A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (11 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wilson slept well, perhaps for the first time since Kate and he split. It was as though he had come to a decision that he was going to have to make the most of whatever lay ahead. He had done his run, showered, shaved and eaten the most enjoyable breakfast of the past weeks. If he had any idea of where his day was going, the morning would have been complete.  He would have hated to admit it but he was stumped. It just proved the point that it was impossible to solve a crime without at least the modicum of evidence. How could he develop the evidence for such an old crime? The bullet and shell would already be with FSNI. What if the report led nowhere? He arrived at Dunmurry and went immediately to his office. He sat in his chair and asked himself what the hell was he going to do. There should have been an easy answer to that question after all he was a senior investigating police officer with almost twenty years of training and on-the-job experience. But investigating a cold case had unique challenges especially where there was no sign of a murder book and no significant follow-up. Solving such a crime might possibly be beyond his powers. Murder investigation had come a long way since the 1970s. Maybe the amount and quality of the forensics that were collected for a modern-day murder had dulled the need to develop a deeper analysis of motive and opportunity. Maybe that was where he had to start. He took out his pad of paper and started to write questions that required answers. Why had someone murdered two young men? And why was the investigation into their deaths such a shambles? What had happened to the evidence collected at the scene? He put down his pen. Finding the answers to those three questions would open lines of enquiry. There were a lot of questions and very few obvious answers. But that was the way it was with most of the murders that took place in Ulster in the 1970s and 1980s. The RUC was under resourced and totally incapable of responding to the tsunami of murders. The result was that more than 3,000 murders remained unsolved. Mallon and Lafferty fell into that category. The reviews already carried out by the HET hadn’t been so kind to the RUC. They cited many cases of slipshod investigation and some cases of outright incompetence. For many murders the names of the culprits were well known. However, a veil of silence in one community, or the other, shielded the killers. It was also true that many of the unsolved murders had been committed by serving members of the security forces or at least with their collusion. He had already decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance that murders of Mallon and Lafferty might fall into that category. The use of the Sterling machine guns in the attack pointed to someone who had access to British military equipment. The Ulster Defence Regiment had an awkward habit of “losing” guns and ammunition. From what he had gathered so far, he had concluded that there had been some level of cover-up. But why was the cover-up needed and how deep did it go? He needed someone to bounce his ideas off. He knew what that meant. He needed Moira McElvaney, but she was 3,000 miles away enjoying the sunshine in Boston. And then there were his two colleagues, Sinclair and Jackson. Not a day’s investigative experience between them, yet they were posted to a task force where investigative experience would be the prime pre-requisite. The odds were stacked against him but it wasn’t in his nature to toss in the towel. In fact, the lack of evidence, the absence of motive, and the fact that no suspects were ever developed were all reason for him to redouble his efforts. However, in his experience solving murders required teamwork. Having team members like Moira McElvaney, Harry Graham and Peter Davidson to call on was the principal reason why he was relatively successful as head of the murder squad. This time there was no Moira, no Harry or Peter. He was alone and exposed. What would he do if Mallon and Lafferty were murdered yesterday? He would reinterview the witnesses. He would collect forensic evidence; the bullet and shell were the only existing pieces of forensic evidence. He would attend the autopsy. There was no result of one in the file. Was it conceivable that no autopsy had been carried out? One would have been necessary for the coroner’s inquest, even if the cause of death were apparent. He needed a copy of both the autopsy and the conclusions of the coroner’s inquest. He took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket.

Professor Stephanie Reid was just finishing a lecture to a class of final year medical students when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She slipped the phone out while listening to a question from one of the students, and recognised Ian Wilson’s number on the screen. She slipped the phone back into her pocket without answering. Ian would have to wait. She was aware of the rumour circulating that Ian and the Ice Lady had split up. During her evidence in the Cummerford trial, she’d noticed that McCann was looking a bit frayed around the edges, and she wondered whether it was the stress of the trial, or the aftermath of the miscarriage. Or something else altogether. Whatever the reason, it looked like Ian Wilson was in the market again. She thought about contacting him when she heard he was on his own. But she didn’t want to appear pushy. Now, he’d called her. She realised that her mind was straying, and the student with the question was droning on, trying to show how bloody clever he was, no doubt. Reid was more than a little annoyed that she had missed the point of the question, and had no intention of asking the student to go through it again. He finally wound down. Reid looked up into the twenty or so anxious faces. ‘That was an excellent question to finish this session on. I want you all to go away and research the answer. I always hated education that depended on the guru standing in front of the class and spouting off. In the course of your professional careers, you will have to act as your own guru, so you might as well start now. I expect to receive a page from each of you with your answer to that question before next week’s class. Now, we’re out of here.’ She smiled at the way she had managed to finesse the question, and still stay in control. She was becoming an old hand at this lecturing business. The students filed out of the room and she was alone at the front. She took out her mobile phone and dialled Wilson’s number. She was aware of the increase in her heartbeat as she waited for the sound of his voice.

‘Professor Reid,’ Wilson’s voice was mellow.

‘Ian, a bit unexpected to hear from you. How’s the new job going?’

Wilson wondered whether he really wanted to talk about it. ‘Not too bad. How are things in the pathology business?’

‘Busy, what can I do for you?’

‘First a few questions and then maybe a favour. I’m assuming that everyone who dies a violent death has an autopsy?’

‘That’s the practice.’

‘And there’s a record of every autopsy performed?’

‘Yes.’ She tried to put a little exasperation into her voice.

‘And that autopsy is the basis of the conclusions of a coroner’s inquest?’

‘Ian, please get to the point.’

‘I’m investigating the murder of two young men in 1974.’ He heard the gasp on the other end of the phone. ‘I know it’s a long time ago. The file is what you might call thin. There’s no autopsy report and no conclusions of the coroner’s inquest. I was wondering if you could check up for me whether the record of the autopsy still exists.’

She had been hoping for something else, but she should have known with Ian. He was all business. Certainly as far as she was concerned. ‘Give me the details.’ She removed a pen from her coat pocket and prepared to write on her notebook.

Wilson gave her the names of the deceased and the date of their deaths.

‘They may not have had an autopsy at the Royal,’ she said putting her pen back in her breast pocket. ‘It was a long time ago. They’ve been archiving the old files and digitising them but I’m not sure they’re that far back. I’ll check here first and then try the other hospitals.’

‘Thanks, I’m very grateful.’

‘Grateful enough to invite a girl for a drink?’ She waited anxiously for the reply.

So she’d heard
, Wilson thought. What he said next could influence his future with Kate, that was if he had a future with her. He decided that a drink couldn’t hurt. The Crown was out. There were enough rumours circulating about him, and he didn’t want to add to them. He remembered he had a drink with Reid in the recent past. He remembered how much he enjoyed it, and where it had almost ended. But he was still with Kate then. ‘OK, what about the McHugh’s this evening, say six o’clock?’

‘Looking forward to it,’ she said. ‘I may even have something for you by then.’’

‘See you at six.’ Wilson cut the communication. Yes, he thought. I’m looking forward to it myself.

In a room in the basement of the police complex in Dunmurry, Sergeant Simon Jackson took off the headphones and looked at the recorder on the table. He had specific instructions what to do if Wilson were to contact a certain Professor Stephanie Reid. He had already seen a photograph of Reid, and he would gladly have ditched his wife of ten years if Reid expressed an interest in him. He loaded the recording into his computer and saved it as an MP3 file. He opened his mail and typed in the email address he was instructed to contact. He wrote on the subject line ‘Wilson’ and attached the file of the recording. He was beginning to be impressed with Wilson. The level of determination he displayed was something that the soldier in Jackson respected. But he had his orders. It was just a pity that someone who counted wanted his balls in a sling.

A mobile phone beeped on a coffee table in a villa in Antibes. Helen McCann picked up the phone and looked at the source of the message. She loaded the MP3 and listened to the conversation between Wilson and Reid. A smile spread across her face. They are so bloody predictable, she thought. They always lead with their dicks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jock McDevitt was in his seat in Court No 1 at the Royal Courts of Justice. He was reading his column in the
Chronicle
to see whether some wet-behind-the-ears sub-editor had decided to play around with his prose. He was mildly gratified when he saw that most of his original piece had survived. The editor had given him the honour of a drink in his office the previous evening. Circulation at the
Chronicle
was up and most of the increase was attributed to his reporting of the Maggie Cummerford trial. Serial killers drove circulation, but female serial killers drove circulation through the roof. That had been a fact since Lizzie Borden chopped up her father and her stepmother. McDevitt was basking in the kudos of the editor and his colleagues. He had even been asked to write a book on the case. And not by some fly-by-night publisher. He always fancied himself as an author, and he’d sent out a few feelers for an agent. Life was on the up for Jock McDevitt. But despite all the positives, McDevitt was feeling a little twitchy. He didn’t know why but it was an uncomfortable feeling that all was not well. It was as though there was some impending doom that he hadn’t quite realised was about to hit him. He could well imagine it would be similar to some guy waking up with such a feeling in Bander Aceh on 26
th
of December 2004, only to find himself facing a wall of water when he opened his hotel window. He looked around the court. There was the usual mix of spectators, from legal types looking for a few pointers on how to run a trial to homeless people searching for a warm place to spend an hour or two. His gaze fell on a man sitting at the back of the court. His appearance screamed ‘copper’. But he wasn’t one of Wilson’s crew. The man turned and looked at McDevitt while he was staring at him. A chill ran up McDevitt’s spine, and he quickly looked away. If he had been twitchy earlier, he was now downright worried. He didn’t like the look of the guy at his back but he put it to the back of his mind. A little bit of paranoia never hurt anyone but he concluded he was being ridiculous. Why the hell should the police have an interest in him? He was their friend. He bought them rounds of drinks while he pumped them for information and paid them when he was obliged to. He searched around in the archive that was his mind for a motive for their interest. There could only be one reason. The feelers he had put out about Wilson’s new colleagues. One of the arseholes he had contacted had shopped him. He stole another glance at the man at the rear of the court. He had the memory of an elephant and he tried to place the guy. Faces flitted across his mind’s eye but the man’s faces didn’t appear. Now, he was being paranoid. He liked Ian Wilson and he really wanted to be his friend. Jock McDevitt didn’t have many friends. He had an awkward knack of looking into people’s minds and seeing the cesspit that they tried to hide. He knew he unnerved people. He wasn’t psychic or anything like that but he was very good at listening and then connecting the dots. That was what he was trying to do just now. He turned around to look at the man once more but the seat was empty.
You’ve got to be a bit careful, Jock my lad,
he said to himself. Wilson and he were alike in one way. They had no allegiances. That meant that when they trod on someone’s toes, there was no safety net there for them to fall into when the shit hit the fan. He wondered whether he should tell Wilson about his misgivings. No, it would make him look like a shiver-shite. He looked into the body of the court and saw that both legal teams had taken their places. Maggie Cummerford was sitting in the dock and the jury sat in two neat rows in their box. He tried to banish the feeling of apprehension and concentrate on the events about to unfold in court. But a picture of the man’s face had been imprinted on his mind, and he knew it wasn’t about to go away.

Twenty metres from where McDevitt sat, Kate McCann was taking a call from her mother. She was listening to the voice of Ian Wilson making a date with Stephanie Reid for that evening.