by Derek Fee
‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Wilson said. He was thinking of his own experience with his former colleague Ronald McIver who was currently banged up accused of a double murder. ‘We very rarely know what’s going on in people’s heads. It’s easy to look at the evidence and jump to conclusions.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘The pathologist didn’t,’ Wilson said. ‘She’s the one who will ultimately deserve the credit, if we find that Grant was indeed murdered. Let’s go back a bit. You called in and asked the police to check out his house. Why?’
‘David and I are both independent councillors. We had a meeting every week to discuss tactics and since I’ve known him, David has never missed that meeting. Meetings with him were like religion. He always turned up, or called if he was going to be late. It was so out of character that I was instantly worried. I thought that maybe he was in an accident, or had been mugged. I never imagined he might be dead.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He was intelligent, honest, a good friend but a bad enemy. He was on his way up. At the next General Election, he would’ve gone very close to winning a seat on the Assembly. If he hadn’t made it next time, he would’ve been elected the time after. He was already marked out as a future “comer”. The organised parties were courting him like crazy. Behind a soft exterior, he could be hard and very tough. He hated corruption to the extent that it was like a crusade for him.’
‘What about the sex thing? Could he have hooked himself up?’ Wilson asked.
‘I hate myself for believing that he could. It wasn’t part of his make-up. OK, he wasn’t a lothario, or a man about town. I think he’d put his emotional life on the back burner until he’d made it politically. Women liked him principally because he came across as himself, I think.’
‘But he didn’t have a girlfriend or partner?’
‘Not that I knew of.’
‘How was he lately? Any change in behaviour?’
‘He was preoccupied, and sort of excited. He was one of the best listeners I ever met but lately his mind seemed to be somewhere else.’
‘Any idea what might have been bothering him?’
‘I haven’t a clue. It was nothing to do with Council business. We’re in a bit of a quiet period now. The organised parties are playing out the main issues. It’s all about flags and marches, and crap like that. David and I were more interested in what was happening to people on the ground. You can’t eat a flag and marching does nothing to improve the quality of life. Politicians here deal in distractions.’
‘Any idea where we can look for the source of his preoccupation?’ Wilson asked.
‘Maybe his private work, he sometimes handled clients who were less than honest. Perhaps he crossed one of them. I really can’t say.’
Wilson removed a card from his pocket. ‘If anything else occurs to you, I’d be obliged if you’d contact me.’
Eaton took the card and produced one of his own. ‘You can contact me anytime if you think I can help.’
The Murder Squad team stood in a semicircle around the whiteboard which was now covered with photographs and writing.
Wilson gave a quick rundown on the meeting with the DCC but omitted any details of his meeting with Reid. ‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s apparent that the DCC wanted the investigation stopped. That may be because of the political or sexual overtones, or he’s receiving instructions from higher up. It wouldn’t be the first time that an investigation would have been buried for political reasons, and it certainly won’t be the last. The problem for HQ is that the cat is out of the bag. You’ve all seen the Chronicle this morning and those of you who have been around for a while know that McDevitt is a formidable reporter. Especially when there’s some dirt to be dished. Harry, the timeline?’
Harry Graham took his place in front of the board. ‘Grant was the kind of guy you could set your watch by. He left his house in Ashley Avenue at exactly eight thirty every morning. He stopped at Starbucks in Queens University for his breakfast and normally left with the remainder of his coffee in hand. Most of the staff in Starbucks knew him by name. Apparently, he was pretty popular with them, but always breakfasted alone. His office is in Central Belfast, and if the weather was kind, he liked to walk. On the day of his death he walked. He arrived at the office at nine o’clock and worked through lunch. He sent out for a sandwich and coffee at two p.m. I have a copy of his agenda for the day and I’ve spoken to all the clients. They’re a bunch of normal citizens with minor legal problems, nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody was aware of anything strange in his demeanour. In fact, several of them had never even met him before. He had the habit of working late. Except when there was a Council meeting. On the day of his death the Council meeting finished at eight o’clock. He had a meeting in his agenda for ten o’clock that we now know he never made. We have to assume that he arrived home sometime around eight thirty, although I found nobody who could confirm an exact time. Since our two officers kicked the front door in at eleven thirty, we have a pretty good window for the time of death.’
Wilson thanked Graham and gave a short version of his interview with Eaton which appeared to tie in with the timeline already established. ‘We need to know what happened at the house in Ashley Avenue between eight thirty and eleven thirty. I know it’s a pain in the butt, Harry, but I want you to canvas the area, see if anyone saw anything strange. What about CCTV?’
‘None on Ashley Avenue, Boss,’ Graham said. ‘But there may be some in the surrounding streets.’
‘Peter,’ Wilson said. ‘Anything new from your contacts?’
‘Not a sausage, Boss,’ Davidson replied. ‘If Grant was into the kinky stuff, he kept it in house.’
‘Boss,’ Moira interrupted. ‘I thought we’d already established that Grant wasn’t a perv, the absence of toys, magazines and the like.’
‘I think we can drop that element of the investigation,’ Wilson said. ‘I’d like to know where the ladies’ undergarments came from.’ He was staring at Moira. ‘Call the Mortuary and get them to send the clothes over. Forensics will want them but maybe you could examine the labels and see where they might have been bought. Then look at Grant’s credit card purchases and see if he bought any ladies’ underwear lately.’
‘Yes, Boss,’ Moira said, not trying to hide her displeasure at being given what she considered donkey work.
‘We need to find out everything about this man’s life. Peter, get to the law office and go through all his files. The head buck lawyers will put up a fight on the files, but the article in the Chronicle will at least take some of the stain away from them professionally. Establishing that the death has no connection to his legal work will be to their advantage. Also, I want his diary for the past few weeks. Let’s see if there’s someone in it who shouldn’t be there. Eric, get a list of everyone that knows this guy. Right now he looks like a grey man but I want to see what colour comes out when his friends and colleagues talk about him.’ Wilson glanced at his watch. ‘I’m busy this morning but I should be back well before lunch. If you need me, I’m on the mobile. Moira, with me.’ He turned and walked to his office. As soon as Moira and he were inside, he closed the door. ‘Anything on the Malone business?’
‘Not so far but I haven’t had time to follow it up,’ Moira said. ‘Reid thinks he might have been murdered as well?’
‘She has some suspicions,’ Wilson said.
‘How?’ she asked.
‘Injection of potassium chloride on the underside of the tongue.’
‘What!’
Wilson explained the delicate balance of potassium in the body, and the effect of even a small increase.
Moira threw up her hands. ‘This is a fantasy, that damn woman will do anything to get close to you. Every corpse she handles from now on will be a possible murder victim. Wake up and smell the coffee, Boss.’
‘Humour me. If there’s nothing there, we’ll drop it. After the way Jennings reacted yesterday, I’m not about to t
ake a flier on launching another murder investigation. That’s why it’s just you and me for the moment.’
‘OK, Boss. But this might be considered as a waste of police time. Not so good when we’re undermanned and facing a difficult investigation.’
‘Humour me.’
CHAPTER 26
Holywell Hospital was situated on high ground off the Steeple Road, two miles north of Antrim town. In 1891, the Holywell site of 100 acres was selected as the location for a County Antrim Lunatic Asylum. Built primarily to alleviate serious overcrowding at the Belfast Asylum, it provided a separate asylum for Country Antrim and was opened in 1898. The hospital’s prominent features included a clock tower and gargoyles at the front entrance. The clock tower was lit at night and used by boaters on Lough Neagh as a guide to the mouth of the Six Mile Water. It wasn’t Wilson’s first visit to the facility, and as he drove in through the front gate, he thought the choice of sculptures at the entrance to be particularly apt. Some of the people he had interviewed here had minds that would have fit perfectly with a gargoyle’s. He followed the signs for the Assessment Centre and steered towards a small red-bricked building set to the side of the central building. The drive from Belfast to Antrim was not a long one, and it passed through some of the nicest countryside in Ulster, culminating in the town of Antrim on the shores of Lough Neagh. He would normally have enjoyed the ride, but he spent most of the journey thinking over the Grant case. Although the whiteboard was beginning to fill up with information on Grant and his movements, there was little or no evidence of a crime aside from Reid’s misgivings, and no evidence at all pointing to the perpetrators. Just outside Antrim, he decided to put the Grant business out of his mind and concentrate on the meeting with his former colleague. The Assessment Centre was showing it’s age. A hundred and thirty years of wind and rain in the Irish climate was apt to weigh heavily on Victorian construction. The Centre was the smallest of the buildings, and the outer wall was overgrown concealing whatever structural defects might be hidden behind the shrubbery. Wilson noticed some debris dumped at the side of the entrance. While Holywell wasn’t exactly Bedlam, it was in need of a serious makeover. The reception area of the Assessment Centre accentuated this conclusion. The plaster on the walls was cracked and peeling, and there was a musty smell in the air. Wilson removed his warrant card and showed it to the receptionist. ‘I have a meeting at eleven,’ he said simply.
The receptionist examined a clipboard. ‘Take a seat and I’ll see if they’re ready.’
Wilson sat on a bench in the corner of the room. A half dozen dog-eared magazines sat on a battered coffee table in front of him. Two golf magazines displayed the interest of some of the senior staff, while a couple of ancient copies of Hello and Heat might have owed more to the female receptionist. He didn’t bother with the magazines but continued to visualise his approaching interview with Ronald McIver. He’d been McIver’s superior for more than four years, but did that really mean that he knew the man? He should have known enough to see that the job had taken its toll on McIver. Police work eats people up. The toxicity doesn’t just come from the long hours and the discipline. There’s also the fact that everyone you meet is in trouble, or about to land in trouble. Policing can be equated with a swim through a sewer. Inevitably some of the shit sticks. There’s very rarely light at the end of the tunnel, and if there is, it’s usually in the form of a train heading in your direction. That’s police work in general. Being a member of the Murder Squad was another matter entirely. He often wondered how he actually slept having stood over the broken bodies of men, women and children. And then there were the clients, the scum of the earth, men and women with serious mental defects who would maim and kill without a second thought. It was a wonder that policemen and women remained sane for the thirty or so years required to take retirement. One thing was clear. Despite the drawbacks Wilson loved the job. He knew that it ate away at some people, but in a way it charged him. He had always loved solving problems, and over time, he had added to that the high he got from putting bad guys behind bars. He was the job. He didn’t have a hobby. When he’d been forced to give up rugby, he decided that was the end of it. Did he miss rugby? Only every day; there was a hole inside him that rugby once occupied, which would be forever empty. He could have taken up coaching. There were plenty of offers. Radio and TV people pursued him for months with offers to become a pundit. But he had already decided that the rugby part of his life was over. He dragged his mind away from himself. The job had a lot to answer for in McIver’s situation, and so had he. McIver was going on trial for the killing of Ivan McIlroy, a member of a criminal gang headed up by Sammy Rice. A secondary indictment had been the mercy killing of his wife who had been sliding into dementia. Although former detective constable Ronald McIver had taken two lives, he was no murderer. Both crimes had been committed when the balance of his mind was affected. That was the defence Kate had established for him. He heard a door open in the corner of the reception area and looked up. ‘Superintendent Wilson?’
‘Aye,’ Wilson said standing.
‘Dr Liam O’Neill.’ A man of sixty or so years thrust out his hand. ‘I’m one of the resident psychologists. You’re here to see Ronald McIver?’
Wilson took the outstretched hand. ‘Yes, how is he?’
‘I would not consider him to be a well man,’ O’Neill said. He had the soft accent of County Tyrone. ‘We’ve diagnosed him to have severe psychotic depression. It may be enough to get him out of the legal mess but I’m afraid that he’s going to spend an extended period in hospital. The question is whether he’ll last long enough for us to get him there. We’re going to put him on suicide watch when he goes back to prison.’ They walked down a corridor. ‘I’ve spoken to him at great length in formulating a diagnosis. You’re one of the few people he respects. You could have a very positive effect by convincing him not to give up hope. He thinks his life is over, but I’m sure that with the right help, he’ll make a full recovery.’ They stopped at a door. O’Neill knocked and opened it. ‘Do your best. If you need anything from me, get through to reception.’
Wilson entered the small room. He wasn’t easily shocked, but he did a double take when he saw McIver sitting at a small table. His former colleague seemed to have disappeared into himself. In a few short months, his hair had turned completely white and the skin hung on his cheeks. He’d lost weight and his shoulders slumped. He glanced up when Wilson entered, but his eyes had a faraway look, as though he was concentrating on some point beyond Wilson’s head. The room was smaller than the interrogation areas at the station but it had the same feel. It was sparsely furnished with only the small table and two wooden chairs. It smelled of depression and desperation. He noticed a uniformed prison warden standing at the door, and nodded. ‘Do you mind if I handle this myself?’
The prison officer looked at him and nodded, then silently left the room.
‘Hello, Ron,’ Wilson said sitting down on the seat across from McIver.
McIver lowered his eyes and blinked. He stared into Wilson’s face. ‘Boss?’ he said as though seeing Wilson for the first time.
‘How are you, Ron?’
‘They say I’m mad, Boss.’ He laughed. ‘The Doc says that I have psychotic depression, whatever that is. I suppose you’ve got to be mad to kill two people.’
Wilson leaned forward and put his two hands on the table. ‘It wasn’t your fault. The job eats people. You can blame the job, and me.’
McIver’s brow furrowed. ‘Why should I blame you? I killed them on my own. It was our job to put people like me away.’
‘It was my job to take care of you, and I didn’t do my job properly. So in a way I’m responsible for you being here.’
McIver laughed. ‘You have a weird sense of humour, Boss. I’m going down, and I deserve it. They want to believe that I was hearing voices and shit like that. I don’t know whether they’re right or wrong about the voices, but I know I did wrong, and I’m ready to accept the
punishment. I’m only sorry that they can’t hang me.’
‘You can’t go to prison, Ron.’
‘Why not, Boss? My life is finished. I have no job, no wife. I can’t go back to the house. For Christ’s sake why don’t they just help me finish things?’
‘The doctors are right. You’re ill. I don’t know about the psychotic depression, but you are certainly ill. They’ll make you better. You’ll be able to return to some kind of life. You won’t be back to the job, but we’ll make sure that you get whatever you’re entitled to. There is a future.’
‘Will they bring Mary back?’
‘They’re doctors not Gods,’ Wilson said. ‘But they will heal you. The person you killed wasn’t Mary. She was already gone from that body.’
Tears started to roll down McIver’s face. ‘Help me, Boss. Help me.’
Wilson stood up and moved to the other side of the table. He lifted McIver out of his seat and hugged him. ‘I’m sorry, Ron. I’m sorry I let you down. Let me make it up to you. Let Kate organise the hospital. Get better. If you don’t do it for yourself, then do it for me.’ McIver convulsed in his arms, and he could feel wet tears on his shirt.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Will you let Kate handle it?’ Wilson asked. He stood back and McIver’s head came away from his chest. He looked into his former colleague’s eyes. ‘Just do what she tells you.’
‘OK, Boss. I’ll try.’
The door opened, and the uniformed officer entered. ‘The van’s outside. Time to go,’ he said coming forward to handcuff McIver.
‘I won’t let you down again,’ Wilson said.
McIver didn’t reply but smiled wanly. He followed the officer out of the room.
Wilson sat heavily on the wooden chair. He didn’t like the psychological stuff, and he wondered whether he had hit the right note with McIver. Whatever the future was he had tried his best. He stood up and left the small room. His feet felt heavy as he walked down the corridor towards the reception area. He thought about Kate and their new means of communication. What would happen when Helen wasn’t there?