Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (24 page)

Noel Mulholland felt the chill in the air as he lay on top of a filthy sleeping bag placed on an equally filthy mattress on the floor of his squat. It must be the start of winter, he thought. Normally, he didn’t think of seasons or even days. He didn’t recognise that the periods of lucidity were becoming rarer and shorter. He didn’t sleep very well. He tried to remember how long it was since he had slept one complete night but gave up. He jumped as he felt something crawling around inside his head. He put a hand on each temple and squeezed. Nothing fell out. He quickly groped for the box of pills in his pocket, opened it and thrust a handful of pills into his mouth.  He waited anxiously for the pills to take effect. There was a scurrying noise to his left and he saw the pink eyes of a rat illuminated by the storm lamp he used as a light. The rat stopped and looked quizzically at him as though he was some strange creature. He appeared to be trying to work out what kind of creature he was. Mulholland looked around for something to throw at the rat but there was nothing close to hand. He didn’t fear the creature, but he didn’t like the way it was staring at him. His eyes were burning and he wondered what colour they were to the rat. He guessed they were red. He wondered whether the rat was trying to read his thoughts. The creature appeared to tire of the staring contest and scurried off into the darkness. Mulholland stared after it before lifting his shirt sleeve and looking at the cuts which crisscrossed his arms. There were no fresh cuts. The rat was not drawn by the smell of blood. He stood up and started to collect a series of loose bricks and wood. These he placed in close proximity to his bed. If the rat returned, he would have ammunition to throw at it. His brain suddenly cleared. Tomorrow was the day that he would complete the cycle he had started with Father Gilroy. He had a quick realisation that he had killed Gilroy and another priest, or maybe he had just dreamed it. There was some reason that he had to kill Bishop Carey. He searched in his brain but couldn’t recall why it was necessary. He just knew it had to be done.

In a room down the hall from the Monsignor’s, Bishop Carey slept the sleep of the just. If he did dream, it would be his habitual dream of the Pope placing a red hat on his head and confirming him as a Prince of the Church.

CHAPTER 50

Wilson was about to swing past the front desk when he glanced at the Duty Sergeant. One look at that face was enough to tell him that there was a serious problem.

“Something up?” Wilson asked.

The Duty Sergeant didn’t answer but handed Wilson a copy of the Belfast Chronicle. The second lead story on the front page shouted the headline ‘Top Cop Subject of Internal Investigation’. A passport type photograph of Wilson was slotted into the corner of the article.  Wilson read quickly through the article under Maggie Cummerford’s byline. The content was anodyne since there was no indication as to why Wilson was being investigated, but this was obviously just the first salvo from the press. Now there would be considerable pressure from the media to find out why Wilson was being investigated.

“Someone blabbed,” the Duty Sergeant said simply. “Load of crap. Don’t let it worry you, Sir.”

“I need this,” Wilson said holding up the newspaper. “I’ll pay later.”

“No need,” the Duty Sergeant said.

Wilson could see from the faces in the Squad Room that he was probably the last to know he was about to be pilloried. He was about to close the door of his office when he saw Moira blocking it.

“Not now,” he said sharply.

“It’s important,” Moira said quickly not letting him close the door.

Wilson sighed and allowed her to enter the office. “You’ve seen the Chronicle?”

“That’s what I want to see you about,” Moira removed the phone from her pocket and told Wilson of her experience following Harrison the previous evening.

“Show me the photos.”

Moira showed him how to flick through the photos on her iPhone.

“That’s Maggie Cummerford,” Wilson said as he stared at the photos on the phone.

“Who’s Maggie Cummerford?” Moira asked.

Wilson held up the front pages of the Chronicle and pointed at the name under his story. “At least we now know where it came from.”

The phone rang on Wilson’s desk. “I’m on my way,” he said simply into the receiver. “Show me how to get these photos up again.”

Roy Jennings had a smug look on his face and a copy of the Belfast Chronicle on the desk in front of him when Wilson entered his office. He said nothing only pointed at the chair in front of his desk.

Wilson put on his hang-dog face and sat in the chair without comment.

“Well, it looks like the cat is out of the bag,” Jennings tapped the newspaper in front of him. “Given that you have now been exposed in public, I have no option but to suspend you from duty forthwith. The investigation will have to proceed, and we shall see where it leads us.”

“I had nothing to do with this story,” Wilson said defensively. “Somebody at the Station must have leaked it.”

“That may as well be but we will never get the source out of the journalist. They pride themselves on protecting their sources.”

Wilson feigned apprehension. “But someone has tried to drop me in it. Surely we should try to establish who leaked the story so that disciplinary action can be taken against them.”

“I assure you that if we find who is talking to the press, they will feel the full weight of the disciplinary procedures. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would give me your warrant card. I will be replacing you as SIO on the Gilroy and Reilly cases by CI Harrison.”

Wilson took Moira’s phone from his pocket. “Speaking of CI Harrison.” He pressed a few icons and the photos from Lavery’s Bar came up on the screen. “Before I hand over my warrant card, perhaps you’d like to look at a few photos taken in Lavery’s Bar yesterday evening.”

Jennings took the proffered phone and started to examine the images. “The young woman in the photos is none other than Maggie Cummerford, the journalist whose name appears on the by-line for the story about the investigation. I suppose it would be too much of a co-incidence to assume that a senior PSNI officer, and a journalist were discussing the weather on the evening before a story relating to an investigation into my professional conduct appears in the newspapers.”

Red streaks appeared on Jennings’ neck. “How did you come by these photos?”

Wilson took the phone from Jennings’ hand. “Let’s just say that I’m protecting my source.”

“You had CI Harrison followed,” Jennings spluttered. “You misused police personnel. You’re finished.”

“On the contrary. The photos were obtained as a happy co-incidence. There was no misuse of police personnel. What they show is that a senior officer leaked the existence of an internal enquiry the results of which will show that I am completely innocent to a journalist.  I think the Chief Constable might have something to say about that. Perhaps the leak was part of a conspiracy by certain individuals to undermine my investigation. Pursuing this conspiracy could get very messy for some people.”

Sweat began to appear on Jennings’ forehead. There was a look of defeat on his face. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“I think a statement that the story is untrue would be a good start. It should contain the usual guff about what an exceptional officer I am. But certainly, it needs to point out that my performance to date has been exemplary. I think it should be in this evening’s newspaper with a larger story in tomorrow’s Chronicle. Perhaps you could call Ms Cummerford in and give her a personal interview. We really don’t need this to get out of hand. I’m not interested in what you have in mind for Fatboy but I think it would be wise if he didn’t appear in the Station again.” He rose from his chair. “I’d love to stay here all day and chinwag with you but I’ve got a murderer to catch.” He turned and left the office. He had reached the corridor when he heard the cry of frustration from Jennings’ office, and he smiled.

CHAPTER 51

“We have a name or at least part of a name,” Wilson stood at the whiteboard in the Murder Squad Room. The members of his team, minus Peter Davidson who had already left for Dungannon, formed a semicircle around him. ‘Noel?’ was written under the picture of the homeless man.

Moira gave a rundown on their meeting at the Belfast Central Mission the previous evening and she noticed the deep frown on Harry Graham’s face.

“We need to find this man, and we need to find him quickly,” Wilson said. “Ronald get on the computer and pull out the records on every Noel who has done a stretch.” He saw the look on McIver’s face. “Every Noel,” he continued. “Our man is somewhere between twenty and thirty so that should limit the search. I’ve already contacted Peter to float the ‘Noel’ name to the local police in Dungannon. “ He always knew when a case was coming to a head. “It’s important to find ‘Noel’ before there’s any more damage. Let’s get to work.”

Wilson entered his office and flopped into his chair. He switched on his computer and had just brought up his e-mails when he noticed Harry Graham standing at his door. He motioned for him to enter.

“Harry, what can I do for you?”

“Boss, I’m beginning to feel that you’re sidelining me on this investigation. I’m the most experienced detective in the Squad and I’m supposed to be doing George’s old job, but the reality is that I’m on the outside.”

“We all have our jobs to do,” Wilson said. He didn’t think that the time was right to confront Harry concerning his attempt to pump Moira. Harry had taken his side and he would have to accept the consequences of having made the wrong decision. “Is there something that you’d like to tell me?”

Graham stood in silence for a few minutes. “I made a mistake, Boss.” He stopped speaking and looked away from Wilson.

“Yes.”

“Things aren’t so great at home,” Graham he returned his gaze to Wilson and continued hesitantly. “The kids cost a fortune, and we’ve been having some problems making ends meet,” he stopped again and looked away.

“You’ve put in some overtime on this case, and I could always arrange for some more,” Wilson was constantly being kicked in the arse by the Chief Super over the amount of overtime he sanctioned but in the end, the hierarchy realised that the cost of solving murders was worth the effort.

‘Thanks, Boss,” Graham shuffled nervously. “I want very badly to get to sergeant but the bloody exam. I don’t think that I’ll ever pass it.”

Wilson sat quietly. His mobile phone beeped indicating that he received a message. He picked up the phone and saw that Kate sent him a simple message – ‘I Love You’. He knew that she was in the middle of an important case and the fact that she had taken time to send even a small message was important. He pressed the reply button and typed – I love you too – before pressing the send button. He looked up and saw that Graham staring at him.

“Sorry, I had to deal with that.”

Graham swallowed. “The DCC called me to his office and asked me to report directly to him on the Gilroy case. He wanted me to point you in the direction of the sectarian aspects of the case. That didn’t bother me so much. At the time, I thought it was a legitimate line of enquiry. He promised that if I keep the enquiry limited to the sectarian aspect that he’d consider promoting me to sergeant.”

“And you believed him?” Wilson asked.

“It looked like my only shot,” Graham continued. “I thought that it was legitimate and after all he is the DCC. Then he asked me to gather information on a relationship between you and Moira. Those two bastards from Professional Standards formally interviewed me but they didn’t so much interview me, as point me in the direction of what they wanted. I couldn’t lie. You and Moira seem to get along but I’ve never seen either of you behave inappropriately.” He stopped and looked into space.

“What’s bothering you, Harry?”

“They asked me to get Moira to open up on a relationship with you. They told me to organise a drink with her and to report back.  Boss, I’m sorry. I fucked up. You’ve been the best boss I’ve ever had and you deserve absolute loyalty from me. I was going to sell you, and Moira out. I feel like a complete shit. If you want to get rid of me, then I’ll be happy to go.”

“I can’t deny that I’m disappointed, but I know how manipulative the DCC and his crew are. They played on your weakness. Since we found Gilroy the DCC has been trying to manipulate the direction of the enquiry, so there’s no harm done there. Trying to screw Moira and me. That’s a different matter. I’m going to have to think about this, Harry.”

“I know, Boss. I’ll accept any decision you come to,” Graham turned and left the office.

“Miserable little bastard,” Wilson said. Everything that Jennings puts his hand to turns to shit. Now he’d managed to mess up the solidity of the Squad. But the deep question was why Jennings had tried to disrupt the investigation? What possible interest could the DCC have in sabotaging an investigation? What the hell was going on?

Wilson tried to concentrate on his administrative tasks while he waited anxiously for Davidson to report back from Dungannon or McIver to locate ‘Noel’s” prison record from the Police National Computer. His mind was a mass of question, both of the professional and the personal variety. Jennings had gone too far this time. He had tried to screw him publicly and had subverted a murder investigation as well as launched a spurious complaint to Professional Standards. Those were the facts, but the spin would be something else. He had pushed a legitimate line of enquiry. It was unfortunate, but every murder in Ulster was liable to be labelled sectarian even if it involved a husband and wife. Wilson knew that there was something behind Jennings’ involvement, but he doubted he would ever find what it was. There would be a retraction of the Chronicle story dropping Maggie Cummerford in the shit. Harrison was toast, and the enquiry by Professional Standards was in the toilet. He was the winner on all fronts but he was left wondering why it didn’t feel like a victory. The real question was whether he needed the grief. By standing down he would leave the field open for Jennings and his Lodge Brothers to run the Province as they saw fit. The idea of Jennings as the final arbiter of justice was unthinkable. Jennings would always be ‘Teflon Roy’ and all Wilson could hope for was to thwart the bastard at every hands turn. He picked up his mobile and looked at it for what must have been the fortieth time. No text message from Davidson. He looked up and saw the Desk Sergeant standing at his door.

“You have a visitor,” the Sergeant said.

“Who?” Wilson asked.

“That Monsignor guy you interviewed over the past few days. I put him in Interview Room one.”

Wilson didn’t speak but gestured through the glass wall of his office for Moira.

Gaining access to the Bishop’s Palace was a piece of cake for Noel Mulholland. He struggled to remember what had been his plan. His mind was a mess, but he was sure that he had had one. He tried to be methodical and separate his thoughts but couldn’t discover the plan in any part of his mind. The object had been to get close enough to the Bishop to snatch him and get him back to the derelict schoolhouse. If Carey resisted, he could kill him on the spot. He removed the pillbox from his pocket, shook five pills onto the palm of his hand and dropped them down his throat. Maybe if the pain subsided, he would be able to remember how he had imagined that he could get the Bishop from his Palace to the schoolhouse. He’d climbed the wall surrounding the Palace and made his way to the house in the early hours of the morning. The kitchen door proved to be easier than he had anticipated. There was an alarm, but nobody bothered to turn it on. He made this way silently through the ground floor of the house. It was strange that the only job he’d had a skill for was breaking and entering. It might have been a career except that he kept getting caught. There was always some screw up when he creeped a house. Once he’d left a fingerprint and another time some DNA.  Those kinds of mistakes had given him a record and dissuaded his peers against working with him. He moved quietly through the kitchen, the living room and the study. It was apparent that the Bishop lived well. He contrasted the opulence of the house with his current abode, and he smiled to himself. He wondered how the Bishop would take to his new digs. He entered the hall and considered moving up the stairs but thought the better of it. He needed to snatch the Bishop. If murder had been on the agenda, he would have had a clear run to cut the Bishop’s throat. He retraced his steps through the hall and back to the kitchen. He exited silently locking the kitchen door behind him. Slowly, the plan was coming back to him. He looked to the right of the house and saw the garage. He would need a car to get to the schoolhouse. He went to the garage and saw a black Mercedes 350 with the Papal flag already installed on the off-driver’s side. He pressed himself against the brick outer wall of the garage at a sound from the room above. He looked up and saw a man standing at the window. He pressed himself closer against the wall praying that he hadn’t been seen. The man was bare-chested and was staring out across the extensive lawns. Mulholland relaxed as the man retreated from the window. A small section of his mind was becoming clearer. He entered the garage and hid at the rear. Ten minutes later, he heard someone enter the garage from a spiral staircase. Looking from the darkness into the light he saw the figure of the man he saw at the window above. The man was now dressed in a dark suit and carried a dark peaked cap in his hand. Mulholland suddenly saw a plan. He wasn’t sure whether it was the plan he had already considered, but it was a plan. He looked around and saw a set of wrenches attached to the back wall. He selected the biggest one and felt the weight of it in his hand.  The man in the dark suit moved around the car and opened the driver’s door. He stopped and started back towards the rear. As he opened the boot, Mulholland stepped out of the shadows and aimed a blow at the back of the man’s head. As the wrench moved through the air the man turned and instead of hitting him on the back of the head the wrench struck him cleanly on the temple. The man collapsed in a heap at Mulholland’s feet. He dropped the wrench failing to notice the blood on it. He pulled the man to the rear of the garage and started to undress him.

Bishop Carey stared out the window of his study. The early-morning frost was dissipating, and the lawn was slowly turning from a light white to the dappled green of the end of Autumn. In the distance, the Black Mountain was still shrouded in a light mist. He was dressed in full Bishop’s regalia. He walked across the study and examined his countenance. A bit of weight loss would make him look more patrician. If the Pontiff was going to offer him the red hat, he would make an effort to shed a few pounds. He smiled to himself. The red hat would probably add a few pounds to his girth rather than encouraging him to lose. There were a lot of very good restaurants in Rome that catered to the clergy. He ran a comb through his steel grey hair. Very senatorial, he decided. He glanced at the Patek Phillipe watch on his left wrist. The car would pick him up in half an hour.  He picked up the agenda for the morning from his desk.  It was business as usual. An hour being shown around the school by a series of fawning Christian Brothers and lay teachers followed by meeting the students and explaining to them the importance of them becoming ‘soldiers of Christ’. Then there would be the singing of hymns by the school choir followed by the Bishop’s blessing. The item that drew his attention the most was the after event lunch which would be attended by the Deputy First Minister. Bishop Carey very much appreciated the opportunity to mix with the great and the good. It was the one aspect of his ministry that he could sell to the Pontiff. He knew everybody of importance in the Province. After all a Bishop with pretensions to become a Cardinal was not simply a priest with pastoral duties. Such a man needed to be a politician capable of calling in favours when the time required it. And Bishop Charles Carey was one such man. He looked in the mirror and practiced the faces that he would need at the school. First was the attentive face to be employed when being shown around. In reality, this face would hide the extreme boredom he would be feeling. He looked at his attentive face and saw that he had perfected the slight forward leaning of the head to convince the teachers that he was hanging on their every word. Perfect, he thought as he put on the second of his faces, the caring face. This face would be reserved for the students and would convince them that here was a priest who really cared about the trials and tribulations they were experiencing during their teenage years. This face needed more work, he decided. It was not as convincing as he would have liked it to be but it would be sufficient to convince young minds. The final face was something that he was practicing. It was his political face. And it required him to develop a cold-eyed look whenever the Church was criticised. He had modelled his cold stare on the recently retired Pontiff, but he doubted that he would ever be able to transmit the feeling of iciness the former Pontiff had attained.

He rang a bell and his housekeeper appeared.

“Tell Monsignor Devlin that I want to see him,” he said imperiously.

“He already left,” the housekeeper replied.

“Did he say where he was going?” the Bishop asked slightly surprised. Monsignor Devlin and the Bishop normally did the mail together after breakfast.