A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

It was almost six o’clock in the evening when Wilson pushed in the door of the Crown. He had spent the afternoon sitting on the bench at the Esplanade where he had taken his lunch. He was beginning to believe that he had taken the investigation as far as he could. The British Army was a closed box. The action in Northern Ireland had been the quintessential dirty war. Army officers and bureaucrats who had gained their experience of guerrilla warfare in countries of the Empire far removed from the mother island had directed it. That wasn’t the case with Northern Ireland. The dirty war necessitated the establishment of groups like the Military Reaction Force. These units fought the IRA with tools that were far outside the realm of an official security response, and which bore no relation to the Geneva Convention. Breaking the silence that existed around the activities of these units would be well nigh impossible. He had taken the investigation as far as he could and for once in his life he was going to have to admit defeat. That didn’t sit well with someone who had been brought up to fight to the very end. For Lafferty and Mallon the “fat lady” was already warming up her voice. The hours had sped by at the Esplanade while he mulled over how he could tell the dying Michael Lafferty that British Army soldiers who would never pay for their crime had murdered his son. When he finally rose from the bench, he was sure that the investigation had finally hit the skids. He drove back to Queen’s Quay and left his car in the garage. Then he made his way to the Crown. The after-work crowd were already ensconced but he had phoned on his way and reserved his usual snug. McDevitt would eventually turn up and they could tie one on together. Drink was becoming his antidote despite his resolve to not let it. He pushed open the door to the ‘J’ snug and was taken aback to see a man already sitting facing the door. He was about to close the door when he realised that he had seen the man before. The man sitting before him was small with a round, bland face and receding grey hair.  His face had the pallor associated with someone who spends the minimum amount of time in the fresh air. He was wearing a pair of thick spectacles, which gave his face an owlish look. It took Wilson a few moments to remember where and when.

‘Come in and close the door,’ the man said.

‘Anorak man,’ Wilson smiled and closed the door behind him. The last time he had seen this man was in the office of the Chief Constable of the PSNI after the Dungrey orphanage business. At that time, he hadn’t been introduced by name. He had been simply somebody representing the Home Office.

‘What?’

‘Since I didn’t get your name in the Chief Constable’s office, I remember that you were wearing an anorak. Hence the name.’

The man pushed the bell to summon that barman. ‘Your tipple is a pint of Guinness I understand.’ The accent was pure Oxbridge. ‘I don’t much like the name ‘anorak man’, so you can call me Boag.’

The barman appeared and Boag ordered Wilson’s drink.

‘OK, Boag it is,’ Wilson said taking a seat. ‘I don’t suppose that your real name is anything like Boag.’

The small man smiled but didn’t answer.

‘So, Boag,’ Wilson said. ‘Who do you work for? I didn’t find out when we last met. You’re from the Home Office but I assume that’s a euphemism for MI5, MI6 or Military Intelligence. Which do you represent?’

‘Take your pick.’

‘I don’t mean to be nasty, but you don’t have a military bearing so I suppose Military Intelligence is out of the question. My guess is MI5 and from the way the Chief Constable kowtowed to you, you’re not the common spook. You’re the chief spook dealing with Northern Ireland. You probably know more about us than we know about ourselves. You’ve examined us the same way a biologist examines a new type of animal except you don’t dissect our bodies. You dissect our minds.’

‘You’re quite the detective.’

‘It’s a living. And this is just a friendly drink?’

‘Not quite.’

The hatch opened and the barman passed a pint of Guinness to Wilson.

‘You’ve been keeping tabs on me since the Dungrey business,’ Wilson said. ‘Afraid I’m going to blab?’

‘The answer to the first part is, no we haven’t been keeping tabs on you. Our Islamic friends are top of the agenda for the moment. As to your question, I have no doubt that you’re not about to blab, and not only because of the legal consequences. You won’t blab because you’re an honourable man.’ Boag raised his whiskey and toasted Wilson.

Wilson returned the toast and drank a large slug of Guinness. It was probably going to be the first of many. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said replacing his drink on the table.

‘It’s what I can do for you,’ Boag said. ‘You’re beginning to appear on my radar again, and that’s not good. You have a rather nasty habit of unearthing things that we have considered well and truly buried. And subtlety is not one of your attributes. You’re more bull in a china shop.’

Wilson smiled. ‘Honourable, unsubtle and bull in a china shop, so many positive character traits. Flattery will get you everywhere. I have a heavy night’s drinking ahead. I’d appreciate it if you could get to the point.’

There was a knock on the snug door, it opened and McDevitt’s head appeared.

Wilson turned quickly. ‘Later,’ he said as soon as he saw McDevitt.

McDevitt stared at Boag and then closed the door. There was silence in the snug.

‘Your journalist friend,’ Boag said.

‘A drinking companion.’

‘We’re aware of the investigation you are currently undertaking,’ Boag said.

Wilson noticed that there was never a change in the cadence of his voice. Every statement was delivered in the same monotone. ‘And you don’t like the way it’s going?’

‘On the contrary, there’s a new mood in Westminster. We’re all about apologising for our past actions. We’re even bringing squaddies to book for Bloody Sunday. However, there are limits. We have certain problem with someone opening up the can of worms that was the Military Reaction Force. Our political masters are not ready for that.’

‘So, no new Stevens’ enquiry?’
The evidence collected by the Stevens’ enquiry had been incinerated in an office fire.

Boag smiled. ‘The powers that be back then didn’t want to put the faintly immoral stuff in front of the public. The IRA were the demons and we had to fight them in any way we could. Guerrilla war isn’t fought according to the Geneva Convention. The rules of engagement were more flexible.’

‘Flexible enough to include the killing of innocent civilians?’

‘We have to recognise that some officers went a little overboard. I’m here to give you some assistance.’

‘Ever hear of”beware of Greeks bearing gifts?” ‘I suppose I’m not about to be stitched up.’

A smile played across Boag’s thin lips. ‘Such cynicism, we genuinely want to assist your investigation.’

‘And why do you want to help?’

‘The truth is we don’t want you breaking any more china than necessary.’

‘OK, I’ll buy this bullshit. You’re not about to give me the truth anyway. What have you got for me?’

Boag put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. He put it flat on the table and pushed it across to Wilson.

Wilson looked at the paper for a few moments before lifting the fold. Written on the paper was a name address and phone number. ‘Who is it?’

Boag finished his whiskey and stood up. ‘It’s one of the men who was in the car who fired the shots at Lafferty and Mallon. I would act pretty quickly if I were you. These kinds of people tend to move around a lot. And my assistance is a one- time only event.’ He went to the door of the snug. ‘Good luck, I really hope we don’t have an occasion to meet again.’

Wilson stood. He had the inclination to offer his hand but looking into Boag’s face he felt a handshake wasn’t required or appropriate. Without looking back Boag exited the snug but left the door open. What the hell was that about? Wilson wondered. People like Boag didn’t do anything for altruistic reasons. He picked up the paper from the table and looked at the name, address and telephone number. He half expected the letters to disappear.

‘Who’s your pal?’ said McDevitt carrying a pint glass in his hand. He pushed past Wilson and took the seat that Boag had just vacated.

‘Called himself Boag.’ Wilson retook his seat.

‘Looked like a slimy little prick,’ said McDevitt laying his glass on the table. ‘I’ve seen blokes like him around Belfast before. Some kind of spook, I suppose. What’s he up to?’

‘Damned if I know.’ He held up the sheet of paper Boag had given him. ‘Supposed to be the name and address of one of the guys in the car at the Lafferty and Mallon murder.’

‘I’d take that with a pinch of salt,’ said McDevitt taking a drink from his glass. ‘Probably a plant.’

That thought had also passed through Wilson’s mind. What if they were trying to feed him false information? What the hell interest had MI5 in screwing up the investigation? Or better still what interest did they have in helping him with his investigation
?

‘I take it you’re going to follow up,’ McDevitt said pushing the button to call the barman. ‘You’re like one of those bloodhounds that go bounding off as soon as they get a sniff. Even if it’s a false scent.’

The barman’s head appear and McDevitt made the sign for a refill.

Wilson put the paper into his pocket. ‘I’m thinking on it.’

‘Did we come here to talk or did we come here to drink?’ McDevitt said.

‘Hard day in court?’ Wilson finished his drink. He’d planned on a heavy night but the paper in his pocket meant that going over his limit was now a non-starter.

‘Tell me about it.’ The drink had arrived and McDevitt felt around in his pocket before producing a £10 note. He handed it to the barman and waved him away. ‘Cummerford’s good value for the front page but two weeks in court makes me want to eat my head.’ He started on his second drink.

‘How’s Kate doing?’ Wilson asked.

‘I can almost hear those heart strings singing,’ McDevitt smiled. ‘She took over in the afternoon and produced a masterclass in turning Cummerford from “murderer” to “poor wee girl whose mother was murdered by a coven of witches”. You boys got a good going-over for your incompetence in investigating the disappearance. By the time she handed over to Gold, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house except for an old cynic like yours truly, of course. Kate left Gold that last hour and he was forced to walk on eggshells. He couldn’t have been seen to be on the side of the coven.’

‘Do you think it’ll be over tomorrow?’ Wilson asked.

‘Maybe, certainly the day after.’

That meant Wilson had at least one day to follow up on the name Boag had given him. He was waiting until the trial ended before he contacted Kate. He needed a yes or a no, and at the moment he was ready to accept either decision. This break business was just some bullshit to postpone a real decision. The look on Helen McCann’s face told him all he needed to know about her feelings towards him.

‘Still thinking about your slimy friend?’
McDevitt asked.

‘No, I’m wondering what time the first flight leaves for East Midlands.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s where Lee Dixon lives.’

‘Who the fuck is Lee Dixon?’

‘He’s the man whose name is on the sheet of paper that Boag gave me.’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The dining hall in Coleville House was of baronial standards. The table, which was the centrepiece of the room, was built specially and could easily accommodate twenty guests. The ceiling was double height and the walls were oak panelled. The Lattimers prided themselves on the manner in which they had employed the best craftsmen in Ulster in the construction of their family home. This evening, the three people dining seemed like pygmies in the context of the grand surroundings. Sir Philip Lattimer sat at the head of the table, as was the tradition. To his right sat his principal guest, Helen McCann, while on his left sat Lord Carncastle. Lady Lattimer had absented herself, as she was so often required to do when her husband was having a “business” dinner. Sir Philip had resisted talking business while he consumed his smoked salmon starter and his quail main course. His concentration on his food was so complete that he ignored the fact that his guests had barely touched theirs. Both Helen McCann and Lord Carncastle were conscious that the preservation of their trim figures excluded the consumption of large quantities of food. The already portly Sir Philip had no such foibles.

‘Excellent,’ Sir Philip said as he pushed his empty dessert plate away. He nodded at the maid standing unobtrusively at the side wall, and the plates disappeared from the table. He turned towards Helen. ‘I’m glad you could join us this evening. We were wondering whether this business with your policeman chap was really worth the hassle. It has been suggested that it should be wound up considering the level of resources we have committed to it and the rather limited success to date.’

‘I don’t agree.’ Helen McCann dabbed at her full lips with her napkin. ‘I’m committed to removing Wilson as a threat to our organisation. I have some insight into this man. If you think that he has forgotten about the deaths of Grant and Malone, you are seriously deluded. Wilson doesn’t give up. The cases will remain open for him until he finds out who killed them and why they died.’

‘I understand that our man Rice has disappeared from the scene,’ Lord Carncastle said. ‘And of course we were all saddened by the death of Jackie Carlisle. But the fact that neither man is available means that there is very little likelihood that Wilson will be able to make the connection to us.’

‘I tend to agree with that assessment,’ Lattimer put in quickly. He was beginning to believe that the vendetta between Helen and the policeman had nothing to do with Circle business but was personal. ‘Added to the fact that the whole operation has been a mess from beginning to end.’ He stared directly at Helen. ‘Your trust in Sinclair and Jackson has been singularly misplaced. They have shown themselves to be hamfisted at best and incompetent at worst. We cannot get away from the feeling that the whole operation has had a personal element. That is not part of the ethos of our organisation. We have managed to have Wilson removed from his job. Was it really necessary to launch him on what is proving to be a worthless exercise?’

‘As I said, you don’t understand your man.’ Helen returned Lattimer’s stare. ‘Men like Wilson don’t stay sidelined for long. We’ve taken advantage of the Chief Constable’s illness to bring Wilson to the edge of an abyss. The job he loves is gone, his former partner is gone, he’s living in a rented apartment, and he’s just about to receive a blow to everything he holds dear. It is not enough to take everything from him. People like Wilson must be destroyed.’

‘Perhaps we should have asked Rice to kill Wilson instead of those other chaps.’ Lattimer gave a low chuckle.
‘Would have saved a lot of bother.’

Lord Carncastle smiled. ‘We are a business organisation, not the Mafia.’

Lattimer returned the smile. ‘Aren’t we?’ He liked the idea that he was some sort of gangland boss. There was a cachet to being a criminal. It was a hell of a lot more exciting than being a board member of a whole load of stodgy companies. Being a member of the Circle was the most exhilarating part of his life. He looked over at Helen. She was so intense that she should have the word ‘Ulster’ tattooed on his forehead. Personally he didn’t give a damn for Ulster and most of the peons who lived there. He had more money than he could possibly spend. The only reason he was involved in what had become Helen’s enterprise was the thrill of committing crimes and getting away with them.

Helen looked at her dining companions. One was a country squire whose family fortune was made by a turncoat and a slave trader. The second came from a family that had prospered from kissing the Royal butt. Carncastle was an accomplished peddler of influence and a sex addict. If you asked them for their agenda, they would say it was the preservation of Ulster.  That was a joke. Their real agenda was the same as hers, the preservation of their wealth and position. She knew all their secrets. She was the repository of the secrets of the good and the great of Ulster. That was her advantage, her means of control. She was in no doubt that her dining companions would prefer to see the back of her. Then it would be good old boys together. They didn’t realise that she was more of a man than the two of them put together. They couldn’t understand someone like Wilson. He was as committed to his job as she was to maintaining the connection with Great Britain as a means of preserving her wealth. There was no lake of blood he wouldn’t wade through if it meant he would bring a miscreant to justice. The two idiots at the table thought that such men could be negotiated with. She knew that they had to be destroyed. It was necessary to take away from them everything that they held dear. She wanted Wilson so weak mentally that he would have to retire from the PSNI. She knew that the operation against him she had conceived had not been perfect. But it was still on track although it had wobbled along the track. However, the end was close and the abyss was in sight.

‘Apropos the Chief Constable,’ Carncastle said. ‘I attended a meeting of the Policing Board last week and it appears that he will not be returning to his job. Its been confirmed that he has pancreatic cancer and he intends to concentrate on his fight against the disease.’

‘What about our friend, Jennings?’ Lattimer asked.

‘Most unfortunate,’ Carncastle replied. ‘His stock depreciated at the wrong time. A year ago, I could have pushed his case and probably would have been successful. Today, I would simply be wasting my time. Jennings is in rehabilitation. He’s damn lucky that we’ve been able to save his career.’

‘We’ve invested a lot in that man,’ Lattimer said. ‘And he’s no bloody use to us sitting in Cumbria.’

‘I’m working to get him back,’ Carncastle said.

‘And Wilson?’ Helen McCann said.

‘I suppose that since you say he’s standing on the edge of an abyss,’ Lattimer said, ‘we might as well give him a push.’