A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Wilson left the office immediately, and drove to the Tesco superstore on the Lisburn Road where he bought a new mobile phone and a new Sim card. He went to Smith’s Cafe, bought a coffee and sat at a table to the rear. The cafe was busy with a combination of customers enjoying a late breakfast or an early lunch. For Wilson the most important attribute of the cafe was the noise generated by the conversations of the patrons. He took out his old phone, checked Peter Davidson’s number and keyed it into his new phone.

‘Detective Constable Davidson,’ the phone was answered quickly and the voice had a level of surprise.

‘Peter, it’s Ian.’

‘Sorry, boss, I didn’t recognise the number.’

‘It’s new,’ and
more secure
, he thought. He knew he wouldn’t have to explain to Davidson. ‘I need a favour.’

‘Anything,’ Davidson said immediately.

Wilson explained what had happened to McDevitt the previous evening.

‘The poor bloke,’ Davidson said when he was finished. ‘Pretty heavyweight, gun to the back of the head and dropping the hammer. Not the best experience in the world. What can I do?’

‘The taxi was idling outside the
Chronicle’s
office when Jock exited. Since they couldn’t have known what time he would leave the building, they must have been in position for some time. He left around 10 pm. Check the CCTV. See if you can get the licence plate of the cab, or a look at the guys who grabbed him.’

‘Will do, boss. Is Jock going to make a report?’

‘I doubt it. There are elements of the ordeal that he would prefer to keep private.’ He heard Davidson laugh on the other end of the phone. ‘I’d prefer if you could do this without raising suspicion.’

‘I have a few friends who should be able to help. I’ll spin them a story. What’s going on, boss?’

‘Damned if I know Peter.’

‘I don’t like the sound of it, boss. I don’t think either the IRA or the UDA would pick Jock up. His connections with the two organisations are pretty solid. Could be a splinter group, but I doubt it. One thing I do know, he certainly shook someone’s tree.’

‘What’s happening at the station?’

‘There’s agony over Spence’s replacement. In the meantime, we’re being run like a corner shop. We all used to wonder what Spence did upstairs. I think now we know. And there’s a rumour that ‘Fat Boy’ Harrison is in the running for head of the serious crime unit.’

‘You just made my day that little bit darker,’ Wilson said. The thought of someone as incompetent as Harrison sitting in his office turned his stomach. ‘If the business with the CCTV gets a bit hairy, bail.’

‘Don’t worry, boss. I get the picture. I’ll be careful. I‘ll have something for you soon.’ 

Jackson knocked on Wilson’s door five minutes after he returned from Smith’s. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He put an emphasis on the word ‘morning’ since it was approaching midday.

‘Good morning to you, sergeant.’

‘You’ve been out and about, sir.’ Jackson was standing at attention as usual.

‘Nipped down to Smith’s for a decent coffee. I’m a bit fed up with the crap they serve in the cafeteria. Didn’t know that we were tied at the hip.’

‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to pry.’

Oh yes you did
, Wilson thought. ‘Still nothing on the car?’ He saw that Jackson was staring at the autopsy files.

Jackson shook his head.

Wilson lifted the files. ‘These are the autopsy files on Mallon and Lafferty. I managed to get them from the Royal Victoria. I want you to familiarise yourself with them.’ He handed the files across to Jackson.

Jackson took the files with a certain level of reluctance. ‘Is there anything else I can do, sir?’

‘That should keep you going for a while,’ said Wilson who couldn’t suppress a smile.

‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair told me that you intend to re-interview Sergeant Ramsey. He suggested that I should accompany you.’

‘Thank you, sergeant, but that won’t be necessary. I’m a big boy and I think your time would be better spent in familiarising yourself with the results of the autopsies.’

’Moy and Moygashel are not the most welcoming places for the police.’

‘I think I’m old enough to take care of myself.’ ‘Sir,’ said Jackson as he left with the files under his arm. His countenance was not that of a happy man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Wilson intended following the M1 from Dunmurry to Moygashel before turning off onto the A29 for Moy. Although he travelled the same road some days earlier, he had a completely different impression of it. Perhaps it was the weather, which was bright and sunny, or perhaps it was simply that he felt more at ease in the car on his own. As he passed by Lisburn, he had a sudden impulse to visit the house he had been born in. It was more than twenty years since he had set foot in the town that his parents called home. He followed the A1 along the Laganbank Road before turning off at Hillsborough Road. He found the family home easily enough. It looked different, probably because the current occupants had modernised the building. He thought about stopping, and knocking on the door. He could imagine himself rambling through the rooms he had known so well as a child. But it would have a bittersweet effect on him, and he decided against it. Instead he turned onto Church Lane, and stopped at the junction with Barrack Street. Lisburn Police Station stood directly before him. Despite the end to the ‘Troubles’, it was an imposing building where many of the security features had been retained. The redbrick front wall was surmounted by several feet of barbed wire fencing while floodlights were placed at intervals along the Barrack Street side of the wall. CCTV cameras covered all the approaches to the station. This was his father’s place of work for more than twenty years. He only stopped briefly before continuing along Barrack Street to Smithfield Street. He turned back onto Hillsborough Road, and glanced to the right as he passed the family home again. He drove back to the A1 and on to the M1 in the direction of Moygashel. He had no idea what had caused him to make the diversion into Lisburn. Perhaps he was feeling nostalgic. He had undergone two major life changes. He knew enough about life to realise that change is a big part of man’s existence. Yet, he never thought that he would leave Tennent Street, and he had believed that his relationship with Kate would stand the test of time. The words “till death do us part” echoed in his mind but he wasn’t sure that they related to Kate alone. He drove along the southern shore of Lough Neagh until he reached the village of Moygashel. He turned right onto the A29, and ten minutes later drove onto the rough path that led to Ramsey’s farm. Whatever happened on that evening in 1974 at Beechmount Parade, Ramsey had been an integral part of it, both as member of the clean-up team and as a member of the cover-up team. Wilson was now certain that there had been a cover-up, and that the RUC was central to it. He was aware that during the 1970’s there was a fractious relationship between the British Army and the RUC. Both organisations contained individuals who committed atrocities every bit as horrible as those committed by the IRA and the UDA. There was also the issue of overlapping membership of the RUC and the UDA, and the UDA and the UDR. That meant that the killings of Mallon and Lafferty were most likely motivated by sectarianism or politics. Both of those motivations were a quagmire in Northern Ireland. While driving the last leg of the journey to Moy, he wondered how he could break Ramsey. One thing was sure, the former RUC sergeant and pig farmer wouldn’t break easily. He entered the farmyard, and parked the car on what looked like the most solid area. He had no desire to splash through pig slurry to get to the door of Ramsey’s house. He moved from clear area to clear area as he approached the house. The front door was locked, and his knocking produced no result. He was about to go around the side of the house when a shot rang out. The pigs started squealing and rushing about in their pen. Wilson immediately crouched. He hadn’t seen a bullet pass anywhere in his vicinity, but he wasn’t about to take a chance. He pulled out his warrant card and held it aloft. ‘Police,’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘No more shooting, Come out wherever you are.’ He stood up and looked around. There was no sign of the shooter. He wasn’t carrying his gun, so he was at the mercy of whoever shot. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson of the PSNI, show yourself.’ He turned to a noise from the barn. A small figure slowly appeared at the edge. The man coming into view was certainly in his seventies, and possibly even in his eighties. He was dressed in a tattered donkey jacket over a stained pullover, filthy trousers and green wellington boots. He was carrying a shotgun.

‘Break the gun down,’ Wilson said.

The man complied holding the broken down gun in the crook of his arm. ‘Who did ye say ye were?’

Wilson extended the warrant card. ‘Superintendent Ian Wilson, I suppose you have a licence for that shotgun?’

‘Aye,’ the man was now fully in view. His face was weather-beaten, the skin having the appearance of cracked leather. He wore a dirty flat cap on his head with white hairs poking out at every angle.

‘And who are you?’ Wilson asked.

‘Jamie Nicholson.’

Nicholson was definitely not the talkative type. “Why did you shoot?’

‘I didn’t fire at ye, I fired in the air.’

‘But why?’

‘Thought ye were a robber, didn’t I’

‘Where’s Ramsey?’

‘Gone.’

Wilson wanted to wring the older man’s neck. Every ounce of information had to be dragged out of him. ‘Gone where?’

Nicholson shrugged his shoulders.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ Wilson said.

‘No, told me to look after the pigs. Feed’em and the like.’

‘Did he say when he’d be back?’

‘No.’

Wilson thought himself an expert at interrogation but this was going nowhere fast. It was apparent that Ramsey had departed in haste. Nicholson had no idea why or where or even how long. ‘Bring that shotgun licence in to your local PSNI station,’ he said in an effort to save face. ‘And no more shooting at strangers.’

‘If I’d shot at ye, ye wouldn’t be standin’ here.’ Nicholson turned and disappeared behind the barn.

‘Bloody hillbilly,’ Wilson mumbled as he made his way back to his car. Sinclair or Jackson, or both, had ensured that Ramsey took a holiday. He could kick himself for mentioning his desire to re-interview Ramsey. Although, he doubted he would have been able to do so without alerting them. He had made a trip halfway across Ulster for nothing. Not exactly nothing. He’d established that Ramsey was a piece of the puzzle. He just wasn’t going to get a crack at that piece.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The barman shook his head as soon as Wilson entered the Crown, indicating that his habitual snug was in use.

He went to the rear of the bar and sat down. Five minutes later the barman deposited a pint of Guinness directly in front of him.

‘You’re a bit late,’ the barman said. ‘We can’t hold on to snugs indefinitely.’

‘I’ve been on a day outing to Moy,’ Wilson said picking up the Guinness.

‘And you’re still here to tell the tale.’ The barman smiled and returned to the bar. Wilson was feeling the effects of the late night, the lack of sleep and, if he was willing to admit it, the frustration of not realising earlier the important part that Ramsey played in the cover-up. The first mouthful of Guinness revived, in a small way, his spirits. He satisfied himself that he made more progress in the short time he had been investigating the murders than the RUC/PSNI made in the previous forty years. However, he was beginning to believe that there wasn’t much more to be learned. He was still mulling over where to go next with the investigation when Peter Davidson strode through the bar, and made for his table. Wilson signalled to the barman to replenish his pint and bring another for Davidson.

‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon,’ Wilson said.

Davidson sat down. ‘I sussed that something was amiss with the phones, so I thought I’d talk to you in person. I took a chance that since you’re single again that you might be here.’

‘We’re both lucky because I won’t be here for long. I’m out on my feet. I suppose I’m not as young as I used to be. What did you find out?’

The barman deposited two pints of Guinness on the table. Wilson hurriedly finished his and handed the glass to him.

Davidson touched his glass to Wilson’s, drank and then leaned forward. ‘What’s going on, boss?’

‘I told you, Peter. I don’t know and if I did I would certainly tell you. Now what did you learn?’

‘The time was spot on, so there was no need to run through reams of footage. The cab was there for most of the evening. There were two guys loitering in an alcove close to the
Chronicle’s
office. They probably knew the location of the camera because they stayed well away from it. We’ve got some great photos of hoodies. There’s no clear picture of their faces. They’re both big lads. Not your size, but not that far off. Certainly over six feet.’

‘And the cab?’

‘Standard black cab, the front licence plate was muddied over. I got one of the geeks to look at it and he brought up some of the numbers. There’s no such plate.’ He fished around in his pocket and took out a computer flash drive. ‘The abduction is on here along with the guys in the shadows and a shot of the cab’s plate.’

‘Thanks, Peter,’ Wilson said. ‘It’s appreciated.’

‘It’s the spooks, boss. Isn’t it?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘This is the kind of thing they do. Guys with the patience to hang around all night, black cab with dodgy number plate, gun to the back of the head. It all fits.’

‘You’re right, Peter, it does fit. But I don’t believe it’s the spooks.’

‘Why?’

‘I think it’s down to me.’

‘Why you?’

‘I asked Jock to look into my new colleagues and he obliged. He has some contacts that we don’t have. Both my chief superintendent and my sergeant are former special branch. They have no background in investigation and yet they’re working on a task force investigating a double homicide.’

‘Christ, boss. Now I wish it were the spooks. Special Branch make the spooks look like Sunday-school teachers. If it’s about you, why didn’t they put the frighteners on you?’

‘That’s something I’d like to know.’ Wilson finished his drink. Davidson started to wave at the barman but Wilson stopped him. ‘Thanks, Peter, but I’m done for the night. I’m out on a limb here. I don’t trust the guys I’m working with and I’m slowly unravelling something that I think is going to stink to high heaven.’ He stood to leave.

Davidson stood. ‘Take care, boss. We need you back with us.’

A tired smile passed Wilson’s lips. That wasn’t about to happen soon.

As soon as Wilson left the Crown, his old mobile started to ring. He saw McDevitt’s number on the screen and pressed the green button.

‘Ian,’ McDevitt was still speaking as though he had marbles in his mouth but the marbles were a little smaller.

‘Jock, how are you?’‘Better. Call in sick tomorrow. We’re going to Dublin. I’ll be around to pick you up at 8 am.’ The line went dead. Wilson called back. The phone rang out but wasn’t answered.

                                                               
CHAPTER FORTY

Wilson woke at 6 am from a fitful sleep. He shook himself clear of a bad dream whose contents he couldn’t fully remember, but it was a place that he didn’t want to be in. There was still a hangover of tiredness from the evening at the Royal Victoria with McDevitt. He needed something to banish the cobwebs from his brain. He put on his running gear. Light was just beginning to break over Belfast when he left the apartment building. The sun was invisible behind grey clouds, which stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. There was a thin fog coming off the water, and he could feel the humidity in the air every time he took a deep breath. His feet pounded the concrete path that led around the eastern edge of the port of Belfast. He was conscious of a slight pain in his bad leg but he attributed it to the dampness in the air. He was thinking about the telephone call from McDevitt and the fact that his follow-up call hadn’t been answered. He knew it was in a journalist’s DNA to be stubborn and dogged, but he hoped that McDevitt was smart enough to take the large hint he’d been given during his abduction. He was, more or less, sure that McDevitt had been lifted by the Special Branch. There was a rumour that the PSNI were about to launch an investigation into the activities of some members of the branch. The years of lawlessness in the Province had created an environment where renegades could flourish. Some of the practices from that era had become standards. While he was sent to study the most modern techniques of criminal investigation at the FBI School at Quantico, members of the Special Branch had been attending institutions with an altogether different curriculum. The fact that the criminal investigative function, the preservation of law and order function and the intelligence function all coexisted under the envelope of the PSNI sometimes led to conflicting objectives for the different branches. He ran steadily for half an hour before turning for home. He had showered and breakfasted after his run, and managed to catch the early-morning BBC news. The doorbell rang at exactly 8 am and when he looked out the window he saw an ancient black Mercedes 190 parked directly in front of the building.

McDevitt was in the driver’s seat when Wilson descended. ‘Dublin, here we come,’ he said as Wilson settled himself into the passenger seat. His diction was clearer, but the ugly bruise on his jaw was testament to the pain he was obviously feeling. ‘Can’t talk much. Still sore.’

‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ Wilson said. ‘And even more so I don’t know why you’re doing it.’ He looked around McDevitt’s car. It looked like its owner lived in it. The rear seat was covered with the remnants of fast food. Pizza boxes fought for space with empty hamburger containers, while empty sandwich packets appeared to have pride of place. The rear floor was littered with empty drinks cans of every provenance. ‘So why are we going to Dublin?’

‘You’ll find out when we get there.’ McDevitt turned the ignition key and the engine sprang immediately to life. ‘Best car Mercedes ever made. I never had a day’s trouble with this one.’

‘I thought you were on the Cummerford trial full time. Won’t there be a missing chapter in your book?’

‘Court’s not in session today.’ McDevitt was already on the M3 heading towards Station Street. ‘The Judge’s cousin is being buried, and we all know that funerals take precedence over everything in Ireland. It’s part of our Celtic genes. Did you call in sick?’ He winced when he finished speaking.

Wilson ignored the question. He wasn’t the type who took sick days unless he was at death’s door. They had turned onto the M1 and then the A12 and they were soon passing through Dunmurry. It was the route that Wilson took every morning. He didn’t like surprises, and he was wondering what lake of shit McDevitt was about to drop him into. However, things were going so badly that whatever might be at the end of the journey couldn’t make things worse. Or could it? He started to relate the information that Davidson gave him the previous evening. McDevitt listened, but didn’t comment. He drove past Dunmurry and on to Lisburn where he took the A1 exit, and began the journey to the south. Just before the border the road became the N1, and when they entered the Irish Republic it became the M1 leading all the way to Dublin.

‘OK,’ Wilson said as they exited the Dublin Port Tunnel and emerged onto the East Wall. ‘We’re here. Now you can tell me why.’

‘We’re going to meet a man who might be able to explain the photograph to us.’ It was evident from the level of wincing that McDevitt wouldn’t be doing much of the talking. ‘I sent a copy of the photograph to an old journalist friend, and he set up the meeting for us. I don’t think that you’re going to be disappointed. Now let’s keep the talking to the minimum. My jaw hurts like hell.’ He drove across the Liffey and made his way to the Blackrock Road. At the junction beyond Blackrock village, he turned left for Dun Laoghaire, the principal port connecting the Irish Republic with England. He parked the Mercedes just above the port. ‘We’re here.’ He turned off the engine, and got out of the car.

Wilson followed. Beneath him he could see the ferry terminal to his left, and the pier to his right.

McDevitt looked at his watch. It was almost 10 am. ‘We’re just in time. Let’s take a walk along the pier.’

They walked to the pier’s entrance and started along the lower level. It was a weekday so there were few walkers. Several young women pushed prams, and there were intermittent joggers.  But most of the people on the pier looked to be retired couples. They had almost reached the lighthouse at the end of the pier when they saw two men sitting on a wooden bench. McDevitt smiled and squeezed Wilson’s arm. ‘You’re about to meet a personality.’ McDevitt walked forwards and shook hands with the older man.

‘Jesus, Jock!’ The man’s accent was pure Dublin. ‘What the fuck happened to your jaw?’

‘Long story, Michael.’ McDevitt pulled Wilson forward. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson of the PSNI. Ian, this is Michael Power former crime hack on the
Irish Press
.’

Power stood and the two men shook hands. ‘Good to meet you, Ian.’ He stood back to reveal the second man sitting on the bench.  I’d like to introduce both of you to John Hodson, former sergeant in the RUC, and renowned whistle-blower.’

Wilson looked at the man. Of course, he had heard of Hodson, very few police officers hadn’t. He had exposed the rotten underbelly of the RUC in Mid-Ulster during the ”Troubles”. Hodson was in his sixties or early seventies but looked younger. His face was gaunt and pale. His shoulders were narrow, and his frame was on the light side. He stood, and Wilson saw that despite his age he held himself erect. He had a full head of grey hair cut short. Wilson extended his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Hodson smiled, and took Wilson’s hand. ‘You’re the rugby guy. You head up the murder squad.’

‘I used to,’ Wilson said. ‘Now I’m on a task force looking into a cold case.’

‘It’s about time they set up a cold case unit, after all, that’s what historical crimes are,’ Hodson said. ‘Most of those cases are so cold they must be frozen by now. So, why are we talking?’

Wilson explained he was looking into the case of Mallon and Lafferty, and the advances he’d made. When he finished, he noticed a man loitering about ten metres away.

‘My minder,’ Hodson said. ‘The Garda Siochana are afraid one of my old colleagues might try to knock me off. I suppose I ran my mouth off a little too much for some people’s liking.’ His accent was soft Tyrone, and he spoke with an exaggerated deliberateness that made him sound like an automaton. Each word came out separately and distinctly. He retook his seat and made room for Wilson to sit beside him. ‘What can I do for you?’

McDevitt took a copy of the photograph from his pocket and passed it to Hodson. ‘The letters MRF ‘ are on the rear.

‘Military Reaction Force,’ Hodson said slowly examining the photo. ‘I’ve seen photos like this before.’ His thin lips parted in a smile. ‘Would you look at them? They look like a bunch of bootleggers from the 1930s. You wouldn’t think that they were British soldiers. The MRF was a unit of the British Army that the Ministry of Defence would rather forget about. They were active in the early Seventies mainly in Belfast.’ He passed the photo back to McDevitt. ‘They used to drive around in clapped-out motors trying to look like locals, except they were armed to the teeth. Remember the famous playing cards with the photos of the main targets that the Americans distributed during the Iraq War?’

Wilson nodded.

‘These boys had the equivalent, except the portraits were of IRA men. They were supposed to look for their targets, and eliminate them. The problem was that when they couldn’t find their targets, they had a habit of shooting up innocent people. They were organised by some toffee-nosed Johnny who had seen action in Malaya and Kenya. A couple of them went a bit too far and ended up in court. They were found innocent, of course.  Group of fucking cowboys. ‘