A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Colville House and the land surrounding it had been in the Latimer family for more than 300 years, ever since Henry Latimer switched sides on the eve of the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. A grateful King William bestowed no title on the Latimers but made up for the lack of ennoblement with 5,000 acres of the best land in Ulster. The family prospered locally and internationally as one of the principal investors in the slave trade. The money flowing into the family coffers permitted the extension of their Irish property portfolio and the purchase of a prestigious London address within shouting distance of the home of the British Prime Minister. The demise of the slave trade was a serious blow to the family fortunes and they were obliged to concentrate on their Irish holdings. Sir Philip Latimer, current scion of the family, sat at the head of a table in the Colville House dining hall that would comfortably seat twenty.  Seventeen of the seats were empty, the two occupied seats being on either side of Sir Philip. ‘Everything is in order, I suppose,’ he said looking directly at his single female dining companion.

‘Absolutely,’ said Helen McCann as she played with the piece of salmon en croute on her plate. ‘The Carson Investments vehicle has been totally wound up and the available funds buried so deep that not even that pest McDevitt would be able to wheedle his way into our business again.’

‘Capital!’ Sir Philip filled himself a glass of claret.  He had visions of minions up all night shredding Carson Investments documentation. But that was Helen McCann’s business. The woman never ceased to amaze him. She had the keenest financial brain he had ever encountered, and since he held more than fifty board memberships, he had run across a lot of very smart people. But it wasn’t just her financial acumen that he admired. The woman had balls of steel, if one could make such a remark about a woman. She also had a resolve to keep Ulster within Great Britain that was the equal of her hero, Sir Edward Carson. ‘So, we go to ground and retrench.’ He lifted his glass and toasted his colleagues.

‘Absolutely not!’ There was steel in McCann’s voice.  ‘If we pull back totally, we will create a vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum. Without our commitment to Ulster, someone with lesser values than ours would take our place. Our power depends on us being omnipresent in the affairs of the Province. The funds we have amassed ensure that any influence that we can’t exert through our contacts can be bought.’

‘The business with Rice was a damn close thing.’ The third diner was grey- haired, tanned and impeccably tailored. Baron Carncastle had a seat in the House of Lords, an accomplishment that was the envy of his host. Every generation of the Latimer family had endeavoured to have a hereditary peerage granted to them but that honour had thus far eluded them. ‘Dealing with the riff-raff places us in danger of exposure. Perhaps we should have taken the opportunity to deal with McDevitt.’

‘We are not in the business of dealing with people,’ Latimer said sharply. ‘Dealing with people almost led to our exposure. It cost us two allies who were central to our organisation. I think we’ve had enough of dealing with people for the time being. ‘

‘I fear that we’re about to lose another important ally,’ Helen McCann said pushing her plate away. ‘Deputy Chief Constable Jennings is about to find himself in an impossible position.

‘How so?’ Carncastle asked.

‘The trial of Margaret Cummerford started today in Belfast,’ McCann continued. ‘Cummerford was a journalist on the
Chronicle
. It appears that Jennings may have been stupid enough to give her privileged access to the murder squad that was investigating the very crimes for which she herself was guilty.’

‘Use the oldest trick in the book,’ Latimer said. ‘Find a patsy to take the blame.’

‘Yes,’ McCann smiled. ‘Unfortunately our preferred patsy has a signed instruction from Jennings to permit Cummerford privileged access.’

‘Not so much a patsy then,’ Carncastle said.

Helen McCann thought about her daughter’s ex-partner. Wilson had been close on the trail of Rice and his mentor Carlisle. She was assured by her connections in the Belfast underworld that Rice would not be reappearing, which she took to mean that he was dead. She had recently attended Carlisle’s funeral. Wilson had been left with no leads to follow. But the man was like a dog with a bone, and she had no doubt he wouldn’t be sidelined so easily. She had spent a great deal of time lately contemplating how to deal with him.  She had connived to break up her daughter’s relationship with him. She wanted him alone and friendless. No, more than that, she wanted to break him, mentally at first and then physically. Helen McCann only had time for those that were committed to a Protestant Ulster, and she knew that Ian Wilson had no such commitment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not so much a patsy.’

‘Losing Jennings would be a serious blow,’ Latimer said. ‘We’ve invested quite a bit in his career. I understand that the Chief Constable is having some health issues, and I thought we could shoehorn Jennings into the job. Jennings as Chief Constable would provide us with a further layer of protection.’

‘I’m afraid that there may be no option but to lose Jennings,’ McCann said. ‘For a while at least.’ She turned to Carncastle. ‘What news from our friends on the Northern Ireland Policing Board?’

Carncastle dabbed at his lips with a napkin. ‘I understand that conversations were held with the Chief Constable. It appears that he’s open to a reorganisation, especially in the light of the loss of the Deputy Chief Constable.’

‘And Jennings?’ McCann asked.

Carncastle dropped his napkin on his plate. ‘He will need to be rehabilitated somewhere on the mainland, Cumbria perhaps or somewhere in Scotland. There’s no possibility of a high profile post. We’ll have him back here as soon as the dust settles.’

‘It looks like McGreary is going to be the man to deal with in Belfast,’ Latimer said. ‘How do we stand with him? Is he a man we can depend on?’

‘He doesn’t have the Loyalist credentials that Rice had,’ McCann said. ‘He’s more of an opportunist criminal than a Loyalist. He’ll use whatever he thinks will work. We need to be wary, but in the end he’ll need us more than we need him. ‘

‘Dessert?’ Latimer asked pushing a button on the side of the table.

CHAPTER THREE

Wilson was called to give evidence on the evening of the second day of Maggie Cummerford’s trial. While he waited, he devoured Jock McDevitt’s article on the opening arguments of the two sides during the first day of the trial. It appeared that Kate had given a good account of herself. He replaced Professor Stephanie Reid in the witness box and as he stood facing the legal teams and the gallery, he thought that he could still feel her essence. As they had passed in the hall outside the courtroom, she had given him a smile and touched her hand against his arm as they passed. The only person that he’d told about the “break” was his former sergeant, Moira McElvaney, and she was 3,000 miles away in Boston. His private life was going to remain just that – private. Wilson looked down at Kate who hadn’t even glanced in his direction when he entered. She was deep in conversation with her junior counsel and the instructing solicitor.  At the other end of the table, Laurence Gold, QC, for the prosecution, was a horse of a different colour. As soon as Wilson entered the courtroom, Gold had treated him to his broadest smile. That smile said, “we are confederates in this affair and it is our objective to send the prisoner to her fate”. Maggie Cummerford sat in the dock directly facing the witness box with the dais on which the Judge was sitting to her left. Cummerford was dressed in her most matronly outfit designed to make her look small and weak, a slip of a girl incapable of murder. It was a look that it was hard to believe that she had managed to crack open the heads of three victims. She treated Wilson to a smile as he settled himself into the witness box. Wilson had a certain amount of sympathy for Cummerford. She’d definitely murdered three women; there was no doubt about that. But the motive had been revenge for the death of her mother who had been murdered in a most callous fashion. Given the amount of evidence against Cummerford, it would be the element of motive that Kate and her team would make the core of their case. Wilson cast a glance into the jury box. There were the usual twelve good citizens and true. He noted that there were four women, which was a good break for both Kate and her client.  Wilson was staring in Kate’s direction as the court settled itself for his evidence. He had a quick vision of Kate lying in her bed at the Royal Victoria after miscarrying their child. He knew he had been lying when he’d said that nothing would change in their relationship.  But at that time he didn’t know just how much would change. Losing a child the way Kate had was, by its very nature, traumatic. He had seen, and experienced, a lot of trauma in his life. The professionals say that it takes at least three months to get over any trauma. The loss of a loved one involves time for grieving and then acceptance. Anything over three months and you are in the realm of post traumatic stress disorder. It was now five months since Kate’s miscarriage and it was apparent that acceptance was still some way off. Wilson was obliged to recognise that the process of loss and grieving had been different for him. But then he hadn’t been the one carrying the child in his womb and he didn’t have to deal with the guilt that he might have inadvertently caused the miscarriage. Kate glanced up at him and their eyes locked for a split second. Her eyes looked dead. That look was like a dagger in his heart. He hardly heard the clerk read out the oath when he answered automatically ‘I do.’

Laurence Gold rose and settled his gown. His white wig sat on top of a luxuriant head of fair hair. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Wilson,’ he said in a deep bass voice. ‘I’d like you to walk us through the investigation.’

For the next two hours, Gold probed every aspect of the investigation from the finding of the bodies through to the process of arriving at Maggie Cummerford as the murderer. Wilson was not totally relaxed but he simply had a story to tell. He had appeared many times as a witness and he had the foresight to bring his notes and a copy of the murder book with him to court.  He was also on friendly ground with Gold.

‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ Gold said when they had reached the end of the police procedures.  Gold sat down with a flourish.

Kate McCann stood and opened an A4 sized book in front of her. She looked up and smiled more for the jury than Wilson. ‘I’m sure that we’re all intrigued at the manner in which the police go about their business. I certainly don’t intend to drag the jury over the ground already covered so effectively by my learned friend.’ She turned towards Wilson. ‘I understand that it’s usual for a murderer to try to associate himself or herself with the police investigation into a crime which he or she committed.’

‘I wouldn’t use the word usual,’ Wilson replied, his relaxed mood vanishing. ‘It certainly has happened in the past.’ He had hoped that Kate would not go in this direction.

‘Like for example the case of Ian Huntly and the Soham murders?’ Kate said examining the book before her.

‘That would be a valid case,’ Wilson answered.

‘During your evidence to my learned friend, you didn’t mention the fact that my client attended confidential briefings held by you.’

‘Miss Cummerford was a journalist who attended the police briefings along with other journalists.’ Wilson was praying that Kate would back off on this point but knew that his prayers were not about to be answered.

‘But my client had more access than normal journalists?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Oh, I do say that, Superintendent. My client was the only journalist who attended all the confidential briefings at your station.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘So,’ Kate turned to look at the jury, ‘my client was aware of every step your investigation took, every avenue that you explored.’

‘Yes.’ Wilson was aware that he was about to be forced to hang Deputy Chief Constable Jennings out to dry. He had no great love for Jennings; in fact he had no love at all for his superior officer, but what he was about to do would damage the reputation of the PSNI.

‘And how did that come about, Superintendent?’

‘I was instructed to permit Miss Cummerford to attend squad briefings.’

‘And who instructed you?’

Wilson hesitated. He had gone through every possible way he could answer this question without implicating Jennings but he knew that whatever he said Kate McCann was going to get the truth out of him. He just didn’t know why. ‘Deputy Chief Constable Royson Jennings.’

There was a collective gasp from the gallery.

‘And why do you think your superior instructed you to include my client in your internal briefings?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’ If he was ever asked in the future what event had led to his career ending up in the toilet, Wilson would be able to pick the second day of Maggie Cummerford’s trial. And to make it worse, it was his former partner that had just trashed his career.

Kate examined her notes for a few moments letting the impact of what Wilson had said sink into the jurors’ heads. ‘And you have no idea how a woman now on trial for murder should be given privileged access to information on those murders by the team investigating them?’

‘No, I don’t.’