Derek Fee [Fee - Dead Rat

PROLOGUE

Belfast is an unforgiving city in winter. Atlantic storms enter via Donegal Bay and head across country until they hit the Black Mountain and disgorge their cargo of rain upon the citizenry. But the Irish are inured to rain, even when its ice-cold rain. More pervasive is the wind from the Arctic, which howls down Belfast Lough and brings biting cold, hail and occasionally snow to the city before continuing on its way south. The residents of the city had already suffered three of what the television weather presenters termed cold spells this winter. The fourth arrived that afternoon when the mercury began its fall to the bottom of the thermometers. A light dusting of snow followed, with a more appreciable fall on the top of the Black Mountain. By evening, the peaks wore their white caps like a group of old men huddled around a turf fire. The temperature had passed through zero at midnight on its way to minus five degrees, accompanied by a wind-chill factor of minus ten.

Hugh Royce bundled his padded jacket around him. He didnt do cold. He pushed himself further into the recess at the rear of OReillys pub in North Belfast. He was only five minutes out of his car and already his feet felt like two blocks of ice, but at least he was sheltered from the wind. He looked across the empty parking lot and coughed. He had just recovered from a bout of the Australian flu and standing in the open during one of the severest cold spells to hit the city was not what he needed. He removed his hands from his pockets and blew into them. Should have invested in a pair of gloves, he murmured to himself.

The building behind him was closed and lightless. The area in front of him had a soft covering of snow, and the footprints from his car to the point where he now stood were clearly visible. He looked at his watch, four minutes past twelve. He would give it a quarter of an hour. The trip back was going to be a bitch if there was ice on the road. His hands shook as he removed a cigarette packet from his pocket and eased a cigarette out. The first match he struck was extinguished immediately by a gust of cold wind. He bent his head to bring the tip of the cigarette closer and cupped the match in his hands. The cigarette caught. As he raised his head, a shadow flitted across the parking lot, but no one came forward. Must be seeing things, he thought, or maybe Im going crazy. What sort of idiot agrees to a meeting outside a dark pub at midnight on the coldest night of the year? But he had come to Belfast to sort things out and if that meant freezing his balls off in the process, then so be it. He pulled on the cigarette, filling his lung with the sweet smoke. As he exhaled, he peered into the darkness. Nothing. Where the fuck are you, man? Its not the night to be late. He looked at his watch again. The minute hand had hardly moved and the cold was creeping up from his feet, spreading the sharp pain all the way to the crown of his head. What if the bastard doesnt show? As far as the others were concerned he was a flea on the arsehole of the world, a meaningless blast from the past. He thought about the shit decisions that had led him to be standing in an empty parking lot in the middle of a cold dark night in an effort to atone for his sins.

He turned his head quickly at a sound, but there was nothing there. Was he just imagining these fleeting shadows and scratching noises? Fear crept up his spine. His inner voice told him it was time to leave. Now all his attention was on his ears. There was definitely something out there in the darkness. He pulled on the cigarette. Fuck it, he thought. Im out of here in two minutes and they can live with the consequences. He started counting off the one hundred and twenty seconds in his head.

As he reached one hundred he heard a definite noise from the other side of the pub. He turned his head and saw a black figure rounding the corner and heading in his direction. He smiled. Maybe everything was going to turn out and soon hed be heading for the warmth of his billet. He peered through the darkness. The man who turned the corner had his face covered by a scarf and wore a beanie on his head. Royces smile faded when he saw the man remove a gun from his pocket. In the name of God, man, dont. You dont have to. The shots came before he could get his hands up in a vain effort to defend himself. He felt the bullets slam into his chest and his legs were no longer capable of supporting the rest of his relatively light body. His last thought was that it was a hell of a night to die. He fell forward, then nothing.

The man who had shot Royce drew level with the body, pointed the gun at the dead mans head and fired.

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson stood at the window of his apartment and surveyed the city of Belfast. It was seven oclock and the city was just waking up. The snowy scene was straight out of a Christmas card. Snow temporarily covers the dirt and grime before it adds to the mess by becoming slush, he thought. He and his partner, Stephanie Reid, had returned to Belfast two months previously, having laid Stephanies mother to rest in California. The last few weeks in Venice Beach had been a whirlwind of funeral arrangements and the filing of legal papers. The upshot was that Stephanie was now a very wealthy lady having been left the bulk of her mothers estate. It was a chalice that she didnt really want. They could have stayed on, but Reid had felt she needed to get back to the routine of cutting up dead bodies for a living.

Wilson had been a little more reticent about his return to Belfast to resume leadership of the PSNI Murder Squad. The day hed left Belfast for California hed learned of the death of Noel Armstrong, a government minister whom he suspected of murdering two prostitutes and whom he had established was being protected by the security services. Armstrongs death had left him dissatisfied. There was a certain rough justice in his demise, but he would have preferred to see Armstrong stand in the dock and be judged for his crimes. But that was never going to happen. Wilson had long ago given up the nave idea that justice always prevailed. In his experience, it was generally perverted by one of the participants in the game. That was his main worry since he returned. Armstrong had been in the service of the British security service for more than fifteen years. Throughout that time, he had also managed to convince his colleagues in the Republican movement of his commitment to them. Until a few months ago. Somehow, they had learned of his treachery and they had executed him for it. How exactly had they discovered his duplicity? It was a question that had dominated Wilsons thinking since hed watched Armstrongs funeral on television. It wasnt the usual send-off afforded to a stalwart of the struggle to free Ireland. Where was the tricolour-draped coffin carried by the luminaries of the party Armstrong had served? Where was the volley of shots as the coffin was lowered? It all pointed to the fact that somehow his speculation about Armstrongs double life had been passed on to the mans comrades. Yet Wilson had told no one outside the investigation of his suspicions. The fact that he might have been the source of the leak nagged at him. He didnt like to think a member of his squad was unreliable. He had turned those thoughts over in his mind a thousand times without coming to a conclusion. A secret in Belfast was something that only one person knew. Despite the so-called return to normality, the security services still kept a close eye on happenings in the province. It was also possible that Armstrongs friends in the security services may have put the finger on him. Maybe theyd grown weary of cleaning up his mess. But the timing was ominous. Or coincidental, except that Wilson didnt believe in coincidence.