had been well and truly compromised but that would be up to the chief of the forensics team to conclude, if the investigation ever got that far. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.
The two constables exchanged a look and shook their heads in unison.
Moira closed her notebook and replaced it in the pocket of her coat. She took two business cards from her pocket and handed one to each of the constables. ‘If you remember anything, contact me.’
‘So it was murder then,’ Higgins said taking the card.
‘We’re looking into the possibility,’ Moira said.
‘Whether murder or not the man was engaged in a wicked act, maybe he deserved to die,’ Corr said putting the business card into his breast pocket.
‘Judge not and ye shall not be judged,’ Moira said just loud enough to be heard as she made her way to the door of the soft interview room.
CHAPTER 12
Peter Davidson watched the barman pull his pint of lager before setting it in front of him. He was sitting in the Rex Bar in the middle of the Shankill Road. One pint wasn’t generally enough for him to get a buzz on, that would be three pints down the road. Davidson had spent the afternoon and early evening looking up contacts from his former life as a member of the Vice Squad. It had been two years since he had switched to the Murder Squad, but many of the denizens of the demimonde of bondage, domination, sadism and masochism were still alive and kicking, and none of them had ever run across David Grant. It was a walk down memory lane that Davidson didn’t particularly enjoy. Like many who have to deal with the seedier side of life, he had partaken of the forbidden fruit himself, and it had cost him his marriage. His five years in Vice had led directly to him sitting alone in this bar waiting for the moment when the level of alcohol hit that critical point that banished all memories.
‘DC Davidson as I live and breath.’
Davidson turned and gave a half smile. ‘I heard you were back in town.’
‘Aye, they couldn’t get along without me. After that Cummerford woman stained her panties, my phone was ringing night and day with offers to replace her.’
‘It’s nice to be wanted.’ Davidson nodded to the barman. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘My shout,’ the man said quickly. ‘After all the Belfast Chronicle is paying.’
‘Two double Jameson,’ Davidson said to the barman. He didn’t like the Press much but his new companion was a horse of a different colour. Jock McDevitt wasn’t just a journalist; he was a drinking buddy from the old days. Davidson had been a contact who had become a friend. McDevitt’s great skill was that he could get a rock to talk. He stood only five feet six in his stocking feet and weighed sixty-five kilos soaking wet, but his open face exuded empathy. When you talked to Jock, you felt that you were the only person in the world for him. His concentration on you and your problems was total. ‘I see you didn’t overdo the deep fried Mars bars when you were in Glasgow,’ Davidson said.
McDevitt smiled, and the glow of that smile washed over Davidson. ‘I never took to the deep fried Mars bar. Can’t say that I didn’t enjoy Glasgow though. Same type of villains we have here in Belfast but a lot more of them. However, the Chronicle found my weakness, they offered me a lot more money than I was making. It appears that Miss Cummerford did substantial damage to the reputation of the paper. Not so good to have a serial killer on the payroll. At least, I haven’t killed anyone. Well, not yet anyway.’ He smiled and touched his glass of whiskey to Davidson’s. ‘To the good old times.’
‘Maybe they weren’t so good.’ Davidson took a sip of his whiskey. It could be a coincidence that McDevitt had strolled into the Rex, but Davidson didn’t believe in coincidences. McDevitt was the best newshound he’d met, and he’d landed on Davidson for a reason. DS McElvaney’s words of caution were rambling around in
The two constables exchanged a look and shook their heads in unison.
Moira closed her notebook and replaced it in the pocket of her coat. She took two business cards from her pocket and handed one to each of the constables. ‘If you remember anything, contact me.’
‘So it was murder then,’ Higgins said taking the card.
‘We’re looking into the possibility,’ Moira said.
‘Whether murder or not the man was engaged in a wicked act, maybe he deserved to die,’ Corr said putting the business card into his breast pocket.
‘Judge not and ye shall not be judged,’ Moira said just loud enough to be heard as she made her way to the door of the soft interview room.
CHAPTER 12
Peter Davidson watched the barman pull his pint of lager before setting it in front of him. He was sitting in the Rex Bar in the middle of the Shankill Road. One pint wasn’t generally enough for him to get a buzz on, that would be three pints down the road. Davidson had spent the afternoon and early evening looking up contacts from his former life as a member of the Vice Squad. It had been two years since he had switched to the Murder Squad, but many of the denizens of the demimonde of bondage, domination, sadism and masochism were still alive and kicking, and none of them had ever run across David Grant. It was a walk down memory lane that Davidson didn’t particularly enjoy. Like many who have to deal with the seedier side of life, he had partaken of the forbidden fruit himself, and it had cost him his marriage. His five years in Vice had led directly to him sitting alone in this bar waiting for the moment when the level of alcohol hit that critical point that banished all memories.
‘DC Davidson as I live and breath.’
Davidson turned and gave a half smile. ‘I heard you were back in town.’
‘Aye, they couldn’t get along without me. After that Cummerford woman stained her panties, my phone was ringing night and day with offers to replace her.’
‘It’s nice to be wanted.’ Davidson nodded to the barman. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘My shout,’ the man said quickly. ‘After all the Belfast Chronicle is paying.’
‘Two double Jameson,’ Davidson said to the barman. He didn’t like the Press much but his new companion was a horse of a different colour. Jock McDevitt wasn’t just a journalist; he was a drinking buddy from the old days. Davidson had been a contact who had become a friend. McDevitt’s great skill was that he could get a rock to talk. He stood only five feet six in his stocking feet and weighed sixty-five kilos soaking wet, but his open face exuded empathy. When you talked to Jock, you felt that you were the only person in the world for him. His concentration on you and your problems was total. ‘I see you didn’t overdo the deep fried Mars bars when you were in Glasgow,’ Davidson said.
McDevitt smiled, and the glow of that smile washed over Davidson. ‘I never took to the deep fried Mars bar. Can’t say that I didn’t enjoy Glasgow though. Same type of villains we have here in Belfast but a lot more of them. However, the Chronicle found my weakness, they offered me a lot more money than I was making. It appears that Miss Cummerford did substantial damage to the reputation of the paper. Not so good to have a serial killer on the payroll. At least, I haven’t killed anyone. Well, not yet anyway.’ He smiled and touched his glass of whiskey to Davidson’s. ‘To the good old times.’
‘Maybe they weren’t so good.’ Davidson took a sip of his whiskey. It could be a coincidence that McDevitt had strolled into the Rex, but Davidson didn’t believe in coincidences. McDevitt was the best newshound he’d met, and he’d landed on Davidson for a reason. DS McElvaney’s words of caution were rambling around in
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