-windowed Victorian red brick consisting of five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a large modern kitchen and two reception rooms. Although it was a big step up from the family home, it was well below Sammy’s spending power. Sammy Rice could afford to live among the wealthiest in Belfast, but he needed to be close to his people and the source of his power – the Shankill Road. Sammy had arranged for family members to carry the coffin into the large downstairs living room where Lizzie would lie in state. It was a tradition in Ireland to hold the wake with the coffin open. The funeral home had used all their arts to give the impression that Lizzie’s head was still intact. Chairs had been placed around the edge of the living room, and Sammy placed himself next to the coffin. Word had been spread throughout the Shankill that Lizzie could be viewed and food and drink would be available at the Ballygomartin house.

‘I want a major kick-off in the Shankill this evening,’ Rice said to Ivan McIlroy. ‘Last night was only a parade. I want to mark Lizzie’s wake with a full-on riot, burning busses, Molotov cocktails, baton charges by the peelers, the whole nine yards. Are you with me? Get every mad fucker out onto the streets.’

‘I’ll get on it,’ McIlroy said.

‘What about getting’ someone close to Wilson?’

‘I’m meetin’ one of Wilson’s team this evenin’.’

‘Is it money?’

‘Aye.’

‘Give him what he asks for. I want the man who killed my mother. Make that clear.’

‘I thought that you were connected higher up,’ McIlroy smiled exposing a row of rotten teeth.

‘Our friend, Wilson, doesn’t always play by the book. He tends to keep his cards close to his chest. We need someone who’s with him day and night.’

There was a noise at the door and Rice turned and saw a leading Loyalist politician enter. He moved to greet the new arrival. The politician gripped Sammy’s hand. ‘Sorry for your trouble,’ he said. ‘Lizzie will be sorely missed.’

‘Aye, she will,’ Sammy replied. ‘Would you like to see her?’

If the mood at the two o’clock briefing was despondent, by six o’clock desperation had set in. The second level of interviews had drawn a blank and the research into Lizzie Rice’s background had added a couple of hundred additional individuals who would like to have done serious damage to her. Moira had managed to add a second trawl through the forensic evidence but aside from the few fingerprints that could not be identified there was nothing new to report.

‘It’s the perfect fucking crime,’ Wilson said as the team completed their reports. ‘But then again, we all know that there is no such thing as the perfect crime. The murderer couldn’t go through that house, commit a murder and leave without leaving behind some trace. There’s a hair, a piece of fingernail, something with DNA on it in that house that we haven’t found yet. I just cannot believe that we’ve hit a brick wall so soon in this investigation.’ He looked around at the faces of his team and saw reflected in them a measure of his own despondency. Maggie Cummerford sat in the corner of the Squad Room beyond the team tapping away on her laptop. Wilson was wrestling with how and why she had been landed on him. It was way outside of protocol to give a journalist inside access to an on-going investigation. And yet Jennings had been so on board that he had squared the break in protocol with the Chief Constable and issued a written instruction. What was the greasy bastard up to this time? Whatever it was it wasn’t going to be good for him. But Cummerford had said that Jennings didn’t like her. Was she trying to flim-flam him to get him onside? All he knew was that she was a major distraction. He should be concentrating on finding Lizzie Rice’s murderer, but his mind was engaged in trying to divine Jennings’ new plan for him. He spent an hour setting boundaries with Cummerford. She was to clear all her reports with him, and she was to leave his private life just that – private.