Page 158

‘You’re a bollox, Mooney,’ Wilson said. ‘It’s my car, you know it’s my car, so what?’

‘This is you in your car in close proximity to Edie Butler’s apartment complex.’

‘Who the fuck is Edie Butler?’ Wilson was all bluster, but Mooney could see he was rattled. The tremor in his voice was a true giveaway.

‘Edie was murdered last weekend. On Friday afternoon, she was taken from her apartment by force and?—’

‘There was no force. She…’ Wilson paled, realising his faux pas.

‘Please continue.’ Mooney worked at keeping a neutral expression painted on his face. Inside he was dancing a jig. ‘She went with you willingly, did she?’

Wilson exhaled loudly and licked his lips, contemplating the CCTV image on the table. No denying it was his car, him behind the wheel, the diamond on his stupid cravat catching the light. See if you can talk yourself out of this one, Mooney thought.

‘She contacted me.’ His voice was low.

Mooney asked him to repeat what he’d said.

‘You heard me. She contacted me.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘That Conroy woman was harassing her. Wanted her to go on the record for her stupid documentary.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. Edie was distraught. I told her I’d go to Ragmullin to talk to her. That’s all. We talked and I went home. End of story.’

‘How did you first meet Edie Butler?’

‘No comment.’

Mooney took a moment to align his information. He’d secured it from the bishop, who still had possession of the Knockraw industrial school admission records, eager to help, now that it suited him.

‘You were put into the Knockraw institution by your mother when you were a young boy. Ten years old. Your father had died and she couldn’t handle you along with your four youngersiblings. You stayed on after your time to leave because you became invaluable to those who ran it. You became a real-life pimp. Isn’t that true, Mr Wilson? Isn’t it also true that you met Edie – who was then known as James – through your crimes while you were in Knockraw?’ This last bit was conjecture based on Robert Hayes’s statement, but he delivered it as a fact.

‘No comment.’

‘Here are a few more CCTV stills,’ Mooney said, to disconcert the suspect. ‘Take a good look at them.’ He spread the images out on the table. A tableau of Wilson’s movements the previous weekend laid bare before him. ‘You returned to Ragmullin on Sunday evening. Why was that?’

‘She called again. Hysterical. What could I do? I went back to calm her down.’

‘That’s not strictly true, though, is it?’ Mooney was enjoying seeing Wilson squirm. After all, he was a cold-blooded murderer.

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to the final post-mortem results, the assistant state pathologist has determined that Edie Butler was murdered either late Saturday night or Sunday morning. So you could not have spoken with her on Sunday evening.’

Wilson bit his lip, and Mooney visualised the cogs turning in his brain. He hoped they were rusty.

‘No comment.’ He folded his arms.

Taking another image from the folder, Mooney slid it across the table. ‘These were found hidden beneath the floor of your car boot. Recognise them?’

‘Must belong to Ann.’

‘She has her own car. Why would she hide them in yours?’

‘How would I know?’