Dark Circles

by Derek Fee

  Wilson moved to the whiteboard, now covered with new information. ‘Let’s start with Malone.’ He pointed at the extreme left-hand side of the whiteboard. ‘Possible murder suspects Baxter and Weir, Glasgow killers, now missing but in Belfast on the night of the murder. Moira has turned up a CCTV image of a black taxi of which they could be the occupants. The driver is Big George Carroll, foot soldier for Sammy Rice. We’ve asked Traffic to track the taxi from early evening until midnight. The priority for tomorrow is to pick up Big George and bring him in for questioning. He could be the weak link in the chain.’ He pointed at the Grant segment of the whiteboard. ‘Depending on what we get from Traffic we might be able to confirm Baxter and Weir as suspects in the Grant murder. If they are, and if Big George drove them, breaking him could be the key.’ He pointed at the segment of the board dedicated to Mark O’Reilly. ‘Harry, can you fill us in?’

  Graham cleared his throat. ‘I drew a blank at Watson’s. O’Reilly was a bit of a brainiac as far as accountancy was concerned. Despite that, he was friendly and outgoing. No one thought it could have been a suicide. I called his doctor, and he confirmed that O’Reilly was as healthy as a horse and not on any kind of medication. He said he would have been astonished if O’Reilly jumped. Watson’s wouldn’t let me see what he was working on but claimed that there was nothing that might have led to him being tossed out of a window. He seemed to have been both respected and liked. I checked out the Tannery. The door from the garage to the apartment section took a bit of forcing. The big question is how any intruder might have accessed the garage. I questioned the two boys on duty, a Mikey Dolan and Billy Boyle. I need to check whether the Boyle lad is some relation of Owen Boyle, the man who moved up when Ivan McIlroy was murd...’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘So,’ Wilson interjected. ‘We have a direct connection between the Malone and Grant murders, the suspects are the same and Big George could have been the driver. But Big George works for Sammy Rice, and Billy Boyle could be a connection there.’

  ‘We might be pushing it there, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘You know that story that everybody on the planet has six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon.’

  ‘Who’s Kevin Bacon?’ Spence asked.

  ‘An actor,’ Graham answered quickly.

  ‘The connection may be tenuous, but we need to follow it up,’ Wilson said. ‘What we don’t have is a motive and that I don’t like.’

  ‘We know Sammy,’ Eric Taylor said. ‘And from what I hear on the street he’s become a bit unhinged since Lizzie’s murder. They say he’s spaced out most of the time on drugs and booze. Maybe the new Sammy is just the old Sammy on speed. Anyone who gets in the way has to go.’

  ‘I wish life was so simple,’ Wilson said. ‘It’s like one of those conundrums, what connects a bureaucrat, a rising politician and an accountant. That’s what we have to find out and that’s what we need to discuss with Mr Carroll. Do we have an address on him, Eric?’

  ‘Several, Boss. You want me to organise to pick him up tomorrow?’

  Wilson nodded. ‘The man is apparently a human gorilla so take two or three uniforms along. It’s been a good day. Peter will be back later this evening, we’ll meet tomorrow morning to distribute the work.’

  ‘Outstanding work,’ Spence said. ‘I’ll pass the message along to the DCC.’

  Wilson watched Spence walk slowly out of the squad room. He seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  CHAPTER 48

  ‘Are you a loyal Ulsterman?’

  Wilson was trying to watch the news on the television. It was a report on the disappearance of the Malaysian Airways 777. He was intrigued by mysteries that could not be explained. He heard, in the background the remark made by Helen, and guessed it was addressed to him.

  ‘Are you a loyal Ulsterman?’ The question had been raised by an octave as though the questioner thought that the respondent was not only dumb but also deaf.

  Wilson looked away from the television and at Helen McCann, who was sitting in one of the lazy boys cradling a gin and tonic. As was now usual, Kate was working late at her office. The situation in the apartment was becoming more strained by the day. He had been thinking about Helen’s remark about Kate and him taking a break. He wondered whether the idea was coming from Kate or her mother. Helen would normally have already left for France but was hanging on for some reason.

  ‘How many of those have you had?’ he asked.

  She held up her glass. ‘This is my second. Answer the question.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t like words like Loyalist or Republican. The sectarian division is bad enough, but words like Loyalist and Republican can lead to fanatics shooting or bombing their neighbours. Rugby was my life but some fool who thought that he could accomplish his political aims with a bomb took it away from me. I ended up losing a sporting career, and I was on the periphery of the blast. Those at the centre lost a hell of a lot more.’

  Helen’s face hardened. ‘Ulster is under threat. A proportion of our fellow Ulstermen would like to join us to the papist South. That possibility obviously doesn’t fill you with the same sense of dread as it does me.’

  He looked at her. He realised that he knew nothing about her aside from the fact that she was Kate’s mother; she was enormously wealthy and lived in the south of France. She had researched him to the extent that she had discovered the whereabouts of his mother. She probably knew the exact amount in his bank account. ‘Expressions like Loyal Ulsterman led some of my colleagues to forget their commitment to justice in this Province. I’m not proud of the behaviour of some policemen in colluding in murder during the “Troubles”.’

  She emptied her glass, stood and walked to the bar in the corner of the living room. ‘So you’re not a Loyal Ulsterman, interesting.’ She made a refill and held up a bottle of Jameson to Wilson.

  He shook his head. In general, he steered clear of two subjects, politics and religion. He had been raised a Methodist but only went to church for weddings and funerals. And there had been too many funerals. He had seen a little too much depravity to believe in the all-seeing, all-good entity that had been presented to him in Sunday school. If God knew of the evil acts that were carried out in his name, he would commit celestial seppuku. Wilson’s life was dedicated to bringing wrongdoers to justice. He didn’t dispense justice. That was the job of the legal system. He simply found the miscreants. Unlike the cop shows on TV, he didn’t get himself involved in shoot-’em-ups. He couldn’t say that he had never fired his gun but he had certainly never killed another human being, and he had no desire to do so. He was now in possession of another piece of the puzzle that was Helen McCann. She was obviously a very loyal Ulsterwoman. He found it strange that someone who was so committed to the Province should choose to live in the sunshine of southern France instead of the rain and wind of Ulster. He didn’t blame her; he just didn’t understand her. He looked across as she retook her seat. She was glowering at him.

  ‘Your father was a loyal Ulsterman,’ she said slurring slightly.

  ‘What do you know about my father?’ Wilson said. Talk about his father was generally taboo for him.

  ‘I know that he was loyal.’ A smile passed over her lips. ‘And many other things besides.’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘Maybe another time.’ The smile flickered again.

  Wilson leaned forward. ‘I said what other things?’

  ‘You father displayed his loyalty. He was a fine Ulsterman.’

  Wilson relaxed at the compliment. ‘You speak like you met him.’

  ‘No, but people mentioned him to me.’

  Wilson couldn’t see where this conversation was leading. He could see that Helen’s face was flushed, and she was looking drowsy. It was time for him to make a strategic withdrawal from a conversation he really didn’t want to have. It was time to concentrate on the TV documentary again.

  CHAPTER 49

  It was pitch black outside, b
ut the lights were burning in the PSNI Headquarters. Chief Superintendent Spence was sitting in the office of DCC Royson Jennings. He had just spent the last ten minutes bringing the DCC up to speed on the investigations being undertaken by Wilson and his team. He had expected an explosion but the look on the face of the man in front of him did not presage an explosion. Spence was more than a little confused. He had a long experience with Jennings and was well aware of the enmity the DCC bore Wilson. He had not sugared the pill. Wilson had launched an unofficial and unapproved investigation into the death of Brian Malone. He fully expected Jennings to demand some form of reprimand, at the very least a note on Wilson’s file. Instead, Spence found himself sitting in front of the proverbial wooden Indian. Considering that Jennings normally had the pallor of a corpse, it was difficult to assess whether the DCC was so upset that he had forced himself into a catatonic state in order to protect his heart. Spence finished the briefing and sat stoically awaiting his punishment. The rain that had threatened all day had started and beat a tattoo on the window pane. It was the kind of weather he liked to be at home before the fire cradling a whiskey. He was caught between two stools when he thought about his impending retirement. He had spent his life serving the community as a police officer. He was aware of the stress he, his wife and his family had suffered because of the life he had chosen. His retirement day would, on one hand, provide him and his family with the blessed relief that they deserved. However, he was mindful that giving up the PSNI would create an enormous hole in his life. He was now ready to retire, but he had no desire to be pushed.

  Jennings cleared his throat as though about to speak, but remained silent. He was doing his praying mantis impersonation – holding the palms of his hands together in front of his face, not out of habit but in an effort to hide whatever expression might have been on his countenance. He had no idea what that expression was but he wanted to hide it from Spence that inside he was shocked to his core. Not only was his dream of becoming Chief Constable disappearing down a bottomless black hole, if it ever came out that he had any part in the conspiracy to clean up the mess at the Infrastructure Agency, he might actually do some jail time. It was never the crime that was the problem, it was always the cover-up. Wilson was inching himself towards Rice. This Big George Carroll would be another nail in Rice’s coffin, while Rice could be a nail in his coffin. He knew he should be indignant at Wilson’s behaviour, but that was secondary to the fear he was feeling about his own situation. The silence in the room was deafening and was accentuated by the noise of the rain beating on the window. Jennings felt himself in some sort of suspended animation. He knew he should speak, but his mind was totally consumed by his predicament. He needed to get rid of Spence so that he could think in peace. ‘Well, Chief Superintendent,’ he forced the words out, ‘it appears that you have the situation under control. I assume Wilson will launch a warrant for the arrest of Baxter and Weir, although it appears we have no direct evidence against them. If they sing dumb, we have nothing, and if they’re professionals, that’s exactly what they’ll do. The key appears to be this Carroll person.’

  Spence nodded. He was wondering whether the DCC was feeling well. The expected tongue-lashing was conspicuous by its absence. ‘Wilson intends to pick him up tomorrow. I should be in a position to brief you tomorrow afternoon or evening on progress.’

  ‘Not long left now.’ Jennings did his best to put a smile on his face.

  Spence shuddered at the look on Jennings’ face. It was a rictus that would have done credit to Edvard Munch. Spence was beginning to speculate on the mental state of his superior. ‘Yes, just a couple of short months and I’ll be tending roses in Holywood.’

  ‘You’ll be sadly missed,’ Jennings said rictus still in place.

  Spence was no longer speculating on Jennings’ mental state, but had concluded that in all likelihood he had been replaced by an alien. ‘I’m sure you’re busy, Sir,’ he said standing.

  Jennings shuffled papers on his desk ‘Yes, lots to do. Good evening, Chief Superintendent.’

  Spence turned and left the office. The whiskey that he had been thinking about earlier had suddenly turned into a very large one.

  DCC Jennings stayed in his seat for a few minutes after Spence left his office. The fact that he hadn’t succeeded in stopping the investigation into Grant’s death had dealt his immediate chances of becoming Chief Constable a fatal blow. But as the impact of the disappointment had sunk in, he had realised that there was plenty of time to recoup his position. Carlisle and Lattimer were yesterday’s men. There was always some smart new blood waiting in the wings when the old elephants finally collapsed. He had time to look around for the comers and attach himself to them. He stood up and walked to the window. He looked out into the darkness. The sky was full of black clouds, and he heard the rumble of thunder coming from the west. Streaks of rain ran down the window. He should go home, but that was out of the question. There was nothing at home for him. He was one of those not so rare creatures who had dedicated his life to his job. There was no wife and no family. He liked to think that his solitary existence had been his choice. He hadn’t really tried to find a life partner and despite rumours to the contrary among his colleagues, he was not a homosexual. He simply had no interest in sharing his life with another human being. That wasn’t completely true. He had no interest in sharing his life with any other creature, human or animal. He was now about to face the greatest threat in his life as a police officer. He was simply another domino that would fall if Wilson could progress along the line from Carroll to Rice to Carlisle and Lattimer and on to the members of the Inner Circle. If Wilson got as far as Carlisle, there would be no doubt that he would be sacrificed. That wouldn’t just mean that his ambition to be Chief Constable would be in tatters. The answer to the problem was to break the chain. No Carroll meant no Rice. No Rice meant no Carlisle. No Carlisle meant he was safe. The solution to the problem was therefore no Carroll. He saw a flash of lightning light up the sky directly over the city. He took it as a portent. He returned to his desk and picked up his phone.

  Sammy Rice was sitting in the back room of the Brown Bear when his mobile rang. He had been dealing with his various businesses and drinking since early afternoon, and his humour reflected his tiredness. Despite his initial reaction to tell the caller to piss off, he listened intently without speaking. ‘I’ll handle it,’ he said, resisting the temptation to throw the mobile against the wall. He looked across the room at where Big George Carroll was sitting. As usual, Carroll was staring directly in front of him. Rice had been at school with Big George, and the big man had been one of his crew since he’d left school. There was no way out. ‘George, find Owen and tell him I want him. Then stay outside.’ Rice took out a small packet of cocaine and looked at it. He wanted to snort a few lines, but he needed Owen to see that he was deadly serious. He would have preferred to be planning to take Wilson out. The man was a thorn in his side since the first day they’d met, and he would never forget the embarrassment of the handshake in Kate McCann’s office. Nobody disrespected Sammy Rice and got away with it. He put the sachet back in his pocket. It was supposed to be so smooth. That was why they had hired the ‘so called’ professionals. Wilson had Baxter and Weir’s names and sooner or later, he’d pick them up. There was no physical evidence at the crime scenes, so they couldn’t be connected to the murders. As long as they kept their mouths shut, everyone would be away scot-free. He was still running over possibilities when the door opened, and Owen Boyle entered. ‘Drink?’ Rice asked when Boyle took the seat in front of him.

  ‘Why not.’ Boyle was pleased that his chief didn’t look hopped up.

  ‘Bushmills?’

  Boyle nodded.

  Rice poured him a large glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said clinking his glass to Boyle’s. ‘Death to the Fenians.’

  ‘Aye. Death to the Fenians.’

  ‘Owen, I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here fo
r.’

  ‘You and Big George are going to take a trip to the Mourne Mountains tomorrow.’

  Boyle tossed off half the glass. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I have something I need buried.’

  CHAPTER 50

  Wilson was in a new regime. He was always a light sleeper. It was a feature that went with the job, but sleeping alone was making him wake up early. So he resumed his morning run. He needed it both physically and mentally. He had seen too many athletes who had been superb specimens while they competed turn into blimps as soon as they stopped full-time training. He would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the same man he had been at twenty-one. He had added a few pounds here and there, but his suit size had only increased by one size. He could attribute that to the work the doctors had done to get him back to full fitness after the IRA had tried to blow his arse off. The morning run had been part of an exercise regime that had been inflicted on him to bring him back to some level of fitness. Now it was something that he needed to do to ensure that his endorphins got him ready for the day ahead. There had been a heavy rain overnight. It was the kind of rain that the engineers hadn’t taken into account when they had designed the drainage along the embankment of the River Lagan, which had become his preferred route. He didn’t bother to avoid the large puddles that dotted the concrete pathway, but went straight through them drenching both his feet, and the ends of his training bottoms. The aftermath of the rain intensified the ozone smell of the sea rising from the river. He sucked in large volumes of air as he pushed himself to complete the sprint sections of the run. He hadn’t been born beside the sea but after twenty years of living in Belfast, he felt that he would never be able to live away from the ocean. He eased the pace into his long-distance rhythm. This was when his mind was at it’s freshest. In general, he used this freshness to review cases but since his relationship with Kate had hit the skids, possible remedial actions occupied at least half of his thinking time. Today Wilson had to make an effort to push Kate into the rear of his conscience. He needed to use his mental capacity to consider the possible reason why three young men had been murdered. For some reason, his mind segued into the conversation he’d had with Kate’s mother the previous evening. He didn’t have a picture of her as a fanatical Ulsterwoman. She wouldn’t exactly fit in with the women waving their Union Jacks on the Shankill on the twelfth of July. He wondered why his mind had strayed to Helen; there was no reason why it should go there. He needed to find the motive for the murders. He knew that he wouldn’t get the answer from Baxter and Weir. If they proved to be the murderers of Malone and Grant, their motivation would be simple enough – money. The answer might not even come from Big George Carroll. Baxter, Weir and Carroll were the little men. They were expendable. He would have to go well beyond them to find the real motivation for the murders. He had almost reached the Belfast Waterfront and the round red-bricked building that was the Opera House. This was the point at which he turned for home. As he approached the Waterfront, he saw a figure standing under one of the lamps. The daylight had not yet hit Belfast and the yellow light from the lamp lit the figure up. Wilson tensed at once. More than one policeman had met his end in this kind of situation. He looked around and saw that he was alone. He kept up the pace of his run and as he approached he realised there was something familiar about the man. He kept his gaze down while pounding the grey and blue concrete slabs that led to the Waterfront. The next time he looked up, he saw why the figure seemed familiar. Jock McDevitt was leaning back against the lamppost holding a cardboard tray on which two cups of coffee stood. Wilson continued at the same pace until he came level with McDevitt.