by Derek Fee
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.
CHAPTER 19
The body of a man was laid out on the steel table when Wilson entered the autopsy room. His chest looked like a patchwork quilt where Reid had sown him up. On the drive to the Royal Victoria, Wilson had been mulling over the fact that McDevitt was about to mak
e public the investigation into Grant’s death. In less than twenty-four hours that particular cat would be out of the bag. It meant that the clever dick who had set up the perfect murder would know they were after him. The killer had gone to considerable pains to hide the fact that Grant had been murdered. Which meant that there was possibly a deep secret behind the death. The fact that his plan had been rumbled so quickly would upset his applecart. The question was, how would he react? The secondary question was, why had it been necessary to murder Grant? What was the deep dark secret that had to be protected? Now there was the urgent summons from Reid. It was all getting very complicated. He tried to ring Reid from his car, but the call went straight to voicemail. His message was curt; he was on his way to the Royal. There was no one around when he arrived. He assumed that Reid and her assistant had taken a late lunch. He moved to the table and looked at the tag attached to the man’s toe. This was Brian Malone. Despite being kept chilled, Malone’s body had taken on a distinctly blue tint. He could see that Reid had done a more than professional job, and the undertakers would have to be equally professional in ensuring that Malone’s family would be spared the sight of the results of the autopsy. He was about to carry out a closer examination of the body when the door to the room opened, and Reid entered like a white-coated whirlwind. The buttons of her white coat were undone exposing a white blouse tucked into a knee-length black skirt. Her blonde hair was tied back with two ringlets freed on either side of her head and hanging in front of her ears like sideburns.
‘I just got your voicemail,’ she said joining Wilson at the autopsy table. ‘The bloody mobile is acting up, or my provider is delaying my messages. Hope I didn’t spoil your lunch.’
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Your text allowed me to slip away quietly.’
‘I hope that I can make the intrusion worth your while,’ she smiled, but it was a tired smile.
‘You look beat,’ he said.
She nodded at the corpse on the table. ‘Remember I spoke to you about Brian Malone.’
‘Remember I told you that you were becoming paranoid.’
‘Yes and that pissed me off. So I’ve spent this morning going over the autopsy again and when I still couldn’t find why his heart stopped, I took a magnifying glass, and I went over the body inch by inch.’
‘And?’
‘I found this.’ She opened Malone’s mouth, pulled out his tongue and held it back. ‘Take a look.’ She nodded at the magnifying glass that was on a tray upon the table.
Wilson lifted the glass and held it over the area beneath her fingers. He saw the red dot. ‘Looks like a needle mark.’
‘It is a needle mark.’
‘And it’s important because?’ he asked.
‘There isn’t another needle mark on the body. Malone wasn’t an intravenous drug user. Even if he had been he wouldn’t have used his tongue. There are no veins. I found his GP through the patient register and asked whether he’d had an injection lately, and the answer was negative. The question now poses itself, how did Malone get the needle mark?’
‘You did a toxicity screen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. They found no toxic substance in Malone’s blood.’
He saw a smile on her full lips. ‘But you expected that.’
‘They did find something.’ She dropped Malone’s tongue back into his mouth. ‘An elevated reading of NaCl.’
‘I failed chemistry at school,’ Wilson said putting down the magnifying glass.
‘Sodium chloride, or common salt. We all have a level of salt in our blood and normally I wouldn’t have taken any notice of this reading.’
‘And the significance of this elevated level is?’
‘I’m pretty sure that someone killed Brian Malone by injecting potassium chloride into his tongue. The compound breaks down into both potassium and chlorine. The chlorine binds with the human body’s naturally occurring sodium to create the NaCl. Too much potassium in the body causes tachycardia which leads to ventricular fibrillation and a resultant fatal heart attack. The fact that it’s undetectable means whoever injected him didn’t want us to know that he was murdered.’
‘But he only had a heart attack. People survive heart attacks.’
‘Ventricular fibrillation requires immediate defibrillation. Cardiac arrest is an emergency that demands speedy intervention. CPR has to be carried out in order to circulate oxygenated blood by external mechanical means. If CPR is withheld from the victim, death is assured.’
‘You’re reading too much Sherlock Holmes,’ Wilson said. ‘You have me buying into the David Grant theory but this is taking it a bit too far. There’s a level of sophistication here that we don’t normally get in Northern Ireland. Even when MI5 took people out, they used the ‘sledge hammer’ technique. Collateral damage is the name of the game in Ulster. You’re talking highly organised professional killers. I couldn’t name one person in this Province with the finesse used in this case.’
‘But such people do exist, and they can be employed.’ She moved closer to him. ‘I don’t normally buy into conspiracy theories, Ian, but these two men were murdered within hours of each other. I’ll stake my professional reputation on it.’
He smelled her perfume and looked into her blue eyes. They were wet. He wondered whether she was afraid, but from what he knew of her, she didn’t do fear easily. ‘The Chronicle is going to run a headline on the David Grant investigation tomorrow morning. If there is a murderer out there, he’s going to know that his ploy with Grant didn’t work. If the same man killed Malone, he’s going to wonder whether we’re on to that one as well. I don’t like it. It sounds political, and that means messy.’ He made up his mind quickly. ‘We’ll investigate Malone as part of the Grant case. We can look at commonalities between the two men. Maybe we can develop a hypothesis for a motive. However, we’ll have to tread softly. The kind of people who kill like this are best left sleeping. The more they think we’ll never get them, the safer we can sleep.’
‘Talking of sleep.’ She wanted to let herself fall into his arms.
He seemed to anticipate her body movement and held her shoulders with his hands. ‘Take a break. You’ve done a fabulous job. You can leave it to me now.’
‘Careful as you go, Ian. I really do care.’
Wilson let her go and moved towards the door. So do I, he thought, but he didn’t say it.
CHAPTER 20
Jackie Carlisle lived with his wife in a converted coach house in the Hillsborough, an exclusive residential area to the south of Belfast. It was a fine stone building that had been updated with style and was a residence befitting a man who had worked tirelessly for the people of the Province. Since his retirement, Carlisle tended to spend the greater part of the day in the conservatory that had been added to the rear of the original property. He had installed a wood-burning stove so that even on the coldest of winter days the glass room was warm and welcoming. He was seated on his favourite couch, which gave him a view of his garden as well as the driveway. He heard the car crunching on the gravel before he saw it pull into the area beside the house. He stood up slowly, made his way to the front door and opened it. He watched as Helen McCann exited from the rear seat of the Mercedes Saloon. He’d known her for more years than he cared to remember, but he always smiled in admiration when he saw her. She was approaching sixty but she had maintained a beauty that still caused men to turn their heads when she passed. The light tan she continually sported perfectly set off her blonde hair and her Scandinavian good looks.
‘Helen.’ He held out his two arms and embraced her.
Helen air-kissed his cheeks. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Will you ever age?’ Carlisle asked standing aside to let her enter.
‘You ought to be in this poor old body.’ She entered the house and looked around. The place had been modernised since she had seen it last. As she passed, she looked into a kitchen. There was so much brushed metal it
could have passed for the deck of the Starship Enterprise. ‘I see you’ve been busy,’ she said.
‘Sure it makes Agnes happy, and an auld man has to spend his money somewhere.’ He took her by the arm and led her away from the kitchen. ‘Let’s go through to the conservatory. I need the warmth these days.’
They walked to the rear of the house, and Carlisle led her to an easy chair before taking his customary seat on the couch.
Helen McCann sat and crossed her shapely legs. She smiled when she saw the way Carlisle looked at them. ‘There’s still an old rake in there somewhere, Jackie,’ she said. But, that wasn’t what she was thinking. Carlisle was only half the man she remembered. She hadn’t seen him in over a year, and she was taken aback at the rapidity of his aging. His trousers hung off his skeletal body, and bony knees protruded through the fabric when he sat. She noticed a slight tremor in his hands. He was a man in serious decline.
‘Don’t tell Agnes that. She’s of the opinion that I’m dead downstairs. Can I offer you tea or coffee?’
‘No thanks, I don’t have much time. I’ve a board meeting at four o’clock.’
‘Always intent on the business.’ He smiled. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I just had lunch with Ian Wilson at Deane’s,’ she began.
He interrupted. ‘A dangerous man, Helen, a dangerous man to those that love Ulster.’
‘Our meal was disturbed by some journalist or other, McDevitt I think his name is.’ She could see that Carlisle recognised the name. ‘It seems that he’s written an article that will appear in the Chronicle tomorrow morning on the police investigation into David Grant’s death.’ She watched him turn a whiter shade of pale. ‘It seems the pathologist has concluded that Grant was murdered, and she’s passed that message to Wilson who, being the good little terrier that he is, has taken the bone and is heading off to play with it. I don’t have to tell you that when he gets stuck into something, he follows it to the end.’