Dark Circles (7 page)

CHAPTER 16

Stephanie Reid had spent the previous hour reviewing the Malone autopsy. She was convinced that she had done a professional job, but she was troubled that she had been unable to discover the cause of death. On the table before her were two blown-up photographs. The first showed the mark on Malone’s temple and the second the mark on Grant’s temple. They were remarkably similar. So remarkably similar that they must have been made by the same implement or hand. She was not an expert on martial arts, but it looked like some kind of Karate blow. She picked up the telephone handset and put it down again. She sat staring at the photographs then made her mind up. She picked up the phone and dialled Wilson’s mobile number.

‘It’s your favourite pathologist,’ she said when he answered. ‘Where are you?’

‘At the office.’

‘Busy?’

‘I’ve just dumped a couple of hundred emails instead of reading or answering them.’

‘An act of rebellion?’

He laughed. ‘I don’t see myself as an outlaw, just someone who’s trying to run away from a technology that can follow me anywhere. What can I do for you?’

‘Now let me think.’ She laughed. ‘What’s happening with the David Grant business?’

‘I just got in this morning. Moira and Harry Graham have gone to Grant’s house, and Peter Davidson is out and about. I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs until everyone gets back and reports.’

‘Fancy a visit to the Royal?’

‘Don’t tell me that you screwed up and I’ve been wasting police time on the Grant death.’

‘No, I’m pretty sure on that one.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that I autopsied a body last night and there’s a similarity with Grant.’

‘What kind of similarity? Another asphyxiation?’

‘No, I have no idea of the cause of death. The man’s name was Brian Malone, twenty-six years old and in perfect condition. It appears that his heart just stopped. But he has a mark on his temple remarkably similar to the mark on Grant’s temple.’

Wilson sighed. ‘Look Stephanie, that’s just too much of a stretch. I’m willing to buy your conclusion on Grant, but you’re beginning to get murder-prone. Not everyone who dies in Belfast is a murder victim, although there have been some periods when I’ve believed that myself.’

‘I knew this was going to sound like murder paranoia, but I can’t shake the feeling that these two men received similar blows to the head.’

‘You’re the scientist. You don’t have hunches. That’s my area. You look for facts and draw conclusions from them. I’m the one who looks at facts and hypothesises.’

‘But what if I’m right?’

‘We’re investigating Grant’s death. If some connection to this Malone character comes up during the investigation, we’ll take a look at it.’

Reid knew that he was right. It was far-fetched, yet she still felt uncomfortable. ‘Okay. I take your point. I’ll be in touch.’ She shut off the communication and looked at the photos again. It was too much of a coincidence. She picked up the phone and dialled the extension of her assistant. ‘Bring Malone back in,’ she said. She was too tired last night. She’d missed something, but she was going to go over that body with a fine toothcomb. Malone didn’t just drop dead. Something killed him, and she was going to find out what.

CHAPTER 17

Wilson put the phone down and leaned back in his chair. What was going on with Reid? To spot one suspicious death was acceptable, two in the one week really was bordering on the hyper-vigilant. Despite the constant sexual innuendos, she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. Davidson had returned a half hour earlier, but Wilson had delayed speaking to him in order to bring the whole team together. Just at that moment Moira and Harry walked into the squad room. Moira dumped her satchel at her desk and made for his office.

‘Like your new office?’ she said from the doorway.

‘I suppose the clean-up is down to you.’ He didn’t want to answer her question.

‘Things have been slack. ’

‘A temporary lull, I can assure you. Briefing in ten minutes. I want to see that whiteboard covered in information. I passed the message to Spence; as usual he’s already put on his worry hat. In six months he gets to raise roses in Portaferry or wherever he decides to retire. The McIver case is going to shine enough light on him and me. The Grant investigation, if it happens, will intensify the media interest in what we’re up to.’

‘You’re not usually too bothered about what people think,’ Moira said.

‘I’m fond of Donald, as you might have gathered. I’d like to see him out of here with the minimum of hassle. That’s it.’

‘I supposed it might have been a newer, gentler Wilson.’ She smiled.

‘Bog off.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ve now got ten minutes to get that whiteboard prepared.’

He took out his mobile phone and looked at his messages. He had texted Kate earlier and asked whether she might be free for lunch. His message box was empty. He was left to draw the obvious conclusion. He didn’t like the direction in which things were going. It appeared that he was now banished to the third bedroom. That was a major step. He would have to put a stop to the escalation, but he was at a loss as to how to do it.

Five minutes later, Wilson stood before the whiteboard to which a photo of David Grant had been affixed. Beneath was a short biography, including details on family and education as well as his political career. Moira had printed off two of the photographs taken by Reid at the scene. ‘Peter, any news from the BDSM circuit?’ Wilson asked.

‘I hit a few of my contacts yesterday. Nobody has ever seen him or heard a word about him on the circuit. That’s not to say that there isn’t some off-scene bordello where his fantasies could have been satisfied.’

‘So there’s no definitive answer?’

‘Sorry, Boss,’ Peter said. ‘The word is out. Someone might get back. I also checked with one of my old colleagues who’s still up to date with the BDSM scene, and he’s never heard Grant’s name.’

‘Eric, any next of kin?’ Wilson asked.

‘Parents dead,’ Eric Taylor said. ‘One brother works for some charity or other helping children in Burma. He’s been informed, and he’s on his way.’

‘Moira,’ Wilson said.

‘I interviewed the two attending officers yesterday. They were responding to a call made by one of Grant’s colleagues who was concerned he hadn’t turned up for a meeting.’

‘Anything of interest?’

Moira shook her head.

‘What about the house?’ Wilson asked.

‘Clean as a whistle on the surface,’ Moira said. ‘We gave it a once-over, but maybe you should ask Forensics to take a look. The place looks like a herd of elephants passed through. A couple of things: one, the knot on the bannister was, according to Harry, a bowline. Not everybody’s choice of knot and apparently a bit of a favourite with the sailing crowd. We should find out whether Grant was into sailing. If not, how did he know how to tie a bowline. Two, there was a router but no sign of a computer. Three, and maybe most significant of all, there’s no sign of any interest in unusual sexual practices. No magazines, no sex toys, no sex DVDs, nothing.’

‘She even looked under his bed,’ Graham said smiling. ‘There’s a lifetime of trash, books, papers, old sporting junk but nothing remotely kinky. If this was his first try at erotic asphyxia, he was one unlucky man. When we locate his computer, we should be able to find out if he Googled the methodology.’

‘We need to decide here and now whether this investigation is worth our while,’ Wilson said. ‘The big question is, was David Grant murdered?’

‘There are enough discrepancies to look into the case further,’ Moira said.

‘Agreed,’ Graham and Davidson said together.

‘Okay,’ Wilson said. ‘We need a timeline of his movements for the day in question. We also need to check the CCTV in the area for the time of the murder. I’ll get Forensics and see whether something can be done at the scene. At the very least, we might be able to get something about the rope. Moira, I want you to interview this colleague who made the call. Everything we just discussed goes on the whiteboard. No photo goes outside this office. This investigation is to be kept as low-key as possible.’

‘Boss,’ Davidson said. ‘We might get a day’s start. But when we involve Forensics, CCTV, questions to establish the timeline, the cat is going to be out of the bag.’

Wilson frowned. Peter was right. ‘Okay, let’s just make sure the information we generate stays here. I don’t want to see anything in the Press that we don’t put there. Okay, Moira will divide the tasks.’

Graham, Davidson and Taylor returned to their desks.

‘No sign of a replacement for McIver?’ Moira asked.

Wilson thought of the emails he’d dumped. ‘Not so far.’

‘We need another body.’

‘The stuff about the paraphernalia, the sex toys and such, you came up with that on your own?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Wilson said, and he headed off in the direction of his office. He was just in his chair when his mobile rang.

‘Deane’s at twelve thirty for lunch?’ the female voice said.

He smiled. Kate had cracked. ‘OK,’ he said. Then something about the voice hit him. It wasn’t Kate. It was her mother.

CHAPTER 18

Deane’s restaurant in Howard Street in the centre of Belfast was the city’s only Michelin starred restaurant. Although the single star rating had been lost, the clientele still reflected that cachet. Wilson arrived a few minutes after the appointed time and found Kate’s mother already ensconced at a table. Those at the surrounding tables represented the great and the good of the city and the Province. Helen McCann was comfortable in such elevated company and was being fussed over, not by a waiter, but by the owner.

The privilege of wealth and position, Wilson thought, as he joined her.

‘I hope you don’t feel like you look,’ Helen said as Wilson took his seat.

‘No. Worse actually.’ He looked around the room. He noticed that half of the diners were glancing in their direction.

‘Something to drink?’ she asked.

‘An Alka-Seltzer would go down well.’

She laughed. He really was quite charming. For someone who had been a sporting hero and was a senior police officer, he was genuinely humble. He was also quite handsome. She could see how Kate had fallen for him. She motioned to the waiter. ‘Large bottle of still water for the gentleman, please.’ She turned to Wilson. ‘Water is the best remedy for dehydration.’

‘Thanks for the advice. I normally go for a run in the morning to banish a hangover, I just wasn’t up to it today. What’s the agenda?’

‘Don’t look so apprehensive. It’s just a friendly lunch.’ She picked up the menu.

Wilson followed her lead. His apprehension was increasing by the minute. Helen McCann didn’t look like the kind of person who did ‘friendly lunches’ very often.

A waiter came and stood beside their table. Helen chose the weight-watchers lunch of roast tomato soup, no main course. Wilson asked for a grilled sirloin.

‘Things between you and Kate have certainly taken a turn for the worse,’ she said when the waiter disappeared.

‘You could say that.’ Wilson drained a glass of water. He wondered why people drank alcohol when water tasted so wonderful.

‘Kate is very fragile at the moment. Her response to losing her child is a classic one. She is angry, depressed, guilty and even doubts her own femininity. She is also involved in two very difficult cases. Maggie Cummerford insists on going to trial with a not-guilty plea. Kate is struggling to develop some sort of justification for what most juries will consider serial killing. Apparently, Cummerford is getting pretty rough treatment from some of the prisoners in Hydebank. Sammy Rice is pulling some strings to avenge his mother’s death.’

‘That would be Sammy alright,’ Wilson said.

‘Then there’s your friend McIver.’

‘Not friend, colleague.’

‘Whatever. He wants to plead guilty and throw himself on the mercy of the court.’

‘That doesn’t sound too clever.’

‘Kate thinks that he won’t get much leniency for the McIlroy murder. He brought a gun to the meeting. The Prosecution will paint that as premeditation. The man’s apparently a mess psychologically. Kate thinks prison will finish the job. She doubts he’ll last a year. She wants you to go and see him.’

Wilson smiled. ‘Is this our new mode of communication? Kate won’t talk to me directly, and you’re going to be the conduit.’

‘For the moment that seems to be the situation.’ She leaned her hand across the table and touched his hand. ‘But things will change. Kate’s a strong woman. She’ll rebound.’

Wilson looked at Helen’s hand. There was a large diamond ring on her third finger that, if cashed in, would keep a family of four for a year. Wilson glanced around the room. The tables were for the most part occupied by groups of four, and all were talking animatedly. He screwed up badly with McIver. He’d seen him coming apart, and he did nothing about it. What happened had a lot to do with him whether he liked it or not. And it wouldn’t be forgotten in HQ.

‘Ah lunch,’ Helen said as the waiter arrived with her soup and Wilson’s sirloin.

‘I’m to convince McIver to go for murder while the balance of his mind was disturbed?’ Wilson said cutting a chunk off his steak.

Helen raised her head from her soup. ‘That would reduce the pressure on Kate.’

Wilson’s steak tasted bitter in his mouth. He knew it had nothing to do with the food. Guilt coursed through his body. What kind of person was he? He didn’t bother visiting McIver in the three months he’d been incarcerated. For God’s sake, he had worked with the man for the past four years, and he had just cut him off. ‘Tell Kate, I’ll go to see him.’

‘Mr W.’  

Wilson turned and looked into Jock McDevitt’s face. He turned slowly back to his food.

McDevitt turned to Helen. ‘And the gorgeous Mrs McCann.’ He smiled exposing a top row of stained teeth. He stood for a moment waiting for a reply that never came. ‘A little bird dropped me the word that the Detective Superintendent was lunching here.’ He looked directly at Wilson. ‘I wanted to run something past you.’

‘I’m eating my lunch, Jock,’ Wilson said without turning around. ‘Why don’t you just piss off before I have you removed unceremoniously?’

‘That’s harsh, Mister Wilson. I don’t mean to interrupt your meal. It’s just that I have a story in tomorrow’s
Chronicle
that might interest you. It seems that David Grant didn’t die by accident, as far as I understand it a police investigation into his death is currently under way, led by your good self.’

‘I look forward to reading the article,’ Wilson said without taking his eyes from his plate.

‘No confirmation?’ McDevitt asked.

‘Not today, Jock, now I really mean it, piss off.’

‘Madame, Mr Wilson.’ McDevitt did a mock bow and retreated towards the door.

‘Who was that distasteful little man?’ Helen asked.

‘He’s the crime reporter for the
Chronicle
,’ Wilson answered.

‘And that story about David Grant. Is it true? Are you really investigating his death?’ Helen asked.

Wilson was surprised to see Helen so animated. ‘Yes, well sort of. We can find no evidence of his having been involved in any kind of deviant sexual activities.’

‘What do you mean sort of?” Helen asked. ‘An investigation is like being pregnant; you’re either investigating or not. Which is it?’ She was now quite animated.

Wilson finished his steak. ‘We’re following up on the pathologist’s report. She’s going to present her finding to the coroner that the death was at the hand of person or persons unknown. We’re looking into whether the physical evidence supports that theory.’

Wilson was about to ask why Helen seemed so interested in David Grant when his mobile phone made its funny sound. He removed it from his pocket and smiled when he saw two other men at different tables do the same. The jingle he’d chosen wasn’t just funny, it was also popular. He looked at the screen. The message was from Stephanie Reid. She wanted to see him urgently, and it was important.