A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wilson eased his car past the barrier at the PSNI compound in Dunmurry. The facility had not yet entered the new soft era of policing and still had the high blast walls and wire netting associated with the era of the “Troubles”. He had received the official transmission of his new posting on the day after his meeting with Campbell and Jennings. As a detective superintendent, Wilson had the right to a parking place but he found that all the reserve places were taken so he pulled into the most convenient spot. He entered the main building within the complex and presented himself at the reception.

‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair,’ he said to the uniformed policewoman behind the desk.

‘And you are?’

‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson.’

‘He’s expecting you,’ she said pulling out a sheet of paper from the drawer in front of her. ‘This is a plan of the site.’ She pushed the sheet of paper towards Wilson. ‘Your unit is marked in red. I’ll phone ahead and tell them that you’ve arrived. Welcome to Dunmurry.’ She gave him her widest smile.

Wilson took the plan and left the building. He walked through the compound following the route set out on the plan. The place looked strange and foreboding. He’d been in this position several times before. It normally took a month just to find out where the toilets were located. It was an exaggeration but it would take some time before he was fully operational. The home of the task force was a small, prefabricated building at the rear of the Dunmurry complex. It was maybe thirty feet long with a square profile. Wilson had seen buildings like this left over on deserted World War II airfields. It wasn’t a PSNI office; it was a wooden container on stilts. Wilson entered a narrow corridor that ran along the left-hand side of the building. On his right were a series of wooden doors without any markings. The corridor and the door looked like they hadn’t been painted since they were constructed. If he hadn’t already realised that he was going to be given the shit treatment, his new accommodations were chosen to put him right. Well, if they wanted him to quit, they would have to go a hell of a lot further than dropping him into a shitpit of an office. He knocked on the first door and opened it. There was nobody inside and the office furniture, which consisted of a metal desk and a chair, which had been manufactured before the word “ergonomic” had been invented, that must have been recovered from a rubbish dump. He knocked on the next door but received no answer. Two more doors to try. He was at the last door on the corridor before he received an answer to his knock

‘Come in,’ the voice was strong with a Mid-Ulster accent.

Wilson opened the door and walked in. ‘I’m looking for Chief Superintendent Sinclair.’

‘You’ve found him.’

‘Detective Superintendent Wilson reporting for duty.’ Wilson entered the office and closed the door behind him. Sinclair’s office was larger than the one Wilson had entered at the other end of the corridor. The furniture was still basic consisting of a metal desk, and ergonomic chair and a filing cabinet. A computer at least one generation old sat on Sinclair’s desk while an ink jet printer sat on a small formica-topped table beside the desk. There was a metal frame visitor’s chair in front of the desk. Wilson wondered who Sinclair had pissed off to land this job.

Sinclair stood and smiled. Wilson guessed that he was somewhere in his late fifties with a full head of white hair, and a thin face with a salt and pepper beard on his chin. He was almost as tall as Wilson, maybe six foot two and sported a paunch. ‘Welcome,’ he held out his hand. ‘And dispense with that “reporting for duty” bullshit’.

They shook hands and Wilson noticed that there were no messages passed with the handshake. He was in no doubt that Sinclair would know everything about him including the fact that he had never been a mason or a member of the Orange Lodge.

‘Sit down,’ Sinclair said nodding at a chair in front of his desk. He noticed the way Wilson glanced at the chair as though he doubted whether it would carry his weight.

The two men sat. ‘Not exactly what we’re used to. I’ve had to scrounge both office space and equipment. Since we’re a task force, nobody wants to commit resources to us. So, who did you piss off for them to send you to me?’

‘Let’s not play that game,’ Wilson said. ‘You probably know what I had for breakfast this morning.’

‘Your reputation precedes you. Resources are pretty thin on the ground so I’m happy enough to have you. But you’re a senior officer and there are not that many around. I was expecting to get an inspector who’s on his way up and needs a bit of light investigation experience. Have they briefed you?’

‘Are you kidding? All I know is that it’s something to do with a historical crime.’

Sinclair laughed. ‘Bloody typical. For guys like you who’ve been on the coalface working up an old case might appear to be a bit mundane. Going back over cold cases is not the same work as following up on a fresh corpse.  There isn’t the same dynamic when the victim has been in the ground for maybe thirty years, when the statements, where they exist, were taken by someone who could have been classed as the village idiot, and where the perpetrators are as long in the ground as the victims.  The job is not to apprehend the culprit but to ensure that the families of the victims have closure.’

‘But in the case where the culprit is still breathing?’ Wilson asked.

‘Then we can pass the new evidence up the ladder to Crime Operations and they decide what to do with it. Small beer, eh, in comparison to dealing with the murder of Lizzie Rice or Ivan McIlroy. We’re about a million miles away from high profile court cases and names in the paper. Does that bother you?’

Wilson thought about the piece in the
Chronicle
about his evidence at the Cummerford trial. McDevitt had hyped him up and he was sure that it hadn’t gone down well with HQ. ‘At the moment, not really. But I’m at a loss trying to figure out what I’m doing here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I thought that cold cases were the remit of the Historical Enquiries Team (HET). I suppose you’ve heard of them.’

Sinclair coughed. ‘Of course I have. They were set up in 2005 to carry out investigations into murders committed between 1968 and 1998. It
was supposed to bring closure to the bereaved families who still had unanswered questions about the death or disappearance of their loved ones. If I remember correctly, the initial team consisted of 100 officers seconded from police forces throughout the United Kingdom. Even a large task force like that couldn’t deal with the backlog of crimes, so a very large number of “unsolved” murders were never reviewed. The HET shut its doors in 2011 and since then some politicians would like to write the whole thirty-year period off and to forget the past. But Joe Public didn’t like that, so there has to be some unit created as a sop to the families that are still pissed off. The PSNI is still committed to solving historical crimes.’

‘So we’re a sop to Joe Public,’ Wilson said.

‘I thought you’d be impressed. I suppose you think this kind of investigation is beneath you.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say that. I’ve looked at what the HET accomplished. Lots of conclusions about what a mess the RUC made of the investigation of crime but very little of putting the killers behind bars. I don’t want to know how or why somebody fucked up. It’s my job to make sure the murderers go down.’

Sinclair rubbed his well-coiffed beard. ‘And you don’t think someone will go down for a murder that happened forty-two years ago?’

Wilson smiled. ‘What do you think? Since I was handed this shit assignment, I’ve been wondering why. I suppose that since I put the venerable DCC into the frame for giving a serial killer access to confidential police briefings, I’m being punished. But they could have done that by reducing me to pounding a beat in Crossmaglen. What have you done to warrant your presence as my superior? I’ve been on the force for almost twenty years and it’s strange that we’ve never come across each other.’

Sinclair rolled his eyes. ‘At the moment, there are more than 7,000 officers in the PSNI and God knows how many are retired. I don’t suppose that you’ve worked with most of them.’

‘No, you’re right. But I do know most of the officers involved in murder investigations.’

‘That’s not my background,’ Sinclair said. ‘Let’s leave it there.’ He picked up the phone and dialled. ‘ Sergeant Jackson, can you join us please.’ He put the phone down. ‘I know you’ve been running a squad but resources are thin here. I can only give you one man, Simon Jackson. He’s a good man.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Sinclair said.

‘Sir.’

Wilson was aware that the conversation had been cut short. He turned to view his new partner. Jackson was in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was close cropped and steely grey. He was of medium height and build and had the round face associated with the descendants of the soldiers left behind by William of Orange. He had a protruding jaw and his eyes bulged from his fleshy face. His lips were full and no doubt the envy of many women of similar age. He was the diametric opposite in looks to Wilson’s former sergeant.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Wilson,’ Sinclair said. ‘Your new boss.’

Wilson stood and proffered his hand, which Jackson took. ‘Please to meet you, sergeant.’

‘Sir.’ Jackson’s handshake was firm and he stood ramrod stiff.

Again there was no message in the handshake and Wilson confirmed his impression that the staff of the task force was well informed concerning their new recruit.  The strength of the handshake and the stiffness of the bearing led him to conclude that Jackson was a former member of the military.

‘You’ve already left the file on the Superintendent’s desk?’ Sinclair asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK, sergeant, you can go.’

‘Pleasure to have you with us, sir,’ Jackson said to Wilson.

Why don’t you look particularly pleased?
Wilson thought. ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ he replied. Wilson was a people-watcher and he had noticed a signal passing between his new colleagues. It was a slight movement of the yes but it was there. It was clear that they knew each other well. It was something he would have to keep in mind.

Jackson left the room.

‘I think you’re the kind of man who can hit the ground running so I’ve asked Jackson to put the file relating to a shooting in Belfast in 1974 on your desk. Your office is two doors down. I don’t anticipate the task force lasting too long. I’m sure that HQ will find an appropriate job sooner or later for someone with your seniority. In the meantime, please remember the maxim that we’re here to serve the bereaved families.’

‘Understood,’ Wilson stood up . The office two doors down was the one with the metal desk and the crap chair. Welcome to Purgatory, maybe the beat in Crossmaglen would begin to look attractive as time went by.

CHAPTER NINE

Wilson opened the door and looked around the small room. He smiled. Now he knew he’d been properly screwed. Jennings had prepared his revenge well. He took a closer look at his new surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished with a small metal filing cabinet against one wall, a dated metal desk on which a computer sat, the pre-ergonomic chair and one visitor’s chair. At least there was a single window that looked out onto the back wall of another building in the complex. If he ever got bored, he could find relief in counting the red brick on the wall just beyond his window. In the centre of the desk there was a small black box file he assumed contained the papers relating to the crime he was about to investigate. Royally screwed, he thought as he moved behind the desk. Jennings’ hand was undoubtedly there somewhere, but even he would have to use a lot of influence to have him sidelined like this. There were so many options open to him. Why bury him investigating a forty-two-year-old murder? If there was a reason, he’d discover it soon enough. He moved behind the desk and sat down. It wasn’t in his nature to be morose or depressed. When he played rugby, he’d often been on the losing side but he kept going until the end of the game. Now, when things were going against him he would have to find the resilience that used to be second nature to him. He looked at the label on the box file. It was a simple handwritten white label inscribed with the word ‘Cormac Mallon and Sean Lafferty – Belfast, 1974’. He opened the lid of the box and looked inside. There was a single buff-coloured file. He took it out and pushed the box file away. If this was a record into the death of two men, it was something of a joke. A murder book was generally several hundred pages and for a difficult case could run to more than a thousand. The file before him contained no more than thirty pages. He ran quickly through the contents. There were a number of statements but no photographs of the scene. There was a one-page report of the autopsy but no photographs of the corpses either at the scene or at the autopsy. He settled back in his chair and began to read the file.

Half an hour later he had read the contents of the file twice. If the RUC had intended to investigate the murders of two young men, they had failed miserably. It wasn’t just a case of incompetence; it was also sloppy police work and a flagrant disregard for procedures. He opened the drawer in the desk and found an empty notebook and a couple of pens with the logo of a garage on them. He opened the notebook and began to set out his strategy for investigating the deaths of Cormac Mallon and Sean Lafferty. It was forty-two years since the crime had been committed. Little or no evidence had been collected and the murders had received scant investigation. The task force, if you could call him and Jackson by that name, certainly had their work cut out. Both of the young men had been seventeen which meant that their parents would have been in their thirties or forties at the time of their deaths. That would mean that they would now be in their early seventies or even eighties if they were still alive and if they were still living in the Province. That would be his starting point. He had just commenced writing in the notebook when there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in.’

Detective Sergeant Simon Jackson entered and stood at attention in front of Wilson’s desk. ‘I was wondering what you want me to do,’ Jackson said.

‘For God’s, sake, stand at ease, sergeant. I’m not one of those people who stand on ceremony.’

‘Sorry, sir, it’s just force of habit.’

Well lose it
, Wilson thought but didn’t say. ‘I’ve just read the file and quite honestly I’m appalled at the way the investigation was carried out.’

‘It’s par for the course,’ Jackson said relaxing slightly but still maintaining the military bearing.

‘Where did you work before here, sergeant?’

‘The Legacy Support Unit, that’s where I met the boss.’

‘And before that?’

Jackson hesitated just perceptibly. ‘Special Branch.’

‘And before that?’

‘British Army.’ No hesitation.

‘You have a very interesting career trajectory, sergeant.’ Wilson was wondering what a former Special Branch officer was doing working as an investigator. And even more interesting what was a former Special Branch officer doing working with him?

‘I go where I’m told, sir.’

Wilson leaned back in his chair and only just regained his balance in order to stop the chair toppling over. ‘I started as a simple plod and worked my way up through the ranks. I didn’t have any of those exotic moves.’

Jackson had taken up the military at-ease stance with both hands behind his back. ‘I wouldn’t use the word “exotic”, sir. Special Branch was no big thing. The work was a little more political, terrorism and the like.’

And the like
, Wilson thought. In the PSNI and the RUC before, the Special Branch were in the force but not of the force. ‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair told me that I might find the task force small beer. I would have thought that the same applied to you. Tricking around with cold cases that mainly involve family liaison doesn’t seem to fit your profile.’

‘Like I said, sir, I go where I’m posted,’ said Jackson.

‘An admirable approach,’ Wilson said. ‘And an approach much appreciated by the hierarchy. As of right now, I’m telling you to head off for lunch. I’m working out a strategy to investigate the Mallon and Lafferty murders. I want to make a start this afternoon so maybe we could meet back here at 14.00 hours.’

‘Sir.’ Jackson whirled in one movement and headed for the door.

Wilson was waiting to hear the click of his heels but that didn’t happen. He stood up and walked to the window. He started counting the number of bricks in the horizontal rows. It was proving to be an interesting morning to add to what had been an interesting week. There were a long series of questions running through his head and they weren’t about the murders he was supposed to be investigating. There was a kind of twisted logic to his posting to an investigative unit but it was highly unusual to have someone of his level doing the work of an inspector or a chief inspector at most. His sergeant was a former Special Branch officer with no investigative experience. He was well aware that both the Special Branch and the Legacy Unit were being reorganised because of their links with Protestant paramilitaries. Wilson stopped counting the bricks. Perhaps there was more to his new colleagues than met the eye.