A Box Full of Darkness (Wilson Book 5) by Fee Derek Read Free Book Online
Authors: Fee Derek
He had received the official transmission of his new posting on the day after his meeting with Campbell and Jennings. As a detective superintendent, Wilson had the right to a parking place but he found that all the reserve places were taken so he pulled into the most convenient spot. He entered the main building within the complex and presented himself at the reception.
‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair,’ he said to the uniformed policewoman behind the desk.
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson.’
‘He’s expecting you,’ she said pulling out a sheet of paper from the drawer in front of her. ‘This is a plan of the site.’ She pushed the sheet of paper towards Wilson. ‘Your unit is marked in red. I’ll phone ahead and tell them that you’ve arrived. Welcome to Dunmurry.’ She gave him her widest smile.
Wilson took the plan and left the building. He walked through the compound following the route set out on the plan. The place looked strange and foreboding. He’d been in this position several times before. It normally took a month just to find out where the toilets were located. It was an exaggeration but it would take some time before he was fully operational. The home of the task force was a small, prefabricated building at the rear of the Dunmurry complex. It was maybe thirty feet long with a square profile. Wilson had seen buildings like this left over on deserted World War II airfields. It wasn’t a PSNI office; it was a wooden container on stilts. Wilson entered a narrow corridor that ran along the left-hand side of the building. On his right were a series of wooden doors without any markings. The corridor and the door looked like they hadn’t been painted since they were constructed. If he hadn’t already realised that he was going to be given the shit treatment, his new accommodations were chosen to put him right. Well, if they wanted him to quit, they would have to go a hell of a lot further than dropping him into a shitpit of an office. He knocked on the first door and opened it. There was nobody inside and the office furniture, which consisted of a metal desk and a chair, which had been manufactured before the word “ergonomic” had been invented, that must have been recovered from a rubbish dump. He knocked on the next door but received no answer. Two more doors to try. He was at the last door on the corridor before he received an answer to his knock
‘Come in,’ the voice was strong with a Mid-Ulster accent.
Wilson opened the door and walked in. ‘I’m looking for Chief Superintendent Sinclair.’
‘You’ve found him.’
‘Detective Superintendent Wilson reporting for duty.’ Wilson entered the office and closed the door behind him. Sinclair’s office was larger than the one Wilson had entered at the other end of the corridor. The furniture was still basic consisting of a metal desk, and ergonomic chair and a filing cabinet. A computer at least one generation old sat on Sinclair’s desk while an ink jet printer sat on a small formica-topped table beside the desk. There was a metal frame visitor’s chair in front of the desk. Wilson wondered who Sinclair had pissed off to land this job.
Sinclair stood and smiled. Wilson guessed that he was somewhere in his late fifties with a full head of white hair, and a thin face with a salt and pepper beard on his chin. He was almost as tall as Wilson, maybe six foot two and sported a paunch. ‘Welcome,’ he held out his hand. ‘And dispense with that “reporting for duty” bullshit’.
They shook hands and Wilson noticed that there were no messages passed with the handshake. He was in no doubt that Sinclair would know everything about him including the fact that he had never been a mason or a member of the Orange Lodge.
‘Sit down,’ Sinclair said nodding at a chair in front of his desk. He noticed the way Wilson glanced at the chair as though he doubted whether it would carry his weight.
The two men sat.
‘Chief Superintendent Sinclair,’ he said to the uniformed policewoman behind the desk.
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson.’
‘He’s expecting you,’ she said pulling out a sheet of paper from the drawer in front of her. ‘This is a plan of the site.’ She pushed the sheet of paper towards Wilson. ‘Your unit is marked in red. I’ll phone ahead and tell them that you’ve arrived. Welcome to Dunmurry.’ She gave him her widest smile.
Wilson took the plan and left the building. He walked through the compound following the route set out on the plan. The place looked strange and foreboding. He’d been in this position several times before. It normally took a month just to find out where the toilets were located. It was an exaggeration but it would take some time before he was fully operational. The home of the task force was a small, prefabricated building at the rear of the Dunmurry complex. It was maybe thirty feet long with a square profile. Wilson had seen buildings like this left over on deserted World War II airfields. It wasn’t a PSNI office; it was a wooden container on stilts. Wilson entered a narrow corridor that ran along the left-hand side of the building. On his right were a series of wooden doors without any markings. The corridor and the door looked like they hadn’t been painted since they were constructed. If he hadn’t already realised that he was going to be given the shit treatment, his new accommodations were chosen to put him right. Well, if they wanted him to quit, they would have to go a hell of a lot further than dropping him into a shitpit of an office. He knocked on the first door and opened it. There was nobody inside and the office furniture, which consisted of a metal desk and a chair, which had been manufactured before the word “ergonomic” had been invented, that must have been recovered from a rubbish dump. He knocked on the next door but received no answer. Two more doors to try. He was at the last door on the corridor before he received an answer to his knock
‘Come in,’ the voice was strong with a Mid-Ulster accent.
Wilson opened the door and walked in. ‘I’m looking for Chief Superintendent Sinclair.’
‘You’ve found him.’
‘Detective Superintendent Wilson reporting for duty.’ Wilson entered the office and closed the door behind him. Sinclair’s office was larger than the one Wilson had entered at the other end of the corridor. The furniture was still basic consisting of a metal desk, and ergonomic chair and a filing cabinet. A computer at least one generation old sat on Sinclair’s desk while an ink jet printer sat on a small formica-topped table beside the desk. There was a metal frame visitor’s chair in front of the desk. Wilson wondered who Sinclair had pissed off to land this job.
Sinclair stood and smiled. Wilson guessed that he was somewhere in his late fifties with a full head of white hair, and a thin face with a salt and pepper beard on his chin. He was almost as tall as Wilson, maybe six foot two and sported a paunch. ‘Welcome,’ he held out his hand. ‘And dispense with that “reporting for duty” bullshit’.
They shook hands and Wilson noticed that there were no messages passed with the handshake. He was in no doubt that Sinclair would know everything about him including the fact that he had never been a mason or a member of the Orange Lodge.
‘Sit down,’ Sinclair said nodding at a chair in front of his desk. He noticed the way Wilson glanced at the chair as though he doubted whether it would carry his weight.
The two men sat.