A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (10 page)

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 was 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?’

‘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 someone 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.