A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (26 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Wilson woke and found himself lying on the couch in his living room. His mouth felt like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and the reason, a half empty bottle of Jameson, sat on the coffee table in front of him. At least the whiskey had knocked him out and he had slept. His life was on a downward spiral and he didn’t know how to arrest it. He had been trying to take stock of his situation with the aid of the Jameson, but found that the whiskey was more of a hindrance than a help. He had finished the investigation and the only person who had a positive outcome was Michael Lafferty. He could now rest in peace. Wilson was not so lucky. He was still out of the job he loved. Kate was gone. He had estranged his mother for no reason and wasted twenty years of their lives. And in the process he had managed to prove his father was a murderer. What else could happen? His head was pounding. He went to the sink and filled himself a glass of water. He needed to rehydrate before he could think properly. He finished a glass of water in one swallow, and made a refill. At some stage he was going to have to get himself in order and report to Sinclair. The light on his answerphone was flashing when he entered the apartment the previous evening and he didn’t need to be a detective to deduce that his minders were going apeshit over his disappearance. They were being paid to keep tabs on him, not to lose him completely. The messages were so frantic that they would have been funny in another context. There were five messages from McDevitt, each one showing a greater level of concern than the last one. If Kate were still on the scene, he had no doubt that he would have unburdened himself to her while holding back the odd tear. He might be forced to unburden himself to McDevitt, but only on the condition that his life didn’t appear on the front page of the
Chronicle
. Maybe it was time he called it a day. He had money in the bank and there was a lot of life to be lived. Did he really need the PSNI? Did he really need the grief of dealing with people like Jennings and Campbell? Did he really need his chain being jerked by the likes of Sinclair and Jackson? The investigation had succeeded. He had established that the two young men had been callously murdered. He could, and would, name the murderers. But what would happen then? He already knew that there would be no follow- up. There were two men still living who could pay the price, but neither of them would ever see the inside of a prison cell. Why couldn’t he live in a world where good triumphed over evil 100% of the time? That was the realm of fiction not fact. Half the people he had slaved to put behind bars during the “Troubles” were walking the streets, released because the murders they committed were “political”. Tell that to the victims. He made a pot of coffee and had a shower while it cooled. After two cups of black coffee his brain had reached third gear. The investigation might be over but there was still work to be done. He was beginning to see the picture even though it was clouded in smoke. The investigation hadn’t been about establishing the truth. Nobody gave a shit about Lafferty and Mallon. They were just collateral victims, like so many others. The investigation was about him. Someone, somewhere knew that his father was in the car that fired on the two young men. That someone probably knew that John Wilson had been one of the shooters. They probably were also aware that he had killed himself because he couldn’t live with the guilt he felt. Now he needed to find that person. He was being manipulated. He drank another cup of black coffee. He smiled to himself. He was becoming a conspiracy theorist. McDevitt was beginning to rub off on him. Who would possibly want him to be the one who proved that his father was a murderer? His remembered the look on Jennings’ face in Campbell’s office. He may not have been the instigator but Jennings knew a game was being played.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Sinclair’s voice was an octave higher than usual. There were red streaks of anger on his neck. He had burst into Wilson’s office as soon as he had arrived in Dunmurry. Wilson tilted his chair back. ‘I was following up leads which took me out of the country.’ He held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry I have no intention of putting in an expense chit.’

‘Expense chit, my arse. It’s not about fucking expense chits.’ There were lines of spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m your superior and you are not a free electron to wander around anywhere you like. Now answer the question, where the hell were you for the past several days?’

‘It’ll all be in my report.’

‘I don’t want to read your fucking report. I want you to tell me. I’ve had HQ on the phone about your little visit to Palace Barracks. They’re beginning to think I’m not up to the job of controlling you.’

‘On the contrary, I think you’ve done an excellent job of steering me.’

‘What do you mean by “steering”? From what I’ve seen you’re not the type to be easily steered.’

‘You have no need to worry. I’ve arrived where I was supposed to arrive. I know who murdered young Lafferty and Mallon and I know why they did it.’ He tilted his chair forward and tapped the box file on the desk in front of him. ‘All the evidence will be in here this afternoon.’

Sinclair’s anger abated instantly. ‘What? You’ve finished the investigation. And you know who was present in the car?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it’ll all be in your report?’

‘Every word, by the way, where is the ever faithful Sergeant Jackson?’

‘Since you had so little use of his services, he’s been reassigned.’ He had smelled the whiskey in the room when he had entered. There was a slight film of sweat on Wilson’s face and it was clear that he was the source of the odour. There was a certain belligerence in Wilson’s attitude. He wondered whether it was due to the alcohol or to what he had discovered.

‘I’ll expect the file on my desk this afternoon.’ Sinclair turned and left the room.

Wilson settled down to write up the notes on his interview with Dixon. When he finished, he photocopied his father’s last letter, redacted the copy with a heavy black marker removing every reference that did not pertain to his father’s role in colluding with elements of the British Army to murder innocent civilians. He re-read the redacted the copy several times before accepting that he had done a reasonable job. He had to admit that he was a fairly good copper although he knew he had been helped over the line; the photograph of the Military Reaction Force being dropped on McDevitt’s desk, “Anorak Man” appearing out of the blue. It was a combined effort, all he had to do was follow the clues like the good policeman that he was. He wondered whether Kate had been a planned diversion. He wondered how she knew about the meeting with Reid in McHugh’s. Who had taken and sent the photo of Reid exiting his apartment building? Was Kate just another of his buttons that had to be pushed? And more importantly who had decided which buttons should be pushed? He could cut and run, rent a small house in the South of Spain and forget about the PSNI and Belfast. It was tempting but it wasn’t him. But maybe that’s what someone wanted. Perhaps that was what it was all about. There was only one way to find out. He added the report on Dixon’s interview and his father’s redacted letter to the box file and closed the lid.

It was late afternoon when Sinclair was sitting quietly in his office. He had read the last pieces that Wilson added to the file. Jackson and he had started to wind the operation down when Wilson had done his flit to the mainland. The listening devices in his office were removed and the tap on his mobile cancelled. He sometimes wondered whether there was anyone with a brain operating in the stratosphere above his pay grade. The whole affair had been a screw-up. Fucking amateurs. He had worked on dozens of psyche ops and this had been by far the worst. To do the job properly you start with a detailed profile of the target. What are his strengths and weaknesses? The plan then centres on avoiding his strengths and accentuating his weaknesses. If he liked women, have him found in bed with a fifteen-year-old who looked twenty. A nice juicy court case followed by a spell of incarceration equals life destroyed. Likewise if his weakness is gambling, point him at a crooked game where he loses his shirt, along with his house and his wife and kids. Those are proper psyche ops. It takes time, effort and planning. Whoever was behind the operation against Wilson hadn’t done the basic donkey work. Perhaps his father was his Achilles’ heel, but he seriously doubted it. Every man had his breaking point. Sinclair had watched the hardest collapse when the pressure was put on them. But Wilson had been badly misjudged. He had no idea where the man’s breaking point was but he had read the report on the investigation and if someone thought that Ian Wilson was going to buckle just because he found out that his father was a murderer then they were sorely mistaken. The people in power thought all they had to do was shuffle the pieces on the chessboard and their plan would come to fruition. Welcome to the real world. The weak crumble but sometimes the strong just get stronger. Having the brains to make money didn’t give you the right to understand what makes people tick. Sinclair was glad that this particular gig was over. Next week he would be back at his desk burying the evidence against some corrupt politician. Somehow dealing with Wilson had upset him on a deeper level. He was once an honest copper but somewhere along the line he had given up his principles and joined the majority who did exactly what they were told. He had a fine house beside Belvoir Park Golf Club and his children went to private schools and university. It was the benefit of playing along with the powers that be. But the cost was that he was no longer his own man. His particular die was cast. It was too late to turn back. He was owned body and soul. He closed the box file. He would pass it upstairs and let Campbell deal with it.

Later, Sinclair stood beside his BMW 520D, one of the toys that came with his lack of ethics. He was about to open the driver’s door when Wilson seemed to materialise beside him. He felt instantly uncomfortable.

‘Remember that drink you invited me for a few weeks ago.’ Wilson’s voice was soft. ‘I’ve decided to take you up on it.’

Sinclair forced a smile. ‘Some other time, I’ve got a meeting this evening.’

Wilson put his hand on Sinclair’s arm. ‘Cancel your meeting, we really should have that drink.’

Sinclair looked into Wilson’s eyes and saw what he had already recognised in the man, steely determination. ‘Sit in.’

‘Where to?’ Sinclair said when they were seated.

‘You choice.’

‘I’m a member at Belvoir Park.’ Sinclair started the car. ‘Ever been there?’

‘No. I don’t move in golfing circles.’

‘There’s a fantastic view over Cave Hill and the Black Mountains from the clubhouse.’

‘Nice motor,’ Wilson said.

‘It’s a passion.’

They joined the M1 and turned right onto the Malone Road. Neither man spoke. Wilson realised that Sinclair chose a venue where he was most at home. It was the place where he felt he would have the most control over their situation. Wilson didn’t object to mind games. He played enough of them with criminals down through the years. When he was young, he had been taught that sport wasn’t only a physical exercise. The mental side of sport was the most important. The control of the mind was the essence of most sport. The physical was a matter of practice. You made the pass so many times that when you actually came to the point of making it in a game it was an automatic reflex. There was no thought process involved. Keeping control of the mind and the emotions during a game was another matter. It was the part of the sport that he had excelled at. They drove up the short approach road to the clubhouse and Sinclair parked his car in the car park. It was a beautiful sunny evening and Sinclair hadn’t lied about the views. The clubhouse was a modern construction with plenty of glass looking out over the course, and in particular the eighteenth green. On their way to the bar, Sinclair acknowledged the greeting of several of the members. He was beginning to relax. This was his turf.

Wilson walked past the bar and installed himself in a quiet corner where a curved picture window met the sidewall. Beneath him he could see a foursome were completing their round on the green.

Sinclair stayed at the bar ordering the drinks and eventually arrived at Wilson’s table carrying two pints of Guinness.

Wilson smiled and took the drink. ‘All the surveillance was useful then.’

Sinclair sipped his drink. ‘What surveillance?’

‘I thought we were beyond that.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Sinclair acknowledged a greeting from a group entering the bar.

‘Let me tell you what I think.’ Wilson sipped his drink. ‘The investigation into the deaths of Lafferty and Mallon was a red herring. There was no original investigation because everyone and his friend knew the British Army and the RUC were responsible. So the new investigation wasn’t about finding the culprits or even proving the incompetence of the RUC investigation. It was all about pulling my chain. It was all about me.’

Sinclair didn’t respond.

‘You and the good sergeant were given the job of shepherding me since the start of the investigation. I had to prove that the man I admired most in the world was a murderer. Not any ordinary murderer but a man who murdered two boys who were hardly out of childhood. Someone wanted me mentally broken. They took away my job with the murder squad and handed me a poisoned chalice.’ He took out a photograph from his inside pocket. ‘This is a photo taken from a CCTV camera in Royal Avenue. I got it before someone wiped the disc clean. The car’s registration is clear. Peter Davidson traced it to Special Branch. I can give the photo and the story of its provenance to McDevitt and it’ll be on the front page of the
Chronicle
tomorrow. And where will that leave you?’