Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (11 page)

CHAPTER 29

Wilson woke up at 5:25 according to the bedside clock. Considering that they had finished making love after midnight, it was more than early for him. He lay in the bed visualizing what he was going to say during the arrest. The caution was clear enough. Then there would be tears from Joe’s wife. The curtains of the houses in his street would be pulled aside, and the spectacle viewed for the retelling over cups of tea for the women and pints of beer for the men. A Superintendent dragged from his house in the morning and arrested for sexual assault. And that would only be the half of it. Some fool would produce a mobile phone and capture the scene for posterity, and he would be right there in the centre of the picture. He felt bile rise in his throat. The only way he could get through this ordeal was if he visualized it so often, it would appear natural. It was the way he played rugby. The night before the game he would visualize every move he would make. He would run through large parts of the game in his head so that when he walked onto the pitch it felt like he had been there already, and every move would be natural. He listened to Kate’s breathing in the bed next to him and wished that they were a million miles away from Belfast. He longed to hear the gentle lapping of the ocean as he looked out from a little beach hut somewhere hot. The beach would be white coral and the water an azure blue and there would be only Kate and him within miles. The idyllic picture faded from his mind, and he was standing before Joe’s door with sweat running down the back of his neck. It was two hours before he could get up and make breakfast for Kate. Sleep was impossible, so he contented himself with alternating visions of the horror awaiting him and escape.

“Moira,” Wilson strode pass the team and made for his office. “With me.”

Moira stood up from her desk and followed him. “Boss,” she said as she stood at the door. She noticed he’d forgotten to remove two pieces of tissue on his neck where he nicked himself shaving. The bags under his eyes appeared to have grown bags under their eyes overnight. 

Wilson removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “Come in and shut the bloody door,” he looked beyond Moira and saw eight eyes staring straight at him from the Squad Room.

“In thirty minutes, you and I are going to Joseph Worthington’s house, and we are going to arrest him. You will have the great pleasure of seeing me play Judas Iscariot, although I will not kiss him on both cheeks.” He fell heavily into his chair.

“You don’t have to do this, Boss. I can do this on my own,” Moira knew anguish when she saw it.

“Thanks but no thanks. I’ve received instruction from he who must be obeyed that I have to carry out this arrest myself. I don’t like it but it is my duty, and I intend to carry it out. Be ready in thirty minutes. Order the car.”

“Boss,” she said quietly and left.

Wilson turned on his computer and brought up his e-mails. The newest e-mail was from Human Resources. Again. He hadn’t submitted the questionnaire on training. He had to restrain himself from putting his fist through the flat screen.

The weather in Belfast suited the sombre mood in the police car as they drew up outside Superintendent Joe Worthington’s house on the Knock Road close to Shandon Park Golf Course. Thunder rumbled from behind the Black Mountains and the taste of the rain to come was on the air.

As he had visualized, sweat clung to the back of Wilson’s neck as he alighted from the unmarked police car. He looked around the pleasant houses on the road of this staunchly middle class area. It was the kind of place where the nice people of Belfast lived. Nobody from these streets bombed or shot their neighbours during the ‘Troubles’. He moved slowly to the gate at the front of the house. Looking up he saw the curtain move on the downstairs window. He opened the gate and followed by Moira, he walked up the short tarmacadam drive to the ornate front door. He raised his hand to ring the bell and before he could do so the door opened.

“Ian, I’ve been expecting you,” Superintendent Joseph Worthington stood in the doorway. “I knew there was no way it was going away.”

Wilson stared at the man in front of him, and for a second didn’t recognise his former superior. The flesh hung on his pallid cheeks, and his eyes had receded into his head. Dark circles surrounded his eyes. His clothes hung on him like a scarecrow.

“Christ, Ian,” Veronica Worthington stood in the hallway. “Have a heart. He’s been depressed for months. That job has nearly killed him.”

“Hush, woman,” Worthington said. “He’s only doing his job. I’m heartily sorry, Ian, I know what this must be like for you.”

Wilson went to his visualization. “ Joseph Robert Worthington, I am arresting you on a charge of causing actual bodily harm and sexual assault. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“Can I get my things,” Worthington said.

“Of course,” Wilson said.

Worthington turned in the hallway and started up the stairs.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Ian Wilson,” Veronica Worthington said from the hallway. “Some day that’ll be you. Broken and abused by a job that no human being could bear. He outlasted the ‘Troubles’, but that job tore the very heart out of his breast.”

Wilson was at a loss for words. His visualization didn’t go this far. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t have wanted this for the world.”

The sound of the shot within the house was explosive.

Wilson and Veronica looked up the stairs together, and Wilson grabbed her before she had a chance to move.

“Christ no,” Veronica Worthington wailed as she struggled to escape from Wilson’s grip. “Let me go. Let me go to him.”

“It’s too late,” Wilson said pulling her close to him. “Moira, take Mrs Worthington, and whatever you do don’t let her up these stairs.” He passed the crying woman to Moira who pulled her close to her chest and stroked her hair.

Wilson rushed up the stairs. He knew it would be in vain. Joe knew how to handle a weapon, and he was sure there would be no need for an ambulance. When he arrived at the top of the stairs he ripped open the first door. It was a bedroom and was empty. A second door produced the same result. Joe Worthington was behind the third door. He had shot himself in the head while sitting on the toilet bowl and was now slumped against the wall on his left side. A Ruger Speed Six revolver lay on the ground. The back wall of the toilet was sticky with dark cranial blood and flecks of brain matter. Wilson knelt and felt for a pulse in his neck. As he had surmised, there was nothing. On the floor was a blood-stained piece of paper. It simply said ‘SORRY’ in capital letters. He brushed a tear from his eye and stood back. Somehow he felt he was a desecration to the dead man. He turned, removed the key from the inside of the door, then closed and locked the door from the outside before dropping the key into his pocket.

Moira’s face stared up at him from the hallway as he made his way downstairs. He shook his head in negation, and he saw Moira increase the pressure of her hug. That action brought on another bout of deep wailing from Joe’s wife.

“Veronica,” Wilson said. “Is there anyone we can call for you? Any family members?” He was struggling to remember whether Joe had any children.

Veronica Worthington raised her head slowly from Moira’s chest. She broke free and started to rain blows on Wilson torso. “Get out of my house, you bloody bastard.” She continued to flail away at Wilson while he stood stoically taking whatever punishment she was prepared to hand out. The force of the attack diminished, and she fell sobbing at his feet. “He was a good man,” she said through the sobs. “That bloody job killed him.”

Wilson picked her up gently and handed her to Moira. “Get the number of a relative and get someone around here immediately.” He took out his mobile. “I’ll get on to the Station and get a family liaison officer to replace you.”

The ambulance took away the body two hours later. Wilson spent the last hour sitting in the car while the pathologist’s team did whatever they had to do. Veronica Worthington’s sister and the family liaison officer were doing what they were good at – making tea and commiserating. A group of inquisitive neighbours were gathered outside the house. Wilson wanted very badly to be out of there, but he determined to stay until Joe had been taken away. Now that they were finished, he had somewhere to go.

“I’ll drive,” Wilson said and Moira left the driver’s seat without comment.

He drove the short distance from Knock Road to Police Headquarters and pulled up outside.

“Boss,” Moira put her hand on his arm when he turned the engine off. “Whatever’s running through your mind, don’t do it. It won’t help the Super, and it won’t help you. Forget the office today. Go home.”

“I wish that was an option,” Wilson exited the car and strode towards the office block housing PSNI Headquarters.

“Sir,” DCC Jennings’ Secretary was on her feet as Wilson burst into her office. “He’s busy and can’t see you now.”

Wilson threw open the door to the inner office before the Secretary stopped speaking.

“You fucking murdering bastard,” Wilson made a rush for Jennings’ desk.

Jennings leapt to his feet and managed to slide around the free edge of the desk always keeping the large wooden structure between him and the charging DCI.

“DCI Wilson remember where you are and to whom you are speaking,” Jennings’ words came in gasps.

“You murdering shit,” Wilson had both his hands on the desk. Other than clambering over the desk he had no way of reaching Jennings. “You could have held the gun in you hand yourself.”

“The blame is totally yours,” Jennings spat back like a snake. “You bungled the arrest. You presented him with a chance to commit suicide. I intend to set up an enquiry and I’m going to make sure that you pay for the dereliction of duty that led to Superintendent Worthington’s death.”

“You insisted that he be arrested at home,” Wilson shouted. ‘You insisted that it was me that arrested him. The man was embarrassed out of his mind. You killed him, you fucker, and that’s what your enquiry is going to prove. And when they’re done with you, I’m going to take you limb from fucking limb.”

“Everything alright, Sir,” two large PSNI officers stood in the doorway of Jennings’ office.

Jennings pulled himself up to his full height. He wet his lips, which were dry. ‘Please escort DCI Wilson out of the building.” He moved back behind his desk as the two officers came forward to stand beside Wilson. “You are extremely lucky that I am taking a lenient view on what just happened here. I understand that you are somewhat overwrought with the death off your former colleague. From now on your superior CI Harrison will accompany you when you come to my office. My Secretary will give orders to that effect, and the reception here will be informed. Take him out.”

They sat in one of the snugs in the Crown Bar in Great Victoria Street. Wilson had tried to call Kate but she was in court and unavailable. Moira was still working on her first glass of wine while Wilson had already demolished three double whiskeys. He had moved on to pints of Guinness and one stood on the table in front of him. He took a large swallow and leaned back against the leather padding of the seat. He turned and glanced at the decorative window. “He was just a copper who had too much. Should have retired. I hope that Doogan bitch is happy with her day’s work.”

“It wasn’t her fault, Boss. She didn’t ask to be attacked,” Moira said defensively.

“For Christ’s sake, woman, I know that. This is just talk. Can’t I just sound off.”

“It wasn’t your fault either. His wife told me he contemplated suicide already. He went to see a psychiatrist. She thought that he was over it but the business with Constable Doogan was just the catalyst. “ She nodded at the pint glass on the table. “How many more of those do you intend to have?”

“As many as it takes but there isn’t that much booze in this bar. Now that Joe is out of the way, I suppose we can get down to trying to find out who killed the priest.”

“It’ll wait,” Moira said sipping her wine.

“This is my second,” Wilson took another slug from his pint.

“Second what?”

“Police suicide,” Wilson said simply. “My father was a copper. He finished up as a sergeant in a small town in Antrim. One day, he went into the shed at the bottom of our garden, and blew his brains out with his service revolver. What’s that Oscar Wilde said, “to lose one to police suicide is regrettable but to lose two is incompetence’. “

A quick smile flitted across her lips. “I don’t think that’s the correct quotation, just your version of it.”

He took a long slug from his pint and nodded at the barman for a refill. “There’s going to be an enquiry which will pretty quickly turn into a witch-hunt. Jennings will appoint himself the Witchfinder General and he will focus all his efforts on finding that I was incompetent. Then he’ll try to force me out or at least have me demoted. He always swore that he’d have me pounding a beat somewhere.”

Moira placed her hand on his. “I was there. I saw exactly what happened. There was nothing that you could have done.” She was suddenly aware of the position of her hand, and she quietly removed it.