Dark Circles

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Dark Circles Page 12

by Derek Fee


  CHAPTER 27

  Moira McElvaney had spent the morning on social media trawling through the trivia that was the life of Brian Malone. She had already spoken to Reid’s assistant and arranged for the clothes Grant had been wearing to be sent to her. She had learned that Malone was not a complicated individual. He was born in Omagh in County Tyrone. After school, he had attended Omagh College of Further Education and left with a degree in Business Administration. He had obtained a job at the Infrastructure Agency and that was pretty much it. He played football on the weekend. She had managed to construct a list of people who might have been considered his friends. By the time she finished, the file on Malone already contained about twenty pages of official documents; his birth certificate, college diploma, school reports, tax forms. She knew the official Brian Malone, but it would take a series of interviews with his friends and family to find out who the person really was. She wasn’t sure that Wilson wanted to go that far. His parents might wonder why an officer from the Belfast Murder Squad had just dropped by to have a chat about their son. She needed a coffee, and her eyes hurt. She hadn’t been sleeping well. The business with Brendan was affecting her. The long-awaited email had finally arrived, and the news was not good. There was no possibility of Harvard extending Brendan’s sabbatical, and he was expected back in Boston for the new college year. His courses had already been included in the college catalogue, and the die was cast. She had brought Brendan to meet her parents in Dungannon the previous week, and the visit had gone ten times better than she anticipated. Brendan and her dad had hit it off while her mother was of the opinion that he was a much sounder fit for her than her ex, who both of her parents had hated. So the problem was exacerbated. She wondered what would have happened if they’d hated Brendan. The question was moot. Now the decision was up to her. If she went to Boston with him, it would be the end of her career in the PSNI. If she didn’t go, she would probably regret it for the rest of her life. She sleepwalked her way to the cafeteria and got a coffee and a chocolate muffin, and she was on her way back to the squad room when a uniform stopped her.

  ‘Your Boss about?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably not before lunch,’ she answered through a mouthful of muffin. ‘Why?’

  ‘Man in reception to see him.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Nathan Grant. Who these days has a name like Nathan?’ The uniform smiled.

  ‘Check if the soft room is available, and if it is, and ask him to wait there. Rustle up a coffee for him. Ring me when he’s ready.’ She went back to the squad room. The information on Malone was still on her screen, and she didn’t want to leave it that way. She had just closed down her computer when her phone rang. Nathan Grant was waiting for her in the soft interview room.

  The man seated at the coffee table looked up as soon as Moira entered the room. He looked like someone who had been put through the wringer. His dark hair was dishevelled. His face was a light brown colour, with signs of tiredness clearly visible. There were black rings beneath his eyes. He stood when she entered. He could have doubled for his younger brother both in looks and in stature.

  Moira deposited her coffee on the table and extended her hand. ‘Detective Sergeant McElvaney,’ she said simply.

  ‘Nathan Grant, pleased to meet you.’

  She noted the accent, not a trace of Northern Ireland. ‘Please sit, you look like you’re about to collapse.’

  He didn’t wait for a second invitation. ‘When I heard about David’s death three days ago, I was in the middle of nowhere in Northern Burma. Since then, I’ve trekked through a forest, travelled down a swollen river in a boat only slightly bigger than a kayak, travelled on a rickety bus for twelve hours over roads normally used by pack animals and all that was just to get to Yangon. I wanted to get here before the funeral. When I finally arrived in Belfast this morning, I was greeted by this.’ He removed a copy of the Chronicle from the pocket of his coat and tossed it on the coffee table. ‘I rang this guy McDevitt who wrote the article, and he suggested that I talk to Detective Superintendent Wilson. So I’m here.’

  ‘Superintendent Wilson is not available right now.’ Moira set her coffee on the table and sat facing Grant. ‘I’m working this case with him. I’m sorry that you have to come here under such circumstances. Your brother appears to have been a very nice person.’

  That’s only the half of it.’ There was a catch in Grant’s voice. ‘He was the finest person I’ve met, and I’m not just saying that because he was my brother.’

  ‘I understand,’ Moira said. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Last year, I try to get back every year, and we’re on Skype whenever I’m somewhere there’s Internet.’

  ‘You’re close?’

  ‘Very, our parents died in an accident when David was at college, and I was working in Africa. We’re all we’ve got. We would have been closer except that work for the agency sent me all over the world.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m with UNHCR.’ He saw the look on her face at the use of the acronym. ‘The United Nations Human Rights Commission, we mainly look after refugees, but we’re generally around when anyone’s human rights are being infringed. What about this article in the Chronicle? There’s an implication here that David was some kind of sexual pervert.’

  ‘We’ll get there,’ Moira said. ‘When did you last speak with David?’

  ‘A month ago when I had decent Internet.’

  ‘Did he mention anything in particular?’

  ‘Most of our conversations wander around the trials and tribulations of Manchester United. We’re both avid fans.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have to get used to saying the past tense when I talk about David. I’m just not used to it yet.’

  ‘And work?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. I’d rattle on about the venal bastard politicians who use their own people to enrich themselves in the Third World.’

  ‘And David?’

  ‘He’d rattle on about the venal bastard politicians who use corruption to enrich themselves in places like Northern Ireland. I want to talk about how he died. David didn’t fix up a noose and stick his head into it. He didn’t dress in women’s underwear, and he didn’t use, what did they call it, erotic asphyxiation to get off.’

  ‘You know a lot about David’s sex life?’

  ‘I know a lot about David, and that means I know for sure that someone did this to him.’ He held up the Chronicle. ‘And now I know that someone else agrees with me.’

  ‘We’re currently looking at this case,’ Moira said trying to be sensitive, but she didn’t want to give too much encouragement to the notion that David Grant was murdered. ‘It’s early days, that’s why I was asking about your contact with David. Right now, we have no idea why someone wanted to murder your brother. The pathologist is convinced that David’s death was due to foul play. We haven’t as yet confirmed that, but certainly a motive for murder would assist us.’

  Nathan Grant sat back and thought for a moment. His brow furrowed, and it was almost possible to see the wheels turning within his skull. ‘I’m trying to replay our last conversation. David was excited. He was very up. Things were going well for him both politically and in work. The main parties were courting him, and he looked odds-on to get an Assembly seat in the next election. Then he would be in line for a shot at Westminster.’ He slipped into thought again. ‘Sorry,’ he said finally. ‘The travelling has caught up with me. My brain has turned to mush.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Moira said. ‘We can go through this again when you’ve had a chance to rest.’

  ‘I want to see David.’

  ‘We can arrange that. Maybe it would be better after you’ve had some rest.’

  ‘I’ve got to make some arrangements. I’ve got to locate a Chevra Kadisha. David wasn’t particularly religious. In fact, I know it had been years since he had attended synagogue. It’s the right thing to do.’

  Moira had an instan
t liking for the man sitting across from her. ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.

  ‘I normally stay with David. I phoned from the airport and I got a room in the Old Rectory Guest House in the Malone Road.’

  Moira made a note in her notebook. She withdrew one of her business cards from the back cover of the book and handed it to him. ‘My mobile is on the card. You can call me anytime. My boss will probably want to speak to you himself, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t cover the same ground. In the meantime, if anything comes to mind about your last conversation with David, I’d be grateful if you would give us a call.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Wilson’s lunch consisted of a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee, both of which had been procured from the cafeteria. After taking one bite of the sandwich, he parted the two slices of white bread to find a morsel of ham inserted between them. It appeared that the budget cuts had reached as far as the cafeteria. He decided that in future, he would forgo the pleasures of station food. The report on the forensic examination of Grant’s house was in and it didn’t create an atmosphere of confidence in him. There was precisely nothing to report. The knot was certainly a bowline, and they would have to determine whether Grant was capable of constructing what was a reasonably difficult knot. The rope was bagged and was currently being examined in terms of its provenance. He doubted if the examination would lead anywhere, but it would be considered to be thorough to pursue it. There were no labels on the ladies’ underwear. That begged the question, if Grant had removed the labels, why had he done so? It didn’t sound logical. On the other hand, if a third party had procured the items, and didn’t want their provenance to be discovered, they might have removed the labels. The house was awash with fingerprints. The attending officers and the ambulance crew were already eliminated. Reid’s fingerprints were on file and she would be eliminated also. He read the two-page report with increasing gloom then turned to the four pages of inventory appended to the report. Grant was an avid reader and not just of trash fiction. He was obviously fascinated by the financial crisis and Wilson counted twelve different books whose titles indicated that they had the inside track on why the world’s bankers had managed to bring the financial system to the brink of failure. Another section of books was dedicated to the memoirs of whistle-blowers. Wilson recognised one of the titles from a recent visit to Waterstones. He flicked through the pages. The forensics team had been thorough. He tossed the remnants of his hamless sandwich into the wastepaper basket and took a gulp of his now tepid coffee. He was alone in the squad room. He wondered whether the rest of the team were drawing blanks on their elements of the inquiry. He glanced through the single window of his office at the dark skies enveloping Belfast. The darkness seemed to exemplify the state of the investigation. There was not one single ray of light. It was police lore that the first forty-eight hours were the most important in any investigation. There was some truth to that, but it wasn’t always the case. He felt a pain in his stomach. It was caused by either hunger or the nagging feeling that David Grant’s death would be added to the three thousand plus unsolved murders in the Province. Wilson’s crime clearance record was among the highest, but too often all the method and all the intuition in the world are not enough to crack a case. Sometimes the murderer is too damn clever for the plodding policemen, and sometimes the killer got just plain lucky. For Wilson, murders fell into two categories. Either they were random or they had a strong motivation. Random murders were obviously the hardest to solve. The majority of open cases in Ulster were of this variety. There was no direct link between the victim and the murderer. The crime was motiveless, or the motive could simply be one of religious or racial hatred. These crimes depended on the murderer leaving enough of himself at the scene to track him down. Wilson by far preferred a crime with a motive. His great skill as a detective was in sifting through reams of information and putting his finger on the factor that linked victim and murderer. Someone went to a lot of trouble to murder David Grant and to make it look like an accident. The removal of the labels from the underwear seemed to add to that conviction. But the killer had left nothing of himself at the scene. Wilson therefore drew two conclusions. First, there was a strong motive for the killing and, second, the killer had carefully planned the murder. To solve this case, he would have to find the motive. That meant examining the minutiae of David Grant’s life. At some point, he had interacted with someone or something that had got him killed. When Wilson found that someone or something, he would find the killer.

  The members of the Belfast Murder Squad assembled for the two o’clock briefing. Just as Wilson had taken his place in front of the whiteboard, Chief Superintendent Donald Spence entered the room. The team shuffled on the spot and made room in the centre for Spence to stand.

  ‘Please,’ Spence said. ‘Continue as though I’m not here.’

  Wilson smiled. Spence’s remark was typical hierarchy-speak. There was no possibility that his team would have the ability to speak their minds with the big boss in attendance. He started the meeting with a short briefing on the forensic report finishing with his two conclusions.

  ‘That doesn’t sound promising,’ Spence said.

  ‘Of course, we’d prefer to have a whole lot of forensic to work on,’ Wilson said. ‘But we have to go with what we’ve got.’

  ‘And that appears to be nothing,’ Spence said.

  Moira raised her hand, and Wilson nodded at her. She gave an account of her interview with Nathan Grant. ‘The brother is adamant that Grant was not involved in any perverted sexual practices. He fully supports the contention that his brother was murdered.’

  ‘It has been my experience’, Spence interjected, ‘that people rarely expose a distasteful side of themselves. Even to their closest friends or relatives.’

  ‘I’ll want to speak with the brother myself,’ Wilson said. ‘What about the underwear?’

  ‘Like you already said the labels had been removed,’ Moira said. ‘I’ve taken photos of the individual pieces, and I’m meeting a buyer at House of Fraser this afternoon.’

  ‘Good.’ Wilson knew that he was grasping at straws. ‘Harry, anything to report?’

  ‘We did a house-to-house in Lawrence Street,’ Graham said. ‘Most of the houses are occupied by students so it’s been a bit hit and miss. We left a note where we weren’t able to contact the resident. So far, we have nothing. The type of people living in that area are used to strange goings-on. There’s no CCTV on the street, but we’re checking what there is in the area. We’ll get a picture of Grant somewhere on the night in question. But in the meantime, we’re going to have a mountain of disks to go through.’

  Wilson noted that Peter Davidson and Eric Taylor were singing dumb. It was an old copper tactic used when the top brass was present. If you said nothing, then you couldn’t say something stupid. He wanted to continue the briefing, but he realised the further he went the more it looked like they had nothing. ‘Peter.’ He stared at Davidson with his most for-God’s-sake-give-me-something look.

  ‘I’m working my way through Grant’s agenda.’ Davidson shuffled. ‘He was a busy man what with the legal practice and the political activism. He met with lots of people, and I’m running them down.’

  ‘Eric,’ Wilson said. ‘I want you to work with Peter. We need to speak with everyone on his agenda. Go back as far as you can. Next briefing, six o’clock this evening.’

  Wilson turned and headed for his office. Spence fell into step beside him. They both entered the office, and Spence closed the door behind him.

  ‘I’m worried.’ Spence sat in the seat directly facing Wilson’s chair.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Wilson said.

  ‘You have precisely nothing.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘When I go upstairs I’ve got to ring HQ and report to Jennings. I don’t have to tell you the reaction I’m going to get.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Consider following Jenni
ngs’ instruction. Three months down the line, you might be looking at exactly what you’ve got right now. Then Jennings will have the ammunition to haul us both over the coals. Possibly hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of police time expended for nothing.’

  Wilson wasn’t about to abandon the investigation. ‘There’ll be pressure on the other side. The brother won’t accept us walking away, and neither will Grant’s colleagues. And there’s always McDevitt.’

  ‘Give me a time limit that I can discuss with Jennings.’

  ‘One month,’ Wilson said. ‘With unlimited overtime.’

  Spence sighed. So like Wilson to push the envelope. ‘How was your visit to Holywell?’

  ‘You’re very well informed,’ Wilson said.

  ‘It goes with the job.’

  ‘McIver’s been diagnosed as a psychotic depressive. He’s ill and he looks it. Kate is working at avoiding a trial and getting him into hospital so that he can get some help. The DPP are keen on the trial option. They like to display to the public that even police officers are not above the law. The no-trial option would suit Jennings and his friends at HQ. But Kate still has a lot of work to do to get the DPP to back off.’

  ‘And your involvement. You’re not guilty. What McIver did he did alone.’

  ‘Tell me that when I wake at two o’clock in the morning. I watched one of my team unravel. I don’t think that I can run away from that one.’

  Spence stood and sighed. ‘Working with you can be a trial sometimes, Ian. Do you know that?’

 

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