A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) Page 11

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ she said. ‘I may even have something for you by then.’’

  ‘See you at six.’ Wilson cut the communication. Yes, he thought. I’m looking forward to it myself.

  In a room in the basement of the police complex in Dunmurry, Sergeant Simon Jackson took off the headphones and looked at the recorder on the table. He had specific instructions what to do if Wilson were to contact a certain Professor Stephanie Reid. He had already seen a photograph of Reid, and he would gladly have ditched his wife of ten years if Reid expressed an interest in him. He loaded the recording into his computer and saved it as an MP3 file. He opened his mail and typed in the email address he was instructed to contact. He wrote on the subject line ‘Wilson’ and attached the file of the recording. He was beginning to be impressed with Wilson. The level of determination he displayed was something that the soldier in Jackson respected. But he had his orders. It was just a pity that someone who counted wanted his balls in a sling.

  A mobile phone beeped on a coffee table in a villa in Antibes. Helen McCann picked up the phone and looked at the source of the message. She loaded the MP3 and listened to the conversation between Wilson and Reid. A smile spread across her face. They are so bloody predictable, she thought. They always lead with their dicks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Jock McDevitt was in his seat in Court No 1 at the Royal Courts of Justice. He was reading his column in the Chronicle to see whether some wet-behind-the-ears sub-editor had decided to play around with his prose. He was mildly gratified when he saw that most of his original piece had survived. The editor had given him the honour of a drink in his office the previous evening. Circulation at the Chronicle was up and most of the increase was attributed to his reporting of the Maggie Cummerford trial. Serial killers drove circulation, but female serial killers drove circulation through the roof. That had been a fact since Lizzie Borden chopped up her father and her stepmother. McDevitt was basking in the kudos of the editor and his colleagues. He had even been asked to write a book on the case. And not by some fly-by-night publisher. He always fancied himself as an author, and he’d sent out a few feelers for an agent. Life was on the up for Jock McDevitt. But despite all the positives, McDevitt was feeling a little twitchy. He didn’t know why but it was an uncomfortable feeling that all was not well. It was as though there was some impending doom that he hadn’t quite realised was about to hit him. He could well imagine it would be similar to some guy waking up with such a feeling in Bander Aceh on 26th of December 2004, only to find himself facing a wall of water when he opened his hotel window. He looked around the court. There was the usual mix of spectators, from legal types looking for a few pointers on how to run a trial to homeless people searching for a warm place to spend an hour or two. His gaze fell on a man sitting at the back of the court. His appearance screamed ‘copper’. But he wasn’t one of Wilson’s crew. The man turned and looked at McDevitt while he was staring at him. A chill ran up McDevitt’s spine, and he quickly looked away. If he had been twitchy earlier, he was now downright worried. He didn’t like the look of the guy at his back but he put it to the back of his mind. A little bit of paranoia never hurt anyone but he concluded he was being ridiculous. Why the hell should the police have an interest in him? He was their friend. He bought them rounds of drinks while he pumped them for information and paid them when he was obliged to. He searched around in the archive that was his mind for a motive for their interest. There could only be one reason. The feelers he had put out about Wilson’s new colleagues. One of the arseholes he had contacted had shopped him. He stole another glance at the man at the rear of the court. He had the memory of an elephant and he tried to place the guy. Faces flitted across his mind’s eye but the man’s faces didn’t appear. Now, he was being paranoid. He liked Ian Wilson and he really wanted to be his friend. Jock McDevitt didn’t have many friends. He had an awkward knack of looking into people’s minds and seeing the cesspit that they tried to hide. He knew he unnerved people. He wasn’t psychic or anything like that but he was very good at listening and then connecting the dots. That was what he was trying to do just now. He turned around to look at the man once more but the seat was empty. You’ve got to be a bit careful, Jock my lad, he said to himself. Wilson and he were alike in one way. They had no allegiances. That meant that when they trod on someone’s toes, there was no safety net there for them to fall into when the shit hit the fan. He wondered whether he should tell Wilson about his misgivings. No, it would make him look like a shiver-shite. He looked into the body of the court and saw that both legal teams had taken their places. Maggie Cummerford was sitting in the dock and the jury sat in two neat rows in their box. He tried to banish the feeling of apprehension and concentrate on the events about to unfold in court. But a picture of the man’s face had been imprinted on his mind, and he knew it wasn’t about to go away.

  Twenty metres from where McDevitt sat, Kate McCann was taking a call from her mother. She was listening to the voice of Ian Wilson making a date with Stephanie Reid for that evening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sergeant Jackson spent most of the morning staying away from Wilson but inevitably he was required to report to his superior. He pushed in the door to Wilson’s office and saw that his direct superior was busy writing on a pad of paper. He would love to get his hands on these inner thoughts. ‘Sir,’ Jackson said as soon as he entered.

  Wilson glanced at his watch. It was after one o’clock. All good civil servants were already at their lunch. ‘And what have you been up to, sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘I got the impression that you weren’t impressed with our friend Ramsey. I’ve been going back over the records to see whether there was someone else we could speak to from our side about the event.’

  ‘And did you succeed?’

  ‘Not so far, but I’m still working on it. Resources were pretty stretched at the time.’

  ‘And, of course, officers didn’t have the time to properly log their whereabouts, or write reports on their activities.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Wilson said adding a frown for effect. ‘The blue car that was seen at the top of Beechmount Parade. You remember, the one that no one followed up on.’

  Jackson shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Wilson noticed that Jackson stood to attention except when he was unsure of what was about to come. Then he shuffled. Just a bit, but enough for Wilson to notice. ‘It was usual for cars that were used in hits to be stolen in advance and then burned out after the hit took place. If we assume the shooting of Mallon and Lafferty was one of a series then we should assume that the famous blue saloon car should have been stolen sometime that day or the day before. It should have been burned out after the event. I’d like you to find out whether any saloon cars, blue or otherwise, were stolen on or before the day of the shooting. And, whether any cars were found burned out in the days after the shooting. Don’t confine yourself to Belfast and its environs. Fan out. Try Portadown and Ballymena. It would have been stolen in some Protestant enclave or other.’

  Jackson repressed a sigh. Whether by accident or design, Wilson was burying him in records.

  Wilson took immense satisfaction from the look on Jackson’s face. ‘Everything alright, sergeant.’

  ‘Everything is fine, sir.’

  ‘You have quite a lot on your plate. Keep looking for a second member of the RUC team that attended in Beechmount Parade and follow up on the car.’ That should keep you busy, he thought.

  ‘Sir,’ Jackson did an about turn and did the equivalent of a march out of the room.

  Wilson looked at the strategy he had been working on during the morning. He had already used McDevitt, Kate and Reid. He would soon have a forensic report on the bullet from FSNI and if Reid succeeded he’d have an autopsy report. That meant that he would be on the way to constructing a proper file including some aspect of forensic evidence, possibly the autopsy repo
rt and some photos, and a report on his interviews. Under normal circumstance, that wouldn’t satisfy him or the old man lying on the bed in Beechmount Parade. He thought about his promise. An improved file wasn’t going to satisfy him at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘For Christ’s sake, sit down.’ Sinclair was sitting behind the desk in his office, and Jackson had been doing his usual stand-at-attention stance. ‘You’re not in the fucking army now.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ Jackson said sitting forward in the visitor’s chair. ‘Things were a lot simpler there. He’s loading me with every shit job imaginable. I’m supposed to be hunting for the blue car that was seen at the end of the street. I have to check for stolen vehicles in the days before the shooting and burned out vehicles in the days after the shooting. I think he likes keeping me busy.’

  ‘That’s what superintendents do to sergeants.’

  ‘I know, but I think there’s more to it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like he’s on to us.’

  Sinclair sat forward. ‘You were with him every moment he was with old Lafferty and Mallon?’

  ‘Except when either he or I went for a piss. It would have looked a bit suspicious if I’d followed him into the toilet.’

  ‘Don’t bother trying to be smart; you haven’t either the brains, or the balls for it. So, what you’re saying is that you left him alone with both Mallon and Lafferty.’

  Jackson thought for a moment. ‘Yes, in Lafferty’s I was in the kitchen for a minute and I was forced by nature to spend a penny in Subway in Omagh. Why, is it important?’

  Sinclair smiled. ‘Kate McCann’s office sent a bullet and shell for examination to the FSNI yesterday.’ He paused to allow the information to penetrate Jackson’s brain. ‘We’ve looked at McCann’s current caseload and none of her cases involve a shooting. So, where did she get the bullet and shell?’

  ‘You obviously know.’ Jackson hated the cat and mouse games that Sinclair liked to play.

  ‘Wilson was observed meeting his former partner at the Courts of Justice yesterday morning. He was also observed passing her a small box. What do think might have been in that box?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘It might be the bullet and shell that’s currently being examined by FSNI. If it is, it begs the question; where did he get it? There are only two possibilities. Either Mallon or Lafferty gave it to him. And you didn’t observe anything being passed by either man during their interviews.’

  Jackson shook his head. He was replaying at fast speed both of the encounters, and he had only been missing for minutes in each case. ‘Where would they have got the bullet and shell.’?

  ‘Let’s suppose that your friend Ramsey and his men were not exactly meticulous in cleaning up at Beechmount Parade. Suppose they left at least one bullet and one shell to be picked up by someone, and put in safekeeping.’

  ‘So, he has a bullet and a shell from Beechmount Parade. Big fucking deal!’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Jackson.’ Sinclair could see worry on Jackson’s face. ‘Luckily you haven’t fucked up too badly. In fact, it may turn out to be a very good thing. We’ve already passed the word to FSNI to put a rush on the examination.’

  ‘No harm done then.’ Relief flowed through Jackson.

  ‘But it leaves a few questions hanging in the air. Why didn’t he tell either you or me about the bullet and shell? And why did he call on his girl friend to process them through FSNI?’

  Jackson didn’t have to think too long. ‘He doesn’t trust us.’

  ‘Quite right, he doesn’t trust us. I also hear on the grapevine that someone has been asking questions about us.’

  ‘Someone in the PSNI?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘He too smart to go there. He’s getting the crime reporter for the Chronicle to do his dirty work for him. The original idea was that he would depend on you and me, and that scenario is not being played out. Either he’s a lot more perceptive than we thought, or you and I are losing our ability to fake friendliness. That may not worry you and me, but it will certainly worry whoever is running this operation.’

  ‘I’m getting bored with this,’ Jackson said. ‘The sooner we’re back where we belong the better. Why can’t they just fire the guy? The job is his life. Several months after he loses it he’ll be sleeping in someone’s doorway.’

  ‘That’s one of your problems, Jackson, you underestimate people. If Ian Wilson gets fired, a lot of shit hits the fan. He was famous once, and many of the people who knew him back then would rally around. Questions would be asked.’

  ‘All this head-messing shit gives me a pain in the arse.’

  ‘Well let me know when you’d like to return to cleaning up the shit left behind by our political masters, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘It beats playing the long con. Wilson seems like a decent enough fella. We get set on him just because he rubbed someone up the wrong way.’

  ‘Don’t let’s overanalyse the life we’ve chosen,’ Sinclair said. ‘We’re only here to make sure he keeps heading in the right direction.’

  ‘I think he could make his own way there without our assistance.’

  Sinclair sat back. There was a certain amount of truth in what Jackson said. Wilson had already made reasonable progress. The bullet and shell weren’t part of the plan, and neither was the lady pathologist. That had forced a little bit of a rethink, and Sinclair seldom did improvisation. Wilson not trusting either Jackson or him had not been part of the plan either, but it was necessary to have someone manage the programme. He needed to pass the information upstairs. Someone beyond his pay grade would have to make the final decision.

  ‘So, what do I do about the blue car?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘You were told what to do by your superior. Check out every stolen car in the three days before the shooting and every burned-out car in the three days after the shooting.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Sinclair said. ‘And the next time you feel a piss coming on when you’re with him, tie a knot in it. Now get to fucking work. I don’t want to be sitting in this dump any longer than necessary.’ He watched as Jackson left the office. The sergeant was a good foot soldier, but would never make it to officer level.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Wilson liked McHugh’s Bar in Queen’s Square. It would never replace the Crown as his favourite haunt, but it was up there. He didn’t often visit it, which was an advantage. He didn’t want anyone reporting back on his rendezvous with Reid. He still considered that things were tender between him and Kate. He decided that he would do nothing to exacerbate the situation. He made immediately for the back bar where the open fire was already blazing. He installed himself in one of the comfortable armchairs and signalled to the barman.

  Every male and several female heads turned as Stephanie Reid entered at the front door, and progressed along the bar in the direction of Wilson.

  He watched the look on the male faces, and noted their disappointment when Reid threw her jacket on the seat beside him, and sat down. She was dressed in her habitual work gear of white blouse and black just-above-the-knee-length skirt. Her blonde hair was tied back and her blue eyes were glassy, and spectacular. She crossed her legs when she sat down and although Wilson promised himself that he wouldn’t look, he stole a glance. Magnificent, Wilson thought. He was remembering the details of their previous evening in McHugh’s. He had resisted then. He wondered whether he could resist now

  She looked at Wilson’s pint of Guinness on the table. ‘Any chance of a drink?’

  Wilson looked back at the bar and saw the barman was already staring in their direction. Wilson signalled. ‘Gin and tonic?’ he asked.

  ‘Double the gin,’ she said sitting back.

  Neither spoke until the barman returned with Reid’s drink. She prepared the gin and tonic and raised her glass. ‘Cheers,’ she took a long sip. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘Tough d
ay?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘No tougher than usual. People keep dying from something their doctor failed to diagnose, and it’s left to me to try and save my colleagues’ faces. What about you? Task force on cold crimes, or whatever it’s called, treating you alright?’

  ‘It’s different.’ He sipped his Guinness.

  ‘Why does that sound like an understatement? Maybe you’re just like me. You prefer to deal with fresh cadavers.’

  ‘Working a cold case isn’t exactly a barrel of monkeys in the fun stakes. And especially not so when it looks like the so-called professionals in the RUC did their level best to screw up the initial investigation. Any news on the autopsy?’

  She pouted. ‘Oh, Ian. I thought that we were here for a friendly drink. You could at least let me unwind before we get down to business. I was only asking you about the job as an icebreaker. I don’t really want to spent the evening talking about lost autopsies and murder investigations.’

  He smiled. ‘Sorry, habit of a lifetime.’

  ‘Then I suggest that you make a serious effort to get some sort of other life.’

  I think someone might have that plan for me already, Wilson thought but didn’t say. ‘So,’ he said. ‘If we’re not going to talk about work, what will we talk about?’

  She leaned forwards. ‘Tell me about your love life? Mine’s pretty dull at the moment but I hear that yours is interesting. Found anyone new yet?’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘I always said that you were hopeless.’

  ‘I’ll bet that Rottweiler that used to hang around you didn’t say that about me.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that Moira’s doing quite well in Boston. She’s attending classes at Harvard, and I get the impression that she’s happy enough with life.’