Dark Circles (11 page)

CHAPTER 26

Holywell Hospital was situated on high ground off the Steeple Road, two miles north of Antrim town. In 1891, the Holywell site of 100 acres was selected as the location for a County Antrim Lunatic Asylum. Built primarily to alleviate serious overcrowding at the Belfast Asylum, it provided a separate asylum for Country Antrim and was opened in 1898. The hospital’s prominent features included a clock tower and gargoyles at the front entrance. The clock tower was lit at night and used by boaters on Lough Neagh as a guide to the mouth of the Six Mile Water. It wasn’t Wilson’s first visit to the facility, and as he drove in through the front gate, he thought the choice of sculptures at the entrance to be particularly apt. Some of the people he had interviewed here had minds that would have fit perfectly with a gargoyle’s. He followed the signs for the Assessment Centre and steered towards a small red-bricked building set to the side of the central building. The drive from Belfast to Antrim was not a long one, and it passed through some of the nicest countryside in Ulster, culminating in the town of Antrim on the shores of Lough Neagh. He would normally have enjoyed the ride, but he spent most of the journey thinking over the Grant case. Although the whiteboard was beginning to fill up with information on Grant and his movements, there was little or no evidence of a crime aside from Reid’s misgivings, and no evidence at all pointing to the perpetrators. Just outside Antrim, he decided to put the Grant business out of his mind and concentrate on the meeting with his former colleague. The Assessment Centre was showing it’s age. A hundred and thirty years of wind and rain in the Irish climate was apt to weigh heavily on Victorian construction. The Centre was the smallest of the buildings, and the outer wall was overgrown concealing whatever structural defects might be hidden behind the shrubbery. Wilson noticed some debris dumped at the side of the entrance. While Holywell wasn’t exactly Bedlam, it was in need of a serious makeover. The reception area of the Assessment Centre accentuated this conclusion. The plaster on the walls was cracked and peeling, and there was a musty smell in the air. Wilson removed his warrant card and showed it to the receptionist. ‘I have a meeting at eleven,’ he said simply.

The receptionist examined a clipboard. ‘Take a seat and I’ll see if they’re ready.’

Wilson sat on a bench in the corner of the room. A half dozen dog-eared magazines sat on a battered coffee table in front of him. Two golf magazines displayed the interest of some of the senior staff, while a couple of ancient copies of
Hello
and
Heat
might have owed more to the female receptionist. He didn’t bother with the magazines but continued to visualise his approaching interview with Ronald McIver. He’d been McIver’s superior for more than four years, but did that really mean that he knew the man? He should have known enough to see that the job had taken its toll on McIver. Police work eats people up. The toxicity doesn’t just come from the long hours and the discipline. There’s also the fact that everyone you meet is in trouble, or about to land in trouble. Policing can be equated with a swim through a sewer. Inevitably some of the shit sticks. There’s very rarely light at the end of the tunnel, and if there is, it’s usually in the form of a train heading in your direction. That’s police work in general. Being a member of the Murder Squad was another matter entirely. He often wondered how he actually slept having stood over the broken bodies of men, women and children. And then there were the clients, the scum of the earth, men and women with serious mental defects who would maim and kill without a second thought. It was a wonder that policemen and women remained sane for the thirty or so years required to take retirement. One thing was clear. Despite the drawbacks Wilson loved the job. He knew that it ate away at some people, but in a way it charged him. He had always loved solving problems, and over time, he had added to that the high he got from putting bad guys behind bars. He
was
the job. He didn’t have a hobby. When he’d been forced to give up rugby, he decided that was the end of it. Did he miss rugby? Only every day; there was a hole inside him that rugby once occupied, which would be forever empty. He could have taken up coaching. There were plenty of offers. Radio and TV people pursued him for months with offers to become a pundit. But he had already decided that the rugby part of his life was over. He dragged his mind away from himself. The job had a lot to answer for in McIver’s situation, and so had he. McIver was going on trial for the killing of Ivan McIlroy, a member of a criminal gang headed up by Sammy Rice. A secondary indictment had been the mercy killing of his wife who had been sliding into dementia. Although former detective constable Ronald McIver had taken two lives, he was no murderer. Both crimes had been committed when the balance of his mind was affected. That was the defence Kate had established for him. He heard a door open in the corner of the reception area and looked up. ‘Superintendent Wilson?’

‘Aye,’ Wilson said standing.

‘Dr Liam O’Neill.’ A man of sixty or so years thrust out his hand. ‘I’m one of the resident psychologists. You’re here to see Ronald McIver?’

Wilson took the outstretched hand. ‘Yes, how is he?’

‘I would not consider him to be a well man,’ O’Neill said. He had the soft accent of County Tyrone. ‘We’ve diagnosed him to have severe psychotic depression. It may be enough to get him out of the legal mess but I’m afraid that he’s going to spend an extended period in hospital. The question is whether he’ll last long enough for us to get him there. We’re going to put him on suicide watch when he goes back to prison.’ They walked down a corridor. ‘I’ve spoken to him at great length in formulating a diagnosis. You’re one of the few people he respects. You could have a very positive effect by convincing him not to give up hope. He thinks his life is over, but I’m sure that with the right help, he’ll make a full recovery.’ They stopped at a door. O’Neill knocked and opened it. ‘Do your best. If you need anything from me, get through to reception.’

Wilson entered the small room. He wasn’t easily shocked, but he did a double take when he saw McIver sitting at a small table. His former colleague seemed to have disappeared into himself. In a few short months, his hair had turned completely white and the skin hung on his cheeks. He’d lost weight and his shoulders slumped. He glanced up when Wilson entered, but his eyes had a faraway look, as though he was concentrating on some point beyond Wilson’s head. The room was smaller than the interrogation areas at the station but it had the same feel. It was sparsely furnished with only the small table and two wooden chairs. It smelled of depression and desperation. He noticed a uniformed prison warden standing at the door, and nodded. ‘Do you mind if I handle this myself?’

The prison officer looked at him and nodded, then silently left the room.

‘Hello, Ron,’ Wilson said sitting down on the seat across from McIver.

McIver lowered his eyes and blinked. He stared into Wilson’s face. ‘Boss?’ he said as though seeing Wilson for the first time.

‘How are you, Ron?’

‘They say I’m mad, Boss.’ He laughed. ‘The Doc says that I have psychotic depression, whatever that is. I suppose you’ve got to be mad to kill two people.’

Wilson leaned forward and put his two hands on the table. ‘It wasn’t your fault. The job eats people. You can blame the job, and me.’

McIver’s brow furrowed. ‘Why should I blame you? I killed them on my own. It was our job to put people like me away.’

‘It was my job to take care of you, and I didn’t do my job properly. So in a way I’m responsible for you being here.’

McIver laughed. ‘You have a weird sense of humour, Boss. I’m going down, and I deserve it. They want to believe that I was hearing voices and shit like that. I don’t know whether they’re right or wrong about the voices, but I know I did wrong, and I’m ready to accept the punishment. I’m only sorry that they can’t hang me.’

‘You can’t go to prison, Ron.’

‘Why not, Boss? My life is finished. I have no job, no wife. I can’t go back to the house. For Christ’s sake why don’t they just help me finish things?’

‘The doctors are right. You’re ill. I don’t know about the psychotic depression, but you are certainly ill. They’ll make you better. You’ll be able to return to some kind of life. You won’t be back to the job, but we’ll make sure that you get whatever you’re entitled to. There is a future.’

‘Will they bring Mary back?’

‘They’re doctors not Gods,’ Wilson said. ‘But they will heal you. The person you killed wasn’t Mary. She was already gone from that body.’

Tears started to roll down McIver’s face. ‘Help me, Boss. Help me.’

Wilson stood up and moved to the other side of the table. He lifted McIver out of his seat and hugged him. ‘I’m sorry, Ron. I’m sorry I let you down. Let me make it up to you. Let Kate organise the hospital. Get better. If you don’t do it for yourself, then do it for me.’  McIver convulsed in his arms, and he could feel wet tears on his shirt.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Will you let Kate handle it?’ Wilson asked. He stood back and McIver’s head came away from his chest. He looked into his former colleague’s eyes. ‘Just do what she tells you.’

‘OK, Boss. I’ll try.’

The door opened, and the uniformed officer entered. ‘The van’s outside. Time to go,’ he said coming forward to handcuff McIver.

‘I won’t let you down again,’ Wilson said.

McIver didn’t reply but smiled wanly. He followed the officer out of the room.

Wilson sat heavily on the wooden chair. He didn’t like the psychological stuff, and he wondered whether he had hit the right note with McIver. Whatever the future was he had tried his best. He stood up and left the small room. His feet felt heavy as he walked down the corridor towards the reception area. He thought about Kate and their new means of communication. What would happen when Helen wasn’t there?

CHAPTER 27

Moira McElvaney had spent the morning on social media trawling through the trivia that was the life of Brian Malone. She had already spoken to Reid’s assistant and arranged for the clothes Grant had been wearing to be sent to her. She had learned that Malone was not a complicated individual. He was born in Omagh in County Tyrone. After school, he had attended Omagh College of Further Education and left with a degree in Business Administration. He had obtained a job at the Infrastructure Agency and that was pretty much it. He played football on the weekend. She had managed to construct a list of people who might have been considered his friends. By the time she finished, the file on Malone already contained about twenty pages of official documents; his birth certificate, college diploma, school reports, tax forms. She knew the official Brian Malone, but it would take a series of interviews with his friends and family to find out who the person really was. She wasn’t sure that Wilson wanted to go that far. His parents might wonder why an officer from the Belfast Murder Squad had just dropped by to have a chat about their son. She needed a coffee, and her eyes hurt. She hadn’t been sleeping well. The business with Brendan was affecting her. The long-awaited email had finally arrived, and the news was not good. There was no possibility of Harvard extending Brendan’s sabbatical, and he was expected back in Boston for the new college year. His courses had already been included in the college catalogue, and the die was cast. She had brought Brendan to meet her parents in Dungannon the previous week, and the visit had gone ten times better than she anticipated. Brendan and her dad had hit it off while her mother was of the opinion that he was a much sounder fit for her than her ex, who both of her parents had hated. So the problem was exacerbated. She wondered what would have happened if they’d hated Brendan. The question was moot. Now the decision was up to her. If she went to Boston with him, it would be the end of her career in the PSNI. If she didn’t go, she would probably regret it for the rest of her life. She sleepwalked her way to the cafeteria and got a coffee and a chocolate muffin, and she was on her way back to the squad room when a uniform stopped her.

‘Your Boss about?’ he asked.

‘Probably not before lunch,’ she answered through a mouthful of muffin. ‘Why?’

‘Man in reception to see him.’

‘Name?’

‘Nathan Grant. Who these days has a name like Nathan?’ The uniform smiled.

‘Check if the soft room is available, and if it is, and ask him to wait there. Rustle up a coffee for him. Ring me when he’s ready.’ She went back to the squad room. The information on Malone was still on her screen, and she didn’t want to leave it that way. She had just closed down her computer when her phone rang. Nathan Grant was waiting for her in the soft interview room.

The man seated at the coffee table looked up as soon as Moira entered the room. He looked like someone who had been put through the wringer. His dark hair was dishevelled. His face was a light brown colour, with signs of tiredness clearly visible. There were black rings beneath his eyes. He stood when she entered. He could have doubled for his younger brother both in looks and in stature.

Moira deposited her coffee on the table and extended her hand. ‘Detective Sergeant McElvaney,’ she said simply.

‘Nathan Grant, pleased to meet you.’

She noted the accent, not a trace of Northern Ireland. ‘Please sit, you look like you’re about to collapse.’

He didn’t wait for a second invitation. ‘When I heard about David’s death three days ago, I was in the middle of nowhere in Northern Burma. Since then, I’ve trekked through a forest, travelled down a swollen river in a boat only slightly bigger than a kayak, travelled on a rickety bus for twelve hours over roads normally used by pack animals and all that was just to get to Yangon. I wanted to get here before the funeral. When I finally arrived in Belfast this morning, I was greeted by this.’ He removed a copy of the
Chronicle
from the pocket of his coat and tossed it on the coffee table. ‘I rang this guy McDevitt who wrote the article, and he suggested that I talk to Detective Superintendent Wilson. So I’m here.’

‘Superintendent Wilson is not available right now.’ Moira set her coffee on the table and sat facing Grant. ‘I’m working this case with him. I’m sorry that you have to come here under such circumstances. Your brother appears to have been a very nice person.’

That’s only the half of it.’ There was a catch in Grant’s voice. ‘He was the finest person I’ve met, and I’m not just saying that because he was my brother.’

‘I understand,’ Moira said. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Last year, I try to get back every year, and we’re on Skype whenever I’m somewhere there’s Internet.’

‘You’re close?’

‘Very, our parents died in an accident when David was at college, and I was working in Africa. We’re all we’ve got. We would have been closer except that work for the agency sent me all over the world.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m with UNHCR.’ He saw the look on her face at the use of the acronym. ‘The United Nations Human Rights Commission, we mainly look after refugees, but we’re generally around when anyone’s human rights are being infringed. What about this article in the
Chronicle
? There’s an implication here that David was some kind of sexual pervert.’

‘We’ll get there,’ Moira said. ‘When did you last speak with David?’

‘A month ago when I had decent Internet.’

‘Did he mention anything in particular?’

‘Most of our conversations wander around the trials and tribulations of Manchester United. We’re both avid fans.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have to get used to saying the past tense when I talk about David. I’m just not used to it yet.’

‘And work?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, sometimes. I’d rattle on about the venal bastard politicians who use their own people to enrich themselves in the Third World.’

‘And David?’

‘He’d rattle on about the venal bastard politicians who use corruption to enrich themselves in places like Northern Ireland. I want to talk about how he died. David didn’t fix up a noose and stick his head into it. He didn’t dress in women’s underwear, and he didn’t use, what did they call it, erotic asphyxiation to get off.’

‘You know a lot about David’s sex life?’

‘I know a lot about David, and that means I know for sure that someone did this to him.’ He held up the
Chronicle
. ‘And now I know that someone else agrees with me.’

‘We’re currently looking at this case,’ Moira said trying to be sensitive, but she didn’t want to give too much encouragement to the notion that David Grant was murdered. ‘It’s early days, that’s why I was asking about your contact with David. Right now, we have no idea why someone wanted to murder your brother. The pathologist is convinced that David’s death was due to foul play. We haven’t as yet confirmed that, but certainly a motive for murder would assist us.’

Nathan Grant sat back and thought for a moment. His brow furrowed, and it was almost possible to see the wheels turning within his skull. ‘I’m trying to replay our last conversation. David was excited. He was very up. Things were going well for him both politically and in work. The main parties were courting him, and he looked odds-on to get an Assembly seat in the next election. Then he would be in line for a shot at Westminster.’ He slipped into thought again. ‘Sorry,’ he said finally. ‘The travelling has caught up with me. My brain has turned to mush.’

‘It’s OK,’ Moira said. ‘We can go through this again when you’ve had a chance to rest.’

‘I want to see David.’

‘We can arrange that. Maybe it would be better after you’ve had some rest.’

‘I’ve got to make some arrangements. I’ve got to locate a Chevra Kadisha. David wasn’t particularly religious. In fact, I know it had been years since he had attended synagogue. It’s the right thing to do.’

Moira had an instant liking for the man sitting across from her. ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.

‘I normally stay with David. I phoned from the airport and I got a room in the Old Rectory Guest House in the Malone Road.’

Moira made a note in her notebook. She withdrew one of her business cards from the back cover of the book and handed it to him. ‘My mobile is on the card. You can call me anytime. My boss will probably want to speak to you himself, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t cover the same ground. In the meantime, if anything comes to mind about your last conversation with David, I’d be grateful if you would give us a call.’