Dark Circles (23 page)

CHAPTER 55

Neither man spoke as the BMW left Belfast via Donegall Square and made its way towards the M1. Traffic was light, and they covered the two miles to the start of the motorway in ten minutes. Boyle looked occasionally at Big George, who just stared directly ahead. They took the M1 and travelled about eight miles before taking the exit towards Sprucefield. The weather continued to be kind. Ireland would be the most beautiful country in the world if it weren’t situated directly in the path of the Atlantic weather systems. The rain and the wind always militated against the beauty of the countryside. Boyle was close to forgetting the purpose of the trip as he piloted the BMW onto the AI and headed in the direction of Hillsborough.

‘Are we going to the seaside?’ Big George asked as they turned left onto Hillsborough Road.

Boyle was surprised by the question. Usually, George was the strong silent type and his breaking of the silence was totally out of character. ‘We’ll run by the sea, but we won’t be going through any decent-sized towns.’

‘Can we get an ice cream?’

Where the hell was this coming from? Boyle asked himself. Was it possible that Big George had some kind of presentiment about what was going to happen? Boyle didn’t answer but drove on through Dromara and headed towards Castlewellan.

‘I’d like an ice cream,’ Big George said with a deadpan expression.

What was with the fucking ice cream, Boyle thought. He turned and looked at Big George, who was examining the road signs. Either this guy was the simplest man on the planet or he was one of those savants who knew what was about to happen next.

‘Can we go to Newcastle?’ George asked. ‘There’s a really good ice cream shop there.’

‘Maybe,’ Boyle said. They were already on the Newcastle Road and while he had no intention of going into Newcastle itself, he couldn’t think of any reason why a condemned man shouldn’t get his final request. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll do Newcastle, and you can have your ice cream.’ He looked at Big George expecting to see some  sign of pleasure on his face. He was disappointed.

Big George shifted in his seat. He was aware that he was crushing Boyle, but he never travelled in the rear and if Sammy wanted Boyle to drive that was his decision. He felt a certain level of satisfaction that they were going to the seaside on such a beautiful day. He loved the sea and more than that he loved ice cream.

Newcastle was a small town on the coast of the Irish Sea, set at the base of Slieve Donard mountain. The green and the purple of the mountain were perfectly set off against the light blue of the sky.

‘I want to go to Maud’s for a poor bear ice cream,’ Big George said.

Boyle sighed. He knew Maud’s was on Main Street and that parking was a nightmare, but a condemned man’s wish and all that shit. He drove along the promenade and was lucky enough to find a parking place. They walked together to Maud’s drawing stares from people who saw this man mountain walking along with what appeared to be a midget. Boyle was five feet nine and weighed in at seventy-five kilos but walking beside someone standing six and a half feet and weighing a hundred and seventy kilos made him look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Maud’s was full of the elevenses crowd enjoying their coffees and cakes. George selected his poor bear ice cream and added two additional slices of cream cake. He stood waiting for Boyle to take care of the bill.

Boyle smiled and fished the money from his pocket. It felt like taking his son to the ice cream parlour. He took his change and motioned to George that they had to leave now. George was already stuck into his poor bear ice cream, white streaks hanging from the edges of his mouth. He carried his back-up cakes in his left hand as they left the café.

Boyle piloted the car back the three or so kilometres that they had strayed off their original path to satisfy Big George’s wish. They passed through the minor village of Bryansford, and Boyle was on the lookout for the small side road that led into the Tullymore Forest. He saw it directly ahead and turned in. The BMW bumped over the rough path. Although Tullymore was a popular area for tourists, it was early in the season and with six hundred and thirty hectares, there were plenty of areas well away from prying eyes.

Boyle brought the Beemer to a halt two hundred yards into the forest and pulled it in near a copse of trees. ‘We’re here,’ he said shutting off the engine.

Big George had finished his poor bear ice cream and was about to start in on his cakes.

‘Put those away, for God’s sake,’ Boyle said. ‘We’ve got work to do. You can have them on the way back.’ He got out of the car and looked around the forest. The trees were bare and foreboding despite the warmth in the air. The only sound he could hear was the hammering of a woodpecker.

Big George eased himself out of the front seat and placed his cakes on the seat he had occupied. He was looking forward to the trip back to Belfast.

Boyle moved to the rear of the car and opened the boot. He removed a spade and shut the boot. He pressed the car key and locked the BMW. ‘Come with me,’ he said. They walked together off the path, and Boyle made a drama out of looking for a particular spot. In fact, he was just searching for a convenient place to plant Big George. He stopped in a clear area and motioned for his companion to join him. ‘It’s here,’ he said pointing at the centre of the clearing and tossed the spade to Big George. He paced out a rectangle of approximately six feet by three. ‘Dig it out to about two feet.’

Big George moved the spade along the rectangle that Boyle had laid out. He removed his pullover and tossed it onto a branch of a tree. The earth was soft, and the first spade of earth came out easily.

CHAPTER 56

Wilson arrived back at the station and went immediately to the squad room. He had just entered when Moira rushed into his office.

‘Traffic came through,’ she said. ‘Come out and have a look.’

Wilson went to her desk. Moira sat and began to run through the CCTV footage. ‘They picked him up on the A57 on his way from the airport. You can get a good view of the passengers. It’s definitely Baxter and Weir.’ She moved the picture forward. ‘Here he is on the M2 heading south into town.’ She rushed the CCTV ahead. ‘We have him in the street adjacent to Malone’s apartment. There’s no CCTV on Fitzroy Avenue, so he disappears for a while.’ She moved the mouse. ‘We pick him up next on his way to Ashley Avenue. He parks a bit away from Grant’s house, and his passengers get out. They’re carrying a case.’ She moved the picture ahead. ‘Here’s one of them who comes back and collects Carroll.’ Again the picture shot forward. ‘Then the three of them return to the cab.’

‘Stop it there,’ Wilson said.

Moira pressed some keys, and the picture paused.

‘Zoom in on the bag in Baxter’s hand.’

Moira moved the mouse, and the picture zoomed in on Baxter’s right hand.

‘Grant’s brother told me that he had bought his brother a very distinctive briefcase. Does that look like a distinctive briefcase to you?’

Moira looked up at him and smiled. ‘If I’m not much mistaken, that looks like the kind of briefcase that is unique in the Province. We’ve got them.’

‘Now we need Big George Carroll,’ Wilson said. ‘Where’s Peter?’

‘Out and about,’ Moira said. ‘Trying to get a fix on Carroll.’

‘Get him on the phone and bring him up to date. We don’t just want to talk to Carroll, we want him in an interrogation room, and we want him there now.’

‘On it, Boss,’ Moira said.

‘I just ran into your boyfriend at Laurence Gold’s office.’

Moira looked puzzled. ‘What was he doing there?’

‘Consulting for Gold,’ Wilson said. ‘Apparently.’

‘Gold is on the side of the angels in this one, right.’

Wilson smiled. ‘Laurence Gold is always on the side of the angels. I was just surprised to find Brendan there.’

‘Brendan is a mercenary. If someone wants to pay for his expertise, he’s constantly ready to oblige.’

‘Always on the side of the angels?’ Wilson asked.

‘He likes to think so.’

‘Get Peter, I want Carroll here.’ He turned and went to his office. He could feel someone behind him. He turned sharply and found himself staring into Eric Taylor’s flushed face.

‘Boss,’ Taylor held up a sheaf of papers, ‘we need to talk.’

‘Come in,’ Wilson opened his office door. He walked to his desk and flopped into his chair. ‘What have you got?’

‘Something that’s beyond my capacity, and certainly beyond my pay grade.’ Taylor sat facing his boss. ‘I’ve scanned all the building contracts awarded by the Infrastructure Agency. One company has been particularly successful. You could even say that they’ve been spectacularly successful. It’s called Robin Construction.’

‘Who’s Robin?’

‘It’s not a person. It’s the national bird of the United Kingdom. Robin Construction has been successful in eighty per cent of the tenders that they’ve submitted. That’s the kind of success ratio that companies dream about. I contacted Companies House to find out who Robin Construction actually is. On the surface, the company is owned and run by one Samuel Rice with an address in Ballygomartin Road, Belfast.’

‘Sammy certainly has come up in the world. Who’d have guessed we had a construction giant in our midst.’

‘I’ve been asking around about Robin Construction but nobody is talking. Anyway there’s a lot of information from Companies House that I’m not in a position to evaluate. But there is one simple fact. Sammy Rice presents himself as the owner-operator of Robin, but he is, in fact, only a minority shareholder. A company called Carson Nominees holds ninety per cent of the shares. Unlike Mr Rice, Carson Nominees don’t have an address in Northern Ireland. They’re incorporated in the Cayman Islands, and their registered office is in George Town.’

Wilson leaned back in his chair. ‘Any idea of the value of the contracts awarded to Robin?’

‘I haven’t worked that out yet but certainly in the high millions.’

Wilson was having one of his eureka moments. Malone worked at the Agency. Perhaps he stumbled onto the fact that Robin was winning a high number of tenders. If Malone discovered that there had been some skulduggery, what would he have done? He’d very possibly have gone to someone who was well known for attacking corruption head on. Malone was probably in no doubt that the documents relating to some kind of scam would be horrendously complicated. Grant was a lawyer, but he didn’t have any financial expertise. That would be where O’Reilly would come into the picture. Wilson was connecting the dots and since all three men were dead, the conclusion he had reached was completely plausible. He waved at Moira.

‘Boss,’ Moira said when she entered Wilson’s office.

Wilson asked Eric to repeat what he had found. ‘I want you to take over this part of the investigation from Eric,’ Wilson said to her when Taylor had finished.

Taylor let out a sigh. ‘Thanks, Boss. The thought of going through all those legal papers was giving me nightmares.’

‘Give Moira everything that you’ve got,’ Wilson said to Taylor. ‘Carroll is the key to this whole business. I want you to help Peter find him.’

Taylor handed the file to Moira and left the office.

Wilson expounded his theory as soon as Taylor left.

‘Sounds plausible,’ Moira said. ‘But it’s supposition until we have some concrete evidence. We have nothing to show that any of these three men met each other. It’s one hell of a coincidence that they all owned computers but that none of them can be found. We’ve checked the agendas of the three and so far nothing. We’re shooting in the dark.’

‘I’ve made the link in a more or less logical fashion. Maybe Big George Carroll can lead us to the next step. In the meantime, I want you to dissect the information Eric has turned up. Get on to our fraud people and see if they can help. You met that finance guy at the Agency. You and I will go back there and shake his tree. And try to find out who owns this Carson Nominees.’ He looked up at Moira expecting a ‘Yes, Boss’, and a view of her departing derrière. She was still holding the documents and hadn’t moved. ‘And?’

‘I’m quitting the PSNI,’ Moira said.

He saw a tear falling from her left eye. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. Inside he could already feel the pain of her loss. ‘You’re doing the right thing.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ Her voice was low and she brushed away the tear.

‘Brendan is a fine man, and he loves you. I don’t think you could have done better.’

‘What about this?’ She held out the file of documents.

‘Go the distance on it but in the end, your life is more important. I’m sad to lose you, but it’s for the best. Now I need you to work as fast as possible on that file.’ Wilson was brought up as a man’s man. His grandfather and father had been tough old bastards who never showed emotion. He was brought up to give no quarter on the rugby field, or indeed in life. Aside from Spence and his team, he hadn’t made another friend in the PSNI. Since she joined his team, he’d developed a special relationship with Moira. If he and Kate hadn’t got together, who’s to say that that special relationship wouldn’t have gone in another direction. That was the same level of speculation as he’d applied to the connection between Malone, Grant and O’Reilly. He thought about McDevitt’s fairy tale and picked up the phone. He dialled the offices of the
Chronicle
and asked for McDevitt. There was a combination of banal music and clicking on the line then finally the croak of McDevitt’s voice. ‘Are you available to meet this evening?’

‘Sure.’ There was surprise in McDevitt’s voice

‘The Crown, seven o’clock.’

‘I’ll be there.’