Dark Circles (9 page)

CHAPTER 21

As soon as Wilson returned to the station, he called Moira to his office. He told her of his visit to the Royal Victoria and Reid’s suspicions.

‘Come on, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘You’re not buying this.’

‘Maybe she’s right.’ He didn’t want to believe it but he had to admit the possibility. ‘It won’t cost anything to have a look. Check out Malone and see if there’s any possible connection between him and Grant. Two men dying on the same night, in suspicious circumstances, maybe there’s something that connects them.’

‘We’re already overstretched, and the Grant investigation is heading nowhere fast. I’ve been on to Forensics; they had a good laugh at me. In the end, they agreed to have a look, but they’re not holding out much hope.’

‘Humour me. Take a look at Malone’s background. See if you can turn up some connection between the two men. He was found at home. Visit his place. If nothing turns up in the next few days, we’ll drop it.’

‘You’re the boss,’ she said making for the door.

‘That’s what they tell me.’ Wilson eased back in his chair. McDevitt was a pest and a dangerous one at that. Sex and murder was an explosive cocktail and grist to the mill for a newshound like McDevitt. For as long as he could fan the flames, he would be assured the front page, and he was adept at keeping the fire going. If Reid were wrong, there would be hell to pay. His thoughts moved to McIver. He hadn’t visited him since he had been incarcerated. Now he had both Kate and the Police Federation on his back to help with the defence while he was preparing the evidence for the Prosecution. It placed him in a difficult position. He picked up his phone and called one of his friends in the Prison Service.

‘I need to see McIver,’ he said as soon as they were through with the pleasantries.

‘He’s being assessed at Holywell tomorrow morning at ten a.m. Be there at eleven o’clock, and I’ll arrange for you to see him. Eleven tomorrow, okay.’

‘Thanks, I owe you one.’ He put down the phone. He started to lean back in his chair when the phone rang.

‘What the fuck have you done now, Ian?’ Spence almost shouted. ‘I’ve just had Jennings on the line and he was apoplectic. We’re wanted in HQ immediately.’

‘Calm down, Sir,’ Wilson said. ‘I haven’t done anything, so I haven’t had the chance to fuck up. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. By the time we get there the storm will have blown itself out. Then we might be informed of what bee is in the DCC’s bonnet.’

‘Downstairs, five minutes. It gets boring being pulled over the coals for you.’

‘Only a few months more.’ Wilson put down the phone and reached for his coat.

Wilson and Spence rode in silence in the rear of Spence’s official car for the entire fifteen-minute journey to Castlereagh. PSNI Headquarters was a collection of buildings off the Knock Road. Spence’s uniformed driver dropped them at the front door before proceeding to the car park. The Chief Superintendent straightened his uniform before entering the main door. The officer on reception called up to the DCC’s office, and they proceeded to the lift. When they reached the fifth floor, they walked briskly to Jennings’ office. Once there, Spence hesitated.

‘Whatever it is, Ian. Don’t make it any worse,’ he said before entering the outer office.

The secretary immediately hit a buzzer, and the door to Jennings’ office opened.

Deputy Chief Constable Jennings was seated on the raised dais behind his desk. At five feet seven inches, he was shorter than most of the officers under his command. To make up for the absence of height, he habitually wore platform shoes and had had a raised dais built under his office chair so that he did not have to look up to officers seated on the far side of his desk. Wilson and Spence were both over six feet tall with Wilson touching six feet and three inches.

Jennings looked up as the two men entered. Dark-red lines stood out on his face. ‘Who am I?’ he asked.

Wilson and Spence looked at each other. ‘Deputy Chief Constable Jennings, Sir,’ Spence took the lead.

‘And do both of you work directly for me?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Spence said.

‘And yet both of you take me for an idiot.’ Jennings held his two hands in front of his chest, palms together as though praying.

Wilson suppressed a smile.

‘That is not true, Sir,’ Spence said.

‘Then why will I find out in tomorrow’s
Chronicle
that you two idiots have launched an investigation into the death of David Grant.’ Jennings’ voice had a quiver in it. ‘Are either of you unaware of the reporting channels in the PSNI?’

‘No, Sir,’ Wilson and Spence answered together.

‘Then why wasn’t I informed that you intended to launch an investigation? Note that I should have been informed before any such investigation was launched.’

‘The evidence to support the investigation into Grant’s death is only being collected as we speak,’ Spence began. ‘Superintendent Wilson informed me this morning that his team were looking into the death of David Grant, principally because the pathologist had reported that she considered it a suspicious death.’

Jennings glared at Wilson. ‘And the
Chronicle
has the story within hours of this so-called investigation being launched. Your team leaks like a sieve. It was my understanding that David Grant died accidentally while practising some perverted masturbatory act. I was not aware that there was any evidence to the contrary. Perhaps Superintendent Wilson could enlighten me as to the nature of the evidence of foul play.’

‘There are several discrepancies in the facts surrounding the death,’ Wilson began. ‘The pathologist has serious reservations concerning an accidental death. Aside from that, we can find no evidence that Grant was involved in the BDSM scene in Belfast and there was a total absence of sexual paraphernalia in his house.’

‘That is all conjecture. Where’s the direct evidence? What are you investigating? Are there suspects? This investigation has its basis in the possibly mistaken autopsy conclusions of a pathologist.’ He moved his gaze to Spence. ‘Superintendent Wilson has, as usual, run off like an out of control elephant, and you have done nothing to restrain him. The result is that the Press will have a field day with speculation. We, as usual, will look like a group of fools who have failed to bring to justice the supposed murderers of David Grant. This folly will eat up thousands of police hours and end up costing millions of pounds. And I tell you, I will not have it. That man’, Jennings pointed his finger at Wilson, ‘is in the business of wreaking havoc. McIver, one of his own men, is up on a double murder charge, and I don’t want to think about the Cummerford business. I want this investigation terminated, forthwith.’

‘Sir,’ Spence said.

‘If I may, Sir,’ Wilson said. ‘The pathologist will advise a conclusion of death at the hands of person or persons unknown at the inquest. If you think it’s an embarrassment to the Force at the moment, imagine what the Public will think if it transpires that we could have investigated the death from the beginning but decided not to do so.’

Jennings’ mind was racing. He had promised
Carlisle and Lattimer that he would quash any investigation. If he did so at this point, he could be accused of incompetence when the coroner’s inquest did indeed stick with a verdict of unlawful death. Wilson jumping the gun put him between a rock and a hard place. Carlisle was insistent on the phone. The investigation was to disappear. If he reneged on his promise to Carlisle, he could kiss his chances of becoming Chief Constable goodbye. On the other hand, if the Chief Constable learned that he had stopped a valid investigation, the result could be worse. ‘Superintendent, leave us please,’ he said finally.

‘Chief Superintendent,’ Jennings said when Wilson had left the office. ‘I am aware that you will be leaving us shortly. After such a distinguished career, it would be unfortunate if you were to leave under a cloud. I respect the support you have given Superintendent Wilson in the past. It’s admirable to support one’s staff. However, we both know that Wilson treads a fine line. I’m entrusting you with making sure that this investigation peters out. I’m already considering cutting the resources allocated to yourstation. I’ll be considering those cuts in the next week or so. They may also concern Superintendent Wilson’s team.’

‘I am well aware of my duties, Sir,’ Spence said.

‘I’m sure you are. It would be sad if your legacy were to be destroyed by flagrant disregard for the proper channels. You may leave, but I want a blow-by-blow account on this particular investigation. You understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ Spence said.

‘Do we still have jobs?’ Wilson asked when Spence left Jennings’ office.

‘Just about,’ Spence said putting on his cap. ‘That jumped-up little bastard is going to get his comeuppance one of these days. How the hell did the
Chronicle
get hold of the story?’

‘You know Jock McDevitt; he adds one and one and arrives at three. Peter Davidson talked to a few of his old vice contacts about whether Grant was on the BDSM scene, they’re the kind of people McDevitt has in his Rolodex.’

‘People still have Rolodexes?’

‘I was speaking metaphorically.’

‘That’s a big word, like arsehole. That barrister lady of yours must be improving your vocabulary. Anyway, I’m to keep a tight hold on you. And then there’s the threat that he’s going to cut staff and overtime.’

‘I’d given up on a replacement for McIver, but I can’t operate if even one more member of the team is cut.’

‘Maybe that’s the intention.’ Spence pushed the button on the lift. ‘I don’t like what just happened in there. Grant is a high profile individual. You don’t just dump an investigation into his death because it might cost police hours or money. I don’t know why Jennings wants the investigation killed, but he does.’

‘The guy is about as transparent as a pane of glass,’ Wilson said. ‘Jennings does nothing without there being a good reason. So there’s a motive for wanting this investigation killed. The question is, what’s that motive?’

CHAPTER 22

Professor Stephanie Reid concluded her lecture to the student doctors in the Royal Victoria Hospital. She had to admit that she was dissatisfied with the level of preparation she had given to this particular lecture. At least the students didn’t seem to mind. She put her lack of enthusiasm for lecturing down to the long hours she was working, and the fact that the Grant and Malone autopsies had dominated her thinking. She grabbed a quick cup of coffee in the cafeteria. It might not have been so quick if she hadn’t had to fight off the advances of one of her sleazy male colleagues. She removed her white coat as soon as she reached her office and threw it at the coat hanger in the corner of the room. Her aim was good and it landed on one of the hooks. She sat down behind her desk and started to work through her files, reminding herself that she needed to be better prepared for her next lecture. She had just finished writing up the autopsy result of a woman who had been struck by a drunk driver when her assistant popped his head around her open door.

‘How did it go?’ he asked.

‘You know student doctors, they lap up any old crap.’ She welcomed the intrusion.

‘You are so bloody smug,’ the assistant said. ‘You know damn well you’re one of the star performers. All the students want to become pathologists so they can emulate you. Anyway, the Head of Administration wants to see you. Been fiddling your expenses again?’

‘Fat chance,’ she said standing up. She hadn’t much time for hospital administrators. She happened to think that hospitals should be staffed by doctors, not by pen pushers. The salaries of the administrators had been leaked recently, to public outcry. She hoped they were one day closer to getting rid of the blood-suckers. Still, she was so far behind in her work that she resented the call from above. She drank the dregs from an almost empty beaker of coffee and prayed that the meeting, whatever it was about, would be relatively short. She put her white coat on. When dealing with the administration it was important to look like a doctor.

While her office consisted of a glass cubicle in the bowels of the Mortuary, the administration offices on the third floor of the hospital proper could not have been more palatial. The corridors were covered with pieces of signed original art and even the secretaries had been provided with the most modern computers and flat monitor screens. She thought of the six-year-old lump of electronic crap that sat on her desk. She had always assumed that the money was going into patient care, but she was beginning to revise that assumption.

Charles Grey perfectly suited his name. As she was announced, he came to meet her at the door dressed in a Prince Charles
checked grey suit that entirely matched the pallor of his skin. A bony hand extended from the cuffs of the suit. Reid took the hand, and despite the preponderance of bone felt something soft and gooey. She withdrew her hand as quickly as possible and rubbed it off her white coat. She stared into Grey’s brown eyes and saw no flicker of life. His head was completely bald, as in every hair had been removed by shaving. He had no eyebrows, and the false smile on his lips displayed two rows of small but perfect white teeth.

‘Professor Reid.’ He stood aside indicating that she should enter. ‘We very rarely get to see you in this part of the building.’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said entering an office that was easily four times the size of hers. The wooden floor was covered in places by oriental carpets, possibly Persian, or perhaps Turkish. She was sure that Grey would know their provenance. The walls of the office were covered with tasteful pictures of the hospital and Grey standing with groups of what were obviously influential people. There were two framed diplomas on the wall behind Grey’s desk, each attesting to his prowess in financial management. ‘It’s just as well I don’t come here too often.’ She glanced round the room. ‘It might make me unhappy to sit in the Mortuary basement in my little glass cubicle surrounded by dead bodies.’

Grey moved to his desk and sat slowly into his seat. ‘The trappings are unfortunately necessary. When one is dealing with individuals from the private sector, one must be careful to project the same kind of image and professionalism. Of course, you and your colleagues project your professionalism in a different manner, through your concentration on your patients.’

Reid sat in the chair across from him. ‘My clients very rarely get to observe my professionalism since they are already dead by the time they reach me.’

‘How very droll,’ Grey said and a smile flicked at his lips. ‘Graveyard humour, yes very droll indeed.’

‘Well I’ve enjoyed the visit, and since we’re both incredibly busy ...’ Reid said.

‘Droll and direct, an impressive combination.’ Grey leaned forward. ‘As you are well aware, there is a great deal of pressure on hospital trusts not only to act responsibly in terms of financial rectitude and medical professionalism, but also to be socially responsible.’

Reid was already bored but feigned an interested look.

Grey sighed theatrically. ‘I have been contacted by a number of our Trust members who are concerned at the role you may have played in making a spectacle of David Grant’s unfortunate demise. I don’t know whether you are aware, but the
Chronicle
intends to print a story tomorrow that a police investigation into Grant’s death has been launched on the foot of allegations emanating from this hospital that he was murdered. The only person in this hospital who dealt with Grant was you. So we must assume that you are the instigator of this vicious rumour. I assume that you discussed this issue with your colleagues before you rushed to the Press, as it were.’

‘I did my job and the only people I informed were the police,’ Reid said. She was intrigued by the unexpected direction the conversation was taking. ‘And no, I didn’t discuss my findings with my colleagues. And I certainly did not speak to anybody at the
Chronicle
.’

‘And if your conclusions are wrong.’

‘To err is human.’

‘Ah yes, it may be human but the Trust cannot afford to be publically humiliated if one of our staff not only has displayed poor professionalism, but also is subsequently charged with wasting police time.’

Where the hell was this coming from, or more importantly, where was it going? Reid wondered.

‘The Trust has decided that you should reverse your opinion. We’ve examined your workload over the past month, and we realise that you must be suffering from exhaustion. Perhaps a short holiday might be in order. Adverse publicity on this matter might not impact on the Trust alone. It may impact on you, and your position with the Trust.’

Reid could feel a cold sensation in her brain. She took a deep breath. ‘Have you every heard of a place called Kasika?’

‘No.’ Grey affected a puzzled look. ‘Should I have?’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘There’s no reason that you should have. It’s a small town in South Kivu. I was stationed there when I worked for Doctors without Borders. It’s one of those shitty little places that changed hands every couple of weeks during the fighting in the Congo. I was there once when the Mai Mai, who for the record are the greatest load of vicious bastards on this planet, overran the town. As soon as they hit the town, I made for the bush and stayed hidden there for three days. No food, no water. Of course, they eventually found me and dragged me off to a hut, four of them. We were all set up for a bit of gang rape and a slow death for me. I should add that they were off their heads with drugs. To cut a long story short, they stripped me and the most vicious thug among them took his Kalashnikov and inserted the muzzle into my vagina. He and his friends had a short discussion about whether they should rape me first or would it be more fun to pull the trigger on the Kalashnikov.’

Grey was watching her in astonishment.

‘Just when they decided they could rape me and then have fun with the Kalashnikov, two French Legionnaires from the UN contingent pushed the door open and shot the four of them dead.’

‘That’s some tale, but what’s the relevance?’ Grey said with a catch in his voice.

‘The point is, I’ve been threatened by the best, or the worst if you prefer, and I’m still here. So I’ll take my chances with the venerable Trust, and if we have to part company, then so be it.’ She stood up. ‘Now I really do have to return to my work. It’s been so pleasant visiting with you here in your sumptuous office. I’ll tell all my dead clients about how well the hospital administrators live. Don’t get up to see me out.’ She wheeled around in a swish of white coat and made for the door of the office.

Grey was breathing with difficulty when she left the office. He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He picked up his telephone wondering whether Carlisle and his friends knew who they were dealing with.

Reid pulled out her phone as soon as she was in the lift. The message to Wilson was simple – we need to talk.