Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (18 page)

Wilson looked at the grainy image produced by Moira’s printer. “This can’t be the best that we can produce,” he said trying to make out some features on the face that was half-hidden by the hood.

“If I enhance it, the pixels just get bigger, but it does nothing for the face,” Moira stood directly in front of his desk. She spent the afternoon manipulating the photo to no avail. Maybe the FBI lab at Quantico could do something with it but the technology available to the PSNI had done its best and had fallen significantly short.

Wilson turned the A4 paper in his hand. “It may not even be our man. Was the nothing on the other disks?”

“I don’t know why they bother with those old cameras. The stuff on the last disk could have been recorded in a snowstorm. What you’ve got in your hand is the result of pouring over three disks of absolute crap.”

“I appreciate the effort. I’m just a little pissed with the result. He has no recognisable features, and it’s impossible to tell his age. He’s a needle in a haystack but for now he’s the only lead we have. Make a couple of copies. Pin one to the whiteboard and get Davidson to show a copy to the old couple from the church. Take a copy back to Mrs Mulholland’s and see if it jogs her memory.”

“OK,” Moira said. “What about the funeral?”

“The usual bag of tricks. It’s been totally forgotten that Joe was about to be panned. The word has been put out that I was the bastard who caused him to blow his brains out. So I was persona non grata. Kate and I stayed at a respectful distance and we avoided the drinks after the funeral. I saw Jennings, Fatboy and the Chief Constable in conversation, and I didn’t have to guess what the subject might be. Fatboy is so transparent that he kept glancing in my direction.“

“What about the arseholes from Professional Standards?”

“They were on hand in case I had to be ejected or caused a scene. Everything I do now is up for scrutiny. While Coyle is around I’ll have to be whiter than white.”

“Jennings must want you very badly,” she said.

“He’s been looking for me since Police College. He was the prick of the class running back to the lecturers with little stories about the other cadets. I was the big rugby player, so I was untouchable. That got up his nose. When we passed out I was the star of the show and he was innocuous. That hadn’t been part of his plan, so he decided there and then that he was going to bring me down. The thing is I don’t give a shit. He’s already brown-nosed his way to DCC so I have no doubt he plans to go further. Meanwhile, he’s going to do his best to force me out of the job.”

“It all seems so petty,” she said.

“Don’t let it worry you. We need to catch the bastard who killed the priests and we need to do it quickly. That’s our advantage over Jennings. As long as we produce results, he can’t touch us. “

CHAPTER 41

Three men sat in DCC Jennings’ office in the early evening. Ronald Harrison’s face was ruddier than usual as a result of several stiff whiskies imbibed after Worthington’s funeral. Harry Graham sat fidgeting with his fingers while Roy Jennings glowered at both men.

“You’ve failed miserably,” red streaks ran along Jennings’ scrawny neck. “This was the perfect chance to nail Wilson and you’ve let it slip.”

“Coyle and Gillespie let it slip,” Harrison said.

“You two imbeciles were supposed to supply them with the information that would hang him,” he turned and looked at Graham. “You swore that there was something between him and the McElvaney woman.”

“There is,” Graham felt that he had to defend himself, or he was going to be a Detective Constable all his life. “She‘s always making cow eyes at him, and you know his reputation. They can deny it all they like, but I know what I know.”

“Proof,” Jennings shouted. “I need proof. Give me something concrete that Coyle and Gillespie can get their teeth into. I don’t need supposition.”

“I saw them in the bar after Worthington’s suicide,” Graham said. “They were holding hands just like a pair of lovers.”

“I want a picture of him screwing her,” Jennings shouted. “I want both of them naked screwing each other’s brains out. Get that for me and I’ll promote you to Detective Sergeant the next day.”

“Maybe it’s over,” Graham said. “He’s with that lady barrister now living it up on her money. McElvaney doesn’t stand a chance against her.”

“Play on her envy,” Jennings said. “Get into conversation with her and get her to admit to having had a relationship with him. If she’s a scorned woman get her to admit that he forced himself on her. Get some details that Coyle and Gillespie can use. For God’s sake get me something.”

Graham let his eyes drop. It was common knowledge around the Station that Jennings was after Wilson’s blood, but he hadn’t realised that the desire was so intense. He was beginning to believe that he had made a Faustian bargain, and that he would ultimately pay a price for this folly. However, he had no choice but to follow his chosen path.

“I’ll try,” he said tentatively. McElvaney was nobody’s fool and if he wasn’t ultra careful, she would rumble him and that would be the end of him in Wilson’s squad.

“What’s happening on the Gilroy business?” Jennings asked flicking his eyes between Harrison and Graham.

“Wilson doesn’t buy the priest killer angle,” Graham said finally. “In fact, he thinks it’s a heap of crap.”

Harrison shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Sorry, Sir,” Graham said quickly. “He’s keeping that part of the investigation alive but that’s not his main line of enquiry. He thinks the motive for the killing lies with Father Gilroy. He thinks that the Gilroy and Reilly killings are the work of one man, and that there’s a link between the two men that will lead to the motive. I haven’t seen him to-day because of the funeral, but that’s where we were yesterday.”

Jennings and Harrison remained silent.

Graham could feel sweat on the hair on the back of his head. He looked from Jennings to Harrison but neither man responded.

“Perhaps I should get back to the Station,” he said.

“Perhaps you should,” Jennings said sharply.

Graham stood. “Good evening, Sir,” he said nodding at both men. Neither responded.

“Pleb,” Jennings said as soon as Graham was outside the door. “And he thinks I’m going to promote him to DS. The man is delusional.”

Harrison remained silent. He had been promised Worthington’s old job, but he knew how fickle Jennings could be. A promise made in the DCC’s office wasn’t worth the air it took to make it.

“That bastard Wilson has more lives than a cat,” Jennings said more to himself than Harrison.

“Aye,” Harrison said because he felt he should say something.

“Your television performance was ill-advised and clumsy. Every priest in the Province thinks that he’s a target for the ‘Priest Killer’. I asked you to steer Wilson towards the loyalist theory not create a panic among the Catholic clergy. Get out and keep me informed. Bring me Wilson’s head and you’ll be rewarded.”

Harrison rose and was about to speak but thought the better of it. Words could get you hung with characters like Roy Jennings. Silence was the best policy.

Jennings let his bony figure ease back into his chair. His attempt to skewer Wilson had come to nothing. There was still some mileage to be gained from the screwed-up arrest of Worthington. The Chief Constable had been apoplectic because of the adverse publicity but they had managed to spin the suicide as the result of the stress of running a large Station in the heart of Belfast. The bitch who started the whole mess was going to get her pound of flesh as long as she kept her mouth shut about the circumstances of her windfall. It was an ill wind that didn’t blow someone some good. He picked up his phone and dialled Bishop Carey’s private number.

“Roy,” the Bishop said as he answered the phone.

Jennings was taken aback. “You must be psychic, Charles,” he said.

“Caller ID,” the Bishop replied. “And I have a thing about numbers. I have memorised hundreds of phone numbers simply by dialling them more than once.”

“We need to meet.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“As before.”

“Agreed.”

“Shall we say one hour.”

“One hour it is.”

Bishop Carey put the phone down in his study. The meeting with Jennings would be to deliver bad news. He was around long enough to discern the quality of the news from the timbre of the voice about to deliver it. He watched the inept performance of CI Harrison during the Press Conference on Gilroy’s murder. The ‘Priest Killer’ theory looked like something that had been thought up on the spur of the moment.  Since the conference aired he had received calls from eighty per cent of the priests in the diocese requesting approval for a short holiday. If it was open season on priests in Northern Ireland, most priests wanted to be in Rome or Southern Spain. He turned when he heard a knock on the door.

“Ah, Monsignor,” he said as Devlin entered the study.

“Your Grace,” Devlin said.

“No need for formality between us,” the Bishop said realising that the formality did not bode well for the subject of the Monsignor’s visit.

“I have found a possible link between Fathers Gilroy and Reilly,” Devlin announced.

The Bishop raised his eyebrows.  “Tell me.”

“Gilroy was the subject of a Clerical Inquiry in 1997,” Devlin stopped for effect.

“And,” the Bishop said.

“Father Reilly was on the panel of the Inquiry,” again the pause.

This time the Bishop waited. He was remembering the Clerical Inquiry. He knew that the next sentence would identify him as the notary.

“You were involved in the Gilroy inquiry yourself,” Devlin continued. “In fact you had a central position. You took the notes and developed the minutes of the meeting for the then Bishop.”

“I remember,” the Bishop said quietly. It was funny how actions in the past of an unsavoury nature can come back to haunt one. “Gilroy was an animal. After the Inquiry, he was packed off to Canada. There was a facility there for errant priests. I followed up on him a year later. He got the full treatment, electric shocks when he looked at pictures of children, encounter sessions, no stone was left unturned. At the time, the prevailing theory was that sexual abuse was a mental health issue. Gilroy completed his programme and returned to his ministry. He served in several parishes in Quebec without any apparent problem.”

“You knew he was back here?” Devlin asked.

“I put him in Saint Cormac’s. There was no problem. Nobody complained, and the Clerical Inquiry was a thing of the past.”

“I checked out his computer,” Devlin paced nervously. “It made me sick to my stomach. There were thousands of images of children, some naked, some being abused by adults. One thing I know for sure is that he wasn’t cured.  Your Canadian friends may have thought that they had gotten through to him, but they hadn’t. It was only a question of time before he started abusing children again. I’m sure you’re aware that this puts a totally different complexion on the murders and the arson. There’s someone out there who is very angry at what happened in 1997. According to your report of the Inquiry, Gilroy was accused of molesting five children. It could be one of them or maybe there were others. What is clear is that someone blames the Inquiry for not stopping Gilroy.”

Bishop Carey looked at his watch. “Interesting conjecture, Monsignor. However, I have an important meeting I must attend. The notes of the Inquiry are Church documents and are sealed. Our duty in this affair is to protect the reputation of Holy Mother the Church. Gilroy was a rotten apple, but now he’s dead the issue is closed. I’m sure I can depend on you.” The Bishop held out his hand with his ring finger uppermost.

“Of course, your Grace,” Devlin bent and kissed the Bishop’s ring.

Wilson arrived home at half past six in the evening. It was the earliest he had been home since the Gilroy murder. He dumped his jacket over a chair and kicked off his shoes. After removing the rest of his clothes in the bedroom he made for the bathroom and the hottest shower he could stand. He held his face up to the steaming jets and let the water sting him. The sight of the hypocrites standing beside Joe Worthington’s grave was imprinted on his closed eyes. So that was what it was all about. A hole in the ground, a volley of shots, Amazing Grace on the bagpipes and a folded red hand of Ulster flag presented to the grieving widow. He had been over his role in the suicide a thousand times, and though he would like to believe that it had absolutely nothing to do with him, he had played his part. He could have refused to make the arrest. That would have been handing his head on a plate to Jennings. He had done what he had to do. It was Joe’s decision to put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. He switched off the shower and glanced down at his red skin. Despite the scalding, he still felt dirty. He exited the shower and tied a towel around his waist. He needed a drink. Perhaps Kate would be late, and he would already be in bed pissed out of his mind by the time she returned. That way, she would miss the pathetic spectacle of him drowning his sorrows in a bottle. He walked through the bedroom and into the living room and then stopped dead.

“You’re home,” Kate said nervously before turning to the older woman at her side. “Helen, this is my partner, Ian Wilson.” She turned back to face Wilson. “Ian this is my mother.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ian,” Helen McCann said smoothly. “I can see why Kate was pinning after you. You’re quite a hunk dressed like that.”

Wilson became aware that he was wearing only a small towel. “Nice to meet you too, Helen,” Wilson said quickly. “I wasn’t aware that you were coming today.” He looked at Kate.

“Helen had to bring forward her visit. I tried to get you but you were always busy.”

“I’ll go and get into something less revealing,” Wilson turned and retraced his steps to the bedroom. His plan for the evening had just hit the skids.

Kate followed him into the bedroom. “I’m sorry it had to be today,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

“No sweat,” Wilson removed the towel and started to dress. “I haven’t really been functioning today so maybe I need something totally different for this evening.”

She stepped forward and put her arms around him burying her head in his bare chest. “You’re worth more than the whole bloody lot of them.”

“You might be biased,” Wilson laughed for the first time that day. “Now let me finish dressing so I can make the desired impression on your mother.”