Dark Circles

by Derek Fee

  Grey moved to his desk and sat slowly into his seat. ‘The trappings are unfortunately necessary. When one is dealing with individuals from the private sector, one must be careful to project the same kind of image and professionalism. Of course, you and your colleagues project your professionalism in a different manner, through your concentration on your patients.’

  Reid sat in the chair across from him. ‘My clients very rarely get to observe my professionalism since they are already dead by the time they reach me.’

  ‘How very droll,’ Grey said and a smile flicked at his lips. ‘Graveyard humour, yes very droll indeed.’

  ‘Well I’ve enjoyed the visit, and since we’re both incredibly busy ...’ Reid said.

  ‘Droll and direct, an impressive combination.’ Grey leaned forward. ‘As you are well aware, there is a great deal of pressure on hospital trusts not only to act responsibly in terms of financial rectitude and medical professionalism, but also to be socially responsible.’

  Reid was already bored but feigned an interested look.

  Grey sighed theatrically. ‘I have been contacted by a number of our Trust members who are concerned at the role you may have played in making a spectacle of David Grant’s unfortunate demise. I don’t know whether you are aware, but the Chronicle intends to print a story tomorrow that a police investigation into Grant’s death has been launched on the foot of allegations emanating from this hospital that he was murdered. The only person in this hospital who dealt with Grant was you. So we must assume that you are the instigator of this vicious rumour. I assume that you discussed this issue with your colleagues before you rushed to the Press, as it were.’

  ‘I did my job and the only people I informed were the police,’ Reid said. She was intrigued by the unexpected direction the conversation was taking. ‘And no, I didn’t discuss my findings with my colleagues. And I certainly did not speak to anybody at the Chronicle.’

  ‘And if your conclusions are wrong.’

  ‘To err is human.’

  ‘Ah yes, it may be human but the Trust cannot afford to be publically humiliated if one of our staff not only has displayed poor professionalism, but also is subsequently charged with wasting police time.’

  Where the hell was this coming from, or more importantly, where was it going? Reid wondered.

  ‘The Trust has decided that you should reverse your opinion. We’ve examined your workload over the past month, and we realise that you must be suffering from exhaustion. Perhaps a short holiday might be in order. Adverse publicity on this matter might not impact on the Trust alone. It may impact on you, and your position with the Trust.’

  Reid could feel a cold sensation in her brain. She took a deep breath. ‘Have you every heard of a place called Kasika?’

  ‘No.’ Grey affected a puzzled look. ‘Should I have?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘There’s no reason that you should have. It’s a small town in South Kivu. I was stationed there when I worked for Doctors without Borders. It’s one of those shitty little places that changed hands every couple of weeks during the fighting in the Congo. I was there once when the Mai Mai, who for the record are the greatest load of vicious bastards on this planet, overran the town. As soon as they hit the town, I made for the bush and stayed hidden there for three days. No food, no water. Of course, they eventually found me and dragged me off to a hut, four of them. We were all set up for a bit of gang rape and a slow death for me. I should add that they were off their heads with drugs. To cut a long story short, they stripped me and the most vicious thug among them took his Kalashnikov and inserted the muzzle into my vagina. He and his friends had a short discussion about whether they should rape me first or would it be more fun to pull the trigger on the Kalashnikov.’

  Grey was watching her in astonishment.

  ‘Just when they decided they could rape me and then have fun with the Kalashnikov, two French Legionnaires from the UN contingent pushed the door open and shot the four of them dead.’

  ‘That’s some tale, but what’s the relevance?’ Grey said with a catch in his voice.

  ‘The point is, I’ve been threatened by the best, or the worst if you prefer, and I’m still here. So I’ll take my chances with the venerable Trust, and if we have to part company, then so be it.’ She stood up. ‘Now I really do have to return to my work. It’s been so pleasant visiting with you here in your sumptuous office. I’ll tell all my dead clients about how well the hospital administrators live. Don’t get up to see me out.’ She wheeled around in a swish of white coat and made for the door of the office.

  Grey was breathing with difficulty when she left the office. He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He picked up his telephone wondering whether Carlisle and his friends knew who they were dealing with.

  Reid pulled out her phone as soon as she was in the lift. The message to Wilson was simple – we need to talk.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘No can do,’ Denis Brennan, the editor of the Belfast Chronicle, said into the phone at the same time as he took a slug of coffee. ‘The story’s too big.’ It wasn’t the first time some bigwig had phoned him asking to kill a story, but Jackie Carlisle wasn’t any ordinary bigwig. Although Carlisle was a blast from the past, he was still a big player in the Province. Brennan put down his cup and started waving his arms frantically at his assistant while pointing in the direction of Jock McDevitt. The dozy bitch finally got the message and ran to McDevitt’s desk. As soon as he caught McDevitt’s eye, he beckoned him into his office.

  McDevitt pushed himself from his swivel chair in the newsroom and made his way to Brennan’s office. As soon as he entered, Brennan motioned him to close the door, and placed a finger vertically against his lips in order to keep McDevitt quiet. He then flipped the switch to put Carlisle on speaker.

  ‘The story checks out,’ Brennan said. ‘The police have launched an investigation into David Grant’s death. Someone has decided that he could have been murdered. And we understand that Detective Superintendent Wilson has been tasked with discovering why David Grant was found hanging from his bannister. This story has everything; the combination of sex, murder and politics equals lots of newspapers sold.’

  ‘David Grant was a minor politician,’ Carlisle spoke calmly. ‘I am well aware of the salacious nature of the death. However, you can imagine that airing this particular piece of dirty linen in public could damage the image of politicians in the Province. Public opinion of politicians is already on the floor. The death of a politician in the performance of a depraved sexual act will only serve to accentuate the decline in confidence.’

  ‘Like I said before,’ Brennan said. ‘No can do. It’s too big.’

  ‘I would consider it a personal favour,’ Carlisle said.

  Brennan hesitated. Carlisle had been to the Chronicle in the past. He looked at McDevitt who was staring at the ceiling. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the gratitude I get for supporting the Chronicle. You have a very short memory.’ Carlisle’s reedy voice reverberated around the room. ‘I will be speaking to some of my friends about advertising in your paper. Maybe the owners will have a different opinion.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Brennan said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You will be.’ The line went dead.

  Brennan pressed the button to cut the line. He looked at McDevitt ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Something bigger than the Cummerford trial, that’s for sure.’ McDevitt picked up Brennan’s coffee cup, put it to his own lips and drained it. ‘First it was about sex, now it’s about murder. God knows what it’ll be about tomorrow. Carlisle doesn’t want to kill the story because it reflects badly on politicians.’

  ‘So why does he want to kill it?’ Brennan asked. ‘The police are examining the circumstances surrounding David Grant’s death, so fucking what.’

  ‘There’s something more to it,’ McDevitt said. ‘I’ve been looking into Grant’s life. The man was a straight sh
ooter, probably too much of a straight shooter for the game he put himself in. I’ve been at this business for the past thirty years; I’ve got a feeling in my bones that we’re at the start of something big. I’ve only had this feeling a few times in my life and it paid off.’

  ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘We dig. Wilson will be digging as well, and he probably has greater resources than us. But we can go places and get things from people that he can’t. Then we’ll be in a position to trade.’

  ‘In the meantime Carlisle is going to drop a sackful of shit on my head.’

  ‘In the meantime you should start contacting your colleagues on the mainland. If this story goes where I think it may, there’s going to be a lot of traction in what we can offer.’

  ‘You’re sure we’re on solid ground.’

  ‘It’s in my bones. I may need help.’

  ‘To hell with you and your bones. You hang me out to dry on this one, and you won’t even get a job as a copyboy.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Wilson had chosen McHugh’s Bar in Queen’s Square for his rendezvous with Reid. Although the Crown was his habitual watering hole, the terseness of Reid’s message made him opt for somewhere he might not be as well known. It was unfortunate that his rugby career had made him a recognisable face, not a good trait for a policeman. However, as his sporting fame had receded into the past, so had the chances of recognition by members of the general public. As a young man, he had often visited McHugh’s. It had the magnificent advantage of having a back bar with an open fire, and comfortable armchairs where people could converse in private. He was already seated by the time Reid arrived. She looked tired.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked as she collapsed into the armchair beside him.

  ‘Double Scotch, ice and soda.’ She dropped her bag on the ground between them.

  ‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ he said before heading for the bar.

  He returned with two glasses and a small bottle. He put all three on the table in front of Reid.

  ‘I’d go to your office except the Rottweiler would be hanging around.’ She dropped four pieces of ice into the Scotch and filled the rest of the glass with soda.

  He flopped into the armchair. ‘You’ve got to stop calling Moira the Rottweiler. She’s an outstanding police officer.’

  ‘And I suppose she doesn’t have a nickname for me.’ She sipped her drink and smiled.

  ‘What’s so urgent?’

  She sat forward and recounted her interview with Grey. ‘It was definitely an attempt to get me to retract my opinion. The bastard more or less threatened me with my job.’

  ‘Snap,’ Wilson said.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  He told her the details of his and Spence’s trip to HQ. ‘It looks like you have upset someone’s applecart by spotting that Grant was murdered. The question is, whose applecart?’

  ‘Someone with considerable juice as the Americans would say. You don’t get a Deputy Chief Constable and the number two in a hospital trust the size of Belfast’s to threaten their staff unless you have power.’

  Wilson took a sip from his pint of Guinness. ‘We’ve looked into Grant. He was strictly small-time. He was on the way up but he hadn’t arrived anywhere that could have ruffled someone’s feathers.’

  ‘Don’t forget Malone,’ she said.

  ‘Malone was the quintessential nobody. He was some kind of minor functionary in the Infrastructure Agency. He stamped forms or something like that. I respect you, but you might have got that one wrong.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘There’s a link. You just need to find it.’

  ‘You’d better be careful.’

  ‘How so?’ she asked.

  ‘If Grant was murdered, and I said if, whoever is behind his death obviously thinks that you’re the key to having the investigation dropped. You change your mind on the autopsy, and we can all go home and forget about Grant.’

  ‘I’m not about to do that.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ Wilson looked at his watch.

  ‘Somewhere to go, someone to meet?’ she asked.

  Wilson hesitated. He was thinking of going back to the apartment. But now that he thought of it, he realised that it might be better not to. He realised that he had nowhere to go. ‘No just wondering about the time.’

  ‘Ms McCann not waiting anxiously for the sound of your size elevens on the hallway? One for the road then, I haven’t paid my round.’

  He stood up. ‘Sorry.’ Two men looked into the back bar, their eyes staying on Reid. They would both jump at the invitation he’d just received. He could go to the apartment and face Kate’s wrath or silence. He made his mind up and sat down again. ‘Guinness, but no shop talk.’

  She was about to open her mouth. ‘And no personal stuff,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Is this a date?’ she asked.

  He laughed. ‘You’re hopeless. No it certainly isn’t a date. And if you don’t start talking about rugby or some related topic then I’m out of here.’

  ‘Tell me what it’s like to play against fifteen devils in black jerseys.’ Reid sensed that something more serious was going on in Wilson’s relationship. He wasn’t just tired because of work. He was stressed out. He started to tell her what it felt like to stand facing the All Blacks and the Haka, and she feigned interest. She needed to know what was going on but she couldn’t think of how she might find out. She signalled to the barman to replenish their drinks and turned her full attention to Wilson.

  CHAPTER 25

  Wilson reached the station at eight o’clock the following morning. He’d arrived back at the apartment after midnight and found himself locked out of the main bedroom for the second time. He had to admit that he had enjoyed the evening with Reid. He had been with more women than he could count, but Reid had a sense of fun and an enjoyment in living life that was hard to find. He had piled her into a taxi despite several attempts on her part to entice him back to her place. As the taxi sped away, he started walking in the direction of the apartment where he had been so happy with Kate. He felt like a skier who hears the rumble of an avalanche in the distance. He knows something is coming, and he prays that it won’t come in his direction. Wilson didn’t have much faith in the power of prayer. There was an avalanche coming in his life and it was going to hit him whatever evasive steps he took. As he walked through the door of the station, he banished his personal thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. After the meeting with the DCC, he was under no illusion that both he and Spence were under the gun. If Reid was wrong, and Grant really had managed to kill himself, he’d better prove it damn quick. This was not one of those investigations that could just stumble along. He would have to set the pace from the beginning. That would mean everyone on the team would have to be singing from the same hymn sheet. He was aware that there was no possibility of a replacement for McIver. His reading of the smoke signals was that the cuts to his team were not over. It was only a question of who Jennings would pull out. Add to the investigation the need to prepare for two capital trials, which would involve evidence from his team, and you had a toxic cocktail.

  ‘Boss,’ the Desk Sergeant said as soon as Wilson entered. ‘The gent over there is here to see you.’

  Wilson followed the Desk Sergeant’s eyes and saw a well-dressed man sitting on the bench just inside the door. He was engrossed in a copy of the Belfast Chronicle. Wilson walked over and stood above the man. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wilson,’ he said. ‘I understand you’ve been waiting for me.’

  The man looked up from his newspaper then stood up. ‘I’m Councillor Michael Eaton. I was a colleague of David Grant’s.’ He folded the newspaper with the front page exposed, and held it towards Wilson. ‘I was the one who phoned the police when David didn’t turn up. I understand that your sergeant has been trying to contact me.’

  Wilson saw his picture placed prominently on the front page beside a portrait photo of David Grant.
Jock McDevitt’s name was in large letters in the byline, indicating that this was only the first of many articles on the subject. It was just what he didn’t need. He imagined the scene in Jennings’ office; an apoplectic DCC bouncing off the walls. Anyone who ran across him this morning would get the full blast of his anger. Wilson smiled. He liked the idea of Jennings’ blood pressure heading through the roof. He turned to the Desk Sergeant. ‘The soft interview room vacant?’ he asked.

  The Desk Sergeant nodded.

  ‘Please come with me,’ Wilson said, and led the way as Eaton followed.

  The soft interview room was another feature of the new kinder image that the PSNI was endeavouring to portray. It was reserved for interviewing witnesses who were not thought to be involved in a crime. Unlike the interrogation rooms that normally contained a table and four hard chairs, the soft room was furnished in the fashion of a normal living room with easy chairs and a sofa arranged around a coffee table.

  ‘Please sit.’ Wilson pointed at the sofa and sat in an easy chair himself. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  Eaton cleared his throat. ‘Until I read the Chronicle this morning, I thought that David had killed himself by accident. Right now, I’m not very proud of myself for thinking that someone I worked with for five years could have been so totally different from the man I knew. I should have guessed that something was amiss when I heard the manner in which David died. A man wearing women’s underwear hanging from the stairs was not consistent with the David I knew. I came today to tell you that I’m glad you’ve decided to investigate David’s death.’