DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 18

It was ten o'clock in the morning and Willie Rice was suffering from the effects of a monumental hang-over. He looked at the cup of black coffee on the table in front of him and his stomach turned.

"It's nothing definite," Ivan McIlroy had seen his chief in this condition before and wished he were somewhere else. Willie had lately added a liking for cocaine to his fondness for Napoleon brandy. Coming down from the combination made him one mean b.a.s.t.a.r.d to deal with. "One of the black cab men reported liftin' a guy that could have been our friend from the `Black Bear'.

"I want the b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Rice winced as a dart of pain shot through the top of his head.

"The pick up was from just beyond the Shankill Graveyard," McIlroy moved Rice's coffee cup and opened a street plan of Belfast on the kitchen table between them. "That means that he probably lives somewhere between the Woodvale Road in the West and Tennent Street in the East," he drew two red lines down the streets he had named. "And between Azamor Street in the South and Sydney Street in the North," he drew a heavy line down the streets on the plan.

Rice looked at the plan through the fog which clouded his eyes. He knew that he needed to think but his faculties were in such disarray that no act of will on his part could succeed in pulling them together. McIlroy had drawn a square with a side of approximately half a mile. It lay smack in the centre of the area controlled by Rice.

"Cover the area house-by-house. Anyone who looks like our man get's lifted and brought to the Riverside Club." Another bolt of pain shot across Rice's eyes. "Tell our blokes that if they miss him I'll flay their skins off."

McIlroy folded the map. He had no doubt that Rice would burn some a.r.s.es if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d from the 'Black Bear' wasn't found. "You heard the news about Robert Nichol?"

Rice had only just crawled from his bed. "No," he sipped at the hot coffee.

"Topped himself," McIlroy slipped the map into his side pocket.

"In a pig's a.r.s.e, he did," Rice's hand shook and he spilled some coffee on the table. "That old b.a.s.t.a.r.d wasn't the type to top himself. Somebody offed him and they want to make it look like suicide. Jesus Christ! I wish I hadn't taken such a load on last night. My head is f.u.c.kin' splitting. There's something very wrong going on here. The Shankill has been littered with bodies this week and then Nichol gets himself topped. I don't like it. Somebody is screwin' around with us. Maybe it is the Provies?"

"No way. They're not about to screw things up by gettin' into a gang war," McIlroy didn't like his chief's mood. In this frame of mind, Rice was downright dangerous. "We've got arrangements with them."

"I wouldn't trust that f.u.c.ker Cahill as far as I could throw him." Rice walked over to a wall cabinet, took out a pill bottle, shook three tablets into his mouth and swallowed them. "Maybe we'll have to take the old fart out."

"The man's dyin', Willie. What would be the point of takin' him out now?" McIlroy could see that a.s.sa.s.sinating Cahill would be seen by the other side as an outright declaration of war.

"I'm gettin' p.i.s.sed off sittin' here and doin' nothing when I can feel it in my bones that something's goin' down." The tablets were beginning to deaden the pain in his head. "Get on to George Whitehouse at Tennent Street and find out whether the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks knows anything."

Rice sipped on his coffee while McIlroy removed a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number. Something was stinking to high heaven. It had taken him ten years to consolidate his power in East Belfast and to build up a profitable operation. No business operated in East or Central Belfast without paying their tribute to Willie Rice. s.h.i.t he'd even taken on accountants to set the levies on businesses. n.o.body was going to take that away from him without a fight. Despite the pills the drums were still playing away in his head. Sometimes instinctive action was called for and Rice's instincts were already screaming for retaliation.

"Jesus," McIlroy wore a puzzled look as he put away his phone.

"What the f.u.c.k is up now?" Rice asked.

"Some a.r.s.ehole blew up Whitehouse's car and tried to do the same to Wilson." McIlroy sat across from his boss.

"It's got to be the Provies," another bolt of pain seared through Rice's skull. "It's Cahill's last fling before they box him."

"That's not all," McIlroy continued. "'Our boy' was at the scene of the hit last night. One of the coppers on duty stopped a Brit heading away from the scene."

"Who do you mean 'our boy'?" Rice asked sharply.

"The description fits the boy from the 'Black Bear' to a tee," McIlroy leaned across the table. "And get this, he produced a Military Intelligence ID card when the fuzz stopped him."

"Holy s.h.i.t!" Rice's head began to swim. This was stretching coincidence too far. "I don't like it, Ivan. There's an operation on for sure. But what are they after. A couple of Prods are murdered. Some of our men at the 'Black Bear' are roughed up and Nichol 'tops' himself. I can see the f.u.c.kin' dots but I just can't connect them."

"It could be anything. The Brits are b.l.o.o.d.y devious when it comes to the `dirty tricks'. They wouldn't be trying to set the Provies and ourselves at each others throats?"

Rice thought of his gut reaction of several minutes ago. "Could be. Did you tell our contacts what we know?"

"I did in my a.r.s.e. It might not be too smart to find this boy if he really is military. Maybe we should just keep our noses out of it until the killing stops."

Rice knew that would be the logical thing to do. Over the years, he and his colleagues had built up a nice little empire but he didn't think for one minute that they were immune. The British Government and the police tolerated them. Letting the paramilitaries skim a little out of the system didn't hurt anybody, so they were allowed to operate within limits. Murdering a British agent could bring the whole house of cards down around their ears.

"I still want to know where he is but tell the boys to leave him alone." The pounding in Rice's temples was beginning to subside. The gutter rat in him smelled an opportunity to squeeze a little more out of the Brits. "Knowing where we can put our hand on this b.o.l.l.o.c.ks might turn out to be an ace in the hole."

CHAPTER 40.

Wilson acknowledged the nod from the Desk-Sergeant as he strode through the hall-way of Tennent Street police station. The atmosphere in the station was tense. Every policeman felt touched by the death of a colleague. Especially a well-respected local colleague. He made straight for the Squad Room tossing his coat onto the battered coat-rack in his office as he pa.s.sed. His total complement of staff were present. Taylor, Graham, McIver and Davidson stood up as soon as they saw him enter. Moira remained at the back of the group.

"Sorry, boss," they intoned in order. "We're going to miss old George."

"We're going to get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d that did this," Wilson said staring directly at his team. "And when we do we're going to make sure that he pays for everyone he's killed. All bets are off on this one. Pull in anyone you think can help. We're going to turn this town upside down if we have to but we're going to shake this b.a.s.t.a.r.d off his branch. Killing George was the worst mistake this guy could have made."

"Don't worry. We'll get him Boss," Taylor said and the other detectives nodded their heads in agreement.

"What's the news from George's place?"

"The car was totally destroyed," McIver said retaking his seat. "It burst into flames after the explosion and torched what was left of him." McIver saw the look of horror on Wilson's face. "He was dead before the flames started," he added quickly. "The bomb disposal people are examining the bomb that was under your car at the moment but we won't know for certain until later this morning whether the two bombs were set by the same person."

"I'll bet a month's pay they were," Wilson could feel his energy returning with his indignation. "And I'll bet the bomb boys have never dealt with the son of a b.i.t.c.h before. It was my b.l.o.o.d.y fault. I rattled a cage and the animal inside went a bit berserk. We were supposed to think that Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and possibly Bingham were random sectarian killings." He looked over at Moira. "But our new colleague is one of those keen obstinate coppers who can't let go once they get on the scent. Turning up the link with Dungray and Nichol was the vital discovery. We were gettin' too close to what had to remain hidden. I should have b.l.o.o.d.y seen it. McElvaney is a novice but I'm supposed to be the old pro. Our visit to Nichol signed his death warrant. He'd kept his trap shut fifteen years ago but someone didn't trust him to go all the way." He felt a shiver run down his spine. His intuition told him he was on the verge of opening the biggest can of worms that anyone in the Province could ever imagine. Who was at the centre of the web which had killed four innocent men, then Nichol and George Whitehouse? The killing wasn't going to stop until that person or persons felt completely safe. That meant that he would have to watch his back. He was definitely in the loose-end category. "I want all of you to drop what your doing and review the files on the Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham murders. Moira, get on the computer and find me every man jack who was at Dungray at the same time as Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham. Eric, you get on to the lab boys. I want every sc.r.a.p of physical evidence for the four murders re-examined for a connection." He turned towards Graham. "Harry, I want you to get over to `A' Division and see what they've got on Nichol's suicide. I want to know everything no matter how unconnected it seems." He strode towards the door. "And Harry."

"Yes, boss," Graham replied.

"Pa.s.s the word. Anyone caught f.u.c.king around with this investigation is going to pay a heavy price. I'm off to Castlereagh to stir some s.h.i.t."

Jennings' Secretary was seated behind her desk when Wilson walked in the door.

"I want to see him, now," he said.

"I'm sorry but you'll have to make an appointment." She looked directly into his strained face. Her hand moved towards the telephone.

Wilson ignored her and opened the door to Jennings' office without knocking.

Jennings' phone was ringing as he looked up from his desk. He picked up the receiver and said OK.

"What the h.e.l.l is the meaning of this, DCI Wilson?" Jennings' replaced the receiver and turned to face his visitor. "n.o.body but n.o.body just barges into my office like this."

"You can stuff your procedures up your a.r.s.e," Wilson leaned his bulk across the desk separating the two men. "One of my detectives was blown to s.h.i.t this morning."

"I can understand your indignation and anger at DS Whitehouse's death but it doesn't give you the right to invade my office in this manner. I greatly regret George's death and, in fact, I've just been on the phone expressing my condolences to his widow. I a.s.sume you've had the good grace to do the same."

Wilson tapped his forehead. "I'm about up to here with your s.h.i.t. You don't give a fiddlers for George Whitehouse or any other constable on this Force. You'd sit on a mountain of corpses as long as it got you where you want to go. Yesterday you refused me access to Nichol's file. To-day both Nichol and Whitehouse are dead." He leaned across the desk until his face was only inches from Jennings'. "Does that strike you as coincidental?"

Jennings didn't waver under Wilson's physical pressure. "You've been a policeman long enough to know that anything is possible."

"You don't think that it's strange that just one day after we interview Nichol that both he and one of the investigating officers are murdered. And it would have been both investigating officers if everything had gone to plan. Maybe you can answers me this. Why was Nichol so b.l.o.o.d.y important that a police interview with him leads to both his and George's death?"

"I've heard about your lucky escape," Jennings pushed his swivel chair back from the desk. "Nichol's death is not being regarded as suspicious. It's a clear case of suicide. He was found in his living-room with the gun still in his hand. Perhaps you should examine your own conscience about the role your visit may have played in unhinging the poor man's mind."

"Bulls.h.i.t. I don't care if somebody took a video of him shooting himself. I don't buy it. That boy was buried up to his armpits in something dirty. He was murdered because his accomplices thought he might crack. What about the missing file on the Jamison murder? Somebody removed that file and that somebody is probably still around here somewhere. I want access to Nichol's computer file."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Jennings said.

Wilson walked around Jennings' desk catching his foot on the raised platform on which Jennings' chair was set. He grabbed his superior's collar and pulled him out of his chair. "You are f.u.c.king unbelievable. Dead bodies are turning up with monotonous regularity. Someone has blown up one police officer and attempted to blow up another and you persist in impeding this investigation. Watch my lips. I want access to that file, now."

"You are one step away from being suspended," Jennings' bravado was belied by eyes that bulged with fear.

Wilson wondered who Jennings was afraid of, him or somebody else? He drew back his right fist. "Now."

"I said I can't give it to you," there was a catch in Jennings' voice. He added quickly. "It is a question of national security. Nichol was mixed up with Military Intelligence in the mid nineteen seventies. He was being used by them for some of their intelligence operations. Even I'm not privy to all the details but you'll certainly never get access to Nichol's file."

Military Intelligence were involved after all. Everyone in Ulster knew about the `dirty tricks' campaign. During the nineteen eighties and nineties some smart alicks at the Forces Research Unit had got out of hand and set up public figures. Sometimes their methods weren't so subtle or their bedfellows so palatable. But how did Nichol fit in? The man had been some kind of second division politician and raving Protestant fundamentalist preacher. Maybe that was his introduction to the world of military intelligence. But he was also the warden of a boy's home and a leading suspect in a bizarre h.o.m.os.e.xual murder. Robert Nichol was ideal material for a `dirty tricks' operation. He thought back to the previous night and the man called Gardiner who he had stopped at Girwood Park. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d may well have been the genuine article but now they would never know. If he really was M.I., he wouldn't be left in their hands for more time than it took to get a car around to Tennent Street to get him out. It was entirely possible that the `professional' they'd been looking for was a member of some obscure branch of the British Secret Service. But why did the Secret Service need to murder n.o.bodies like Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham? A wave of despondency washed over him. Where could he go from here? Jennings had a self-satisfied look on his face. He couldn't shake the feeling that the smirking b.a.s.t.a.r.d was part of the whole rotten scheme of things.

Wilson grabbed the two arms of the Deputy Chief Constable's chair and bent down to face him. "You can tell your contacts at Military Intelligence that they had better not be involved in either the East Belfast murders or in George's murder. You can also tell them that no matter what barriers they put in the way I'm going to get to the bottom of this business irrespective of what kind of worms get dredged up." He stood back and started to cross the office towards the door.

Jennings straightened his tunic and looked at the departing back of his detective inspector. "For your sake, I'm going to forget what has happened between us in this office this morning. DS Whitehouse's death has obviously been a great shock to you. Otherwise your behaviour towards a senior officer would be unpardonable. But I warn you Chief Inspector, one more act of insubordination and you'll be pounding a beat in Crossmaglen."

Wilson looked over his shoulder and then left the room without speaking.

Jennings watched the door close. Wilson posed the single greatest threat to his ambition of becoming the chief constable of the PSNI. Why hadn't the b.l.o.o.d.y bomb killed the awkward b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Jennings put his head in his hands. Nichol dead and Whitehouse murdered in the same twenty four hour period as the fourth victim of Wilson's `professional'. `C' Division was becoming awash with dead bodies. The sins they had committed in the Province's name were returning to haunt them. Jennings picked up the telephone and dialled Carlile's number. Only Billy would know what to do in these circ.u.mstances.

Wilson exited Jennings' office and paused for a moment beside the Secretary's desk. A light plinked on the telephone handset on her desk indicating that Jennings was on the phone. I wonder who you've rushed to for succour, Wilson thought as he moved towards the door of the outer office.

CHAPTER 41.

Case woke later than usual. It had been after two o'clock in the morning when he'd finally hit the sack. Placing the bombs had been a piece of cake but he had decided to walk the two miles between Wilson's house in Malwood Park and Whitehouse's place in Rosemary Street. The taxi driver had spooked him. Everybody expected to be examined in Belfast but the taxi driver's interest had been more than pa.s.sing. He got out of bed reluctantly and immediately began to go through his early morning exercise routine. Keeping fit had become a religion with Case. Even when he wasn't on a job, he kept his daily exercise pattern. The bruise on his side no longer bothered him. He began to do sit-ups. The first hundred were easy but after that he'd have to sweat. As he pumped himself up and down, he wondered about the results of last night's work. "Bang," he said through clenched lips as he pushed towards a hundred and thirty. Things were going pretty smoothly, he decided. Three of his four targets were already dead and there was the bonus of the two policemen. s.h.i.t! He should have listened to the news. It was beyond the hundred and fiftieth sit up that he began to feel the strain. He pushed against the tightness in his stomach. One hundred and sixty. At one hundred and seventy he allowed himself to come to rest with his back on the floor. He remembered the two UVF stiffs who had approached him in the `Black Bear'. The older one had a gut that would have done credit to a woman nine months pregnant. You could always tell a Paddy terrorist by the size of his belly.

Case stretched his arm up to his locker and switched on the small clock radio he had bought as soon as he'd moved in with Mrs. Maguire. The radio was set to a local station and the sweet voice of Van Morrison filled the air above his head. He rolled over and started the next part of his work-out. He pushed up on his knuckles the way he'd learned in his unarmed combat cla.s.ses. He would never be able to thank the British government enough for all the time and effort they put into turning him into a killer. The music faded and a jingle led into a news bulletin.

"Two men have been murdered in Belfast during the past twenty-four hours," the newsreader's voice sounded young. "Last night in East Belfast, Leslie Bingham, a building worker was shot on the steps of his house in Meadow Street. Police said that Mr Bingham had no connection with either the security forces or the paramilitaries and suspect that the motive for the murder was solely sectarian."

Case grunted as he pushed himself beyond the thirty press-up mark.

"Early this morning," the newsreader continued, "a car bomb killed a PSNI constable. Detective Sergeant George Whitehouse died when an explosion, thought to have be caused by the Czech made explosive Semtex, ripped through his car. No group has claimed responsibility for the killing but the police say that the use of Semtex points to a splinter Republican group as the possible culprits."

Case heaved himself past the fiftieth press-up and collapsed on the floor.

"A similar explosive device was found under another officer's car in the Malone area of the city and the police have removed the device for a forensic examination."

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!" he said as he lay on the floor, I only got one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, he thought. He pushed himself off the floor and sat cross-legged beside his bed. It was a bad omen. The reason clients employed Joe Case was because they were sure that the job was going to be done properly. He stood up and began to go through a series of bending and stretching exercises designed to improve his suppleness. Somehow the copper had discovered the bomb. His bonus stood at seven thousand five hundred and the second victim had been alerted. Hitting the copper wouldn't be so easy now. He finished his exercises and crossed his bedroom to the off-white sink. He looked at himself in the chipped mirror. Rivulets of sweat ran from the edge of his cropped hair across his brow and down onto his face and neck. His muscles glistened under the sheen of the sweat. He turned on the tap and sloshed cold water onto his face and his torso. Exercising generally made him feel good but this morning there was something nagging at the back of his mind. The nosy taxi-driver and the botched attempt on the copper could be the start of things going wrong. He should never have taken the contracts on the two coppers. It was too rushed.

There was a soft knock on the door. He tensed.

"Are you awake, Joe?" Betty Maguire tried to make her voice sound deep and s.e.xy.

Case opened the door and put his head out to face his landlady. He nearly laughed. The old bag had tarted herself up. She'd managed to get the hair right but her hand hadn't been steady enough to apply the lipstick. The top of her upper lip and chin had been liberally covered with the garish red colour. For a second she reminded him of his mother, the dirty old s.l.u.t. "What can I do for you, Mrs M?" he forced a smile.

"I thought we might spend a little time together," the leer on Betty Maguire's face left no doubt as to what she had in mind.

Oh f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l, he thought, looking into her cow-like face, she's in love. "Not to-day, Mrs M, I'm a bit busy, see." In just two more days, I'll never have to look at her stupid Paddy face again, he thought.

"You seemed happy enough with me before," Betty Maguire put on her petulant pout. She wasn't giving up so easily.

"That was before," he said harshly, "now why don't you p.i.s.s off like a good woman."

Mrs Maguire hunched her shoulders. "Maybe I'll p.i.s.s off and go searchin' for them two boys who came around here this mornin' askin' questions about somebody who could very well be you."

He was instantly alert. Surely he hadn't left any traces. "What two boys were they, Mrs M?"

"Two local boys who are connected, if you know what I mean."

He knew well what Betty Maguire meant. It was the men from the 'Black Bear' looking for a bit of revenge. Maybe he'd gone a bit over the top takin' that guys fingers off. He didn't need the aggro now but that's the way the cards had been dealt.

"They wanted to know whether there were any strangers about," Mrs Maguire continued without prompting. "Sure we had a great chat there on the front step. They're lookin' for a fellah who bears a remarkable resemblance to you. It seems this fellah roughed up four of their men in a fight a few nights ago. They think he's livin' around here and they were canvasin' the whole street."

So the fight at the Black Bear had been his undoing. All he needed was a couple of UVF thugs on his tail. It was too close to the end of the job for this type of complication. His earlier apprehension had been justified. It was easy to explain the taxi-driver's interest now. The taxis were owned and run by the paramilitaries so they obviously formed the front line of the information gathering crew. He'd have to move out of here quickly but where would he go. Everything had been so well planned and all of a sudden the plan was in c.r.a.p.

"You know me Mrs. M. I wouldn't hurt a fly. I hope you didn't shop me." he said innocently.

"You can rest easy, Joe," Betty Maguire pushed in the door of his bedroom, "I told them nothing about you." She walked into the room and looked appreciatively at his bare torso. "The fellah they described seemed a little like you but there's no way I'd hand you over to people like that. Those boys would murder you as quick as they'd look at you."

A smile spread over his face. All wasn't lost. He wouldn't have to move because the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds still didn't know where he was. Maybe, just maybe, he could still get his business done and get out of Belfast in one piece. His only real problem stood directly in front of him. The old bag had become a liability. If he had a future in the killing business, Mrs. Maguire would have to die.

"I think you probably did the right thing, Mrs M," he moved to the battered tallboy and pulled a shirt out of the drawer. "I'm grateful to you."

"You're not putting on your shirt are you?" Betty Maguire put on her best coquette look. "You haven't shown me yet just how grateful you are."

"Not yet," he dropped the shirt back into the drawer and removed his combat knife in the same swift movement. He crossed the gap between himself and Betty Maguire and threw his arms around her. She turned her badly painted mouth up towards his. "You're a darlin' girl, Betty," he said sliding the razor sharp knife through her clothing and past her ribs into her heart. He held her tightly as the smile faded from her painted face. Her body spasmed and then went limp.

He pulled out the knife and let her body slide onto the ground. As a professional, he hated mindless killing but Betty Maguire's big mouth was going to get him killed if he hadn't stilled it. A pool of bright red blood stained the worn carpet at his feet. There was no need to clean up the mess. The body wouldn't be found for days. He pulled the eiderdown off the bed and wrapped it around the still warm body. Then he lifted up the bundle and carried it into the empty room beside his own. Living in the same house as a corpse meant nothing to him. He'd spent two days sitting in a dug-out on in Bosnia with two Serbs whose throats he'd cut from ear to ear. He didn't believe in the afterlife or ghosts. In his book, when you were dead you stayed dead.

He slipped out of his blood-stained boxer shorts and tossed them on the floor close to the spot where Betty Maguire had lain. He carefully cleaned his body with a wet sponge and towelled himself vigorously when he had finished. Even with Betty Maguire dead his days in Belfast were numbered. He smiled to himself. The PSNI and the thugs of the UVF were both out to get him and he was going to outwit the whole b.l.o.o.d.y lot of them. He extended the index finger of his right hand, c.o.c.ked his thumb and pointed at the mirror above the sink. Bam, bam, 'Rambo' Case.