A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (8 page)

‘Back to Belfast?’ Jackson said as he started the car.

‘Aye,’ Wilson said. His mind was racing. His team in the murder squad was tight-knit and trustworthy. He wished he had them around him right now. He glanced over at Jackson.
I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you
; he thought and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Wilson sat in his office in Dunmurry. The small box that was passed to him by Mallon sat on the desk in front of him. He made sure that Jackson was nowhere to be seen before removing the box from his jacket pocket. The box itself wasn’t much bigger than a matchbox.  He slid the top off and saw that there was both a bullet and a shell sitting on top of a wad of cotton wool. The bullet was a 9mm Parabellum, typical of the rounds that would fit a Sterling machine gun. The shell was a small brass cylinder. He used a pencil to remove the shell from the box. He held it upside down before his eyes. There was no reason to believe that the shell he was holding in his hand was fired on that fateful night in 1974. So, what use could he make of the bullet and the shell? He could tell Sinclair about the find and request to have the bullet matched against other shootings before or since the Mallon and Lafferty murders. But that would involve a level of trust in Sinclair that he didn’t have at the moment. He could go back to Tennent Street and ask Harry Graham or Peter Davidson to process the bullet. Since it had nothing to do with their current cases, they would be placing their careers in jeopardy, and there was no way that he wanted to do that. He could go himself to the Forensic Service of Northern Ireland and request an examination of the bullet and shell. He had no idea how much such an examination might cost, but he wouldn’t care about the cost.  However, there was a better than even chance that such a request would find its way to Sinclair’s desk, and he would have to explain why he didn’t go the official route. Investigating murders required resources. The only resource he had was a sergeant he didn’t trust. He realised he had no basis for his lack of trust of Jackson. After all, the man had done nothing to justify mistrust. However, he had lived with his old sergeant, George Whitehouse, while knowing full well that he was reporting his every movement to DCC Jennings. So, he would live with Jackson and his close connection with Sinclair. The question was, who was Sinclair’s close connection? Sooner or later he would have to solve the question of resources, especially if he was going to become a lone wolf in the case of Mallon and Lafferty. It wasn’t in his nature to act outside the procedures. This was a first. He was aware that he wasn’t exactly fulfilling his role. He was supposed to whirl around like a loose electron giving the impression of great activity in the pursuit of justice for two murdered young men. In reality, he was simply a piece of camouflage for the incredible incompetence of the initial investigation. It wasn’t a role that he was entirely comfortable with. He liked to solve crimes. It was what he did. He knew that, deep down, he wouldn’t be happy to produce an anodyne report stating that the RUC investigation was a sham and that given the forty-two year gap and the apparent lack of evidence nothing could be achieved by pursuing the culprits. That conclusion would not do service to the dead, or their relatives. He would prefer to sit beside Michael Lafferty’s bed and tell him why his son had died, and who had killed him. Without resources, and with Sinclair and Jackson watching his every move, he was unsure that the result he sought was possible. He dropped the shell back into the box and slid the lid into place. As he did so, his door opened and Sinclair stuck his head around the corner.

‘Still around,’ Sinclair said entering the office. ‘I hear you had a busy day.’

I’m sure you did
, Wilson thought. ‘We got to interview Michael Lafferty and Ciaran Mallon. The latter lives in Omagh so I suppose we did have a busy day.’

‘Learn anything new?’ Sinclair sat in the visitor’s chair.

‘Is there anything new to learn?’ Wilson was fond of the Irish habit of answering a question with a question.

‘I think that you’ve been landed with a very difficult case. There wasn’t much evidence to start with, and it was a hell of a long time ago.’ Sinclair noticed the box on the desk in front of Wilson. He was about to formulate a question but thought the better of it.

Makes me think why did I get the case
, Wilson thought.  He saw the question in Sinclair’s eyes. Then he saw it pass. The expression changed to smugness. Sinclair would find out everything in time. Sergeant Jackson would be instructed to find out what was in the intriguing little box. And Wilson would let him, when the time was right. ‘Everyone is entitled to justice no matter how long it is in coming,’ he said.

‘So, you’re actually thinking about solving this case.’

‘I think about solving every case. That’s what we’re paid for. There’s some bastard out there who cut short the lives of two young men. I’d like to find him.’

‘And if he’s dead?’

‘I’ll be able to tell the families of the young men. Maybe it’ll bring them a bit of closure.’

‘Have you ever thought that it might frustrate them?’

‘It might. But they should know who and they should know why.’

Sinclair looked at his watch. ‘We’re on overtime and since there’s no money for overtime, I suppose we should pack it in for the day. Any idea what’s on the menu for tomorrow?’

‘I’m going to annoy the hell out of Sergeant Jackson.’

Sinclair’s eyebrows rose. ‘How so?’

‘There has to be some record somewhere in the old RUC files of who was in charge of investigating the murders. Mallon mentioned that some RUC sergeant seemed to be in charge at the murder scene, and later at the morgue for the identification of the bodies. I’d like to find out who that sergeant was and have a few words with him.’

‘I’m sure Jackson will be praying for you.’ Sinclair stood up. ‘It’s traditional for me to invite new recruits for a drink. I’m partial to the Silver Inn on the Stewartstown Road. Would you like to join me?’

‘Thanks for the invitation but I’m afraid I have to decline. I have an appointment this evening in town and I don’t want to turn up the worse for wear.’

Sinclair smiled. ‘You have a reputation for being fond of the ladies.’

‘An unearned reputation, I’m afraid. I have to meet some of my rugby buddies,’ Wilson lied. ‘It could be a long night.’

Sinclair opened the door. He didn’t seem too put out by Wilson’s refusal of his invitation. ‘‘See you in the morning. Don’t be too hard on Jackson if he fails.’

‘I’m sure Sergeant Jackson can take care of himself. Enjoy your drink.’

The door closed and Wilson was alone again. It was a feeling that described his new life. His partner had sent him on their “break”. The brains at HQ had reorganised him out of a job he loved. His one protector and mentor, Donald Spence, had been put out to grass. It appeared that all the supports he had grown used to had all been removed in one go. And then there was his posting to what most of his colleagues would consider a non-job. The Chief Law Officer was on record that investigating the crimes of the past was a waste of police resources and simply a sop to the public. Most of the politicians probably agreed with him but didn’t have the balls to cast off the past entirely and leave bereaved families without any hope of closure. Many of the bereaved would die with a forlorn hope of finding the culprits still in their hearts. Sinclair sold it as a family liaison job but Sinclair and Jackson weren’t exactly the family-friendly type. Special Branch was just that -- special. So he had to assume that at least one of his new colleagues were in the task force for a reason. He had to assume that the reorganisation of the murder squad was a convenience to get rid of him out of the station and into his current position. Someone was playing silly buggers with him. And he should probably assume that Kate kicking him into the kerb also happened for a reason. If someone was messing with his head, they were doing a pretty good job of it. He took out his mobile phone. It was a quarter to six in the afternoon. The Judge in the Cummerford trial had the habit of closing proceedings for the day at four-thirty. He opened his messages hoping to find something from Kate but was disappointed. He didn’t believe in “breaks”, probably due to the fact that he had never been on one. He assumed that there was a “break” protocol that he was completely unaware of. All his life he had believed in “putting the fish on the table” as one of the lecturers at Police College called it. If the “fish” wasn’t immediately exposed, it tended to rot. And that was his greatest fear with his relationship with Kate. If the issues between them were not addressed immediately, he had no doubt the “break” would take on a permanence he would like to avoid. He still loved her very much but something had inextricably changed. He didn’t know whether his efforts alone would be capable of redressing the situation. Kate had made it clear that she had no desire to discuss their particular “fish”. He picked up the box from the desk and turned it over in his hand. He slipped it into his pocket. He felt tired. It had been a busy day. He felt like a drink on the way back to his new digs. He opened his email: nothing from McDevitt. He picked up his mobile and scrolled the contacts. He stopped at McDevitt’s number and called it.

‘Good evening, new best friend.’ McDevitt’s voice was cheery.

‘Where’s the information?’ Wilson asked.

‘All business, eh!’

‘What else is there?’

‘Some of us have to work. I’ve just put tomorrow’s column to bed. So I’m all yours and I hope that might include a drink. I’ve got what you asked for and I think we should meet. Have you ever been to White’s?’

‘Yes.’ A drink with McDevitt suddenly felt like a very good idea to him. Maybe they were becoming new best friends. Maybe McDevitt was his only friend. ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes depending on traffic.’

Sinclair expected Wilson to turn down his invitation for a drink. If he had accepted, he would have been in a right pickle. He had a prior arrangement that he was keen to keep.

‘So, everything is going to plan,’ Chief inspector Campbell said.

‘In as much as it can with someone like Wilson,’ Sinclair said. They were sitting in Campbell’s office in Brooklyn House. ‘Jackson and he haven’t exactly hit it off but that’s not unusual. He’s already starting to ferret around the Mallon and Lafferty business and I understand that he’s promised Lafferty to bring him something before he dies. The old fart has pancreatic cancer and might kick off at any moment but it’s another driver for Wilson.’

‘If he needs another driver. Do you have an interest in rugby?’

‘Not really, is it relevant?’

‘To Wilson, yes. I saw him play a couple of times. You never saw such tenacity. He scrapped for every ball whether he had a chance of getting it or not. Although his career was cut short, that tenacity is part of his character. We’ve tossed a bone in his direction and like a good dog he’s going to play with it until he devours it or gets fed up with it. I don’t anticipate him getting fed up.’

‘You have a hard on for this guy?’

‘I respect him as a fellow officer.’

‘And yet you’d screw him? Doesn’t sound like respect to me.’

‘We do what we have to do.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.’

‘Good,’ Campbell leaned back in his chair. The powers that be would be glad to hear that the plan was progressing. ‘And how is his demeanour?’

‘He looks like someone who’s just received a hefty kick in the bollocks. He hasn’t smiled in days. Am I permitted to know what the big picture is?’

‘Don’t be so bloody naive. Even I’m not permitted to know what the big picture is. Just play your part and leave the big picture to someone else.’

Sinclair had spent long enough at the political end of policing to know that someone higher up was running some kind of operation on Wilson. He usually liked to know who that someone was but in this case he assumed it was some branch of the security services given that Jackson and he had been co-opted to keep an eye on developments. ‘Don’t worry about Jackson and me, we’ll follow our orders.’

Campbell’s grey eyes bored into Sinclair. ‘Who said I was worried?’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Having had its licence to serve liquor granted in 1630, White’s Tavern is accredited with being the oldest pub in Belfast. The inside smacks of its age although it has surely been remodelled several times since its doors first opened. The long room that constitutes the main area features wooden beams, a feature fireplace and drinking paraphernalia that would do credit to an antiques shop. The relatively low height of White’s ceiling was one of the reasons Wilson was not a regular patron. When he entered, he saw that McDevitt was already installed at the table furthest away from the bar and next to the toilet. He was seated directly under a black and white photograph of the
Titanic
, and two pints of Guinness were on the table before him.

‘Guinness, alright?’ he said pushing a pint across the table.

‘Perfect.’ Wilson sat facing McDevitt and the photo of the ill-fated ship. He picked up the glass and took a deep draught. ‘I thought we arranged to communicate by email.’

‘I thought it would be nicer to have a little chat.’ McDevitt withdrew a folded sheaf of white paper from the inside of his jacket and laid it on the table. ‘The complete
Chronicle
file on the murder of Cormac Mallon and Sean Lafferty. My guess was spot on about the coverage. There was too much happening at the time. Murders were a dime a dozen.’

Wilson unfolded the packet and found it consisted of three sheets each containing a copy of an article. The first was the largest and consisted of about six column inches. It was dated the day after the murders. He read quickly through the piece, which outlined the bare details of the killings. There was nothing new. There was speculation that the boys had been either in a fire fight or had been caught in the crossfire of a fire fight. The source of that speculation was attributed to the RUC but no particular officer was cited. The article on the second sheet was dated two days later and consisted of four column inches. The RUC made a statement that the killings had been random and sectarian in nature. There was no apparent link between the killings and other murders in the Province. The perpetrators were being sought. The final page carried a two-column inch piece on the funerals of Mallon and Lafferty. The funerals had been notable for the absence of tricolours on the coffins and paramilitary demonstrations: just two more victims of a murder spree that went on for years. ‘This is it?’ Wilson asked when he’d finished.

McDevitt nodded.

‘It must have been a heavy news week,’ Wilson said.

‘Don’t blame me,’ McDevitt sipped his drink. ‘I was still in short trousers and had yet to develop an unhealthy interest in women. I don’t even think a reporter was involved. Probably a sub editor working off a press release.’

‘No human interest piece as follow up?’ Wilson asked.

‘It was a time when most human interest was confined to keeping themselves alive. You could go into a pub anywhere in Ulster for a quiet drink, and exit in a body bag.’

‘I’ve never seen a case where both the RUC and the Fourth Estate took so little interest in finding out why a kid’s football game was targeted.’

‘Come on. They weren’t exactly kids.’

‘They weren’t exactly adults either.’

‘It was years ago. You said yourself there’s no evidence remaining and probably most of the participants are dead. There’s zero chance of bringing the perpetrators to justice.’’

Wilson thought of the old man lying on his deathbed in Beechmount Parade and the earnest teacher in Omagh. They were still alive, if only just in the case of Lafferty. ‘This isn’t only about justice, it’s also about closure.’ Wilson finished his drink and motioned in the direction of the bar for a refill.

‘I followed up on your other request,’ McDevitt said finishing off his glass.

‘And?’

‘If there was only one pond of shit in this province, you’d find your way into it,’ McDevitt leaned forward. ‘I have sources in most of the security apparatus.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I fed the names of your new colleagues into the black box.’

The barman arrived with two fresh pints of Guinness and McDevitt automatically fell silent. Wilson passed over a £10 note and told the barman to keep the change.

‘To say that what came out was interesting would be an understatement,’ said McDevitt sipping his Guinness.

‘Are you going to tell me or do I have to beg?’

‘Your two friends are not just special branch. They belong to a unit that’s even special in Special Branch, if you know what I mean. They’ve done a lot of close protection of politicians. They have connections with the people who govern this province. Right now, their speciality is rooting out subversives. They’re into all sort of black operations, what the Americans call ‘psych ops’.’ He looked at Wilson and saw that he understood the term. ‘They are very heavy-duty operators. Which begs the question, what the hell are they doing working with you?’

‘It’s funny, I’m asking myself that question too.’

‘I tried to push for more information and I was told that digging deeper could be very bad for my health. And that was from people I’ve known for years. The bottom line was to keep away from these two individuals. And I was asked not to contact my sources for a very long time.’

Wilson picked up his drink and took a long draught. For once in his life he felt boxed in. He had nowhere to turn. His only resource was sitting directly in front of him and had just been warned off. But warned off what? Jackson had declared himself from the beginning as former Special Branch. Sinclair had avoided the question of his past affiliations. Luckily, Wilson hadn’t made enquiries via his PSNI contacts. It was better that Sinclair and Jackson should be unaware that he didn’t trust them.

‘I can almost see the wheels in your mind spinning,’ McDevitt smiled. ‘I think you may have pissed off somebody with a hell of a lot of influence.’

‘DCC Jennings?’

‘Are you kidding? That little prick has as much influence as someone like me. He’s a gnat on the arsehole of the world. Whoever set these guys on you has real juice.’

‘So what do you think they’re up to?’

‘I wouldn’t dare speculate.’ McDevitt took a gulp of his Guinness. ‘If I did, you might not sleep too well tonight.’

Wilson thought about telling McDevitt about the box that Mallon passed him. He didn’t like to feel like a pawn in someone else’s game. But first, he needed to find out exactly what the game might be. He took out his mobile phone and checked his messages again. Nothing from Kate. He closed the phone down.

‘She’s doing OK,’ McDevitt said. ‘There’s a few weeks to go, but my gut tells me she’s going to succeed in getting a reduced sentence for Cummerford. Probably more than she deserves. As your new best friend, don’t you think you could tell me what’s going on? I was on the lookout for you this morning on the embankment but you were a no show.’

‘I haven’t heard a word from Kate since the trial started. I’ve never been on a “break” before so I don’t have a script to follow.’

McDevitt could see that Wilson was in pain. ‘It’ll work out. You guys were the perfect match. I often speculated on what the children you two produced would look like.’

Genetically imperfect,
Wilson thought,
if the one they had already produced
was anything to go by.

‘You’ll find a way back,’ McDevitt said. That really wasn’t his experience. He was two wives down and neither one had ended up a friend.

‘I’d be with her in a heartbeat,’ Wilson contemplated a third drink.
Ah shit
, he thought, and raised his hand to the barman.

McDevitt smiled. ‘One of the great fallacies in life is that drink is useful for drowning sorrows. Dealing with loss is a process that can’t be speeded up by copious amounts of Guinness. Believe me, I’ve been there.’

The barman arrived and put two pint glasses of Guinness on the table. McDevitt reached for his pocket but Wilson beat him, and passed over another £10 note. He could see from the barman’s face that the second tip was graciously received.

McDevitt raised his glass. ‘We’ve already done your work life, and your private life.’ He touched his glass to Wilson’s and sipped the white head on the black liquid. ‘Have I told you that my ex-wife is trying to drag me through the courts again?’