A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

It took Wilson and Jackson just over ten minutes on the M1 to cover the four- plus miles between the Dunmurry complex and Beechmount Parade. They stopped their car on Beechmount Avenue and walked fifty metres or so to the junction with Beechmount Parade. Wilson looked along the street. It was typically Victorian with two-storey red-bricked terraced houses on both sides. There were no front gardens and the houses had only a short paved area in front, with a low wall or railing separating them from the footpath. Each house had two windows at ground level on either side of the front door, and two windows on the upper floor. Wilson thought that the street would look pretty much as it had in 1974. The only difference would be the number of motor vehicles that were parked half on the road, and half on the footpath on each side of the road. He doubted very much whether there would have been so many cars on show forty-two years previously. He walked slowly down the road closely followed by Jackson. They had been silent on the trip from Dunmurry, and Wilson had already concluded that their relationship would be a difficult one. He wanted to get a feel for the crime scene. Since no photos had been taken at the time of the crime, he was forced to imagine the scene. The road was off the main thoroughfare and would be the perfect site for an impromptu game of street football. There were only two streetlights on the short road, one at the Beechmount Avenue end and the other at the opposite extremity. As he looked from one side of the narrow road to the other, he imagined the game in progress and the players cowering as a hail of bullets came in their direction. Since most of the players would have been young men living on the street, he could see in his mind’s eye the people tumbling out of their terraced houses directly into a scene of carnage. Four young men had been shot, two dead, more or less instantly, while the other two were rushed to hospital with injuries that although not life-threatening, were serious enough.  There would have been ambulances and police and bloody mayhem. And finally, there would have been investigating officers who would search for evidence of the crime. All that activity, and whatever investigation was carried out in the weeks after, had been distilled into the small buff folder that was sitting on his desk in the wooden hut in Dunmurry.  If his job was to decide whether a proper investigation had been carried out, he could have concluded by lunchtime that the victims and their families had been badly served by the RUC. Maybe Sinclair would be satisfied with that conclusion but Wilson knew that, if he were a member of either the Mallon or Lafferty families, he would only be satisfied when he knew why two young men were gunned down, and who had perpetrated the killings.  As he walked along the road, he noticed movement of the curtains on more than one house. He reckoned that the police were not welcome here.

‘Strange there’s no one around,’ Jackson said.

Wilson kept walking. ‘They know we’re here and they probably guessed that we’re police so they’re watching but not engaging. Any idea if the Mallons or Laffertys still live in the area?’

Jackson shrugged. ‘No idea, sir.’

‘Then let’s find out, shall we?’ Wilson said turning and retracing his steps. ‘Also let’s find out where the injured lads are at the moment. I’ll want to interview everyone who was around that evening. Get on to ballistics, there’s no report in the folder of a ballistics examination. See if there ever was one. And if there was, I want a copy of it.’

‘If there was one,’ Jackson said falling into step beside Wilson, ‘it would have been in the file.’

‘So there mustn’t have been an autopsy either, because the report would have been in the file. And what about the witness statements? None must have been taken because they would have been in the file as well. ‘

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Oh but I do say so, sergeant.’ They had almost reached Beechmount Avenue. As they turned the corner Wilson saw that there were a lot more people on the street and he noticed a group of four men standing in front of a four-storey red-bricked building that looked like it contained apartments. The men were staring in his direction, and they didn’t look friendly. Wilson turned to face Jackson. ‘In your rather limited experience of criminal investigation, would you say that the file on the murders of Cormac Mallon and Sean Lafferty were somewhat incomplete?’

‘I’m not in a position to speculate,’ Jackson said.

‘No speculation required, sergeant. At first glance I would have said that the investigation was shoddy but right now I’m beginning to wonder if this particular file has been doctored. Papers that should have automatically found their way into a file on a murder are missing. We may have to assume that given the more than forty-year gap that we’re going to have a job putting the file together properly. But that’s exactly what we’re going to do. ‘

‘Yes, sir,’ Jackson said without enthusiasm.

‘I’m going to head into town,’ Wilson said. ‘You take the car back to Dunmurry. I want those addresses by tomorrow morning; if the parents are dead I want the addresses of the siblings. And I certainly want to speak to the two men who were injured. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Wilson started to walk down Beechmount Avenue in the direction of the city centre.  He didn’t have to turn around to know that Jackson’s eyes were boring into his back. He could almost feel them. There were two aspects to his new post. One was that he had been handed a case that was peculiar in the extreme. He was going to have to investigate a cold case with the bare minimum of evidence from the time. The second aspect that worried him was who had selected the members of the “task force”?

As soon as Wilson was out of sight, Jackson removed his mobile from his pocket, brought up his contacts and pressed call. He reported on the afternoon excursion.

‘You were told to be his shadow,’ Sinclair shouted. “He’s not to be allowed ramble around on his own. We need to control every direction he goes in.’

‘Easier said than done, sir,’ Jackson said. “You knew he was pretty sharp. If we stick too close and push too hard in one direction, he’s going to smell a rat.’

‘So, where’s he off to now?’

‘No idea.’

‘Fuck.’ The line went dead.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wilson was sitting in the snug at the Crown enjoying a pint of Guinness and awaiting the arrival of his “new best friend”. At five thirty exactly, Jock McDevitt pushed open the door of the snug and sat down across from Wilson.

‘I see you started without me,’ said McDevitt as he rang the bell that alerted the barman that a customer required serving. ‘I had to put today’s happenings in Court No 1 to bed before I could allow myself the consolation of a drink.’

‘Most unjournalistlike of you,’ Wilson laughed. ‘I thought you guys were permanently on the booze.’

‘Pint of Guinness, please,’ McDevitt said when the barman stuck his head into the snug. He turned to Wilson. ‘Not old Jock.’

‘So how did Kate do in court today?’

‘It’s moving in a logical direction,’ said McDevitt as he took the drink from the barman and took a long draught. ‘Gold is submerging the jury with a mountain of evidence showing that Cummerford is a serial killer. Your partner doesn’t appear worried by the guilty or not guilty issue. She’s continuing the line of questioning the police cock-up in the Francis McComber case, and the issue of her client’s mental state. I can see a plea of “guilty when the balance of her mind was disturbed by her mother’s terrible death and the refusal of the police to bring the killers to justice”. It might just work.’

‘In which case, Maggie Cummerford will be looking at a much reduced sentence.’ Wilson raised his glass in a toast.

‘Which would be a success for the brilliant Miss McCann,’ said McDevitt touching his glass. ‘But all this you could have learned from your partner this evening,’ McDevitt looked directly into Wilson’s eyes, and although he didn’t ask a question, it hung in the air.

Wilson sighed. ‘Kate and I are on a “break” as they call it.’

‘So, there really was trouble in paradise? Something to do with Cummerford?’

Wilson took a slug of his Guinness. ‘No, it’s personal. And I don’t want the whole world and his friend to know.’

‘So, fuck off McDevitt.’ He pressed the bell and ordered two more pints.

‘You got it in one.’ Wilson finished his drink.

‘Why am I here?’

‘I need your help.’

‘Did I hear right? You, Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, needs the help of a lowly journalist on Northern Ireland’s leading rag.’

‘It’s not a joke.’ Wilson handed his empty glass to the barman and took a fresh pint. ‘I’ve started work in what’s loosely called a “task force” and I’m working on a specific case.’ He put up his hand. ‘Don’t ask me why. It’s just what it is. It’s a double murder that was committed in Belfast in 1974. The file is a heap of shit. On the face of it, it looks like a sectarian assassination of two young men playing football over near the Divis Flats.’

‘But?’

‘I’ve never seen a file so lacking in detail. It bothers the policeman in me.’

‘And how can I help?’

‘I need everything that the
Chronicle
published at the time.’ Wilson toasted and then drank.

McDevitt’s brow furrowed. ‘It probably wasn’t much. That kind of event was commonplace back then. It mightn’t even have made the front page, and even if it did, it would have been a fleeting visit.’

‘It doesn’t matter how small the articles are, make me a copy.’

“And you’ll return the favour?’

‘Of course, you’re my new best friend and best friends help each other out.’

‘I’ve got news for you, pal, nobody gives a shit for what happened forty odd years ago. That’s ancient history as far as the citizens of this Province are concerned. I’ve been nosing around asking questions about Sammy Rice and I’m getting some strange reactions. It’s like Sammy has ceased to exist, which makes me believe that he really has ceased to exist. I need to know what you guys think.’

‘I’m no longer in the loop on that. I don’t even know who’s going to take over this new serious crime squad. Have you heard anything?’

‘The bush telegraph is quiet on that one. But back to Sammy. Gerry McGreary is busy encroaching into Sammy’s business and that couldn’t happen if he expected Sammy back sometime soon. You may be dropping the ball on the present but a territorial takeover without the associated crop of dead bodies would be a new feature of the Belfast crime landscape. Perhaps our criminals are maturing.’

Wilson started to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that one.’

‘I like strange happenings and so does my editor. Strange happenings sell newspapers.’

‘Personally, I’m not very keen on strange happenings.’ Wilson was thinking about the past week. There had been more than one strange happening.  ‘I’ll ask around and if I hear anything I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, the two murdered men’s names are Cormac Mallon and Sean Lafferty, shot dead in 1974.’

McDevitt removed a small notebook from his pocket and made a big deal of writing the names. ‘Where do I sent the copies?’

Wilson took the notebook and pen from McDevitt’s hand. ‘This is my private email. Scan them and send them to me. Also if you have time, could you look for similar shootings around the same period?’

McDevitt pulled the notebook from Wilson’s grip. ‘Anything else?’

‘Now that you ask . . .’ Wilson said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wilson wasn’t sleeping well but that was to be expected. Every time he turned in the bed he expected to find a body and when he didn’t his eyes popped open. He tried going to bed later and later each night but five o’clock was the latest he managed to sleep. His mind was racing as soon as he woke. He wanted to think that Jennings was behind his transfer to the task force, but he was beginning to doubt that conclusion. There was a whole Province in which to find him an appropriate position but he was put into the care of Chief Superintendent Sinclair and Sergeant Jackson. Why? He already decided that Jackson wasn’t a colleague; he was more of a minder. It was his second morning on the job and he was having musings that had no basis in fact. He got out of bed and looked at his watch, it was four thirty. Outside, day wasn’t even thinking of breaking across Belfast and he was wide awake and ready to go. He went to the cupboard and removed a pair of jogging pants, a tee shirt and a hoodie. He slipped quickly into the clothes and headed for the lift. Two minutes later he stood in the dark on Queen’s Quay and sucked in the sea air streaming down the Lagan. There was a threat of rain in the air as he tried to work out a suitable run. He decided to head out of the city in the direction of Titanic Quarter. He ran along the side of the Lagan and turned at the top of Queen’s Quay until he reached the Belfast Harbour Marina and on into Old Channel Road. As he ran along, he turned over in his mind the events that led to his break with Kate. He could easily blame it on the miscarriage, but even before they had lost the child he was afraid that neither was comfortable in the world of the other.  The wind was blowing from the north east and directly into his face hitting him with a light spray of soft rain. He felt good for the first time in days and realised how important endorphins were in his life. His bad leg ached a little and he slowed the pace of his jog. He wondered what Kate was doing at that moment. Perhaps she was lying in bed thinking of him, but it was more likely that she would be at her desk planning her day in court. Her strategy for Maggie Cummerford was sound; deflect the jury away from the crime and concentrate on the motive. Drag every ounce of sympathy out of the jury for the poor little six-year-old girl who had her mother cruelly taken from her. What did he care whether Maggie went down or not? He did his job and now it was up to the justice system to do theirs. He turned at the junction of Old Channel Road and Queen’s Road and retraced his route. He glanced at his watch when he arrived at his starting point: five-thirty. Two hours to kill before he could start for Dunmurry.

Sergeant Simon Jackson was standing at the door to Wilson‘s office when Wilson arrived.

‘You’re an early riser, sergeant,’ Wilson said as he removed the key to his office from his pocket and opened the door. He had found the key on the inside of the door and although he never before locked his office door, something told him that he should do so now in order to maintain a level of privacy. Given his background in Special Branch, he had no doubt that a locked door wouldn’t present an obstacle to Jackson or one of his former colleagues,

‘Always was, sir,’ Jackson stood aside. ‘Habit of a lifetime, we don’t usually lock our office doors around here.’

Wilson smiled and cast a glance in the direction of Sinclair’s office, which had the appearance of being securely locked. ‘We all have lifetime habits, sergeant. One of mine is to lock my office door. Now, please tell me that you have the information I requested of you yesterday evening.’

‘Mostly, sir,’ said Jackson holding out a sheet of paper. ‘Mallon’s old man passed away but I’ve managed to locate relatives of both the deceased.’

Wilson took the paper and looked down the list of names and addresses. ‘Well done, sergeant. We have a pretty full day ahead of us.’

‘Shouldn’t we discuss your plan of action with the chief superintendent, sir?’ Jackson asked.

‘I don’t think we should bother him with anything as trivial as my plan of action which I assure you is pretty flexible.  I have the impression that Chief Superintendent Sinclair has other more important matters on his mind. Of course, if he said something to you.’

‘No, sir,’ Jackson said a little too quickly. ‘The chief superintendent said nothing.’

‘OK.’ Wilson consulted the list. ‘I see that Mr and Mrs Lafferty still live in Beechmount Parade.  Let’s drop by and see how they are.’

‘Shouldn’t we telephone first?’ Jackson asked.

‘No. If they’re not in, we’ll move on to the second name on your list. ‘