Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (21 page)

The waitress deposited a gin and tonic in front of Moira, and she immediately went for her handbag.

“It’s my treat,” Graham said quickly and ordered a pint of Guinness for himself. “I don’t think I’ve had time for a quiet drink since the call out for the Father Gilroy murder. Two murders in one week brings me back to the old days.”

Moira sipped her drink. “I’m thinking of having my eyes tested after looking through more than twenty hours of grainy footage. I’d nearly buy the shopkeepers on the Glen Road new CCTV equipment rather than go through that again.”

“Been there and done that,” Graham said. “The Boss is a bit wound up these days.”

“So would you be with two fresh murder cases and Professional Standards on your case.”

Graham’s pint of Guinness arrived, and he paid the waitress for the two drinks. “Cheers,” he said raising his glass and taking a large slug. “Aye, Coyle and Gillespie have the reputation of being a couple of Rottweilers. No doubt they’ll be back for a second bite at the cherry. Everybody knows that the Boss did the Super’s arrest by the book.”

“That was only one part of it,” Moira said. “Most of the interview was about the Boss’ sex life. They were trying to pin some sort of sexual misconduct on him.”

“And how the hell would you know anything about that?” Graham asked.

“Exactly,” Moira replied. “The Boss is already set up with his lady barrister friend.”

“But you know that there are stories around about him and female officers,” Graham took another slug from his Guinness.

“I’m not aware of any stories,” Moira said defensively.

“Probably just locker room talk,” Graham left it open as to who might be doing the talking.  “You’ve even been mentioned.”

Moira downed her drink and signalled for another. “Christ but you men take the biscuit. I suppose half the Station think they’ve been in my pants.”

“No the betting is on just one,” Graham finished his pint and signalled to the waitress with the empty glass to bring a refill.

“Well there’s no truth in that rumour,” she could feel her face reddening.  “You can pass the word in the locker room.”

“It wouldn’t be unusual. He’s a handsome bloke, and you’re a good-looking woman. You’ve been working closely since you arrived. A one-night stand would be the most natural thing in the world. Nobody gives a bugger about things like that at the Station.”

“What are you getting at?” Moira said.

“Nothing,” Graham said and lifted his right hand to scratch behind his right ear.

He’s lying, Moira thought. That involuntary hand movement is his ‘tell’. I’m being pumped. Her first reaction was anger but she immediately suppressed it.  The men at the bar were giving her the once over again. They had figured out that she and Graham were not exactly an item.

“Coyle and Gillespie had their heads up their asses when they questioned me,” she said. “The Boss is living in some fantastic apartment with a beautiful woman who is also one of Belfast’s top barristers. Who the hell can compete with that lifestyle?”

“But the Boss has always been up for a fling,” Graham was pleased that he hadn’t been rumbled but it had been close.

“Not with me,” Moira said. “It’s painful the way he gushes on about Kate McCann. It’s like the first time the poor bugger has been in love. She has him hook, line and sinker.”

Graham realised that he had gone as far as he could. Pushing it any further would only expose him. Jennings would be pissed but so what. He’d done what he had been asked to do and he couldn’t get evidence where there was none.

Moira finished her second drink and tossed a ten-pound note on the table. “Thanks Harry, it’s been a tough day. Now I’m off home for a nice long bath followed by a glass of Chardonnay.”

She stood up and walked the length of the bar on her way out.

“If you’d had a drink with me, you wouldn’t be leaving alone,” a man at the bar wearing a pin stripped suit said as she passed.

“Don’t bet on it,” Moira said and ensured that her bum moved a little more from side to side as she exited the bar.

CHAPTER 44

Wilson woke at five-thirty in the morning and lay in bed. He kept running over the details of the case in his mind and concluded that it was going nowhere. He had been royally screwed by Monsignor Devlin and there was very little he could do about it. He had no direct proof that the Monsignor had removed the computer and the personal papers from the Rectory so the bastard had gotten away with destroying a vital piece of evidence. They would now be forced to trawl through Gilroy’s life in the hope of finding a nugget that would lead to the killer. The motive had always been Gilroy, and it was more than likely a consequence of his sexual preference.

Kate woke at seven o’clock and saw that he was already alert. “How long have you been awake?” she said snuggling into him.

“A couple of hours,” he said. “It’s part of the process. The more the case gets away from me the more I mull it over in my mind and the less sleep I get.”

“Your Monsignor Devlin called the Chambers yesterday. He left a message that I should be prepared to give the diocese some legal advice. No further details. I suppose we shouldn’t speak about the case while the diocese has engaged me. Chinese walls and all that.”

“Sometimes being in the same business isn’t so good,” Wilson put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for breakfast?”

“Who are you trying to impress? Helen already thinks you’re a special one so you can drop the act.”

“I want breakfast and I want to get to the Station,” he swung his legs out of the bed. “I don’t like being manipulated but this time I’m up against experts in the field. Bishop Carey and his boy Devlin are laughing up their backsides at me, and someone is going to pay for that.”

“Briefing in ten minutes,” Wilson announced as he strode into the Squad Room and made for his office.

“Boss, a word,” Moira said before Wilson could close his door.

He motioned her to join him.

She closed the door as soon as she entered the office.

“What’s the problem,” Wilson removed his jacket and put it on the back of his chair.

“I’m not sure,” Moira said and began to recount what had happened in the Garrick on the previous evening.

Wilson listened attentively. “How did it end?” he asked finally.

“I left,” she said.

“No I mean did he know that you were uneasy with the conversation?”

“I don’t think so. Once I realised that he was trying to pump me, I played it as cool as I could.”

“Auld Harry is a dab hand at wheedling information. The question is who was he doing it for?”

“Coyle and Gillespie?”

“Maybe, but I’d put my money on the DCC. Harry wants to be a sergeant, but he keeps messing up the exam. His only chance of landing George’s old job is a personal recommendation from the DCC. So he’s the DCC’s man in the Squad. Ironic, eh!. That used to be Whitehouse’s role here as well.”

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing. They may think that I’ve had my wicked way with you but there’s no evidence because it never happened. Now we know that Harry is playing for the other team we have the advantage. If we want to feed back something, we know who to tell. Otherwise, we just go on as we are.” He looked through the glass partition of the office and saw Graham staring at them. He was tempted to give him something to look at but thought the better of it. “Let’s go meet the troops. We wouldn’t like Harry to have any more ammunition.”

“Okay,” Wilson said as soon as the squad were assembled around the whiteboard in the office. “We now know that Gilroy was a paedophile. Brilliant bit of detective work by Ronald has shown that his Internet traffic was centred on paedophile sites. The computer he used will never be found. Our friend Devlin has made sure of that. There’s been no reaction from the beat coppers to the photo that Moira pulled from the CCTV and I suppose that’s no more than we expected. We now have two lines of enquiry. One, we need to know everything there is to know about Father Gilroy. Find out where he served in the past. Call up the local police and see if there was any hint of unsavoury activity between the good Father and some of the junior members of his flock. Maybe the Internet has satisfied him of late, but we haven’t always had the Internet so let’s find out how Gilroy amused himself in the past. The second line of enquiry remains the homeless man. The photo might not be the best, but it’s all that we’ve got. Someone out there will be able to recognise the bugger. Moira, you and I are going to hit the homeless missions. Maybe somebody there can give us a lead on our suspect. Harry, I want Malachy Devlin in the Station at four o’clock this afternoon. He’s still under charge for wasting police time so make sure he understands that his attendance is not voluntary. Tell him I need to interview him a second time. Ronald and Peter are going to dissect Father Gilroy’s life from the day he was born until the day he died. I want to know everything about him. Use the computer and the phones. Turn every stone over. We’ll meet again this evening at seventeen hundred hours to review progress. Now let’s get at it.”

CHAPTER 45

The Belfast Central Mission is located on the Newtownards Road and occupies a large Victorian building which was in the past a small hotel. A sign on the outside of the building stated that beds could not be claimed before six p.m. Wilson and Moira pushed in the main door and found themselves in the vestibule of the building. Considering that it was mid-morning, there didn’t seem to be a large number of homeless people in the vicinity. An office was located on the right side of the vestibule with a handwritten sign above a hatch indicating it acted as the reception. Wilson went to the hatch and looked into the room beyond. It was empty. A small white bell push sat on the ledge of the hatch facing Wilson. He pushed it and heard the sound of a bell reverberating in the distance. The two police officers stood in silence waiting for a response. Nothing happened. Wilson hit the bell push again and maintained pressure on the small white button. The sound of the bell reverberated with greater insistence.

“Aye, Jimmy,” a head topped by a large bush of curly black hair popped over the balcony of the first floor. “Enough of the bloody noise. I’ll be with you when I get through with cleaning a pile of shite up here. If you’re in a hurry you could always come up and help me.”

The head disappeared. Wilson and Moira looked at each other and laughed. Neither had any desire to mount the stairs and lend assistance.

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait,” Wilson said.

“Looks that way,” Moira said. “I hope this is worth the effort.”

“It’s all we’ve got.”

After an interval of five minutes, the owner of the head of bushy hair descended the stairs. He was razor thin, and dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a dirty grey tee shirt topped off with a black hoodie. His bony face was as pale as alabaster and the lines that crossed it made the appraisal of age difficult.

“A visit from the Peelers,” he said opening the office with a key and moving to the far side of the hatch. “It’s been that kind of day.”

Wilson didn’t bother to ask how they had been spotted as police officers. “DCI Wilson and DC McElvaney.”

“You’re too early to claim a bed,” he said poking his head out of the hatch. “Come back at six.”

Wilson smiled. “If you’re in training to become a comedian, I suggest that you don’t give up the day job.”

“Fat chance of that. What can I do for you?”

“We’re trying to trace a homeless man,” Wilson said nodding at Moira to produce the photo.

“Be here at six and you’ll have any amount of homeless people.”

“And you are?” Wilson asked.

“Colin,” the man behind the hatch said. “I manage the Mission during the day.”

Wilson glanced around. “I thought this place was run by the religious.”

“It is,” Colin replied. “Despite the clothes, I have been ordained.”

“Sorry,” Wilson said. “It wasn’t just the clothes there was also a bit of profanity from upstairs.”

“We’re all human,” Colin said. “Is she going to show me the picture or is she going to keep it to herself?”

Moira passed the photo through the hatch.

Colin examined the photo for a minute. “I’m supposed to be the comedian here. Am I supposed to recognise a quarter face? Is this some sort of game where you show me photos of ascending clarity or is this all you’ve got?”

“That’s it,” Wilson said. “We need to find this man so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries. It’s a murder enquiry by the way.”

“This job gives you a tendency towards gallows humour. I’d say that you’re on the right track as far as the man being homeless. That’s not about the clothes but about the way he holds himself. The homeless spend most of their lives behaving in an obsequious manner. They develop this type of body shape that makes them look like they’re trying to hide within themselves. This man has been homeless for quite a while. The quality of the photo will make it difficult to put a name on him. Personally I have no idea who he is.” He moved to hand the photo back.

“Keep it,” Wilson said. “If you wouldn’t mind passing it around when your clients assemble this evening, I’d be grateful.”

“Have you tried the other missions?”

“You’re the first on our list because you’re the biggest. We’ll cover the others before we’re through,” Wilson said.

“He’s definitely been in one or other of the Missions if he’s in Belfast. That doesn’t mean that you’ll find him in one of the Missions tonight. These fellows are peculiar.  We have people who consider this place their home and turn up on a regular basis. Others come irregularly.”

“So they spread themselves across several Missions?” Wilson asked.

“Some do. Others only come when they need a meal or a shower or even a bed. A lot of them have a favourite place where they feel comfortable. It might be under a bridge or in a park or maybe a deserted house. The surroundings might disgust you and me, but to them it’s a home and primarily they feel safe there. They can spend weeks without coming to the Mission. What I’m trying to say is that your chances of finding someone who can recognise this photograph are very slim. The people we have in tonight might never have seen this man in their lives. On the other hand, one of them might be his best friend. You’ll have to depend on the luck of the draw.”

Wilson removed a card from his pocket. “My number’s on the card, and you can reach me any time day or night. This man may have nothing to do with the case we’re investigating, but he may also be a vital witness. If you do run across someone who might be able to identify him, don’t put the frighteners on him. We just want to talk to this guy.”

Moira was frowning as they made their way to the car.

“You expected a result?” Wilson asked.

“I just thought that might be our break,” Moira tried to smile to hide her disappointment.

“We’re at the start of a very long road. Three more Missions and maybe we’ll start thinking that we’re on the wrong track. We have to remember that Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot are fictional characters. Coppers like us just plod along.”

It was after two o’clock in the afternoon when Wilson and Moira got back to the Station. They’d drawn a blank at all the Missions and left both the photo and a business card behind in the hope that someone might recognise the man in the photograph.

The Duty Sergeant smiled as Wilson entered. Without speaking he moved his right hand in a quarter circle above his already expansive stomach and pointed at Wilson with the index finger of his left hand. Behind him, two uniforms fell about laughing.  The meaning was clear, Fat Boy wanted to see him

“Marcel Marceau you’re not,” Wilson smiled.

“He’s very testy so you better be on your best behaviour,” the Duty Sergeant said.

“I haven’t had my lunch yet,” Wilson said. “And I’m bloody hungry. Have someone send up a bacon sandwich and a cup of what passes for tea to my office.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Duty Sergeant saluted.

“What part of superior officer do you not understand?” Harrison went on the attack as soon as Wilson entered his office.

“What?” Wilson said.

“What, Sir. I am your Superior Officer and yet I haven’t had a report from you in over forty-eight hours.” There were red anger streaks on Harrison’s neck.

“I was under the impression that we held the same rank. You are a Chief Inspector at PSNI Headquarters where you are expected to make up questionnaires and kiss your boss’ arse. I am a Detective Chief Inspector and Head of the Belfast Division Murder Squad and I investigate murders.”

“You’ve gone too far this time, Wilson,” Harrison made a move to stand up but changed his mind in midstream and flopped back into his chair. “You can’t insult me and get away with it. The DCC will know about this insubordination. Professional Standards aren’t finished with you yet.”

“I hadn’t realised that I was being insubordinate,” Wilson said. “You asked me a question, and I answered. I haven’t refused to obey any instruction that you’ve given.”

The colour had risen to Harrison’s face, and his jowls had started wobbling. “You’re supposed to be bringing me up to date on your investigation. I need to report to the DCC on whether we’re making progress or whether we need to change the SIO.”

“Well,” Wilson began. “We’ve discarded the ‘serial priest killer’ hypothesis that somehow found its way into the newspapers and onto the radio and television news.” He then proceeded to give Harrison a brief run through of the photo of the homeless man and the discovery that Father Gilroy was in all likelihood a paedophile. “We’ll be holding a briefing in the Squad Room at five o’clock, and we’d be honoured if you joined us.”

Harrison’s face was a cross between dark-red and purple and for a moment Wilson thought that he had gone too far and that the man was about to have a heart attack.

“Actually, Sir,” Wilson said. “I haven’t had my lunch, and I have a bacon sandwich and tea waiting in my office. Do you have any further instructions?”

Without saying a word Harrison pointed at the door of his office.

At four o’clock on the dot Wilson pushed open the door of Interview Room number one and ushered Moira in before him. Monsignor Devlin was already sitting at the table in the room accompanied by a pinstriped suited gentleman that Wilson recognised. He remembered Kate had introduced them at some legal function. He pulled back a chair and permitted Moira to sit before taking the seat beside her. Devlin’s companion removed a business card from the folder in front of him and slid it across the table. He was a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in Belfast - a firm that generally employed Kate to handle their litigation.

“I thought it expedient to have my solicitor present,” Devlin said

“No problem,” Wilson passed the card to Moira and nodded at the Solicitor. “DC McElvaney, the recorder and the preliminaries please.”

Moira pressed the record button, gave the time and the participants and then turned towards Wilson.

Wilson stared across the table at Devlin. The Solicitor had his folder open. He removed a small leather pouch from his pocket and removed a black fountain pen with a white dot on the top of the cap. Kate McCann had a similar pen and Wilson recognised it as a Montblanc, the pen of the rich and famous. He turned his gaze to Devlin. “How long have you known that Father Gilroy was a paedophile?” he asked.

The tick at the corner of Devlin’s mouth showed that he was taken aback by the question. He shot a quick glance at his legal adviser but found no solace in his professional blank look.

“I beg your pardon,” Devlin needed time to consider this line of questioning.

Wilson took in a deep breath. “I asked how long have you known that Father Gilroy was a paedophile.”

Devlin brushed at an imaginary hair at the side of his head. “I wasn’t aware that Father Gilroy was a paedophile.”

“But you are aware now,” Wilson said quickly. “When did you learn that he was a paedophile?”

“How does this line of questioning pertain to my client?” the Solicitor said realising that his client needed time to regroup.

“You client has been charged with impeding a police investigation. The question of when he became aware of the fact that Father Gilroy was a paedophile is germane to this charge.”

The Solicitor nodded at Devlin. He had done his best it was now up to his client to extricate himself.

Devlin remained silent.

“Be very careful, Monsignor,” Wilson said emphasising the word ‘careful’. “You are now aware that Father Gilroy was a paedophile?”

“Yes,” Devlin replied.

“Were you aware that Father Gilroy was a paedophile when you removed his computer from his residence?”

There was a brush at the imaginary hair. “I already told you that I did not remove a computer from Father Gilroy’s home.”

“Again, I ask you, when did you learn that Father Gilroy was a paedophile?” Wilson asked continuing to stare into Devlin’s brown eyes.

“Recently,” Devlin replied.

“How recently?” Wilson asked.

“Very recently. I had been looking into Father Gilroy’s career and I found that he had been the subject of a clerical enquiry.”

“Explain the clerical enquiry to me,” Wilson said.

Devlin leaned forward in his chair. The pedagogue in him came to the fore. “If a complaint is made against a priest, the Bishop in charge of the diocese to which the priest belongs can set up a clerical enquiry which is composed of two priests and one layman. A third priest called the
notaire
establishes the minutes and the conclusions of the enquiry which are then transmitted to the Bishop for action.”

“And Father Gilroy was the subject of such a clerical enquiry?”

“Already answered,” the Solicitor cut in.

“The clerical enquiry in question took place when?” Wilson asked.

“I am not at liberty to answer,” Devlin said.

“Why is that?”

“The enquiry and its conclusions are private. All the participants are sworn to secrecy.” Devlin shifted uneasily in his chair.