A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (19 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

At the same time as Wilson was entertaining Stephanie Reid, Chief Superintendent Campbell was meeting Sinclair at PSNI HQ. Campbell had just finished reading a report of Wilson’s meeting with Hodson in Dublin. As the days passed, he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with his role in what was an “off-the-books” operation. The instructions he was operating under had been transmitted verbally, so he had no fall-back position if the shit hit the fan, and plainly there was a excellent chance of that considering the manner in which Wilson was acting more like an erratic free electron rather than the intended well-directed missile. Wilson and Hodson was not a combination that he’d foreseen, and it was one that had potentially catastrophic implications. Hodson was already instrumental in opening up the whole question of collusion between the security forces and the murder gangs operating in Mid-Ulster. He was one of the stars of the Historical Enquiries Team investigation. Bringing Hodson and Wilson together could send Wilson off in a direction that had not been anticipated. There was also a time issue. The operation should be completed as soon as possible. He stared at the man opposite him. He had been sold to Campbell by Special Branch as highly competent officer who could be depended on to carry the operation to its conclusion. That had been a crock of shit. At every step of the operation, he had proved himself to be not up to the task. Wilson was on to him and Jackson almost from day one. And now, they had compounded their incompetence by their unilateral decision to abduct McDevitt to throw a scare into him. Campbell didn’t know the journalist very well but he assumed that the abduction might have the opposite effect. That opinion was, more or less, borne out by McDevitt organising the meeting between Wilson and Hodson.

‘This reads like a fuck-up,’ he said tossing the report on the desk separating him from Sinclair. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen. We’ve lost control of events.’

‘You’re the one who wanted him fed with the MRF crap,’ Sinclair said. Campbell might have the ear of the Chief Constable, but he and Campbell were the same rank and he wasn’t about to take any shit from him.

‘If you remember properly, that was part of the plan,’ Campbell said. ‘Unlike your decision to abduct McDevitt.’

‘We were forced to improvise,’ Sinclair said. He smiled at the memory. ‘McDevitt was a diversion. Wilson is pretty much on track. Ramsey is away to his relations in Scotland for a couple of weeks, and by then this mess will be over. Jackson and I are ready to follow orders but whoever conceived this operation has shit for brains.’

Campbell would have liked to argue, but Sinclair had a point. One of the precepts of a psych operation is to have a deep appreciation of who you are dealing with. Someone had got Wilson very wrong. Campbell was beginning to think that the outcome would be very far from what was intended. The object of the exercise was to break Wilson down, but he was beginning to doubt that was going to happen. And if it didn’t happen, the search for a scapegoat would include him. ‘This is not going to reflect well on any of us. I’m beginning to think that we’ve permanently lost the initiative. Do you have any idea how we might regain it?’

Sinclair could almost feel the light falling on him. ‘Hodson wasn’t part of the plan but sooner or later Wilson was going to see that there was collusion between the RUC and the Army. So, we’ve lost nothing. We need him to look for the definitive information on the Mallon and Lafferty shootings. Christ, we have very little more to give. He’s almost there.’

‘Not quite,’ Campbell said. ‘I think we should be considering an exit strategy.’

‘Why is that?’ Sinclair asked.

Campbell took a report from his desk drawer and pushed it across. ‘It appears that DC Peter Davidson asked one of his friends to look at the CCTV from Royal Avenue for the evening that McDevitt was abducted. Davidson is, as you already know, one of Wilson’s old team from the murder squad.’

Sinclair picked up the report and speedread it. He looked at the two photographs appended to it. One showed two men wearing beanie type hats and balaclavas. The second showed a black taxi. ‘So what?’ He tossed the report on the table.

‘McDevitt has made a police report.’ Campbell removed another sheet of paper from his desk drawer. This is a mock-up of the front page of tomorrow’s
Chronicle
.’

Sinclair stared at the headline. “
Chronicle crime writer in abduction horror
” looked back at him. The two photos that he had just looked at were included with the article.

‘That fucking weasel,’ Sinclair said. ‘We should have fucked him up properly.’ He picked up the mock-up, balled it up and flung it on the desk. ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.’

‘How was it supposed to happen?’ Campbell asked. ‘This is the kind of shit-storm that you and your friends at Special Branch are famous for creating.’

Sinclair leaned across the desk. ‘You get the plods to investigate and release a statement blaming paramilitaries.’

‘And McDevitt will go away?’ Campbell said.

‘If he doesn’t, he can be induced to.’ Sinclair’s voice was icy cold. ‘There’s no way they can trace the cab. It’s one of ours. We were careful not to show our faces to the cameras, and McDevitt only saw the balaclavas. For Christ’s sake, the guy shit himself.’

‘Like I said,’ Campbell looked directly at Sinclair. ‘I think we should establish an exit strategy.’

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Wilson was going to have to do something about his sleeping pattern. After Reid had left, he went in search of the only item he had kept from his old house at Malwood Park. He found it conveniently located in one of the suitcases that Helen McCann had packed and sent to the Europa Hotel. He removed the shoebox from the case, and carried it into the living room. He had already cleared the table of the detritus from their meal, and he laid the small box with no little reverence in the centre of the table. He opened the lid and removed a large number of photographs. None of the prints were recent and several were as old as Wilson himself. He sifted through them, and found his parents’ wedding photo. His mother was dressed in a simple white dress and wore a rose in her hair. His father was wearing his RUC uniform and looked stiff beside his more relaxed and smiling bride. He moved through the photographs depicting his early life; his father and him playing rugby, his mother teaching him how to swim. The first team photographs at school were simply some of a myriad that his father had taken at rugby matches. He spent hours poring over the worn photographs until he had examined each before returning them to the shoebox. He couldn’t shake the feeling of nostalgia, although he had no idea where it was coming from. He wondered whether this was a function of the loneliness he’d been feeling since Kate and he had broken up. He doubted it. It was some deeper emotion that had made him veer off the road into Lisburn to look at the old family home. He hated that place. And yet he was attracted to it like a moth to a flame. He hadn’t looked in the shoebox for years. He didn’t realise how long he had been looking at the photos until he looked at his watch. It was past 1 am. There were two photographs left on the table. One showed him and his father sitting on a bench. He guessed that he must have been ten and the location was probably Portstewart. It was the family’s favourite holiday location. He was smiling for the camera but his father wore a frown. In the last years of his father’s life, he had rarely seen him smile. Wilson’s rugby honours were the source of a rare smile. He knew his father was proud of him but a kind of sadness appeared to hang over the man. He was about to put the photo back in the box when he changed his mind and instead put it into his wallet. He picked up the last photo. It was a picture of his mother as a young woman. She held a baby in her arms and he could only surmise that it was him. She looked beautiful in a summer dress. Her blonde hair hung in ringlets. When he was young, everyone said that he favoured his mother, and as he looked at the photo he could see the resemblance. He put the photo into his wallet beside the one of him and his father. He closed the shoebox. He was tired and emotional. The photos showed the history of the family that no longer existed. It had started with smiles and ended in tragedy. As a family history, he knew it wasn’t unique. But it was his family history and he was permitted to feel sad about it.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR 

Wilson was happy that he wasn’t the only one that looked the worse for wear. The bags under Sinclair’s eyes had bags under their eyes. Wilson had picked up a copy of the
Chronicle
and the paper lay on the desk in front of him. He had cursed when he saw that Jock had used the hiatus in the Cummerford trial to grab the front page with the story of his abduction. He had no problem with the story but Jock had included the photos that Peter had obtained. That could put both Peter and him in trouble. But Jock didn’t care about that. He was a front-page junkie, and nothing else mattered, especially the careers to two dumb coppers. Wilson noticed that Jock was considerably braver in the story than in fact, and the issue of his soiled trousers carefully avoided. He made a note to talk to Jock about putting the careers of so-called friends at risk just to get a by-line. Sinclair had entered his office almost as soon as he arrived. He had an idea that his superior had already read Jock’s lead story. ‘Burning the midnight oil?’ Wilson said.

Sinclair tried a tired smile that didn’t quite come off. ‘Meetings, meetings, meetings. You reach a certain level in this organisation and you don’t really work anymore. You just have to attend interminable meetings.’ He slumped into Wilson’s visitor chair

‘Seen the lead story in the
Chronicle
?’ Wilson turned the paper so that the front page was facing Sinclair. He could see from his face that he had already seen it.

‘McDevitt has the habit of sticking his oar into places he would do better to avoid,’ Sinclair said. ‘There are some very bad people in this city. Even journalists shouldn’t step on their toes. McDevitt’s a lucky man that something worse didn’t happen. The paramilitaries are still out there, they really haven’t gone away.’ He closed the
Chronicle
covering the front page.  ‘On to more pleasant topics, I hope. How is the investigation going? How was the second interview with Ramsey?’

Wilson almost smiled but managed to suppress it. ‘Disappointing, it appears that former sergeant Ramsey is no longer available for interview.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He’s disappeared. Gone. Left some yokel behind to take care of his pigs, but left no forwarding address. He didn’t look like the type who suddenly thought to himself “I’d fancy a week in the sun in Marbella.’’’

‘And you think there’s something sinister in that?’

‘No, I’m sure there’s something sinister in it. Ramsey was the clean-up man. He was at Beechmount Parade just after the shooting, and there isn’t a fragment of forensic to show for it. He was present for the autopsies of both Mallon and Lafferty and the bullets taken from the bodies have disappeared. I think Ramsey doesn’t feel like explaining any of these facts.’

‘So, until he returns, it’s a dead end.’

‘Also, I think he was warned off.’

‘Warned off, by who?’ Sinclair had a quizzical look on his face. It was a perfect piece of acting.

Wilson could see that Sinclair was a consummate player. This was the chance to say that he thought that his two colleagues might be responsible. But he was never going to take that chance. ‘Probably by us, Jackson and me turning up must have been a surprise. He did his job all those years ago, and suddenly two coppers from a task force show up unexpectedly asking difficult questions. It must have thrown a funk into him.’

Sinclair nodded slowly. “Where do you go from here? You’ve accomplished so much since you took this case on.’

‘I’m beginning to understand the answer to at least one of the questions I have. I think I know why. What I really want to know is who, and maybe what was behind the cover-up.’

‘Would you care to enlighten me?’

‘Not yet, it’s only at the theory stage.’

‘You took a day off yesterday.’ It was presented as a statement but there was a question in there.

‘I had some business in Dublin.’

‘Personal business or PSNI-related business?’

Wilson didn’t answer immediately. He had to assume they knew. He had no idea how they knew, but he would have to work on that assumption. ‘I had a meeting with a guy called John Hodson.’

Sinclair’s face showed surprise. ‘The whistle-blower?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s involved in your case how? I thought he operated in Mid-Ulster.’

‘Just general information, apparently, there was a kind of British Army/RUC death squad operating in Belfast into the late 1970s.’

‘Early seventies’ Sinclair corrected him. ‘It’s all water under the bridge. It was finished by ’74 or ’75. And there was no RUC involvement.’

‘Hodson says different.’

‘The man is a sensation monger, a conspiracy theorist.’

‘So there was no collusion by the security forces in the murder of Catholics?’

‘In Mid-Ulster without a doubt, the murder gangs located around Moy and Moygashel were not in Hodson’s imagination. I have no doubt that some of those murders were committed by, or with the assistance of, members of the RUC and the UDR. For Christ’s sake, Hodson was a member of one of those gangs himself and he was a serving police officer. The HET have been over that ground. Belfast was a different matter altogether.’

‘I’m going to need your help.’ Wilson could see a look of concern pass across Sinclair’s face. It was instantaneous but it was there.

‘What can I do?’

‘I need to have a chat with someone in the military. It can be off the record but I need more information on rogue units that were operating out of the Palace Barracks. Ideally I’d like to be able to locate any of the former members of units that may have been involved in the shooting at Beechmount Parade.’

Sinclair’s face showed deep concentration. He was quickly trying to analyse the impact of agreeing to Wilson’s request, or refusing. Wilson was a loose cannon. Sinclair’s thirty-year career was already hanging by a thread. He had no intention of being pushed out on half pay. His two sons were attending university and certainly would not appreciate him cutting off of their funding. Their anger would only be matched by his ex-wife when he applied to have her alimony halved. Refusing would open the door for Wilson to claim that he had been impeded in his investigation. ‘That’s problematic,’ he said playing for time to allow his mind to run through a list of possible outcomes. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He stood up.

‘It’s the logical next step in the enquiry.’ Wilson smiled. He was aware that the military would be resistant to any attempt by the PSNI to investigate their operations. It was rumoured that PSNI Special Branch had a close relationship with the British military. It was likely that Sinclair had a connection that he could use. The question was whether he was willing to expose that connection.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sinclair repeated and left the office.

As soon as Sinclair left, Wilson stood up, picked up his copy of the
Chronicle
and left his office. He went out to the car park and stood beside his car. He took out his new phone and composed Jock McDevitt’s number.

‘McDevitt,’ the number of marbles in Jock’s mouth had been reduced to one. He was sounding like a parody of the original.

‘You sneaky little bollocks,’ Wilson said.

‘The
Chronicle
is selling like hotcakes,’ McDevitt sounded elated. ‘The editor loves me.’

‘You had no right to use the photos Peter obtained. You could get both him and me into trouble.’

‘They were provided by a source. They could torture me but I’ll never divulge my sources. I’m an ethical journalist.’

‘In that case, you better be wearing brown trousers when you’re being tortured. Your bowels don’t seem to react well to torture.’

‘That’s uncalled for.’

‘What was uncalled for was your use of the photos. I’ll give you a pass on the fiction in the report. Where are you?’

‘Where I belong, about to take a front row seat as the Cummerford trial winds down. We’re expecting the lady herself in the witness box today. It should be all over in a few days. Drink this evening?’

‘Maybe.’ Wilson broke the connection. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he glanced at the hut containing the task force offices. Jackson stood by one of the windows staring directly at him. Now they would know that he had a second phone. At that moment, he really didn’t care what they knew. He was more concerned about the impending end of the trial and what it might mean to him and Kate. It might lead to them sitting down together and thrashing out their problems. He wasn’t sure that was going to happen. He was beginning to believe that he was cursed in his personal relationships. He had seen too much pain and suffering to be the sensitive guy who responds to his partner’s needs. It was part of the job and he saw it destroy relationships and marriages. He wasn’t unique. He was simply a statistic. And at the moment he was a very tired and confused statistic. No matter how much he wanted a sit down with Kate, it wasn’t going to happen unless she wanted it to. He was not in control of their relationship. The ball was in Kate’s court and he would have to wait and see what way she played it. Things were going on in his life that he didn’t quite understand. And the murders of Mallon and Lafferty and his investigation fitted neatly into the category of “things he didn’t understand”. He wasn’t about to wind up the case whatever happened. He’d come much too far for that. Something rotten had gone down and claimed the lives of two young men. The murders were compounded by the cover-up. It was never the crime that bothered him. It was always the cover-up, and the reason behind the cover-up. He looked at his watch. He still had most of the morning and he couldn’t think of anything he could do to advance the case. He made an instant decision and climbed into his car.