Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (25 page)

“No, he didn’t,” the housekeeper said.

“Has Michel brought the car around yet?” he asked.

Just at that moment they heard the noise of the Mercedes crunching the gravel outside the front of the house.

Monsignor Devlin was seated at the table in the interview room. He leaned forward with his head in his hands. He looked up as the police officers entered.

Wilson was shocked by the change in Devlin since their last interview. His already pallid face had now taken on the grey colour of death. His skin appeared to be stretched tight across his angular skull, and his eyes had receded into sockets surrounded by dark circles. Although the room was cold, beads of sweat prickled his forehead. Wilson doubted if the man had slept since their previous meeting. There was no sign of the arrogance and superiority he had recognised as the Devlin’s trademark.

“You didn’t bring your legal adviser?” Wilson said as he took his seat. Moira sat beside him.

“I don’t need him,” Devlin’s voice was listless.

Moira was about to switch on the recorder when Wilson placed his hand on her arm.

“I want you to be sure that you don’t want legal representation,” Wilson said.

“I don’t.”

“Can we get you a cup of tea or a glass of water?”

“Thanks but no thanks.”

“DC McElvaney will start the recorder and give us the preliminaries. You realise that what you say may be used in evidence.”

Devlin nodded, and Moira went through the motions required to start the interview.

The room was silent for several minutes while Devlin moved his gaze from Wilson to Moira.

“You wanted to tell us something,” Wilson said breaking the silence.

“I haven’t exactly been truthful,” Devlin began. “There are some elements of my position with Bishop Carey and your investigation into the deaths of Fathers Gilroy and Reilly which have caused me a crisis of conscience. Gilroy was a monster who abused children. The clerical enquiry established the veracity of the allegations made against him. He was dismissed from his ministry and sent to Canada to a rehabilitation centre specialised in dealing with priests with sexual problems. He was declared ‘cured’ after several years of treatment and sent to a remote parish in Newfoundland. The Bishop’s opposite number in Canada felt it was time that Gilroy should be repatriated.”

“What happened to the results of the clerical enquiry?” Wilson asked.

“I don’t know,” Devlin replied.

“What should have happened after Gilroy was found to have a case to answer?”

“The Bishop at the time should have taken action.”

“And that action would have involved reporting Gilroy to the RUC as a sexual predator and an abuser?”

“Normally, yes.”

“But that didn’t happen. The Bishop decided to cover up the abuse?”

“It looks that way.”

“The cover up continued even when Gilroy died. Removing the computer and whatever other paraphernalia from the rectory was just part of an on-going cover-up.”

Devlin remained silent.

“That’s when you became part of the cover up.” It was said as a fact not as a question.

Again, Devlin remained silent.

“Monsignor, you came here to-day of your own volition. We have to assume that you are not happy with the actions of your superiors in the case of Father Gilroy and their efforts to hamper a police investigation into his death.”

Devlin bent his head and held it in his hands but remained silent.

“How does Father Reilly fit into the picture?”

“He was one of the members of the clerical enquiry,” Devlin continued to stare at the table before him.

“There were others?” Wilson asked.

“Three, two priests and a layman. One priest and the layman are dead. The
notaire
was the current Bishop. He was the one who transcribed the proceeding and made the recommendations to the Bishop.”

“The
notaire
was Bishop Carey?”  Wilson asked.

“Yes.”

“What sort of evidence did they have at the clerical enquiry?”

“One of the children who was abused came forward and gave evidence against Gilroy.”

“How many children were involved?”

“At least five.”

“And what happened to them?”

Devlin looked surprised by the question. “In what way?” he asked.

“I mean did they receive counselling?”

“I doubt it.”

“Were their parents informed of the abuse?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean to tell me that’s it’s possible that five children were left to their own devices to deal with serious sexual abuse just to cover up for Father Gilroy?”

“I don’t know,” Devlin said raising his voice.

“What happened to the child who came forward and appeared at the clerical enquiry?”

Devlin tried to remember the contents of the report of the clerical enquiry. “I think he was sworn to secrecy.”

“What was his name?” Wilson asked.

Devlin pulled a page of a notebook from his pocket and slid it across the table. There were five names on the sheet. ‘The top name is the boy who gave evidence.”

Wilson stared at the page. The top name was Noel Mulholland. He whipped out his mobile phone and pressed the number for Peter Davidson.

“No joy yet, Boss,” Davidson said as soon as he answered.

“We have a name,” Wilson said. “Noel Mulholland. Get me everything on him from the locals. Yesterday.”

He pushed the red button to cut off the call and pressed the speed dial for Ronald McIver’s number. “Noel Mulholland,” he said as soon as McIver answered. “Get me everything. I’ll be there in ten minutes, and I want something already on my desk.”

Wilson closed his phone. “Thank you, Monsignor. You’ve been most helpful.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Chief Inspector,” Devlin said.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I know what it cost you to come here today. What you did or did not do was done out of loyalty to the organisation that you not only work for but also given your life to. Breaking that loyalty must have been a gargantuan effort.”

“My career is finished.”

“But you’ll be able to look at yourself in the mirror,” Wilson nodded at Moira and she knocked off the recorder. “Gilroy may have been a monster but the people who betrayed those children were depraved. I hope that they join him in Hell.”

Bishop Carey had his nose buried in the Belfast Chronicle. It was the only way to mitigate the smell coming from Michael’s cousin. If Michael wanted to go AWOL, the least he could have done was find a cousin that could drive and didn’t smell like a dung heap. When Michael returned the first thing he would be required to do was fumigate the car. Carey had read the story concerning DCI Wilson and his travails with the enquiry into his professional behaviour. He concluded that Jennings was behind the attempt to smear Wilson. Roy Jennings was a vicious opponent. He searched the paper for articles giving the latest update on the Gilroy and Reilly murders. He found a small article tucked away on page seven, which followed up on the priest killer hypothesis but without too much enthusiasm. With a bit of luck the killer of Gilroy and Reilly would disappear into the ether and never be heard of again. Gilroy was no loss. The man was an embarrassment.  The only reason his misdeeds had been covered up was to save everyone’s career. The evil bastard should have been consigned to the police after the clerical enquiry. But it was no use crying over spilt milk. He smiled as he remembered that it had been his advice to the Bishop, that Gilroy be shipped off to Canada. Perhaps, in retrospect he’d got that one wrong. However, it was a decent decision at the time. Nobody is perfect. God was good so perhaps the killing had stopped, and they could forget about Gilroy. It was a pity Reilly had been killed. His crime appeared to be attendance at the clerical enquiry, and he had been a reluctant draftee to that process. The Bishop continued to concentrate on the contents of the newspaper as the Mercedes made it’s way through the late morning Belfast traffic. They seemed to be moving well enough to indicate that the rush hour was over. In reality, Bishop Carey could not wait to be out of the car and away from the heinous smell of his temporary driver.

Wilson strode into the Squad Room and marched up to the whiteboard. He picked up the black marker, scrubbed out the question mark behind the name ‘Noel’ and wrote Mulholland. He turned to the room and concentrated his gaze on McIver.

“Ronald, tell me,” he said simply.

“Noel Mulholland,” McIver said reading from a sheaf of paper still exiting from his printer. “Born, 14 July 1982 in Dungannon. First arrested, 2001for prostitution in Belfast, six months probation. According to Social Welfare, he’d already been on the streets for two years at that point. 2002 arrested for breaking and entering again in Belfast. This time he got a custodial sentence of twelve months. Out in eight and on the streets again. Arrested, in 2003 for possession of a class A controlled substance – heroin. He wasn’t dealing so he got the probation act again. Later that year, arrested again for breaking and entering. This time got a two-year custodial sentence at Crumlin Road. He was a model prisoner so he was on the streets again within fourteen months. Since then he’s had a few brushes with the law for soliciting. Two visits to A and E at the Royal for severe beatings probably from johns. Other than that the Social witnessed a serious degradation in his physical condition. The last report by a social worker suggests that he is a person who is at risk.”

“Not a pretty picture,” Wilson said. “But par for the course for someone who has been seriously abused. However, I don’t see a killer here. We need to know what pushed him over the top.”

“Boss,” McIver tossed the sheaf of paper onto his desk. “This poor bugger probably doesn’t have too much of a brain left. We’ve seen it before. They lose touch with reality. He sees creatures trying to attack him, and he fights back.”

“He killed the man who abused him and one of the men who covered up that abuse. These weren’t figments of his imagination. He went after specific people. So there’s something still operating within his brain. He knew what he was doing. There’s nothing in his background to indicate that he can kill so how this come about? More importantly where is he now and what is he up to.

Bishop Carey had been engrossed in an article in the Chronicle for more than ten minutes when he looked outside the window of the Mercedes and saw that they were travelling along the Lisburn Road heading away from the city. He glanced at his watch. He should have been at the school five minutes ago. This really was too much. He could barely put up with the stench from the driver, but he was not going to have his morning screwed up by the idiot cousin of his driver.

“Where do you think that you are going?” Carey used his most imperious voice.

The driver ignored the question and continued straight ahead.

Oh God, Carey thought, the man not only smells bad, is an idiot to boot, but he also has hearing problems.  “You,” Carey shouted. He had already forgotten the name of the driver. “I was due at Saint Michael’s ten minutes ago. You’re heading in the wrong direction.”

The driver ignored the remark and continued driving.

The Bishop became frustrated and hit the driver on the head with his newspaper. “Are you deaf and dumb as well as stupid? You are in the process of ruining my morning, and I am going to fire your cousin as soon as he returns from wherever he’s disappeared to.”

The driver turned left off the road and headed through a large rusted gate that led to a long driveway.

Bishop Carey looked around him and saw that they were leaving the main road behind. There was an area of parkland, and he could see a large derelict building up ahead. The idiot behind the steering wheel had obviously mistaken their destination.

The car continued around the rear of the building before coming to a stop. Bishop Carey had decided that he was going to dump the driver where they were, and he would drive himself to Saint Michael’s.  The driver had exited the car and opened the back door to permit the Bishop to get out of the Mercedes.

“Thank you,” the Bishop said as he exited onto the gravel path behind the derelict building. “The keys please,” he held out his hand to the driver who had removed his hat and tossed it on top of the car. The Bishop looked at him and saw that the dark suit he was wearing was several sizes too big for him. The driver removed his jacket and tossed it after the hat. He removed a large knife from a scabbard at his side and pointed it at the Bishop.

“One more fucking word out of you and I’m going to cut your tongue out,” the driver said.

“Now listen here,” Bishop Carey blustered his mind racing like a mouse on speed on a treadmill. He was in mortal danger and the only way he could see to extricate himself was by exerting his authority.

The driver gripped him by the throat and put the knife against his lips. “I mean it. One more fucking word and I’ll cut your tongue out. Understood.”