DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 15

"c.o.c.kney. I don't know if it was genuine but I'd bet my life he was a Brit alright."

"Did you search him?" Wilson asked.

McColgan pulled his cap tighter on his head. "No, Sir, I didn't."

Wilson knew that there was no point berating the older man for his error. "What makes you think he wasn't the real thing?"

"I can't put my finger on it but there was something about the b.a.s.t.a.r.d that didn't smell right. He looked and sounded the part and the card he produced was genuine enough but thirty years on the job tells me he was as phoney as a two pound note. If it wasn't for the standin' order sayin' not to screw M.I. up, I would have taken the b.u.g.g.e.r along."

"Would you recognise him if you saw him again?" Wilson asked hopefully.

"I think so. You get your hands on him and I'll finger him."

"Thanks Stanley, you've been a great help. One of my boys will contact you to-morrow and we'll take a detailed statement."

McColgan turned to leave and then turned back to face Wilson. "I know I screwed up, Chief Inspector, but the way things are I might have been in a bigger mess if I'd pulled him and he'd been genuine."

"I understand that, Stanley. You did the right thing." Wilson watched as McColgan made his way to the waiting police car. Both McColgan and he knew that there had been a screw up. There was no point in making a big deal of it.

"Is that it for to-night?" Whitehouse asked.

"What's that George?" Wilson's mind was miles away. Another piece had been added to the jigsaw but instead of a.s.sisting a solution it simply muddied the waters even more.

"I'd like to get out of here if that's OK with you," Whitehouse said.

"Off home with you," Wilson said. "There's nothing more we can do here this evening. I want you round here first thing in the morning to interview the widow."

Whitehouse was trying to make sense of the night's events. He shuffled away towards the Antrim Road taking the path used earlier by Case. Jesus Christ, he thought, how the h.e.l.l was Military Intelligence involved in leaving four Prods dead? Were the Brits tryin' to start a war? This was a vital piece of information which would have to be pa.s.sed on double quick. He paused when he reached the Antrim Road. He looked back and saw that there was n.o.body behind him. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Simpson would want to know about the man with the Military Intelligence ID card.

Wilson punched his right fist into his open left palm without even feeling the blow. Like Whitehouse he was trying to make sense of what he had learned. It was very possible that the man McColgan had stopped was the man they were looking for. If that was so, they had just missed the only break they'd had in the case to date. But how and why did the murderer have access to what appeared to be a genuine MI ID card? And who the h.e.l.l was he working for? There were a lot more questions than answers so far. McElvaney and the `magic machine' at the office would check `Gardiner' out. The result would be that no such person ever existed and that no M.I. card had ever been issued in that name. Even the `magic machine' could be presented with a blank wall. This case was turning him into a clairvoyant. He cursed having let McElvaney go for the night and started walking back through the rain towards his car. The closer he got to the killer and the motive for the murders the more muddy the water was becoming. Getting out of this one was going to take tact and diplomacy. Two qualities for which he'd never been well-known. Box clever, Ian me auld son, he said to himself as he slipped under the yellow crime scene tape.

CHAPTER 33.

Robert Nichol pressed a b.u.t.ton on the remote control and the channel changed on the television. Nichol stared at the screen. Two women comedians tried to outdo each other in being crude. "Lord G.o.d," Nichol said softly and shook his head as another stream of profanity burst upon his ears. To his mind women talking about their bodily functions was the height of toilet humour. This is what we've come to by throwing away Christian values, he thought. There was a time in the recent past when a woman didn't use words which were more common on building sites. Now anything went. G.o.d would certainly exact a great punishment from these women for their sins. Nichol pressed the b.u.t.tons again flicking through the stations looking for a news programme. He was still unsure of the content of what he had picked up from the end of the previous BBC News programme. Could it really be true that the Leslie Bingham of Meadow Street who had been murdered by the IRA was the same person as the wee boy who had been in his charge all those years ago at Dungray? May G.o.d have mercy on his immortal soul if it was. And may the Republican b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who killed him rot in h.e.l.l. The news of Bingham's death had brought pain tinged with such wonderful memories. They had all been there in the golden years of Dungray. Leslie had been such a beautiful little boy. Just like Jimmy Patterson and Stan Peac.o.c.k. And that deceitful little b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jamison. All his beautiful boys were being killed off. He hadn't meant to kill Jamison. The threat of exposure had driven him mad. The devil had temporarily entered his body and had made him do dreadful things. All his life he had fought against invasions of his body by the satanic powers. n.o.body had blamed him for killing the little ingrate. Even G.o.d had forgiven him. All that was over now. He hadn't had to go to prison or anything like that. Billy had organised it so that n.o.body had to go to jail. He had been able to go on almost as before. His eyes stared at the screen of the television but they saw in his mind's eye the parade of young men he had inducted into the ranks of the `Save Ulster' volunteers. That had been his finest hour. A group of fine upstanding young Protestant men had been established to fight for their G.o.d and their Province. The devil had entered his body many times during those years. The heady mix of religious fundamentalism and patriotism made the young men's s.e.xual juices flow. The devil in Robert Nichol had taken full advantage of every possibility open to him. Those had been the halcyon days: his beautiful boys at the home and a steady supply of dedicated youths through `Save Ulster'.

Nichol moved his position in the chair and a pain shot through his hip. The operation hadn't been a total success. He would pray to G.o.d and they would try again. For the present he would be grateful for small mercies. His lifestyle of twenty years ago if followed to-day would undoubtedly have led to his death in this age of Aids. What a pity that Jimmy and Stan and Leslie had to die so young. Nichol suddenly felt cold and he raked the fire into life. A ghost had pa.s.sed over his grave. He gripped his Bible in his hand and his small eyes darted around the room searching in the shadows. His beautiful boys were being removed one by one. "My soul is clean," he whispered under his breath. "Dear G.o.d, my soul is clean."

Case whistled as he ambled along the road from his digs. The job was going according to plan. No sweat. A few more days in dreary old Belfast and then a couple of months in the sun. He never used a mobile for his contacts with London. Not since the 'Tampon' tapes anyway. But it was a h.e.l.l of a job finding a public telephone box in the era of the mobile phone. He pulled open the door of the phone box and went inside. He carefully stacked four fifty pence pieces on the phone and then dialled the number. The phone gave two rings and was then picked up.

"Yes," the voice on the other end said.

"Mr. Bingham's package arrived this evening," Case said using the code he'd been given.

"That is excellent news," the voice appeared pleased. "So far you've performed excellently, Mr. Case. We are more than happy with your work. However, there has been a rather unexpected hitch. I'm afraid you will have to deliver two more packages than we antic.i.p.ated. Some rather important ones."

"The more packages that get delivered the higher the cost," Case said smelling a sizeable bonus to his already substantial fee. He'd manage at least a year in the sun out of this job.

"That is completely understood," the voice said smoothly. "We think that seven and a half thousand per package would be a fair figure."

"That seems about right by me," Case was surprised by the level of payment but there was no way he was going to show it. "Who do I deliver to?"

"I've arranged for the details of the recipients of the packages to be available at the dead letter drop we agreed before your departure. Delivery must be made immediately"

"That's not the way I work," Case said. Rush jobs generally ended in f.u.c.k-ups.

"We're sure that you're equal to the task."

"If I can't make it to-night, what about to-morrow?" Case asked.

"The financial arrangements are consequent on delivery to-night, "the voice said firmly. "Perhaps the packages should have Czechoslovak stamps."

"I'll do my best," Case said thinking of the extra fifteen thousand pounds.

"Good man. I knew we could count on you. Report to-morrow."

The line went dead on Case. Had he held the apparatus to his ear for just a fraction of a second more he would have heard the click as the voice activated tape recorder on the phone at the other end switched itself off.

Simpson walked purposefully towards the small terraced house in Ligoniel. He'd taken the precaution of parking his car several streets away. The cold wind swirled around him. It was a blast that foretold a hard winter. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the jagged edges of the Walther P38. The gun was the kind of museum piece that Nichol might be expected to have locked away. He turned into Glenside Park and walked quickly to the door of Nichol's house. He knew the house well. Many years before he'd been one of those Protestant youths who had been fired by Nichol's brand of patriotism and Protestant fundamentalism. He'd been one of the first recruits of 'SAVE ULSTER'. He'd sat at the feet of the master and dedicated himself to do whatever was necessary to preserve a Protestant Ulster. And because of that he'd been one of the first to discover Nichol's 'weakness'. Robert Nichol didn't give a s.h.i.t about Ulster. All he wanted was a supply of young boys to feed his desires.

The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d was still awake, Simpson thought when he saw the light burning in the downstairs lounge. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. If there'd been more time, he would have organised it differently. He should have gone to Rice and had one of the UVF psychos finish Nichol. But that would have put him in Rice's pocket for the rest of his life. The IRA might have done the job for him but they had no interest in killing Nichol. He was more of a liability to the Protestant cause alive than dead. It wouldn't be the first time that the other side had helped out with one of the Prods pressing problems. Killing Nichol didn't bother him. It was twelve years since he had been blooded by the UVF and ever since then he'd been respected as a `hard man'. He also had a personal score to settle with the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

He knocked on the door. The sound of the television ended abruptly and he noticed from the corner of his eye a movement in the curtain of the lounge window. You didn't get old in the Northern Ireland political game by not being careful. Nichol had spent more than half his life on IRA death lists and they still hadn't managed to nail him. He heard a shuffling noise from inside and then a series of locks being opened.

"Richie," the door opened just wide enough to admit Simpson. "Get yourself inside."

Nichol shuffled out of the younger man's way. "You can't be too careful," he said re-locking the door.

Simpson heard a series of bolts sliding into place. The house was like a b.l.o.o.d.y fortress. It had been at least two years since he had seen Nichol. He was taken aback at how well the old pederast continued to keep himself. Nichol's lips were lightly rouged and he could see the traces of the cosmetics which covered the old man's face.

"h.e.l.lo, Bob," Simpson waited until the door had been locked before he spoke. "I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd drop in."

Nichol raised his eyes. "Long time no see, Richie," Nichol walked slowly ahead of Simpson. "Come into the lounge. Can I get you a wee drink?"

"No thanks," Simpson dropped into an ancient over-stuffed cloth covered armchair.

"You were in the neighbourhood, you say," Nichol sat down opposite the young man. He felt apprehensive but didn't know why.

"How are you, Bob?" Simpson asked.

"The good Lord is still taking care of me," Nichol leaned on his walking stick accentuating its presence. "I don't think the hip operation was a success so I might have to go in again soon. You're looking good. Life in the Ulster Democratic Front agrees with ye. You say that you were in the neighbourhood but I fancy you want me to do something for you or Billy. Would I be right?" He smiled his most disarming smile. He had always known that sooner or later they would come crawling back looking for his help.

You're right, only we'd like you to drop dead, Simpson thought instantly.

"I hear the police paid you a visit to-day," Simpson leaned back in the chair. "We're gettin' the w.i.l.l.i.e.s that somebody might start diggin' around in the Jamison business. It seems that we didn't cover your tracks as well as we might have."

Nichol hid his disappointment and looked into Simpson's thin face trying to divine the 'real' purpose of his visit. There was no immediate danger. Billy didn't send the likes of Simpson out to murder people but what his guest reported back could seal his fate.

"My soul is clean," Nichol said clasping his hands over his chest. "I sinned but the Lord G.o.d has forgiven me. There's nothing that man born of woman can do to me now. My sin was absolved years ago."

"You're not on the pulpit now, Bob. This is Richie. You can cut the bulls.h.i.t."

"Do you remember the early days of the `Save Ulster' group?" Nichol said.

Bad tactic, Simpson thought as he nodded. It was the last thing he needed to be reminded of right now.

"We sat around in this very room formulating the plans which were going to keep Ulster British. Those were heady days Richie, weren't they?"

Were they? Simpson nodded again. He could smell the cheap Eau de Cologne that Nichol was wearing. He should have known. But he'd been young and he'd been wrapped up in the whole 'Save Ulster' business. He didn't know his a.r.s.e from his elbow but Nichol was going to teach him. What a b.l.o.o.d.y fool he'd been. Taken in by one of the oldest tricks in the book. Nichol had used his powers of speech to whip up the young volunteers. But what he really wanted was fresh young a.r.s.es.

"You know I helped Billy set up the Ulster Democratic Union," Nichol said.

Simpson nodded slowly.

"Of course you do," Nichol smiled at the recollection. "Sure weren't you there yourself with us." He pulled his chair closer to Simpson. "By G.o.d we showed the Brits who wielded the political power in this Province."

Keep talking, Simpson thought. Keep reminding me. You're only makin' it easier for me to do what has to be done.

"That little ingrate Jamison nearly ruined everything for us," Nichol continued. "G.o.d forgave me and thank G.o.d that Billy cleared all that business up. I have nothing to fear. All the evidence was destroyed. The policemen who came here to-day were only groping in the dark. They know nothing."

Maybe not now, Simpson thought, but they suspect and that might be enough to bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. Billy had been right. Nichol was living in his glorious past and if somebody was willing to listen long enough to his ramblings, all kinds of secrets might come out.

"Billy's worried," Simpson said simply.

"Sure there's nothing to worry about," Nichol forced a smile. His apprehension had returned with the realisation that Simpson would do whatever was necessary to protect the UDF. If that meant he had to die, then Simpson certainly wouldn't flinch from the act.

Simpson stood up slowly. "Ever since you screwed up with Jamison you've represented a major threat to the UDF." He walked across the narrow lounge and stood beside Nichol. "Against the advice of everybody else, Billy stood by you. The police're goin' to try and re-open the whole business. It's time you paid Billy back."

Nichol turned and looked up at Simpson. "You're not serious," he reached out his hand and touched Simpson on the leg. "You and I were very close once."

"Get your hands off me," Simpson said sharply. The smell of Nichol's Eau de Cologne swam in his nostrils. That smell forced to the surface the memories he had suppressed for many years back. I should have killed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d years ago, he thought looking at Nichol's shrinking figure.

"You wouldn't would you, Richie?" Tears forced their way along Nichol's cheeks. "Jesus doesn't want you to do this."

"This time G.o.d wants you to die," Simpson removed the Walther from his coat pocket. "We'd prefer if it looked like you did it yourself. There'll be fewer questions. Just put your fingers around the b.u.t.t and I'll do the rest. Jesus is calling you."

Nichol looked at the small revolver. It was the time of retribution. He was being called by G.o.d to pay for all the dreadful sins he had committed during his life. The youthful faces of Jimmy, Stanley and Leslie swam before his eyes as he extended his right hand towards Simpson. Such beautiful boys to have died so young. Nichol felt he was swimming in a dream and that he was being asked to make a magnificent gesture. The Lord wanted him to die. He would be a wonderful martyr. He would follow the beautiful boys and stand before G.o.d for the part he had played in their deaths. He felt the matte plastic grip of the revolver against the palm of his hand and he closed his fingers around it. Dear G.o.d forgive me for all the wrong I've done during my life. He felt Simpson rotating his hand but he kept staring steadfastly before him at a picture of Jesus on the opposite wall. Such beautiful boys, he thought as the gun exploded beside his ear.

The noise of the shot reverberated around the tiny sitting room. Nichol's body slid slowly over the arm of the armchair and Simpson let the gun fall naturally onto the floor. He bent quickly and felt for a pulse. Nothing. It was time to get out. Shots were nothing new in Ligoniel and he had no fear of being stopped in such a staunchly Protestant area. He took one more look at Nichol's dead body and left the room.

CHAPTER 34.

Case paced anxiously around his room. After phoning London he'd gone straight to the dead letter box and retrieved the papers which had been sent by his boss. If he'd known the contents, he would have asked the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in London for double. Taking out a couple of stupid stiffs who didn't suspect a thing was one job, but taking out two policemen on one night was a totally different kettle of fish. He looked at the dossiers one more time. A f.u.c.king detective chief inspector and a sergeant. The files were copies of the original personnel dossiers on the two men. What chance did these poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds stand against the kind of juice that could lift their confidential files at will? If they hadn't been lining his pockets, he could have felt sorry for the poor sods. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d in London was right. This wasn't a walk up and shoot situation. Both men would probably be armed and on their guard. There was no way he was going to expose himself to grief when he was this close to getting the job done. This was a job for Mr. Semtex just as London had suggested. It was a stroke of luck that he'd come well prepared. The Czechoslovak explosive had become the trademark of the Provisional IRA and topping the two coppers with it would place the crime squarely at the door of the Irish terrorist organisation. He picked a piece of the putty-like explosive from his suitcase and moulded it in his hands. It was going to be a long night but a profitable one. He packed the Semtex and two detonators into a small hold-all. The two b.a.s.t.a.r.ds lived at opposite ends of Belfast. Transport was unavoidable and he didn't like that. Rush jobs are f.u.c.k-up jobs. That was the credo of the Regiment. He looked around the cramped bed-sit. Not to worry. If anyone could handle it, he could. It was nearly over and the fifteen thousand pounds would be the icing on the cake. He picked up the hold-all and went out into the Belfast night for the second time that evening.

It was after eleven o'clock when Wilson turned the Toyota off the Lisburn Road and onto Balmoral Avenue. He turned right into Harberton Road and followed the road around to the right skirting the dark shape of the Balmoral Golf Course. This wasn't the shortest route to his house but occasionally he needed to pa.s.s through a setting of suburban bliss to contrast with the perennial bleakness of the Shankill. He looked at the lines of neat designer houses set back into their own grounds. There was no sign here of the other Belfast. It hadn't been thought necessary for the government to run a `peace wall' through Malone to separate the Catholic doctors from their Protestant dentist neighbours. He turned left onto the Upper Malone Road and pa.s.sed the expansive Malone playing fields. There were no such recreational areas in the Shankill or the Falls. The plebes played in their adjoining streets continuing the traditions of their segregated parents.

Wilson was mentally and physically exhausted. He could still see Bingham's mutilated body as vividly as if it were plastered to his windscreen. The crummy little terraced house in East Belfast would never be the same again. In the near future workman would come and fill in the holes made by the bullets that had killed Bingham. The blood would finally be erased after the ninth or tenth washing of the walls. But the scene of the murder would always remain fresh in the minds of those who had seen it. Bingham's death would be used by the local rabble-rousers to whip up hatred against the Catholic community and would serve to swell the ranks of the local UVF. Join us and we'll protect you. And the fools would swallow it and join up. There would be no end to it. He turned right into Malton Drive and then took the second left into Malwood Park. He was almost home.

Wilson brought the car to a stop fifty yards from his house. A Peugeot 305 was parked close to his driveway, much too close to his driveway. From his position he could see a single shadowy figure in the driver's seat. He looked around the deserted road searching the dark spots for a second shadow. This was the type of scene every police officer dreaded. Since its inception, every member of the Force had lived in fear of the a.s.sa.s.sin's bullet. Every time one of their number was callously murdered the message was hammered home: next time if you're not careful, it'll be your name that'll be pinned up on the notice board. He turned off the motor and extinguished the car's headlights. One advantage of living in Malwood Park was that strangers stood out a mile. If the car had been a Mercedes or a Jaguar, he might have a.s.sumed that his neighbours were entertaining. But a Peugeot 305 was a dead give-away. It could only mean one thing. Somebody was waiting for him. Well perhaps they would get more than they bargained for. He put his hand under his coat and loosened his Baretta from its holster. Through the steamed-up windows he could see the figure in the Peugeot sitting perfectly still. He slid slowly out of the driver's seat trying to stay as close as possible to the ground. The car door opened and he slipped onto the wet pavement. He made his way slowly forward crawling on hands and knees. The person in the Peugeot was a fuzzy image through the steamed-up rear window. He was twenty yards from the Peugeot when he slipped his hand under his coat and removed his revolver. He began to suck in deep breaths steeling himself for action. He crawled the last few yards until he reached the back of the car. It would all happen very quickly. He ran through his sequence of actions before taking the safety off the gun. Breathing deeply one last time, he flung himself around to the driver's side of the car and wrenched the door open.

"Don't move a muscle or I'll blow your f.u.c.kin' head off," Wilson stuck the gun at where he antic.i.p.ated the driver's temple would be.

Kate McCann sat glaring directly in front of her. He thought that she was about to burst into tears.

"Oh Jesus!" he said lowering the gun. "I'm sorry Kate. I thought somebody was lying in wait for me."

"It's OK. It's OK," she drew in a large breath and held it in her lungs. "Oh G.o.d. Give me a minute to get my senses back. I decided to follow up on your invitation," the words came in gasps. "We've wasted enough time. What I didn't expect was to have the life half scared out of me." Although she tried to control herself, there was still a slight catch in her voice.

"There's a funny side to this," he said returning his gun to its holster and holding the car door open. "I've just ruined my best trousers crawling through the gutter. Let's get inside so I can slip into something more comfortable." He shook his wet legs and then handed her a door key. "You go inside. I'm just going to put the car in the drive."

Kate got out of the car and carefully locked the door. The die was cast. After he'd left the restaurant she sat for half-an-hour thinking about their situation. The time for foolish pride was over. She wanted him badly and she could think of no good reason why she had refused his offer of meeting her later. She walked up the driveway and slipped the key into the front door. Her hand hesitated before turning the key. This was Susan's house. The home of the woman that she had both envied and pitied. She turned the key but couldn't push the door in. There was a sense of violation that she couldn't overcome.

"Quick," He took her hand from the key and pushed the door in. "If I don't get out of these wet clothes I'll get my death of cold. The drinks are in the living-room. I'll have a very large Jameson."

He was bounding up the stairs before she could reply. She walked into the hall and quietly closed the door behind her. The hall was tastefully furnished with antiques. Everything screamed Susan at her. It was a woman's house. There was nothing here of Ian's. She walked into the living-room and switched on the light. Again as she glanced around the room she felt Susan's presence in every stick of furniture. Her eyes were drawn to the gla.s.s cabinet containing his sporting trophies which adorned one of the walls. Another of Susan's marks. Had it been placed there out of love for her husband or out of pride at his achievements? It really didn't matter. It was there and it showed that Susan had cared. Her heart was beating normally now. She moved to the drinks cabinet and poured them both a stiff whiskey. There was no point in holding back, she thought as she poured the drinks. They both knew that she was staying the night. The old mistress of the house would be well and truly laid to rest.

"A penny for them," he said from the doorway. He was wearing a terry cloth dressing gown that had seen better days.

"I was just thinking about the number of times I wondered what your house looked like." She crossed to him and handed him his drink.

"And what do you think?" he asked.

"It's not your house," she said sipping the whiskey. "It's your wife's. G.o.d I feel like I'm violating her by coming here this evening. I thought that in the time that you've been here alone you would have put your own personality on the place. But you haven't. She's still here. She's in every stick of furniture. I can feel her presence everywhere."

Wilson heard the sound of melancholy in her voice. He took a deep draught of the whiskey. "I needed that. It's been a b.l.o.o.d.y terrible evening. Horrible b.l.o.o.d.y murder. Killed in his own home. His wife found him with his brains scattered all over the hall. Sometimes I wonder if there'll ever be an end to the s.h.i.t."

"When this s.h.i.t ends," She said quietly. "People will still be killing each other. Only if Jennings has his way somebody other than you will be investigating the who and the why. That's why we need the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Only when people face up to the terrible things they did will we be able to move ahead. The only problem is that n.o.body seems interested in either truth or reconciliation. Television programmes won't solve the problem. We need to get it all out in the open." She went to the sofa and sat down.

"I hate to burst your bubble but it's never going to happen," he said moving to her side and standing over her. "There are too many people who don't want what really happened to come out. The creatures under the rocks that you're trying to turn over are a h.e.l.l of a lot more dangerous than you think. But enough of shop talk. Why did you come?"

"Like I said we've lost enough time. If we're going to put things together, then we should start as soon as possible."

He put his two huge hands down and gently pulled her to her feet. They kissed both tasting the whiskey on the other's mouth. She could feel his erection beneath the thin dressing gown. His hand ran over her body as they pressed their lips together. She pulled herself back still aware of Susan's presence in the house.