Convoy traffic lightened up and we made it into Lisburn in forty minutes. Slaine gave the driver directions to Jenkins's warehouse, one of a number of small facilities he owned as part of his distribution network. Had owned, I should say. We drove up to where two RUC constables had set up a roadblock with their vehicle at the entrance to a fenced-in yard containing a few large garages, some open sheds, and a few sheet-metal-roofed wooden buildings. The main gate was open, a chain with an open padlock hanging from one side.
'Here to see DI Carrick,' the driver said.
We were waved through, the constable pointing to the row of buildings on our left. We drove across the dirt drive, still wet and churned up from the recent rains. Ahead of us were an ambulance and three police cars. It occurred to me I'd seen several ambulances in Northern Ireland, and they all had been used to transport murder victims. Wasn't anybody ever simply injured here?
Jenkins's warehouse was the last building. The double doors were open and one of the police cars was parked in front, its lights on, illuminating the dark interior. Two thick wooden beams ran across the interior space. From the second hung the limp body of Andrew Jenkins, his head tilted sideways at a sickening angle. Those who hang themselves are not pretty to behold, and I'd give odds that no one would do so who had ever seen such a sight.
'Lieutenant Boyle,' DI Carrick said with the solemn tone appropriate to a crime scene. He shook Major Cosgrove's hand and suggested to Slaine that she might wish to wait outside.
She ignored his concern and glanced around the space. Beneath Jenkins was a flatbed truck and a single wooden chair on the ground next to it. Crates of vegetables were stacked along one wall, and an empty workbench adorned the other.
'Nothing's been moved?'
'Nothing. We thought you might have an interest, and were sure Lieutenant Boyle would.'
'Do you mind?' I asked, stepping forward. Carrick nodded his assent, and I walked over to the truck, watching where I stepped across the dirt floor. The truck had been driven in recently, the wet mud showing clearly in its tracks. A rope was secured to the truck bed, tied through one of several clamps used to tie down crates. The truck looked like it had come straight from a farm.
'It appears that Mr. Jenkins secured the rope, threw it over the rafter, put the chair on the truck bed, and then kicked it out from under him,' Carrick said, raising his voice for all to hear.
'It does,' I said, looking inside the truck cab. 'There's no note. Did you see any paper in here?'
'None.'
I walked around the truck, searching the ground. I looked inside the cab. The seat was cracked and torn, the interior caked with mud and dust. The key was in the ignition. I put the chair on the truck bed and jumped up. I could see the rope wasn't long enough to reach the rafter from the ground, so he'd used the truck for extra height. I stood on the chair, close to Jenkins. His feet dangled several inches above the seat where my feet were. I had to look up at his face, which was distended, eyes and tongue bulging out. I didn't linger long. He hadn't been much to look at when alive.
I felt his arm and noticed the beginnings of rigor. 'Who called it in?' I asked.
'Anonymous phone call,' Carrick said. 'To the local station, saying that Andrew Jenkins had hung himself.'
'The caller used that name specifically?' Carrick consulted with a constable, who nodded his head emphatically.
'Yes.'
Why? Why would someone who knew Jenkins call in his suicide? Why mention his name? I turned the body, listening to the creak of the rope on wood as I did. The back of his head was dark. I turned the body more, bringing his head into the full light of the headlamps. Dried blood. Andrew Jenkins had been hit over the head before this noose had gone around his neck. I looked at the rope again, and I saw how it had been done. Knock Jenkins out, and then throw him up on the truck bed, parked right below the rafter. Toss the rope over, tie it to the truck, and put the noose around his neck. Then drive the truck forward about four feet, and Jenkins is swaying in the air. Throw the chair down near the truck, and we're ready to jump to the suicide conclusion.
'He was murdered,' I said. Jenkins spun around once or twice, then settled into a gentle back-and-forth motion. I saw Slaine turn away, her hand over her mouth. Not quite one of the hard-case boys yet. I got down from the truck and told them about the blood on the back of his head.
'And his feet don't quite reach the chair,' I said. 'I doubt he hit himself on the head and then jumped up into the noose.'
'Why stage a suicide then? It doesn't make sense. A man like Jenkins was bound to come to a violent end,' Carrick said. 'It wouldn't have surprised me to find him shot or beaten to death and left by the side of the road. But this seems like an elaborate ruse for no purpose.'
'Perhaps the killer wanted to divert suspicion from himself,' Cosgrove said.
'No need to, sir,' Slaine said. 'There are any number of IRA types who would gladly have strung him up. We'd be hard-pressed to limit ourselves to a dozen suspects offhand.'
'Then why?' Carrick asked. 'Drive the truck forward slowly, so we can let the body down,' he said, pointing to two constables who stood by the cars. 'One of you hop up and get that noose off him.'
The constables acknowledged his order and walked to the truck.
The silence was broken by the throaty sound of a motorcycle on the main road, downshifting, followed by a short, sharp screech of tires. Shouts came from the direction of the main gate, and heads turned in that direction. The motorcycle engine revved high and I saw it turn the corner, followed by the two RUC men from the gate, their pistols drawn, yelling for the man to halt.
Carrick drew his revolver, and I followed suit with my automatic. One of the guards fired a warning shot over the motorcyclist's head, and I saw him scrunch down, making himself a smaller target.
'Get back,' Carrick shouted to all of us. 'Inside!' We were in the line of fire. He dropped to one knee and held his pistol level as the motorcycle drew closer. Two shots rang out, the men from the gate firing and missing. The motorcycle swerved left and right, then turned hard to drive straight at us. The driver wore a leather helmet and goggles, and his mouth was open, yelling something. He looked like a crazy man, his face contorted in rage or frustration.
'No!' he shouted as he braked and slid the bike sideways, spraying Carrick and me with mud. Carrick kept his revolver aimed at the man, but didn't fire. He stood and raised his free hand in the direction of the men giving chase. I kept my. 45 aimed at the motorcyclist. He looked familiar. This had to be the mystery Yank: same motorcycle, same trench coat.
'For God's sake, don't start that truck!' He pulled off his goggles and helmet, his American accent ringing out loud and clear. And then I knew why he'd looked so familiar. I lowered my automatic, not believing what my eyes were seeing.
'Who the hell are you?' Cosgrove said, emerging from the warehouse.
'I'm the man who just saved your goddamn life,' he said. 'Want to tell them who I am, Billy, as soon as you point that cannon away from me?' His face lit up in a hell-raiser's grin, one I'd seen many times, and I couldn't help but smile back at him, even as the impossibility of it rattled around inside my head.
'This is Daniel Boyle. He's a homicide detective with the Boston Police Department. And my uncle.'
'Explain yourself,' Carrick said, not showing much interest in this Boyle family reunion.
'Call your bomb squad. That truck is wired with plastic explosive, enough to destroy this place and anyone close to it,' Uncle Dan said as he gave me a bear hug. 'It's probably wired to the ignition but I wouldn't recommend trying the doors until the experts look at it.'
'I don't mean that,' Carrick said. 'I mean explain what you are doing here, and how you come by this information.'
'This is District Inspector Hugh Carrick,' I said, and introduced Uncle Dan to the others. I wanted to know what the hell he was doing here myself but I sensed his presence might not be entirely on the up-and-up.
'An explanation is in order,' Cosgrove said.
'I'd like to have a word with Billy, if you don't mind,' Uncle Dan said.
'No,' Carrick said. 'There will be time enough for a chat later, at headquarters. What I want to know right now is how you got by this information.'
'Well, let's see if I'm right,' Uncle Dan said, walking over to the truck. 'Billy, can you slide under and take a
