DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 11

Wilson burped. "Thanks for your kind offer of a.s.sistance. Your concern has been noted. I'll include the phrase 'full of the milk of human kindness' on your next a.s.sessment." He waved the detective constable back towards the squad room.

Somehow, Wilson thought, he would have to slip away for a few hours sleep. Alcohol and lack of sleep were a bad combination for someone in his line of work.

Wilson looked up and saw McElvaney standing at the door with a sheaf of computer paper in her hand. It was the last sight in the world he wanted to see.

"Look, about last night," Wilson began "Yes," she interrupted quickly. She squeezed into the office and pulled the door behind her. "I wanted to thank you for making my introduction to the squad so easy. I really appreciate your efforts to help me to settle in but I think that we should curtail the socialising until I'm more integrated into the wider group. Two nights in a row might be considered by some people as inappropriate."

"You're quite the diplomat," Wilson took a slug from the mug of coffee and wondered why he bothered with alcohol. "But of course you do have a point. I'm sure that you'll develop a circle of friends of your own age over time."

"Don't get me wrong. I do appreciate what you were doing but I'm alright now."

"I only wish that I had been the one to clarify the situation," Wilson drained the coffee mug. "So what can I do for you?"

"I think that I've got something." The young constable's eyes were s.h.i.+ny with excitement.

"OK let's hear it." Wilson motioned to the s.p.a.ce directly before his desk.

"I've found a link between Patterson and Peac.o.c.k," she couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "It's tenuous but at least it's something. They were both orphans and residents of a boy's home called Dungray at the same time in the early nineties."

Wilson lifted his head and grimaced as though in great pain.

"I know it's pretty feeble stuff but you asked me to find a link between the two dead men."

Wilson picked up the mug of black coffee before realising that it was empty. "OK," he heard his voice rasping as he replacing the cup on the mat. "Stop playing `McElvaney, Ace of Detectives' for just one second and think about what you just said. This city is so small that you can usually find some link no matter how tenuous between any two of its citizens."

"That's not all," she interrupted her superior. "The man who ran the home at that time was a Robert Nichol." She paused to let the name sink in.

"So," Wilson said.

"Nichol should have some sort of security or social welfare or at least employment file but there's nothing on record about him. Every piece of government information on this man is restricted and none of our codes can access the computer files."

Wilson looked up into McElvaney's face. This was one weird situation. It took some level of authorisation to pull individual files so there was no doubting that Robert Nichol was an important man is some person's eyes.

"That's not all," she said without trying to hide her excitement. "I cross-checked Nichol against all the other PSNI files and this is what I came up with." She tossed the computer print-out onto Wilson's desk.

Wilson looked at the faded typescript on the lined computer sheets and a blinding pain shot through a point directly between his eyes. "Tell me," he said pus.h.i.+ng the sheets back towards her.

"This is a computer resume of a murder case in which Nichol was interviewed," she said. "It was the only reference to Nichol in all the old RUC files. It appears that a young man's dismembered body was found in North Belfast and that there was some reason at the time to believe that Robert Nichol was involved in the murder."

"Right," Wilson said draining the coffee. "Has the original case file been digitised yet?" He was beginning to wake up.

"If it has there's no record of it on the computer."

"What about the original file? Is it still in the archive?"

"I've already looked," she said smugly. "The case file's gone missing."

Wilson sat upright in his chair. "What do you mean `the case file's gone missing'? Files don't just go 'missing'. Somebody must have taken it out."

"So you would think," she replied. "There's a gap where the file should be and the filing clerk doesn't know where the file is to be found. The take-out sheet is also missing so we have no idea who was the last person to view the file. "

"Now that is strange," Wilson said trying to clear his head. Maybe she had hit on something here. He was so desperate for a break that he was willing to clutch at any straw. "Here," he pushed the coffee cup across the desk towards her. "You go and get me another cup of that muck. I need to have both the brain cells that haven't been destroyed by Jameson in action to-day." He reached across the desk for the pages of computer printout and read slowly through the lines of faint print wondering if the PSNI would ever find the money to buy decent printing equipment. Robert Nichol had been one of a series of suspects in a bizarre and macabre murder of a fifteen year old youth whose dismembered body had been found at three different locations in North Belfast. It felt strange to read the details of a murder case which didn't have a sectarian motive. The computer file gave only the basic details but there was no doubt that unlike ninety nine per cent of the province's murders this one had been motivated by something other than politics. Even from the scant information on the sheets, it was clear that the investigating officers were of the opinion that they were dealing with a h.o.m.os.e.xual crime. The post mortem had revealed that the youth had had a.n.a.l s.e.x shortly before his death. The case had remained unsolved. He reached the end of the short report. The names of the investigating officers were appended to the bottom of the final page. One of them had been a Detective Constable George Whitehouse.

Moira entered the office just as Wilson finished reading the computer file. She laid the mug of steaming black coffee beside her boss and stood back. "Well, what do you think?"

"Are you absolutely sure about the file in the archives?" Wilson asked. "It hasn't just been mislaid."

"I don't think so," she replied. "The clerk wasn't too co-operative but I could see that he thought it had been lifted."

"Maybe someone took it out for consultation," Wilson sipped the coffee and burned the tip of his tongue.

"That's probably why the take-out sheet is missing."

"What have we got?" Wilson said. "The two men the murderer definitely wanted out of the way have only one connection that we can locate. They were both residents of an orphan's home in the early nineties. The file on a murder which involved the director of the home is missing and his intelligence file can't be accessed. The murder link obviously fizzled out otherwise he'd have been charged."

"There's one other piece of information you should know," she said.

Wilson looked up from his desk.

"I ran a check on the dead youth," she paused for effect. "He was in Dungray at the same time as Patterson and Peac.o.c.k."

"Now that's a coincidence," Wilson said and pushed his chair back until it came to rest against the part.i.tion. Perhaps she had struck something alright but where would it get them. Three dead men had all been residents in a Belfast orphan's home. One had been murdered in gruesome fas.h.i.+on twenty years previously while the other two had been killed by a professional in the past week. Then there was the business of the missing file. He needed to know more. He pulled open his desk drawer and took out the school copybook he had removed from Patterson's bedsit. He flipped open the front pages and stared at the crude drawings. A h.o.m.os.e.xual murder and drawings of h.o.m.os.e.xual acts. Was there a connection? Would that connection lead him to the killer of Patterson and Peac.o.c.k or would it send him on a wild goose chase? He looked through the gla.s.s part.i.tion which separated him from the squad room and his gaze fell on the burly figure of Detective Sergeant Whitehouse sitting at his desk. Wilson motioned for him to join them in his office. There was going to be no opportunity to slip off home for a sleep today.

Whitehouse was standing at the doorway by the time Wilson put down the coffee cup.

"Any orders, boss," Whitehouse studiously ignored Moira.

"Yes," Wilson said. "Moira here may have found a slim connection between Patterson and Peac.o.c.k." Wilson noticed that Whitehouse winced at his use of McElvaney's first name. A good Prod didn't address the enemy by their Christian names. "Both of them were residents of an orphans home called Dungray in the early nineties."

"That's some sodding slim connection all right" Whitehouse said keeping his gaze fixed on Wilson.

"Agreed," Wilson said. He noticed the tick in Whitehouse's eye when he had mentioned Dungray. "Do you remember anything about Dungray yourself George?"

"Never heard of the place," Whitehouse replied.

"That's strange," Wilson said. "An ex-resident of that home managed to get himself killed more than twenty years ago." Wilson had forgotten the dead youth's name. He picked up the computer sheets from the desk and scanned the file. "A young kid named Ronald Jamison was found in various bits in rubbish bags around North Belfast."

"So," Whitehouse said.

"So," Wilson repeated. "Maybe its nothing but then again maybe there's some kind of connection. That's what we're going to find out. You worked on the Jamison case."

"I don't rightly remember," Whitehouse said. "Twenty years is a long time. I was a young wet-behind the-ears detective constable. They might have included me in the investigation but I really can't remember."

"It's in this small memo," Wilson held up the sheets of computer printout. "Moira cross-checked the files for mentions of Robert Nichol and ran across this one." He stopped. Whitehouse had definitely winced when Nichol's name was mentioned. Don't ever be a poker player, Wilson thought. George's face was an open book. Something was badly wrong here. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find the full file on this case?" Wilson asked.

Whitehouse shuffled his feet. "n.o.body tried the archives, I suppose."

"It appears the file hasn't been digitised and there's an empty s.p.a.ce in the archives where the file used to be," Wilson said. "Come on, George. You've got a good memory when you want to. You worked on the case. What do you know about Robert Nichol?" Wilson was watching for the involuntary reaction. He got it. Another wince and a bead of sweat exiting from the hairline. There was something to hide and George was in the know. Wilson could smell the work of the Lodge brothers above the stench of booze in the office.

"For G.o.d's sake. That was an age ago. In that time we've had fires and floods and G.o.d only knows how many changes of personnel. The case files was probably taken out and lost. Every time they renovate this dump half the paper goes missing." Whitehouse shuffled his feet and the sweat was now exiting from his hairline in globules. "I've handled dozens of cases in the meantime. How the h.e.l.l can you expect me to remember the details of any one particular case?"

"Maybe this'll refresh your memory," Wilson handed Whitehouse the computer output. "Read it."

Whitehouse read slowly through the sheets his lips moving as he verbalised the words. When he had finished he handed the pages back to Wilson.

"Well," Wilson said. "Anything coming back?"

"Bits," Whitehouse said. "As far as I can remember we interviewed most of the people who knew Jamison but we didn't really get anywhere. The kid had been f.u.c.ked up the a.s.s sometime on the night he died." He looked at Moira expecting to see her wince at his use of crude language but she just stared at him. "We never found out were he'd spent the evening or who he'd been with. We were swamped with murder cases at the time so when it didn't break quickly we were forced to let it go."

"But you did interview Nichol?" Wilson asked.

"Only for background," Whitehouse added quickly. "He wasn't really a suspect. The kid was an orphan. He'd spent time in a home run by a religious group that Nichol was involved with. Big sodding deal. We found that he'd gone on the game as a rent boy selling his a.s.s to anyone with twenty quid in his pocket. The theory at the time was that he had picked up some john, they'd screwed and then something went pear shaped and the john ended up killing him. We trawled the h.o.m.o scene but nothing turned up. It was before DNA and there was a whole load of other s.h.i.+t going down so we were forced to let it go."

"That's a good boy, George," Wilson smiled. "See how much you can remember when you put your mind to it. And the interview notes?"

"In the case file," Whitehouse said avoiding eye contact with his superior.

Wilson was remembering the scenario he had developed during the visit to Patterson's bed-sit. It bore a remarkable resemblance to Jamison. "Did you check out the orphans' home?"

"Now you're pus.h.i.+ng me, boss," Whitehouse said. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. "If only I had them notes to refer to. Like I said it was a h.e.l.l of a long time ago."

"And the only set of interview notes were in the missing file," Wilson said.

Whitehouse nodded.

"And the orphan's home would be Dungray I suppose."

"I don't remember," Whitehouse said.

"Was there anything more to this guy Nichol than being the warden of an orphan's home?"

"Like what?" Whitehouse said belligerently.

"Like, are you b.l.o.o.d.y thick," Wilson shouted. His head was pounding. Getting the information out of George was worse than pulling teeth. "Like, was he involved with any grouping? Like, was he political? Like, is there something I should know about this man?"

Whitehouse stood silently for a moment. He looked into Wilson's face and knew that he wasn't getting away without an answer. "At the time," he said forcing the words out. "Nichol was a front man for one of the Protestant organisations, I don't remember the name of it. They weren't exactly paramilitaries."

"They weren't exactly boy scouts either as I remember it," Wilson said.

Moira stood watching her two superiors. She was impressed by Wilson's tenacity.

"Maybe we'll have a little talk with Nichol," Wilson said tilting back in his chair. "Revive some old memories. Maybe he remembers Patterson and Peac.o.c.k. Maybe he knows why somebody wanted them dead. Then I want to find out why his computer file is restricted and when and how the Jamison file went missing."

"I need to get back to work," Whitehouse said. "Things have been piling up on me over the past week."

"I thought that you might like to join me when I interview Nichol?" Wilson said.

"What the h.e.l.l do you want to interview that old b.a.s.t.a.r.d for?" Whitehouse said. "He's probably dead anyway and I bet that if he is alive he knows b.u.g.g.e.r-all about either Patterson or Peac.o.c.k."

"Find out whether Nichol is still in the land of the living," Wilson said to Moira. "And find out where he might be located." He looked towards the doorway and saw that Whitehouse was listening attentively. "I thought you were in a hurry back to your work, George."

CHAPTER 25.

Whitehouse looked around the deserted street before he opened the door and stepped into the public phone box. His nose immediately detected the ammoniacal smell of stale urine. The floor of the box was littered with wet pages torn from the telephone book which hung from a chain attached to the side of the cabin. The inside panels of the telephone box were covered with Loyalist graffiti and explicit s.e.xual advice. One crude cartoon depicted a nun fellating a character wearing a tall mitre. He kicked the paper littering the bottom of the cabin into a corner and picked up the phone. He should have made the call from the Station but you never knew who might be listening. All the boys in the squad were true blue except for McElvaney but it was Wilson who posed the main problem. Even after ten years, he still wasn't sure what made the b.a.s.t.a.r.d tick. His chief was an obstinate swine who would never bow to intimidation. He could never understand how a man who had been given every opportunity to become one of the boys always managed to misunderstand the invitation. Wilson certainly didn't belong to that group of PSNI officers who saw themselves as being the true protectors of Protestant Ulster. Well that was his tough sodding luck. DCI Ian Wilson wasn't going any further in the Force. Not only that but the day was fast approaching when the powers that be would have to do something about him. He composed the number and waited while the phone rang out.

"Yes."

Whitehouse immediately recognised Simpson's voice on the other end of the line. "You know who it is?" he said. Although he'd found no evidence to prove it he was certain that Simpson's phone was being monitored by either the Special Branch or Military Intelligence. In any case he wanted to keep his relations.h.i.+p with Simpson strictly their business.

"Go ahead, " Simpson's tone was as smooth as velvet.

"You told me to inform you if anything happened down here."

"I'm listening," there was a note of interest in Simpson's tone.

"It appears that our new Catholic constable has found a link between the two dead men," Whitehouse began. "Both the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds spent time in Dungray during the early nineties."

"Why should that bother us?"

"They've latched on to Nichol. The sodding Taig dug up a fragment of a computer file on the Jamison business."

"I thought all traces of that affair had been erased." A profound feeling of unease swept through Simpson. That old pederast b.a.s.t.a.r.d Nichol had almost ruined them once before and the affair was going to come back to haunt them.

"Don't worry," Whitehouse interrupted Simpson's thoughts. "We destroyed the Jamison file years ago. There isn't one single sc.r.a.p of paper left. But that doesn't mean that some b.o.l.l.o.c.ks didn't leave a short sodding description of the case on the computer by accident. I've read the file. It says b.u.g.g.e.r all. Nichol has nothing to do with the murder of either Patterson or Peac.o.c.k and as soon as Wilson and his tame Taig find that out they'll p.i.s.s off and leave him alone."

Simpson's mind was working at a mile a minute and all he could foresee was a disastrous event. Opening up the Nichol can of worms would inevitably lead back to his political masters who had worked so diligently to bury the affair. If that happened there would be h.e.l.l to pay. Wilson was the key to the whole b.l.o.o.d.y thing and he was about the only person that they couldn't get to.

"Is there any way to get Wilson off the track?" Simpson asked hopefully.

"Wise up," Whitehouse laughed into the black mouthpiece. "You know Wilson as well as I do. If you try to throw him a s.h.i.+mmy, you'll only make him twice as anxious to get to the bottom of what happened to Jamison. Let him talk to the old f.u.c.ker. Tell Nichol to keep his big trap shut and you're in the clear. The connection is slim so next week the sodding Taig'll be off on another lead."

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" Simpson could feel a wave of panic pa.s.s through him. "This was your f.u.c.king baby, you stupid b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. You were supposed to bury that deeper than the holds of h.e.l.l. The last thing in the world we needed right now was for that old chestnut to reappear." If Whitehouse had been in front of him he would have hit him. "Let me think for a second." The wheels inside his brain were moving so quickly that he couldn't concentrate properly. The possibility of the police opening up something so potentially damaging to his boss and their party had thrown him into a blind panic. "I want to know exactly what's goin' down and when. If he's goin' to interview Nichol I want to know the when and the where."

Whitehouse could hear the fear in Simpson's voice and it threw him. Simpson didn't scare easily. "Don't worry I'll keep on top of it," he said.

"You b.l.o.o.d.y better," Simpson said. "You've f.u.c.ked up enough already by not covering up the traces. Don't b.a.l.l.s this one up."

The line clicked and Whitehouse was left listening to outer s.p.a.ce. He slammed the receiver back on to its cradle and kicked the ball of wet paper on the floor of the cabin. It was all that b.l.o.o.d.y woman's fault. If she hadn't been nosing around on the computer, the Nichol business would never have come to light. As soon as they could get Wilson out of the way, she was going to find herself back on the beat whatever the new policy on Catholics was. George Whitehouse was going to take care of that personally.

He stood in the phone box for several moments weighing up the situation. Simpson's reaction had surprised him. Maybe there was more to this than met the eye. Perhaps he should take advice from elsewhere. The Master of the Lodge should know about the latest developments. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of PSNI Headquarters in Castlereagh. "I'd like to speak to DCC Jennings," he said as soon as the operator came on the line.