Dark Circles (12 page)

CHAPTER 28

Wilson’s lunch consisted of a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee, both of which had been procured from the cafeteria. After taking one bite of the sandwich, he parted the two slices of white bread to find a morsel of ham inserted between them. It appeared that the budget cuts had reached as far as the cafeteria. He decided that in future, he would forgo the pleasures of station food. The report on the forensic examination of Grant’s house was in and it didn’t create an atmosphere of confidence in him. There was precisely nothing to report. The knot was certainly a bowline, and they would have to determine whether Grant was capable of constructing what was a reasonably difficult knot. The rope was bagged and was currently being examined in terms of its provenance. He doubted if the examination would lead anywhere, but it would be considered to be thorough to pursue it. There were no labels on the ladies’ underwear. That begged the question, if Grant had removed the labels, why had he done so? It didn’t sound logical. On the other hand, if a third party had procured the items, and didn’t want their provenance to be discovered, they might have removed the labels. The house was awash with fingerprints. The attending officers and the ambulance crew were already eliminated. Reid’s fingerprints were on file and she would be eliminated also. He read the two-page report with increasing gloom then turned to the four pages of inventory appended to the report. Grant was an avid reader and not just of trash fiction. He was obviously fascinated by the financial crisis and Wilson counted twelve different books whose titles indicated that they had the inside track on why the world’s bankers had managed to bring the financial system to the brink of failure. Another section of books was dedicated to the memoirs of whistle-blowers. Wilson recognised one of the titles from a recent visit to Waterstones. He flicked through the pages. The forensics team had been thorough. He tossed the remnants of his hamless sandwich into the wastepaper basket and took a gulp of his now tepid coffee. He was alone in the squad room. He wondered whether the rest of the team were drawing blanks on their elements of the inquiry. He glanced through the single window of his office at the dark skies enveloping Belfast. The darkness seemed to exemplify the state of the investigation. There was not one single ray of light. It was police lore that the first forty-eight hours were the most important in any investigation. There was some truth to that, but it wasn’t always the case. He felt a pain in his stomach. It was caused by either hunger or the nagging feeling that David Grant’s death would be added to the three thousand plus unsolved murders in the Province. Wilson’s crime clearance record was among the highest, but too often all the method and all the intuition in the world are not enough to crack a case. Sometimes the murderer is too damn clever for the plodding policemen, and sometimes the killer got just plain lucky. For Wilson, murders fell into two categories. Either they were random or they had a strong motivation. Random murders were obviously the hardest to solve. The majority of open cases in Ulster were of this variety. There was no direct link between the victim and the murderer. The crime was motiveless, or the motive could simply be one of religious or racial hatred. These crimes depended on the murderer leaving enough of himself at the scene to track him down. Wilson by far preferred a crime with a motive. His great skill as a detective was in sifting through reams of information and putting his finger on the factor that linked victim and murderer. Someone went to a lot of trouble to murder David Grant and to make it look like an accident. The removal of the labels from the underwear seemed to add to that conviction. But the killer had left nothing of himself at the scene. Wilson therefore drew two conclusions. First, there was a strong motive for the killing and, second, the killer had carefully planned the murder. To solve this case, he would have to find the motive. That meant examining the minutiae of David Grant’s life. At some point, he had interacted with someone or something that had got him killed. When Wilson found that someone or something, he would find the killer.

The members of the Belfast Murder Squad assembled for the two o’clock briefing. Just as Wilson had taken his place in front of the whiteboard, Chief Superintendent Donald Spence entered the room. The team shuffled on the spot and made room in the centre for Spence to stand.

‘Please,’ Spence said. ‘Continue as though I’m not here.’

Wilson smiled. Spence’s remark was typical hierarchy-speak. There was no possibility that his team would have the ability to speak their minds with the big boss in attendance. He started the meeting with a short briefing on the forensic report finishing with his two conclusions.

‘That doesn’t sound promising,’ Spence said.

‘Of course, we’d prefer to have a whole lot of forensic to work on,’ Wilson said. ‘But we have to go with what we’ve got.’

‘And that appears to be nothing,’ Spence said.

Moira raised her hand, and Wilson nodded at her. She gave an account of her interview with Nathan Grant. ‘The brother is adamant that Grant was not involved in any perverted sexual practices. He fully supports the contention that his brother was murdered.’

‘It has been my experience’, Spence interjected, ‘that people rarely expose a distasteful side of themselves. Even to their closest friends or relatives.’

‘I’ll want to speak with the brother myself,’ Wilson said. ‘What about the underwear?’

‘Like you already said the labels had been removed,’ Moira said. ‘I’ve taken photos of the individual pieces, and I’m meeting a buyer at House of Fraser this afternoon.’

‘Good.’ Wilson knew that he was grasping at straws. ‘Harry, anything to report?’

‘We did a house-to-house in Lawrence Street,’ Graham said. ‘Most of the houses are occupied by students so it’s been a bit hit and miss. We left a note where we weren’t able to contact the resident. So far, we have nothing. The type of people living in that area are used to strange goings-on. There’s no CCTV on the street, but we’re checking what there is in the area. We’ll get a picture of Grant somewhere on the night in question. But in the meantime, we’re going to have a mountain of disks to go through.’

Wilson noted that Peter Davidson and Eric Taylor were singing dumb. It was an old copper tactic used when the top brass was present. If you said nothing, then you couldn’t say something stupid. He wanted to continue the briefing, but he realised the further he went the more it looked like they had nothing. ‘Peter.’ He stared at Davidson with his most for-God’s-sake-give-me-something look.

‘I’m working my way through Grant’s agenda.’ Davidson shuffled. ‘He was a busy man what with the legal practice and the political activism. He met with lots of people, and I’m running them down.’

‘Eric,’ Wilson said. ‘I want you to work with Peter. We need to speak with everyone on his agenda. Go back as far as you can. Next briefing, six o’clock this evening.’

Wilson turned and headed for his office. Spence fell into step beside him. They both entered the office, and Spence closed the door behind him.

‘I’m worried.’ Spence sat in the seat directly facing Wilson’s chair.

‘Tell me about it,’ Wilson said.

‘You have precisely nothing.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘When I go upstairs I’ve got to ring HQ and report to Jennings. I don’t have to tell you the reaction I’m going to get.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Consider following Jennings’ instruction. Three months down the line, you might be looking at exactly what you’ve got right now. Then Jennings will have the ammunition to haul us both over the coals. Possibly hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of police time expended for nothing.’

Wilson wasn’t about to abandon the investigation. ‘There’ll be pressure on the other side. The brother won’t accept us walking away, and neither will Grant’s colleagues. And there’s always McDevitt.’

‘Give me a time limit that I can discuss with Jennings.’

‘One month,’ Wilson said. ‘With unlimited overtime.’

Spence sighed. So like Wilson to push the envelope. ‘How was your visit to Holywell?’

‘You’re very well informed,’ Wilson said.

‘It goes with the job.’

‘McIver’s been diagnosed as a psychotic depressive. He’s ill and he looks it. Kate is working at avoiding a trial and getting him into hospital so that he can get some help. The DPP are keen on the trial option. They like to display to the public that even police officers are not above the law. The no-trial option would suit Jennings and his friends at HQ. But Kate still has a lot of work to do to get the DPP to back off.’

‘And your involvement. You’re not guilty. What McIver did he did alone.’

‘Tell me that when I wake at two o’clock in the morning. I watched one of my team unravel. I don’t think that I can run away from that one.’

Spence stood and sighed. ‘Working with you can be a trial sometimes, Ian. Do you know that?’

Moira waited until Spence had left before knocking on the door of Wilson’s office.

He motioned her to enter.

‘It doesn’t look good,’ she said.

‘Early days.’ It was beginning to sound like a refrain.

‘Everything points to murder, but there’s a distinct lack of evidence.’

‘Someone has been very bloody clever. This is not your usual Belfast hit. The locals have never eschewed the sledgehammer when a tack hammer would do. Finesse isn’t their style. Whoever killed Grant knew what they were doing, that means they’ve done it before. We know all the local players, so we can dismiss them. We’ll check the National Crime Database, just in case there’s a similar murder elsewhere. Also, check the suicides by erotic asphyxiation in the recent past, especially on the mainland. Now what do we have on Brian Malone. ‘

‘I could almost put it on the back of a postage stamp.’ She quickly ran through the information she had pulled from the various databases she had interrogated.

‘No connection between Malone and Grant?’ he asked.

‘On the surface, none. Malone was a drone in the Infrastructure Agency. His only hobby was playing football. Grant’s sole interest in sport was as a spectator.’

‘No reason why someone should murder him?’

‘Like I said you could write his life story on the back of a postage stamp. Why bother killing someone like that.’

‘What job did he do at the IA?’

‘Something to do with the accounts. If we go any further with the investigation, I would want to talk to his boss. But that might lead to another article in the
Chronicle
.’

‘That we need to avoid at all costs. You’re not totally onside with this?’

‘My energy levels are a bit low.’

‘You feeling OK?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Brendan’s been called back to Boston, and he wants me to go with him. I don’t know what to do. Also I’m not sleeping well.’

Snap, he thought. What a pair they were? He couldn’t sleep because his relationship was falling apart. She couldn’t sleep because she had a choice she couldn’t make. They were both pitiful.

‘You’re not giving any advice?’ she asked.

‘It would be redundant because I can’t put myself in your shoes. However, I am open to listening.’

‘I think I love Brendan, although I’m wary after my initial run-in with marriage. But I love this job. The problem is I can’t have both. I can only have one or the other.’

‘And Brendan?’

‘Similar problem, he has a prestigious professorship in one of the top universities in the world. He’s a consultant to a whole host of crime-fighting agencies. Belfast would be small beer to him.’

‘That’s some tough choices for both of you. All I can tell you is that you are a talented police officer, and a bloody good detective. You’ll go far in the PSNI. However, it may cost you your private life.’ He had the feeling that he shouldn’t get too close to home. ‘In my life I’ve seen more than one officer head down the road to destruction.’ He thought about his meeting with McIver, but the image was immediately replaced by the memory of his father’s brains spread across the rear of the garden shed. ‘Think about Ronald McIver and be careful of the life you choose.’

She saw the look on his face and wondered about its genesis. There was a sadness in him that rarely came to the surface. ‘That’s clarified things for me,’ she said smiling.

‘Your dilemma, so it’s your decision. Do you think that in your sleepless hours you’d have time to look over some CCTV?’

‘You want me to help Peter and Eric?’

‘No, I want you to collect CCTV from around Malone’s flat. Check the movements on the night of his death. Find something that’s out of the ordinary.’

‘But don’t tell anyone why I’m doing it.’

‘Precisely.’

CHAPTER 29

Jackie Carlisle drove to Sammy Rice’s house in Ballygomartin Road along the Shankill Road. The Shankill wasn’t the most direct route from Carlisle’s residence in Hillsborough, but he hadn’t been down the Protestant thoroughfare for more than a year. He looked at the faces along the side of the road. They were all good Loyalist faces, the salt of the earth that was Northern Ireland. Their ancestors had arrived with William of Orange to fight the papists at the Battle of the Boyne, and had stayed on. Or maybe their ancestors were Scottish Presbyterians who were imported to displace the papist Gaelic population. Wherever they came from, they had been Jackie Carlisle’s people for more than fifty years. He drove slowly so that his people could see and recognise him. He had often driven down this road and found his progress impeded by the crowds who strayed off the footpath in order to shake his hand. He looked for that level of recognition today. However, there was no one impeding his progress, and the faces that streamed past showed no sign that they recognised him. He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw that time and the disease that was gradually eating his body had not been kind to him. He had always been on the slight side but both his features and his body were now cadaverous. Maybe he was asking too much of his people to recognise their diminished hero. The Shankill was the same, but it was also in the process of change. The murals depicting scenes from Protestant mythology were still there. He passed one portraying the great Protestant leader Edward Carson signing the Convention. The painter didn’t do his subject justice. However, the Union Jack painted beneath the mural was a reasonable representation. The predominant shop-front colour was still royal blue; he smiled because the façade of every shop from the local chemist to the Indian takeaway was painted the same colour. The Union Jack predominated and was matched in many cases by the Red Hand flag of Ulster. He passed a shop with a large sign above it offering camouflage uniforms. A vestige of the time when every young Loyalist was dressed as though he was on leave from the British Army. The car behind hooted and he reluctantly pressed the accelerator. There was something in the air of the Shankill that was missing in Hillsborough. It was something visceral; this road running through the centre of Belfast was the heart of Protestant resistance. He was part of creating that heart. He worked all his life to preserve the culture of his people. He was at their head during the riots and was their chief negotiator with the British government. He represented them locally, in Westminster and in Europe. His legacy was secure. In years to come, there might be murals depicting the highlights of his career. Thankfully, only he and his associates knew some of those highlights. The preservation of Protestant Ulster could not be attained without the spilling of blood. As a leader of the Protestant paramilitaries, he was prepared to shed Fenian blood. That was before he morphed into a politician. He was lost in thought and suddenly found himself on the Woodvale Road. Away to his left were the Catholic enclaves where the papists were breeding like rats. He felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. The rats would have a field day when he died. His people would parade behind the hearse bearing his body, and he would be laid in the grave with a hero’s oration. On the other side of the Peace Wall, there would be celebration. And yet he wanted to live. He was too young to die. He had too much to offer Ulster to just fade away and be eaten by worms. He was a hero, and heroes died glorious deaths. He had almost reached Sammy Rice’s house. He smiled when he thought of his acolyte. He was Sammy’s mentor during his days as a hellion leader. But Sammy, like his father, had a bad streak in him. While Carlisle morphed into a politician, Sammy transformed into a criminal. They both continued to serve Ulster, but in their separate ways. Carlisle pulled into the driveway of Rice’s house. George Carroll, one of Sammy’s men, stood by the front door.

Carroll moved slowly towards that car. His walk was like that of an automaton. He recognised Carlisle and bent to open the driver’s door. ‘Afternoon, Mr Carlisle.’

‘Afternoon, George.’ Carlisle stepped out of the car.

Big George Carroll stepped to the side. His face registered satisfaction at being recognised. ‘The Chief is inside.’

Carlisle walked behind Big George as he led the way to the front door.

Big George opened the front door with a key he removed from his pocket. He stood aside, and Carlisle entered the house. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Someone had neglected to take out the rubbish. The house looked, and smelled, like a tip.

‘Jackie.’ Sammy Rice appeared from the living room. He was dressed in a filthy tee-shirt and grey training bottoms.

‘Hello, Sammy.’ Carlisle was shocked at Rice’s condition. He sported three  days’ growth of beard and looked like he needed a good wash. The normal blond pompadour was lank and greasy. Rice always prided himself on his tan. It was faded, and his skin was pale and blotchy. Carlisle didn’t like what he saw. Sammy Rice knew too much to be allowed to go to seed.

‘Come into the living room.’ Rice pinched the base of his nose and led the way. ‘Long time since we’ve seen you in this neck of the woods. Last I heard you’d buried yourself in Hillsborough waiting for a visit from the Grim Reaper.’ He laughed.

‘I’ve a bit to go yet,’ Carlisle said taking the only seat that wasn’t strewn with rubbish. He wondered how Rice knew of his medical condition. He looked around the room. ‘This place used to be nice. I see you’re trying to go for the rubbish heap look.’

Rice gave a hoarse laugh. ‘I used to have a wife who looked after the place.’

‘Take my advice and get her back.’

‘Drink?’ Rice asked moving to a drinks cabinet.

‘I’m off the booze,’ Carlisle said.

Rice poured himself a large whiskey. He turned and faced Carlisle. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Did you see today’s
Chronicle
?’

Rice brushed some DVD boxes off a chair and sat down. ‘I don’t have time to read the newspapers.’

Carlisle looked at the boxes on the floor. The pictures on the covers were indicative of the contents. ‘Maybe you should find time. The police have launched an investigation into Grant’s death. Ian Wilson is the senior investigating officer.’

‘That bollocks.’ Rice took a slug from his glass. ‘At least he caught the cunt that killed my mother.’

‘He’s persistent and some people are getting anxious. There’s a worry that you didn’t clean up as well as you promised.’

Rice took another drink from his glass. ‘I thought that you people had all the bases covered. Don’t you own that little prick Jennings? Get him to put the break on Wilson. What’s the point of having a dog that can’t bark? Anyway, the mechanics left nothing behind. It’ll be one of those unsolved murders that we read about.’ Rice stood up and started pacing the room.

‘It should never have gone this far.’ Carlisle leaned forward. ‘This should have been passed up the tree. It would never have been sanctioned.’

‘You know Willie, my old alcoholic father?’ Rice shoved his face into Carlisle’s.

Carlisle nodded. ‘Of course I do.’ He was beginning to wonder where Rice’s head was. He noticed the redness around his nose and hoped that it was the result of a cold. He doubted it, though. What they didn’t need right now was a coke addict.

Rice pulled his face away and continued his pacing. ‘Well auld Willie filled my head with a load of old shite, but he did tell me one thing.’

Carlisle waited.

‘You always find the biggest monkeys near the top of the tree.’ Rice descended into a fit of laughing. ‘That was the only thing the auld bastard said that I took on board.’ His face suddenly reddened. ‘You can go and tell the big monkeys who are getting anxious that the Peelers are no risk. Everything is in hand.’ He pointed at two bin bags in the corner of the room. ‘That’s the crap that was picked up at Malone’s and Grant’s, computers, papers, briefcases. Nothing was left behind. You can sleep safely in your beds on top of the piles of money you have made from me and people like me.’ He decided there was no need to mention that Grant had contacted an accountant friend.

Cocky bastard, Carlisle thought. He hoped Sammy was right. There was a lot riding on him being right. Looking into Rice’s face, he was doubtful.

Rice was suddenly in front of him. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘No problem, Sammy.’ It wasn’t the time to argue with a hopped-up Rice. Carlisle stood. He would have to get in contact with the others. He prepared to leave. He moved slowly towards the door. As he passed a coffee table, he saw a small smear of white powder and knew that his worse fears were probably confirmed. Sammy Rice was a drug dealer who had become one of his own customers. It wouldn’t be long before he wasn’t to be trusted. The Circle didn’t like people it couldn’t trust.

As soon as Carlisle left, Sammy Rice spread some cocaine on the coffee table and chopped it into three lines with a credit card. He rolled up a fifty-pound note and snorted the first line. His head shot up as the cocaine rushed to his brain. Fuck Carlisle and fuck Wilson. He bent and snorted the second line. His head shot up again and he beat his chest with his fists. He would fuck them all. Some people were getting anxious. He laughed. He should care about the big monkeys at the top of the tree. Their day was done. ‘Georgie, get your fucking arse in here,’ he shouted before snorting the last line. He stomped around the room.

Big George Carroll walked quietly into Rice’s living room.

Rice put his arm around Carroll. ‘It’s time,’ he said, a wide grin on his face. ‘It’s time to show the fuckers. You and me are going to pay a visit to that Taig, O’Reilly, this evening. I’ll show the fuckers.’