by Fee Derek
‘Why would anyone follow you?’ Wilson blew on his coffee. He didn’t like his coffee at boiling point.
‘The only thing I can think of is that I upset someone by asking questions about Sinclair and Jackson. You know that I’ve spent all my time lately on the Cummerford trial.’
Wilson nodded while he sipped his coffee.
‘Well, there’s this guy who’s always sitting somewhere behind me. Every time I look around he seems to be looking at me.’
‘You’re paranoid,’ Wilson said taking a chance to drink some coffee. The upper layer was sufficiently cool to drink.
McDevitt turned his head from side to side taking in 180 degrees of their surroundings. ‘You think? I’ve been in this business for more than twenty years. My antennae have been well and truly trained. I started twitching the day after I put the feelers out on Sinclair and Jackson. The guy in court put the tin hat on it. I’ve interviewed mass murderers, and it didn’t faze me. It’s people like Sinclair and Jackson that bother me. They do what the hell they like, and someone upstairs covers up for them.’
‘Why should someone be watching you? They probably know that I asked you to find out about them for me. Then they should be following me.’
‘Are you so sure that they’re not? These people have been trained in the same places that they train the spooks. Hell, they are spooks.’ He bent down and removed the same brown envelope he received the previous evening. ‘I was in the newsroom last night, and this young guy passed by and dumped this envelope on my desk. I didn’t recognise him and he muttered some shit about it being delivered to him by mistake. Except, today I went looking for this guy, and nobody remembers seeing him. He doesn’t work for the Chronicle, and the mail guy doesn’t remember any envelope being delivered with my name on it.’
‘So what’s in the envelope?’ Wilson asked.
‘This,’ McDevitt drew out the single sheet with the photograph, and held it out to Wilson.
‘I suppose it’s a bit too late to think about fingerprints,’ Wilson said taking the photo.
‘I bet there aren’t any. Other than mine.’
Wilson looked at the photo. It was obviously taken some time ago if the men’s dress was anything to go on. The eight men were dressed fashionably for the 1970s. The original was possibly a black and white but it was difficult to tell. The print was grainy either by accident or design. Each man held some form of weapon, and three of them cradled Sterling machine guns. They were standing in front of four saloon cars with two men on either side of the bonnet. All of the men had short military-style haircuts. ‘Who are they?’
‘How the hell am I supposed to know?’ McDevitt finished his coffee and crushed the cardboard cup.
‘It was sent to you. It must have some significance for you. Do you know any of these guys?’
‘Never seen them in my life.’
‘Think, Jock. Whoever sent this to you had a reason for doing so. It’s got to be something you’re working on.’
‘I’m telling you, somebody’s fucking with my head. My guess is that’s it’s your Special Branch friends. That’s their business, messing around with people’s heads. That’s what they do.’
Wilson turned over the sheet and saw the three letters in the bottom corner. ‘MRF, mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing, I put it into Google and came up with all kinds of crap but nothing that means anything. To me, at least. What am I going to do?’
‘Calm down for a start.’ He turned the photo over and stared at it again. He was wondering if it were in colour, would one of the cars be a blue saloon. ‘These guys look like military types. I’ve seen some of the photos of the boys who were active in the Seventies and Eighties and long hair appeared to be the order of the day, even among the UDR.’
‘You have a point, although some of the gangs might have adopted military style. They were keen on the fatigues, the berets and the whole military look.’
‘If they were UDR, they would have been wearing balaclavas for a shot like this. It looks like a personal photo. There would have been limited circulation.’
McDevitt was right. The men could have been members of the UDR or some kind of murder gang. Wilson continued to stare at the photo. This time he ignored the men and concentrated on where it might have been taken. He was sure he had seen the location before but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where. ‘This the only copy?’
‘No,’ McDevitt pulled a sheaf of ten copies from his messenger bag. ‘You have the original in your hand.’
‘Can I keep it?’
‘Only if you agree that when you find out what it relates to, you’ll tell me first.’
‘OK, but what happens if you find out first?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
Wilson folded the photograph carefully and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He was wondering whether someone was genuinely giving McDevitt information, or were they trying to frighten him. “You’re sure you’re not working on one of these conspiracy theories of yours?’
‘I’ve been offered a sizeable chunk of cash to write a book about the Cummerford case, from the murders to the trial. I’ve even managed to get an agent. I’ve got to get it out within three months of the trial to benefit from the press coverage. People want to know the inside story. How Cummerford had the access she had to the police investigation. That’s something you could help me with.’
Wilson stood up. “Dream on, Jock.’
‘Remember, you find out who those guys are. I’m the first to know.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Helen McCann sat across from her daughter. They were lunching in Deane’s in Howard Street, Helen’s favourite eatery. Kate was surprised to learn that her mother was in Belfast, but Helen was like that. One never knew when she was liable to pop up. They never had much of a relationship. After Kate’s father died, she was shipped off to boarding school and as far as she could remember her mother had not been a frequent visitor. There was always some meeting or conference that interfered with a school event and Kate had been forced to watch the other parents fussing over their girls while she was introduced around as the spare. Then there was university, the King’s Inns and work, lots and lots of work. The only time Helen had stood up and been counted was after the miscarriage. Kate had to admit that Helen was a good deal more supportive than Ian. Maybe the difference in support was what convinced her that she and Ian should take a break. Now he was with that pathologist woman. Somehow she had to get through the Cummerford trial. The prosecution was about to close its case, and thankfully there was a short list of witnesses for the defence. She had a couple of expert witnesses who would explain her client’s state of mind and relate it to the gruesome manner in which she had dispatched her victims. Her final witness would be Maggie Cummerford herself. She wanted desperately to take another painkiller but decided not to do so in front of her mother. Helen McCann was watching her daughter with increasing concern. It was difficult not to notice the paleness of her skin, but it took a close examination to see that her irises were reduced to pinpricks. She also noticed that Kate’s movements were more jerky than usual. She was also considerably more lethargic. Helen had no doubt that the painkillers had taken a grip on her. This was all down to Wilson and that wretched embryo. She had trained Kate from an early age to be what she was today, one of the best lawyers in the United Kingdom. Kate was headed for the top of the legal tree. One day she would be the Attorney-General, and finally the Lord Chief Justice. But first Helen would have to get her off those bloody pills, and the sooner the better.
‘How are things between you and Ian?’ Helen asked playing with the food on her plate.
‘He’s hooked up with that pathologist woman, Reid,’ Kate couldn’t even bare to look at the food on her plate. The whole idea of food made her feel ill.
‘Surely not.’
Kate gave a fairly accurate account of the confrontation with Wilson the previous
evening.
‘That was my fault,’ Helen said. ‘I should never have sent you that recording.’
‘You did me a favour. At least, now I know where I stand. Ian and I are finished.’ She looked at her mother who was making her sad face. ‘Yes, I am sad. I still love him. He’s a good, honest, decent person who just happens to be in a job that desensitised him.’ She could feel a tear exiting her left eye and running down her cheek. They had been so damn happy together. And they would probably have continued to be if she hadn’t lost the baby. Despite what he said, she knew that deep down he blamed her. That blame would only fester in time. She desperately wanted a way back but there was no way to reclaim time.
‘How is the trial going?’ Helen asked.
‘We’re almost there. A few more days before we close.’
‘Will you win?’
‘She’ll go down. There’s no doubt about her guilt, the prosecution’s case is airtight. All I can do is give the jury her mindset, and I think I’ve managed to do that. She’ll definitely get manslaughter but I’m hoping that the jury will recommend some psychological help. She might be out in as little as five years.’
Helen could see a flash of the old Kate. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult to reclaim her. ‘I want you to come down and stay with me when the trial is over.’
‘I’m swamped with work,’ said Kate pushing away her barely-touched plate..
‘I won’t take no for an answer.’ She thought for a second of broaching the pill issue but decided against it. ‘A couple of weeks in the sun will work wonders.’ And so will a couple of weeks off the pills.
Kate pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to court. We have a team meeting before the afternoon session.’
Helen remained seated. ‘I’ll make the arrangements. The day the trial ends you’re coming to stay with me.’
Kate nodded. She started towards the door. She needed one of those damn pills before the afternoon session.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Wilson laid the photograph before him on the desk. He stared at the faces, and the background. He wondered what significance the photo had, and why it had been delivered to McDevitt in such a sinister fashion. Although he had no reason to assume that it related to the murders of Mallon and Lafferty, he placed it in the file. There was something special about the murders of the two young men. Somehow all the events in his life were connected; his ejection from the murder squad, the posting to the task force, Sinclair and Jackson. And he almost forgot, Kate. He sketched out the questions on his pad of paper and started to draw lines between them. Someone wanted him examining those specific murders. A whole scenario had developed with him in the centre. He had no idea what part he was playing in this particular drama. Was he the protagonist? Or was he the fool? Whatever it was he wasn’t going to solve the crime by sitting on his arse in his office. But where could he go? The telephone rang, and he rushed to pick it up.
‘Ian.’
“Stephanie.’ He realised that it was probably the first time he had said her name naturally. ‘You sound tired.’
‘Two autopsies this morning and a lecture to prepare. As Agatha Christie might have said “death never takes a holiday”. Today is your lucky day. One of the interns managed to locate the files you were looking for in double quick time. It’ll only cost you the princely sum of £50.’
‘Great, cheap at twice the price.’
‘I’ll send them over to you.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll collect them myself. Please keep them under lock and key until I arrive.’
‘OK.’
The line went dead, and Wilson held on waiting for a click that would indicate that his phone had been tapped. It never came.
Wilson was a regular at the morgue at the Royal Victoria Hospital. He parked his car in the visitors’ car park in front of the red-bricked two-storeyed building. He entered the front door, and made immediately for Reid’s office. The smell of chemicals in the corridor leading to the autopsy rooms was overpowering. He wondered how Reid could work in such an atmosphere every day. Forget about the atmosphere, he wondered how anyone could make a profession out of cutting up dead bodies.
Reid was seated behind her desk, and working on her computer when he pushed open the door to her office.
‘That was quick,’ she said saving her work, and closing down her computer. ‘These files must be really important.’
‘I have no idea how important they are,’ Wilson said sitting in the chair on the other side of her desk. Reid had dispensed with her habitual white coat and was dressed in her usual office outfit of white blouse and black skirt. The jacket that accompanied the skirt was hanging on a coat hanger in the corner of the room. ‘But I didn’t want them disappearing in transit. There are a lot of strange happenings since I took on this case.’
Reid smiled. ‘Such as, your ex-partner turning up in McHugh’s. It put a bit of a damper on our first date.’
Wilson nodded but didn’t reply. Had it really been a date?
‘I suppose she didn’t happen on us by chance,’ Reid said.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘How did she know we were there?’
‘I’d like to have the answer to that question.’
“But you do have some ideas.’
‘I think someone bugged my phone.’
‘And why should they inform Miss McCann? What was in it for them?’
‘That’s something else I’m not too clear about.’ Maybe it had something to do with turning the screw on him.
Reid looked into his eyes. She had never seen them looking so lifeless. ‘I didn’t want to pursue it last night but the performance was out of character. I don’t know her very well, but I didn’t think she had the ability to blow like that.’ It wasn’t by chance that her nickname for Kate was the “Ice Queen”.
‘Neither did I. She’s been a little on edge since she lost the baby.’
‘Do you think she’s on something?’
‘Drugs? Not a chance. Kate hates drugs and anything to do with them. Why do you ask?’
‘Her pupils were dilated, and I noticed a rash on the side of her neck. It’s possible that her doctor put her on painkillers after the miscarriage. She should have come off after a couple of days, but maybe she’s still taking them.’
‘Would she have mood swings?’
‘Absolutely.’
Wilson really wanted to believe the painkiller theory. Perhaps it accounted for her behaviour towards him. But Kate was an intelligent woman. She would have known the risks associated with overuse of painkillers. ‘That could be it. For the last few weeks, her moods have been all over the place.’
Reid could see the hope suddenly burst in his eyes, and she felt despondent. As long as he still had feelings for Kate McCann, she would never have him. And she didn’t want him if he desired another woman. She wanted him to desire her. She needed to get off the subject of McCann. ‘What about those autopsy files?’ She stood up and went to her filing cabinet. She removed a key from her blouse pocket, and opened the steel lock. She took out two bulky files, and placed them on the desk. ‘£50 upfront,’ she said smiling.
Wilson took five £10 notes from his pocket and laid them on the table. ‘Tell the intern, thanks.’ He pushed the notes towards her. Then he picked up the files. Each consisted of a pocket file containing photos and diagrams along with a report of the autopsy. ‘You’ve already examined them?’ he asked.
‘I had a quick look. It was a reasonably professional job for the time. The pathologist simply did the job required. The cause of death wasn’t in doubt.’
‘So nothing strange or notable?’
‘Not with a cursory examination.’
‘Were any bullets recovered from the bodies?’
‘I think so.’ She took one of the files from his hand, and flicked through the contents. ‘Here, she bent back the file. Four bullets were recovered from,’ she glanced at the name
on the file. ‘Lafferty. They were handed to the RUC officer who attended.’
‘Do they have his name?’ Wilson asked.
She examined the file further. ‘Sergeant Ramsey.’
‘Now that rings a bell.’
‘You know him?’
‘We’ve met.’ He bundled up the files. ‘I’ll have to go through these in detail.’
‘Anything else I can do to help?’
‘You’ve already been a great help.’ He put the files under his arm and stood. He was finding it more and more difficult to leave his meetings with Stephanie Reid.
‘What about our screwed-up date? When are we going to do it properly without an intervention by Miss McCann?’
Wilson smiled. He wanted to do it again soon but the prospect that Kate’s behaviour was in some way attributable to the drugs she might be taking was too seductive. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘When the dust settles on this investigation.’
‘You can run but you can’t hide.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Wilson rejected the idea of returning to the office. His wife had often accused him of using his office at the station as a womb; somewhere he was happy and safe. Perhaps she had been right but he certainly didn’t feel warm and safe cosseted in Dunmurry with Sinclair and Jackson. It was still relatively early and since the sun wasn’t yet over the yardarm, a drink was out of the question. That limited his possibilities. He piloted his Saab 93 across the river towards his new accommodations. Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting at his IKEA style dining table with a fresh cup of coffee and two autopsy files. He picked up the file on Cormac Mallon and opened the pocket spilling the photographs of the corpse across the table. He carefully laid out the photographs in two lines. They were black-and-white shots taken by a pathologist’s assistant. Mallon had been a handsome young man, even in death his features were regular and he had a full head of bushy, black hair. He might have been caught sleeping if it wasn’t for the two neat bullet holes in his chest. The entrance holes were discoloured and ringed in black where the heat of the round burned the skin as it entered the body. There was no sign of cordite on either wound indicating that the shots were fired from a distance. He sipped his coffee as he turned his attention to reading the pathologist’s notes. He saw at once that the pathologist had been as professional as Reid. The autopsy was textbook. The organs were removed and weighed. The examination of the state of the body had been thorough. Cormac Mallon had been a healthy young man with many years of life before him when he had been gunned down. The internal damage to young Mallon had been significant. One of the bullets had ricocheted off his rib cage and had bounced around his chest ripping through organs as it went. He looked to see whether a swab had been taken of his hands for signs of cordite. No swab had been taken. Wilson assumed that the pathologist had either decided that the young men were not handling weapons or the theory of shots fired in both directions had been developed later. As Reid indicated, two spent bullets had been removed from the body. One was badly mashed while the second was fairly intact. It was a little known fact that 9mm slugs fired from a distance do not have significant stopping power. The slug is small and doesn’t develop high kinetic energy. The pathologist noted that the slugs which were removed from the body during the autopsy were bagged and handed to the RUC officer attending, one Sergeant Albert Ramsey. Wilson carefully collected up the photos and replaced them in the pocket file. He picked up the second file and repeated the process. He first laid out the photos taken of Lafferty’s corpse. As he looked at the young man’s face, he was instantly reminded of the man he had met lying in his deathbed in Beechmount Parade. The son had been the image of his father. He could only imagine the pain the elder Lafferty had suffered at the death of his son. Michael Lafferty would carry that pain with him to the grave. Sean Lafferty had been shot a total of five times. Two of the shots had hit his lower limbs and shattered his right leg and left thigh. Three bullets had hit his upper torso. One had punched a hole through the left side of his neck and two had struck his chest. One had been a direct hit to his heart. Wilson assumed that either the neck or the chest wound would have proved immediately fatal. He hoped that the additional shots had hit him on the way down. He looked along the line of photos and thought about the futility of mindless murders like these. He finished his coffee, and started on the autopsy report. He thought of himself as he read dispassionately about how pieces of metal had ripped a young body apart. It was the kind of reading that should bring tears to the eyes of any person with even a spark of humanity in his being. And yet he could be reading a report in a newspaper for all the impact it had on him. Perhaps Kate was right after all. Many years of looking at broken bodies and interviewing the monsters responsible had drained the humanity from him. Or perhaps the lack of sensitivity was a defence mechanism, which allowed him to continue to do his job. Yes, he was a copper and some of his colleagues managed traffic flows and some helped old ladies across the road but that wasn’t what he did. He swam in the pool with the sharks. He dealt with those who saw their fellow men as something to be used, abused and dispatched. It was his job to make sure that the sharks were brought to justice. His life was really that simple. He collected up the photos and put them back in the pocket file. He suddenly felt very tired. The light faded with the approach of night and he realised that he had spent several hours poring over the files. In his other life he would have given this job to Moira, and she would have relished it. He was glad that she was probably sitting in a classroom at Harvard using her brain and away from broken bodies and heartless killers. He moved to the couch and lay down. Within seconds he was asleep.