Death on the Line Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  Outside Aughnacloy, South Tyrone

  Jock McDevitt wondered what the hell he was doing lying on his belly in the wet grass on the side of a knoll in an open field in the middle of the night. The knoll directly overlooked the tarmac road that connected Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. Although it was early September and theoretically summer was only several days ago, the air was bitingly cold and a soft drizzle was falling. In 1607 the local chieftain, Hugh O’Neill, headed to Lough Swilly with his whole kit and caboodle and took sail for France. The history books say that he did so to avoid an all-out battle with Lord Mountjoy and half the English army. But lying in a wet field with the cold penetrating his bones, McDevitt was of the opinion that he and his clan probably just wanted to get away from the horrible Ulster weather. He looked across at the man lying beside him. Thomas Kielty was a seventy-year-old local farmer, and presumably a busybody and an insomniac because who else but a busybody and insomniac would have discovered criminal wrongdoings in his area by tramping about in the early hours of the morning. Kielty appeared to be totally relaxed and at home lying on his back staring at the black clouds above their heads and feeling the misty rain kissing his face. He was wearing a flat cap of the kind favoured by the farming community and a waterproof jacket and trousers. McDevitt had supposed that they would be in some kind of covered hide and consequently he had limited his dress to a pair of jeans and a North Face jacket.

  ‘We’ll have full-on rain before the night’s out, so we will, mind my words,’ Kielty said.

  ‘Fucking wonderful,’ McDevitt said under his breath. That would put the tin hat on it as far as he was concerned. He was a city slicker and proud of it. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost two o’clock. He thought of his comfortable bed and his warm house in Belfast. He had to be mad. This was the kind of craziness that junior reporters got up to. His book on the Cummerford woman would be launching in three weeks. The advance sales looked good and it had already been positively reviewed by his colleague in the arts department at the Chronicle, surprise, surprise. There was even talk of a film and a treatment had already been presented to Northern Ireland Screen to attract investment. So, he asked himself, what the hell are you doing lying on the ground beside some hick farmer waiting for the rain to piss down on you? He smiled inwardly. He knew exactly why he was lying there.

  Jock McDevitt was obsessed with the front page of the Chronicle. If his byline wasn’t on the front page, he was generally miserable. And if the old man lying next to him was right, McDevitt’s byline would be on his favourite page of the Chronicle for an extended period of time. And it wouldn’t only be front-page news in Northern Ireland. There was no way he was going to dump that kind of opportunity into the lap of another reporter. He lifted the Night Owl binoculars that hung round his neck and looked again at the stretch of road fifty metres in front of him. The night-vision binoculars were brand-new but would be well worth the significant investment if Kielty’s information proved solid. ‘Are you sure that they’re going to show?’

  ‘Are you kiddin’ me?’ The old man smiled. ‘Do you know that the leopard is one of the most difficult animals to spot?’ His gaze never moved from the sky above his head. McDevitt sighed but didn’t reply. ‘Well these fellas are more shy than the leopard. If they show, then they’ll show. If not, then there’s always tomorrow.’

  No there isn’t, McDevitt thought. He wasn’t about to spend his time lying in a field hoping something would happen. He had much too much going on in his life to waste any more time than this one evening on what might turn out to be the ramblings of a deluded geriatric farmer. The good news was that Kielty hadn’t demanded money to convey his tip. The people McDevitt normally dealt with had their hand stretched out before they condescended to open their mouths. He would give it another hour and then he’d head back to Belfast and tumble into his bed.

  ‘Where exactly is the border?’ McDevitt asked.

  Kielty rolled over onto his stomach and looked over the knoll. ‘Yonder to the left was where the customs post was in the old days. That was the official border, I suppose, but nowadays people have forgotten where the exact line is, don’t ye know.’

  ‘They’ll know pretty soon if the Brits get their way,’ McDevitt said. The border that had blighted the island since 1922 had become an invisible divider in 1973 when the Irish Republic and the United Kingdom joined the European Common Market.

  The dark clouds that had been threatening since early evening had begun to send spits of rain onto McDevitt’s head when he heard the first sounds of a truck coming along the road from the south. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and sighted on the direction where the noise was coming from. He wasn’t used to night-vision equipment and he had to re-focus his eyes as he saw the truck appear like a ghost through an eerie green light. He tried to make out the licence plate but was unsuccessful.

  Kielty peered over the top of the knoll. ‘Aye, that’s them all right,’ he said, looking into the darkness. ‘Your luck’s in.’

  The truck had come to a stop about one hundred metres from their position. The rain was now falling steadily and McDevitt’s jacket was almost soaked right through. However, he was oblivious to the rain now that the old man’s information had been proven correct. He peered through the green mist and watched two men descend from the truck. He heard the noise of a second truck, this time coming from the northern side. A few minutes later it came into view and he sighted on it. It pulled up directly facing the truck already parked in the road. McDevitt watched as three men descended and walked forward. They reached the two men already in the centre of the road and there was a degree of hugging and back-slapping. McDevitt fiddled with the focus of the binoculars and zoomed in on the faces of the men in the road. Their faces seemed to leap forward into his vision. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said softly as the faces became clear. The men gathered together before one of them moved off into the field on the far side of the road. McDevitt lost sight of him as he left the road.

  ‘Aye,’ Kielty said into his right ear. ‘Now that you’ve seen them, we’d best get out of here. That boy who went into the fields isn’t lookin’ for rabbits.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ McDevitt said, continuing to watch through the binoculars.

  ‘Neither did I,’ Kielty said. ‘You’ve got what you came for. Now, we need to be away.’ He started to pull at McDevitt’s jacket.

  Jock McDevitt was busy looking at the scene in the middle of the road. This wasn’t just one front page, it was dozens of front pages. And Tom Kielty was trying to pull him away from the biggest story of his life. McDevitt shook off the old man’s hand. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a camera? A photo of the scene on the road would be the clincher for his story.

  Kielty had already risen and was making his way down the rear of the knoll and away from the road. There was a copse of trees sixty metres behind them and Kielty was almost there when a brace of shots rang out.

  McDevitt whirled around in time to see Kielty fall to the ground. Holy shit, he thought, what have I done? Is it safer to burrow down here or to make a run for it? He could hear shouting from the road, which elicited a shouted reply from somewhere to his right. He felt an overpowering desire to urinate. His mind was refusing to operate. Kielty hadn’t stirred. McDevitt tried to move but his legs refused to obey the instruction from his brain. He began to crawl away to his left, keeping the lowest profile above the ground. There was more activity on the road and he could hear footsteps coming from what seemed to be every direction. He raised his head to see if there was any clear path of escape. There was an explosion from behind him and he felt a stinging pain in his back just below his left shoulder blade. Then he heard a second shot, s
omething impacted with the side of his head and his world went black.

  The men from the trucks examined the two bodies. ‘They’re gone,’ the eldest of the group said. ‘Let’s get through with the business and get out of here.’ He looked over to where Kielty lay. ‘Stupid old fucker, he should have minded his own business.’

  A younger man standing close to him nodded. ‘We’ll have to look for another spot.’

  After the men had left, McDevitt stirred. His body was wracked with pain and slowly the realisation that he had been shot dawned on him. He tried to move, but his limbs were not responding. He could feel the rain falling on him and he knew that if he didn’t do something he would either die from his wounds or from exposure. He managed to release his mobile phone from his pocket. He flicked it open. There was only one person he knew who could save him at this point. Slowly he dialled a number.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ian Wilson heard the ringing noise but it seemed to be very far away. It was the middle of the night and he was sleeping the sleep of the just, having just passed one of those quiet evenings that had become part of his life over the last three months. Luckily, murder had taken a holiday from Belfast, which was just as well since he had spent an inordinate amount of time debriefing Willie Rice. As a result, he’d managed to close five open cases of murder that had been hanging around for twenty years. Willie had been more than open about his own role in the murders but tight-lipped about who else might have been involved. Wilson assumed it had something to do with honour among murderers. Either that or Willie still harboured some fear about what the other participants might do to him. All that speculation came to nothing when the oncologist confirmed that, although Rice was probably one of the most prolific psychopaths in Ulster’s history, he would never be judged in a court of law. The physician had been proved right almost to the day. Willie had shuffled off this mortal coil two weeks previously. He followed his nemesis, ‘Slim’ Gerry McGreary, into the great beyond.

  McGreary had probably counted on receiving a hero’s send-off, but his interment had more of the flavour of a mobster funeral. The coffin had been draped with the obligatory Union Jack and McGreary’s famous royal blue number six Linfield shirt lay on top of the flag he had professed to love so much. The biggest floral tribute had been provided by Davie Best, McGreary’s former right-hand man. The words ‘Goodbye Boss’ had been laid out in an enormous spray of blue, red and white flowers attached to the side of the hearse. Wilson was present at Roselawn Cemetery to see the baton passed on to Best as the old McGreary mob paid homage to the new leader in front of the grieving widow and her family.

  The demise of two established mob bosses in the space of a couple of weeks had led to a sea change in the organised crime scene in Belfast. The Brown Bear and the Queen’s Tavern had lost their positions as the homes of the two gangs. The men who had spent their days bullshitting at McGreary’s or Rice’s tables had been put out to pasture. Wilson often remembered Rice’s prophecy that the cops would be sorry when the new crew took over. It certainly wasn’t borne out in terms of an increase in the number of murders. Wilson was aware that there had been a certain amount of consolidation in the drugs trade, the prostitution business and protection rackets. But that was a problem for the Drugs and Vice Squads. In order to keep the team focused, Wilson had ordered a complete review of the deaths of Grant, Malone and O’Reilly. It had already been established that a pair of Scottish criminals named Baxter and Weir had carried out the murders of Grant and Malone. He was sure that Sammy Rice had ordered the deaths, but that had not been proven definitively. Big George Carroll, Sammy’s driver, was currently serving five years at the funny farm for tossing O’Reilly out of a fourth-floor window onto a Belfast street. The motivation for the murders had led to a shadowy conspiracy involving a group called Carson Nominees. That company had disappeared as soon as its existence had been recognised. In the meantime, Wilson’s working life was consumed with the need to find either a living or a dead Sammy Rice.

  Wilson turned in the direction of the phone and saw that he was alone in bed. His ‘girlfriend’, Stephanie Reid, had an annoying habit of spending the early part of the night in his bed and leaving as soon as she woke, regardless of what time that might be. He picked up his mobile phone and answered. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Ian?’ the voice was so faint that for a few moments he wasn’t sure who was on the other end.

  ‘Jock, is that you?’

  ‘I’ve been shot,’ the words seemed to be forced out of the mouth. ‘I think I’m dying.’

  ‘Jock, if this is a joke, it’s a pretty bad one.’

  ‘No joke, help me. I feel like passing out again.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  There was a cough on the line as a response.

  ‘Leave your phone on,’ Wilson was already out of bed. ‘Jock, Jock, whatever you do don’t close the communication.’

  There was no reply. Wilson went to his landline and phoned the station. He gave the desk sergeant McDevitt’s number and told him to organise an immediate trace on the phone. He dressed quickly and had just finished when his landline rang. McDevitt’s phone was in South Tyrone, close to the village of Aughnacloy. Wilson told the sergeant to advise the local station that there was an injured man at the location and to get an ambulance there as soon as possible. He took the number of the Armagh PSNI station and rushed to the garage to collect his car. Aughnacloy was one hour away by car. If McDevitt really had been shot, every second would count. In another version of reality, Wilson would have scrambled the helicopter but that would bring the chief superintendent down on his head over the cost. Instead he punched in the coordinates of the location of McDevitt’s phone, gunned the engine of his Saab 92 and tore through the empty streets of Belfast heading west. He reached the M1 and pushed the accelerator to the floor. He would deal with the speed issues later if they arose.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The arc lights cast an eerie glow over the fields outside Aughnacloy. Wilson’s GPS guided him to the area, but he had no need of technology when he got close to the crime scene. A roadblock had already been set up on the B35 and Wilson was permitted inside the cordon when he presented his warrant card. He finally came to rest behind two police Land Rovers that effectively blocked the road. It was still dark as he made his way towards the arc lights. His mind had been in turmoil as he had driven from Belfast. What the hell was McDevitt doing in the back of beyond in the middle of the night? It had to be something dangerous if it had got him shot. Why would McDevitt place himself in danger? It wasn’t part of the man’s makeup. He gave his name to the officer charged with controlling access to the site and made his way to where a group of uniformed officers were standing. One of them turned as he approached and detached himself from the others. The rain had stopped, but Wilson’s shoes and the bottoms of his trousers were still soaked from tramping through the long grass.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson?’ the officer asked as he walked forward.

  Wilson nodded and extended his hand. ‘How’s McDevitt?’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Darren Gibson from Armagh CID.’ Gibson was maybe five years younger than Wilson. Unlike the man from Belfast, he was dressed in uniform.

  ‘How’s McDevitt?’ Wilson spoke louder.

  Gibson retreated a step or two. He’d heard of Ian Wilson. Who in the force hadn’t? ‘There were two men injured, one fatally. One man has already been transferred to Craigavon Hospital. Since the fatality was a local farmer, I assume that Mr McDevitt is the one that’s in hospital.’

  Wilson cursed himself. He’d been in such a hurry to get to the site he hadn’t thought that McDevitt might be on his way to hospital. ‘How badly is he hurt?’

  Gibson could see that McDevitt was more than a casual acquaintance of Wilson’s. ‘The ambulance crew were here when I arrived and they were anxious to get him off to hospital. He’s been shot twice, once in the back and once on the side of the head.’

  That
didn’t sound good. ‘How quickly did the ambulance get here?’ Wilson was aware that cuts to the National Health Service had played havoc with response times. If McDevitt had been lying out for anything more than a half-hour, he probably would have bled to death.

  ‘They were here fifteen minutes after you raised the alarm.’

  Wilson took a deep breath. That gave McDevitt a fighting chance. ‘And the fatality?’

  ‘Also shot twice, one of the shots killed him outright.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  Gibson didn’t reply but started walking in the direction of the arc lights.

  ‘Are Forensics on the way?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘They’re trying to get a team together,’ Gibson said as they walked along. ‘We’ve covered the area as best we can in order to preserve the evidence.’

  They stopped at an area that had been cordoned off with crime scene tape. Wilson went to lift the tape, but Gibson put a hand on his arm. ‘We’re waiting for the protective suits to arrive. We’ve checked him, he’s dead.’

  Wilson looked at the man highlighted by the crossed beams of the arc lights. The corpse was dressed in a rainproof jacket and trousers. A felt cap lay in the grass. He had been running when he had been shot and had pitched forward sending his cap to the ground ahead of him.

  ‘Do we have a name for the dead man?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Tom Kielty,’ Gibson replied. ‘He farms twenty acres less than a mile from here.’

  ‘Any idea what they were doing here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It must have been something important if two men were shot.’

  Gibson nodded. ‘As soon as Forensic and the pathologist have finished with the body, we’ll deliver the bad news to the Kielty family. Maybe they’ll have some idea what the old man was up to.’

  ‘I’ve got to get to Craigavon,’ Wilson said, more to himself than to Gibson. He turned and started to walk away.