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

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jock McDevitt was burning the midnight oil in the
Chronicle’s
newsroom. He seldom worked into the evening, but he was checking into a white-collar crime involving a prominent politician and the sale of assets managed by a state body in the south of Ireland. It wasn’t Jock’s story, but he had an interest in it and he had a feeling it might turn into something big. Politicians trousering large sums of money sold newspapers. He had already filed his piece on the Cummerford trial. He still had the front page, but he could feel that there was a level of legal fatigue in both his editor and the public. What he needed was a nice sex angle? But Cummerford or McComber, or whatever she preferred to call herself, was apparently uninterested in sex. He had questioned the entire staff of the
Chronicle
and nobody, either male or female, had been involved with her. That was pretty strange. Newspapers were incestuous with journalists generally thrown together and it normally didn’t require a Christmas party for members of staff to try it on with a colleague. He needed some new tag to keep the public’s interest boiling, and to keep his by-line on the front page. He looked around the newsroom. Most of the old hands had filed their copy and were probably ensconced in some watering hole getting a reasonable buzz on before returning to their billets. The majority of the people in the newsroom looked half his age and were being paid buttons in order to gain entrance to the exclusive club that was the National Union of Journalists. That begged the question: what was he doing there? If he were honest, he would have said that he was hiding. McDevitt didn’t consider himself a coward, but he wasn’t fearless either. He had always been slight. Even at school he had been the runt in his class, and the object of a certain amount of bullying. He didn’t partake in any sport, and spent most of his time in the school library. He carried the term “swot” as a badge of distinction not as a term aimed at humiliating him. He intended to use his degree in English to teach, but after a bout of teaching practice involving a certain level of abuse from students, he decided on journalism as his future profession. He thought of himself as a John Simpson or Martin Bell. He was going to be a crusader, taking on causes and exposing them to the public.  However, reality took over and he ended up edging his way up the journalistic ladder by writing human interest pieces for the inside pages. His big break came with the explosion of violence in his native land. He didn’t have to travel to Bosnia to see broken bodies, or meet mass murderers. He could do both within easy reach of his home. So, he fell into crime journalism rather than chose it. His one great gift was his ability to listen. His supporters, of whom there were only a few, would say that he could draw blood from a stone simply by listening to what it had to say. He managed to bridge the sectarian divide and had contacts in both camps. He had listened to the murderers describe in detail how they had carried out their callous crimes, and he had returned home to empty his stomach into the toilet. Why then was he hiding in the newsroom of the
Chronicle
? He had the distinct feeling that he had poked something very dangerous that was now awake and aware of his existence. He spent the previous six months researching the Circle, a group of influential people who were the ones that effectively ran the province. He was sure that this group were responsible for rampant corruption and possibly more heinous crimes. The only person he had told about this research was Ian Wilson. He was extremely careful to avoid direct contact with the Circle and to keep his research at arm’s length. Thus far, he felt he had managed. If it wasn’t the Circle he was hiding from, it had to be the feelers he put out for Wilson in relation to Sinclair and Jackson. He looked at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. The night shift was already on and it was time for him to leave except he was reluctant. The one and only Mrs McDevitt had flown the coup ten years previously leaving him to warm his own bed, and learn how to use a microwave. He occupied the ground floor of a bay windowed house in Agincourt Avenue. The upper floor was rented long-term to a professor at Queen’s University who happened to be gay. McDevitt loved his space and the thousands of books it contained. He would dearly have loved to meet someone to share the space with him, but despite several abortive attempts, he had been alone for the past five years.

One of the young sub-editors who McDevitt didn’t really recognise passed by and tossed an envelope onto his desk. ‘That idiot who distributes the mail must have dropped this on my desk by mistake,’ he said and passed on quickly.

McDevitt looked at the retreating staffer, another young blood in a hurry to get somewhere he might never arrive. He picked up the envelope. It was a standard brown office A4 envelope with no markings apart from his name written in block letters on the front. He laid the envelope on the desk in front of him, and ran his hands over it confirming that there was no bulk within. Anonymous sealed envelopes were apt to leave the recipient blind if opened in haste. He removed a letter opener from a penholder on his desk and slit the top of the envelope. Nothing happened. He turned the opening away from him and prised it open carefully. When it didn’t spit a noxious substance into the air, he turned it around and looked inside. There was a single sheet of paper inside. He tipped it out on the desk and saw that it was a photograph that had been printed on photocopy paper. He picked up the photo and looked at it. It depicted eight men standing in front of three saloon cars. They were aged between twenty and forty and wore clothes that might have been fashionable thirty years previously. The photo was black and white, and grainy. It was difficult to make out the faces exactly. Each man held a weapon of some kind in his hand. Several held Sterling machine guns, while others had pistols and one held what looked like a shotgun. McDevitt took a magnifying glass from the drawer of his desk and looked at the photo again. Even magnified, the faces were still indistinct. He tried to see whether he should recognise one of them but they were complete strangers. He turned the paper over. In one of the bottom corners the letters ‘MRF’ were neatly written in small block capitals. He stood up and went to find the young sub-editor. The man was nowhere to be found. He would have to wait until tomorrow to follow up. His interest was piqued, but his twitchy feeling was intensified. Now he knew that his gut was right to warn him. He had certainly poked some animal to life. He only hoped that it wouldn’t cost him his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Helen McCann’s private jet landed at Belfast International at exactly 8 a.m. She descended the stairs directly into a 350 Mercedes and was driven straight through VIP passport control. At 8.45, she was sitting in the dining room of Coleville House enjoying breakfast with her host, Philip Latimer. A 42-inch flat screen TV was set up in the corner of the room, and they had just watched a recording shot on a mobile phone of Kate’s entrance into McHugh’s Bar the previous evening.

‘Our man was sitting at a table fifteen feet away,’ Latimer said. ‘It’s amazing what you can record these days. The picture and sound are so clear.’

She hadn’t particularly enjoyed seeing her daughter’s distress. Kate was brought up to be strong. The video showed that she had a weakness. It was necessary to eliminate that weakness. The Reid woman impressed her. She had remained calm throughout the altercation. She was almost as beautiful as Kate. And it was apparent that she was interested in picking up where Kate had left off as far as Wilson was concerned. Helen McCann was becoming worried about her daughter. Yes, she was probably instrumental in making Kate break off with Wilson. But she hadn’t been happy when she had discovered a tube of Lorcet in Kate’s bedside cabinet. It wasn’t her idea to have her daughter on painkillers. She was aware that the aftermath of a miscarriage could involve some pain especially when you were as far gone as Kate was. However, Kate’s doctor assured her that paracetamol would have been sufficient to control the pain. Lorcet was intended for a larger scale of pain. She was beginning to feel guilty at passing on the information concerning Wilson and Reid’s meeting to Kate.  ‘No one had any idea that they were being filmed?’

Lattimer smiled. ‘Apparently they were so caught up in their own little drama to take any notice of those around them. I have half a mind to upload the clip onto Youtube. I’m sure it would go viral.’

‘That’s not our objective,’ McCann said sharply and forked a piece of smoked salmon into her mouth. ‘And anyone who puts my daughter on YouTube or any other tube without my knowledge or approval, will answer to me.’

Latimer crunched a piece of toast noisily between an ample set of teeth. ‘I’m rather unclear as to what our objective actually is.’ Crumbs of toast sprayed from his mouth. ‘And I’m not the only one. We have established a rather complicated project aimed at one person, and our colleagues don’t really see why we should bother. You’ve neatly cleared up after the Rice screw-up. People are beginning to wonder if you have something personal against this Wilson fellow.’

‘Ian Wilson poses an existential threat to our organisation, take my word for it. I have never allowed my personal feelings to interfere with my business dealings, and I never will. We have been involved in crimes that would ensure that we spend the remainder of our lives in prison. We have built fortunes that must be protected. Wilson is the kind of interfering toad that might succeed in putting us there.’ Like any good spider she was adept at feeling and stirrings on the periphery of her web. For some months now she had been aware that someone had been feeling around carefully on the borders of their operations. She was sure that that somebody was Ian Wilson.

Latimer leaned forwards. ‘I think the idea of one policeman putting at risk an organisation that has existed in some form or another for almost a century is quite honestly ridiculous. Wilson is an insignificant nobody. We can crush him at will.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’ McCann sat back in her seat. She didn’t like Latimer and she didn’t want to have him directly in her face. Her husband had taught her that one didn’t have to like the people one did business with. But it certainly helped. ‘Grant was supposed to be a fly that could be swatted at will. How did that work out for us? I haven’t seen our infrastructure arm bringing in much cash since that particular fiasco.’

‘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 totally 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.’