by Derek Fee
Carlisle was well aware of Ian Wilson’s capabilities.
‘You’re shocked,’ she said.
‘The job was given to specialists. They guaranteed that the deaths would go unnoticed.’
‘But Grant’s hasn’t.’
Carlisle tried to pull himself together. ‘Jennings will put a stop to the investigation. Once we get Wilson off the case, we can bury it. It won’t be the first time we’ve had a murder investigation quashed.’
‘What about the pathologist?’ Helen asked. ‘There’ll be an inquest. She’ll stand up in front of the coroner and insist that Grant was murdered. The Press will be on hand and maybe a few concerned citizens will wonder why the police are doing nothing about it. The response has to be two-pronged. Jennings will have to put pressure on to have the investigation quashed, but we absolutely need to get the pathologist to revise her opinion.’
‘I’ll get on it immediately.’ Carlisle made to rise, but was having some difficulty and sat back instead.
‘Things are getting untidy.’ She straightened her skirt. ‘It should never have come to this. Rice and his organisation are a risk to us. They act without thinking, and that has never been a trait that the Circle has endorsed.’
‘They’ve had their uses,’ Carlisle said.
She looked at him. She normally didn’t feel empathy with people she did business with but Jackie Carlisle had been more than a business acquaintance. He had played an integral part in helping her and her husband create a business empire, and as such he had almost passed into the prized category of friend. She was sad to see that he had disintegrated so much. She wondered whether he could be trusted to derail Wilson and his pathologist friend. Inside, she didn’t think so.
‘We must preserve the Circle at all costs,’ she said. ‘We are where we are right now, there’s no point crying over spilt milk. We need to consider whether someone might have to be sacrificed.’
A smile flitted across Carlisle’s lips. My God, what a woman, he thought. Whoever said to shoot the women first had certainly got it right. Helen McCann was as tough as they come. She would be prepared to sacrifice him and many others like him to preserve her precious Circle. ‘Word on the street is that Rice has become a cokehead since his mother’s murder. If we decide to jettison him, there may be consequences.’
‘I’ve studied the man,’ she said. ‘He’d squeal like a stuck pig.’
‘Let’s just think about it as a back-up plan. Rice has resources that we need for the moment. I’ll get on to Jennings, and I’ll try to have the pathologist woman silenced. If that doesn’t work, we’ll look at other possibilities.’
She glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘You should have passed this one upstairs. There’s no way we would have sanctioned murder until all other avenues had been explored. It was a mistake and now we have to put it right.’
Carlisle stood with difficulty and faced her. ‘My knees are giving me trouble,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I’ll make the calls immediately. This investigation has to be nipped in the bud.’
‘I know, old friend.’ She patted his hand. ‘When this is over, we’ll talk again.’
They walked through the house to the front door. ‘It’s a lovely place you have here,’ she said looking around the well-developed garden. ‘It’s a grand spot to spend your reclining years.’ She air-kissed his cheeks and strode purposefully towards the waiting Mercedes.
Carlisle watched her as she seated herself in the rear of the Mercedes. She was the most formidable woman he had ever met, the First Minister the Province should have had. He had spent his life climbing the greasy pole. On his way up, he was admitted to many rooms. He always thought he had reached the top room only to find that there was a room above to which he was not yet permitted entrance. He knew Helen McCann had admittance to the room above the one he was currently in. He wondered whether there was a room to which even she could not gain access. He couldn’t even speculate on who might inhabit such a room. He would never find out. He had reached his peak; all he could do from here was fall. Killing Grant and Malone had been a risk. However, he had considered it a calculated risk. Maybe that had been a mistake. His faith in Rice had been undermined. Maybe Sammy would have to be thrown to the wolves, and maybe he wouldn’t be alone. A shiver ran down his spine.
CHAPTER 21
As soon as Wilson returned to the station, he called Moira to his office. He told her of his visit to the Royal Victoria and Reid’s suspicions.
‘Come on, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘You’re not buying this.’
‘Maybe she’s right.’ He didn’t want to believe it but he had to admit the possibility. ‘It won’t cost anything to have a look. Check out Malone and see if there’s any possible connection between him and Grant. Two men dying on the same night, in suspicious circumstances, maybe there’s something that connects them.’
‘We’re already overstretched, and the Grant investigation is heading nowhere fast. I’ve been on to Forensics; they had a good laugh at me. In the end, they agreed to have a look, but they’re not holding out much hope.’
‘Humour me. Take a look at Malone’s background. See if you can turn up some connection between the two men. He was found at home. Visit his place. If nothing turns up in the next few days, we’ll drop it.’
‘You’re the boss,’ she said making for the door.
‘That’s what they tell me.’ Wilson eased back in his chair. McDevitt was a pest and a dangerous one at that. Sex and murder was an explosive cocktail and grist to the mill for a newshound like McDevitt. For as long as he could fan the flames, he would be assured the front page, and he was adept at keeping the fire going. If Reid were wrong, there would be hell to pay. His thoughts moved to McIver. He hadn’t visited him since he had been incarcerated. Now he had both Kate and the Police Federation on his back to help with the defence while he was preparing the evidence for the Prosecution. It placed him in a difficult position. He picked up his phone and called one of his friends in the Prison Service.
‘I need to see McIver,’ he said as soon as they were through with the pleasantries.
‘He’s being assessed at Holywell tomorrow morning at ten a.m. Be there at eleven o’clock, and I’ll arrange for you to see him. Eleven tomorrow, okay.’
‘Thanks, I owe you one.’ He put down the phone. He started to lean back in his chair when the phone rang.
‘What the fuck have you done now, Ian?’ Spence almost shouted. ‘I’ve just had Jennings on the line and he was apoplectic. We’re wanted in HQ immediately.’
‘Calm down, Sir,’ Wilson said. ‘I haven’t done anything, so I haven’t had the chance to fuck up. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. By the time we get there the storm will have blown itself out. Then we might be informed of what bee is in the DCC’s bonnet.’
‘Downstairs, five minutes. It gets boring being pulled over the coals for you.’
‘Only a few months more.’ Wilson put down the phone and reached for his coat.
Wilson and Spence rode in silence in the rear of Spence’s official car for the entire fifteen-minute journey to Castlereagh. PSNI Headquarters was a collection of buildings off the Knock Road. Spence’s uniformed driver dropped them at the front door before proceeding to the car park. The Chief Superintendent straightened his uniform before entering the main door. The officer on reception called up to the DCC’s office, and they proceeded to the lift. When they reached the fifth floor, they walked briskly to Jennings’ office. Once there, Spence hesitated.
‘Whatever it is, Ian. Don’t make it any worse,’ he said before entering the outer office.
The secretary immediately hit a buzzer, and the door to Jennings’ office opened.
Deputy Chief Constable Jennings was seated on the raised dais behind his desk. At five feet seven inches, he was shorter than most of the officers under his command. To make up for the absence of height, he habitually wore platform shoes and had had a raised dais built under his office chair so that h
e did not have to look up to officers seated on the far side of his desk. Wilson and Spence were both over six feet tall with Wilson touching six feet and three inches.
Jennings looked up as the two men entered. Dark-red lines stood out on his face. ‘Who am I?’ he asked.
Wilson and Spence looked at each other. ‘Deputy Chief Constable Jennings, Sir,’ Spence took the lead.
‘And do both of you work directly for me?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Spence said.
‘And yet both of you take me for an idiot.’ Jennings held his two hands in front of his chest, palms together as though praying.
Wilson suppressed a smile.
‘That is not true, Sir,’ Spence said.
‘Then why will I find out in tomorrow’s Chronicle that you two idiots have launched an investigation into the death of David Grant.’ Jennings’ voice had a quiver in it. ‘Are either of you unaware of the reporting channels in the PSNI?’
‘No, Sir,’ Wilson and Spence answered together.
‘Then why wasn’t I informed that you intended to launch an investigation? Note that I should have been informed before any such investigation was launched.’
‘The evidence to support the investigation into Grant’s death is only being collected as we speak,’ Spence began. ‘Superintendent Wilson informed me this morning that his team were looking into the death of David Grant, principally because the pathologist had reported that she considered it a suspicious death.’
Jennings glared at Wilson. ‘And the Chronicle has the story within hours of this so-called investigation being launched. Your team leaks like a sieve. It was my understanding that David Grant died accidentally while practising some perverted masturbatory act. I was not aware that there was any evidence to the contrary. Perhaps Superintendent Wilson could enlighten me as to the nature of the evidence of foul play.’
‘There are several discrepancies in the facts surrounding the death,’ Wilson began. ‘The pathologist has serious reservations concerning an accidental death. Aside from that, we can find no evidence that Grant was involved in the BDSM scene in Belfast and there was a total absence of sexual paraphernalia in his house.’
‘That is all conjecture. Where’s the direct evidence? What are you investigating? Are there suspects? This investigation has its basis in the possibly mistaken autopsy conclusions of a pathologist.’ He moved his gaze to Spence. ‘Superintendent Wilson has, as usual, run off like an out of control elephant, and you have done nothing to restrain him. The result is that the Press will have a field day with speculation. We, as usual, will look like a group of fools who have failed to bring to justice the supposed murderers of David Grant. This folly will eat up thousands of police hours and end up costing millions of pounds. And I tell you, I will not have it. That man’, Jennings pointed his finger at Wilson, ‘is in the business of wreaking havoc. McIver, one of his own men, is up on a double murder charge, and I don’t want to think about the Cummerford business. I want this investigation terminated, forthwith.’
‘Sir,’ Spence said.
‘If I may, Sir,’ Wilson said. ‘The pathologist will advise a conclusion of death at the hands of person or persons unknown at the inquest. If you think it’s an embarrassment to the Force at the moment, imagine what the Public will think if it transpires that we could have investigated the death from the beginning but decided not to do so.’
Jennings’ mind was racing. He had promised Carlisle and Lattimer that he would quash any investigation. If he did so at this point, he could be accused of incompetence when the coroner’s inquest did indeed stick with a verdict of unlawful death. Wilson jumping the gun put him between a rock and a hard place. Carlisle was insistent on the phone. The investigation was to disappear. If he reneged on his promise to Carlisle, he could kiss his chances of becoming Chief Constable goodbye. On the other hand, if the Chief Constable learned that he had stopped a valid investigation, the result could be worse. ‘Superintendent, leave us please,’ he said finally.
‘Chief Superintendent,’ Jennings said when Wilson had left the office. ‘I am aware that you will be leaving us shortly. After such a distinguished career, it would be unfortunate if you were to leave under a cloud. I respect the support you have given Superintendent Wilson in the past. It’s admirable to support one’s staff. However, we both know that Wilson treads a fine line. I’m entrusting you with making sure that this investigation peters out. I’m already considering cutting the resources allocated to yourstation. I’ll be considering those cuts in the next week or so. They may also concern Superintendent Wilson’s team.’
‘I am well aware of my duties, Sir,’ Spence said.
‘I’m sure you are. It would be sad if your legacy were to be destroyed by flagrant disregard for the proper channels. You may leave, but I want a blow-by-blow account on this particular investigation. You understand?’
‘Perfectly,’ Spence said.
‘Do we still have jobs?’ Wilson asked when Spence left Jennings’ office.
‘Just about,’ Spence said putting on his cap. ‘That jumped-up little bastard is going to get his comeuppance one of these days. How the hell did the Chronicle get hold of the story?’
‘You know Jock McDevitt; he adds one and one and arrives at three. Peter Davidson talked to a few of his old vice contacts about whether Grant was on the BDSM scene, they’re the kind of people McDevitt has in his Rolodex.’
‘People still have Rolodexes?’
‘I was speaking metaphorically.’
‘That’s a big word, like arsehole. That barrister lady of yours must be improving your vocabulary. Anyway, I’m to keep a tight hold on you. And then there’s the threat that he’s going to cut staff and overtime.’
‘I’d given up on a replacement for McIver, but I can’t operate if even one more member of the team is cut.’
‘Maybe that’s the intention.’ Spence pushed the button on the lift. ‘I don’t like what just happened in there. Grant is a high profile individual. You don’t just dump an investigation into his death because it might cost police hours or money. I don’t know why Jennings wants the investigation killed, but he does.’
‘The guy is about as transparent as a pane of glass,’ Wilson said. ‘Jennings does nothing without there being a good reason. So there’s a motive for wanting this investigation killed. The question is, what’s that motive?’
CHAPTER 22
Professor Stephanie Reid concluded her lecture to the student doctors in the Royal Victoria Hospital. She had to admit that she was dissatisfied with the level of preparation she had given to this particular lecture. At least the students didn’t seem to mind. She put her lack of enthusiasm for lecturing down to the long hours she was working, and the fact that the Grant and Malone autopsies had dominated her thinking. She grabbed a quick cup of coffee in the cafeteria. It might not have been so quick if she hadn’t had to fight off the advances of one of her sleazy male colleagues. She removed her white coat as soon as she reached her office and threw it at the coat hanger in the corner of the room. Her aim was good and it landed on one of the hooks. She sat down behind her desk and started to work through her files, reminding herself that she needed to be better prepared for her next lecture. She had just finished writing up the autopsy result of a woman who had been struck by a drunk driver when her assistant popped his head around her open door.
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘You know student doctors, they lap up any old crap.’ She welcomed the intrusion.
‘You are so bloody smug,’ the assistant said. ‘You know damn well you’re one of the star performers. All the students want to become pathologists so they can emulate you. Anyway, the Head of Administration wants to see you. Been fiddling your expenses again?’
‘Fat chance,’ she said standing up. She hadn’t much time for hospital administrators. She happened to think that hospitals should be staffed by doctors, not by pen pushers. The salaries of the administrators had been leaked recen
tly, to public outcry. She hoped they were one day closer to getting rid of the blood-suckers. Still, she was so far behind in her work that she resented the call from above. She drank the dregs from an almost empty beaker of coffee and prayed that the meeting, whatever it was about, would be relatively short. She put her white coat on. When dealing with the administration it was important to look like a doctor.
While her office consisted of a glass cubicle in the bowels of the Mortuary, the administration offices on the third floor of the hospital proper could not have been more palatial. The corridors were covered with pieces of signed original art and even the secretaries had been provided with the most modern computers and flat monitor screens. She thought of the six-year-old lump of electronic crap that sat on her desk. She had always assumed that the money was going into patient care, but she was beginning to revise that assumption.
Charles Grey perfectly suited his name. As she was announced, he came to meet her at the door dressed in a Prince Charles checked grey suit that entirely matched the pallor of his skin. A bony hand extended from the cuffs of the suit. Reid took the hand, and despite the preponderance of bone felt something soft and gooey. She withdrew her hand as quickly as possible and rubbed it off her white coat. She stared into Grey’s brown eyes and saw no flicker of life. His head was completely bald, as in every hair had been removed by shaving. He had no eyebrows, and the false smile on his lips displayed two rows of small but perfect white teeth.
‘Professor Reid.’ He stood aside indicating that she should enter. ‘We very rarely get to see you in this part of the building.’
‘I’m impressed,’ she said entering an office that was easily four times the size of hers. The wooden floor was covered in places by oriental carpets, possibly Persian, or perhaps Turkish. She was sure that Grey would know their provenance. The walls of the office were covered with tasteful pictures of the hospital and Grey standing with groups of what were obviously influential people. There were two framed diplomas on the wall behind Grey’s desk, each attesting to his prowess in financial management. ‘It’s just as well I don’t come here too often.’ She glanced round the room. ‘It might make me unhappy to sit in the Mortuary basement in my little glass cubicle surrounded by dead bodies.’