Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (20 page)

CHAPTER 43

Wilson sat in his office reading the Murder Book for the third time. He added a note on the interview with Malachy Devlin earlier in the day. A picture was beginning to emerge, but it resembled in fuzziness the image that Moira had obtained of the homeless man from the CCTV cameras. He was even more convinced that the Gilroy abode had been sanitised before he had a chance to examine it. That meant they had known there was something there they didn’t wish the police to find. The computer and whatever personal effects had been there on Saturday had been removed and if Wilson knew his man, the good Monsignor had ensured that they would never see the light of day again. That could only mean that they had been totally destroyed. Devlin was far too cocky in the interview. He knew that Wilson had no proof that items had been removed. The policeman left on St. Cormac’s had been more than likely asleep when Devlin, and his accomplice had been at work. He glanced at his watch. The records of Gilroy’s Internet activity would be with them in a few hours then he would know for sure what he already suspected. The computer and the personal papers had not been removed because Father Gilroy had been a good boy. They had been removed because someone was afraid that Father Gilroy had been up to no good. It just depended what level of no good. Pilfering the Sunday collection might be a sin in the Church’s eyes, but it would hardly justify the removal of the evidence of such a minor offence. Father Gilroy’s superiors suspected him of being up to major no good and if that was the case, he had probably been up to the same kind of no good sometime in the past. It was, therefore, a cause of concern to Wilson that nothing had turned up in their search of Gilroy’s background. Someone stabbed and immolated him. Reilly’s throat was cut. There was some similarity in the murders in that a knife had been used but the killings were dissimilar enough. Gilroy had been up close and personal. The killer wanted him eradicated from the world. Reilly had been silent and in his sleep almost as if the killer didn’t want to disturb him. Gilroy was the key to both murders. Reilly was part of the scheme, but he wasn’t as important as Gilroy.

The ringing of his mobile phone interrupted Wilson’s train of thought. He glanced quickly at the caller ID but didn’t recognise it. “Wilson.”

“Ian, it’s Helen.”

Wilson was confused for a moment and then remembered Kate’s mother. “Helen, what can I do for you?”

“I hope that I’m not disturbing you, but I was wondering whether we could meet for a drink?”

He glanced at his watch. It was approaching four thirty and he had several more hours of work to get through. “I’m a bit busy. Can it wait until I’m home this evening?”

“I’d prefer if we could talk without Kate being present.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“In the Lobby Bar at the Europa.”

“I’m on my way.”

Helen McCann was a picture of continental chic. She wore a classic tweed skirt and an expensive cashmere sweater under a cotton jacket. The handbag was a Louis Vuitton that had certainly not been purchased in a Turkish Market.

“I’m sorry if I’ve messed up your day,” she said as soon as Wilson joined her at her table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Tea, please,” Wilson said to the waiter who seemed to have materialised at their table.

“I’m up to my tonsils with this priest murder business,” Wilson sat across the table. Kate’s mother would pass muster in any company. She was immaculately dressed and carried herself with a quiet authority that she had passed on to Kate.  Although she was in her mid-fifties, Wilson guessed that she could pass herself off as being ten years younger.

“I’m glad because I wanted a few words with you alone, and this was the only place I could think of. I’m not up to date on the new hotels in Belfast.”

“No problem, I’ve always like the Europa,” Wilson looked around the Lobby Bar and saw that the customers reflected the same kind of tastes as Helen McCann, and his Canali suit was certainly not out of place.

“Perfect,” she gave the waiter depositing the tea a stunning smile which would convince him that he was the only other person in the room.

Wilson watched her with a combination of admiration and awe. The combination of charisma, culture and money was something that one inherited rather than developed and Helen McCann had all three in spades.

“I can see why Kate is attracted to you,” she began while Wilson spooned sugar into his black liquid. “You’re a bit of a handsome devil. I bet you’ve broken a heart or two in your time.”

“Not intentionally,” Wilson looked up from stirring his tea and found a pair of blue eyes boring into him.

“I’m glad to hear it, although I find it hard to believe. I fancy myself a good judge of character, and I can’t see you passing up a chance with a pretty young thing.”

“I’ve been out of the pretty young thing stakes for quite a long time now.”

“Kate told me about your wife. That must have been difficult.”

“Yes,” Wilson decided it was time to keep the answers short. “Do I take it we’re having the ‘honourable intentions’ conversation?”

Helen gave him the stunning smile, and like the waiter, he felt the glow wash over him. It was a skill he envied. “Kate said you had a sense of humour. You probably know that my daughter has been fully committed to her career up to now. Men have fawned all over her since she was a gawky schoolgirl and despite a couple of adventures, she ‘s managed to avoid what might be termed a relationship. Which brings us rather neatly to you.”

“My intentions are wholly honourable,” Wilson sipped at his tea.

“And that’s it.”

“I love Kate. I respect the fact she’s a high-flying barrister, and that she will always make a shed load more money than I will. I understand all of that.”

“Splendid,” she said still ignoring her coffee. “I only came to this godforsaken city to check you out. Although we are both strong women with sometimes differing opinions, I love my daughter and her happiness means everything to me.”

“I can buy into that,” Wilson said. “Right now we’re seeing how it will go but so far so good.”

“And of course she will be of considerable assistance in your career.” It was said casually.

“Career isn’t that important to me.” Wilson had picked up the insinuation.  “I can understand that a simple policeman wasn’t on your radar for Kate. You probably had something more grandiose in mind. Unfortunately that’s not the way life pans out. I love Kate and I think that she loves me. To hell with both of our so-called careers. As long as she wants me I’ll be with her.”

“Firstly, I think that you are not such a simply policeman as you may want people to believe. I’m not going to comment on what I wanted for Kate because that is an irrelevance. You seem genuine, Ian. But you are a man with a past, and I hope that you’re being honest about Kate. I love her too. Hurt her and you will find that I am a formidable foe.”

“I hope that our relationship will not be based on my fear of you as an enemy. I have enough of those already.”

Helen McCann laughed and rose from her seat. “I like what I’ve seen so far so I’ll be leaving to-morrow. I’ve taken enough of your time. Pay the bill. Catch some criminals and don’t be late for dinner.”

Wilson was still smiling when he pushed open the door to the Squad Room. It was obvious where Kate got her feistiness.

Ronald McIver was standing at the door to his office. His face was grave, and he was holding a sheaf of paper in his hand. “Duty Sergeant told me you were out,” he said defensively. “The Internet service provider sent the records around. It makes interesting reading.”

“Come in and shut the door,” Wilson said.

“You won’t believe this, Boss,” McIver said placing the papers carefully in front of Wilson.

Wilson flicked through the pages identifying the sites Gilroy had been accessing. “Give me the quick tour,” he said.

“Better than that,” McIver moved around to Wilson’s side of the desk and pulled the keyboard of his computer towards him. “I’ll show you.” He clicked on Wilson’s Internet Browser and typed in a site on the top line. He pressed the return key with a flourish.

Wilson stared at the screen. The images were of children aged from five to ten years old in various stages of undress. “All paedophile sites?” Wilson asked.

McIver nodded. “Lots of them, all kinds and none of them as gentle as that one. I bet that missing computer is full of images of children. This bloke had a very serious problem, and I’ll bet it wasn’t just confined to the Internet.”

Wilson looked through the pages of sites Gilroy visited. “All of these are paedophile sites?”

“Well he wasn’t into checking the latest football results. He had a one track mind,and it was a dirt track.”

“The bastards knew. That’s why they got the computer out. They knew he was a paedophile and they were covering it up before we could get our hands on the evidence. They’ve delayed this investigation by not giving us this information.”

McIver looked a little sheepish. “I should have been on this from the start, Boss.”

“Not your fault, Ronald. I’d give a lot to see what was on that computer.” That wasn’t going to happen. The computer no longer existed. It was smashed, burned, incinerated, vaporised. Whatever. He would never get his hands on it.

“What do we have from all this paper?” Wilson asked.

“We know that Gilroy visited paedophile sites and that he probably downloaded pictures. He wasn’t busy on the e-mail front but there are some people that he contacted regularly.”

“Get copies of this stuff and hand it over to Vice. Maybe they can give us something and at the very least they may be able to identify some of his contacts.” Wilson put his hand to his forehead. “The bloody witness statements.”

“What about them?” McIver asked.

“I’ve been over the statements from the parishioners, and nobody made any mention of Gilroy and children.”

“Maybe he didn’t play at home?”

“We screwed up on Gilroy. I knew he was the key to finding his killer. We have to go back through his life. I want to know everything about him from the day he was born until the day he died.”

“More than twenty years of that would have been in the priesthood which means that they know a damn sight more about him than we’ll ever learn.”

”Hit all the records we have access to.” Wilson rubbed his forehead with his left hand. “I wasn’t so smart on this one, but hopefully we can redress the situation. Get on it straight away. I’ll have to go upstairs and give the news to the Chief Super.”

DC Moira McElvaney spent the afternoon handing out copies of the grainy image of what they thought was the man Mrs Mooney had given tea and biscuits to the previous week. Many of the beat policemen had a giggle at her expense with remarks like ‘trust CID to have the latest technology in image enhancement’.  She wasn’t in a position to take umbrage because she knew herself that what they were asking for was a near impossibility. Without some clarity in the face, it would be impossible for a beat policeman to recognise the man in the photo, and even if they did, they had no idea, whether it was the right man or not. It would be more than likely that every derelict in Belfast would be hauled in as the guy in the photo. Wilson was right as usual. They had to come at this from the motive end. Once they knew why the priests had been murdered, they would have some idea at least as to who the murderer might be.

She looked out through the window of the Squad Room. Belfast had done its usual trick of producing four seasons in one day and right now the city was being washed by Autumnal rain. The killer was out there somewhere. If he was the homeless man, he was huddled out of the rain.

“Moira,” Harry Graham stood beside her desk.

“Aye, Harry,” she replied with an element of surprise. It had been some time since Graham had referred to her by her first name. “What can I do for you?”

“Fancy a drink?” Graham said rather nervously.

Moira was hoping that this wasn’t a ‘come on’ and contemplated refusing, but it was the first time Graham had invited her for a drink. “It’s been a crap day so why not.”

He looked at the clock on the wall. “The Boss won’t mind us shovin’ off a bit early. Have you been to the Garrick?”

She shook her head.

“You’ll love it, real old-style Belfast. In say fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” Moira smiled at the chosen venue. There were four bars close to the Station but all were located on the Shankill Road so they wouldn’t be suitable to accommodate a Catholic officer of the PSNI. The Garrick was in the same league as Wilson’s haunt at the Crown and was a respectable distance from the Station.  “Good choice,“ she added.

There was the usual mix of young executives chilling out, and older executives checking out the talent when Moira walked into the Front Bar at the Garrick. She was gratified to be checked out by both the younger and the older patrons. The Front Bar was lit up like a Christmas Tree in the darkness created by the low-hanging rain clouds. Moira pushed past the chattering masses at the bar and chose one of the only tables available. She was constantly amazed by the effect a single woman has on a male gathering in a bar. The increase in the level of testosterone in the room was almost perceptible. She ordered a gin and tonic from the waitress. She was not overly fond of Harry Graham but she was praying for his appearance as she watched the men at the bar wind themselves up to approach her table. Just then she saw Graham enter the bar and head straight for her table. She didn’t move as he took the seat directly across from her. Several men at the bar who had been ogling her turned their backs and began concentrating on their drinks and the conversation of their group.