by Fee Derek
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Wilson was happy that he wasn’t the only one that looked the worse for wear. The bags under Sinclair’s eyes had bags under their eyes. Wilson had picked up a copy of the Chronicle and the paper lay on the desk in front of him. He had cursed when he saw that Jock had used the hiatus in the Cummerford trial to grab the front page with the story of his abduction. He had no problem with the story but Jock had included the photos that Peter had obtained. That could put both Peter and him in trouble. But Jock didn’t care about that. He was a front-page junkie, and nothing else mattered, especially the careers to two dumb coppers. Wilson noticed that Jock was considerably braver in the story than in fact, and the issue of his soiled trousers carefully avoided. He made a note to talk to Jock about putting the careers of so-called friends at risk just to get a by-line. Sinclair had entered his office almost as soon as he arrived. He had an idea that his superior had already read Jock’s lead story. ‘Burning the midnight oil?’ Wilson said.
Sinclair tried a tired smile that didn’t quite come off. ‘Meetings, meetings, meetings. You reach a certain level in this organisation and you don’t really work anymore. You just have to attend interminable meetings.’ He slumped into Wilson’s visitor chair
‘Seen the lead story in the Chronicle?’ Wilson turned the paper so that the front page was facing Sinclair. He could see from his face that he had already seen it.
‘McDevitt has the habit of sticking his oar into places he would do better to avoid,’ Sinclair said. ‘There are some very bad people in this city. Even journalists shouldn’t step on their toes. McDevitt’s a lucky man that something worse didn’t happen. The paramilitaries are still out there, they really haven’t gone away.’ He closed the Chronicle covering the front page. ‘On to more pleasant topics, I hope. How is the investigation going? How was the second interview with Ramsey?’
Wilson almost smiled but managed to suppress it. ‘Disappointing, it appears that former sergeant Ramsey is no longer available for interview.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’s disappeared. Gone. Left some yokel behind to take care of his pigs, but left no forwarding address. He didn’t look like the type who suddenly thought to himself “I’d fancy a week in the sun in Marbella.’’’
‘And you think there’s something sinister in that?’
‘No, I’m sure there’s something sinister in it. Ramsey was the clean-up man. He was at Beechmount Parade just after the shooting, and there isn’t a fragment of forensic to show for it. He was present for the autopsies of both Mallon and Lafferty and the bullets taken from the bodies have disappeared. I think Ramsey doesn’t feel like explaining any of these facts.’
‘So, until he returns, it’s a dead end.’
‘Also, I think he was warned off.’
‘Warned off, by who?’ Sinclair had a quizzical look on his face. It was a perfect piece of acting.
Wilson could see that Sinclair was a consummate player. This was the chance to say that he thought that his two colleagues might be responsible. But he was never going to take that chance. ‘Probably by us, Jackson and me turning up must have been a surprise. He did his job all those years ago, and suddenly two coppers from a task force show up unexpectedly asking difficult questions. It must have thrown a funk into him.’
Sinclair nodded slowly. “Where do you go from here? You’ve accomplished so much since you took this case on.’
‘I’m beginning to understand the answer to at least one of the questions I have. I think I know why. What I really want to know is who, and maybe what was behind the cover-up.’
‘Would you care to enlighten me?’
‘Not yet, it’s only at the theory stage.’
‘You took a day off yesterday.’ It was presented as a statement but there was a question in there.
‘I had some business in Dublin.’
‘Personal business or PSNI-related business?’
Wilson didn’t answer immediately. He had to assume they knew. He had no idea how they knew, but he would have to work on that assumption. ‘I had a meeting with a guy called John Hodson.’
Sinclair’s face showed surprise. ‘The whistle-blower?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s involved in your case how? I thought he operated in Mid-Ulster.’
‘Just general information, apparently, there was a kind of British Army/RUC death squad operating in Belfast into the late 1970s.’
‘Early seventies’ Sinclair corrected him. ‘It’s all water under the bridge. It was finished by ’74 or ’75. And there was no RUC involvement.’
‘Hodson says different.’
‘The man is a sensation monger, a conspiracy theorist.’
‘So there was no collusion by the security forces in the murder of Catholics?’
‘In Mid-Ulster without a doubt, the murder gangs located around Moy and Moygashel were not in Hodson’s imagination. I have no doubt that some of those murders were committed by, or with the assistance of, members of the RUC and the UDR. For Christ’s sake, Hodson was a member of one of those gangs himself and he was a serving police officer. The HET have been over that ground. Belfast was a different matter altogether.’
‘I’m going to need your help.’ Wilson could see a look of concern pass across Sinclair’s face. It was instantaneous but it was there.
‘What can I do?’
‘I need to have a chat with someone in the military. It can be off the record but I need more information on rogue units that were operating out of the Palace Barracks. Ideally I’d like to be able to locate any of the former members of units that may have been involved in the shooting at Beechmount Parade.’
Sinclair’s face showed deep concentration. He was quickly trying to analyse the impact of agreeing to Wilson’s request, or refusing. Wilson was a loose cannon. Sinclair’s thirty-year career was already hanging by a thread. He had no intention of being pushed out on half pay. His two sons were attending university and certainly would not appreciate him cutting off of their funding. Their anger would only be matched by his ex-wife when he applied to have her alimony halved. Refusing would open the door for Wilson to claim that he had been impeded in his investigation. ‘That’s problematic,’ he said playing for time to allow his mind to run through a list of possible outcomes. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He stood up.
‘It’s the logical next step in the enquiry.’ Wilson smiled. He was aware that the military would be resistant to any attempt by the PSNI to investigate their operations. It was rumoured that PSNI Special Branch had a close relationship with the British military. It was likely that Sinclair had a connection that he could use. The question was whether he was willing to expose that connection.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sinclair repeated and left the office.
As soon as Sinclair left, Wilson stood up, picked up his copy of the Chronicle and left his office. He went out to the car park and stood beside his car. He took out his new phone and composed Jock McDevitt’s number.
‘McDevitt,’ the number of marbles in Jock’s mouth had been reduced to one. He was sounding like a parody of the original.
‘You sneaky little bollocks,’ Wilson said.
‘The Chronicle is selling like hotcakes,’ McDevitt sounded elated. ‘The editor loves me.’
‘You had no right to use the photos Peter obtained. You could get both him and me into trouble.’
‘They were provided by a source. They could torture me but I’ll never divulge my sources. I’m an ethical journalist.’
‘In that case, you better be wearing brown trousers when you’re being tortured. Your bowels don’t seem to react well to torture.’
‘That’s uncalled for.’
‘What was uncalled for was your use of the photos. I’ll give you a pass on the fiction in the report. Where are you?’
‘Where I belong, about to take a front row seat as the Cummerford trial winds down. We’re expecting the lady hersel
f in the witness box today. It should be all over in a few days. Drink this evening?’
‘Maybe.’ Wilson broke the connection. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he glanced at the hut containing the task force offices. Jackson stood by one of the windows staring directly at him. Now they would know that he had a second phone. At that moment, he really didn’t care what they knew. He was more concerned about the impending end of the trial and what it might mean to him and Kate. It might lead to them sitting down together and thrashing out their problems. He wasn’t sure that was going to happen. He was beginning to believe that he was cursed in his personal relationships. He had seen too much pain and suffering to be the sensitive guy who responds to his partner’s needs. It was part of the job and he saw it destroy relationships and marriages. He wasn’t unique. He was simply a statistic. And at the moment he was a very tired and confused statistic. No matter how much he wanted a sit down with Kate, it wasn’t going to happen unless she wanted it to. He was not in control of their relationship. The ball was in Kate’s court and he would have to wait and see what way she played it. Things were going on in his life that he didn’t quite understand. And the murders of Mallon and Lafferty and his investigation fitted neatly into the category of “things he didn’t understand”. He wasn’t about to wind up the case whatever happened. He’d come much too far for that. Something rotten had gone down and claimed the lives of two young men. The murders were compounded by the cover-up. It was never the crime that bothered him. It was always the cover-up, and the reason behind the cover-up. He looked at his watch. He still had most of the morning and he couldn’t think of anything he could do to advance the case. He made an instant decision and climbed into his car.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Wilson was surprised that there was still room in the spectators’ gallery in Court No. 1 at Laganside. He edged around to the right-hand corner to try to get a better view of Kate, who was sitting facing the Judge allowing the spectators a view of her back. Although it was difficult to be sure, he thought she looked paler than the last time he’d seen her. Maggie Cummerford was in the witness box. She looked even slighter than he remembered. She appeared to have disappeared into herself. It was the perfect picture of the poor abandoned waif that she had been. Kate’s junior was handling the cross-examination, which was centred, on her memories of her mother and their life in Belfast. Wilson looked at the jury and saw that they were lapping up the story of the poor abandoned young girl. Wilson had seen too many trials not to recognise the plan. Cummerford’s life would be dissected and she would be presented as the real victim of the events, which led to the murder of three elderly women. He could see that the woman in the witness box had entered fully into the role. And if he knew Maggie, it would be a consummate performance. He concentrated his gaze on Kate hoping that there was some way she would feel his presence and turn to face him. Normally, she would have been writing her notes or in conference with her team while the preliminary cross-examination was taking place but she appeared strangely lethargic. He looked across the gallery and saw McDevitt writing into his large notebook. Two places down from him a young man was tapping on the keys of a laptop computer. He made a mental note to tell McDevitt to move with the times. As his eyes moved around the gallery, he saw a face staring directly at him. Helen McCann was shooting daggers with her eyes in his direction. He was the first to break off eye contact. He could feel Helen’s eyes still on him.
‘What a performance!’ McDevitt had left his seat and stood in front of Wilson. ‘That woman has a future on the stage. She has the jury eating out of her hands.’
Wilson glanced at the witness box and saw the four- year-old frightened girl that Maggie Cummerford had been. ‘She has to go down,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘She murdered three elderly ladies.’
‘Those are the facts,’ McDevitt said. ‘That’s what Gold stuck to during the prosecution case. We heard all about the murders and the investigation. But the defence is ignoring the crimes and concentrating on the impact on that poor young girl. It’s all about the emotion, and juries are swayed by emotion. Your ex is playing a blinder.’
‘Just wait until Gold gets at her.’
‘He’s going to have to walk a very careful line. They’re setting her up as the real victim. Not only did the murdered women take her mother away from her, the RUC screwed up the investigation. If he attacks her, he won’t get any sympathy from the jury. He’s between a rock and a hard place.’ McDevitt followed Wilson’s gaze and saw Helen McCann staring in their direction. ‘If looks could kill, you’d be stone dead.’
‘She’ll go down,’ Wilson said simply nodding towards the witness box.
‘But for how long?’ McDevitt said. ‘I’ve got fifty quid that says she gets ten years, out in six.’
Wilson thought about taking the bet but he knew McDevitt was probably right. ‘Two years per murder, doesn’t seem just.’
‘The lady holding the scales is blind,’ McDevitt said.
‘What about your case? Hodson throw up anything new?’
‘Another avenue of enquiry has opened up. Where it’ll lead is anyone’s guess.’
‘Ready to throw the towel in?’
‘Not yet.’ Quitting wasn’t his style and he had made a promise to Michael Lafferty. Perhaps he had been presumptuous. He’d made progress, but just not enough.
‘Back to the grind,’ McDevitt said heading back towards his seat.
Wilson had no grind to go back to so he sat and watched the proceedings. He hardly listened to the evidence. He was concentrating on Kate. Perhaps they were ill-fated from the start, but it was difficult to forget the good times. Kate glanced back to the spectators’ gallery and their eyes met for a fraction of a second. He was sure that she had seen him but hadn’t shown any recognition. He stood up. He hadn’t come to see what was happening in the case. He’d come to see Kate and he’d received the answer to the question that was bothering him. He pushed open the door to the corridor and almost ran directly into Peter Davidson.
‘Boss, didn’t expect to see you here,’ Davidson said. ‘Is McDevitt inside? I’m going to strangle the little bastard. He stitched us up putting that picture in the Chronicle.’
Wilson frowned. ‘That’s down to me. I shared and maybe I shouldn’t have. Any news on Sammy?’
Davidson shook his head. ‘Nothing. The forensics boys have been over his car with a fine-tooth comb and there’s nothing strange there, nothing from the airports or the ports, nothing from the Garda Siochana. The man has disappeared from the planet.’
‘We might be forced to accept the obvious conclusion.’
‘We’re not there yet. Sammy’s father is trying to keep the crew together. He’s even quit the booze and Jimmy McGreary is hovering in the background. Nobody wants a turf war. There’s too much collateral damage. But in the last few months Sammy’s crew has lost Ivan Mcilroy, Boyle and Big George Carroll.’
‘If Sammy’s no longer in the land of the living, there’s only one man with the balls to remove him. For my money, McGreary won’t have done the dirty work himself but he’s somewhere behind in the shadows.’
Davidson rubbed at his chin. ‘Sammy’s a major player, boss. Taking him out would be a high risk strategy.’
‘Not if they knew that he was about to go down on Big George’s evidence,’ Wilson’s mobile beeped and he took it from his pocket. The text was concise, Major Alfred Crookshank, Palace Barracks, 15:00. He smiled as he put the phone away. Sinclair had been obliged to come through. ‘Somebody will eventually crack. I’d put my money on Best as the triggerman. If I’m right, and I think I am, we’re not going to see Sammy in the flesh again.’
‘Christ, boss, I wish you were back with us. Harry and I are wandering around like two chickens with their heads chopped off.’
‘No new appointments?’
‘Rumour has it that the Chief Constable is off and the reorganisation delayed until the new man is in the chair.’
&nb
sp; Wilson remembered a quote from the famous Roman general Petronius Arbiter that one of his lecturers at Police College had a particular liking for. He wasn’t sure of the exact quote but it went something like: we trained hard, but it seemed every time we were beginning to form up into teams we were reorganised. It appeared that nothing had changed in over 2,000 years. That meant that there was still a chance that the new man would scrap his predecessor’s plan. At last a ball looked to be bouncing in his direction.
‘How’s the case going?’ Davidson asked.
‘Making progress and, by all accounts, waves.’
Davidson smiled. ‘What’s new?’
‘Anything else I should know?’ Wilson asked. ‘I’m out of the rumour mill out in Dunmurry
‘No, it’s the quiet before the storm. If you’re right about Sammy, the storm might not be too far away.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Wilson decided to drive directly to Holywood. It was approaching one o’clock and he was thinking about lunch. He needed time to develop a strategy for his meeting with Crookshank. Holywood is a small town of about 15,000 souls situated between Belfast and Bangor in County Down. Wilson had two reasons for not returning to Dunmurry. The first was that he had no desire to add the ever-willing Sergeant Jackson to his interview with Crookshank. The second was that Holywood was home to one of his favourite hostelries, the Maypole Bar, known to locals simply as Ned’s. The bar is one of the most unprepossessing pub buildings in Northern Ireland but in Wilson’s humble opinion no visitor should leave Ulster without a visit to Ned’s. He found parking on the High Street and made his way to his destination. He procured what is generally accepted to be one of the best pints of Guinness in the Province. Ned’s didn’t do food but that lack could be remedied as soon as the pint was dispatched. Wilson sat in a corner and ran through the situation on his investigation. It was fairly certain that the two young men were killed by some undercover group of the British Army. The MRF was the most likely culprit. But who were the individuals who had been in the car at the junction of Beechmount Parade? And what series of events had led them to fire on the football game? The fact that the security forces were involved meant that he would probably never get to the real answer to either of those questions. Locked away in a cupboard somewhere there would be a report on the incident that would be so heavily redacted as to be useless. Some bright, young official at the Ministry of Defence would have been given the job of reducing what really happened at Beechmount Parade to a meaningless jumble of words. Whatever he learned from the military might be meaningless but it was the next step and he had to go there. The miscreants might not end up in the dock. No, that wasn’t right, the miscreants would certainly not end up in the dock. But that was never his problem. It was his job to gather all the evidence and point the finger at those responsible. Dispensing justice was someone else’s job. He finished his pint and contemplated a second before deciding against. He might need all his faculties to deal with Crookshank. He bought a sandwich and made his way to the Esplanade. He sat on a wooden bench and gazed across the inlet from the Irish Sea. There were a couple of large vessels heading out to sea. He wondered where they were heading. Considering the trajectory of his life he could just as easily have joined them. He looked back at the city of Belfast in the distance. Maybe it was time they took a break from each other. He was beginning to think that he was the origin of his own problems. He had never played the PSNI game. That was the route that Jennings and his ilk took. So, he couldn’t really cry when people like Jennings and ‘The Gravedigger’ took their chance to piss on him. He managed to screw up his relationship with Kate. Again it was totally down to him. He was out of his comfort zone with her. What the hell had he been thinking? He was shacking up with a woman who was well out of his league in every respect. She was part of the Northern Ireland establishment and it was only a matter of time before she became attorney general. He was only good at two things: chasing an oval ball around a field and investigating murders. The former had been taken from him by the pieces of shrapnel still floating around in his leg. It was looking increasingly like the latter was about to be taken from him as well.