Dark Circles (10 page)

CHAPTER 23

‘No can do,’ Denis Brennan, the editor of the
Belfast Chronicle
, said into the phone at the same time as he took a slug of coffee. ‘The story’s too big.’ It wasn’t the first time some bigwig had phoned him asking to kill a story, but Jackie Carlisle wasn’t any ordinary bigwig. Although Carlisle was a blast from the past, he was still a big player in the Province. Brennan put down his cup and started waving his arms frantically at his assistant while pointing in the direction of Jock McDevitt. The dozy bitch finally got the message and ran to McDevitt’s desk. As soon as he caught McDevitt’s eye, he beckoned him into his office.

McDevitt pushed himself from his swivel chair in the newsroom and made his way to Brennan’s office. As soon as he entered, Brennan motioned him to close the door, and placed a finger vertically against his lips in order to keep McDevitt quiet. He then flipped the switch to put Carlisle on speaker.

‘The story checks out,’ Brennan said. ‘The police have launched an investigation into David Grant’s death. Someone has decided that he could have been murdered. And we understand that Detective Superintendent Wilson has been tasked with discovering why David Grant was found hanging from his bannister. This story has everything; the combination of sex, murder and politics equals lots of newspapers sold.’

‘David Grant was a minor politician,’ Carlisle spoke calmly. ‘I am well aware of the salacious nature of the death. However, you can imagine that airing this particular piece of dirty linen in public could damage the image of politicians in the Province. Public opinion of politicians is already on the floor. The death of a politician in the performance of a depraved sexual act will only serve to accentuate the decline in confidence.’

‘Like I said before,’ Brennan said. ‘No can do. It’s too big.’

‘I would consider it a personal favour,’ Carlisle said.

Brennan hesitated. Carlisle had been to the
Chronicle
in the past. He looked at McDevitt who was staring at the ceiling. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘That’s the gratitude I get for supporting the
Chronicle
. You have a very short memory.’ Carlisle’s reedy voice reverberated around the room. ‘I will be speaking to some of my friends about advertising in your paper. Maybe the owners will have a different opinion.’

‘Like I said,’ Brennan said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You will be.’ The line went dead.

Brennan pressed the button to cut the line. He looked at McDevitt ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Something bigger than the Cummerford trial, that’s for sure.’ McDevitt picked up Brennan’s coffee cup, put it to his own lips and drained it. ‘First it was about sex, now it’s about murder. God knows what it’ll be about tomorrow. Carlisle doesn’t want to kill the story because it reflects badly on politicians.’

‘So why does he want to kill it?’ Brennan asked. ‘The police are examining the circumstances surrounding David Grant’s death, so fucking what.’

‘There’s something more to it,’ McDevitt said. ‘I’ve been looking into Grant’s life. The man was a straight shooter, probably too much of a straight shooter for the game he put himself in. I’ve been at this business for the past thirty years; I’ve got a feeling in my bones that we’re at the start of something big. I’ve only had this feeling a few times in my life and it paid off.’

‘So where do we go from here?’

‘We dig. Wilson will be digging as well, and he probably has greater resources than us. But we can go places and get things from people that he can’t. Then we’ll be in a position to trade.’

‘In the meantime Carlisle is going to drop a sackful of shit on my head.’

‘In the meantime you should start contacting your colleagues on the mainland. If this story goes where I think it may, there’s going to be a lot of traction in what we can offer.’

‘You’re sure we’re on solid ground.’

‘It’s in my bones. I may need help.’

‘To hell with you and your bones. You hang me out to dry on this one, and you won’t even get a job as a copyboy.’

CHAPTER 24

Wilson had chosen McHugh’s Bar in Queen’s Square for his rendezvous with Reid. Although the Crown was his habitual watering hole, the terseness of Reid’s message made him opt for somewhere he might not be as well known. It was unfortunate that his rugby career had made him a recognisable face, not a good trait for a policeman. However, as his sporting fame had receded into the past, so had the chances of recognition by members of the general public. As a young man, he had often visited McHugh’s. It had the magnificent advantage of having a back bar with an open fire, and comfortable armchairs where people could converse in private. He was already seated by the time Reid arrived. She looked tired.

‘Drink?’ he asked as she collapsed into the armchair beside him.

‘Double Scotch, ice and soda.’ She dropped her bag on the ground between them.

‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ he said before heading for the bar.

He returned with two glasses and a small bottle. He put all three on the table in front of Reid.

‘I’d go to your office except the Rottweiler would be hanging around.’ She dropped four pieces of ice into the Scotch and filled the rest of the glass with soda.

He flopped into the armchair. ‘You’ve got to stop calling Moira the Rottweiler. She’s an outstanding police officer.’

‘And I suppose she doesn’t have a nickname for me.’ She sipped her drink and smiled.

‘What’s so urgent?’

She sat forward and recounted her interview with Grey. ‘It was definitely an attempt to get me to retract my opinion. The bastard more or less threatened me with my job.’

‘Snap,’ Wilson said.

She looked at him quizzically.

He told her the details of his and Spence’s trip to HQ. ‘It looks like you have upset someone’s applecart by spotting that Grant was murdered. The question is, whose applecart?’

‘Someone with considerable juice as the Americans would say. You don’t get a Deputy Chief Constable and the number two in a hospital trust the size of Belfast’s to threaten their staff unless you have power.’

Wilson took a sip from his pint of Guinness. ‘We’ve looked into Grant. He was strictly small-time. He was on the way up but he hadn’t arrived anywhere that could have ruffled someone’s feathers.’

‘Don’t forget Malone,’ she said.

‘Malone was the quintessential nobody. He was some kind of minor functionary in the Infrastructure Agency. He stamped forms or something like that. I respect you, but you might have got that one wrong.’

‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘There’s a link. You just need to find it.’

‘You’d better be careful.’

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘If Grant was murdered, and I said if, whoever is behind his death obviously thinks that you’re the key to having the investigation dropped. You change your mind on the autopsy, and we can all go home and forget about Grant.’

‘I’m not about to do that.’

‘I didn’t think so.’ Wilson looked at his watch.

‘Somewhere to go, someone to meet?’ she asked.

Wilson hesitated. He was thinking of going back to the apartment. But now that he thought of it, he realised that it might be better not to. He realised that he had nowhere to go. ‘No just wondering about the time.’

‘Ms McCann not waiting anxiously for the sound of your size elevens on the hallway? One for the road then, I haven’t paid my round.’

He stood up. ‘Sorry.’ Two men looked into the back bar, their eyes staying on Reid. They would both jump at the invitation he’d just received. He could go to the apartment and face Kate’s wrath or silence. He made his mind up and sat down again. ‘Guinness, but no shop talk.’

She was about to open her mouth. ‘And no personal stuff,’ he added quickly.

‘Is this a date?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘You’re hopeless. No it certainly isn’t a date. And if you don’t start talking about rugby or some related topic then I’m out of here.’

‘Tell me what it’s like to play against fifteen devils in black jerseys.’ Reid sensed that something more serious was going on in Wilson’s relationship. He wasn’t just tired because of work. He was stressed out. He started to tell her what it felt like to stand facing the All Blacks and the Haka, and she feigned interest. She needed to know what was going on but she couldn’t think of how she might find out. She signalled to the barman to replenish their drinks and turned her full attention to Wilson.

CHAPTER 25

Wilson reached the station at eight o’clock the following morning. He’d arrived back at the apartment after midnight and found himself locked out of the main bedroom for the second time. He had to admit that he had enjoyed the evening with Reid. He had been with more women than he could count, but Reid had a sense of fun and an enjoyment in living life that was hard to find. He had piled her into a taxi despite several attempts on her part to entice him back to her place. As the taxi sped away, he started walking in the direction of the apartment where he had been so happy with Kate. He felt like a skier who hears the rumble of an avalanche in the distance. He knows something is coming, and he prays that it won’t come in his direction. Wilson didn’t have much faith in the power of prayer. There was an avalanche coming in his life and it was going to hit him whatever evasive steps he took. As he walked through the door of the station, he banished his personal thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. After the meeting with the DCC, he was under no illusion that both he and Spence were under the gun. If Reid was wrong, and Grant really had managed to kill himself, he’d better prove it damn quick. This was not one of those investigations that could just stumble along. He would have to set the pace from the beginning. That would mean everyone on the team would have to be singing from the same hymn sheet. He was aware that there was no possibility of a replacement for McIver. His reading of the smoke signals was that the cuts to his team were not over. It was only a question of who Jennings would pull out. Add to the investigation the need to prepare for two capital trials, which would involve evidence from his team, and you had a toxic cocktail.

‘Boss,’ the Desk Sergeant said as soon as Wilson entered. ‘The gent over there is here to see you.’

Wilson followed the Desk Sergeant’s eyes and saw a well-dressed man sitting on the bench just inside the door. He was engrossed in a copy of the
Belfast Chronicle
. Wilson walked over and stood above the man. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wilson,’ he said. ‘I understand you’ve been waiting for me.’

The man looked up from his newspaper then stood up. ‘I’m Councillor Michael Eaton. I was a colleague of David Grant’s.’ He folded the newspaper with the front page exposed, and held it towards Wilson. ‘I was the one who phoned the police when David didn’t turn up. I understand that your sergeant has been trying to contact me.’

Wilson saw his picture placed prominently on the front page beside a portrait photo of David Grant. Jock McDevitt’s name was in large letters in the byline, indicating that this was only the first of many articles on the subject. It was just what he didn’t need. He imagined the scene in Jennings’ office; an apoplectic DCC bouncing off the walls. Anyone who ran across him this morning would get the full blast of his anger. Wilson smiled. He liked the idea of Jennings’ blood pressure heading through the roof. He turned to the Desk Sergeant. ‘The soft interview room vacant?’ he asked.

The Desk Sergeant nodded.

‘Please come with me,’ Wilson said, and led the way as Eaton followed.

The soft interview room was another feature of the new kinder image that the PSNI was endeavouring to portray. It was reserved for interviewing witnesses who were not thought to be involved in a crime. Unlike the interrogation rooms that normally contained a table and four hard chairs, the soft room was furnished in the fashion of a normal living room with easy chairs and a sofa arranged around a coffee table.

‘Please sit.’ Wilson pointed at the sofa and sat in an easy chair himself. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

Eaton cleared his throat. ‘Until I read the
Chronicle
this morning, I thought that David had killed himself by accident. Right now, I’m not very proud of myself for thinking that someone I worked with for five years could have been so totally different from the man I knew. I should have guessed that something was amiss when I heard the manner in which David died. A man wearing women’s underwear hanging from the stairs was not consistent with the David I knew. I came today to tell you that I’m glad you’ve decided to investigate David’s death.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Wilson said. He was thinking of his own experience with his former colleague Ronald McIver who was currently banged up accused of a double murder. ‘We very rarely know what’s going on in people’s heads. It’s easy to look at the evidence and jump to conclusions.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘The pathologist didn’t,’ Wilson said. ‘She’s the one who will ultimately deserve the credit, if we find that Grant was indeed murdered. Let’s go back a bit. You called in and asked the police to check out his house. Why?’

‘David and I are both independent councillors. We had a meeting every week to discuss tactics and since I’ve known him, David has never missed that meeting. Meetings with him were like religion. He always turned up, or called if he was going to be late. It was so out of character that I was instantly worried. I thought that maybe he was in an accident, or had been mugged. I never imagined he might be dead.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘He was intelligent, honest, a good friend but a bad enemy. He was on his way up. At the next General Election, he would’ve gone very close to winning a seat on the Assembly. If he hadn’t made it next time, he would’ve been elected the time after. He was already marked out as a future “comer”. The organised parties were courting him like crazy. Behind a soft exterior, he could be hard and very tough. He hated corruption to the extent that it was like a crusade for him.’

‘What about the sex thing? Could he have hooked himself up?’ Wilson asked.

‘I hate myself for believing that he could. It wasn’t part of his make-up. OK, he wasn’t a lothario, or a man about town. I think he’d put his emotional life on the back burner until he’d made it politically. Women liked him principally because he came across as himself, I think.’

‘But he didn’t have a girlfriend or partner?’

‘Not that I knew of.’

‘How was he lately? Any change in behaviour?’

‘He was preoccupied, and sort of excited. He was one of the best listeners I ever met but lately his mind seemed to be somewhere else.’

‘Any idea what might have been bothering him?’

‘I haven’t a clue. It was nothing to do with Council business. We’re in a bit of a quiet period now. The organised parties are playing out the main issues. It’s all about flags and marches, and crap like that. David and I were more interested in what was happening to people on the ground. You can’t eat a flag and marching does nothing to improve the quality of life. Politicians here deal in distractions.’

‘Any idea where we can look for the source of his preoccupation?’ Wilson asked.

‘Maybe his private work, he sometimes handled clients who were less than honest. Perhaps he crossed one of them. I really can’t say.’

Wilson removed a card from his pocket. ‘If anything else occurs to you, I’d be obliged if you’d contact me.’

Eaton took the card and produced one of his own. ‘You can contact me anytime if you think I can help.’

The Murder Squad team stood in a semicircle around the whiteboard which was now covered with photographs and writing.

Wilson gave a quick rundown on the meeting with the DCC but omitted any details of his meeting with Reid. ‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s apparent that the DCC wanted the investigation stopped. That may be because of the political or sexual overtones, or he’s receiving instructions from higher up. It wouldn’t be the first time that an investigation would have been buried for political reasons, and it certainly won’t be the last. The problem for HQ is that the cat is out of the bag. You’ve all seen the
Chronicle
this morning and those of you who have been around for a while know that McDevitt is a formidable reporter. Especially when there’s some dirt to be dished. Harry, the timeline?’

Harry Graham took his place in front of the board. ‘Grant was the kind of guy you could set your watch by. He left his house in Ashley Avenue at exactly eight thirty every morning. He stopped at Starbucks in Queens University for his breakfast and normally left with the remainder of his coffee in hand. Most of the staff in Starbucks knew him by name. Apparently, he was pretty popular with them, but always breakfasted alone. His office is in Central Belfast, and if the weather was kind, he liked to walk. On the day of his death he walked. He arrived at the office at nine o’clock and worked through lunch. He sent out for a sandwich and coffee at two p.m. I have a copy of his agenda for the day and I’ve spoken to all the clients. They’re a bunch of normal citizens with minor legal problems, nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody was aware of anything strange in his demeanour. In fact, several of them had never even met him before. He had the habit of working late. Except when there was a Council meeting. On the day of his death the Council meeting finished at eight o’clock. He had a meeting in his agenda for ten o’clock that we now know he never made. We have to assume that he arrived home sometime around eight thirty, although I found nobody who could confirm an exact time. Since our two officers kicked the front door in at eleven thirty, we have a pretty good window for the time of death.’

Wilson thanked Graham and gave a short version of his interview with Eaton which appeared to tie in with the timeline already established. ‘We need to know what happened at the house in Ashley Avenue between eight thirty and eleven thirty. I know it’s a pain in the butt, Harry, but I want you to canvas the area, see if anyone saw anything strange. What about CCTV?’

‘None on Ashley Avenue, Boss,’ Graham said. ‘But there may be some in the surrounding streets.’

‘Peter,’ Wilson said. ‘Anything new from your contacts?’

‘Not a sausage, Boss,’ Davidson replied. ‘If Grant was into the kinky stuff, he kept it in house.’

‘Boss,’ Moira interrupted. ‘I thought we’d already established that Grant wasn’t a perv, the absence of toys, magazines and the like.’

‘I think we can drop that element of the investigation,’ Wilson said. ‘I’d like to know where the ladies’ undergarments came from.’ He was staring at Moira. ‘Call the Mortuary and get them to send the clothes over. Forensics will want them but maybe you could examine the labels and see where they might have been bought. Then look at Grant’s credit card purchases and see if he bought any ladies’ underwear lately.’

‘Yes, Boss,’ Moira said, not trying to hide her displeasure at being given what she considered donkey work.

‘We need to find out everything about this man’s life. Peter, get to the law office and go through all his files. The head buck lawyers will put up a fight on the files, but the article in the
Chronicle
will at least take some of the stain away from them professionally. Establishing that the death has no connection to his legal work will be to their advantage. Also, I want his diary for the past few weeks. Let’s see if there’s someone in it who shouldn’t be there. Eric, get a list of everyone that knows this guy. Right now he looks like a grey man but I want to see what colour comes out when his friends and colleagues talk about him.’ Wilson glanced at his watch. ‘I’m busy this morning but I should be back well before lunch. If you need me, I’m on the mobile. Moira, with me.’ He turned and walked to his office. As soon as Moira and he were inside, he closed the door. ‘Anything on the Malone business?’

‘Not so far but I haven’t had time to follow it up,’ Moira said. ‘Reid thinks he might have been murdered as well?’

‘She has some suspicions,’ Wilson said.

‘How?’ she asked.

‘Injection of potassium chloride on the underside of the tongue.’

‘What!’

Wilson explained the delicate balance of potassium in the body, and the effect of even a small increase.

Moira threw up her hands. ‘This is a fantasy, that damn woman will do anything to get close to you. Every corpse she handles from now on will be a possible murder victim. Wake up and smell the coffee, Boss.’

‘Humour me. If there’s nothing there, we’ll drop it. After the way Jennings reacted yesterday, I’m not about to take a flier on launching another murder investigation. That’s why it’s just you and me for the moment.’

‘OK, Boss. But this might be considered as a waste of police time. Not so good when we’re undermanned and facing a difficult investigation.’

‘Humour me.’