A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) Page 13

  ‘It’s early days.’ Latimer dabbed his mouth with his linen napkin before tossing it on the table. ‘McGreary has taken over most of Rice’s territory. We need to go into negotiations with him to replace Rice.’

  ‘And we’ve vetted McGreary?’

  ‘Our people are on it now. He knows that we’re sniffing around him. We should have him on board soon.’

  ‘And no sign of Rice?’

  Lattimer shook his head ‘They seek him here, they seek him there. But he’s proving to be more elusive than the Pimpernel. We have to accept the rumour that he’s no longer alive.’

  ‘For us, Rice was a loose end. For someone like Wilson, he was a loose thread. If Wilson ever gets his finger on that thread and starts to pull, who knows what he might unravel.’

  ‘Hence your little project to undermine him.’ Lattimer was secretly hoping that he never ran foul of Helen McCann.

  ‘And how goes my little operation?’

  ‘The photo was delivered to McDevitt yesterday. Of course, he has no idea about its provenance. But he’s a ferret, so he’ll work it out eventually. Our old friends, Sinclair and Jackson have not been so successful. Wilson kept the information about the bullet and shell from them. Which means that he doesn’t trust them.’

  ‘How perceptive of him,’ she said finishing her coffee. ‘I thought you told me that they were the best.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘And Wilson sussed them out in days.’

  ‘You insisted on using Special Branch.’

  The colour rose in her face. ‘I insisted on using the best. Wilson must be obliged to walk the path we’ve set out for him. Those two oafs were an integral part of that plan. Now, he’ll distrust anything that comes from their direction.’

  ‘It just means we have to lay a few more crumbs into his path. And miraculously, we have McDevitt.’

  ‘And the timing?’

  ‘Your daughter has been instrumental in having the bullet tested. The report will be out today and will show that the gun it was fired from was used in other attacks on supposed Republicans. We saw no need to influence that conclusion. It was never part of the plan but we have adapted to it. The same with Reid’s contribution. She’s quite a looker, for a pathologist I mean.’

  Helen McCann had already tuned out. She wished her husband had lived longer. Lattimer was a pygmy in comparison. Ever since they had been forced to cover up the murders of Grant and Malone, she’d had a sense of impending doom. She thought originally that it related to the loss of her grandchild, but the feeling persisted. As soon as the Cummerford trial was over, she would get Kate into a clinic in Switzerland, and get her off the painkillers. She stood up.

  Lattimer stood. ‘There was no need for you to come,’ he said heading towards the door. ‘We could have done this by Skype.’

  Helen McCann looked at him as though he were mad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Wilson sat in his office in Dunmurry, and held his head in his hands. Another piece of his life was chipped away after the confrontation in McHugh’s the previous evening. He left the bar shortly after Reid, and instead of going back to his apartment; he went to Kate’s. He stood across the road, and stared up at the lit window on the fifth floor like some lovelorn puppy. He thought that if she looked down and saw him that she might beckon him in and, at least, talk about what happened. He waited until the light was extinguished and then went back to Queen’s Quay. His life was crashing and burning around him. When he woke that morning, he felt a reluctance to go to work that was completely new to him. He had a job to do. Two young men had lost their lives, and he wanted to find out who was responsible and why they had to die. The desire to give them justice helped push him out of bed and into a world he felt was closing in on him. Investigation was what he did. It was the only thing that he was good at and doing it brought him to life. He stared at the sheets of paper on the desk. They contained his outline strategy. He had the bullet and shell, and sooner or later, he would have the autopsy report. Where would that leave him? He was completely in the dark concerning the two questions he really wanted answered. As soon as he’d arrived at the office, he did a sweep of his room. If it was bugged, a professional had done it. The previous evening he’d examined his mobile phone but didn’t notice anything amiss. Despite this negative result, he was certain that his phone conversation with Reid had been bugged, and that somehow the contents of that communication had been revealed to Kate. There was no other possible conclusion. What was of interest was the connection between whoever bugged him and his former partner. Perhaps Kate had hired a detective to follow him. Maybe he was being unfair to Sinclair and Jackson. Kate would know someone who could do that kind of work for her. But it was out of character. What happened in McHugh’s was also out of character. He had never seen her so out of control. Throughout their relationship she never exhibited mood swings. Over the past months, her mood had oscillated like a pendulum. But Kate was a diversion from what he had to do. He needed something to move the case forward. He picked up the phone and dialled Jackson’s extension. The phone rang out. Where the hell was the bastard? He left the office and walked along the corridor to Sinclair’s office. He could hear voices inside. Sinclair and Jackson were in conference, and he had little doubt that he was the subject. He slipped quietly back to his own office and was just sitting down when there was a knock on his door. ‘Come in,’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ Jackson pushed in the door. He was holding two typewritten sheets of paper in his hand. He placed both on the desk in front of Wilson. ‘Every hijacking and burned-out vehicle from the time in question for the area surrounding Belfast.’

  ‘Good work, sergeant,’ Wilson said glancing quickly at the two sheets of paper. There had been three hijackings and one car burned out. ‘Not a very active period.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And no sign of the famous blue saloon.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Makes us wonder whether the blue saloon actually existed, or was it simply a figment of the imagination of the witnesses.’

  ‘That’s all there is in the records, sir.’ Jackson remained ramrod straight.

  ‘Ah, yes, the records, we all know how reliable they are. Please sit down, sergeant.’

  Jackson looked confused. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Please sit, sergeant.’ Wilson opened a drawer and put the papers inside. He watched as Jackson reluctantly sat down. ‘We don’t seem to be making much progress.’

  ‘I think you’ve done very well, sir. Examining a forty-two year old shooting isn’t easy.’

  ‘Right you are, sergeant. If it happened today, we’d be looking for DNA and CCTV. We’d have the bodies and the bullets.’ He saw a slight flicker in Jackson’s eyes. It hadn’t been much but it was enough. They knew about the bullet and shell. There was no point in trying to hide some things from them. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s worthwhile going on. I’ve arranged with the pathologist at the Royal to locate the file on the autopsy but I don’t expect it to tell us more than we already know. Two young men were shot, and the investigation by the RUC was a total shambles. End of story.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘What do you think, sergeant?’ He could see by the man’s face that he wasn’t expecting to be asked his opinion.

  ‘Maybe you’re right, sir. Not enough evidence to go on.’

  “I’ve been here almost a week and we’ve taken some trips together, and I realise that I know absolutely nothing about you. In my last job, I neglected to see one of my team unravelling before my eyes. By the time I realised that there was something amiss, he’d murdered his wife. Maybe murdered is too harsh. His wife had advanced dementia or Alzheimer’s, so in a way it was a mercy killing. At least, that’s what the DPP considered it. Still, a blot on my record.’ He could see from Jackson’s face that he was familiar with the story. ‘I’ll never let it happen again. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Sir?’ Jackson was to
tally confused.

  ‘When, and how did you join the Army? What sort of work did you do in Special Branch? Wife and kids. That kind of thing.’

  ‘You could ask for my file, sir.’ Jackson was breathing deeply.

  ‘But I want to know the real you. The file would be full of administrative crap. Your appraisals would tell me what sort of copper you are, but if we’re going to work together long-term . . .’ He knew the files would be full of doctored bullshit, and he could see a look on Jackson’s face that indicated that a long-term working relationship wasn’t on the cards. ‘We’re going to have to develop some kind of relationship, and for that I need to know the real you.’

  Jackson coughed and lifted his head. ‘I was a boy soldier, sir. Fifteen years serving Queen and country. Demobbed as a sergeant with a honourable discharge. Joined the police as soon as I could. A few years on the beat, and then I was asked to join Special Branch. Used to be married, one kid, a boy. Must be seventeen. Haven’t seen him in years. The wife remarried.’

  ‘What sort of work did you do in Special Branch?’

  ‘Close protection, that kind of thing.’

  ‘A world away from murder investigation.’ Wilson smiled. He could see that Jackson was uncomfortable talking about himself. There was no mention of any affiliations. He had seen the handshake that passed between Jackson and Ramsey. At a minimum, Jackson was a mason. It was likely that he was also a member of an Orange Lodge.

  ‘I go where I’m told, sir.’

  ‘And do as you’re told? Like a good soldier.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jackson stood. ‘Is there anything else you want me to look into?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve hit a blank wall, sergeant.’ There was a ping from Wilson’s computer indicating the arrival of an email. He opened his mail file and saw that the email was from Kate’s office. The subject line read simply ‘FSNI’. He opened the mail hoping for some message from Kate. There was no message, only two attachments. He quickly opened the first; it was a report from the FSNI. He opened the second; it was an invoice for the test. He hid his disappointment. ‘See if there’s any mentions of the blue saloon in any other shooting from the same year. In fact, look at the year before and the year after. It’s the only lead we have for the moment.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jackson said without enthusiasm. He turned and left the office.

  As soon as Jackson closed the door, Wilson opened the attachment containing the report from the FSNI. The bullet was, as he anticipated a 9 mm Parabellum, and, in the opinion of the technician, had been fired from a Sterling machine gun. It was very similar to bullets that had been collected at shootings throughout Ulster. It was marked as a British Army issue but might have come from an armoury managed by the Ulster Defence Regiment and therefore might have been “lost”. The technician had concluded that the bullet had been fired from a British Army registered weapon, and he listed a specific Sterling machine gun as the weapon in question. The report was unable to pinpoint whether the weapon had been used in other shootings. It was not listed among the Sterling machine guns ‘stolen’ from UDR armouries. Wilson slipped the report into the file he was establishing on the shootings. He sat back in his chair. It was clear that the shootings were most likely sectarian in nature. If he were a betting man, he would have said that an Ulster Volunteer Force gang were involved. There were many such gangs active during the 1970s and ‘80s. The fact that the weapon was not among those ‘stolen’ from UDR armouries was the only point of interest. If the Sterling wasn’t from that source, where did it come from? The answer to that question might permit him to pinpoint the particular gang responsible for the shootings. His mind drifted to the lack of message in the email. Was the absence of a message in reality a message? He’d never seen Kate so angry. Or so out of control. He had no idea what might happen next. He was taken out of his reverie by the sound of his mobile phone. He looked at the screen and saw it was McDevitt’s number. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ McDevitt’s voice was strained.

  ‘Where are you?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘In court, we need to talk soon. I’ve . . . ‘

  ‘Later,’ Wilson cut him off. If someone was listening, he didn’t want them to hear. He looked at his watch. It was approaching midday. ‘Remember where we met for a coffee during the Grant and Malone cases?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In thirty minutes, I’ll bring the coffee this time.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sinclair almost broke into a smile when Jackson related his earlier conversation with Wilson. They were supposed to be the experts in psych ops, but Wilson was the one who was pulling Jackson’s chain. He was becoming more despondent about their ability to complete the operation. In his twenty years in military intelligence and ten years in RUC/PSNI Special Branch, he had never been obliged to report a failure. He was very close to that situation now. He was not in the habit of considering his superiors as incompetents. A lifetime in the security services had given him total belief in the right of senior officers to direct the operation as they saw fit. But he was beginning to think that whoever was in charge of the “operation Wilson” as he’d come to call it, had their collective heads up their arses. He and Jackson were completely compromised. They had been reduced to simple watchers without any ability to direct events. The debacle in McHugh’s was simply the final nail in their coffin. Wilson had shown by his actions with regard to the bullet that he didn’t entirely trust them. At that point, there was still the possibility of redressing the situation if they had been humble enough. Passing on the intercept from Wilson’s phone to his former partner so that she could confront him had sealed their fate. Wilson was smart enough to know that his call was intercepted, and that Kate McCann had been informed. He and Jackson had watched the footage of the altercation in McHugh’s. You could almost see the wheels moving inside Wilson’s head. It was only a small step for him to conclude that someone with a high level of power had arranged to bug his mobile. It had been a large step to take and Sinclair was reluctant to agree, but it wasn’t his call. When the dust settled, if the operation were to be a success, there would be no word about the screw-up with the mobile. However, if the operation turned out to be a cluster fuck, then he and Jackson would be the fall guys.

  ‘The latest intercept,’ Jackson said and played the short conversation between Wilson and McDevitt.

  Sinclair started to rub the point of his beard.

  Jackson recognised the “tell”. His boss was about five seconds away from throwing a wobbly. He watched Sinclair’s face gradually redden.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Sinclair said at the top of his voice. ‘We might as well get rid of the intercept on his mobile. Did you hear him? He wouldn’t let McDevitt speak, and he didn’t give him a specific meeting place. The only information we’re going to get from an intercept that cost a fortune to set up is how he likes his takeaway pizza.’

  Jackson knew better than to speak. He had plenty of experience of dealing with Sinclair. The storm was at its peak right now but it would soon blow itself out. Then they might be able to think their way out of this mess.

  “I don’t like that little bastard, McDevitt,’ Sinclair said. ‘He’s an interfering git. I don’t like people who ask questions about me. You and I were well under the radar before we began this job. Now some journalist knows our names and has the connections to ask what we might be working on.’

  ‘We could always dissuade him from asking any further questions.’

  ‘That might become necessary.’

  Jackson relished the possibility. He didn’t like journalists and given half a chance he’d make sure that McDevitt never asked another question.

  ‘You can ditch that thought,’ Sinclair said. ‘If it becomes necessary, we’ll dissuade him gently.’

  ‘You must be some kind of mind reader, sir,’ Jackson smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid your mind is an open book as far as dishing out violence is concerned.’

>   ‘So, Wilson is meeting McDevitt,’ Jackson looked at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes, we have no idea where and no idea what they’re going to discuss.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do about the situation now. Get to work on the blue saloon. Try and drag up something from the records. It was used just the once so let’s toss Wilson a bone. But make it a genuine sighting. He seems to be able to detect bullshit at a distance.’

  ‘Shit,’ Jackson said not looking forward to another trawl through the records.

  ‘Shit, sir, sergeant,’ Sinclair said to Jackson’s retreating back.

  ‘Shit, sir.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Wilson sat on one of the wooden benches set between the lines of trees on the approach to the waterfront. It was the same spot where McDevitt met him on his early morning run some months before. He stopped off at a coffee shop, and two cups of coffee were cooling on the seat beside him. He looked around. He was certain whoever bugged his phone had no idea of the meeting place, but he was still on the lookout for potential observers. There was the usual lunchtime crowd, some joggers, some cyclists and people just out for a stroll and a break from the tedium of the office. It was one of those early summer days with intermittent sunshine and clouds that lull the population of Ireland into thinking that they might after all have a decent summer. He saw McDevitt approaching from the roundabout on Lanyon Place. The journalist was huddled, and seemed even slighter than usual. He saw Wilson, and made directly for the seating area casting a glance behind him as he entered the central reservation.

  ‘Why the urgency?’ Wilson handed McDevitt a cup of coffee as he sat down.

  ‘I needed to talk to you.’ McDevitt sipped the hot liquid, and looked back towards the roundabout. ‘I think I’m being followed.’