Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (23 page)

CHAPTER 48

Wilson was waiting in the lobby of the apartment building when Moira pulled up in front in her Peugeot.

“You need to get yourself a new car,” Wilson said sliding into the front passenger seat.

“It’s all I can afford,” Moira said hitting the indicator and moving into traffic. “Where to?” she asked.

“Belfast Central Homeless Mission, Colin’s been on. He thinks that one of his regulars recognises our homeless man.”

“You over the limit?”

“By one or two.”

“Do you really think it’s coming together?”

“Every investigation has a momentum a bit like a concerto. It starts off low and easy building to a crescendo and then sort of dissipates back to the low and easy.”

“And we’re in the middle of the crescendo, right?”

“Right, we have an idea of the motive, and we have a prime suspect. It might all evaporate in a puff of smoke but for the moment, that all we have. My gut feeling tells me we’re on the right track, but my gut feeling isn’t always right.”

The Mission had changed character since they had visited that morning. The morning had been the lull, in the evening, they entered the storm. People of all ages dressed in varying degrees of homelessness chic wandered through the lobby and up the wooden staircase.  Colin met them in front of the Reception Hatch. He had dispensed with the tee-shirt and sweat pants he was wearing earlier in the day, and although he had eschewed the clerical collar for an open neck white shirt he was looking distinctly more priestly. His pants looked like they could be half of his black suit. His bushy black hair was under as much control as he could possibly give it but still gave the impression of a curly black bush.

“Okay, Colin, you got us here,” Wilson said as he shook Colin’s hand.

“I hope it’s not a wild goose chase,” Colin said giving Wilson a strong handshake.

“It’s a little more lively than this morning,” Wilson glanced around as the mass of humanity moving around the centre of the Mission.

“This is the beginning of the busy season,” Colin said. “As soon as the leaves begin to change colour the number of clients expands exponentially. If the weather in summer is anyway good they prefer to stick together in their usual haunts. Most of the Missions are well outside the city as I’m sure you have already learned but most of the money to be made from begging is in the centre.  Let’s go find Scobie.”

“Your dog?” Wilson said.

Colin frowned. “Scobie is the guy who thinks he recognises the photo.”

“And his nickname comes from?”

“Maybe Scobie Breasley,” he saw by the look on Wilson’s face that he had never heard of the man.  “The Australian jockey from the nineteen fifties. That’s what everybody calls him.”

They moved through the groups of men who were, by and large, in need of a shower. The Mission had undergone a considerable level of renovation. Two long corridors extended from either side of the Reception area. Colin led them down the left corridor.

“This used to be one of the grand homes of Belfast,” Colin said as they walked along. “It was bequeathed to the Mission twenty years ago, and we’ve been renovating and extending it since.”

The walls looked like they could use a coat of paint. Plaster was peeling exposing a white powdery substance underneath.  As they walked, a stream of men moved about mainly in the opposite direction. The young were in general clean-shaven and wore hoodies concealing their faces. The older ones wore torn anoraks and sported scraggy beards. Most of them looked towards the floor as Wilson and Moira moved among them. Wilson got the impression that they had already been recognised as police officers.

“Scobie is normally in the TV room,” Colin said and pushed in a door on the left of the corridor.

The two police officers and the parson entered a small room of no more than 100 square feet. A television of at least one generation ago stood in the corner. The box holding the screen dominated the corner of the room and the colours on the screen looked faded.  There were ten older men seated around the room. Two chose to sit on the ground, and the rest sat in a series of chairs none of which resembled the others. Half the men stared ahead of them with no indication that they were indeed watching the flickering images on the screen.

“Money’s too tight to mention,” Colin said and smiled.

“That’s the way it looks,” Wilson returned the smile. “And I thought that things were tight at the Station.”

“Scobie,” Colin called and a man of indeterminate age but certainly more than fifty years old looked away from the screen at the three newcomers. “Outside?”

The man identified as Scobie stood up. He was thin and would have been tall if it wasn’t for the fact that his back was almost bent in two. He wore an old stained North Face jacket that wasn’t closed at the front. His beard was snowy white and contrasted with the black indents in his cheeks that traced the line of his cheekbones. His eyes were brownish black and twinkled as he turned his head towards Wilson and Moira. Wilson immediately decided that Scobie was a step above the other people in the room.

“I’m coming back,” Scobie said as he stood up. “And I intend to find my chair empty when I return.”

He walked over the Colin. “These the Peelers?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Wilson and DC McElvaney,” Wilson said.

“I’ve heard of you,” Scobie said. “People say that you’re Okay.”

“What kind of people?” Wilson asked.

“The people you put inside,” Scobie smiled. “So you must be Okay.”

“I never put one inside that didn’t deserve to be there.”

“That’s what all the Peelers say.”

They walked back down the corridor in the direction of the Reception area. Colin and Scobie walked in front while Wilson and Moira brought up the rear. Wilson couldn’t get away from the feeling that he had met Scobie somewhere before.

“We need to talk outside,” Scobie said when they reached the Reception area. “I have a reputation to protect. Can’t be seen consorting with the Peelers.”

Colin dropped off, and the two police officers and the homeless man went through the front door onto the Newtownards Road.

“I know you from somewhere,” Wilson said as soon as they reached the next corner.

“Could be.”

“What you name?”

“Scobie.”

“Your real name.”

“That’s my real name now. That’s all you need to know.”

They stopped around the corner.

“The walls in that place have got ears. You want to know who the bloke in the photo might be.”

“Do you know him?” Wilson asked.

“Maybe,” Scobie’s dark eyes glinted. “You want him bad.” He could see by their faces that they did.  “What’d he do?“

“He’s our prime suspect in a murder enquiry.”

Scobie laughed. “I might have guessed. You can always tell the ones that are about to go over the edge. That boy has had a worm eating away at his brain since I’ve known him.”

“Who is he?”

Scobie shook his right index finger at Wilson. “Not so fast. We’re still in the negotiation phase. I’m trying to work out how much it’s worth to you to get a line on this fellow. They don’t send a DCI out just for fun.”

Wilson stared at Scobie’s face. He tried to imagine it without the beard and with a little more flesh on the bones. He ran through his rogue’s gallery but still came up with nothing.

“So we’re talking money?” Wilson asked.

“We are most definitely talking money. I’m homeless and penniless, everything in my life is about where I’ll lay my head next and where I’m going to get my next meal. I came too late for the drugs generation, and I never got the taste for alcohol so I need money only for the basic necessities. I read in the papers somewhere that you sold all your rugby paraphernalia at some auction for the big boys.”

Wilson nodded.

“So you picked up lots of cash.”

“It all went to charity.”

“Pity. You got any stuff left?”

“One or two bits and pieces.”

Scobie frowned. “You gave up your old life, and you still kept one or two pieces.”

“I found them after the auction was over. When I was clearing the old house out. What do you want?” Wilson took out his wallet.

“We need a new television,” Scobie said. “One of those flat screen LCD things. Colin’s a good guy, but the TV comes low on his list of priorities.”

‘Okay I get it,” Wilson said. “I’ve got an All Blacks shirt that Colin Meads wore. It should fetch the price of a new flat screen TV. What say I donate it to you and the Mission?”

“That would be very generous of you.”

“It’s done. Now tell me about the guy in the photo.”

“His face is hidden, but I recognise the gait. He’s been around Belfast for the past eight years or so and I think that he was inside before that. He’s not heavy duty, but he is wired. The circuits upstairs have been completely fried. He’s done every drug known to man. If you can swallow it, smoke it or shoot it into your body then he’s tried it. He swallows painkillers the same way some kids eat Smarties. We rarely use first names but one time he told me his name was Noel but I haven’t an idea what his last name is. He’s probably given half dozen names to the various Missions but I’d guess that none of them are real. I used to see him more regularly years ago but he only comes to a Mission when he absolutely has to. He can’t feed his habit from the Social so I would guess that he’s thieving or hiring himself out.”

“As what?” Moira asked.

Wilson and Scobie looked at her together.

“Wet behind the ears.” Scobie said. “He’s a rent boy. A body for sale.”

“How do we find him?” Wilson asked.

“He’s got a hidey-hole somewhere probably in out of the rain. He’s been missing for the past six months give or take a few visits to the Mission. That means he’s found someplace where he thinks he’s safe. His whole life is about sticking shit into his body. Six months ago, I saw him eat twenty-four Codeine tablets in one go. The man’s brain and insides must be in mush.”

Wilson said. “You haven’t earned that All Black shirt yet.”

“That’s as much as I know. The guy didn’t talk much. He was either silent or catatonic. And like most of the homeless, he kept himself to himself. There’s a story around him but he never gave it out.”

‘There’s a story around everyone,” Wilson said. “Including you. Where should we look for his hidey-hole?”

“Somewhere where no sensible person would ever go, a deserted building, a squat that’s been abandoned. The list is endless. It’s a needle in a haystack. You might have to wait until he sticks his head out. But you better be around when he does.”

“The shirt will be delivered tomorrow. I hope you enjoy the television.”

“Thanks,” Scobie turned and started back towards the Mission.

“Do you think we can believe him?” Moira asked when he was out of hearing range.

“I think we can count on every word he said,” Wilson had just remembered where he had met Scobie before.

CHAPTER 49

Wilson asked Moira to drop him about one mile from his and Kate’s apartment. He stepped out onto the embankment alongside the Lagan River and felt the first blast of wind from the Arctic presaging the approach of winter. Moira waved farewell, but he didn’t see as he raised the collar of his coat against the biting wind. A short 20-minute walk away the woman he loved was probably snuggled up in bed. It would be easy for him to join her and as their bodies coalesced to assume that all was well with the world. But that would be an illusion. The lights of Belfast twinkled on the dark grey waters of the Lagan. Belfast was a powder keg, and religion was the touch paper. In Brixton, it was race and in Birmingham three bearded idiots had planned to assail their neighbours with nail bombs in the name of Allah. Wilson had been trained to solve the most heinous of crimes, and the basis of that training was the search for a motive. But murder had become an indiscriminate act fuelled by a series of electrical impulses that activated cells in a diseased brain. There was no real motive for the shooting of spectators in a cinema no more than for the killing of dozens of young people on a holiday island in Norway. The victims had not been selected because they represented a particular threat to the killer neither were they chosen as an act of vengeance for a wrong done to the killer. They were simply victims and there were plenty of them out there on this dark autumn night. Wilson sat down heavily on a concrete bench provided by the City Fathers to allow the citizens to enjoy the flow of the river. He felt the cold of the concrete penetrate through his coat into his behind. Thirty years ago, the bench would have been made of wood. But the concrete was a sign of the times. It was more difficult for the sociopaths to reduce a concrete bench to rubble. Relatively few of the miscreants walking the street of Belfast carried a 14-pound sledgehammer in their pockets. He watched the progress of the Lagan as it made its way to the sea. It was here long before the first foot landed on its bank and it would still be there when the virus that called itself humanity had finally extinguished itself. The cold from the bench was now becoming uncomfortable, and he rose slowly. He strolled along the bank of the river and thought about the homeless men at the Mission. Each of them would have a story as to why they had found themselves on the streets. For some, it would be drugs, for others drink, and for still others it would be gambling. For the odd one like Scobie, it would be returning to your home to find that your wife and children had been incinerated by an religious bigot with a Molotov Cocktail. When he would find ‘Noel’ he would learn what had set him on the path to homelessness and finally murder. But that was tomorrows’ work. He would spend this night asleep in the arms of a beautiful woman, and for a little while he would be happy to accept the illusion that all was well with the world.

Moira McElvaney was disappointed that Wilson had not returned her salutation. She wondered why he had decided to be dropped so far from his home. Perhaps there was some problem between him and Kate McCann. That could be considered wishful thinking on her part. Moira had what could be called an executive apartment in Lower Crescent near Queens University in the centre of Belfast. It was the bottom floor of a small two-story period house which had been tastefully, the words were the estate agent’s, renovated into two apartments. She occupied three rooms on the ground floor, a sizeable living room, a bedroom and a kitchen with enough room for her to eat her meals as well as prepare them. Two gay men, one an accountant and the other a university lecturer, occupied the apartment upstairs. The good news was that they stayed pretty much to themselves and only interacted with Moira when they bumped into each other. As she piloted her car towards Lower Crescent, she decided that she didn’t want to return to her apartment just yet. She considered turning around and heading back to the Lagan and shadowing Wilson. She needed to know why he wanted to be on his own. Another part of her told her she was being stupid. She had been trying to convince herself all week that it was time to get on with her life. She already had a failed marriage and pining after Wilson was obviously beginning to attract the notice of her colleagues. She dismissed the idea of reversing and following Wilson and made her way to her parking spot close to her apartment. As she alighted from her car she saw a group of people making their way towards the bar at the end of her street. If Wilson went for a drink he would have gone to the Crown. She decided that she really didn’t want to sit alone in her apartment and instead made her way to a hostelry called Bar 12. She pushed open the door and saw that a good crowd were already present in the relatively small bar area. She walked to the wooden bar and sat on a stool. The bar was upmarket for the university district. It was all wood panelling and the clientele appeared to be young professionals rather than students. She ordered a gin and tonic and watched the groups at tables while she waited for her drink. By chance, she caught the eye of a dark-haired young man seated with a group at the back of the bar. Her gaze moved on but she was aware that he continued to stare at her.  The barman brought her drink. She poured the tonic from the small bottle into the gin and took a sip. It tasted good. All around her the conversations were animated, and she realised that she was the only single person in the bar. She was more a Chardonnay at home woman, so this trip to the bar was an aberration. And there was always the possibility that men would consider a single woman in a bar as fair game. And she definitely didn’t feel like game, fair or otherwise. There was a soundless television high in the corner above the bar showing the evening news. She watched for several minutes before realising the futility of the exercise. She had no idea what stories were being covered. By the time she looked back from the television the seat beside her had been taken by the man whose eye she had caught earlier.

“Not the best place to drink alone,” he said. The accent was more American than Northern Irish.

“It depends,” she said. He was attractive rather than good looking with dark wavy hair, brown eyes and sallow skin. His features were unremarkable, nose neither too big or too small and his ears were covered by strands of hair. She immediately realised that she was being chatted up and decided to see where it was going to go.

“This your first time here?” he asked.

“How original,” she smiled and then realised that he had asked a serious question. ”I live nearby. With an accent like that you’re not from here, I mean Northern Ireland. You’re American?” she asked.

“Right first time. I’m on a sabbatical from the States. I’m lecturing at Queens in the Psychology Department.” He stared at her face. “Your hair is fantastic. Is red the real colour or did it come out of a bottle?”

She smiled. Only an American would be so direct. “It’s real,” she said. “How long have you been in Belfast?”

“Three weeks. “ He glanced across to the group he had been sitting with. “The people at my table work in the Psychology Department and I think they’ve been given the job of integrating me. I told them I don’t need to be chaperoned but they keep telling me this is Belfast and I keep telling them that I was brought up in Southie in Boston. I know no fear.”

She smiled again and took another sip of her drink. She wondered whether she was ready for this.

“You work here in Belfast?” he asked.

She nodded. Declaring herself as a police officer was apt to cut a lot of conversations short.

“You look like you just stepped out of the Quiet Man,” he said. “Incredible red hair and those beautiful green eyes. I remember this iconic postcard of two red-haired kids leading a donkey loaded with turf. At the time I thought it must have been an early example of Photoshop. They should bottle you and label it ‘Irish Coleen’.”

She didn’t know whether this guy was for real or the figment of somebody’s imagination. ‘So many compliments,” she said. “If I wasn’t so centred I think I’d been getting a swollen head.”

              “I’m sorry. I guess I’m coming on a bit strong but I’ve been dreaming of meeting a perfect Coleen since I learned that I’d be coming over here.” He held out his hand. “I’m Brendan Guilfoyle,” he said. “Irish father and Italian mother.”

She took his outstretched hand. “Moira McElvaney, all Irish.”

“Now that we’re acquainted,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She finished her gin and tonic. “Thanks Brendan but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. We’ll have to take a rain check on the drink.” She stood up preparing to leave.

“You can’t do this to me,” he said putting his hands together in a praying motion. “I’ve been looking for someone like you all my life.”

She pulled the corner of her eye and smiled. “You’ll get over it. It’s been nice meeting you,” she said. She needed out of this situation. It was only a young man in bar. To most woman it was a simple conversation that might develop into something but for her it was a memory of a husband who had abused her so badly sexually that had she been a police officer at the time she would have arrested him. The scars on her body had healed but there were still some scars on her mind. Maybe that’s why she had a thing for Wilson. He was her father figure. Someone unattainable sexually to just protect her.

“At least a phone number,” Brendan Guilfoyle pleaded.

She picked up a beer mat and wrote her phone number on it. She was tempted to make a mistake in the number, but he probably wouldn’t follow up anyway. She handed him the beer mat. “Good night,” she said and turned towards the door.

“I’ll call you,” he said after her.

Sure you will, she thought to herself.

Kate had been asleep by the time he had reached the apartment. She hadn’t been feeling well at breakfast, and their conversation had been more strained than usual. He was beginning to feel that this case was having a negative effect on their relationship. But maybe it wasn’t just the case. There were deeper questions that he was going to have to answer. Among them was whether he still needed to be a police officer. He knew he loved the job but was it becoming too high maintenance? Then there was his relationship with Kate. He knew that he loved her but was he prepared to go to the next level and consider a commitment to a life with her? Were their chosen careers compatible? Although she would certainly deny it Kate had political aspirations. Her leadership of the group seeking the establishment of a Truth and Reconciliation Committee was inevitably going to put her in the public limelight.

Monsignor Malachy Devlin was having his own dark night of the soul. He had spent several hours in prayer kneeling beside his bed as he had when he was a child. He was raised on the concept of a ‘good’ God but had been continually exposed to the venality and corruption of the organisation that was the keeper of this concept. He had committed a crime in destroying the computer and the files containing images he considered abhorrent. In doing so he had been obeying the direct orders of his Bishop. The Church had suffered enough at the hands of those who had tried to drag it down with overblown allegations regarding child abuse. Apologies had been made, and the abusers had been brought to book with the aid of the Church. Gilroy was a glitch. A fish that escaped the net. What if the police found the murderer, and the motive was identified as abuse? Wilson was close. He had no doubt that the miscreants would go to jail. He had worked for Carey long enough to know that when the time came Devlin would be the one thrown under the bus. He wondered whether he would be able to survive jail, and a shiver run along his spine. He always thought of himself as the smartest guy in the room. He excelled at school and university and on his ordination, he was marked out for future success. But the accomplishment of that success would depend on him offering blind allegiance to the organisation. He might be called upon to take one for the team. His vocation was initially based on his love of God and his desire to help his fellow man. He was beginning to realise that that desire was perverted by the requirements of climbing the corporate ladder. Wilson was right. He was guilty of perverting the course of justice and in the eyes of the law he was a criminal. But did the eyes of the law correspond with the eyes of God? He would obtain absolution for his sins but he doubted that he would ever be free of the stain of colluding in covering up the crimes of a man he considered a monster. He closed his prayer book, stood up and looked around his room.  It was comfortable in the extreme. Aside from his bed, it had a seating area and he had turned the bay window into a study with a heavy wooden desk on which stood his computer. A bookcase ran along one wall and was stocked with volumes on theology and autobiographies. It was a haven of peace and learning. And yet he felt that he infected this space by his actions over the past few weeks. He no longer felt happy here and felt within himself that something drastic was required if he were to expiate the harm he had done. He looked out at the perfectly manicured lawn bathed in the white light from the security floodlights. The house and the grounds were the life that he aspired to. What if a man were to gain the whole world but to lose his soul in the process? That phrase had been written almost two thousand years ago but had immediate relevance to his situation. He turned and stared at himself in the mirror. His face was whiter and gaunter than usual, and he noticed that grey hairs had suddenly begun to appear at his temples. In a short space of time, his body had begun to rebel against the course his mind had set it on. He was gratified to discover that somewhere in his body he still had the vestige of a conscience.