Dark Circles (21 page)

CHAPTER 50

Wilson was in a new regime. He was always a light sleeper. It was a feature that went with the job, but sleeping alone was making him wake up early. So he resumed his morning run. He needed it both physically and mentally. He had seen too many athletes who had been superb specimens while they competed turn into blimps as soon as they stopped full-time training. He would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the same man he had been at twenty-one. He had added a few pounds here and there, but his suit size had only increased by one size. He could attribute that to the work the doctors had done to get him back to full fitness after the IRA had tried to blow his arse off. The morning run had been part of an exercise regime that had been inflicted on him to bring him back to some level of fitness. Now it was something that he needed to do to ensure that his endorphins got him ready for the day ahead. There had been a heavy rain overnight. It was the kind of rain that the engineers hadn’t taken into account when they had designed the drainage along the embankment of the River Lagan, which had become his preferred route. He didn’t bother to avoid the large puddles that dotted the concrete pathway, but went straight through them drenching both his feet, and the ends of his training bottoms. The aftermath of the rain intensified the ozone smell of the sea rising from the river. He sucked in large volumes of air as he pushed himself to complete the sprint sections of the run. He hadn’t been born beside the sea but after twenty years of living in Belfast, he felt that he would never be able to live away from the ocean. He eased the pace into his long-distance rhythm. This was when his mind was at it’s freshest. In general, he used this freshness to review cases but since his relationship with Kate had hit the skids, possible remedial actions occupied at least half of his thinking time. Today Wilson had to make an effort to push Kate into the rear of his conscience. He needed to use his mental capacity to consider the possible reason why three young men had been murdered. For some reason, his mind segued into the conversation he’d had with Kate’s mother the previous evening. He didn’t have a picture of her as a fanatical Ulsterwoman. She wouldn’t exactly fit in with the women waving their Union Jacks on the Shankill on the twelfth of July. He wondered why his mind had strayed to Helen; there was no reason why it should go there. He needed to find the motive for the murders. He knew that he wouldn’t get the answer from Baxter and Weir. If they proved to be the murderers of Malone and Grant, their motivation would be simple enough – money. The answer might not even come from Big George Carroll. Baxter, Weir and Carroll were the little men. They were expendable. He would have to go well beyond them to find the real motivation for the murders. He had almost reached the Belfast Waterfront and the round red-bricked building that was the Opera House. This was the point at which he turned for home. As he approached the Waterfront, he saw a figure standing under one of the lamps. The daylight had not yet hit Belfast and the yellow light from the lamp lit the figure up. Wilson tensed at once. More than one policeman had met his end in this kind of situation. He looked around and saw that he was alone. He kept up the pace of his run and as he approached he realised there was something familiar about the man. He kept his gaze down while pounding the grey and blue concrete slabs that led to the Waterfront. The next time he looked up, he saw why the figure seemed familiar. Jock McDevitt was leaning back against the lamppost holding a cardboard tray on which two cups of coffee stood. Wilson continued at the same pace until he came level with McDevitt.

‘Coffee?’ McDevitt asked.

‘No thanks.’ Wilson stopped but continued to run on the spot. He didn’t want to break his rhythm. He pointed at the coffee. ‘I take that when I’m done, and I’m only halfway.’

McDevitt pulled the cap off one of the coffees and took a sip. ‘I think they use special water to make this stuff. I’ve never been able to boil normal water to the temperature that McDonald’s achieve with ease.’

‘You didn’t come here to offer me a coffee,’ Wilson said, his voice bouncing up and down as he jogged on the spot.

‘Maybe if you stopped hopping, we could have a civilised conversation.’ McDevitt sipped at his coffee. ‘I’m not usually up at this time of the morning so if I think it’s important maybe you should too.’

Wilson stopped running on the spot and put his hand out for the coffee. His run was over. ‘Okay, but you’re going to have to walk back with me.’

McDevitt handed him the coffee and then fell into step beside him. ‘A little bird tells me that my information from Glasgow panned out.’

‘I hope that little bird wasn’t DC Davidson.’ Wilson pulled the lid off the coffee and sipped. The hot coffee burned his lips.

McDevitt smiled and shook his head. ‘I have other sources. You have the names?’

‘Aye, but they’ve scarpered. They could be in Timbuktu by now.’ It was clear to Wilson that McDevitt also had the names. He might be tempted to publish them but given the principle that people are innocent until proven guilty, the lawyers at the
Chronicle
would put a stop to that.

‘You’ll catch up with them eventually,’ McDevitt said. ‘But they were only the hired help. They’re the monkeys. You need to find the organ grinder.’

A group of runners passed them, heading towards the Waterfront. Wilson envied them. He wished he’d been allowed to finish his run. ‘We’re aware of that. I suppose you’re going to tell me that you know who the organ grinder is, and squeeze some quid pro quo out of me.’

‘This morning’s
Chronicle
has a story about Brian Malone being a murder victim,’ McDevitt said.

Wilson thought about Malone’s parents. As soon as that news broke, there would be the secondary shock that their son’s death wasn’t natural but had been contrived. ‘I would have liked to have the opportunity to warn the parents.’

‘Sorry ‘bout that. My editor is rather anxious to keep up the pressure on this story. He’s the one who’ll decide how long the story will run.’

‘Meaning?’ Wilson’s coffee had reached a temperature whereby it was actually drinkable.

‘Meaning that there are forces in this Province who might be happier if the whole Malone and Grant issue would go away.’

‘Not another bloody conspiracy theory, that’s the difference between coppers and journalists. You people get to speculate up there in the air somewhere. We concentrate on evidence. Speculation doesn’t put criminals behind bars, evidence does.’ He looked out over the river and saw two double-sculls rowing their way against the tide. The young men at the oars looked fit and strong. He remembered himself like that.

McDevitt followed his gaze. ‘Spring in the air,’ he said and laughed at the double meaning. They were less than halfway back to the apartment and McDevitt was blowing hard. ‘Can we stop for a minute? I need a rest.’

They stopped and leaned over the wall that separated them from the flowing river.

‘What do you know about the Circle and in particular the Inner Circle?’ McDevitt asked.

Wilson shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘Then I need to tell you a story,’ McDevitt said and repeated almost word for word the tale he had told Carlisle.

Wilson listened while he watched the river. The scullers had turned around and were now rowing with the tide. Throughout his career, he’d heard a great variety of fanciful stories. He had been forced to conclude that everyone he had met had been deluded in some way. There was always a story that would explain why they did what they did. They were never really bad people. They were ordinary people who have done unimaginable things. By any standard, many of them had been monsters who had deluded themselves and now considered themselves saints.

McDevitt finished his story.

Wilson turned away from the river and sighed. ‘And you’re going to publish this?’

McDevitt laughed. ‘That’s one story that would be spiked at source.’

‘But you want me to believe it.’

‘It might help you with your case.’

‘And Carlisle is involved?’

‘He’s not the organ grinder if that’s what you’re thinking.’ McDevitt put up his hands. ‘Don’t ask me who is because I don’t have a clue.’

‘Now you’re dragging me away from the realm of evidence and forcing me to speculate just like you.’

‘Maybe you’ll need to speculate to get to the answer.’

‘I’ve got to get home,’ Wilson said preparing to move.

‘Remember me when you break the case,’ McDevitt. ‘Old Jock gets the scoop.’

‘Aye, when we break the case.’ Wilson tried to run but found that his body had lost its rhythm. He opted for a fast walk instead.

CHAPTER 51

Wilson turned on the shower and increased the temperature of the water until it was almost scalding his skin. He hadn’t worked up a sweat during his run/walk, but he was still wondering why McDevitt had interrupted him with his conspiracy theory. He was glad that he was a policeman and not a journalist. Ninety per cent of the so-called newspapers had already given up the pretence that they were actually about communicating ‘news’. They pandered to what the customers wanted, and that was an article on the lives and loves of celebrities. The average citizen, who would be hard put to find Crimea on a map of the world, was totally enmeshed in the lives of the Kardashians and some crowd of idiots from Essex or Geordieland. That meant poor sods like McDevitt had to dream up conspiracies that might titillate both his editor and the general public. The financial crash of 2007 had exposed the excesses of the Masters of the World, as the bankers styled themselves. The man in the street was now aware of the astronomic bonuses and the extravagant lifestyles of those who ruled their financial futures. The existence of a tight-knit group at the top of Ulster’s tree who wielded incredible financial power and, in effect, directed much of life in the Province would be sheer box office for McDevitt and the
Chronicle
. He appreciated that it was McDevitt’s information that led to the identification of Baxter and Weir but the existence of an Inner Circle that might be behind the murders was a step too far into McDevitt’s imagination. He jetted ahead to what his day was going to look like. He wasn’t happy about the meeting with Gold. There was something in that silken voice that alerted him. If there was a flaw in the Prosecution case and he was to blame, there would be hell to pay. There was no question of Cummerford walking. They amassed a mountain of evidence linking her to the murders of three women. But Gold’s time was money, and he hadn’t invited Wilson to his office just to pass the time of day. He exited from the shower and towelled himself off before donning a bathrobe and making his way to the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewing coffee reached his nostrils before he got there. He was surprised to find both Kate and Helen fully dressed and facing him.

‘Ian, I want to talk to you,’ Kate said as soon as he entered the kitchen. ‘Perhaps we should sit down.’

Wilson could see sadness in Kate’s face and smugness on her mother’s. He could already tell what was coming, and he felt an instant pain in the pit of his stomach. He pulled over a stool and sat down. ‘We don’t have to do this here and we don’t have to do it now. We need to talk things out between ourselves.’

‘We can’t go on like this,’ Kate said tears welling up in her eyes. ‘The stress is making me a physical and mental mess. We shouldn’t be living under the same roof at the moment. I found myself trying to stay on in the office last night to avoid coming home. That’s not the way I want to feel.’

‘We shouldn’t be forced into decisions. There are people that we can talk to, experts in this area.’

‘Maybe later.’ A tear crept out of the corner of her eye.

Wilson started to rise but she held up her hand, and he sat back down. ‘So there’s to be no discussion.’

‘It’s only to give ourselves a break,’ Kate said, the initial tear was joined by others. ‘I really don’t want to do this, but we can’t go on like this.’

Wilson looked at Helen and thought he could see satisfaction in her face. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to have her living with them when she was in Belfast. But it was always Kate’s decision since it was Kate’s apartment. ‘So, I move out.’ And leave the field to Helen, he thought.

‘Temporarily,’ Kate said. ‘Until I get some time to think things out. Maybe then you and I can go see someone.’

Not if your mother has anything to do with it. The timing was rotten for both of them. Kate needed to concentrate on the upcoming cases, and he needed to focus on finding the person behind the deaths of three men. Splitting from Kate, even temporarily, was not going to help. It would simply be a distraction. However, he could see that the die was cast. ‘I’ll pack my things,’ he said simply.

‘I’m sorry, Ian,’ she said. ‘I’ve agonised over this decision, and Helen has been a great sounding board.’

I’ll bet, Wilson thought.

‘I do love you.’ There was a catch in Kate’s voice. ‘But losing our child.’ Her voice trailed off.

Helen put her arms around her daughter and led her towards the rear of the apartment. She turned to Wilson. ‘I’ll get Kate off to work. The maid will pack a couple of suitcases for you. I’ve booked you a room at the Europa, and we’ll have the luggage sent over.’

Wilson stared at the backs of the two women. Had he unwittingly let a serpent into his relationship with Kate? Helen McCann had researched him; perhaps he would return the favour. He looked around the kitchen, and he could not dispel the feeling that he was seeing it for the last time.