DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 20

"What are you doing here?" he turned to look at her. He felt his humour brighten as soon as he heard her voice.

"You mean people will talk," she tried to close the door behind her but the files covering the floor prevented her. She kicked the coloured cardboard containers blocking the door into the Squad Room and pulled the door shut. "There, we can talk in what pa.s.ses in this place for complete privacy. And I don't give a d.a.m.n about what people might say."

"Good for you," he said smiling at her. He looked beyond her and saw Moira staring into his room. There was a smile on her pretty face. "That's the b.a.s.t.a.r.d I'm looking for." He nodded at the sketch pinned to the wall.

Kate looked at the likeness of Case. "He's quite unremarkable really. A bully probably but not the kind of person you'd expect to be a murderer."

"Just some mother's little boy trying to make his way in the world," Wilson said sarcastically "Do you think you'll get him?"

"Oh, we'll get him alright. The question is will we be able to hold him."

"What do you mean by that?"

He explained about `Gardiner' flashing an MI ident.i.ty card the previous evening and about the possible motive for the murders provided by Carlile.

"I don't like it Ian. You're mixing with people who wouldn't hesitate to get rid of you. And I don't mean just out of Tennent Street."

"This is political. I can feel it in my bones. The question is whether I'll be allowed to continue with the investigation." He stared at the sketch on the wall. "The killer might already be out of Belfast. I might already have missed the boat on this one."

"Maybe it would be better for you if he was already gone. But that wouldn't really satisfy you. Would it?"

"I want him so badly it's an ache in my stomach. He's killed five people on my patch and n.o.body does that. I want him and I want to know why those five had to die."

"Now I'm really worried, Ian. You've got to be prepared to let this go. Have you faced up to the possibility that you won't be able to solve this one?"

"If I don't get him it won't be the first one to get away. But blowing up George and trying to kill me have made it personal. Maybe they, whoever they are, shouldn't have done that."

"I've still got some friends in London and the Head of Chambers there has some pretty important connections. Maybe I can find out something that'll help."

"It's a long shot but give it a try. I'm in the firing line but that's what they pay me for. I don't want you exposing yourself so whatever enquiries you make, be ultra discrete."

She smiled. "Your concern is touching. Maybe you do care a little."

He stood and moved close to her. "I care a whole b.l.o.o.d.y lot. Now that I've found you I don't want to lose you." He bent and kissed her aware of the eyes on them from the Squad Room. "One way or another this will be over soon and we can start building a life together."

She returned his kiss. "I can't wait."

"Now off with you," he said opening the door of his office. "I have a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to catch. I'll call later."

He watched her disappear through the doorway. She was one h.e.l.l of a woman and he didn't really deserve her. He was buried in s.h.i.t and she was the only person in the world that he truly trusted. Everybody needed someone like Kate in their lives. This time he was going to hold on to her. His eyes scanned his tiny office. Not much to show for twenty years service. If they'd told him the first day he'd joined the Force that this was the way he was going to end up, he might have had second thoughts. But that was long ago and far away. He'd had his chances to ingratiate himself with the bra.s.s and he hadn't taken them. His character wouldn't allow him to do it. He was going to stay a Detective Chief Inspector until the day he retired. Unless they decided to break him. He'd seen enough frame-ups in his life to know that if they really wanted him in uniform again that could be easily arranged. He was beginning to feel that his relationship with his current employer was terminal. The only question remaining was which particular straw would break either his or the Force's back.

CHAPTER 44.

Case looked out of his bedroom window into the deserted rain soaked street below. His internal alarm bell had been ringing quietly away for some hours but he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on the source of the danger. Maybe topping the Maguire woman had set it off. But he doubted it. He pulled aside the dirty net curtain for the umpteenth time and looked down the road. Nothing. The filthy weather was even keeping the housewives away from their shopping and the unemployed men off the street. He turned from the window and moved to the hiding place he had made under the floorboards. The threadbare carpet which had earlier covered the floor was rolled up and stood in the corner of the room. A small amount of Betty Maguire's blood had soaked through the thin threads of the carpet and onto the wooden boards below. The dead woman in the next room was just one more reason for getting out of this G.o.d forsaken kip as soon as possible. By this time tomorrow, it would all be over and he'd be back in London collecting all that lovely lolly. The escape plan he'd prepared was simplicity itself. He would steal a car in Belfast and drive it South over any of the unapproved roads in South Armagh that he knew like the back of his hand. Then he'd dump the car in Dublin and hop the next ferry for Hollyhead. Then the train to London to collect his money. He could see the mounds of bank notes in his mind's eye. It was a pity about the hit on the second copper but maybe the scare that had been thrown into him had been what was required. He wondered whether he should try to charge for the attempt but decided it wouldn't be professional. In his business you only got paid if you succeeded.

Case bent down, loosened the floorboards and lifted the steel suitcase. He laid it on the bed and carefully composed the code numbers for the locks. The lid sprang open when he applied pressure to the clasps. One single dossier lay on top of his equipment. He had carefully burned the dossiers he'd received on Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham as well as the information on the two coppers. His Military Intelligence ID had also gone up in smoke. It had a 'once only' use value. The copper he'd flashed it at would put two and two together sooner or later. Case looked at the Browning and the Uzi lying side by side in the specially fashioned case. By to-morrow morning, the suitcase and its contents would be lying in the mud at the bottom of the Lagan River. It was a pity that he had to ditch the weapons and the Semtex but these things were easily replaceable and the consequences of getting caught with them didn't justify the risk. He lifted out the final dossier, lay back on the bed and started reading.

Patrick McGinn was another `mister n.o.body' just like all the others. Case re-read the two typed pages which described the life of his next victim. He looked at the photograph pinned to the first page. It showed a thirty year old with lank fair hair, a round face and a weak chin. To-morrow McGinn would be dead and Case's contract would be completed. He took the street map of Belfast from the locker beside his bed. He'd already sussed out McGinn's house in Jellicoe Drive in the Skegioniell area of East Belfast. He traced his finger along the map on the route he had marked out between Fortingale Street and his destination.

The internal alarm bell was still buzzing away. Case dropped the type-written pages on the bed and crossed to the window. The street was still deserted and the rain beat against the mural of the hooded UVF man holding his Kalashnikov aloft. Case looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. He'd hit the streets at about eight and he'd be on his way to the Irish Republic by ten. The job was almost over. One more hit and he was home and dry.

CHAPTER 45.

Simpson turned his car off the Shankill and along the Woodvale Road pa.s.sing Woodvale Park on his left. Rice's house lay half a mile up the road. There had been something about Rice's voice on the phone. An excitement that Rice had been unable to conceal. Something had broken. But what? He thought back to the meeting with his British handler. If Rice and the boys ever found out that he was touting for the Brits then his life wouldn't be worth a spent match. And leaving it wouldn't be pleasant either. The UVF had its fair share of psychopaths who'd like nothing better than to make a tout's last few hours on earth the most painful of his life. He felt a pang of fear grip at his stomach. Everybody in Northern Ireland was aware of their own mortality but those who strode both sides of the fence were acutely aware that the next moment might be their last. All it needed was one tiny mistake. A careless remark. An otherwise innocent sighting somewhere he shouldn't be. He was caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. And it was all about two measly hundred pounds a month. He must have been mad to have been sucked in by the Brits. They had him by the b.a.l.l.s and they were going to squeeze until his eyes watered. He pulled the car in to the curb outside Rice's house and switched off the engine. Two men lounging across the street suddenly came to life. He quickly got out of the car and turned to face them. One of the men obviously recognised him because he tapped the other on the shoulder and they resumed their positions.

The door was opened almost as soon as Simpson rang the bell. Rice stood in the hall-way holding a spring loaded inner steel door ajar. A smile stretching nearly from ear to ear. Above the smile Simpson could see that Rice's eyes were as dark and as dead as always. "Come in, Richie," he opened the door fully to admit Simpson. "I appreciate you comin' over so quickly."

"The tone in your voice didn't leave me much option." Simpson stepped inside and the steel door clanged shut behind him. He wondered whether the villa in the Canaries was secured in the same manner as the house in the Woodvale Road. He doubted it.

Rice led the way into a small but comfortably furnished living room. A large flat screen TV in the corner of the room displayed a snooker match. "I didn't get a chance to see the last few frames last night," he said nodding at the TV set by way of explanation.

"So," Simpson said sitting in the chair which Rice indicated. "It seemed urgent."

"You'll be wantin' a drink?" Rice asked.

"A Black Bush would go down alright, I suppose." Simpson didn't appreciate the cat and mouse game but there wasn't much he could do about it.

Rice watched the snooker on the television as he moved to a small bar and poured two large whiskeys.

Rice handed Simpson his drink. "Slainte," he said raising his gla.s.s.

Both men drank deeply before Rice re-took his seat. The television still seemed to be his main pre-occupation. "I think we might be able to help you out after all," he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Does that mean you have a line on the f.u.c.ker?" Simpson couldn't believe his ears. Carlile had the luck of the devil. They'd be able to hand the killer over to Wilson and the business with Nichol would be forgotten. But was Rice going to hand him the real killer or was he setting up a patsy.

Rice turned to him, the smile on his face widened and he nodded.

The look on Rice's face was unmistakable. He knew where the murderer was. "Well where the h.e.l.l is he?" Simpson didn't try to hide the excitement in his voice.

"All in good time, Richie, all in good time. We've got the b.a.s.t.a.r.d covered. Anytime we want him we can pick the b.u.g.g.e.r up."

"Who is he?" Simpson was sitting on the edge of the armchair.

"How am I supposed to know? We haven't picked him up yet. We've only found him for you."

"How do you know he's our man?" Simpson asked.

"Do you want a written guarantee? He's your man. Take my word for it."

Simpson finished his whiskey. "Mind if I help myself," he said moving to the bar before Rice could reply.

"Be my guest," Rice watched him as he went to the bar and poured himself a large measure of Black Bush. He noticed that Richie's nerves were on edge. He looked like a man with a sea of troubles on his mind. Sammy Rice didn't like nervous people.

"So do we horse trade," Rice said when Simpson was in his seat again.

"That's what I'm here for," Simpson sucked greedily on his whiskey. The liquid was gradually removing the fear in his stomach.

"Me and the boys own a couple of buildin' firms. We've put in a tender for some local authority housin'. It wouldn't do us any harm I suppose if Billy put in a good word on our behalf."

"I suppose it wouldn't at that," Simpson said.

"Can I take it then that we're organised?"

"This kind of thing is tricky," Simpson couldn't believe how greedy the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were. Rice and his pals had certainly learned everything the Mafia had to teach. He wondered how much Rice and the other UVF leaders were about to rip off. The man had b.a.l.l.s there was no doubting that. He was asking for a licence to print money at the expense of the British Government. "Billy would be taking a h.e.l.l of a risk getting behind something like that. Surely there's something else he could do for you?"

"I thought you people wanted this f.u.c.ker badly," there was a flash of anger in Rice's eyes. "Don't f.u.c.k about with me. I've got the b.a.s.t.a.r.d on tap and I can keep him that way. Or I can let him get on with reducin' the population of West Belfast and blowing up policemen."

"He was the one who planted the bombs?" Simpson said incredulously.

"Who the h.e.l.l did you think did it? Santa Claus. One of our taxi driver's dropped the b.a.s.t.a.r.d close to Wilson's place in Malone last night." Rice stared into Simpson's eyes. "Either you have the authority to negotiate or you p.i.s.s-off."

"I've got Billy's authority to make a deal."

"Then do we have a deal on the housing tender or not?"

"OK. We'll support you on the housing tender." What the h.e.l.l, Simpson thought, it was no skin off their noses. Some of the councillors would rant and rave for a while but it would eventually become yesterday's news and the only people who would suffer would be the inhabitants of the jerry-built houses and the British tax-payer.

"That's my boy," the twinkle was back in Rice's eyes. He took the gla.s.s from Simpson's hand and refilled it with whiskey. "You know better than to renege on me." He handed Simpson the gla.s.s of whiskey. "Don't you, Richie?"

Simpson took the gla.s.s and swallowed some of the contents. "We'll keep our side of the bargain," he said.

"Good. You'll find your boy here." He handed Simpson a slip of paper with Case's address in Fortingale Street. "The old doll who owns the house is called Maguire."

Simpson stared at the slip of white paper. He could hear his handler's words ringing in his ears. The Brits wanted this guy as badly as Billy and the police did. What the h.e.l.l was goin' on? Who the h.e.l.l is this guy?

"That's right, Richie. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d has been living right in the centre of my territory. He must have b.a.l.l.s as big as an elephant's. He's living within a mile of where we're sittin' right now."

"You're sure he's still there?" Simpson's voice was anxious.

"n.o.body's stirred in that street since we've started watchin' the house. He's in there and we've got him."

Simpson's brain was racing. Both his masters needed to know the whereabouts and neither of them would appreciate the other knowing first. If he informed the Brits first they'd instruct him to keep his mouth shut until they did whatever they had in mind to the bloke. That scenario might drop Billy in even more s.h.i.t with the police. He quickly made up his mind what had to be done.

"Mind if I make a call?" he asked.

"I was wonderin' when you were goin' to ask me that," Rice sipped his Black Bush. "Be my guest."

Simpson went to the hall, took out his mobile phone and dialled the headquarters of the UDF. He explained to Carlile the content of his conversation with Rice and gave him the address where the murderer could be found.

"You've done very well, Richie," Carlile said. "When this affair is out of the way we'll have to re-appraise your position within the organisation."

Where had Simpson heard that one before. "What about Wilson?" he asked.

The smooth burr came over the line. "You can leave Wilson to me. Well done, Richie."

The line went dead in Simpson's hand. He dropped the mobile into his pocket and returned to the sitting-room.

"Your boss happy then, is he?" Rice smiled wickedly. "Don't worry, Richie, when we take over this Province, the likes of Carlile will only be a memory and we'll find a place for you. Good men with a set of b.a.l.l.s are always in demand."

Simpson said nothing.

"You don't like to think of us in charge here, do you?" Rice continued warming to his theme. "n.o.body likes to think of the men with the guns headin' up the government." Rice walked to the bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey. "But look around you. Yesterday's terrorist is today's world leader. Look at your man Mandela. Ulster belongs to us. Not to the Taigs and not to the big farmers in the Unionist Party." Rice spat onto the ground. "We'll wipe them b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out before we start on the Taigs. f.u.c.king parasites. We know who we can count on. Don't we, Richie. After we take over, we can afford to turn ourselves into politicians. We'll be just like the blacks in Africa: bombers and terrorists one day, politicians the next. Mark my words, Richie, Carlile, the UDF, the Unionist Party and the Nationalists won't count for dog s.h.i.t. If you ever want to throw your lot in with us, just give me a call. I mean it."

Simpson finished his whiskey and stood up. He looked at the smiling man who stood before him. If this was the future leader of Ulster, he wanted no part of it. Simpson smiled at the chief of the UVF thinking that he had to get out of there to make a second phone call. It was time to place the call to his MI5 handler. They were going to go apes.h.i.t when they heard that Billy already knew. But that was another day's work. The big trick was staying alive and that was something that you did one day at a time. "Thanks for the drink," he said handing Rice the empty gla.s.s. "I'll remember what you said."

CHAPTER 46.

Wilson put down the phone, took a deep breath and leaned back in his battered swivel chair. Something primeval in him made him want to scream in triumph. He had the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Carlile had come good and now, like hundreds of other citizens of Belfast, he owed him one. He never thought that someone like Carlile would drop a present into his lap. Why hadn't Carlile used the well tried route of the DCC? It didn't really matter. He sprang out of his chair with a burst of energy which he hadn't felt in years. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been living right in the centre of the Shankill all along. This one would need special care. Anyone capable of planning and executing a series of murders from the centre of the Protestant enclave was someone to be treated with extreme caution.

"Harry," Wilson screamed at the top of his voice.

"Yes, boss," Detective Constable Harry Graham stuck his head around the edge of the door. The rest of the Murder Squad looked up from their work. It was obvious to all that Wilson had hit high gear.

"We've got him, Harry," Wilson said, his voice betraying no emotion. "He's holed up in a Mrs. Maguire's house in Fortingale Street."

"Jesus Christ! How did you find him?" Graham said incredulously.

"An informant," Wilson said without feeling the need to give any further explanation. He pulled a street map of Belfast from his desk drawer. "I want half a dozen well armed detectives down there straight away. Without causing any alarm, they're to try and get the neighbours out. I don't want anyone near our man. If it's anyway possible I want the evacuation to be done discretely. One family at a time. Get on to operations. I want road blocks across the bottom of the Agnes Street, Conlig Street, The Old Lodge and Bristol Street. That place is to be sealed off tighter than a duck's a.r.s.e. I want n.o.body going in and n.o.body going out without me knowing about it."

Graham was busy writing the instruction on a pad. "What about the Army, boss?"

"There's no need to call them in for one man. Anyway our boy isn't a terrorist, he's just a common murderer. Everyone's to be issued with a bullet-proof vest. Get on your bike, Harry. Get the rest of the squad to help you because I want everything in place within a half hour. Keep Moira out of the firing line. I don't want her killed on her first case."

"No problem, boss," Graham consulted his notebook. "What about upstairs?"