A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (23 page)

‘You should hand it in,’ Wilson said. Although he was well acquainted with weapons, he didn’t trust guns in the home environment. Too many things can go wrong when there’s a weapon about.

‘No way,’ Dixon said. ‘Its been with me for forty years and it’s staying with me. I can field strip and reassemble it blindfold.’ His hands moved quickly over the weapon. In less than two minutes the gun was just a number of springs and metal pieces. ‘You never forget.’ Dixon started to reassemble the gun and had completed the task in less than two minutes. ‘This is the bloody Ferrari of sub-machine guns.’

‘Put it away,’ Wilson said. Guns had a nasty habit of killing people. ‘So, you didn’t fire in Beechmount Parade?’

Dixon laid the Sterling on the floor at his feet. ‘I were on the wrong side of the car. Taffy and the RUC bloke did all the shooting.’

‘Any idea where this John Rowlands guy is today?’

‘Taffy got into a bit of deep shit over the shooting. He’d already been up for a previous incident. Like I said, he fucking hated the IRA. He got moved on and left the service some time later. I heard on the grapevine that he moved to Australia.’

‘What about the Special Branch guy?’

‘Never saw him again.’

‘Any idea of his name?’

‘We didn’t introduce ourselves.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Funny you should ask that.’ Dixon gave a low chuckle. ‘I’ve got a memory for faces. And as far as I can remember, he looked something like you. Could be his fucking twin. It’s like looking at a ghost.’

Wilson felt something cold at the base of his skull. It spread from there and ran down his spine. He took out his wallet and removed the photograph of his father he had taken from the shoebox. He passed the photo over to Dixon. ‘Is this the RUC man?’ In his mind he begged God to make Dixon utter the word “no”.

Dixon took the photo and examined it closely. ‘Looks like him. Of course, I can’t swear but I’m sure it’s him. Who is he?’

Wilson held his hand out for the photo. He realised that it was shaking as he took the photo and replaced it in his wallet. Could it be possible? Could his father, the man he had idolised all his life, be a murderer? He was stunned. So this was where the case was leading. His mind was racing. Dixon was full of shit. He was an MI5 plant. He wanted to grab him by his throat and get him to say that it was a lie. But that wouldn’t change the truth. There was only one thing to do and that was to prove it was a lie. Wilson was feeling ill. He needed to get out of there. He felt that all the air had been removed from the room. He needed fresh air.

‘You’re not lookin’ too well, mate,’ Dixon said from the other side of the room.

Wilson fought to regain control of himself. ‘Got a bit of a chill standing in the rain.’ He had to get the interview back on track. ‘You killed two innocent boys that night. Don’t you feel any remorse?’

‘We did some bad things for Queen and country. It were my job and I bloody well did it the best I could. I don’t feel any remorse. Just like the other side didn’t feel any remorse when they planted their bombs. Now fuck off out of here. Your five hundred quid has been used up.’ He picked up the Sterling from the floor. ‘And don’t fucking come back.’

Wilson didn’t feel intimidated but he stood nonetheless. He needed to be out of there.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Wilson’s trip back to Belfast took place in a fog. He had phoned and paid for a taxi, been driven through Leicester, checked-in at East Midlands Airport, drank a coffee and flown back to Northern Ireland. But he didn’t experience any of those things. In his mind a single refrain had been playing; your father was a murderer. And not just any kind of murderer. If Dixon was to be believed, he had murdered two innocent young boys with their whole lives before them. This case had become a nightmare; his own personal nightmare. By the time he arrived back in Belfast, he was beginning to assimilate the information Dixon had given him. Enough of it he already knew to be true; the car, the Sterlings, the clean-up and the cover-up. Dixon’s story had all the vestiges of the truth, but he could not believe the identity of the RUC participant. Somebody was screwing with his head. And they were succeeding in unhinging him. As he descended from the plane at Belfast International, the policeman in him was beginning to gain ascendancy over the father’s son. Dixon was probably lying. But why should he? What did he have to gain? Wilson had been given Dixon’s details by MI5. Perhaps it had been a setup? But why should MI5 want to set him up? There were lots of questions but very few answers. But he was beginning to understand why he had been given this case. It wasn’t just about investigating a murder, it was all about him. He loved his father and could never think of him as someone who would murder innocent boys. That was a premise he could never accept. Whatever the truth was, he would never be able to rest until he established the veracity of Dixon’s account. He picked up his car at the airport and drove back to Queen’s Quay. He needed a shower to wash off the stink Dixon had left on his skin. He also needed a drink. He was aware that the answers to his questions could not be found in a bottle. He was also aware that since his break-up with Kate alcohol was playing a larger part in his life. That was something that was going to have to change. Showered and changed he sat on his couch with a glass containing a large Jameson. For a change, Belfast was bathed in sunshine. He stared through his window at the sun reflected on the water of the Lagan, but he didn’t see the scene. He took a slug of his whiskey and laid the glass on the coffee table. He moved like a punch-drunk boxer. His brain didn’t seem capable of either thinking or controlling his movements. And that was not what he needed at the moment. He was an experienced detective. He had been hit with a piece of news that had scattered his senses; a piece of news that he could neither believe nor accept. What he needed now were those faculties that had been developed during his career in the police. He pushed the drink away. He needed a clear head. How had he ended up with this particular case? He thought back to the scene in Campbell’s office. He should have recognised the smug look on Jennings’ face. It wasn’t just about him being forced out of Tennent Street. That would have been easy enough. It wasn’t even about getting rid of Spence early. It was about him being handed the Lafferty and Mallon case. Since the RUC had cleaned up the scene and organised the cover-up, they would have known the identity of the RUC man present in the car. Dixon said that the man in the car with the three British soldiers was a member of RUC Special Branch. Wilson had never heard that his father had been in Special Branch. But both Sinclair and Jackson worked for Special Branch. Not just in the past, they were most likely still Special Branch. So the whole affair was a set-up. And he was the patsy. The question was who was setting him up? Jennings? The man had neither the brains nor the balls to set up an operation like this. MI5? They had both the brains and the balls but what did they have to gain? The Dungrey business was buried, for the moment. And he was a good boy in their eyes. But who else would have had the ability to get the photo to McDevitt? Who had given him Dixon? Did he really believe “anorak man” that it was simply a mechanism for stopping him from being a bull in a china shop? Did they hand him his father on a plate to stop him from discovering something more sinister? Did they understand the blow that learning his father was a murderer was to his psyche? Who hated him enough to want to put him through the wringer? His mobile phone pinged indicating that he had received a text. He picked it up and saw it was from McDevitt. The message was simple CUMMERFORD GUILTY, SENTENCING IN TWO WEEKS. He felt no emotion. Justice would not be done until Cummerford was sentenced. He knew that he should feel happy that he had at least brought a murderer before the courts. But the verdict meant nothing to him. It was more than twenty years since his father had died. Many aspects of the man had faded from his memory over those years but he still remembered that he had his father on a pedestal. Could he have misjudged his father so badly? Do children really know their parents? He was almost eighteen when they’d put his father in the ground. He remembered his emotion at the time. He wanted to go into the grave with the corpse. They were interring the man who had coached him, attended all his games despite his job in the RUC. How could such a kind man have taken the lives of innocents? He often wondered how the men who committed the horrendous crimes that were perpetrated in the Province could go home to their families, play with their children and make love to their wives. What they had done was not normal, in some cases not even human. How could they equate their deeds with the normal existence of a family man? His father might be a member of this exclusive club. At least Maggie Cummerford had killed for a reason. Revenge might not be the best excuse for murder but it was better than no motive at all. He reached out his hand and picked up the whiskey. He knew that drinking it and several more would assuage the pain he was currently feeling. But when the effect of the drink wore off the fact of his father’s involvement in murder would still be there. He stood up slowly and walked to the kitchen sink. He turned the glass upside down and watched the amber liquid drain away. He didn’t know what was happening in his life, but he knew it wasn’t good.

CHAPTER FIFTY
-ONE

Belfast, 1994

Wilson hit the Scottish under-21 outhalf with everything he had and the ball popped forward. The Irish forwards failed to gather the ball and the referee blew for a scrum to Ireland on the Scottish twenty-metre line. The stadium clock showed ten minutes to go. Ireland under-21 were leading by four points which meant that the Scots were still within striking distance if they scored a try and a conversion. At 17 years and 290 days, Ian Wilson was one of the youngest players ever to pull on an Irish jersey. In three months, he would be sitting his A-levels, and three months after that he hoped he would be entering police college. The selection board had already indicated that he was a certainty for a place. He was surprised by the reaction of his father. John Wilson was himself the son of a policeman, and young Ian thought that his father would be over the moon at his decision to become the third generation to fight crime. He couldn’t have been more wrong. His father was in a deep sulk ever since Wilson announced his decision. His mother wasn’t so happy either but she was putting a brave face on it. After all, he had six months in which to change his mind. And anything could happen in six months. The scrum was about to set and Wilson looked up into the stand for what must have been the ninetieth time. There was still no sign of his father. Something was badly wrong. Wilson had started playing rugby at the age of seven. Since then, and despite his work schedule, his father had never missed a game. This wasn’t just any game. This was Wilson’s debut in the coveted green jersey. Something that he, and his father, had worked so hard for. The scrum settled down and Wilson took up the bind. He forgot about his father’s absence and went on autopilot. All his concentration was on the game. Ireland won the ball and broke from the back of the scrum. Wilson was quickly away and took a short pass from the scrum half. He powered for the try line scattering Scottish backs and forwards as he pumped his legs hard. He felt his team-mates behind him pushing him on as he powered towards the line. The Scots made one final attempt to hold him off before they collapsed and he planted the ball over the line. He screamed exultantly as he heard the shrill blast of the referee’s whistle indicating a valid score. Ireland were now out of sight of the Scots and the game was effectively won. Wilson was immediately hauled from the ground by his team-mates and clapped on the back by men four to five years his senior. As he ran back to the halfway line he gave another look at the stand, still no sign of his father. Of all the games to miss, it had to be this one. The final five minutes were notable for frantic defending by Ireland with Wilson throwing himself into bone crunching tackles. Finally, the referee signalled the end of the game and the Irish players celebrated. Wilson’s selection had been controversial but as he walked to the dressing room he felt that he had vindicated himself. There was much backslapping in the dressing room and everyone was very complimentary about his performance. It was only missing one thing: praise from the only person who really mattered to him. He showered, packed his gear away and excused himself from the post-match meal that would inevitably turn into a boozing session and sing-song. Wilson had promised his father that he would not touch alcohol until his twenty-first birthday, and it was a promise that he intended to keep. Kingspan Stadium is located in Castlereagh, which was a considerable distance from Wilson’s home in Lisburn. He managed to hop on a special bus to the centre of Belfast. The driver recognised him and didn’t ask for a fare. From Belfast, he took the train to Lisburn. It was already dark when he arrived at Hillsborough Street. His father’s car was in the driveway but the house was in darkness as he pushed open the front door. He knew his mother was visiting her sick sister in Ballymena so he called out for his father. There was no response. He went to the rear of the house and looked across the back garden. Several years before, his father had constructed a small potting shed at the back of the garden and had got into the habit of spending time there. Wilson never saw him do any potting and assumed that the shed was an early attempt at a man cave. He dumped his kit bag beside the washing machine and opened the back door. He was anxious to tell his father about the victory and the part he had played in it. The shed was in darkness as he approached. He pushed open the door. There was a strange sickly smell that he couldn’t quite identify. He searched around for the light switch and turned on the light. A small fifty-watt light bulb barely illuminated the space. His father wasn’t one for waste. Wilson blinked for just a second before he let out an anguished howl. His father was sitting in the only easy chair in the shed. His head, or what was left of it, was flung back and the wooden wall behind him was splattered with blood and fragments of brain. Wilson recoiled and whirled around in time to send a stream of vomit into the garden. His mind recoiled from the vision he had seen in the shed. He spat bile from his mouth as tears streamed down his face. This couldn’t be happening. The happiest day of his life had turned into his greatest nightmare. He moved slowly to the door of the shed. He took in the scene again. His father’s service pistol, a Ruger, was lying on the floor at his right side. Wilson couldn’t accept the only conclusion from the scene. His father had committed suicide. He tried to pull himself together. His mother couldn’t see this scene. He walked slowly back into the house and called the police station in Lisburn. He could hear from the voice of the woman in dispatch that she was badly affected. Within the hour there would be pandemonium at the rear of the Wilson house. But no amount of care from the attending policemen would change the fact that John Wilson had chosen the day of his son’s debut for Ireland to end his own life.