Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2) (4 page)

“Never,” Doogan’s voice was at full strength for the first time.

“Had Superintendent Worthington ever made advances to you within the context of the work situation?” Moira asked.

“I don’t understand,” Doogan glanced at her solicitor who was busy taking notes.

“Did he ever use his position to solicit sex from you?” Moira asked.

“No. I hardly said two words to the man before I opened the door to him.”

“Yet, he knew where you lived,” Moira said.

“He’s a bloody detective, and I’m not exactly in the witness protection programme.”

Moira was beginning to re-evaluate Colette Doogan. At the beginning of the interview, she thought Doogan was some kind of wilting violet, but the last few exchanges had shown that there was some steel beneath.

“Superintendent Worthington may contest some of the elements of your statement. Are you ready for that?”

“I’m the one with the bruises. Unless, of course, he has bruises on his knuckles.”

“Have you considered the consequences for your career of pursuing a case against Superintendent Worthington?” Moira asked.

Hamilton looked up sharply from her legal pad. “Is that a threat?” she asked.

“It’s simply a question,” Moira said quickly. “There are some people who may consider this case as reflecting badly on the PSNI.”

‘They might be right,” Hamilton said.

“I’m resigning,” Doogan said. “So your question is redundant.”

“The reason for resigning is the assault?” Moira asked.

“The reason for my client’s resignation is none of your business,” Hamilton interjected. She put the cap onto her Montblanc fountain pen. “I think that we’re finished here.”

“You intend to pursue the complaint against Joseph Worthington?” Moira asked.

“To the end,” Doogan said.

“Now we are done,” Hamilton said packing her briefcase. “Any further interviews with my client will be organised through my office.” She removed a business card from her briefcase and slid it across the table to Moira.

Colette Doogan and her solicitor rose together and made for the door. Neither paused and Moira was left looking at their collective rears.

CHAPTER 10

Wilson sat in his office trying to concentrate on producing the Squad’s monthly activity report. This was the part of the job that he hated the most. He was a detective whose job was to bring criminals to justice. Producing tons of irrelevant paper was not part of the process of criminal detection in his book.

It was after twelve thirty when an excited Harry Graham returned to the Squad Room and made straight for Wilson’s office.

“Just got back from the Royal,” Graham wheezed. “No results on the DNA yet but it looks like the priest. And get this, he didn’t die from the fire, he was stabbed repeatedly before he died. The autopsy report will be over by the end of the day, but that’s the result.”

“Why does it look like the priest?” Wilson asked. He saw Moira enter the Squad Room and glance at his office. He shook his head to deflect her.

“Height, weight, build all fit,” Graham answered. “The DNA could take a couple of days, but the Docs are pretty sure.”

“And the knife?”

“The forensic pathologist is going to make a cast for us but it looks like a pointed knife with a jagged eight-inch blade.”

“OK, we have a murder enquiry. Put me in the book as SIO. You’ll manage the Murder Book and assist me. The warrant is now the most important next move. Make sure it here by two o’clock and then both of us are off to Saint Cormac’s. You’ve done well, Harry. Grab a bit of lunch and get ready for the priest’s house.”

As Graham exited the office, Wilson looked up and saw Moira staring at him. He nodded for her to come to the office.

“I don’t like the look on your face,” Wilson said as she entered the office.

She closed the door behind her, sat where she had been earlier in the morning and placed a folder in front of her.

“You’ve got a problem,” Moira began. “First off, Colette Doogan is no bunny. She’s not about to roll over on this one. She wants Superintendent Worthington’s ass and in my opinion she’s going to get it.” She flipped open the folder. A series of colour photos were on the top. She picked out the top three and laid them on the desk facing Wilson. “It looks like Superintendent Worthington doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Wilson looked at the three photos. The first photo showed the face of a young woman who had been beaten. Dark circles emphasised puffy eyes. One eye was almost completely shut. The second photo was a shot of a torso. Black marks were clearly visible on the left ribcage. The final photo showed a set of inner thighs unmistakably bruised just beneath the vaginal area.

“Shit,” Wilson said quietly as he shuffled the photos.

“There are plenty more,” Moira removed a sheaf of photos from the file.

“Enough,” Wilson said wearily. “What about the woman herself?”

“Started off a bit nervous but finished cool as an iceberg, not ruffled. Took her beating and now wants her pound of flesh.”

“She’ll go the distance on this?”

“And then some.”

“What about her career?”

“She’s going to resign. So there’s no leverage there. Her solicitor attended the interview. She insists that she didn’t lead the Super on. She was surprised when he turned up with the bottle of wine and she noticed that he had already been drinking. To be polite she shared a glass of wine with him but when he put his hands up her blouse, she decided he had to go. That’s when things got nasty. He gave her a couple of punches and tried to rape her, but his equipment failed. She managed to break free and locked herself in the bathroom with a mobile phone and called the police. The Super was gone by the time they arrived.”

“What do you think of her story?”

“She’s going to make a hell of a credible witness, and the photos don’t lie.”

“So what’s in it for her?”

“She wants his balls. When she has them she’s going to go after the PSNI for compensation. Depending on how much she gets she may open a bar on the Costa and get away from the terrible weather on this island.”

“No light at the end of the tunnel?”

“Not a spot. He’s well and truly done for.”

“Was he set up?”

“Maybe. She’s too cool for comfort. But shouldn’t he be old enough to have learned.”

“Thanks I’ll pass the message along,” Wilson said as he bundled up the photos on the desk. “I’ll keep these for a while if you don’t mind.”

He picked up the phone as Moira left the office. “It’s DCI Wilson,” he said when the phone was answered. “Order up some lunch for Superintendent Worthington in Interview Room One. He’s going to be with us for the afternoon.” He rang off and called the Chief Superintendent’s Office. “Is he busy?” he said when the Secretary answered. “Well tell him that I have to see him immediately.”

CHAPTER 11

It was almost 2 o’clock when Wilson finished his lunch of a tuna salad sandwich and a coffee at his desk. As part of his attempt to regain his youthful vigour, he had promised Kate that he wasn’t going to eat crap in the future. The tuna sandwich had been crap but at least it had been fish and the word salad had been on the label, although he had struggled to identify anything that could be considered salad between the two slices of stodgy white bread. His meeting with Spence was long and tiring. After he reported on his interview with Worthington and Moira’s meeting with Constable Doogan, Spence and he had tried to develop some scenario that would not be a disaster for both Worthington and the PSNI. The Chief Superintendent had organised a meeting with DCC Jennings for the afternoon, and he wanted to take a solution to HQ along with the problem. Try as they might neither man could come up with any scenario corresponding with the DCC’s wish to have the whole episode disappear. Wilson knew that he was going to be tasked with being the bearer of the bad news to Worthington. What a shit job this really was. His musings were interrupted by Harry Graham standing at his open door waving the search warrant for Gilroy’s house.

“Do we need any uniforms along?” Graham said.

Wilson took his coat from behind his chair and slipped it on. “Not for now. We’ll do a quick recce and then hand the job over to forensics.”

They drove in silence to Saint Cormac’s. The burned-out church had a distinctly Gothic look as it stood starkly against the backdrop of a cloudy sky. The smell of charred timber still hung in the air. Wilson and Graham made their way to the house that Father Gilroy had called home. The cottage was a small stone faced building of no more than 800 square feet, which had most probably been constructed at the same time as the church. The front door was a stout wooden affair that would take some getting through without a key. A small flower garden extended on both sides of the entrance. As he walked up the gravel pathway leading to the front door, Wilson saw the figure of Monsignor Devlin standing at the door.

“Good afternoon, Monsignor,” Wilson said as they approached the house. “I had a feeling that I would be seeing you here this afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Chief Inspector,” the Monsignor said smoothly. “I’m only here to assist you in any way I can. I understand that while the DNA tests have not yet been verified. However, there is a body of opinion that the corpse is Father Gilroy and that he has been the object of a vicious attack prior to the fire.”

“You would seem to be well informed,” Wilson looked at Graham who shrugged his shoulders. “ We will of course await the DNA verification. Harry, the paper for the good Monsignor.”

Graham produced the search warrant and handed it to Monsignor Devlin who gave it a cursory examination before handing it back. “I’m sure everything is in order,” he said producing a set of keys from the pocket of his overcoat and presented them to Wilson who in turn passed them to Graham.

“You do the honours, Harry,” Wilson said standing back to allow Graham access to the front door.

Graham selected a large old-fashioned key from the bunch on the key-ring and slipped it into the lock of the front door.

Wilson was aware of the Monsignor taking a large breath as soon as the door swung open. He removed a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket and placed then on his hands.  Harry Graham did the same.

Wilson entered the cottage first and was forced to wait several moments to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the low level of light in the living room. The two windows that allowed light to enter the room were too small for the job and as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he searched the wall for a light switch.  Before he located it, the room was illuminated, and he turned to see Devlin standing beside the light control.

“I see that you’re well acquainted with the rectory, Monsignor,” Wilson said. “Our forensic people will want to have a look around later. and we’ll need a set of your fingerprints for elimination purposes. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you wouldn’t touch anything.”

“Of course,” Monsignor Devlin said moving away from the light switch.

The room in which they stood was the living room. It was small perhaps no more than 200 square feet and was furnished simply with a two-seater sofa and an easy chair set before a coffee table. The open fire had been set but not lit. In the corner was a small television set at least three model generations old. The unit on which the television sat had a slot beneath in which a DVD player was installed. A simple wooden bookshelf stood against the wall directly facing the front door centred between two timber interior doors. A half-dozen books leaned against each other on one of the shelves. The stained floorboards were covered by a cheap imitation Persian carpet. A single picture of Christ and a crucifix were the only adornments on the faded flower print wallpaper.

Wilson took in the whole room in a glance. This was beyond Scandinavian simplicity.  He had the impression of walking onto a theatre set. The room looked unlived in. Bare to the essentials. Set up to give the visitor the impression of simplicity.

Wilson moved the right-hand door and opened it into a small kitchen. One wall contained the sink, cooker and two wooden storage floor units. A series of shelves were attached to the wall above and contained miscellaneous jars. An ancient fridge stood against the back wall and a small table and two chairs were set against the wall opposite to the cooker and sink. Father Gilroy would not be giving any dinner parties in his utilitarian kitchen.

Wilson left the kitchen and moved to the door on the left of the bookcase. The door led to a good-sized bedroom one corner of which had been hived off to create an en-suite bathroom.  Wilson opened the bathroom door and gave a cursory look to the small room, sink, walk-in shower with a tattered shower curtain and the toilet.  He closed the bathroom door quietly and returned to the bedroom. The floral patterned wallpaper made its way from the living room into the bedroom. A single bed covered by a duvet dominated the centre of the room and a bedside table stood on one side of the bed. A cheap carpet covered the naked floorboards. A single door wardrobe stood against the wall that housed the only window in the room. Beneath the window was a chest of drawers with three drawers. Wilson opened the wardrobe and flicked through two black coats and an assortment of black and checked jackets. He opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers and found four white shirts and two Roman collars. The drawers beneath contained well-worn underwear and twenty or so balled up black socks. Wilson moved to the bedside table on which stood a wooden lamp. He opened the drawer in the small table and found it to be empty. He noted two wires sticking out from beneath the table and pulled it aside. One wire led from the lamp to the electrical point while the second wire was loose at one end and terminated in the phone jack at the other. Wilson replaced the bedside table and left the room.

Back in the living room, he went to the bookcase and examined the contents. The books were all on religious subjects. The storage areas beneath the bookcase were empty except for a number of white sheets of paper. Wilson withdrew the sheets and saw that the contained type-written notes for homilies. He retraced his steps to the television and the DVD player. Two remote controls stood on the table beside the television. Wilson picked up the remote for the DVD player and pressed the ‘on’ button. The player immediately lit up and made a whirring sound. He pressed the eject button. The flap at the front of the player opened but there was no disk.  Wilson pressed the ‘off’ button and returned the controller to its original position.

Monsignor Devlin stood at the entrance door while Harry Graham gave a good impression of someone who was looking diligently around the rectory but who had seen nothing out of place.

“Thank you, Monsignor,” Wilson said moving towards the front door. “The forensic people will be here in an hour or so, but I don’t suppose they’ll find anything that will be a great help to us. I have noticed that there are no photographs of Father Gilroy in the rectory. Maybe you’d be so kind to search his personnel file and let us have a good likeness of the man himself.”

“Certainly, I’ll arrange a photo immediately. Do you have any idea who might have been responsible for this atrocity?” the Monsignor asked.

“Let’s say I don’t think an arrest is imminent. Given the religious situation in the Province and the history of church burnings, this could simply have been the work of a devout fanatic gone wrong. Alternatively, it might be the work of a paramilitary organisation wishing to make a point. The murder of the priest, if that’s who it was, may not exactly fit with that scenario. However, it’s early days. We’re still trying to establish possible motives. Then we can concentrate on those lines of enquiry with the greatest potential of finding the culprit.”

“I thought the first 24 hours were the most important,” the Monsignor said.

“That’s only on television, I’m afraid. Police work is plodding that’s why they call us the Plod. We work away at it until something breaks.”

“Well you can count on my assistance.”

“I will certainly be talking to you shortly,” Wilson smiled. “As soon as we identify the body and if it does prove to be Father Gilroy, I will have to start building up a profile. And since you are best placed to help me in that direction, we will obviously be talking again. You can leave Harry and me here now. There’s no need for you to stick around for the forensics people.” Wilson extended his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Monsignor Devlin took Wilson’s hand rather reluctantly. “I would be happy to remain if you think I could be of assistance.”

“Nonsense,” Wilson said affably. “I’m sure you have more important and pressing matters to deal with. If we need you, we know where to find you.” He opened the front door and escorted the Monsignor outside.

Graham joined Wilson at the door and they watched as the Monsignor walked slowly away along the gravel path.

“That makes me so damn mad that I could spit,” Wilson said as soon as the Monsignor was out of earshot.

“Boss?” Graham’s brow was furrowed.

“I am a Detective Chief Inspector in the Police Service of Northern Ireland and that fucker just treated me like the village idiot.”

“Did I miss something, Boss?” Graham asked.

“You’ve a long way to go in this business, Harry,” Wilson motioned Graham back into the rectory. “Don’t you notice anything?” he asked.

Graham looked around the living room. “What should I have noticed?” he said eventually.

“Signs of life,” Wilson said. “This could be the set in a theatre. Between yesterday and to-day this place has had a thorough going over. There are no photographs or paintings on the walls. The only decoration is that picture of Jesus. However, I noticed holes in the wall where something was hung. There’s a DVD player but there’s not one single DVD. You know why?  Because somebody has removed whatever was there. Father Gilroy doesn’t exist in this rectory. If there wasn’t a body in the morgue, I would seriously doubt whether he existed at all. Behind the bedside table in the bedroom there’s a connection for a modem. However, there’s no computer. I bet there was one yesterday but the good Monsignor and his white-collared friends have taken it away. There are typed notes for a sermon but there’s no typewriter and no printer. The drawers are empty. No spent batteries. No photos of beach or mountain walking holidays, no boxes of matches, no torches for the gravel path at night, no family paraphernalia. We’ve been left a stage set with every vestige of the life that inhabited it removed. And you know what, Harry. I’m left asking myself why. Why was it necessary to remove all traces of Father Gilroy before we could be permitted to poke around in his life? Well, we should thank the good Monsignor because by trying to be too damn smart, he’s alerted me to the fact that something is seriously out of place here. I may be just a dumb copper but I am going to pick away at Monsignor Devlin and before I’m finished, I’ll know everything there is to know about Father Gilroy and more importantly I’m going to know why they bothered to sanitise this rectory.