Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (13 page)

CHAPTER 32

The police presence at the priest’s retirement home created a traffic jam on the Glen Road. Harry Graham was already at the scene when Wilson arrived. After signing in and changing into the obligatory white oversuit, Wilson ducked under the crime-scene tape surrounding the house and made his way along the gravel path to the front door.

“Boss,” Graham met him at the door. “The victim is Father Reilly. He’s in the back bedroom on the first floor. Five priests are resident. Two currently laid up ill. They’re all in the living room that acts as a day room for them including the two sick ones. The housekeeper doesn’t live in so all hell didn’t break loose until she discovered the body early this morning. Apparently, Reilly was one of the more active ones and was generally up and about by the time she arrived. That wasn’t the case this morning, so she went to knock him up. Almost tripped out when she saw the amount of blood on the bed.”

“Any signs of an intruder?” Wilson asked.

“None,” Graham replied. “Nothing taken either so we have to conclude that whoever did this meant only to kill Reilly.”

“Let’s take a look,” Wilson said and began to climb the stairs to the upper floor.

Graham pushed open the door of Father Reilly’s room. The photographer from the forensics team was snapping away as the two men entered the room. The body of Fergus Reilly was lying face up on the bed his face contorted in a rictus of fear. His neck had been sliced from side to side, and a stream of blood had run down his chest and across the bed. Wilson bent over the body. Reilly looked like a waxwork figure of himself covered in blood. Rigor mortis was setting in and if the corpse was going to be viewed, someone would have to expiate the look of terror on his face. The room itself was Spartan. Aside from the bed there was an easy chair, a wardrobe with a single drawer beneath, a bedside table with an ancient desk lamp, and a small bookcase containing a couple of dozen books, which appeared to be as old as their owner. Wilson bent down and pulled an battered leather suitcase from under the bed. He opened it and stared at the contents, a large number of photographs many of indeterminate age, mass booklets and some bound papers. Wilson removed the papers and glanced quickly through them. Notes for homilies dominated. He was looking at the detritus of a human life. The photos were old and traced Reilly’s life from a faded picture of scruffy young children standing beside stern face farming parents to pictures with parishioners. One picture of recent vintage showed Reilly kissing the ring of none other than Bishop Charles Cleary. Wilson tossed the pictures back into the case and replaced it under the bed. He looked at the few pieces of clothing hanging in the wardrobe brushing his hands over a worn winter coat and two badly frayed jackets. A black suit was the only relatively recent item of clothing, and even it had seen better days. The drawer at the base of the wardrobe contained three pullovers, five white shirts, a dozen pairs of socks and some well-washed grey underwear. Wilson snapped the drawer shut. The poor bastard had nothing but his life and some idiot had taken that from him.

“He wasn’t killed for his money,” Graham said.

“That’s for sure,” Wilson said. He glanced at the window. “Check whether that’s been tampered with.”

“Already done,” Graham answered quickly. “It’s rusted shut. Should have been replaced years ago.”

“I don’t suppose there was an alarm system.”

Graham shook his head in negation. “Not possible with the old timers wandering around at night looking for the toilet.”

“Let’s leave this for forensics. If someone got in from the outside without leaving a trace, they knew what they were doing. “ Wilson exited the room and looked about the landing. There were four other doors. He opened each in turn exposing three bedrooms and a toilet. “Where are the bedrooms of the other two?”

“Downstairs. There’s an extension built onto the side of the house.”

Wilson walked downstairs and entered the living room. Six elderly faces turned in unison to look at him as he entered. Nobody in the room, including the housekeeper, looked under eighty. Catholic priests were obviously long-livers except when they met death by violence.

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Ian Wilson and I’ll be the senior investigating officer looking into the death of Father Reilly.”

“Who would do such a thing?” an ancient priest with a face the colour and texture of cracked parchment asked.

“That’s what we are going to try to find out,” Wilson said. “Now I’m sorry but we are going to be a major nuisance. This whole house is now a crime scene, and we will be more or less taking it over for the next day or two. I understand that this is going to cause a great deal of discomfort for you all so I would be grateful if you would cooperate without too much complaint. I would also be grateful if you would give your names to Detective Constable Graham and we will be interviewing you in due course. Please try to remember everything that happened within the last few days. Even the smallest detail could be important.” He turned to Graham. “Harry, have any arrangements been made to re-house these people until we’ve done a complete forensic on the house?”

Graham spoke quietly. “The old fellow over there with the face like a Halloween mask made a phone call to the people who are in charge of this place. They’re sending someone over.”

“Ian.”

Wilson turned and saw the pathologist standing in the entrance hall.

“Hello, Doc,” Wilson went into the hall to join him.

“Open season on priests then,” the Pathologist smiled.

“Looks that way,” Wilson returned the smile. “Like the last one. Whoever did it made sure that the miracles of medicine were of no use to him. He’s upstairs in the back bedroom. Can we have some preliminary results soon?”

The Pathologist started up the stairs. “When I have them, you’ll have them,” he said as he disappeared from view.

“Sir,” a young police constable entered the door. “There a priest outside said he needs to speak to you.”

“Could be the fella they’re sending over to look after the old lads,” Wilson followed the Constable out of the door and stopped dead as he saw Monsignor Malachy Devlin standing just outside the crime-scene tape.

“I should have guessed that you’d be turning up,” Wilson said as he moved forward to face Devlin at the tape. He resisted adding ‘like a bad penny’.

“The Bishop sent me to make arrangements regarding the re-housing of the residents,” Devlin said. “Maybe your officers would be so kind as to facilitate the process. I’ve arranged for alternative accommodation and transport.”

“I’ll need to know exactly where everybody has been relocated to. One of my team will be speaking to each of the residents individually.”

Devlin frowned. “I hope there’s no suggestion that any of the priests in the home are involved in the murder in any way. The majority of them are so infirm that they would have difficulty running a knife through butter.”

“At the moment we are keeping an open mind on who might be responsible,” Wilson said. “I’ll get DC Graham to assist with moving the priests out. I understand that the housekeeper lives off site anyway. My problem is that this is a bit much of a coincidence, and I don’t like coincidences. Two priests die violent deaths within a few days. Either both of these crimes are connected, or we have a serial killer out there who is intent on culling the priestly population.”

“Detective Chief Inspector, you appear to be treating these matters with a levity which is wholly inappropriate,” Devlin said.

“It goes with the job, Monsignor. I have a hunch that I still have a lot to learn about Father Gilroy’s death. If I manage to link these two murders, and if I find that this investigation has been obstructed in any way, then you can rest assured that I will pursue anyone who has impeded me with the full vigour of the law. Do you understand?”

“When can I expect you to release the residents of the home,” Devlin ignored Wilson question.

“They’re free to leave,” Wilson said. “As soon as you provide an address where they can be contacted by my team.”

“I will organise their new accommodation immediately. The trauma that those poor priests have endured will undoubtedly impact on their well-being so I want to get them away from here as soon as possible.”

“Forensics will be going over this place with a fine tooth comb and since it is the a crime scene, we won’t need a warrant to examine the building.” Wilson turned to the officer manning the crime scene tape. “And I don’t want this man,” he pointed at Monsignor Devlin, “to put one step inside the tape. Have you got that?”

The officer nodded.

“I’d get to work on those addresses if I were you,” Wilson said to Devlin before disappearing back into the house.

“That man does my head in,” Wilson said as soon as he entered the house.

“Bit of a strange lad,” Graham said. “Always turns up when there’s something on.”

“I noticed that too,” Wilson said. It was too much of a coincidence that Devlin always seemed to be around. He was certainly the Bishop’s bagman so it was natural that if something needed fixing then he’d be the man to send around but Wilson wondered whether there was some other motivation for his presence. “Anyway, he’s here to move the auld folks out and that’s in our interest. Just make sure we know where to find them. You hold the fort here with the forensics lads. I’ll get Peter and Moira on the ball to start taking statements and Eric will organise the house to house. I’m away back to the Station. I’ve got to keep Fatboy up to date on the investigation so far.”

“Does CI Harrison know that people call him Fatboy?”

“If he doesn’t, then he’s more fucking stupid than he looks and that’d be some job,” Wilson strode out of the house.

CHAPTER 33

Bishop Carey was not accustomed to pacing up and down in front of the fireplace in his study. It was the most exercise the Bishop had taken in several months.

“What the hell is going on?” the Bishop asked.

“I have no idea,” Monsignor Devlin sat in one of the leather wingback chairs. He never understood the need to wander around a room in order to think. He did his best thinking when his body was completely at rest. “Gilroy had a past that could have caught up with him but Reilly is another matter. He hasn’t a blemish on his record. Maybe we’ve been wrong. Maybe there is a serial killer out there targeting priests. God knows we’ve had sectarian serial killers in the Province before. Maybe it’s just some idiot with a grudge against priests.”

The Bishop stopped moving for a moment while he considered Devlin’s train of thought. “If that’s the case, what can we do about it?”

“Absolutely nothing. We’ll have to leave it to Wilson and his gang.”

“Are you sure that there’s no connection between Fathers Gilroy and Reilly? Maybe they served together or ran across each other somewhere. Dear God, I hope they weren’t involved in some group with one another. Have you examined the stuff from Gilroy’s computer yet?”

“We’ve only had a few hours to look into a possible connection, so I can’t be definite about that until we’ve looked at where or how the two of them could have met.  Gilroy was a crafty bugger. Most of the files are password protected, and we’re having some difficulty getting into them. The sensitivity of the material means that we can’t let just anybody have a go at breaking into the files. We’ll get there, but it will take a little longer than we anticipated.”

“Bloody disaster,” the Bishop said resuming his pacing.

“Surely you must have know that some day the chickens would come home to roost on this one,” Devlin had never seen the Bishop so preoccupied.

“We thought that we had covered all the tracks,” the Bishop said increasing the speed on his pacing. “Nobody ever dreamed that Gilroy would be murdered and that the can of worms would be opened up. We’re part and parcel of the power structure in this Province, the politicians, the police, the business community and the various churches. We cover each other’s backs when it’s necessary. That’s the way it’s always been.”

Devlin sat back in his chair. He was a student of history and as such he knew that when the going got tough that’s when your friends ran for the door. They were going to need all the help they could muster if his mentor, the Bishop, was going to escape unscathed from this one. If Carey went down, he would go down with him, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Moira McElvaney and Ronald McIver were the only people in the Squad Room when Wilson returned. Peter Davidson had already left for the Glen Road and Eric Taylor was out organising the door to door. McIver seldom left the office. Wilson knew that he should have moved him on several years ago. But McIver had been in a bomb blast, and he knew better than most the effect of being that close to death can have on someone. McIver had no desire to go out on the streets again where he might get himself killed. While Wilson walked with a barely perceptible limp, there were bits of McIver’s stomach that had been taken away and would never be replaced. But the major damage hadn’t been done to McIver’s body. He had only returned to active duty after treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. It didn’t mean that McIver was a bad policeman, it just meant that he intended to live to tell the tale.

“Ronald,” Wilson called as soon as he entered the Squad Room.

“Boss,” McIver said from his desk.

“Start a Murder Book on the Reilly killing and get a fresh white board set up.”

“Yes, Boss,” McIver picked up his phone.

“Moira.”

“Boss.”

“I want you to help with questioning the residents of the home. There are shops on the Glen Road. I want you to get every piece of CCTV footage that’s available. Harry has the locations where the priests are staying but I want you to start with the housekeeper. ”

“On it, Boss,” Moira picked up her jacket from behind the chair and made for the door.

Wilson went to his office and sat heavily into his chair. Two priests dead in the past few days. An attempt at a cover up concerning priest number one but so far no attempt to cover up priest number two. Someone out there either didn’t like priests, in which case it was highly likely that more priests were going to die, or the killer is after specific priests, and something links the two dead priests. What he really didn’t want was some kind of priest serial killer. Motiveless crimes were the hardest to solve. The killer simply strikes at will in a random fashion choosing his victims as they present themselves. That’s what the jurnos will make of it. The murder of Father Gilroy could be passed over as a one off but the crime reporters would be all over the Reilly murder. The serial killer story would be out there in the tabloid press. The pressure to find the culprit was sure to mount now that a second priest had been murdered. However, there were a few flies in the ointment. Like how had the killer had gained access to the retirement home? He hoped the forensics team would come up with some explanation for that. There were two elderly priests sleeping on the ground floor. They would present a much simpler kill than moving around the house and upstairs to the back bedroom. The only conclusion was that Reilly had been selected specifically. So if one worked on the premise that Gilroy and Reilly were not random victims but selected, there must be some connection that binds the two dead men and the killer.  Wilson was running these ideas over in his mind and didn’t notice Chief Superintendent Spence at the door of his office.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle around,” Spence said from the door.

“It’s a bit early in the day,” Wilson said opening the bottom drawer of his desk and removing a bottle of Jameson and two glasses.

“Only a small one,” Spence said moving forward into the office and taking a seat in front of Wilson. “I heard about the old priest,” he leaned forward and took a glass containing a double measure of whiskey from Wilson’s hand.

“A classic,” Wilson raised his glass in a silent toast. “Murdered in his own bed. The killer held him down and slit his throat.” He drew his finger across his own throat.

“There’s going to be a press conference at 12:00. We’ll be on TV this evening,” Spence said. “Not you of course, just Chief Inspector Harrison and myself.”

“Orders from above?” Wilson sipped his whiskey. Maybe he’d take up serious drinking as a mechanism to help him forget. Somehow or other he didn’t think that Kate would approve.

“Absolutely,” Spence smiled. “You are a glory hunter, and a self-promoter. If you do manage to nail the killer, you better make sure that CI Harrison is on hand because that collar will probably be enough to push him over the finishing line for Superintendent and Joe’s old job.”

“And I should care?”

“For one, you look better on the box,” Spence said. “They say that TV adds ten pounds, that means that Harrison will probably take over the whole screen. The people of Northern Ireland will think that we’re all fat bastards. Then there’s the clincher. If he gets Joe’s job, you’ll have to work with him.“

“Maybe,” Wilson said. “When’s Joe’s funeral?”

“Day after tomorrow. He was a Free Presbyterian. “

“I’ll skip the service then,” Wilson smiled. “Full dress honours.”

“Absolutely, from the Chief Constable down. The burial is in Roselawn Cemetery.”

“I’ll go along to say goodbye, but I’ll stay out of the way.”

Spence nodded and finished his drink. “Run me up something for the Press Conference.”

“It’ll be upstairs in half an hour. Now maybe you’ll get to the point of why you came down here.”

“You’re a bit of a mind reader, Ian,” Spence smiled.

“You could have had me upstairs for all of the stuff we’ve just talked about. You came down here because you’ve something heavy to lay on me.”

“I’m hearing that DCC Jennings is as good as his word. He’s reported you to Professional Standards. Rumour has it that he’s pushing for the setting up of a ‘misconduct panel’.”

“I’m worried,” Wilson said sarcastically.

“You should be. Jennings won’t stop until his has your arse in a sling. If the panel goes against you, they’ll have you out quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.”

“And I care.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is what you do, Ian. It may even be what you are. You were made for this job. Don’t screw it up by letting the bastards get to you. We’re going to have some people from Professional Standards around here soon. They’ll be talking to DC McElvaney, you and me. And God forbid they’ll probably also talk to CI Harrison who will inevitably try to hang you. Keep your cool and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get out of this with your skin intact.”

“Let them do their best. Joe’s arrest went by the book. If we tell it as it was, there should be no problem. But I am getting a bit pissed off with these constant attempts to get rid of me.”

Spence glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get myself organised. Get me something on the Reilly murder for 12:00. We’ll ask for witnesses. The usual bag of tricks.”