A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (18 page)

‘You knew some of them?’ Wilson asked.

‘I was operating in Mid-Ulster at the time. The MRF were exclusively Belfast. They were located in a special compound in the Palace Barracks in Holywood.’

‘How long was the unit active?’ Wilson asked. He noticed that McDevitt was letting him do all the talking.

‘About two or three years, then the politicians got a bit nervous about British soldiers in plain clothes driving around shooting people. Some of the killings were actually properly investigated. The RUC collected forensic, and took statements. The investigations were the basis of putting British soldiers in the dock. That’s the only place you’ll find traces of the MRF. Most of the records concerning the unit were destroyed by the MOD.’

‘And they were disbanded when?’ Wilson asked.

‘Around ‘74,’ Hodson said. ‘I think the boys in your photo definitely belonged to the MRF. ’

‘But I thought you said it was disbanded.’

‘The MRF was disbanded, but it spawned other units. Some people looked on the MRF as a prototype.’

‘And serving RUC officers were involved?’ Wilson asked.

‘So I’m told. Sure, half the murder gangs in Mid Ulster at the time contained serving RUC officers. There was a large crossover of membership of the RUC and the UDA. Collusion isn’t just a word in a dictionary.’

‘That might explain the lack of evidence in my case,’ Wilson said. ‘No forensic, sloppy investigation.’

‘Sounds plausible.’ Hodson extended his hand to Wilson who took it. ‘Its been good to meet you. I’ve got to be away. Good luck with the investigation.’

‘Do you ever wish you hadn’t blown the whistle?’ Wilson asked.

‘There’s a lot of innocent people lying in their graves today because of what people like me did. I have to live with my own part in their deaths for the rest of my life, but I, at least, want to set the record straight.’ Hodson started to walk away. He was joined by Power with the minder five steps behind.

Wilson and McDevitt stood on the pier watching the retreating backs. ‘Was it worth the trip?’ McDevitt asked.

Wilson looked out to sea. There was a stiff breeze blowing from the direction of the Irish Sea carrying with it the acrid smell of ozone. He could feel particles of seawater in the air from the waves hitting against the pier. He was tired. ‘Yes,’ he said still staring at the ocean.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The trip back to Belfast was uneventful and silent. McDevitt dropped Wilson at Queen’s Quay before heading for the offices of the
Chronicle
. He had a Skype call with his new agent in London. The bruise on McDevitt’s jaw had turned from blue to yellow and he looked like someone who had jaundice on one side of his face. Wilson contemplated being dropped off at Dunmurry but he couldn’t see any useful purpose in spending a few hours sitting in his office wondering what to do next. It now appeared that the shooting of the two young men had been carried out by some rogue element of the British Army aided and abetted by a cover-up engineered by the RUC. It was not the first such killing and the news of the probable culprits wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. He made himself a cup of coffee and flopped down on his sofa. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he had been led to this conclusion not by good investigative work but by clues in his path for him to find. He was certain that Sinclair and Jackson were plants but why should they lead him to a conclusion that might point the finger at the Special Branch as being involved in two murders. His feelings about his own performance were ambivalent. He could go back to Michael Lafferty and tell him that his son’s murder was probably a random act committed by British soldiers in civilian clothes. He might explain that a sergeant of the RUC had been employed to clean up the scene and make sure that no forensic evidence of the crime remained. But he could not tell him who had shot his son and what was in their minds when they fired the shots.  He sipped his coffee and went to the small dining table that doubled as a desk. He laid the photograph that was delivered to McDevitt on the table. He knew that he had recognised the background. Hodson was right. It was the rear of the Palace Barracks. He looked at the faces of the men and tried to guess their ages. There were several twenty-year-olds. That meant there were possibly some sixty-year-olds who could supply him with the final pieces of the puzzle. The question was how would he gain access to them. The MOD had disavowed all knowledge of the Military Reaction Force. Documents were destroyed. He wondered what the response would be to a request from a PSNI task force to provide names and address of the survivors of the group. He could guess. He finished his coffee and switched on the TV. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, much too soon for his regular appearance at the Crown. He flicked through the channels looking for an American crime show. He needed to watch a programme where a murder could be solved in less than sixty minutes.

Wilson didn’t notice the light fading. He was totally engrossed in two American crime series where the cops were smart, if slightly autistic, and the criminals were dumb. After two helpings, he switched to Agatha Christie’s
Poirot
, which he found immeasurably more entertaining, but equally divorced from the reality of crime, as he knew it. Agatha Christie’s criminals were far too gentile. It was only necessary to examine the autopsy photographs of the two boys shot in Beechmount Parade to understand what murder was really about. On the screen,
Poirot
had just gathered all the suspects, dressed of course in evening clothes, together to explain how he had solved the murder, when his mobile phone rang. He hit the silence button on the TV remote before answering. ‘Wilson,’ he said simply.

‘Where are you?’

At first he thought it was Kate’s voice and his heart jumped. Then he realised it was Stephanie Reid. ‘At home.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’m down in the lobby with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a takeaway from Mandarin City. Press the bloody button to let me in. Otherwise all this food is going to go cold.’

His first reaction was reluctance. He could feign tiredness. He’d been to Dublin and back. He’d been up half the night two days ago. Then it sank in. He was, as Davidson so rightly put it, single. Kate had been furious in McHugh’s but it hadn’t changed anything. She assumed he’d moved on. He stood up and moved to the entrance of the apartment where the button to release the front door was situated. He had one final bout of hesitancy before pushing the button. He opened the apartment door, and waited until the lift arrived at his floor.

Reid was carrying a cloth bag bearing the logo of a well-known supermarket. A bottle of wine stuck out at the edge. ‘Let’s get some of this stuff into your cooker,’ she said as she breezed past him. ‘I didn’t know what you liked so I had to guess what you might have ordered.’ She was already at the cooker and piling containers into the oven. She closed the door and set the oven going. ‘We’ve got some spring rolls and spare ribs to start followed by Chicken King Po and Crispy Duck. How’s that?’

‘You’re psychic, it’s exactly what I would have ordered.’ Wilson finally found his voice. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘You guessed.’

‘Not really.’

‘It’s my birthday.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘For a second there I thought you might just be one of the best detectives in the world.’ She laughed.

‘Happy Birthday! He put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry I won’t ask,’ he said as he moved away.

‘Don’t worry I won’t tell. I had the option of sitting at home feeling sorry for myself or forcing my company on someone I actually like.’

‘How did you know I was here?’ He took her arm and led her to the couch managing to knock the TV off on the way.

‘You weren’t at the Crown,’ she said.

‘Am I that pathetic?’

She smiled. ‘‘Yes.’

‘I think it’s time for a drink. Gin and tonic?’

‘If available.’ She sat and looked around the open plan space. ‘Not a bad little place, for a single man. You’re quite a bit neater than the average man.’

He handed her a gin and tonic, and raised his own glass of whiskey. ‘Happy Birthday! He touched his glass to hers and sat beside her. He realised that, apart from their work relationship, he knew absolutely nothing about her. ‘No family members in Belfast?’

‘No family members in Europe.’ She sipped her drink. ‘My mother and father split when my brother and I were in our teens. My mother married a plastic surgeon and moved to San Diego. I think over time she’s become his best client. My father stayed with us until we went to university and then went to work in the copper mines in Zambia. He owns a game ranch just outside Lusaka. I still visit whenever I can. My brother Peter is a paediatrician in Perth, that’s the one in Australia.’

‘Then I’m glad I’m of some use.’

‘I’ve shown you mine. Now you show me yours.’

Wilson finished his drink in one gulp and stood to make himself another. ‘My father was a policeman. He made sergeant. One day he went into a shed at the back of our house and blew his brains out with his service revolver.’ He poured a large measure of whiskey.

‘And your mother?’

‘My mother was having an affair with my father’s best friend. Six months after my father died she married her lover.’

‘And where is she now?’

Wilson was about to lie and say that he didn’t know. He looked at her face and knew that he shouldn’t. ‘She lives in a small town south of Halifax in Nova Scotia. I haven’t seen her since the day she married.’

‘Good God, Ian, that’s terrible. I don’t think I like my mother as a person but I still love her.’

He sniffed. ‘I think the food is ready.’

She finished her drink. ‘You set the table and open the wine. I’ll sort out the food.’ She could almost feel the sadness. It was difficult for her to comprehend being cut off from a parent. Her own family were not close. A Sunday dinner with four people living on four different continents was not going to happen, but she loved being with her family on their visits. She hadn’t realised that he could be so vulnerable. If someone had an Achilles’ heel, it could generally be traced to a family issue.

Wilson set two plates and two wine glasses on the table. He placed a knife and fork on the side of each plate. Something was going on with him. There was the side trip to Lisburn the previous day. Now he was discussing his family with a woman who was basically a complete stranger.

She brought a series of steaming containers to the table and in doing so their bodies touched in the confined space. When the food was on the table and the wine was opened they stood close. She looked up into his face.

He knew what she wanted. The whiskey and the nostalgia were coursing together through his veins. He bent and kissed her. He intended it to be a friendly kiss but it turned into something altogether more passionate. Then he broke away.

‘That was the best birthday present you could have given me,’ she said sitting at the table. She smiled. She knew it would be worth the wait, and it certainly was.

The talk over the meal had been about Africa. Her experiences in the Congo had been extreme, and Wilson was building up a picture of someone who was not only a consummate professional in her field, but also a compassionate and courageous individual. ‘You miss it,’ he said.

‘Not really, you have to have the ability to move on. It was what it was at the time. I learned a lot about medicine, but mostly I learned a lot about myself and my ability to cope.’ She looked at the cartons covering the table. ‘Shouldn’t we clean up?’

It was getting to the point that Wilson knew so well. The kiss had set the scene, and they had eaten, and more importantly drank enough to excuse what might be about to happen. Normally, he felt no reluctance at this point. There was a beautiful and intelligent woman who was making herself available. He didn’t know many men who would be hesitating in his position, but he was. ‘Leave it,’ he said standing up. He could offer a final drink, but he knew instinctively it wouldn’t end there. ‘I hope you’re not driving home.’

She smiled at the heavy hint. ‘Not a chance, I came by taxi and I’ve got the number programmed in my phone.’ She could see a mixed emotion in his face. She moved close to him. ‘You can’t avoid it forever, Ian. It will happen. Don’t ask me when. The first time I met you I felt we should be together. When you’re ready there will be three initial rules. One, it will only be sex. Two, we’re not moving in together. And three, it will be monogamous.’ She stood on her tippy-toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Thanks for being here. I hate being on my own on my birthday.’ She started walking for the door.

He knew a single word would have been enough to arrest her departure but he couldn’t say it. He watched as she opened the door, and closed it behind her.

The camera whirred as the button was pushed and thirty photographs were taken in an instant of Reid leaving the apartment building. Jackson put the camera on the passenger seat and started the car. He had been stationed outside Wilson’s apartment since his colleague had been dropped off by that toe-rag McDevitt. It was obvious that the journalist hadn’t taken the hint. Silly bastard. Still it was a worthwhile vigil. Another nail in what would turn out to be Wilson’s coffin.