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

  Wilson could feel the taste of the whiskey on his lips. He felt like he could drink the whole bottle. ‘So you’ll be raising roses in Portaferry this time next week.’

  ‘No fear, I’ve been at the wakes of too many former colleagues who have kicked the bucket within months of leaving the job. I’ve lined up a position as a security consultant. The pay is better than the police and I’ll be able to fly business class for a change.’

  ‘Any room there for me?’ Wilson asked smiling.

  ‘You’d probably bankrupt the poor buggers if they took you on. They’d have more court cases on their hands than they could handle. Recommending you would be more than my new career is worth. Anyway, you’ve been tasked with solving one of the more than 3,000 unsolved murders that are still on the books.’ Spence finished his glass and filled a second. ‘If you manage that it’ll put a real dent in the unsolved crime column.’

  ‘Steady on, it’s a bit early for that.’ Wilson put his hand over the top of his glass. ‘Why the historical crime?’

  ‘Damned if I know. On the one hand they’re talking about suspending investigations into historical crimes and now they create a task force to look at one historical crime. It must be something damn important.’ Spence raised his glass and drank half of the contents. ‘Fuck the begrudgers.’

  A strange coldness ran down Wilson’s neck. Spence was right. There were a lot of jobs they could have slotted him into but investigating a historical crime would be pretty far down the list. He finished the content of his glass and stood up. ‘I was never very good at attending wakes. Take my advice and finish it here.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Spence downed the contents of his glass and put the bottle away. ‘I’ve been a good manager at this station and I’m not going to spoil it by getting myself roaring drunk.’

  Wilson came around the desk and shook hands with Spence. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘I’ll be around,’ Spence said.

  ‘Don’t be one of those assholes who keep coming back for cups of coffee in the canteen. You’re much better than that.’

  Spence smiled. ‘I don’t think Jenny will receive the news too enthusiastically. She’s already worried about me hanging around the house too much. The consultancy is only for a few days a week.’

  ‘It’ll work out,’ Wilson said leaving the room. He went straight to the squad room. Harry Graham and Eric Taylor were at their desks. He remembered that Peter Davidson was at court. He’d probably slipped away for a few beers.

  ‘Evening, boss,’ Graham said looking up. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Could have been worse,’ Wilson said glancing around. He would be leaving this room and this station in three days, he thought. He remembered the first day he had walked into the room. He had just been appointed a detective constable and there was a long road before him. The room looked different. It was like he was looking at it with new eyes. It was more comfortable somehow. He felt safe here. He had always thought that he would finish his career here but the best laid plans of man mean nothing to the gods. ‘Actually, Harry, I’ve been screwed twice today, once in court and once in Brooklyn House.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ Eric Taylor said from his desk. ‘The rumour mill has been in overdrive over the past few weeks. I thought it was the usual bullshit but now I’m worried. Spit it out, boss. We’re big boys here.’

  ‘Reorganisation is on the way,’ Wilson said. ‘Everything is going to change. Spence is being pushed out the door and I’m off to some half-arsed task force at the start of next week.’

  ‘No way,’ Graham said. ‘And what about us?’

  ‘The murder squad is no more,’ Wilson answered. ‘It’s being transformed into a serious crime squad or unit as they’re now called.’ He looked directly at Harry Graham. ‘You and Peter are being transferred to the new unit. Eric is joining PSNI Intelligence.’

  Graham looked downcast but Taylor had the opposite expression.

  ‘No more outside work for you, eh Eric?’ Wilson smiled. Taylor had been wounded in a shooting several years previously and had developed an aversion to pounding the pavements. The intelligence posting would suit him perfectly.

  ‘Who’ll head up the serious crimes unit?’ Graham asked.

  Wilson held out his hands. ‘I wasn’t informed. But the good news is that it won’t be ‘Fatboy’ Harrison. He’s being made the fall guy for the Cummerford cluster fuck.’

  ‘A bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Taylor said. ‘Three days to clear out your office.’

  Wilson was already thinking about what he would take from his office. He decided it might just fit in a little more than a matchbox, and a little less than a shoebox and would probably take all of five minutes to gather up. He wasn’t into mementoes. He glanced at his watch. ‘I think it’s about time to knock off. ‘Don’t know about you fellows but I need a couple of drinks. Let’s call Peter and we’ll meet at the Crown.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was nearly midnight when Wilson arrived back at his new digs. He had made the mistake of giving the cab driver his old address and they had already arrived at Kate’s apartment before he realised his error. His current residence was an apartment in a new building in what was becoming trendy East Belfast. It was close to the Titanic Quarter and was just east of Queen’s Quay. He was located on the fifth floor, which gave him an excellent view across the river with the Lagan Weir off to his right. The apartment was a two-bedroom unit and was considerably less luxurious than his former residence. But somehow he felt more comfortable in these surroundings. His rental agreement ran for six months and when he signed it he wasn’t aware that his working life was about to change so radically. The six months was intended as an interim to give him time to either rebuild his relationship with Kate, or if they decided to move on, he would try to find somewhere more permanent. It was yet another impermanence; another reason to feel uneasy about the future. His whole life appeared to be in a state of flux. He looked off to the left along the Lagan and he thought that he could just about see some light in the building that housed Kate’s apartment. He wondered whether she was looking out of her picture window at where he was standing. It had felt so right with Kate. He’d always appreciated that they came from different worlds and there was the issue of the miscarriage but he felt they could solve their problems. He really did think that they could get over the loss of their baby. He recognised that their feeling on the miscarriage would be different. Kate was young and would probably have other children. Therefore the miscarriage was not an insurmountable problem. He agreed that he lacked sensitivity but he was in a job where it was a liability to be too sensitive. He used to think that he could be two different people. One was the policeman who dealt with the dregs of society and witnessed the horrors that man can inflict on his fellows. The other person was the loving partner and the potential loving husband. Perhaps Kate saw through that fallacy and realised that the insensitive policeman would win out in the end. Whatever the reason, a chasm had opened between them and he wasn’t sure that the gap could ever be bridged. He pulled a chair over to the window and stared at the flickering lights of the city.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wilson eased his car past the barrier at the PSNI compound in Dunmurry. The facility had not yet entered the new soft era of policing and still had the high blast walls and wire netting associated with the era of the “Troubles”. He had received the official transmission of his new posting on the day after his meeting with Campbell and Jennings. As a detective superintendent, Wilson had the right to a parking place but he found that all the reserve places were taken so he pulled into the most convenient spot. He entered the main building within the complex and presented himself at the reception.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair,’ he said to the uniformed policewoman behind the desk.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson.’

  ‘He’s expecting you,’ she said pulling out a shee
t of paper from the drawer in front of her. ‘This is a plan of the site.’ She pushed the sheet of paper towards Wilson. ‘Your unit is marked in red. I’ll phone ahead and tell them that you’ve arrived. Welcome to Dunmurry.’ She gave him her widest smile.

  Wilson took the plan and left the building. He walked through the compound following the route set out on the plan. The place looked strange and foreboding. He’d been in this position several times before. It normally took a month just to find out where the toilets were located. It was an exaggeration but it would take some time before he was fully operational. The home of the task force was a small, prefabricated building at the rear of the Dunmurry complex. It was maybe thirty feet long with a square profile. Wilson had seen buildings like this left over on deserted World War II airfields. It wasn’t a PSNI office; it was a wooden container on stilts. Wilson entered a narrow corridor that ran along the left-hand side of the building. On his right were a series of wooden doors without any markings. The corridor and the door looked like they hadn’t been painted since they were constructed. If he hadn’t already realised that he was going to be given the shit treatment, his new accommodations were chosen to put him right. Well, if they wanted him to quit, they would have to go a hell of a lot further than dropping him into a shitpit of an office. He knocked on the first door and opened it. There was nobody inside and the office furniture, which consisted of a metal desk and a chair, which had been manufactured before the word “ergonomic” had been invented, that must have been recovered from a rubbish dump. He knocked on the next door but received no answer. Two more doors to try. He was at the last door on the corridor before he received an answer to his knock

  ‘Come in,’ the voice was strong with a Mid-Ulster accent.

  Wilson opened the door and walked in. ‘I’m looking for Chief Superintendent Sinclair.’

  ‘You’ve found him.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson reporting for duty.’ Wilson entered the office and closed the door behind him. Sinclair’s office was larger than the one Wilson had entered at the other end of the corridor. The furniture was still basic consisting of a metal desk, and ergonomic chair and a filing cabinet. A computer at least one generation old sat on Sinclair’s desk while an ink jet printer sat on a small formica-topped table beside the desk. There was a metal frame visitor’s chair in front of the desk. Wilson wondered who Sinclair had pissed off to land this job.

  Sinclair stood and smiled. Wilson guessed that he was somewhere in his late fifties with a full head of white hair, and a thin face with a salt and pepper beard on his chin. He was almost as tall as Wilson, maybe six foot two and sported a paunch. ‘Welcome,’ he held out his hand. ‘And dispense with that “reporting for duty” bullshit’.

  They shook hands and Wilson noticed that there were no messages passed with the handshake. He was in no doubt that Sinclair would know everything about him including the fact that he had never been a mason or a member of the Orange Lodge.

  ‘Sit down,’ Sinclair said nodding at a chair in front of his desk. He noticed the way Wilson glanced at the chair as though he doubted whether it would carry his weight.

  The two men sat. ‘Not exactly what we’re used to. I’ve had to scrounge both office space and equipment. Since we’re a task force, nobody wants to commit resources to us. So, who did you piss off for them to send you to me?’

  ‘Let’s not play that game,’ Wilson said. ‘You probably know what I had for breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Your reputation precedes you. Resources are pretty thin on the ground so I’m happy enough to have you. But you’re a senior officer and there are not that many around. I was expecting to get an inspector who’s on his way up and needs a bit of light investigation experience. Have they briefed you?’

  ‘Are you kidding? All I know is that it’s something to do with a historical crime.’

  Sinclair laughed. ‘Bloody typical. For guys like you who’ve been on the coalface working up an old case might appear to be a bit mundane. Going back over cold cases is not the same work as following up on a fresh corpse. There isn’t the same dynamic when the victim has been in the ground for maybe thirty years, when the statements, where they exist, were taken by someone who could have been classed as the village idiot, and where the perpetrators are as long in the ground as the victims. The job is not to apprehend the culprit but to ensure that the families of the victims have closure.’

  ‘But in the case where the culprit is still breathing?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Then we can pass the new evidence up the ladder to Crime Operations and they decide what to do with it. Small beer, eh, in comparison to dealing with the murder of Lizzie Rice or Ivan McIlroy. We’re about a million miles away from high profile court cases and names in the paper. Does that bother you?’

  Wilson thought about the piece in the Chronicle about his evidence at the Cummerford trial. McDevitt had hyped him up and he was sure that it hadn’t gone down well with HQ. ‘At the moment, not really. But I’m at a loss trying to figure out what I’m doing here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought that cold cases were the remit of the Historical Enquiries Team (HET). I suppose you’ve heard of them.’

  Sinclair coughed. ‘Of course I have. They were set up in 2005 to carry out investigations into murders committed between 1968 and 1998. It was supposed to bring closure to the bereaved families who still had unanswered questions about the death or disappearance of their loved ones. If I remember correctly, the initial team consisted of 100 officers seconded from police forces throughout the United Kingdom. Even a large task force like that couldn’t deal with the backlog of crimes, so a very large number of “unsolved” murders were never reviewed. The HET shut its doors in 2011 and since then some politicians would like to write the whole thirty-year period off and to forget the past. But Joe Public didn’t like that, so there has to be some unit created as a sop to the families that are still pissed off. The PSNI is still committed to solving historical crimes.’

  ‘So we’re a sop to Joe Public,’ Wilson said.

  ‘I thought you’d be impressed. I suppose you think this kind of investigation is beneath you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say that. I’ve looked at what the HET accomplished. Lots of conclusions about what a mess the RUC made of the investigation of crime but very little of putting the killers behind bars. I don’t want to know how or why somebody fucked up. It’s my job to make sure the murderers go down.’

  Sinclair rubbed his well-coiffed beard. ‘And you don’t think someone will go down for a murder that happened forty-two years ago?’

  Wilson smiled. ‘What do you think? Since I was handed this shit assignment, I’ve been wondering why. I suppose that since I put the venerable DCC into the frame for giving a serial killer access to confidential police briefings, I’m being punished. But they could have done that by reducing me to pounding a beat in Crossmaglen. What have you done to warrant your presence as my superior? I’ve been on the force for almost twenty years and it’s strange that we’ve never come across each other.’

  Sinclair rolled his eyes. ‘At the moment, there are more than 7,000 officers in the PSNI and God knows how many are retired. I don’t suppose that you’ve worked with most of them.’

  ‘No, you’re right. But I do know most of the officers involved in murder investigations.’

  ‘That’s not my background,’ Sinclair said. ‘Let’s leave it there.’ He picked up the phone and dialled. ‘ Sergeant Jackson, can you join us please.’ He put the phone down. ‘I know you’ve been running a squad but resources are thin here. I can only give you one man, Simon Jackson. He’s a good man.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Sinclair said.

  ‘Sir.’

  Wilson was aware that the conversation had been cut short. He turned to view his new partner. Jackson was in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was close cropped and steely grey. He was of
medium height and build and had the round face associated with the descendants of the soldiers left behind by William of Orange. He had a protruding jaw and his eyes bulged from his fleshy face. His lips were full and no doubt the envy of many women of similar age. He was the diametric opposite in looks to Wilson’s former sergeant.

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Wilson,’ Sinclair said. ‘Your new boss.’

  Wilson stood and proffered his hand, which Jackson took. ‘Please to meet you, sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’ Jackson’s handshake was firm and he stood ramrod stiff.

  Again there was no message in the handshake and Wilson confirmed his impression that the staff of the task force was well informed concerning their new recruit. The strength of the handshake and the stiffness of the bearing led him to conclude that Jackson was a former member of the military.

  ‘You’ve already left the file on the Superintendent’s desk?’ Sinclair asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘OK, sergeant, you can go.’

  ‘Pleasure to have you with us, sir,’ Jackson said to Wilson.

  Why don’t you look particularly pleased? Wilson thought. ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ he replied. Wilson was a people-watcher and he had noticed a signal passing between his new colleagues. It was a slight movement of the yes but it was there. It was clear that they knew each other well. It was something he would have to keep in mind.

  Jackson left the room.

  ‘I think you’re the kind of man who can hit the ground running so I’ve asked Jackson to put the file relating to a shooting in Belfast in 1974 on your desk. Your office is two doors down. I don’t anticipate the task force lasting too long. I’m sure that HQ will find an appropriate job sooner or later for someone with your seniority. In the meantime, please remember the maxim that we’re here to serve the bereaved families.’