Dark Circles (6 page)

CHAPTER 13

Wilson parked his car in his appointed slot at the station. Despite the end of the ‘Troubles’, the station still had the air of a fortress. The powers that be had made an effort to get rid of some of the fortifications in an attempt to soften the image of the PSNI, but the project foundered when their budget ran out. Or so they said. In a way, Wilson was glad, as there was no way his car could be interfered with behind a six-foot, thick wall of concrete. He had spent the previous evening finding out what was at the bottom of a bottle of Jameson. There hadn’t been any solution in the booze and his head was pounding. He’d found the bedroom door locked, and managed to stagger to the third bedroom where he fell into a comatose sleep. Kate was gone when he woke and there was no sign of Helen. He drank four cups of coffee before he felt human enough to pilot a motor vehicle. Had he been stopped, he was in no doubt that he would have been proven over the limit.

The Desk Sergeant’s brow creased as he saw Wilson enter the reception area of the station. ‘Boss,’ he said. ‘Canteen is serving that muck they call coffee. I could have one sent up.’

Wilson ignored the remark and headed straight to the squad room. He didn’t see the Desk Sergeant pick up the telephone to inform the boss of the station, Chief Superintendent Spence, that Wilson was on the premises.

Wilson pushed in the door of the squad room.

‘Morning, Boss,’ Eric Taylor looked up from his desk. ‘How did the Police College go? The female members of the class wet themselves, as usual.’

‘No, I’ve ascended into the old fart club. Time flies, or hadn’t that fact got through to you.’

‘You’re a cynic, Boss,’ Taylor said.

‘Where are the rest of them?’ He nodded at the empty desks.

‘The DS and Harry have gone to Grant’s house. Peter was working late last night. He called in to say that he’d be late.’

Wilson could have kicked himself. He should have called Moira. He needed to see the scene himself.

‘A wee piece of news from Peter that’ll interest you,’ Taylor said. ‘Jock McDevitt’s back in town, he’s returned to the
Chronicle
, on the crime beat.’

‘That should stir things up a bit. Jock’s not known for abiding by the niceties.’

Wilson’s office was at the end of the room. It was cordoned off from the rest of the room by a glass partition into which a glass door had been inserted. He looked around the small space. Maybe it was just a little too early for the pipe and slippers. This is the place that his dead wife referred to as ‘the womb’. He realised that he seldom thought of Susan these days. It was the same with his father. He had adored his father, but the memories fade. You think about the departed only when they force themselves into your memory through something they said, or regularly did. Like the word ‘womb’, it was used so often that he associated it with his departed wife. But the dead were dead, and he would leave them like that. Grandparents, father, wife, they no longer existed except in his memory, and then only fleetingly. He looked at the computer on his desk. It was time to wrestle with the contents of his inbox. He switched on his computer, and waited as the machine warmed up. Then, reluctantly, he pointed the curser at the email icon, and pushed the left-hand button on the mouse. The screen instantly filled with a continuous stream of unread emails. So this was the technology that was going to make humans redundant. He looked at the bottom of the screen – ‘123 unread emails’ stared back at him. Given his normal rate of dealing with emails, he reckoned it would take him a week to get rid of that lot. There was only one solution. He selected all the unread emails and pushed the delete key. He was working on the premise that any urgent unanswered emails would be followed up on. The rest were nonessential. Wilson had just finished his cleaning operation when his phone rang.

‘I heard you were in the house.’ Chief Superintendent Donald Spence’s voice was friendly but businesslike. ‘My office, five minutes.’

Wilson knocked on CSU Spence’s office door exactly five minutes later. Spence was Wilson’s boss and sole supporter for the past five years. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder in all of Wilson’s trials with the hierarchy of the PSNI.

‘You look buggered,’ Spence said, as soon as Wilson entered his office. ‘I’d offer you the hair of the dog but it’s too early in the day. What’s the problem?’

Wilson took the seat directly across from his superior. ‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

‘That’s what they pay me for, to help people solve their problems. When you get to my exalted level—that is if you ever get to my exalted level—you’ll find that aside from lots of administration, there’s no real work to do. So I have to stick my nose into everybody’s business.’

Spence’s secretary entered carrying a tray containing two coffee cups, a milk jug and a sugar bowl.

‘I hope they’re strong,’ Spence said as she deposited the tray on his desk.

‘The usual,’ she said and departed.

Spence passed a cup to Wilson. ‘I suggest that you take it black.’

Wilson took the cup and sipped the dark liquid. It was at least ten times better than the crap they served in the canteen. ‘I’ve already had a barrelful.’

‘This is you after a barrelful. I’m glad I didn’t wake up next to you. You’re a sad case, man.’

‘Kate hasn’t quite got over the miscarriage.’ Wilson sipped the coffee.

Spence remained silent.

‘At the moment I’m wondering whether she ever will,’ Wilson continued.

‘Time is a great healer.’ Spence was staring into his coffee cup. ‘We’ve all been down roads like the one you’re going down at the moment. All things do pass.’

Wilson drained his cup. ‘And that’s your idea of help.’

‘It’s all I’ve got for the moment.’

‘How’s the run in to retirement?’ Wilson asked trying to get off the subject of his problem.

‘Six months to go, that is if
you
don’t fuck up so badly in the meantime that it costs me my pension.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Wilson said leaning forward. He brought Spence up to date on the phone call from Reid, the autopsy and his meeting the previous day with Moira.

‘Christ, I was hoping that the McIver and Cummerford trials would keep you busy until I clear this desk for the final time. Have you any idea what’ll happen when the Press get a whiff of murder and sex? It’s the perfect combination. They’re almost in a feeding frenzy on the sexual aspect alone.’

‘It might get worse than that,’ Wilson said. ‘Jock McDevitt is back in town. Apparently, the
Chronicle
dragged him back using a trail of peanuts so he can cover the Cummerford and McIver trials.’

‘Just what we don’t need. What’s your initial impression on David Grant’s death?’

‘I’ll know more by the end of the day. But from what I saw and heard at the autopsy, I would be inclined to believe that he was murdered.’

Spence ran his tongue along his lips. They seemed to have gone instantly dry. He was already under the gun over the fact that one of his officers was about to go on trial for murder. A murder investigation involving a minor politician and kinky sex was something he didn’t need right now. ‘I want you to go very quietly on this one and for God’s sake make sure that the photos Reid took are locked away. I don’t want anything to get to the Press until we’re good and ready.’

‘McDevitt will have every tout in Belfast in his pocket. That means that he’ll know pretty soon that we’re up to something. Don’t count on having much in terms of a period of grace.’

‘I don’t know whether it’s this city or you, but you do attract murder like honey attracts bees. I need to be completely informed on this one.’

‘Yes, Boss.’ Wilson stood up to leave. ‘Let’s just hope that for once Professor Reid has got it wrong.’

CHAPTER 14

Stephanie Reid woke late. The previous evening, she had taken a hot bath and finished a half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc as she lay soaking. She had a slight headache but nothing a Solpadeine wouldn’t cure. The details of the last autopsy came back to her slowly. Brian Malone, twenty-six, heart attack. Body of an athlete, fantastic shape, should have lasted another sixty to seventy years, bar an accident or cancer. At first, she had believed she was looking at a case of sudden death syndrome. After all, marathon runners and professional athletes had simply dropped out of their standing, and that footballer who collapsed at White Heart Lane probably wouldn’t have made it if a famous heart specialist hadn’t been in the stand and instantly available. She was always pissed off when she couldn’t discover the cause of death and as far as she was concerned there was no obvious reason why Brian Malone’s heart should suddenly stop beating. Maybe the toxicity screens she’d ordered would lead to some conclusion. She needed coffee and maybe a few more headache tablets. Thinking about her work wasn’t possible in this condition. She slipped out of bed, and after a short visit to the bathroom made her way to the kitchen, first for the tablets and then the coffee. Ten minutes later, the pills were taking effect, and she was enjoying a large coffee with a croissant she had heated in the oven. She had thought about calling Wilson the previous evening to discuss the Malone autopsy but changed her mind. She was wondering whether she was turning every autopsy into a possible murder scenario so that she could be in constant contact with him. That was ridiculous. She was a professional. She wasn’t about to change her mind on David Grant’s death but she would have to think again about Malone. Then it clicked with her. The mark on the side of Malone’s head, it was almost exactly the same mark she had noticed on the side of Grant’s head. Perhaps it was a coincidence. But how much of a coincidence was it that two relatively young men had died on the same night and that both had a mark on the same spot on their temples? She finished her coffee and made her way back to the bedroom. She needed to get to the Royal as soon as possible. She would review the autopsy. After all, she’d been out on her feet when she carried it out. Perhaps she should have waited until today when she would have been fresh. If the marks matched, she would have to inform Wilson.

CHAPTER 15

Moira McElvaney and Harry Graham were standing in front of the door of the house that had been the home of David Grant. The front door had been given a temporary patch job that didn’t look overly secure. The lock had been replaced, and Moira had managed to collect a copy of the key from the firm that was employed to carry out the repair. The door hung uneasily on its hinges as soon as Moira pushed it in. She stood for a moment in the opening and stared into the hallway reminding herself of the photo that Reid had taken from this position. In her mind’s eye, she could see the body of David Grant hanging from the rope tied to the bannister of the stairs. The ambulance crew had cut the rope in order to retrieve the body but the knot that had been tied at the top of the stairs was still intact. She moved carefully into the hallway. She knew that the scene had already been compromised by the attending officers, Reid and the ambulance men, and she would have been naïve to think that the workmen who had done the door job hadn’t entered the house. Still she tried to leave as little trace as possible. Although it was a long shot, there was always the possibility that the forensics team might be able to find some useful evidence.

‘Spooky,’ Graham said moving beside her. ‘I’ve been in dozens of houses where people have died violently, and I always get this cold feeling, like the deceased is still about somewhere.’

Moira looked at him. ‘You’ll be telling me you’re psychic next. Living room to the right, give it a good search. We’re looking for something that’ll confirm that Grant was into any kind of kinky sex. Look for DVDs, sex toys, outfits, that kind of thing.’

Graham smiled. ‘You’re well up on the kinky stuff. Speaking from experience, I suppose.’

‘Get on with it,’ Moira said and moved further down the hall. She walked to where the body had been hanging and looked at the ground. There were a variety of footprints on the carpet. Forensics would have a field day with them. Then she noticed the smell. It was a combination of the ammoniacal smell of urine and the acrid smell of shit. She could see, just beneath the hanging rope, a series of fresh stains. Again, a job for Forensics but she could imagine that they would prove to be a combination of semen, urine and faeces. The upturned chair had been left where it was when the body was discovered. She moved back and tried to picture Grant standing on the chair, connected to the rope. The chair was of the solid wood variety. It would have been difficult to overturn, but she supposed it would have been possible. She was beginning to see what Brendan had said about the position of the chair. It had tumbled sideways rather than backward or forward. She thought that odd, so she made a note in her daybook. She left the hallway and moved into the small kitchen at the rear. It contained the bare essentials. The fridge and cooker had seen better days, and she fancied she had seen a table similar to the one at the back wall in an IKEA catalogue. There was one chair at the table, and a space where the other chair had stood. She moved to the fridge and opened the door. It was what she expected. David Grant led a busy life as a lawyer and a councillor. Food was a secondary consideration, something he grabbed on the go. There were a couple of foil containers with some kind of brown goo still visible in the bottom. From the smell, it was the remnants of a half-eaten Indian meal. Grant wasn’t one for the high life. She went through the various cupboards and found nothing out of the ordinary. She was just finished when Graham poked his head around the door.

‘Not a sausage,’ he said. ‘Lots of books, papers, journals. No skin mags and certainly no sex toys.’

‘Let’s do upstairs but go easy, just in case there’s some forensic evidence.’

They left the kitchen and made for the stairs. Moira climbed the steps first, taking care to stay away from the middle of the steps. She stopped at the top and examined the knot in the rope.

‘It’s a bowline,’ Graham said from behind her.

‘A what?’

‘Bowline. One of the best knots you can tie. My dad took me sailing on Lough Neagh when I was a kid and taught me a couple of knots. I had so much trouble with that one I still remember it. There’s a rhyme about a rabbit and a hole to help people remember how to tie it.’

‘We need to find out if Grant did any sailing. That’s a pretty sophisticated knot for someone who isn’t in the know.’

The first floor was laid out in a traditional fashion. There were two bedrooms and a small bathroom. The house had been built before en-suites had become standard. Moira entered the main bedroom. The furniture was sparse and functional. The bed was queen size and was covered with a multi-coloured duvet. The duvet was a departure from the drabness of the rest of the house. The bed was the dominant feature in the room and left scarcely enough space for a small chest of drawers standing under a window that looked out on the street below. An old closet stood facing the bottom of the bed. She opened the closet door and saw three dark business suits, a series of similar white shirts and five ties. David Grant was obviously not into flash clothes. The drawers of the chest contained underwear, socks and sweaters. No sex toys, Moira noted. A book on Africa sat on a nightstand along with a reading lamp. Moira had been resisting looking under the bed, but she got down on her knees and peered underneath. Nothing. They moved to the second bedroom and found it filled with miscellaneous junk.

‘Check this out,’ Moira said. ‘I’ll do the bathroom.’

Graham shook his head. ‘I always get to deal with the junk,’ he said entering the room. It looked like Grant stored a lifetime of trash there. Magazines and books formed mountains supported by sporting goods and work-out machines.

The bathroom was small and contained the usual soaps and shampoos. Nothing fancy. It was a bachelor’s bathroom that had never had the touch of a female hand. It appeared with David Grant that what you saw was what you got. She stood at the door of the second bedroom and watched Harry Graham rifle through the various items and bags of rubbish.

‘Not a sex toy or a studded bikini in sight,’ he said tossing a plastic bag back into the place it had previously occupied.

‘One last look at the living room and we’re out of here.’ Moira started down the stairs trying as best she could to step on the same area as when she ascended.

She took a quick look in the living room. ‘Computer,’ she said turning to Graham.

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘Where is it?’

‘Didn’t see one,’ he replied.

‘See that thing in the corner.’ She nodded to the area beneath a small desk. ‘That’s what they call a router. There was an Internet connection in the house, and that means he had a computer. So, where is it?’

‘Maybe he left it in his office.’

Moira took out her notebook and made a note. ‘Okay, we’re done here,’ she said.

It had started to rain, and they both got a soaking as they struggled to put the door back in its original position. As soon as they succeeded, they sprinted for the car. Neither of them took any notice of the man sheltering in the doorway across the road.

Jock McDevitt watched the young woman and the older man exiting the house, struggling with the door and making a mad rush for the car. He didn’t recognise the woman. She must have been added to the roster since he’d left. But the man he’d seen before at Tennant Street and around the Shankill. The name rambled around in his head and then tumbled out – Harry Graham, Detective Constable Harry Graham. The rain had extinguished the cigarette in McDevitt’s mouth, but he hadn’t dumped it. His mind was too busy concentrating on the visit of the two plods to David Grant’s house. For a second, he contemplated pushing the door in and taking a look around. Maybe he could get a photo of the hallway, and some genius at the
Chronicle
could Photoshop a picture of Grant hanging from the bannister. A plan like that could land him in jail, and someone like Ian Wilson would be happy to put him there. He hunched his coat around his shoulders and neck. Sex and murder sold a hell of a lot of newspapers, all of them with McDevitt’s name on the front page. He needed to know what was going on.