DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 17

"You need a holiday is all," Jennings said. Carlile looked beat. His time was coming to a close and Jennings would have to make the push for the big job shortly if he was going to be paid back for all the times he'd helped Carlile out. If only they could get over the current crisis. A cold shiver ran down Jennings' spine. The message from the men in his office that afternoon had been crystal clear. Military Intelligence and MI5 had a very specific interest in the murders which had taken place during the past week. Jennings' wasn't to know what that interest was but he was to keep both MI5 and MI informed of every step in the investigation. And n.o.body outside the four people attending the meeting in his office was to know anything about the involvement of the British Secret Service in the affair. That made Jennings very nervous. He wanted to discuss this event with Carlile but he wasn't about to fly in the face of MI5.

"I'd better be going," Jennings' nervousness was getting the better of him. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'll do my best to keep Wilson away from the UDF but you've got to keep a lid on things in West Belfast."

"We're sitting on a powder keg, Roy," Carlile sat back in his chair "One false move and the whole thing goes up. You, me, everybody connected with us will be caught in the blast. Wilson didn't get anything out of Nichol. You can take my word on that. We must keep our nerve and look out for one another. Do you understand me, Roy."

Jennings nodded.

"Sleep well, Roy." Billy Carlile forced a smile but he felt that his tame policeman would have difficulty in complying.

As soon as Jennings left the room, Carlile closed his eyes. Lord but he was tired. He had hoped to die before all the evil they had set in motion during the nineteen seventies came home to roost. He and his party colleagues had purposely created the political vacuum into which the terrorists of both camps had gratefully jumped. Giving up their own responsibility as politicians was a ploy they had used to force the Brits back onside. In fact, they had handed over the city of Belfast and perhaps the whole Province of Ulster to the most evil beast they could have imagined. He had been foolish enough to think that it was controllable but he had been wrong. They had opened Pandora's box and they were going to have to pay. His own responsibility in the Province's history was beginning to weigh on him. He'd been able to justify the excesses of his co-religionists with the rallying cry of 'No Surrender' but how could any cry explain away the depravity of Lennie Murphy and the butchers. The business with Nichol might wipe away whatever political reputation he had left. He didn't regret the decision to save Nichol's bacon. If they'd let Nichol swing then he and the party would have swung with him. He ran his hand over his bald pate. He was as bad as the sc.u.m in the UVF. He'd ordered Nichol's death to save his own political reputation.

"To what depths descended," he said under his breath as he pushed himself slowly out of his chair. "To what depths descended."

CHAPTER 38.

Wilson stretched out his arm in the bed and ran his fingers across the smooth skin of Kate's shoulders. She slept with her back to him her curly blond hair silhouetted against the whiteness of the pillow. He turned and pressed himself into her b.u.t.tocks. She felt warm and smooth. He let his hand run over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and then down her b.u.t.tocks to the softness between her legs. She moved into his hand and pushed her b.u.t.tocks against his erect p.e.n.i.s. He slipped into her and they made love gently until he could contain himself no longer and he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. Their lovemaking the previous night had been tireless. Better than either of them could ever remember. Both seemed to be searching for some higher level of release from the coupling of their bodies. There were important demons to exorcise. He had been totally sated. He held her and kissed her bare shoulders.

"I didn't think that you had anything left after last night," she mumbled and curled into sleep again. "Working with that attractive female constable must have given you some added zest. Did you try to bed her yet?"

"She could be my daughter," he laughed but realised that given half a chance he might have attempted to bed her during the past week. "I'm a clapped out old copper. You're the only one who can raise me to action."

He slipped out of the bed taking care not to disturb her. It was a strange feeling sleeping with a woman after such a long period of abstinence. He crossed to the bathroom and stood in the shower cubicle. Where do we go from here? he thought as he turned on the water and stood under the hot stream. He knew that he had been wrong to shut Kate out during all those long months of loneliness. But what could he offer her? He was an ageing copper who had reached his zenith in the Force ten years earlier. If he was lucky he would be allowed to reach retirement with the exalted rank of DCI. There was the distinct possibility that he would fall into one of the traps his colleagues occasionally laid for him and that he would wind up pounding the beat again. What future was that to offer anyone? Perhaps he should have listened to Susan. Would it really have been so difficult for him to have become a Lodge member and used his fleeting fame to push himself up the ladder? A picture of Jennings flitted across his mind. h.e.l.l no, he thought. At least he was able to look at himself in the mirror every morning. But maybe she was right about getting out. Perhaps it was time to plan for the day when he could hand his warrant card in and give the job the two fingered salute. The water streamed over him and he began to soap himself. Was this really the first day of his new life? he asked himself as the water poured over him. Could an old dog get sense and maybe learn a few new tricks. It had never happened in his experience. He'd just have to wait and see.

Sergeant George Whitehouse poured the hot water into the cup and stirred until the instant coffee was totally dissolved. He bit into the stale cheese sandwich and then tossed the remnants into the rubbish bin. The food in the station canteen had to be better than this c.r.a.p. He could have breakfast later. His wife was off looking after her demented parents in Londonderry and he was left to fend for himself. That's the way his marriage had been. Every time her parents whistled she was off to them on the first train and to h.e.l.l with him. This morning George had a h.e.l.l of a headache. Add to that the fact that he'd woken early and couldn't get back to sleep and you had one very sore bear. Every time that his wife was away he piled on the booze. Their only child had p.i.s.sed off to London as soon as she'd finished her A-levels and they were lucky if she dropped by once a year to see if they were still alive. He sipped the coffee and wondered what Wilson would have in store for him to-day. It had better be something light. That McElvaney woman was wheedling her way in pretty well. The Chief was a sucker for a pretty face. He wondered whether he'd already scored with her. Rumour had it that Wilson had screwed every female officer in the Station. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d would get up on the crack of dawn. He picked up the cup of coffee and made his way into the lounge. He pressed the remote control to bring the television to life. Wilson might be a bit of a lad with the women but he was a d.a.m.n good copper. The problem was he was too good. Real life isn't like the cinema. Real life was about sucking up to the bra.s.s to get ahead. You never saw the TV cops licking their bosses a.s.ses but that was the only road up in the modern police force. Wilson licked no one's a.s.s. That was why they couldn't trust him. Some day they'd get rid of him and that would be his chance to move up. Until then he was going to do everything he was told to do.

He looked at his watch. It was almost time for the news. He flicked the remote to the BBC.

"The body of Robert Nichol the former politician and civil servant was found at his home early this morning. Mr Nichol died from a gunshot wound."

He almost dropped the coffee cup as he bent quickly and increased the volume.

"Mr Nichol, who was active in the politics of the Province during the early nineteen seventies, had recently suffered a serious illness. The police do not suspect foul play." The newsreader moved on to the next story.

They finally got to Nichol, he thought to himself. It had been alright to disappear the file but someone had decided that Robbie Nichol had become hot again. He wondered what Wilson will make of that one.

He knocked off the television and returned to the kitchen. He threw the remains of his coffee into the sink and quickly rinsed the empty cup. It was time to get to the Station. He closed the door of his small semi-detached in Rosemary Street.

The Ford was parked exactly where he'd left it the previous evening. When he tied one on he was sometimes surprised to find the car in front of his house the following morning. That car probably knew it's way home. He walked briskly towards the car and opened the driver's door. He smiled to himself. The police did not suspect foul play in the Nichol death. That was a b.l.o.o.d.y joke. Once Wilson got his teeth into that one there'd be h.e.l.l to pay. He took his place behind the wheel and slipped the key into the ignition. The key made a slight clicking sound before it engaged the starting motor. The world disintegrated around him. His eardrum blew out and the force of the explosion tore his body open. The pain was excruciating but short lived. He was dead before the fire had started to consume what the explosion had left of his corpse.

Wilson raised the volume of his radio when he heard Nichol's name being mentioned. He listened carefully to the news report and then slammed his fist into the kitchen table. The place settings, which he had carefully laid for Kate and himself, jumped with the impact of the blow. Nichol was dead and their chances of getting a lead on the motive for the killings had disappeared with him. They had been so close. And why now? If only they'd had the chance to interrogate Nichol further. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d would have cracked. He was sure of it. He smiled when he heard the final phrase about the police not suspecting foul play. That was a piece of horses.h.i.t. Someone somewhere was running scared. Moira and the magic box was beginning to prise up a stone and all the little beasties underneath were beginning to tear at each other afraid of being caught in the light. Nichol had become exposed and represented a threat to the status quo. Therefore, he'd had to die. Suicide my a.r.s.e, he thought.

He became aware of the noise of bacon sizzling on the pan over the gas fire.

"s.h.i.t!," he looked down at four pieces of very well done bacon. He'd wanted everything to be perfect.

"I like my bacon well done," she stood in the doorway watching him. "There's no need to get all temperamental about your cooking."

He stood watching her for a moment. "It was supposed to be perfect." His case had just been blown by Nichol's death but he still managed to smile.

"It is," she walked forward and kissed him. "Christ, I must look a mess." She sat down at the table.

He stared at her. "You're the most perfect mess I've ever seen." He recovered the charred bacon from the pan and put it on the plates beside the poached eggs and the fried tomato. He put one of the plates in front of her and took the other place at the table. "I made coffee and tea."

"Covering all bets." She covered his hand with hers. "I'm glad I came here last night."

"So am I," he said. "And I'm sorry for being such a b.l.o.o.d.y fool."

"It was understandable," she said biting on a piece of toast. "I have great difficulty seeing a great big hulk like you moping around being sorry for himself out of a misplaced sense of guilt."

"I don't think that guilt has anything to do with size," he said beginning to eat.

"With me size is everything," she smiled and looked at him.

A smile flitted across his lips.

"Come on, lighten up," she said.

"What happens next?"

"Who the h.e.l.l cares? Let's just take it one step at a time." She forked some egg into her mouth.

"And the future?" he asked.

"To h.e.l.l with the future," she said. "Living in Ulster makes one very aware that living is a day by day experience. Even when Susan was alive I never asked you to leave her. That was your idea. Since we're together again there are no pre-conditions. We give it a try and we see how things go. Have your breakfast like a good man."

"My appet.i.te's a wee bit off," he said.

"Something to do with me?" The smile faded from her face.

"No. I just heard on the news that Robert Nichol topped himself."

"So what," she relaxed and continued to eat her breakfast. "He won't be missed. I never had much time for any of those fundamentalist bible thumpers."

"McElvaney and myself interviewed Nichol yesterday on the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k murders. It turns out that both Patterson and Peac.o.c.k were resident at Dungray when Nichol was in charge there."

Kate immediately stopped eating. "That's just too much of a coincidence. I've got the most awful feeling about this business. Ian, you've got to be extra careful. I don't trust Jennings. Actually the only person I really trust is you."

"You think that Jennings had something to do with Nichol taking his own life? That's a bit far fetched even for here."

"I'd put nothing beyond that b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she stood up and moved behind him cradling his head in her arms. "Promise me that you'll take extra care from now on."

He kissed her hands. "I promise. Nichol was on edge when we spoke to him yesterday. Maybe our visit pushed him over the edge."

"That doesn't sound like the Robert Nichol I remember," she planted a kiss on the top of his head. "It's about time I was out of here. You won't believe this but I have an interview this morning for a place in chambers."

"What's the expression for barristers. Is it break a leg?" He looked at his watch. "Jesus, is that the time. I should have been at the office half an hour ago myself. You've only been here overnight and already you're distracting me." He stood up and held her in his arms. "Thanks," he said kissing her.

The ringing of a mobile telephone split the air.

"Not now," he said.

"Go on answer it," she said straightening her clothes. "We can distract each other to-night."

"That's a promise," he said heading for the phone.

She watched him walking away from her. Maybe it was her imagination but he seemed to have regained some of his bounce. He looked more like the old Ian Wilson. You stupid b.l.o.o.d.y woman, she thought to herself. She was old enough not to try and deceive herself. They were good for one another and she would try to keep their relationship on the rails but she had no illusions. Ian Wilson was a maverick. Anything could happen with him and to make matters worse it probably would. But what the h.e.l.l. At least she would enjoy the ride.

"Yes," he said into the phone.

"I've got some bad news inspector," the Station Sergeant's voice was sombre. "We've had a report that a car has been blown up in Rosemary Street. It was a Ford registered to George Whitehouse." The Duty Sergeant hesitated. "We've recovered a badly burned body at the scene which we are a.s.suming are George's remains. I'm sorry, sir. All the lads are."

"Oh Jesus, no." the words exploded from his mouth. He pulled in a deep breath to quell his rising panic. What the h.e.l.l was going on? George Whitehouse blown to pieces. What possible reason could there be for killing George? His mind raced. He could visualise George as he had last seen him. He'd get whoever did it. Whether they were inside or outside the PSNI he would get them and he would nail their skins to the wall. "Are you positive it's him??" he asked when he found his voice.

"As much as we can be at this point in time. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't stand a chance. The f.u.c.ker who set the explosives knew what he was about. George took the full blast."

Jesus Christ, he thought, another name on the wall. Another copper killed for doing his duty. He wasn't convinced that George was one hundred per cent behind him. He was too close to the hierarchy for Wilson's liking. But why the h.e.l.l take him out? Life sucked.

He stood for a moment silently holding the apparatus to his ear and imagining what had become of the man who had been his a.s.sistant for the past five years. He'd seen the results of bomb a.s.sa.s.sinations. At that moment they would be sc.r.a.ping what was left of Detective Sergeant George Whitehouse into a plastic bag. No need to call the wife and ask her to identify his remains. Lumps of raw flesh are anonymous.

"The Army have Rosemary Street sealed off in case there're any other b.o.o.by traps around," the Desk-Sergeant paused. "He was one of your boys, how do you want to handle it?"

"I'm on my way," he said mechanically. He knew they were rattling somebody's cage but he had never realised that this would be the consequence.

"Not yet please, Sir," the Desk-Sergeant cut across his thoughts. "The Army Bomb Disposal Unit has asked us to warn all the Station personnel to watch out for devices. Don't open any parcels and give your car a good goin' over before you drive it. You know the drill. Just don't ignore it."

"Yes, Sergeant," Wilson said wearily, "I know the drill." He prepared to cut the communication.

"And, Sir."

Wilson returned the receiver to his ear.

"We're all b.l.o.o.d.y sick about this," the Sergeant said and hung up.

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks," he shouted as he put the phone down. "Jesus Christ but I hate this b.l.o.o.d.y life."

"What is it?" she watched Wilson's anguish from the doorway.

He turned around and faced her. His face was as white as a ghost's. "George Whitehouse was blown up by a bomb this morning."

"Oh my G.o.d," she moved quickly to him and cradled his head in her arms. "You poor man. When will it ever stop. But why him?"

"That's what I'm trying to get my head around. George was one of the boys. He licked up and kicked down just like he was supposed to. And he knew where the skeletons were buried but I'm sure he'd never say. Then again maybe it was working with me that got him killed."

"Don't be so d.a.m.ned silly," she said. Ian took chances that other policemen didn't take. That could get his partner killed, she thought to herself. It wasn't a sentiment that she would ever burden him with. "Whoever killed him did it all on their own. Don't start taking blame for something you had nothing to do with."

"We'll soon know for sure," he moved to the hall door picked up a long rod with a mirror on the end and went outside.

"What do you mean?" she said following him.

"If it was only George then I know where to start looking for the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. If they tried to get me too, then there's something about the investigation that someone wants very badly to cover up." He walked to the Toyota and manoeuvred the mirror into position. He moved slowly from the rear towards the front on the driver's side. He saw it almost immediately. Since the early nineteen seventies, every police officer in Ulster received training in the procedure of checking for car bombs but that didn't always save them. The explosive was packed into a creva.s.se between the cha.s.sis and the floor. A handful of grease had been used to obscure it but he could clearly see the stubby end of the detonator sticking out of the moulded explosive. Explosives weren't his field but he'd bet a month's salary that it would be Semtex.

"I'm sorry George," he said softly continuing to examine the bomb.

"Well," she said.

"Get back to h.e.l.l out of here," he said sharply. "Unless you want to find yourself in a thousand pieces." He carefully removed the mirror and moved on to Kate's Peugeot. He repeated the procedure but found nothing.

"I'm going to call this in," he moved off back towards the house. "I'd advise you to head off for the office by taxi. Your car's going nowhere until that bomb's been made safe. Now we know for sure."

"For G.o.d's sake, Ian," she stood before him. "Don't jump out of one guilt trip and straight into another.

"Now I've b.l.o.o.d.y done it," he strode through the front door with Kate directly behind him. "I should have known when to leave well enough alone."

"It wasn't your fault," she said standing beside him while he dialled the Station on his mobile.

"Wasn't it?" It was all connected. Now he was sure that the murders were not random. Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham had been marked for death and clinically executed. They had seen or heard something that they shouldn't have seen or heard while they were living at Dungray and for that they were being murdered. The IRA connection was simply a red herring to throw him off the track. He was going to find out why. Somebody was scared that they were getting close. Nichol had to be terminated and so did the investigating officers. As soon as Whitehouse and he were dead, the investigation could be handed over to somebody who would bury the affair as deeply as was required. George knew more than he had said and he had died because of it. He thought about the missing files and the way George had fidgeted in his office the previous day. Perhaps George had screwed up. Nichol was back in the frame and that wasn't appreciated. The cover-up hadn't been complete so now the body count had to rise. This time they'd gone too far. But who the h.e.l.l were 'they'? What was so important that people had to die to protect the secret? He felt exposed and alone. The bomb under his car hadn't been a warning. It was meant to kill him. Time was running out for him. Not for the first time in this investigation, he felt a sense of foreboding. He had come to realise that he wasn't dealing with common criminals, he was dealing with subversion within the system. The mindless goons of the IRA and the UVF hadn't put this thing together. If it were possible to gather all the members of both organisations in one room, they wouldn't const.i.tute one brain.

"You'd better get back to the city," he said turning to Kate. "The Bomb Disposal Squad will be here within fifteen minutes. I can already tell you what they're going to find. The explosive is Semtex, Czech made and the favourite of the IRA. Gustav Havel once said that the Czechs have sent enough Semtex to Northern Ireland to blow the whole Province up ten times over. So that's going to be a major dead-end. I'll also bet that the detonator is also the type favoured by the IRA. That piece of information will lead nowhere as well. Every bomber has his own peculiarities, like the way he sets the detonator or ties up the wires. It's like a finger print. The boys in the Bomb Squad can tell the signature of every sometime bomber in the Province. I bet they come up with a new boy on these bombs. In other words, it'll all lead to a dead end. A quick investigation will consign George's death and the attempt on me to the rubbish bin. Case unsolvable."

"What will you do now?"

"I'll have to warn the neighbours. We wouldn't want some innocent stock broker or banker to collect my little package. They've never been comfortable living beside a copper but this'll put the tin hat on it. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the more nervous get up a pet.i.tion to get rid of me. I want the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who did this no matter what side of the fence he's on."

"I'm sorry," she said holding his arm. She wanted to hold him tight and kiss him. She wanted to believe that she could erase the pain he was feeling but she knew that she couldn't.

"I know," he forced a smile. "It's a h.e.l.l of a way to finish a date. We'll talk later."

Reluctantly, she released her hold on his arm and moved down the driveway. The street was quiet and still. There was no hint on the surface of the death and destruction lurking beneath Wilson's car. G.o.d but she hated this Province. What evil creature had created the situation where human beings living in close proximity to each other harboured such hated that they rejoiced in killing their supposed enemies?

She walked slowly down the street away from his house. Ian could be dead now, she thought. He should be dead. Only her arrival last night had thwarted the bomber. Somebody wanted the man she loved dead and perhaps they would not stop until they had succeeded. A tear formed at the corner of her eye. Please G.o.d, she thought, please let him find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d before there's any more killing.

CHAPTER 39.