DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 22

CHAPTER 48.

It was all f.u.c.ked up, Wilson thought, as he sat in his cubby hole of an office. He'd bought a half bottle of Jameson on his way back to the office. He needed something to kill the pain and the whiskey had seemed like a good idea. But when he had tried to drink it neat he had almost screamed with the pain. He got himself a coffee and laced it with the whiskey. The combination warmed his throat and chest as he drank from his cracked office cup. His whole life had changed in the past twenty-four hours. Nothing would ever be the same again. He should have known. Somehow he didn't really care whether he remained a policeman or not. He sipped his coffee. His body slumped in his chair. Six months on some sun drenched beach was what he needed. That might just be about enough to put his body back but his soul was damaged irreparably He'd been right. Police work in Northern Ireland just wasn't possible. He'd solved a crime and yet he hadn't solved it. The murder of Gardiner would never be solved. It was a certainty that Gardiner wasn't even his real name. n.o.body would claim the body. There would be an autopsy and he would be cremated. They would take his fingerprints but there would be no matches. Everything would be cleaned up nice and neat. The files would be impeccable. The procedures would be followed to the letter. After all why not. He would be a hero. The murderer had been located and a potential flair up of hostilities between the paramilitaries had been averted. A mult.i.tude of excuses would be prepared: one of the snipers had become nervous and fired off a couple of loose shots, a ricochet had hit the prisoner, etcetera, etcetera. The bottom line was that n.o.body was going to admit that some SAS type sitting in the back seat of a Westland Scout had blown the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head off. That scenario must have been a figment of his overactive imagination. And yet he could still see in his mind's eye the black clad figure raising the rifle. Getting at the truth of the matter was out of the question. When Nichol died, he took whatever he'd known with him to the grave. Since Gardiner or whatever his name was had joined him on the slab, the reasons behind the murders would in all probability never be discovered. Somebody somewhere must be very happy with the result of to-day's job of work because he certainly wasn't.

He poured another shot of whiskey into the coffee and sipped the mixture. The pain in his throat was beginning to fade and the liquid slipped down easily. He looked at the wall opposite where the likeness of the murderer's face still stared back at him. He felt no sorrow for the man. He just wished he'd had the opportunity to try and unlock the secrets that were hidden behind those dark eyes. He looked around the rest of his office: his home for the past ten years.

He heard a noise at the door and looked up. Moira McElvaney stood in the doorway.

"You look terrible, Boss," she forced a smile.

"It goes with the territory. You heard about the fiasco?"

She nodded.

"I really wanted that b.a.s.t.a.r.d alive. Now we'll never know what was behind the killings. He'll be branded a lone wolf. A serial killer with no motive. Another file left hanging."

"We located Patrick McGinn and brought him in. He's in one of the interview rooms."

Wilson had forgotten about McGinn. "Let's go see Mr. McGinn," Wilson stood up slowly and followed Moira out of the office.

The Patrick McGinn that sat at a small wooden table in the interview room was a small balding thirty something who would weigh in at 50 kilos sopping wet. Wilson a.s.sumed that the stunting had been the result of insufficient food in childhood. He introduced both himself and Moira before sitting down.

"Mr. McGinn," he said sitting down. "Can I call you Patrick?"

Moira took the seat beside her boss facing McGinn.

"Why not," McGinn wrung his hands nervously. "Are you the one who had me brought here?"

"I'm sorry if we interfered with your day, Patrick. We brought you here because we felt that there was a threat to your life."

Sweat instantly broke out on McGinn's bald pate.

"We think that threat no longer exists," Wilson added quickly. " Do the names James Patterson, Stanley Peac.o.c.k and Leslie Bingham mean anything to you?"

McGinn's face contorted. "I knew them a long time ago. We were in a children's home together. I haven't seen them in twenty years."

"Are you aware that all three men were murdered this week?"

"No." There was genuine shock on McGinn's face.

"You didn't read about it or hear the news on the radio?" Wilson asked.

"I'm severely dyslexic and I avoid the news. It's all bad anyway."

"Can you think of any reason why someone should want to murder these three men?"

"Not offhand. Like I said I haven't seen them since we were kids."

"Did you also know a Ronald Jamison?"

McGinn swallowed hard and then dropped his head into his hands. "Yes," he said so quietly that it was almost a whisper. "He was at the home as well."

"Ronald Jamison was murdered. You knew that?"

"Yes," again the whispered reply.

"Do you know who killed him?"

McGinn lifted his head slowly. His face was the picture of sadness. "No, but we a.s.sumed it was Nichol or one of his friends. But we were kids what the h.e.l.l did we know."

"You said Nichol or his friends. Who were these 'friends'?"

Tears rolled slowly out of McGinn's eyes. "Robert Nichol was a pederast. All the people you mentioned were abused by Nichol and the men he brought to the home. Some were local but a lot of them had English accents." Tears streamed down his cheeks. "They had s.e.x with us. Sometimes we were forced to give them oral s.e.x other times they b.u.g.g.e.red us."

Wilson looked across at Moira and saw that her eyes were gla.s.sy. "I know this must be extremely painful for you, Mr. McGinn. Do you have any idea of the ident.i.ties of the men Nichol brought to the Home?"

"No. But they were important people. People Nichol wanted to do favours for."

"Why didn't you tell someone?"

"We saw what happened to Ronald Jamison. He was a spikey wee b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Said he was goin' to shop the whole bunch of them. Then he disappeared and wound up dead. I put the whole business out of my mind for the past twenty years. Sometimes I can convince myself that it was all a dream and that it never really happened. But I sometimes wake in the middle of the night and the memories make me sweat even on cold nights."

"We think that Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham were killed because of what happened in Dungray," Wilson said. "The man responsible for their deaths was shot dead earlier to-day. We are convinced that your life was in danger because of something you saw or heard during the abuse you suffered in Dungray. Are you sure you have no idea of why these men were murdered?"

McGinn dried his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "Like I said my coping mechanism was to convince myself that it never happened. Maybe it didn't. But I don't remember anything that could have gotten them boys killed."

Wilson was wondering where he could go next with the interview when Harry Graham stuck his head in the door.

"Boss, important," he said simply.

Wilson rose slowly. "You've been very helpful, Mr. McGinn. DC McElvaney will arrange for a police car to drive you home." He shook hands with McGinn and left the room.

Harry Graham was waiting directly outside the room. His face, already long and angular, appeared to be dropping to his waist.

"What happened, Harry," Wilson said on seeing Harry's depressed demeanour. "Somebody kill your dog?"

" No, Boss," Graham said quietly. "I just don't want to be the one to bring you this news."

"Get it out, Harry, and quick."

'There's been a f.u.c.k-up. After you left Fortingale Road, we had the usual parade of crime scene investigators, the Coroner, a couple of shooting scene investigators. The place was like a three-ringed circus. Anyway, after the coroner finished with the body, two ambulance attendants arrived to take it away. They bagged the corpse and loaded it in an ambulance to take it to the Royal Infirmary. Ten minutes later another ambulance crew arrived to do the same job. I a.s.sumed there'd been a screw up and sent the second crew away. Bottom line is that the first crew never made it to the Royal. The ambulance was stolen and has been found burned out. There was no body inside. The corpse has disappeared."

"You are f.u.c.king joking me, Harry," Wilson shouted. "Tell me that you are f.u.c.king joking me or I promise you that you'll be pounding a beat to-morrow."

"Sorry, Boss. How was I supposed to know? The crew were kosher. Proper uniforms, proper ambulance, the lot. You might have done the same."

Wilson fought to contain his anger. Harry was right. They had been playing with the big boys and they had been gazumped. They'd lost the body and with it their only chance of finding out who exactly the murderer had been. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had killed at least five men and one woman and could have been involved in the 'suicide' of Robert Nichol and they would never know who he had been He put his hand on Graham's shoulder. "It's OK, Harry. Forget what I said. It could have happened to anybody."

He moved off in the direction of his office. He'd always considered Tennent Street to be his womb. Now he felt threatened by it. Those who really pulled the strings could invade his womb. He felt totally exposed for the first time in his life. There was n.o.body to trust. He was alone and he had failed.

The mood in the Squad-room was sombre. His team sat dejected at their desks. Wilson closed the door of his office, removed a bottle of Jameson from his desk and poured himself a very large measure.

Moira opened his door. "Better save it for later," she said. "The Deputy Chief Constable wants you at his office. The Duty Sergeant was afraid to tell you in person. Apparently you're looking for a head to bite off."

Wilson took a sip of the whiskey before putting the gla.s.s on his desk. "Don't go away. I'll be back for you." he said to the gla.s.s. "Well let's not disappoint the DCC." He opened his desk and removed the copy book which he had taken from Patterson's flat.

"What's that?" she asked.

"A little present for the DCC," he said shoving the copybook into his pocket.

CHAPTER 49.

"Ah! Detective Inspector Wilson," Jennings came forward from his desk. As Wilson entered his office. "May I introduce you to Chief Constable Sir Thomas McKannan." Jennings was a model of obsequiousness.

The Chief Constable of the PSNI stood and extended his hand to Wilson. He was tall and grey-haired and dressed in his blue uniform. He exuded 'gravitas'. "Pleased to meet you Detective Chief Inspector."

The handshake was firm. "Likewise," Wilson said.

"Our two friends here are from the Home Office," Jennings said without offering their names. Both of them remained seated and neither made any move to shake hands.

Wilson stared at the man and woman from the 'Home Office'. They looked straight through him. The man was the elder and had an unremarkable rotund face topped off by a bald pate. Strands of wispy grey hair were just visible hanging down the back of his neck. His grey eyes looked out from beyond the thick lenses of horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. He hadn't bothered to remove a well worn Barbour wax jacket. His younger companion was dressed in a dark polo-neck jumper beneath a black leather blouson and black trousers. She was as plain as her dress sense. She returned his stare through bottle-top gla.s.ses. If these two were with the Home Office, Wilson was a monkey's uncle. Wilson knew a spook when he saw one. A smile played on his lips. He was about to be sold a barrel of s.h.i.t.

"Firstly let me say how sorry I am about the death of your colleague DS Whitehouse," the Chief Constable began. "He wasn't the first man to give up his life for the Force and he certainly won't be the last. He will of course be buried with full honours."

"Of course. He was a brave man," Wilson hated himself for uttering such a cliche. He knew it sounded trite but his emotions were so strung out that he could think of nothing else.

"Please sit down," Sir Thomas indicated the chair beside his.

Wilson sat beside the Chief Constable and directly across the desk from Jennings. The spooks were seated to the side. They were there not as the principles but as the chorus to Wilson's Greek tragedy.

"And I understand it congratulations are also in order," Sir Thomas replaced his sombre look by his pleased look.

Score one for Saatchi and Saatchi, Wilson thought. The Chief Constable had handled the change of mood like the true professional he was.

"You apprehended the fellow who's been murdering people in West Belfast." Although McKannan was born and raised in County Antrim, like Jennings he had deduced at an early age that the possession of a British accent was an added advantage. He had therefore cultivated an Oxford accent long before he had been sent to serve in the Metropolitan Police. The accent only served to irritate Wilson.

"Only briefly," Wilson replied staring at the two 'Home Office' officials. The Chief Constable and his Deputy tried to ignore the remark. He didn't care. "I mean I only apprehended the man for a short period." Like five seconds, he thought.

Sir Thomas looked at Jennings.

"I've been looking back on your file, Ian," Jennings began flicking through a blue folder on the desk before him.

Wilson did not miss the significance of the use of his Christian name.

"Do you recognise this doc.u.ment?" he pushed a typed sheet across the desk towards Wilson.

"It is a copy of the Official Secrets Act."

"Signed by whom?"

"By me." Even his signature on the doc.u.ment looked younger and stronger than its current variant.

"You do, of course, understand the consequences for yourself were you to contravene any of the sections of the Act."

"I think that I do."

"Good," Jennings continued preening himself. He was the star turn on the stage. "Then I have to inform you that everything a.s.sociated with the events of this afternoon are covered by the Official Secrets Act. The murders of Patterson, Peac.o.c.k and Bingham are closed."

"And DS Whitehouse's murder?"

Jennings and the Chief Constable shifted uneasily in their chairs. The two officials from the 'Home Office' didn't bat an eyelid. Dead Plods in Northern Ireland were a dime a dozen.

"I think that in the fullness of time the man shot in Fortingale Street this evening will be proved to be DS Whitehouse's murderer," Jennings said grasping the nettle. His initiative would certainly not be forgotten by his superior who was already casting a benign smile in his direction.

"So it's all neat and tidy," Wilson said looking at his superior officers. "Five men and one woman murdered and the murderer apprehended and then disappeared. No nasty questions to answer. No court case. The lone a.s.sa.s.sin theory vindicated. A thoroughly satisfying conclusion. The widow Whitehouse will be pleased."

For the first time since he entered the room Wilson noticed the older 'Home Office' man flinch. He'd touched a raw nerve. His remark wasn't in the script and he was deviating from the part of the hapless copper which had been so carefully constructed for him. He hadn't landed the collar. So he could be blamed if the s.h.i.t began to fly.

"I think I've put the whole thing together," Wilson said removing Patterson's copybook from his pocket. He noticed that he had the undivided attention of every man in the room. "I suppose I should have seen it much sooner it was so b.l.o.o.d.y obvious. But sometimes you can miss something that's staring you in the face." He tossed the copybook across the table towards Jennings. "I should have guessed what was on when I found that copybook at Patterson's."

Jennings held the battered copybook by the edges of his fingers. He prised open the first page and looked at the sketches. Wilson watched as the DCC's face turned into a scowl. Jennings held the copybook in a position where the two 'Home Office' officials could see it clearly.

"If I'd been awake when I saw that book for the first time," Wilson said. "I might have saved poor old George's life. That was the key. That's what it was all about. Dungray, Nichol the pederast, the boys that someone wanted dead. An ancient screwed-up intelligence operation. A s.e.x ring to trap a person or persons unknown. Except that that person or persons no longer has all their screws in place and wanted the p.a.w.ns in the operation removed." He looked at the faces of the two from the 'Home Office'. "I suppose that we'll never get to the bottom of why six people had to die?"

The question hung in the air unanswered.

Jennings pulled himself up to his full height. "Neither I nor the Chief Constable appreciate your tone. The murders have been solved. The responsible is dead and the matter has been closed."

"I'm afraid we've seriously underestimated you, Detective Chief Inspector," the older 'Home Office' man spoke. The accent was...o...b..idge overlaid with a military clipping of the words. "This is as far as you go. You've done a commendable job in tracking the killer down and I'm sure we're all very grateful to you. You've also managed to avoid a resumption of hostilities. All in all, a job well done."

"It's nice to be appreciated," Wilson said angrily. "All's well that ends well."

The senior spook removed a paper from the inside pocket of his barbour jacket and pushed it across the desk towards Wilson. "Do you know what that is?"

Wilson ignored the sheet of white folded paper.

"It is a Public Interest Immunity Certificate. It has been signed at the highest possible level. It means the case is closed, Inspector. Permanently. The murderer has been found by the ever-attentive police. I understand that a search of what was left of his lodgings has turned up nothing. He had no possessions with which to identify him. His body has been stolen and will in all probability never be found. He's a dead end. The trail stops there. I can of course understand your sense of frustration but I would caution you to accept the situation as you find it. Any other course of action on your part could have serious repercussions for your career."