DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 14

"Yes, you," the constable said bringing his machine gun to the ready.

f.u.c.k, Case muttered under his breath. No point in tryin' to blast his way out.

"What's a matter. officer," Case said in his broadest c.o.c.kney accent. He put both hands in the air.

The two constables looked at one another.

Case smiled inwardly. He knew that his accent would throw the men off guard.

"You don't have to put your hands up," the older constable said moving forward. "Sir," he added as an afterthought "Fanks, officer," Case said dropping his hands. He was `sir', which meant the imminent danger had pa.s.sed. He never ceased to marvel at how the Paddies started to bow and sc.r.a.pe as soon as they heard a good old Brit accent. G.o.d save the f.u.c.king British Empire.

"I'd like to see some identification, sir," the police officer said politely as he approached.

Case looked at the policeman. The copper was thirty pounds overweight and the straps of the bullet-proof vest were stretched to their limit. At close range he would probably have just enough time to nail the two b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. But what was the point. Two dead coppers could screw-up the rest of his mission. That would p.i.s.s off his bosses in London. That meant he wouldn't be used in the future. He wondered if either of the two men standing before him would ever know how close they came to death. The main thing was to keep them away from the Browning. That meant he wasn't going to be searched. Some of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds weren't as dumb as they looked. Some were even smart enough to put two and two together and come up with four. It was time to play an ace.

"Will this do, me old c.o.c.k," Case said keeping his c.o.c.kney accent as thick as possible. He fished around in his coat pocket and pulled out the card which identified him as a member of British Military Intelligence. He handed the card to the police officer.

The constable let his machine gun hang on its strap while he took the card from Case's hand.

Case watched the expression on the man's face as he looked first at the card and then at him. He was hard put not to break out laughing in the constable's face. That put an end to your gallop, old son, he thought. There was no way he was going to be searched now. He'd been told only to use the card as a last resort. This was a last resort.

The fat constable looked at the card a second time.

"I don' suppose you'd like to tell me what you're doing here, Mr. Gardiner?" the constable asked, a new tone of respect noticeable in his voice. He handed Case back the card.

"Now you know better than that, officer," Case slipped the card nonchalantly into his pocket. "What's the flap?"

The police officer stared at Case. "We just got a report of a shooting incident in one of the adjacent streets. Some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d was shot on his doorstep."

"f.u.c.kin' IRA," Case said and spat into the gutter. "I'd love to run across one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They should be strung up by the b.a.l.l.s."

"We've got the area surrounded. Maybe this time we'll get our hands on the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds." Constable Stanley McColgan had always gone by his instincts and he didn't like the man standing before him. Gardiner was young and fit and looked just like what you'd expect an undercover man from Military Intelligence to look like. In fact Gardiner looked just like every other British soldier in the Province. McColgan hesitated. Something told him that he should call this one in but standing orders were to keep out of these people's way. The Military Intelligence card looked genuine enough and the bloke was definitely a Brit. The thought of searching Gardiner flitted through McColgan's mind. Why should these people be above the law? Maybe for once he should disobey an order. But what if Gardiner complained to his superiors about being searched? McColgan would get a sharp kick in the b.a.l.l.s from his own boss. It wasn't worth it. There were so many undercover people running around the Province it was a wonder they didn't get in each other's way. Standing orders were standing orders and Stanley McColgan was one for sticking to the letter of the law.

"I'd get out of here sharp if I was you," McColgan said. "Or you're goin' to be flashin' that card all night."

The two constables walked back in the direction of their Landrover.

That old b.a.s.t.a.r.d isn't as stupid as he looks, Case thought as he watched the two men re-join their vehicle. He saw the fat constable throw a final glance over his shoulder at him. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea not to kill the two coppers. He quickly replayed in his mind the scene between himself and the policeman searching for some mistake he'd made which made the copper suspicious. There was nothing he could remember. Still he'd take even money that the old cop would spout off to somebody before the evening was out. What if he does? He said to himself. It would take some kind of evil genius to put together a report that a phoney Military Intelligence agent named Bryan Gardiner was in the area where a shooting took place linking him to the murder of Bingham. He glanced at his watch. It was already past eight o'clock and he had some important phone calls to make.

"Police confidential," the first voice on the PSNI confidential number was invariable female, soft and warm.

"Just before nine o'clock this evening, an active service unit of the Irish Republican Army executed Leslie Bingham for crimes against the Republican people of Belfast." Case's Belfast accent would have pa.s.sed muster in even the most critical public houses on the Falls or Shankill Roads.

"Would you repeat that please?" the woman said.

Case carefully repeated the message.

"May I have your name please," the woman's voice was complete without emotion. Case wondered if she spent her day talking to murderers.

Case took the Sim card out of his mobile phone and tossed it in the gutter. A light mist was enveloping Belfast and the large imposing Victorian jail across the road. He looked at the red bricked facade. It looked like something out of those corny Hammer House of Horror films. n.o.body was ever going to put him into one of them places. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d of an officer who'd put him in the cooler had paid. Two days after his discharge came through he broke into his house and raped his wife. I'll bet the b.a.s.t.a.r.d is more careful who he shops these days. With a bit of luck he's tryin' to deal with a little b.a.s.t.a.r.d he'd left behind him.

He walked off into the mist heading for Fortingale Street. He'd call London later and report his success.

CHAPTER 32.

Wilson was in mid-sentence when his mobile phone rang. He reached into his pocket and switched the unit off.

"Blast that b.l.o.o.d.y thing," he said removing his hand from his pocket and resuming eating.

"Aren't you going to answer it?" Kate asked. She was surprised and more than a little annoyed with herself at how quickly they had fallen back into the old routine. If it wasn't for the pain he had caused her by his rejection she might have imagined that London had been a dream. Maybe it was the human condition to let bygones be bygones. She had known from the moment that she had met him that he was the 'one'. There had been plenty of men before him but she had never felt the depth of emotion for them that she had felt for him. Sometimes she wanted to kick herself for feeling the way she did. She had graduated top of her cla.s.s at Queen's University which proved that she wasn't exactly dumb but how could she correlate her intelligence with her need to be loved by Ian Wilson.

"Don't you start behaving like a school-teacher," he forked some sweet and sour pork into his mouth and washed it down with a gla.s.s of Cote du Rhone Villages. He was feeling good for the first time in months. For once the mellowness wasn't a.s.sociated with large quant.i.ties of booze. He was simply happy to be in the company of the woman he had been willing to leave Susan for. Why did the b.l.o.o.d.y mobile have to ring just now? Over the past two hours he had managed to forget Tennent Street, Ulster, killings. Couldn't the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have given him at least one evening of total relaxation? What were his needs against the reason his mobile had rung. In all likelihood somewhere in his area a human being had probably just died violently.

"You know that you really want to respond to the call," she looked at him reprovingly. "I've been around you enough to understand your code of loyalty to the job. What are you waiting for? Answer the b.l.o.o.d.y thing."

He looked at her. The drinks in the 'Crown' and the wine had added colour to her face. What a stupid b.l.o.o.d.y fool he'd been. What sort of idiocy had made him inflict his own guilt trip on the woman he had professed to love? Somehow he was going to make it up to her.

"They'll start getting frantic if you don't call in soon," she said breaking his train of thought. "It may be nothing. Why don't you find out?"

He stood up. "I suppose I'd better because I'm not going to be allowed to sit here all night enjoying myself without you reminding me of my duty to the good people of Ulster."

She watched him as he reluctantly pulled the mobile out of his pocket and switched it on again. He always reminded her of one of those big ageing bears on a natural history television programme. The ambling creature was still strong enough to lash and maim those around him who threatened him but the realisation was beginning to dawn on him that with his strength rapidly disappearing his days were numbered. She had never before noticed the crows feet which extended from the corner of his eyes. The skin on his face looked soft and puffy. Maybe he was suffering from burnout. If he was, he wouldn't be the first police officer to hit that particular wall. n.o.body knew better than her the legion of enemies he had ama.s.sed during his years on the Force. The wolves scented blood and they were gathering to pull him to pieces. Maybe he would be smart enough to give them all the finger and get out completely. No matter how hard she wished for it she knew that it would never happen. He was like one of those heavy dray horses who when set free immediately look for a carriage to be hooked up to. He'd been born to be a copper. In any other job he would have shrivelled up and died.

His mobile started ringing as soon as he switched it on. He listened without speaking and then said Ok before cutting the communication.

"Jesus Christ but there's no rest for the wicked," he said pushing his unfinished meal away. "It looks like our friend with the nine millimetre has been out and about again. Somebody just murdered some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d over beside the New Lodge. The bra.s.s want me to drop whatever I'm doing and get over there straight away."

"If that's the case don't let me keep you," she felt like screaming. "Just find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d and shove the result up Jennings and the rest of them. We can always pick up where we left off." She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice but she wasn't' quite sure how well she was succeeding.

"You can be sure of it," he hated the job at moments like this. "Look, maybe I could call around later this evening."

"Remember what I said in the 'Crown'," she said fighting with her desire to say 'why not'. "We can't start from where we left off. Let's take it easy for a while. You get yourself off and find that b.l.o.o.d.y murderer. I'll settle things here."

He stood looking down at her. "I'm glad we got together again."

She thought before replying. " We're not there yet, Ian. You're just lucky I took pity on you, ye big oaf."

He leaned over quickly and kissed her hard on the lips. "I'll give you a call in the morning," he said when they both reluctantly broke off the kiss.

He squeezed her hand and then made for the door.

"s.h.i.t!" Wilson punched the steering wheel of the Toyota as he took his place behind the wheel. Why couldn't the b.a.s.t.a.r.d have taken a holiday to-night? He was feeling more emotions than he felt was good for him. Sure he wanted to catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d with the nine millimetre but he also felt that if Kate and he had been permitted to spend the evening together they would inevitably have ended up in bed. He hadn't had s.e.x since his wife died. That was b.l.o.o.d.y ironic because he had put it about enough when she was alive. He felt the need to make love to a woman stronger than he had ever felt it before. He took one last look at the exterior of the restaurant and started the car. He drove from Donegal Square up Royal Avenue and on into York Street. The wall of the dockyards ran parallel with his route as he drove towards the address on Meadow Street which had been the scene of the latest murder. Even from the scant details he had received on the phone, he had no doubt that the killing in Meadow Street was the work of the same man who had killed Patterson and Peac.o.c.k. Ballistics would set a seal on it but in his mind it was already a sure thing. The ballistics tests were only a formality. This latest killing might be the straw that would break the camel's back. Four murders in the s.p.a.ce of a few days would have the Protestant psychopaths champing at the bit. Blood would have blood as Mr. Shakespeare wrote on one occasion. But why was it happening now? Who could be crazy enough to start a sectarian war when the mood of the people was for peace? Maybe he'd already had his chance to find out and failed. The pressure to get him off the case would mount. And always in the background were the shadow men. The puppet masters who saw themselves as the defenders of the realm and who would stoop to any kind of dirty ploy to attain their aims. He crossed the Westlink motorway and continued on past the York Dock before turning into Duncairn Gardens. He wondered whether he'd already had too much of Belfast. Sometimes Jennings' threat of a beat in South Armagh actually appeared attractive beside ten more years on the city streets. Maybe he'd be able to have some cla.s.s of a life with Kate if he could only get away from the mean streets. He looked out at the rows of dirty terraced houses. Belfast was the best candidate for urban renewal he'd ever seen. Maybe if they tore down the ghettos the sectarian divide might also disappear. Was there some sociological reason why the areas of greatest sectarian conflict were also the most run-down and dirty? On the Falls and in the Shankill, it was simply different coloured rats in the same sewer tearing at each other while in middle cla.s.s areas life went on as usual. There was no sectarian strife in Malwood Park. No graffiti of hooded terrorists decorated the walls in Malone, Dunmurray or Hollywood. None of his yuppie neighbours feared the knock on the door which was the prelude to a sectarian murder. They sat safely in their middle cla.s.s homes while the rats in the Shankill and the Falls devoured each other.

The yellow strands of crime scene tape restricting access to the murder spot that had been set up across the junction of Lepper Street and Duncairn Gardens. Wilson pulled the Toyota into the side of the road and got out. A light hazy rain swirled around in the grey light cast by the street lamps. A single young constable stood guarding the orange and red luminous tape. With his laminated black body armour slung outside his regulation raincoat, Wilson thought that he didn't so much resemble a policeman as a creature from one of George Lucas' s.p.a.ce movies. The street was deserted except for the constable. He flashed his warrant card at the young policeman and made his way up the twenty yards of Lepper Street which separated Duncairn Gardens from Meadow Street. The scene he encountered when he turned into Meadow Street was so usual as to be boring. A bank of arc lights shot streams of cream coloured light into the hall-way of a house thirty yards in front of him. An ambulance and two police cars were parked in front of the house and he noticed the technical people's van ten yards further on. He walked slowly towards the garishly lit scene. He was ten yards from the house when Whitehouse exited from the front door and stepped onto the path.

"You're just in time," Whitehouse opened his white overall and stuffed his notebook into the side pocket of his coat. "We were about to move the stiff," he stood back to reveal the corpse lying on his back in the centre of the hallway.

"You've too much delicacy for this job," Wilson said pushing past his sergeant. "Don't you ever think that somebody might be listening."

"The deceased's name is Leslie Bingham," Whitehouse glanced at his notebook. "We're runnin' him through the computer. I'd bet a month's pay the slug checks out with Patterson and Peac.o.c.k. The f.u.c.kin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d is going' after Prods. It's got to be Cahill or one of his crew."

And I'd bet a month's pay that Leslie Bingham turns out to be an ex-inmate of Dungray, Wilson thought to himself. "Any family?" he asked moving to the body.

"Wife and one kid," Whitehouse replied. "Usual story. Knock on the door. Bang, bang. The wife can't think of any reason why it should have been him. She was still hysterical when I got here. I only managed to get a few words out of her before the medics sedated her."

Wilson looked at what was left of Bingham. The shots had all been aimed at his head and it didn't look like any of them had missed. The side walls of the hallway were sprayed with flecks of dark red cranial blood and the door at the end of the corridor was splattered with a tapestry of red blood interspersed with grey tissue which he recognised as brain. The pattern reminded him of the red splattered cards in a Rorschach test. Bingham had been dead well before he hit the ground.

"Where's the wife and kid now?" Wilson asked automatically.

"Next-door neighbours," Whitehouse replied. "She's probably out cold by now from the size of the injection they gave her."

"What else do you have?" Wilson asked.

"Sweet FA. Three slugs dug out of the wall. n.o.body seen leaving the scene. Just a matter of waitin' for the sodding phone call."

"Is he connected?"

"Ask your Taig friend, McElvaney. She's probably the one runnin' him through the computer."

"I thought I told you about the 'Taig' s.h.i.t. Drop it. What else do you have? Anybody see the b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"Wise up," Whitehouse replied. "n.o.body will admit to seein' anything. Right. The wife thought he was away a bit long so she went to investigate. That's the way she found him. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d must have used a silencer. The television was on. We haven't completed the `house to house' yet but my guess is that like the rest of them we won't turn up a hair. The lab boys should be here shortly."

"When can we expect something from ballistics?"

"Do we really need to go down that road? We'll get the slugs over there as soon as we can and put an urgent on them. They might have something for us tomorrow. If we're lucky. They can't tell us anymore than we sodding well know, can they? It's the same gun and the same b.a.s.t.a.r.d and he's laughin' at us."

Wilson stood over the stricken man.

"As they say in darts," Whitehouse said. "Nice grouping."

The sight was grisly. Seeing the inside of a man's head scattered about a confined s.p.a.ce was apt to turn the stomach of even the most battle-hardened copper. Wilson wondered how Bingham's wife had reacted to the sight. At least he was dead, his wife would carry the mental images of this night with her for the rest of her life. He wondered who the killer had really hurt the most. Mrs. Bingham was just another victim of Northern Ireland's reign of violence. It was hard to disagree with the logic that said the dead were the lucky ones. Whitehouse was right. They didn't need the results of the ballistics tests to know that he was looking at the handy work of the `professional'. There was a surgical precision about the killing which showed that the a.s.sa.s.sin's hand hadn't even so much as slightly wavered when he'd fired. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d who did this was a cold b.l.o.o.d.y fish, he thought. It took nerves of steel and skill to shoot with such calm a.s.surance. The murderer was b.l.o.o.d.y good at his job.

Wilson made his way to the front door and pulled in a breath of cold fresh air. Outside a police van was disgorging the lab team already wearing their white plastic overalls.

Whitehouse's radio crackled. He listened to the radio for a few moments and then turned to face Wilson. "True to form. Claimed by the IRA."

Yes, Wilson thought, true to form but why didn't he buy it. It'd be so easy to lay it at the feet of the terrorists. Another unsolvable crime until somebody in the cells at Castlereagh or Kilburn broke down and admitted it. He sucked in a deep breath trying to clear his mind. These political crimes were a b.l.o.o.d.y labyrinth. When you thought you could see the light at the end of the tunnel it usually turned out to be a train heading in your direction. His stomach rumbled and he got the taste of sweet and sour bile in his mouth. He was beginning to feel like a man on a precipice. One false move and he would tumble into the abyss. And he probably wouldn't be alone.

"They can take him away now," he said and walked towards the nearest police car. He waved to the head of the forensics team. "

He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and called the Station. "Get me McElvaney," Wilson said tersely into the phone.

"Evening, boss," Moira's voice sounded tired. Join the club, Wilson thought. A couple of days in Tennent Street had put a dent in her youthful zest.

"Not a very good evening, I'm afraid, Moira," Wilson tried to put an enthusiasm he didn't feel into his own tone. "Anything on this Bingham character?"

"Do you have any specific question you want to ask, boss?"

"Don't pull my b.l.o.o.d.y chain, Moira, I'm not in the mood. What do you have?"

"He was in Dungray the same time as the others," she paused to let the information sink in.

"I had a bet with myself on that one. I won. Anything else."

"Not a sausage," she said. "But it's early days. I just did the most obvious check. If we have four victims three of whom were inmates of Dungray at the same time, shouldn't that mean something." She left the obvious conclusion to her chief.

Wilson held the phone without speaking. Dungray had to be the key to this whole affair. And his connection with Dungray was Robert Nichol. So whether G.o.d almighty Jennings liked it or not he was going to squeeze Nichol until the b.a.s.t.a.r.d squealed. They were all connected somehow: Jamison's death, the missing file, the block on Nichol's file and the four murders. All would lead back to the spider or spiders sitting at the centre of the web pulling the strings. And when he nabbed the spider, he would have the murderer as well.

"Thanks Moira," Wilson felt the young woman needed a lift. "You've done a terrific job so far. Away off home with you and have a rest. I'm goin' to need you in top form early tomorrow morning."

"Goodnight, boss," she replied and the phone went dead.

Wilson handed the microphone back to the officer in the car and moved back towards the house. Bingham's body had been removed from the hallway and dark red blood stains splattered the area around the chalk mark on the floor which indicated where Bingham's body had lain. He searched among his emotions for the revulsion he should have felt at the scene. There was none. He had seen it all so many times before. The only emotion he felt was anger.

He turned to face Whitehouse. "Time to call it a night, George." Wilson left the hallway and stood on the footpath. There was nothing more either of them could usefully do. A solitary police Landrover that stood outside the house the only remaining evidence that a crime had been committed there.

"f.u.c.k it," Whitehouse said and pulled the hall-door shut behind him. "Another body and we're nowhere nearer to nailin' the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Excuse me, sir."

Wilson turned and noticed that one of the constables had detached himself from the Landrover and stood before the two detectives.

"Yes Constable," Wilson said. The man who had addressed him was about fifty years of age. He smelled a veteran who had the desire to live long enough to collect his pension. He looked into the man's face and recognition dawned on him. "It's Stanley McColgan isn't it?"

"You've got a good memory, sir," McColgan beamed.

"I never forget a good man, Stanley. What can I do for you?"

"It may be nothing," McColgan began hesitantly. "But right after the murder we stopped a man over by Girwood Park." McColgan paused as though deciding whether to proceed. "As soon as I started to question him, the bloke pulled out a Military Intelligence ID card."

"What!" Wilson said. "Was it genuine?"

"It looked genuine enough." McColgan saw the consternation on Wilson's face and knew in that instant that he had screwed up mightily. "But something about the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's been bothering me since. I know I should have pulled him but we're not supposed to stop them guys."

All Wilson's faculties were now trained on the constable. "You weren't to know. Tell me, Stanley, what did the man look like?"

"He was wearin' a black reefer jacket. I'd guess his height at about six feet. Weighed maybe eleven stone. His hair was plastered to the top of his head so I couldn't tell the colour but it was cut short in a sort of military fashion. That's another reason why I thought he might be genuine. Jesus it's hard to remember what he looked like. He was clean shaven with rugged features. His eyes seemed to look straight through me. They sent a b.l.o.o.d.y chill up my spine." McColgan remembered the feeling and didn't appreciate it. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d was bad news. I remember the name on the ID. card. It was Bryan Gardiner."

"What about his accent?"