DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 13

"Not directly," Wilson replied. "But I suspect that he knows something about the two men which could help us in our enquiries."

"That's not good enough," Jennings said.

"No, what's not good enough is that this man's computer file is restricted which is impeding our investigations and that the file pertaining to a serious crime has apparently been purposely removed from our archives. That's what's not good enough."

"This may be the last opportunity I have to tell you that you are currently talking with a superior officer," Jennings' normally pallid face was streaked with red. "Therefore you will treat me with respect and you certainly will not tell me what is and what is not good enough. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir,"

"Good," Jennings relaxed slightly. "The reason Nichol's security file is restricted is that he was involved in our intelligence gathering operations the details of which are still highly confidential and sensitive."

"I'm sorry sir but I don't like the sound of this at all," Wilson said. "Are you telling me that Robert Nichol is effectively off limits?"

"What I'm saying," Jennings leaned forward across his desk, "is that Robert Nichol was part of an intelligence operation which I cannot discuss with you. If you have concrete evidence linking him to the murder of either Patterson or Peac.o.c.k, you may pursue the matter. If not, he's to be left alone. His security file stays locked. Understood?"

"Perfectly," Wilson said trying to suppress his anger. "And the missing murder file on Jamison?"

"I shall issue an instruction to archives to carry out the most thorough search and to report their findings to me. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Wilson stood up. "Perfectly, Sir," he laid on the sarcasm.

"Then you may leave."

Wilson strode towards the door and pulled it open. He marched out banging the door behind him.

The Secretary jumped at the sound and returned to her typing.

What in G.o.d's name had he done? Wilson asked himself as he closed the door to the outer office. He'd already slipped the string to the sack and he was being advised to jump back before the s.h.i.+t began to fly. It remained to be seen whether he had sufficient brains to accept what might turn out to be good advice.

DCC Jennings cracked his knuckles and ran through the possibilities in his mind. He perceived Ian Wilson as a definite threat to his ambition of one day reaching the highest level in the Force. Somehow he would have to get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d off this particular case. Wilson was the anomaly that the Force could well do without. If only the man would retire, he could promote Whitehouse and then he could sleep easily at night knowing that somebody was covering his back. Maybe Billy could help. Jennings looked at his watch - it was almost five o'clock. Billy would be in the offices of the Ulster Democratic Front. Jennings picked up his private phone and began to dial.

CHAPTER 28.

Billy Carlile and Richie Simpson sat across from each other in Carlile's office in the headquarters of the Ulster Democratic Front in Sandy Row just outside the centre of Belfast. The office was spa.r.s.ely furnished being dominated by a large antique desk surrounded by four wooden straight-backed chairs.

Simpson finished relating the substance of his telephone conversation with Whitehouse.

"I knew that business would come back to haunt us," Carlile said smas.h.i.+ng a thin bony fist into the solid oak desk. The six foot long surface was his workplace and was strewn with papers relating to his work as a Member of Parliament. "The question is what are we going to do about it?"

"According to Whitehouse there's no problem for the moment but who's to say that things will stay that way." Simpson had seen the brooding look on Carlile's face before and it generally boded ill for somebody. "I said at the time that we should have let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d swing."

"You're the last person in the world that I need telling me `I told you so'," Carlile's face reddened. He looked at his lieutenant who he had dragged from the hands of the paramilitaries and made into a semi-politician. Simpson was smooth enough to utter a 'sound bite' on the evening news without using the words 'f.u.c.ker' or 'Taig'. But that was where it stopped. He had long ago realised that the UDF was a personal vehicle and that while minnows like Simpson might well like to jump aboard, the vehicle would scarcely outlive his own death. But that wasn't going to be his problem. He was interested in the present. The future could take care of itself. If Nichol threatened his vehicle, then Nichol had better watch out.

"There were reasons at the time as to why we covered up for that pederast," he said his lip curling as he p.r.o.nounced the final word. "The people who drop their money onto the collection plate might not have been so happy to contribute if they knew that one of the leaders of the organisation had s.e.xual feelings for every young boy under his control. That man was insatiable. All that 'Lord's work this' and the 'Lord's work that' counted for nothing. I took the d.a.m.n man at his word. Then he goes and gets himself involved with a young man who ends up chopped to pieces. No, Richie, Nichol was a bigger liability than either of us realised. Throwing him over-board was the only thing we could have done. It was him or us and we made the right decision. As long as the cover-up is tight there's no way Wilson can drag up the past." he stared at Simpson the question unasked but hanging in the air.

"Of course the cover-up was tight," Simpson had taken care of it himself with the active a.s.sistance of Whitehouse and some of the other boys at Tennent Street. "There's nothing in existence to link Nichol with Jamison. Relax. Like Whitehouse says, so far we don't really have a problem."

Carlile lifted his eyes up to heaven. "Richie, sometimes your lack of intelligence boggles even my mind. We got Nichol out of the limelight but we couldn't turn him into a heteros.e.xual overnight. The man may be laying low but he hasn't changed his spots. If Nichol cracks, then sooner or later it's going to come out that I was involved in helping to place a known h.o.m.os.e.xual in charge of running an orphanage we controlled. How do you think the devout Protestant people of Ulster are going to see that?"

"It'll never happen," Simpson said.

"Never happen my behind," Carlile said. "If Wilson gets his hooks into him, that's what's goin' to happen. Whether we like it or not."

Simpson was about to reply when the telephone on the desk between the two men rang. Carlile nodded and Simpson picked up the phone.

"It's Jennings for you," Simpson said handing over the phone to his mentor.

"Yes, Roy," Carlile said affably.

The leader of the UDF listened carefully to Jennings' report of his meeting with Wilson and the progress on the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k murders. He let the Deputy Chief Constable tell his story with the minimum of interruptions.

"Don't worry, Roy," Carlile said when Jennings had finished. "We're well aware of the gravity of the situation and we'll take the necessary steps to get the thing sorted out. You and I should meet soon. I heard that the traitor in Downing Street wants to name a new Chief Constable. I think your name should be thrown into the hat." 'Keep them in your debt and you'll keep them in your pocket' was part of his political creed. He could almost feel Jennings' pleasure at the suggestion exuding across the phone line. When Jennings had expressed his grat.i.tude, Carlile rang off and slammed the phone down.

"It's started," he said hunching his thin shoulders. "They're starting to run for the hills. Oh they're not saying that they're going to defect but that's what they'll do when the boom comes down. They're Lundys every man jack of them. That, of course, was our most senior police contact beginning to get the wind up. And he's only the tip of the iceberg. If he folds and Whitehouse follows him then there'll be no telling where it'll end." But he could guess that it might end with him in court on charges of perverting the course of justice. That would be the end of Billy Carlile MP, MEP. That would be the end of the UDU and the final stop on the 'gravy-train' would have been reached. He was too old to go to jail and he had had money for too long to give it up without a fight. "We're going to have to do something and fast."

"As I see it, Simpson said. "There are two options. Firstly, we can cause a diversion. Get the paramilitaries to launch a sectarian murder campaign so vicious that it'll swamp the murders that Wilson is investigating right now. There are enough psychopaths running around in the UVF and the UFF to make that a reasonable option. The question is what do we offer in return. What do we have that the paramilitaries might want to have? Nothing."

"What's the second option?" Carlile asked.

"We could take care of Nichol ourselves."

"You mean, of course, that he's getting on a bit and that the Grim Reaper could be induced to arrive a day or two early," Carlile said choosing his words carefully.

Simpson nodded. He stared at Carlile fancying that he could see the wheels whirling inside his head. There was nothing more dangerous in the world than a cornered politician.

"That would be a great pity," Carlile said. "Robert Nichol served the cause of Ulster loyally. His loss would be a severe blow and we would labour long and hard to survive it. I suppose I can leave the arrangements to you?" Carlile turned and looked through the window of his office out across the rooftops of Sandy Row. "The end justifies the means," he said in a soft whisper.

As usual, Simpson thought. He stood up to leave and saw that Carlile had disappeared into another world. If there had been a bowl of water handy Carlile would probably have washed his hands. He moved slowly to the door of the office. All his life he'd wanted to be a politician. To that end he had followed the great man around like a faithful puppy learning every facet of the visceral politics of Ulster. He had joined the UDU to get away from being a killer. He realised that he had not succeeded.

"What a f.u.c.king mess," Carlile said to himself after the door to his office closed. "Thirty years building up a political organisation from the backstreets of Belfast to the farmlands of Fermanagh and the whole edifice could come cras.h.i.+ng down just because of Robbie Nichol." Carlile turned and glanced at the photo montage on the wall behind him. He'd been a leading figure in Northern Irish politics for what was almost a lifetime. He had come to prominence as a street politician after the political fabric of the Province had collapsed under the weight of the violence of the 'Troubles'. While the Unionist political elite had grown further from their const.i.tuency among the rank and file Protestants, Billy Carlile had taken their places by concentrating on gra.s.sroots Unionist values. The civil rights disturbances of 1969 had changed the face of Ulster politics forever and had signalled the death knell of rule by the patricians. The era of the terrorist had arrived. And Carlile had been one of the first to recognise the emerging Protestant paramilitary structures as a future power base. He had quit the party of the patricians and had a popular political organisation which for a long time did not attempt to hide its a.s.sociation with the Protestant 'hardmen' who were then establis.h.i.+ng themselves in the Loyalist ghettos. The same party leaders who turned their backs on him had been only too willing to crawl back in order to use his contacts in East and West Belfast to raise a secret Protestant militia. He had cleverly resurrected the idea of Sir Edward Carson, Ulster's first Prime Minister, by recreating the local militia staffed mainly by experienced ex-soldiers. The patricians in the Unionist Party had initially clapped him on the back. They thought that his newly created `force' would be instrumental in protecting their farms and their big houses. After the new militia started to cull the Taigs, the Unionist leaders weren't so sure that they should be a.s.sociated with sectarian murderers. It offended the sensibilities which had been developed on the playing fields of Eton. Carlile moved on to the second phase of his operation. While maintaining his contacts with the 'hard men', his public utterances took on a less radical tone. He distanced himself from the new criminal element which had taken over the organisations he had helped found. His anti-Catholic invective was reserved for closed meeting. He had succeeded in becoming a mainstream politician by grabbing the `middle ground' between the paramilitaries and the retreating patricians. The vehicle he had used to accomplish this feat was the Ulster Democratic Front. The new party embraced the most fundamental type of Loyalist Protestantism and overnight raised him from a controlled Unionist politician into a populist demagogue. He stood at the pinnacle of his powers being recognised by the majority of civilian Protestants and their militant brothers as the epitome of a recalcitrant Ulster. The namby-pambies of the Unionist Party might hand over Ulster to the Papists but he would go to his grave crying 'No Surrender'. This philosophy ensured that he was elected in whichever political contest he entered and he was currently a member of both the British and European Parliaments. The wall of Carlile's office in Sandy Row were covered with photographs of him in the company of the `good and the great' of world politics. In common with the G.o.dfathers who ran the Protestant areas, his commitment to the Protestant people of Ulster had not been without its reward.

His flinty grey eyes looked straight ahead. "No Robbie, you'll not bring me down with you," he said softly.

CHAPTER 29.

It was almost time for Case to go to work again and it was feeling good. He climbed quietly out of his landlady's bed making sure not to wake the old bag in the process. Betty Maguire had proved as saucy as she had pretended. They had spent the day between s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g and pouring copious amounts of vodka down Mrs. M's throat. The more she drank the more performance she demanded from him and he had satisfied all her little fetishes. Eventually fully sated by s.e.x and vodka the s.l.u.t had fallen asleep. She wasn't the oldest women he had ever screwed. That distinction belonged to one of the old slags his mother hung around with. He was barely twelve years old when she had pulled him on top of her drunken body and helped him inside her. That type of experience wasn't to be found on the pages of the 'Joys of s.e.x'. He didn't mind giving it to the old biddies. What he did mind was listening to the drunken life stories. Mrs. Maguire had fairly bent his ear while he'd been pokin' her. He had a friend to the death. He could count on Mrs. M. no matter what. That might be useful over the next few days. He pulled on his trousers and left her bedroom closing the door noiselessly behind him. Moving along the narrow corridor, he entered his own room and locked the door. There was a certain thrill to be had from living right in the centre of his killing ground. Out there on the streets, the police were probably turning the place inside out looking for him and all the while he's sitting right in the middle of them givin' them the finger. The fuzz were so f.u.c.king dumb that he could have knocked off half the population of Belfast before the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would catch on to him. He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty five. Outside it was already dark. He pulled back the dirty curtains and watched a veil of black clouds from the direction of the Black Mountains roll over Belfast like a dark blanket. If he'd have ordered the weather he couldn't have made a better job of it. He prised up the loose floorboard and lifted out the steel suitcase which contained his weapons. Taking care to follow the opening sequence exactly, he composed the combination and flicked the switches which released the lid of the case. He removed the Browning and a clip of ammunition. He had planned to-night's killing as to be a door step job, a cla.s.sic IRA a.s.sa.s.sination. Taking up the cla.s.sical firing position he pointed the Browning at the cracked mirror on the tallboy. A thrill ran through him. This was the very last sight on earth that to-night's victim would have. He felt the surge of power.

He slowly came out of the firing position and sat on the bed methodically braking down and cleaning the individual parts of the Browning. Lovingly he brushed the dark matt metal of the gun's barrel with the soft cleaning cloth. He stroked the metal as he would a woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was his only true friend. A friend who never disappointed him. Every person in the world that he had trusted had finally betrayed him. That's the way it happened with all of them. His mother used to be his friend but then she tried to turn him in. Norma was his friend until he caught her f.u.c.king the black man. The officers in the Regiment were his friends until he was court marshalled. Well f.u.c.k 'em. He didn't need anyone except Mr. Browning as his friend. He finished cleaning the gun and re-a.s.sembled it. He slipped the weapon and the 13 round ammunition clip into the pocket of his reefer jacket. A two page dossier on his next victim sat on the bed beside him. He picked up the closely typed pages. The t.i.tle page bore the legend `British Army Intelligence' and beneath it `A report into the activities of Leslie Bingham'. A large red `CONFIDENTIAL' had been stamped across each of the pages. Having friends in high places was the only way to go. It was a pity that all Leslie Bingham had in high places were enemies.

CHAPTER 30.

`The Crown' was one of Wilson's favourite haunts. Maybe he was caught in a time warp but he felt comfortable in surroundings which had been maintained exactly as they had been constructed in 1848. There wasn't a piece of laminated plastic in sight and the gaslights produced the kind of ambience which the mock Victorian pubs spent thousands of pounds trying to recreate. He sat in one of the free wooden pews directly beneath an ornate window dating from the construction of the pub. The 'Crown' could make the weather, Belfast, the `troubles' and murder seem a million miles away.

When Kate McCann entered the lounge the eyes of every man in the room swivelled to take in the sight. She was wearing a back jacket and skirt combination over a white blouse which set off perfectly her blond hair and her sallow complexion. Wilson felt his heart rate increase as she made her way towards the table at which he was seated. She stood before him for a full minute before taking the seat directly across from him.

Before either of them could speak a waiter appeared at her side. "Double vodka and tonic," she said stifling his 'Good Evening'.

"Well Ian," she said leaning forward slightly. "I'm here because I found your telephone message intriguing. It sounded rather pathetic and since I have never a.s.sociated you with being pathetic I thought I should at least see the changes which time has ravaged on you."

"You look fabulous, Kate," he said admiringly. "As usual. And I deserve whatever invective you want to hand out."

The waiter returned and placed a gla.s.s containing a double vodka and a small bottle of tonic on the table.

Kate poured some tonic into the gla.s.s without taking her eyes off Wilson. "You haven't changed, Ian. You're still the same p.r.i.c.k that cast me adrift five years ago. Five years older and yes a little more pathetic but I bet you're still spinning lines aimed at getting into the pants of some young copper."

"You're half right," Wilson said. "I am certainly more pathetic but it has been a h.e.l.l of a long time since I coaxed any woman to have s.e.x with me."

"And that reputation of yours?"

"A man can live on his reputation for a h.e.l.l of a long time. Things didn't finish right between you and me. I was wrong to end it the way I did but at that point the guilt was more than I could handle. I know I didn't give Susan the cancer but back then I knew that I had brought plenty of grief into her life. I needed to make up for that by staying with her when she needed me most."

"How gallant," she stared straight at him. "I had a career in Belfast and you took that away from me. You can't imagine how annoyed I was to learn that my psyche was so fragile that a rejection from someone like you could send me into a spiral of depression."

"I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional."

"So I suppose I was just collateral damage.' Anger flared in her eyes.

"No, I should have talked to you but the whole business with Susan and the doctors, the meetings to discuss possible treatments, the disintegration I witnessed in her every day allied to the s.h.i.+t this job throws up left me in a very bad place. I wasn't thinking straight. The days were a blur. After Susan died it took me weeks to get back to myself and by then you were long gone and I heard that you'd been taken on by one of the major chambers in London. I was history and you had a new life in front of you."

She finished her vodka and tonic and looked towards the bar. The waiter was staring directly at her. She signalled for a refill.

"So that was why you didn't bother to follow me," she said. "The great love that you professed for me while I was in your bed had evaporated and you were happy to see the back of me. My departure didn't strike you as having anything to do with you. I was simply pursuing my dream of working in London. Even a mediocre detective might have put two and two together and come up with four."

The waiter placed a fresh gla.s.s containing a double vodka in front of Kate and then left.

"Don't be under any misapprehension, Ian," she said while pouring the tonic into the gla.s.s of vodka. "I haven't come here this evening to conduct a post-mortem on our dead relations.h.i.+p."

"Is our relations.h.i.+p dead?" Wilson leaned towards her.

She hesitated for a moment. "It would appear so," she said after some reflection.

"I don't really think you mean that. OK I didn't follow you and maybe I should have but I honestly thought that I was doing you a favour. You're a Queen's Council, Kate. I'm nothing but a copper with a faded rugby career. I'm going nowhere. I'll retire as a DCI. What the h.e.l.l use am I to someone like you?"

"That was for me to decide. Where did you get my mobile number?"

"I snaffled your card off Jennings' desk."

She smiled. "I may be able to forgive you in time, Ian, but I will never forget."

"That will do for me," Wilson returned her smile and touched her hand. "d.a.m.n it all. Kate, but I missed you. Give me a second chance and you won't regret it. "

"We're not there yet, Ian. "

"Shall we begin with dinner?"

" I've got to be the biggest fool in Belfast on two accounts. Firstly, I'm trying to get this idea of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission going and secondly I'm going to have dinner with you.

CHAPTER 31.

It was almost half past seven when Case crossed Carlisle Circus and made his way along the east side of the Antrim Road. Winter was descending rapidly on Belfast and as he pa.s.sed each junction the bitter North East wind that whipped across Belfast Lough cut him like a knife. He ignored his cold fingers and dug his hands deeper into his reefer jacket. The Regiment had trained him to operate whatever the conditions. Heat, cold, rain, all that mattered was getting the job done. The thousands of pounds which the British taxpayer had invested in his training had not gone to waste. All his senses were attuned to the task at hand. His eyes continually scanned the deserted streets. He had already encountered two PSNI Landrover patrols on the short half mile walk from his lodgings in Fortingale Street. That was two too many as far as he was concerned. Maybe it was just his imagination but he thought that there were more coppers on the streets than usual. It was only to be expected that the b.u.g.g.e.rs would be on the look out for him. He smiled to himself. Stupid bleedin' b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. This was going to be a quick in and out job. The boys in blue wouldn't even realise that he'd come and gone. Leslie Bingham could count himself already dead. He glanced at his watch again. The sod was probably sitting before his telly watching the latest episode of `Coronation Street' without knowing it was going to be the last episode he'd see. He made his way quietly through the narrow streets keeping as close as possible to the houses. The smell of the salt air from the Lough mixed with spilled oil from the docks tickled his nostrils as he turned into Upper Meadow Street. A blast of cold wind from the East hit him as he turned the corner. What a f.u.c.king dump, he thought as he plodded along. Cold and wet and f.u.c.king miserable. And the locals killed each other because of this s.h.i.+t hole. Mad f.u.c.king Paddies. The sooner the Brits pulled out the better. Leave the b.u.g.g.e.rs to slaughter each other. That's what the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds needed.

Meadow Street was typical of the back streets of East Belfast. The housing stock dated from the end of the nineteenth century and consisted of grimy red bricked terraced houses. He checked the house numbers as he walked slowly along the deserted street. Bingham's looked exactly like all the others. A light was burning in the ground floor window and he could see the blue/red reflection of the coloured television through the net curtains. True to form he thought as he lifted the Browning out of his inside pocket and checked that the safety was off. He screwed on the silencer and stood directly before the door. Taking a deep breath he pressed the buzzer.

A sound of movement came from inside the living room. Case heard the steps approaching the front door and braced himself.

"Yes," Leslie Bingham's face was as blank as a sheet of plain white paper as he opened the door.

Case stood back removing the Browning from his pocket as he did so. He stared into Bingham's face for identification purposes while at the same time raising the gun. The man at the door was the person whose picture was in the file back at the bedsit. He fired the gun three times in rapid succession, the silencer m.u.f.fling the sound. The top of Bingham's head disintegrated showering fragments of bone and brain along the hall until they splashed against the door at the far end. Bingham's body jerked before falling back into the hall of the house. Case knew his victim had died instantly but he quickly stepped inside and fired one further shot, placing it exactly between Bingham's eyes. He turned and started walking back the way he had come.

None of 'em expect it, Case thought, and smiled to himself. There was no challenge in taking out bozos who couldn't put up a fight. This was money for old rope. He remembered the border engagements between the SAS and the South Armagh Brigade of the IRA. There was a bunch of tough b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They never asked for quarter and they didn't expect it. The only prisoners that were taken were the dead ones. He'd never felt more alive than he had when he was in the middle of a fire-fight with the Provos. Best high in the f.u.c.king world. It certainly beat the h.e.l.l out of standin' on some Joe Bloggs' doorstep and blowing the f.u.c.ker's brains out. You could get bra.s.sed off with this job. If it wasn't for all the lovely lolly it was earning. Just one more, he thought as he walked calmly away. One more unknown civilian blown away and then off to the Costa.

The street was still deserted and he had almost reached the end of Meadow Street when he heard an ear piercing scream. Somebody's brain had finally found the gear and Bingham's body had been discovered. It was time to get out of there. The thought of running never entered Case's mind. He had taken part in enough a.s.sa.s.sinations to know that the first thing that attracted the attention of the police was some silly b.u.g.g.e.r hoofing it at top speed in the opposite direction from the action. Stay cool, he told himself. He was simply a punter headin' for the nearest boozer for a drink with his mates. He turned left at the top of Meadow Street and could see Girwood Park directly in front of him. In the distance was the grey forbidding shape of Crumlin Road Jail. He crossed the Antrim Road and started towards the entrance of the park.

"Don't move."

Case was startled. He looked around and saw two police constables standing beyond the entrance to the park. The man who had spoken wore a black padded flak jacket over his black police raincoat and held a machine gun cradled in the crook of his arm. A PSNI Landrover was parked twenty yards further along the road. He knew that he'd blown it. If he'd been concentrating he would have noticed the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds before he walked out into the open.