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

  ‘It’s no ploy,’ Wilson said. Inside he was happy to hear her voice. ‘I’ve got a problem with the case I’m currently on and you’re the only one I can turn to for help.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘One I can’t discuss over the phone.’

  ‘Ian, I’m not ready for this.’

  ‘I respect your feelings but I genuinely need your help and I need it now.’

  ‘Meet me at court at one o’clock. Ten minutes, Ian. That’s all I can give you.’ The phone went dead.

  Wilson sat back in his chair. How had it come to this? Yes, the loss of the baby was traumatic, but surely it was something they could have worked through. Yes, he was probably insensitive. For God’s sake, he was a policeman. He witnessed death and the destruction of lives on a daily basis. He swam with the scum and to survive he’d developed a thick skin. Sometimes maybe a little too thick. He was probably inured to the pain of loss. But this was his second bout with miscarriage, and he had lost both. Perhaps there was a message in there somewhere. Kate was the best thing in his life, and he’d managed to lose her. His job had been a poor second best, and he’d managed to lose that too. He closed his eyes. He was still feeling the effects of last night’s excesses. McDevitt was right. There was no point in seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. He wasn’t about to lose control of his life. He would wait on Kate in the hope that their “break” would simply be that. Other people rekindle their relationships, so why shouldn’t he and Kate? He opened his computer and clicked on the email icon. He had five new emails. The only one that required opening was one from Harry Graham. The new serious crime squad still hadn’t been formed and Harry, Peter Davidson and Eric Taylor were still labouring away on trying to find Sammy Rice. There was no news from Interpol and they were beginning to believe that Sammy might be dead. Rumours to that effect were circulating in the Belfast underworld. But rumours of Sammy’s death might be exaggerated. McDevitt had also been right about the rise and rise of Gerry McGreary. Pieces of Sammy’s territory had already been ripped off by the McGreary mob, and McGreary was the new big boss in Belfast. Wilson thought of something to write back about his current situation but news of the investigation into a cold crime wouldn’t be of much interest to a crew at the coalface. He thought about the days when he had more than a hundred emails flooding into his inbox. He hated it then but he would give anything to be back in his old office, even if it meant being bombarded by idiotic emails. That wasn’t about to happen and he would have to learn to live with his new situation. He opened his word processor and started writing his report of the interview with Lafferty and Mallon.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wilson arrived in the domed central room at the Royal Courts of Justice at exactly five minutes to one. There was the usual barrister-dance taking place as the legal eagles carrying handfuls of briefs flew hither and thither with their black cloaks flying. He sat down on one of the benches and observed the ritual movements. He was facing the corridor, which led to the court where the Cummerford trial was taking place. He was concentrating so hard on that direction that he didn’t see Kate approaching from the side and wasn’t aware of her presence until she sat beside him.

  ‘Kate!’ He turned to look at her. Her blonde hair was tied back as it usually was when she was at court in order to accommodate her wig. Her high cheekbones were more pronounced and she still had the pallor that was present since the miscarriage. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ He wanted badly to hug her. He needed to apologise to her for being such an idiot. But he knew it was the wrong thing to do. Rekindling their relationship would be a process and it hadn’t yet begun.

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Ian.’ Her voice was flat, emotionless. ‘I really do only have ten minutes and I do want to help you.’

  ‘I’m with this task force investigating a cold case.’ He was finding it hard to concentrate on his stupid job. He wished he’d appreciated how unimportant PSNI was before he and Kate broke up.

  ‘I heard that you’d been moved. It must have hurt to lose your job with the murder squad. Something about a reorganisation I hear.’

  Not as hurtful as losing you, he thought. ‘That’s what they say.’ The minutes were being eaten up but he didn’t really care.

  ‘Ian, you said that you needed me. I hope this wasn’t just an excuse for us to meet. I’m not ready to talk about us. I may never be ready to talk about us.’

  ‘I know it’s trite, but where did it all go wrong?’

  ‘Maybe it was all wrong from the start and we just didn’t realise it. When my mother and I talked, I realised that perhaps we came from different worlds and there was too much difficulty trying to force those worlds together.’

  ‘So Helen was involved in the “break”?’

  ‘I used her as a sounding board. It was my decision.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Five minutes.’

  Wilson thought about the old man lying on his deathbed in Beechmount Parade and decided that he had to grasp this one chance to get the ballistics analysis. He removed the small box from his pocket, and slid the lid open. ‘I’m investigating the death of two young men in 1974. The original investigation was non-existent. There was no forensic collected at the scene or, if there was, it was never logged. I’ve got several new colleagues that I don’t completely trust and I’m afraid if I submit this bullet and shell for analysis, I’ll never see them again. So I can’t go the official route, and FSNI probably wouldn’t deal with me as an individual. You could ask them to do the analysis and find out whether the weapon used was employed in other killings. I’ll pay for the analysis myself.’

  Kate smiled. ‘That’s something that I really appreciate about you, Ian. You are dedicated to what you do.’ She reached out and took the small box from his hand. Their fingers touched in the process and she quickly withdrew her hand. She held the box and looked at the two small cylindrical items sitting on the cotton wadding. ‘I’ll get them to FSNI today.’

  ‘Can you put a rush on it? I know it’ll cost more but I’ll handle whatever it is. There’s a guy at FSNI called George Tunney. I’ve dealt with him in the past and if you put it through him, he might be able to fast track it.’

  She closed the lid of the box and put it in her pocket. ‘I’ll get it on the way. I really thought this was just a ploy for us to sit down together.’

  ‘And what would you have done if it was?’

  ‘I would have been angry and I would never have trusted you again if you asked for my help. You’re a good man, Ian. I’d be the first to recognise that and I really do love you. But I have a feeling that we’ll never be the way we were. And that makes me very sad.’

  She stood up and so did Wilson.

  ‘Some day when the dust settles,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ll be able to sit down and discuss what happened rationally. Right now, I’m still angry and raw.’

  ‘What about the future?’

  She didn’t reply and instead consulted her watch. ‘We’re over the allotted time. I really need to prepare for this afternoon.’

  ‘How is it going?’ He wanted desperately to continue the conversation.

  ‘Pretty much as expected.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘My secretary will be in touch as soon as we have a reply from FSNI.’ She held out her hand. ‘It’s been good talking to you.’

  Wilson took the hand and held it a fraction longer than necessary. He would have preferred a kiss on the cheek but he knew he would have to be satisfied with touching her hand. He was profoundly sad. He realised, for the first time, that there was a distinct possibility that there would be no way back.

  Kate turned and headed back in the direction she’d come. He watched her as she departed. He knew instinctively what the future held for them. In a few months, they would meet perhaps in Deane’s. They would talk about how happy they had been together and how that happiness hit the fault lines that ran through their relationship. Then they would decide that they would remain friends, but that a f
uture close relationship was out of the question. Kate might even drop into the conversation the fact that she was seeing someone. It would be a pillar of society, a man on the rise, old money preferably. Someone who was comfortable at the dinners where the great and the good of the Province discussed events important to the 1%. Someone who had a holiday villa in Marbella, but most of all someone who could be useful in helping Kate become a Judge. He thought for a minute. And someone who would be acceptable to Helen McCann.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jackson was standing at the door to Wilson’s office when he returned from Chichester Street. Wilson used his key to open the door. It was a charade but a necessary one for the moment. They both entered the office, and Wilson took his place behind his desk. His mind was still on his meeting with Kate. It had been a lot more antiseptic than he could have imagined. He knew that he had better get used to his new apartment. ‘Yes, sergeant,’ he said as he sat down.

  ‘I spent the morning in RUC archives,’ Jackson said. ‘They haven’t computerised the paper records yet so it was a bit of a ballacher.’

  ‘Such is the life of the policeman.’ Wilson smiled wryly. He was beginning to enjoy thinking up difficult tasks for Jackson. ‘But I bet you finally succeeded.’

  ‘Things were a little more freeform back in the Seventies,’ Jackson said warming to his theme. ‘Callouts weren’t always logged and even when they were, procedures were not followed. It appears that the log for the evening of the Mallon and Lafferty shootings was incomplete.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Anyway, I managed to find the name of the sergeant who was on duty in that area on that night.’

  ‘And he’s still in the land of the living?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jackson consulted his notebook. ‘His name is Albert Ramsey. He was quite young to be a sergeant. He has a small farm outside Moy.’

  ‘And you’ve already contacted him?’

  ‘He’s expecting us this afternoon. If that’s alright with you.’

  ‘That’s very alright with me. Why don’t you fire up the batmobile and I’ll clear up here?’

  ‘Sir.’ Jackson turned on his heel and left.

  Wilson needed a few moments on his own to compose himself. The thoughts of spending the afternoon in the company of Jackson filled him with unease. There was something in Jackson’s obsequiousness that annoyed him. He didn’t like being taken for a fool. He knew that Moy was in South Tyrone and about an hour’s journey from Belfast. That meant a minimum of two hours riding in silence with Jackson. He wondered whether he should insist on going alone, but he knew that wouldn’t be acceptable. Jackson was the watcher. But what was he watching for? And why had Wilson been chosen to be watched? He had half expected the security services on the mainland to keep a eye on him after he exposed the abuse of children by high-level civil servants at the Dungrey Children’s Home. But that fear was never realised. Or, was never realised as far as he knew. So, this was something different. He stood up slowly and left his room. He was almost at the courtyard when he realised that he hadn’t bothered to lock his door.

  Wilson knew there was some reason he should remember the area around Moygashel and Moy. It had been the area that spawned one of the most notorious gangs of murderers active during the 1970s and 1980s. The area was mainly farmland. Jackson had procured a GPS in order to locate Ramsey’s farm. Even with the help of a satellite it took them an additional fifteen minutes after they arrived in the small village of Moy to locate the Ramsey residence. Jackson brought the car to a stop in a cobbled yard facing a rundown farmhouse with a small barn to the left. As Wilson opened the car door, his nose was assailed by the agricultural smell of pig shit. Their luck was really in. It was ironic that Ramsey had left the pig sty that was the RUC to create a real pig sty in the middle of nowhere. Wilson exited the car and found himself standing on a rough stone yard with pools of what looked like pig slurry located at intervals between the parked car and the door to the farmhouse. He reminded himself to buy a pair of wellington boots. He picked his way gingerly toward the house trying to avoid the ankle-deep foul smelling pools.

  As they approached, the door to the farmhouse opened and a man stood in the opening. ‘Sergeant Jackson, I suppose,’ he said.

  Jackson waited for Wilson to speak.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wilson.’ He extended his hand towards the man standing in the door. Albert Ramsey was almost as tall as Wilson. There might have been an inch in favour of Wilson but that was about it. However, Ramsey had more than 50 lbs on the detective. His stomach hung over the belt of his trousers, which were tucked into a pair of muck-stained leather workboots. Ramsey’s face was ruby red and fat, his nose was purple and pitted, his eyes bulged out of his face and his jaw line was non-existent as was his neck. He had strands of red hair on his head, which was liberally covered in liver spots. He looked every inch his seventy-six years.

  ‘Albert Ramsey,’ he said as he took Wilson’s hand and gave a masonic handshake. He looked stunned when Wilson didn’t return it.

  Jackson and Ramsey shook hands and Wilson saw the relief on Ramsey’s face when Jackson confirmed himself as a fellow mason. It had been remiss of Jackson not to inform Ramsey that the superintendent was not a member of the craft.

  ‘You’re a difficult man to find,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Those who need to find me, know where to find me,’ Ramsey said and turned to re-enter the house. ‘Come in and I’ll put the kettle on for a cup of tea.’ Ramsey led the way past a small corridor into a large country kitchen. An original wall had been knocked through and the kitchen had been extended into the living room. A television sat in one corner and a sports channel was playing silently. There was no sign of a female hand. Either Ramsey was unmarried or Mrs Ramsey had long ago departed the scene. ‘Sit down in the living room.’ He nodded towards a couch that faced the television. A woollen throw had been laid over the ancient couch. Wilson and Jackson sat side by side. Neither man leaned against the back of the couch, which looked like it couldn’t take their combined weight. Wilson glanced around the room. There was a Union Jack tacked to the wall opposite the entrance. There were three photos on the walls. One was faded with age and showed a group of RUC cadets. A second was a portrait of Ramsey in full dress sergeant’s uniform, probably taken on the day of his promotion. The third photo showed Ramsey standing in a group of men standing behind a shield bearing the legend ‘UDA’. Ramsey whistled to himself as he prepared the tea. It was obvious to Wilson that the man spent a lot of the time alone. As soon as the kettle was boiled, Ramsey carried a tray bearing a teapot, three cups, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and a plate of plain biscuits to the coffee table that sat in front of the couch. After the tea was poured and distributed, Ramsey sat in a club chair and put his feet on the coffee table.

  Wilson looked at the soles of the boots as they dripped blobs of uncertain origin onto the table. He decided to give the tea a miss.

  ‘You’re here about the night them two wee Taig toerags were shot in Beechmount Parade,’ Ramsey said slurping from his teacup.

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson saw that there had been a preliminary exchange between Ramsey and Jackson. ‘PSNI has set up a task force to look into the case. The file is particularly slim. One could almost say that it’s almost non-existent.’

  Ramsey slurped another mouthful of tea. ‘It was forty-two fuckin’ years ago.’ There was a level of belligerence in his tone and colour of his face turned from red to purple. ‘I don’t suppose the PSNI has set up a task force to look into the deaths of good Protestants killed by the murdering bastards in the IRA.’

  Wilson decided to ignore the final remark. ‘Nobody is casting aspersions, ‘The good sergeant and I are simply looking into what happened directly after the shootings.’

  Ramsey sat back, his brow furrowed in thought. ‘As far as I remember, we were called out for the shooting. When we arrived there were two lads dead and several injured, we organised an ambulance. There w
as a bloody mini riot goin’ on. So, our first job was to put an end to that. We were overlooked by Divis so we were afraid of a sniper. We’d had a report of an exchange of fire but when we got there the guns the Taigs had fired had already disappeared.’

  ‘Yesterday we interviewed one of the parents and one of the boys who was injured,’ Wilson said. ‘Nobody mentioned an exchange of fire.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect them to,’ Ramsey smiled. ‘The Taigs were all the same. They’d shoot and then pass the gun along, lying bastards the Taigs.’

  Wilson saw there was meaning to the Loyalist paraphernalia around the room. ‘So let’s say there was an exchange of fire. That would be easy to prove from the amount of stray bullets and shells that were found.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Ramsey said looking to Jackson.

  ‘But according to the almost non-existent file, no bullets or shells were recovered. There’s no ballistic report, nothing. Can you explain that?’

  Ramsey ran his hand through his thin hair. ‘I don’t rightly remember. It was a lifetime ago. We must have collected all the shells on the street. We probably bagged them. I don’t know what happened afterwards.’

  ‘Were you involved in the raids on the Mallon and Lafferty households in the aftermath of the shootings?’

  Ramsey smiled at the memory and nodded.

  ‘What was the purpose of those raids?’

  ‘The guns and ammunition had to be somewhere,’ Ramsey said. He had removed his boots from the coffee table, and he was becoming increasingly nervous. ‘Someone had hidden the guns and we were sure they were still in the parents’ houses.’

  ‘Who’

  ‘The Brits and us.’

  ‘Which Brits?’

  ‘Fucking Brits, man. Army, intelligence, how the fuck do I know.’ Ramsey leaned forward, his face a deep shade of red. ‘What’s your game? Are you tryin’ to fuck me? After my fuckin’ pension are you?’