A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) Read online

  ‘This is just an investigation.’ Wilson’s voice was calm. ‘You remember the Historical Enquiry Team?’ He waited until Ramsey nodded. ‘We’re just a continuation, but unlike the team, we’re all RUC officers. Nobody wants to take your pension away. Who was in charge of the raids?’

  ‘Probably Army. I don’t rightly remember. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Mallon says that you were present at the mortuary when his mother arrived to identify her son’s body.’

  ‘If he says so.’

  ‘He does. What exactly were you doing there? You weren’t a detective.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Was there an autopsy done on the bodies?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Ramsey shouted.

  Wilson could see that they had entered mantra-land. Whatever question he asked now would probably receive the same answer. He would have to ask something that Ramsey couldn’t avoid remembering. ‘Did you ever follow up on the blue car that fired on the football game?’

  ‘What blue car? What football game? Them boys were up to no good. There was no blue car and there was no football game.’

  ‘OK, let’s assume that there was this exchange of fire that you referred to. If the boys fired on someone, who might that someone have been?’

  Ramsey stood. ‘The pigs need feedin’’

  ‘Can you remember the name of the SIO?’ Wilson said refusing to rise.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Ramsey said. He started to move to the door. ‘I’ve told you everything that I remember. I don’t know what happened to the shells. I wasn’t present at the autopsy. And I don’t want to see your fucking face around here again.’

  ‘You’re a memorable man,’ Wilson said rising slowly and standing at his full height. He stood in front of Ramsey and stared into his eyes. ‘People remember you very well from that night. The Mallons remember you from the morgue. You don’t like Catholics very much, do you?’

  ‘Fuckin’ murderin’ vermin.’ Spittle flew from Ramsey’s mouth and landed on Wilson’s jacket. ‘The boys around here knew how to deal with them.’ Ramsey broke off eye contact and made for the door. ‘I’m done and so are you.’ He opened the door and ushered them out. Wilson left first and turned his head in time to see a look pass between his sergeant and Ramsey. ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said and started walking back slowly towards the car. He looked into the field beside the farmyard. There was a bull standing watching his progress. It had a ring through its nose, which was used for leading it. Wilson wondered about the similarities between the bull and him. He had no ring through his nose.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Wilson was installed in the snug at the Crown. He wasn’t yet used to sitting at home, and the thoughts of making a dinner for one didn’t appeal. So, he was developing a new evening routine. First, a few beers at the Crown, followed by a visit to the takeaway, and the television news before hitting the hay. It hadn’t been a good day. The meeting with Kate had left him dismayed. He hadn’t factored Helen McCann into their relationship. She was one of Ulster’s richest women who preferred to live in the South of France, and undoubtedly had ambitions for her daughter that didn’t include being tied to a lowly police officer. She had presented herself as a friend but what if she was a foe. He looked at the pint of Guinness sitting in front of him. His world had been slowly disintegrating over the past few weeks. There were too many things going wrong for it to be a coincidence. Perhaps McDevitt was right, someone was manipulating him. And he was responding by spending more time in the pub wallowing in self-pity. He was beginning to lose his self-respect. Perhaps it was time he started to get on with his new life, whatever that might turn out to be. The cold case task force was part of that new life, and despite his misgivings about his new colleagues, he was going to have to make the most of it. He picked up his drink and sipped the creamy head off the pint.

  There was a soft knock on the door of the snug. The door opened slowly and Detective Constable Harry Graham’s head came around the corner. ‘Can we disturb you, boss?’ he said entering the snug closely followed by Peter Davidson.

  ‘Of course.’ A warm glow came over Wilson. It was only a couple of days and already he missed the comfort of his former colleagues. ‘What will you drink?’

  ‘Whiskey,’ Graham said sitting down.

  Davidson pointed at the drink in Wilson’s hand. ‘The same.’

  Wilson pressed the buzzer and gave the order to the barman. There was a pregnant silence in the snug. ‘It’s good to see you,’ Wilson said breaking the hush.

  ‘It’s good to see you, boss,’ Graham said.

  ‘It would be even better if you were still at the station,’ Davidson interjected.

  Wilson wanted to say that he wished that also but that wasn’t part of his new resolve to cast off the past. ‘You two look like your best friend just died,’ he said instead.

  Graham and Davidson smiled. ‘Are we that obvious?’ Graham said.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Wilson asked. The drinks arrived and he distributed them.

  ‘There’s a couple of rumours about,’ Davidson said. ‘I’ve been around the pubs in the Shankill, and Willie Rice is putting it out that Sammy is at the bottom of the Lagan.’

  ‘Any idea how he got there?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Willie has it that McGreary is involved,’ Davidson said. ‘Not that he pulled the trigger, mind you, but that he’s behind it.’

  ‘McDevitt tells me that McGreary is taking over pieces of Sammy’s patch,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Has taken over,’ Graham said.

  ‘No resistance?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Big George is banged up, McIlroy and Boyle are dead, the foot soldiers are leaderless. Thank God, it’s a peaceful takeover. These turf wars had the habit of leaving a lot of grieving widows.’

  Wilson said: ‘Any proof that Sammy is in the Lagan?’

  ‘Like a picture of him wearing a pair of concrete boots,’ Graham said. ‘I don’t think we’re going to see Sammy again unless HQ come up with enough money to dredge the river, and that’s not about to happen.’

  ‘It’s a good first case for the new serious crimes unit,’ Wilson said.

  ‘If it ever happens,’ Davidson said. ‘We’re still faffing around waiting for someone to take over and organise. There’s supposed to be additional resources coming from other units, but up to now, nothing. We’re beginning to think this whole serious crimes crap was just a ploy to get rid of Spence and you.’

  Wilson thought back to the scene in Campbell’s office. Spence and he were gone in one fell swoop. Jennings sitting like a satisfied little gnome; the Gravedigger doing what he does best. Peter might very well be right. ‘What are the other rumours?’ Wilson asked.

  Harry Graham’s cheeks coloured. ‘It’s on the grapevine that you and your missus have split up.’

  ‘How did that titbit make it to the grapevine?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘No idea, boss,’ Graham said. ‘So, it’s true.’

  ‘We’ve decided to take a little time out,’ Wilson said. He wanted to believe it was time out, but he knew it was potentially something more than that. He didn’t want to verbalise it at the moment.

  ‘Enough about our troubles,’ Davidson said. ‘How are things in the task force?’

  Wilson pushed the buzzer and ordered another round of drinks. ‘This could take a while.’

  One pint later he concluded his story of his first days in his new job.

  ‘Shit,’ Graham said. ‘And we think we have a problem with Sammy’s disappearance. 1974 is a hell of a long time ago, boss. How can you investigate a crime that’s so cold?’

  ‘I’ve been around a long time,’ Davidson said. ‘Some people might say too long, but I’ve never run into these two jokers you’re working with.’

  ‘They’re former Special Branch,’ Wilson said.

  Davidson whistled. ‘And they’re in a cold case task force. Something smells funny. You might get someo
ne moving in the opposite direction. But you certainly do not get senior officers moving from the branch to a cold case team. Not unless there’s something fishy about the cold case. What’s on, boss?’

  ‘It pains me to say that I have no idea,’ Wilson said.

  ‘So we’re not looking at the usual screw up on the part of HQ?’ Davidson asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Wilson said finishing his drink. It was decision time. If he ordered one more, he would be in the Crown for the night. And tomorrow would be another day on the painkillers. He decided that he was finished drinking for the evening. ‘But I’d be grateful if you’d pass along any rumours that you hear. How widely known is the situation between Kate and me?’

  ‘Everyone at the station,’ Graham said.

  ‘That could mean everyone in Belfast knows,’ Wilson laughed and Graham and Davidson joined in. He stood and waited while the others finished their drinks. They walked through the bar and Wilson gave the barman a final wave.

  ‘Where are you living now, boss?’ Graham asked.

  ‘Over by Queen’s Quay,’ Wilson said. ‘Not as salubrious as my former accommodations, but it’s home. I’m thinking of entering the property market again.’

  ‘The time’s right,’ Davidson extended his hand. ‘Keep the faith, boss. You’ll be back with us soon. ’

  Wilson took Davidson’s hand and saw that Graham’s hand was also extended. He shook it. ‘I’d like to believe it.’ He watched as his two former colleagues moved off toward the Grosvenor Road. He gave them a head start and turned into Franklin Street. He had left his car at the apartment parking in the knowledge that he would be having more than one drink. He decided that he would walk home. He used the word “home” to convince himself that was what it was. The apartment at Queen’s Quay was his new home. He would use the walk to reflect, not of the vicissitudes of life, but on how the hell he could get back to where he belonged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wilson slept well, perhaps for the first time since Kate and he split. It was as though he had come to a decision that he was going to have to make the most of whatever lay ahead. He had done his run, showered, shaved and eaten the most enjoyable breakfast of the past weeks. If he had any idea of where his day was going, the morning would have been complete. He would have hated to admit it but he was stumped. It just proved the point that it was impossible to solve a crime without at least the modicum of evidence. How could he develop the evidence for such an old crime? The bullet and shell would already be with FSNI. What if the report led nowhere? He arrived at Dunmurry and went immediately to his office. He sat in his chair and asked himself what the hell was he going to do. There should have been an easy answer to that question after all he was a senior investigating police officer with almost twenty years of training and on-the-job experience. But investigating a cold case had unique challenges especially where there was no sign of a murder book and no significant follow-up. Solving such a crime might possibly be beyond his powers. Murder investigation had come a long way since the 1970s. Maybe the amount and quality of the forensics that were collected for a modern-day murder had dulled the need to develop a deeper analysis of motive and opportunity. Maybe that was where he had to start. He took out his pad of paper and started to write questions that required answers. Why had someone murdered two young men? And why was the investigation into their deaths such a shambles? What had happened to the evidence collected at the scene? He put down his pen. Finding the answers to those three questions would open lines of enquiry. There were a lot of questions and very few obvious answers. But that was the way it was with most of the murders that took place in Ulster in the 1970s and 1980s. The RUC was under resourced and totally incapable of responding to the tsunami of murders. The result was that more than 3,000 murders remained unsolved. Mallon and Lafferty fell into that category. The reviews already carried out by the HET hadn’t been so kind to the RUC. They cited many cases of slipshod investigation and some cases of outright incompetence. For many murders the names of the culprits were well known. However, a veil of silence in one community, or the other, shielded the killers. It was also true that many of the unsolved murders had been committed by serving members of the security forces or at least with their collusion. He had already decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance that murders of Mallon and Lafferty might fall into that category. The use of the Sterling machine guns in the attack pointed to someone who had access to British military equipment. The Ulster Defence Regiment had an awkward habit of “losing” guns and ammunition. From what he had gathered so far, he had concluded that there had been some level of cover-up. But why was the cover-up needed and how deep did it go? He needed someone to bounce his ideas off. He knew what that meant. He needed Moira McElvaney, but she was 3,000 miles away enjoying the sunshine in Boston. And then there were his two colleagues, Sinclair and Jackson. Not a day’s investigative experience between them, yet they were posted to a task force where investigative experience would be the prime pre-requisite. The odds were stacked against him but it wasn’t in his nature to toss in the towel. In fact, the lack of evidence, the absence of motive, and the fact that no suspects were ever developed were all reason for him to redouble his efforts. However, in his experience solving murders required teamwork. Having team members like Moira McElvaney, Harry Graham and Peter Davidson to call on was the principal reason why he was relatively successful as head of the murder squad. This time there was no Moira, no Harry or Peter. He was alone and exposed. What would he do if Mallon and Lafferty were murdered yesterday? He would reinterview the witnesses. He would collect forensic evidence; the bullet and shell were the only existing pieces of forensic evidence. He would attend the autopsy. There was no result of one in the file. Was it conceivable that no autopsy had been carried out? One would have been necessary for the coroner’s inquest, even if the cause of death were apparent. He needed a copy of both the autopsy and the conclusions of the coroner’s inquest. He took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket.

  Professor Stephanie Reid was just finishing a lecture to a class of final year medical students when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She slipped the phone out while listening to a question from one of the students, and recognised Ian Wilson’s number on the screen. She slipped the phone back into her pocket without answering. Ian would have to wait. She was aware of the rumour circulating that Ian and the Ice Lady had split up. During her evidence in the Cummerford trial, she’d noticed that McCann was looking a bit frayed around the edges, and she wondered whether it was the stress of the trial, or the aftermath of the miscarriage. Or something else altogether. Whatever the reason, it looked like Ian Wilson was in the market again. She thought about contacting him when she heard he was on his own. But she didn’t want to appear pushy. Now, he’d called her. She realised that her mind was straying, and the student with the question was droning on, trying to show how bloody clever he was, no doubt. Reid was more than a little annoyed that she had missed the point of the question, and had no intention of asking the student to go through it again. He finally wound down. Reid looked up into the twenty or so anxious faces. ‘That was an excellent question to finish this session on. I want you all to go away and research the answer. I always hated education that depended on the guru standing in front of the class and spouting off. In the course of your professional careers, you will have to act as your own guru, so you might as well start now. I expect to receive a page from each of you with your answer to that question before next week’s class. Now, we’re out of here.’ She smiled at the way she had managed to finesse the question, and still stay in control. She was becoming an old hand at this lecturing business. The students filed out of the room and she was alone at the front. She took out her mobile phone and dialled Wilson’s number. She was aware of the increase in her heartbeat as she waited for the sound of his voice.

  ‘Professor Reid,’ Wilson’s voice was mellow.

  ‘Ian, a bit unexpected to hear from you. How’s the new
job going?’

  Wilson wondered whether he really wanted to talk about it. ‘Not too bad. How are things in the pathology business?’

  ‘Busy, what can I do for you?’

  ‘First a few questions and then maybe a favour. I’m assuming that everyone who dies a violent death has an autopsy?’

  ‘That’s the practice.’

  ‘And there’s a record of every autopsy performed?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tried to put a little exasperation into her voice.

  ‘And that autopsy is the basis of the conclusions of a coroner’s inquest?’

  ‘Ian, please get to the point.’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of two young men in 1974.’ He heard the gasp on the other end of the phone. ‘I know it’s a long time ago. The file is what you might call thin. There’s no autopsy report and no conclusions of the coroner’s inquest. I was wondering if you could check up for me whether the record of the autopsy still exists.’

  She had been hoping for something else, but she should have known with Ian. He was all business. Certainly as far as she was concerned. ‘Give me the details.’ She removed a pen from her coat pocket and prepared to write on her notebook.

  Wilson gave her the names of the deceased and the date of their deaths.

  ‘They may not have had an autopsy at the Royal,’ she said putting her pen back in her breast pocket. ‘It was a long time ago. They’ve been archiving the old files and digitising them but I’m not sure they’re that far back. I’ll check here first and then try the other hospitals.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Grateful enough to invite a girl for a drink?’ She waited anxiously for the reply.

  So she’d heard, Wilson thought. What he said next could influence his future with Kate, that was if he had a future with her. He decided that a drink couldn’t hurt. The Crown was out. There were enough rumours circulating about him, and he didn’t want to add to them. He remembered he had a drink with Reid in the recent past. He remembered how much he enjoyed it, and where it had almost ended. But he was still with Kate then. ‘OK, what about the McHugh’s this evening, say six o’clock?’