A Licence to Murder Read online

  BOOK 1

  Belfast, 2017

  Chapter 1

  Rasa Spalvis folded her arms and hugged herself as she walked slowly along Linenhall Street in central Belfast. Mid-October wasn’t as cold in Ireland as in her native Lithuania, but winter had come early. Her tank top and mini-skirt exposed far too much flesh to guard against the bitter north wind that blew from the direction of City Hall down the exposed street. She watched each car that passed, hoping it contained a punter who would beckon her inside and out of the cold wind. It didn’t matter that she would be expected to perform sexual acts with them. That was why she was in Belfast. She was one of four girls being moved around the United Kingdom by the Lithuanian mafia in a parody of a tour. She had already turned tricks in London, Southampton, Bristol, Newcastle and Glasgow. And every day there was the ceremonial handing over of the money to the man who owned her.

  A large BMW came slowly down the street and she put on her most professional smile. At twenty-three she was in her prime. She had a taut body and her tank top displayed the narrowness of her waist and the swell of her breasts. Her hair was naturally blonde and she had high Slavic cheekbones. She watched the face of the man in the car as he looked her up and down. This was the part of the ritual she disliked most. It reminded her of films she had seen about the slave markets in Africa with the traders examining the teeth of the females on sale. She could almost see the little cogs in his mind asking himself the question, Will I, won’t I? Then the car sped up and he drove on towards City Hall. The smile faded from her face. ‘Šunsnukis,’ she shouted after the car. What the hell was he looking for? Who did he expect to see on the street? Julia Roberts. She spat on the ground. A Mercedes was coming towards her slowly. Her smile automatically returned and she thrust her chest forward so that her breasts strained against her top. Instinctively she could feel the driver was interested. She allowed her mini-skirt to ride a little higher and show off her milky-white thighs. The man looked older than her father. Generally, she didn’t like servicing older men. When she was younger she would sometimes refuse an older client but she couldn’t afford to be so choosy these days. Valdas hurt the girls who failed to bring in the requisite amount of money. She walked slowly towards the passenger side window, which was opening. She looked at the man behind the wheel. She had been a prostitute for seven years and she had serviced every type of man. She fancied that she was now as good a judge of men as you could get. Her first reaction was to let this one pass, but it was cold and Valdas had already taught her a lesson with his fists. She leaned on the open window. ‘Are you looking for a party?’ Her English was heavily accented and that seemed to please the client.

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ he said.

  ‘I’m new to Belfast.’

  ‘I think I would like to party with you. Get in.’

  This was the moment of truth. Was she going to fight against the little alarm bell ringing in her head? Her experience told her that this man had a streak of cruelty in him. Perhaps it was his thin lips or the smile that wasn’t quite right. She had been beaten up more times than she could remember. The last time had led to a week’s stay in hospital. She opened the door. ‘Twenty pound for a blow job and one hundred for penetration.’

  The old man removed a roll of notes from his pocket, counted out six twenty-pound notes and laid them on the passenger seat. He looked up and saw the greed in her eyes. ‘And there may be more.’

  She was both excited and repulsed by the thought of extra money. She thought she had satisfied every sexual perversion, but she also knew men had an infinite capacity for thinking up ways to hurt women. She hated men. She hated Valdas and sometimes dreamt of killing him. But that was in the future. She scooped up the money. Maybe everything would be all right. She sat into the car and they moved off.

  The man wheezed and looked down at the girl. The Mercedes was parked in a secluded area off the main path at the western end of Whiterock Road. His hands were still round the girl’s neck and his penis was still inside her. He looked down at her eyes. They were staring straight back at him, unblinking. She had probably just passed out. He slapped her face. ‘Wake up, you dozy bitch,’ he shouted. He hadn’t squeezed that hard. Had he? His penis lost its strength and slipped out of her. Although he found it distasteful, he put his lips over hers and attempted the kiss of life. Then he remembered the course he had done on CPR and started to rhythmically press her chest. After ten minutes he stopped and got out of the rear of the car. There was nobody around. He walked to the edge of the copse and took in a deep breath. A ferry was making its way down Belfast Lough towards the port. He removed a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number. ‘I need your help,’ he said when the phone was answered.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson looked at the mountain of paper on his desk. He missed the days when his former sergeant, Moira McElvaney, would sneak into his office and arrange the mass of paper into some order that he could tackle. His team members were occupied with completing the necessary documents for the Public Prosecution Service on the murder of Tom Kielty and the attempted murder of Jock McDevitt. All except Detective Constable Peter Davidson, who had requested to work full time on Wilson’s theory that former politician Jackie Carlisle had been murdered. It was rare to see Davidson, who was an old-timer with no promotion prospects, being so fired up about what was after all a punt in the dark. He picked up a file from his desk and opened it. The coroner had concluded that the man found in the boot of the burned-out BMW had been murdered. If he were a betting man, he would have put a month’s salary on the body being that of Mad Mickey Duff, an ex-employee of new gang-boss Davie Best. He would add another month’s salary to an accumulator that said Best may not have fired the car but was certainly behind the murder. He flipped through the pages in the file. The crime scene photos would certainly shock a jury if one ever got to see them. Who was he kidding? The newspapers and the evening news showed worse from Mosul, Raqqa, Manchester and London. It seemed that violent death was all the rage.

  A ping from his computer indicated the arrival of a new email. It was from the chief constable and had been sent to every PSNI employee. He reluctantly clicked on the enclosure and a letter from the CC appeared on the screen. Apparently, it gave the CC great pleasure to announce that Deputy Chief Constable Royson Jennings would be retaking his post after a highly successful period assisting Cumbria Police in restructuring their operations. Wilson had heard the rumours that his nemesis was returning but had hoped they were false. The timing couldn’t have been worse. He had a string of unsolved murders sitting on his table. Jennings could use each of them as a stick to beat him. It was almost half a year since Sammy Rice had been murdered. Wilson had solved the crime, in that he knew the names of the killer and of the men who had hidden the body, but he had not a shred of evidence to back it up. Unless Sammy’s body rose from its hiding place, along with the weapon used to kill him, the case would remain open on his desk. He switched off his computer. The email from the CC would spawn a flood of sycophantic responses of the ‘great to hear of the return of the DCC’ variety. Every crawler from sergeant to assistant chief constable would want to ensure the DCC knew that they were over the moon at the thought of his return. Jennings would not expect to see Wilson’s name among the brownnosers. Wilson didn’t fancy facing a refreshed Jennings. It prompted him to remember the phrase in Joni Mitchell’s ‘Big Yellow Taxi’. He didn’t know what he had got until it was gone. He should have had a greater appreciation of the Jennings-less era than he’d had. Now that it was over, he knew he was going to miss it.

  A look at his watch told him it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, which meant that it was almost eight o’clock in t
he morning in Los Angeles. Stephanie Reid would probably be just getting out of bed or perhaps she would be enjoying a breakfast on the deck of her mother’s house in Venice Beach. It was too early to Skype her and give her his bad news. He missed her. The yearning had started as he watched her heading for the departure gate at Belfast International. She hadn’t looked back and he was grateful for that. They had both used the word ‘love’ in their final exchanges and they had been in contact every day since she left. It was becoming apparent that she would be away for longer than either had anticipated.

  His phone beeped and he looked at the message. Jock McDevitt, crime correspondent for the Belfast Chronicle, messaged at least twice a day. Following the launch of his book, McDevitt was the flavour of the month, and not only in literary circles. His ready wit had made him a success in his television interviews. Aside from Northern Ireland Screen extending money for development of a film version of his book, Ulster Television was now courting him to front a new crime programme. Wilson assumed that his new-best-friend would soon leave him behind, but McDevitt continued to astonish him with his loyalty. That was the reason he would be accepting his invitation for an after-work drink in the Crown.

  Chapter 3

  DCC Roy Jennings pushed open the door of his office at PSNI HQ in Castlereagh. It was exactly as he had left it. He walked round looking at the photos on the wall. He was well aware of those who had worked hard to get him back in the second highest post in the PSNI and he knew why they wanted him there. Nobody did something for nothing. He had long ago sacrificed his integrity on the altar of his ambition. He moved behind his desk and examined his realm. It would have hurt the chief constable to accept him back. Norman Baird had the reputation of being an honest man. But the real powers in the province didn’t want an honest man at the head of the police force, they wanted loyalty and not just loyalty to the political system but loyalty to them. Jennings had displayed his loyalty many times before and would obviously be required to do so again. He sat in his chair. All those who had put him in this chair would be paid back. And those who had been responsible for his exile would also be paid back.

  There was a knock and Assistant Chief Constable Clive Nicholson stepped through the open doorway. ‘I heard you were in the building, welcome back.’ Nicholson walked to the desk and the men exchanged a Masonic handshake.

  ‘I’ve missed it,’ Jennings said. ‘But thanks to you and several others I’ve been kept abreast of events.’

  ‘You should be chief constable now.’ Nicholson sat before the desk.

  Jennings gave a wry smile. He would have been if he hadn’t been exiled when the old chief constable died. He had been next in line but they had used his rehabilitation against him. Now he had to kowtow to Baird.

  ‘You would have been if it wasn’t for that bastard skewering you,’ Nicholson said.

  ‘And how is my old friend, Detective Superintendent Wilson?’

  ‘Thriving it appears. At least you managed to get rid of Spence.’

  ‘I don’t count that as an accomplishment. Spence was already halfway out the door. I assume Wilson has been behaving himself.’

  ‘I have a man inside – Wilson’s new sergeant, name of Browne. A bloody shirtlifter. You want to see the stuff I have on him. But somehow I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Will he provide the goods when the time comes?’

  Nicholson’s silence was answer enough.

  ‘What about this Davis woman? Can we manoeuvre her on board?’

  ‘She’s ambitious. You know the type, sacrificed her family for the job and now she wants what she thinks she’s earned. Baird has made it clear that he wants women in the higher echelons and she fits the bill.’

  Jennings brought his hands together in a praying motion. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘She’s a woman and Wilson seems to have an effect on the damn creatures.’

  ‘So we can’t depend on her?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But she hasn’t had to deal with me yet. Perhaps she’ll have an occasion to regret her decision to concentrate on a career in the PSNI.’

  Nicholson smiled. The old Jennings was back. He’d wondered whether his former chief would have been changed by his period of correction. It appeared not to be the case.

  ‘Bring me all the files Wilson has been working on. I want to be completely up to date. I’m willing to bet that he’s engaged in some form of mischief – a leopard doesn’t change his spots.’

  Chapter 4

  There were many days when Sandra Ferguson wished that she had selected another breed of dog. That didn’t mean she didn’t love her two Jack Russells. It just meant they had the ability to drive her to distraction. Like at that very moment for example. They were on their usual walk on the edge of Redburn Country Park when the two little tykes broke away and disappeared into the undergrowth. Ferguson had spent ten minutes calling out for them without success. She was tempted to march back to her car and leave them to fend for themselves. She looked at her watch. It was eight thirty. She was supposed to start work at Holywood Golf Club at nine and the secretary of the club was a stickler for punctuality. She needed to find those bloody dogs and get them home. She ploughed into the undergrowth and thought she heard them crying somewhere straight ahead. She marched on, calling their names as she went. She found them sitting beside a mound of earth into which they had been digging. ‘Bad dogs,’ she said, waving their leads at them. Neither dog moved and as she bent to put their leads on she saw that they had exposed something that looked like mottled flesh. She picked up a branch and started to poke the soil that the dogs had disturbed. Clumps of earth fell away to reveal more skin and possibly a ribcage. The mound of earth was no more than two feet long so it wasn’t possible that it concealed a body. She continued to move soil away and eventually exposed what looked like a breast. She dropped the stick and whirled round in time to send a stream of vomit onto the ground behind her. She quickly connected the leads to the dogs and ran out of the bushes. As soon as she reached the open fields, she removed the mobile phone from her pocket. Her hands were shaking as she placed a call she never expected to have to make.

  Chapter 5

  Detective Sergeant Rory Browne drove the police car across the grass towards the two police Land Rovers that were parked at the edge of the area of bush in Redburn Country Park. He and his boss, Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, hadn’t spoken a word since they had been scrambled by the news that a half-interred body had been discovered. Wilson had initially been excited to hear of the find, hoping Sammy Rice had defied the odds and risen Lazarus-like from the grave. He had immediately rushed from the station, but then news had come over the radio that the body appeared to be that of a young woman.

  Wilson and Browne got out of the car and accepted two plastic jumpsuits from a uniformed policeman. While Wilson was putting on his suit he saw a young woman sitting in the rear of one of the Land Rovers. She appeared to have two small black and white terriers on her lap. ‘Is that the girl who found the body?’ he asked the uniformed officer.

  ‘Yes, sir, Sandra Ferguson, she followed her dogs into the undergrowth.’

  ‘We’ll talk to her later,’ Wilson said, taking the clipboard containing the sign-in sheet and passing it to Browne. ‘Any sign of Forensics?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ the constable said.

  ‘What about the pathologist?’

  ‘On the way.’

  Wilson pulled the top of the suit over his head and bent under the crime scene tape that was being held up by the uniformed officer. The two detectives walked into the bush taking care not to disturb the site. They finally reached the area where the ground had been churned up. Wilson noticed the branch Ferguson had used to disinter the corpse. Except it wasn’t a corpse. It was a torso. From what he could see there was no head, arms or legs. As soon as Forensics finished with the site he would order up the cadaver dogs. The missing body parts might be buried somewhere in th
e vicinity. He bent down and looked at the torso. The news on the radio was accurate. One breast had been exposed and it certainly belonged to a woman and probably a young woman. He didn’t want to move any of the soil surrounding the torso. Despite the covering of earth there was another smell intermingled with the sweet smell of decaying flesh. Wilson tried to identify it. It could be ammonia, but he would leave that determination to the forensic technicians.

  ‘What do you think, Boss?’ Browne asked.

  Wilson stood up. ‘Early days, Rory. Without the head and the hands, identification is going to be difficult, if not impossible.’ He thought about the body they had recovered from the burned-out car. Something clicked in his brain and he found himself staring ahead but not really seeing anything. It was odd having two unidentified bodies in a row.

  ‘What’s the matter, Boss?’ Browne asked.

  Suddenly Wilson was back among the bushes. ‘As an educated man you know what déjà vu is. Well, I have the strangest feeling that I’ve been in this scene before. Not necessarily at this location, but the feeling is very strong.’ He knew it was something to do with the smell, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Maybe it would come to him later.

  Browne leaned over Wilson’s shoulder and examined the torso. ‘You’ve probably attended more than a hundred crime scenes like this. Those images are imprinted on your brain and it only needs a trigger to bring them back.’

  Wilson wasn’t so sure. This feeling was particularly strong. ‘Let’s have a word with Ms Ferguson.’

  They tried to retrace their original steps into the undergrowth in order to cause minimum disruption to the site. As they emerged from the bushes, they saw the forensic van arriving. Wilson started to peel off his suit. ‘Check in with the chief of the team. Then join me in the Land Rover,’ he said.