by Derek Fee
Wilson looked up into McElvaney's face. This was one weird situation. It took some level of authorisation to pull individual files so there was no doubting that Robert Nichol was an important man is some person's eyes.
"That's not all," she said without trying to hide her excitement. "I cross-checked Nichol against all the other PSNI files and this is what I came up with." She tossed the computer print-out onto Wilson's desk.
Wilson looked at the faded typescript on the lined computer sheets and a blinding pain shot through a point directly between his eyes. "Tell me," he said pushing the sheets back towards her.
"This is a computer résumé of a murder case in which Nichol was interviewed," she said. "It was the only reference to Nichol in all the old RUC files. It appears that a young man's dismembered body was found in North Belfast and that there was some reason at the time to believe that Robert Nichol was involved in the murder."
"Right," Wilson said draining the coffee. "Has the original case file been digitised yet?” He was beginning to wake up.
“If it has there’s no record of it on the computer.”
“What about the original file? Is it still in the archive?”
"I've already looked," she said smugly. "The case file's gone missing."
Wilson sat upright in his chair. "What do you mean `the case file's gone missing'? Files don’t just go ‘missing’. Somebody must have taken it out."
"So you would think," she replied. "There's a gap where the file should be and the filing clerk doesn't know where the file is to be found. The take-out sheet is also missing so we have no idea who was the last person to view the file. "
"Now that is strange," Wilson said trying to clear his head. Maybe she had hit on something here. He was so desperate for a break that he was willing to clutch at any straw. "Here," he pushed the coffee cup across the desk towards her. "You go and get me another cup of that muck. I need to have both the brain cells that haven’t been destroyed by Jameson in action to-day." He reached across the desk for the pages of computer printout and read slowly through the lines of faint print wondering if the PSNI would ever find the money to buy decent printing equipment. Robert Nichol had been one of a series of suspects in a bizarre and macabre murder of a fifteen year old youth whose dismembered body had been found at three different locations in North Belfast. It felt strange to read the details of a murder case which didn't have a sectarian motive. The computer file gave only the basic details but there was no doubt that unlike ninety nine per cent of the province's murders this one had been motivated by something other than politics. Even from the scant information on the sheets, it was clear that the investigating officers were of the opinion that they were dealing with a homosexual crime. The post mortem had revealed that the youth had had anal sex shortly before his death. The case had remained unsolved. He reached the end of the short report. The names of the investigating officers were appended to the bottom of the final page. One of them had been a Detective Constable George Whitehouse.
Moira entered the office just as Wilson finished reading the computer file. She laid the mug of steaming black coffee beside her boss and stood back. "Well, what do you think?"
"Are you absolutely sure about the file in the archives?" Wilson asked. "It hasn't just been mislaid."
"I don't think so," she replied. "The clerk wasn't too co-operative but I could see that he thought it had been lifted."
"Maybe someone took it out for consultation," Wilson sipped the coffee and burned the tip of his tongue.
"That’s probably why the take-out sheet is missing."
"What have we got?" Wilson said. "The two men the murderer definitely wanted out of the way have only one connection that we can locate. They were both residents of an orphan's home in the early nineties. The file on a murder which involved the director of the home is missing and his intelligence file can't be accessed. The murder link obviously fizzled out otherwise he'd have been charged."
"There's one other piece of information you should know," she said.
Wilson looked up from his desk.
"I ran a check on the dead youth," she paused for effect. "He was in Dungray at the same time as Patterson and Peacock."
"Now that's a coincidence," Wilson said and pushed his chair back until it came to rest against the partition. Perhaps she had struck something alright but where would it get them. Three dead men had all been residents in a Belfast orphan's home. One had been murdered in gruesome fashion twenty years previously while the other two had been killed by a professional in the past week. Then there was the business of the missing file. He needed to know more. He pulled open his desk drawer and took out the school copybook he had removed from Patterson's bedsit. He flipped open the front pages and stared at the crude drawings. A homosexual murder and drawings of homosexual acts. Was there a connection? Would that connection lead him to the killer of Patterson and Peacock or would it send him on a wild goose chase? He looked through the glass partition which separated him from the squad room and his gaze fell on the burly figure of Detective Sergeant Whitehouse sitting at his desk. Wilson motioned for him to join them in his office. There was going to be no opportunity to slip off home for a sleep today.
Whitehouse was standing at the doorway by the time Wilson put down the coffee cup.
"Any orders, boss," Whitehouse studiously ignored Moira.
"Yes," Wilson said. "Moira here may have found a slim connection between Patterson and Peacock." Wilson noticed that Whitehouse winced at his use of McElvaney's first name. A good Prod didn’t address the enemy by their Christian names. "Both of them were residents of an orphans home called Dungray in the early nineties."
"That's some sodding slim connection all right" Whitehouse said keeping his gaze fixed on Wilson.
"Agreed," Wilson said. He noticed the tick in Whitehouse’s eye when he had mentioned Dungray. "Do you remember anything about Dungray yourself George?"
"Never heard of the place," Whitehouse replied.
"That's strange," Wilson said. "An ex-resident of that home managed to get himself killed more than twenty years ago." Wilson had forgotten the dead youth's name. He picked up the computer sheets from the desk and scanned the file. "A young kid named Ronald Jamison was found in various bits in rubbish bags around North Belfast."
"So," Whitehouse said.
"So," Wilson repeated. "Maybe its nothing but then again maybe there's some kind of connection. That's what we're going to find out. You worked on the Jamison case."
"I don't rightly remember," Whitehouse said. "Twenty years is a long time. I was a young wet-behind –the-ears detective constable. They might have included me in the investigation but I really can’t remember."
"It's in this small memo," Wilson held up the sheets of computer printout. "Moira cross-checked the files for mentions of Robert Nichol and ran across this one." He stopped. Whitehouse had definitely winced when Nichol's name was mentioned. Don’t ever be a poker player, Wilson thought. George’s face was an open book. Something was badly wrong here. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find the full file on this case?" Wilson asked.
Whitehouse shuffled his feet. "Nobody tried the archives, I suppose."
"It appears the file hasn’t been digitised and there's an empty space in the archives where the file used to be," Wilson said. "Come on, George. You’ve got a good memory when you want to. You worked on the case. What do you know about Robert Nichol?" Wilson was watching for the involuntary reaction. He got it. Another wince and a bead of sweat exiting from the hairline. There was something to hide and George was in the know. Wilson could smell the work of the Lodge brothers above the stench of booze in the office.
"For God’s sake. That was an age ago. In that time we’ve had fires and floods and God only knows how many changes of personnel. The case files was probably taken out and lost. Every time they renovate this dump half the paper goes missing." Whitehouse shuffled his feet and the sweat was now exiting from his hairline in globu
les. "I've handled dozens of cases in the meantime. How the hell can you expect me to remember the details of any one particular case?"
"Maybe this'll refresh your memory," Wilson handed Whitehouse the computer output. "Read it."
Whitehouse read slowly through the sheets his lips moving as he verbalised the words. When he had finished he handed the pages back to Wilson.
"Well," Wilson said. "Anything coming back?"
"Bits," Whitehouse said. "As far as I can remember we interviewed most of the people who knew Jamison but we didn't really get anywhere. The kid had been fucked up the ass sometime on the night he died.” He looked at Moira expecting to see her wince at his use of crude language but she just stared at him. “We never found out were he'd spent the evening or who he'd been with. We were swamped with murder cases at the time so when it didn't break quickly we were forced to let it go."
"But you did interview Nichol?" Wilson asked.
"Only for background," Whitehouse added quickly. "He wasn't really a suspect. The kid was an orphan. He'd spent time in a home run by a religious group that Nichol was involved with. Big sodding deal. We found that he’d gone on the game as a rent boy selling his ass to anyone with twenty quid in his pocket. The theory at the time was that he had picked up some john, they’d screwed and then something went pear shaped and the john ended up killing him. We trawled the homo scene but nothing turned up. It was before DNA and there was a whole load of other shit going down so we were forced to let it go."
“That’s a good boy, George,” Wilson smiled. “See how much you can remember when you put your mind to it. And the interview notes?”
“In the case file,” Whitehouse said avoiding eye contact with his superior.
Wilson was remembering the scenario he had developed during the visit to Patterson’s bed-sit. It bore a remarkable resemblance to Jamison. “Did you check out the orphans’ home?”
“Now you’re pushing me, boss,” Whitehouse said. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. “If only I had them notes to refer to. Like I said it was a hell of a long time ago.”
"And the only set of interview notes were in the missing file," Wilson said.
Whitehouse nodded.
"And the orphan's home would be Dungray I suppose."
"I don't remember," Whitehouse said.
"Was there anything more to this guy Nichol than being the warden of an orphan's home?"
"Like what?" Whitehouse said belligerently.
"Like, are you bloody thick," Wilson shouted. His head was pounding. Getting the information out of George was worse than pulling teeth. "Like, was he involved with any grouping? Like, was he political? Like, is there something I should know about this man?"
Whitehouse stood silently for a moment. He looked into Wilson's face and knew that he wasn't getting away without an answer. "At the time," he said forcing the words out. "Nichol was a front man for one of the Protestant organisations, I don't remember the name of it. They weren't exactly paramilitaries."
"They weren't exactly boy scouts either as I remember it," Wilson said.
Moira stood watching her two superiors. She was impressed by Wilson’s tenacity.
"Maybe we'll have a little talk with Nichol," Wilson said tilting back in his chair. "Revive some old memories. Maybe he remembers Patterson and Peacock. Maybe he knows why somebody wanted them dead. Then I want to find out why his computer file is restricted and when and how the Jamison file went missing."
"I need to get back to work," Whitehouse said. "Things have been piling up on me over the past week."
"I thought that you might like to join me when I interview Nichol?" Wilson said.
"What the hell do you want to interview that old bastard for?" Whitehouse said. "He's probably dead anyway and I bet that if he is alive he knows bugger-all about either Patterson or Peacock."
"Find out whether Nichol is still in the land of the living," Wilson said to Moira. "And find out where he might be located." He looked towards the doorway and saw that Whitehouse was listening attentively. "I thought you were in a hurry back to your work, George."
CHAPTER 25
Whitehouse looked around the deserted street before he opened the door and stepped into the public phone box. His nose immediately detected the ammoniacal smell of stale urine. The floor of the box was littered with wet pages torn from the telephone book which hung from a chain attached to the side of the cabin. The inside panels of the telephone box were covered with Loyalist graffiti and explicit sexual advice. One crude cartoon depicted a nun fellating a character wearing a tall mitre. He kicked the paper littering the bottom of the cabin into a corner and picked up the phone. He should have made the call from the Station but you never knew who might be listening. All the boys in the squad were true blue except for McElvaney but it was Wilson who posed the main problem. Even after ten years, he still wasn't sure what made the bastard tick. His chief was an obstinate swine who would never bow to intimidation. He could never understand how a man who had been given every opportunity to become one of the boys always managed to misunderstand the invitation. Wilson certainly didn't belong to that group of PSNI officers who saw themselves as being the true protectors of Protestant Ulster. Well that was his tough sodding luck. DCI Ian Wilson wasn't going any further in the Force. Not only that but the day was fast approaching when the powers that be would have to do something about him. He composed the number and waited while the phone rang out.
"Yes."
Whitehouse immediately recognised Simpson's voice on the other end of the line. "You know who it is?" he said. Although he'd found no evidence to prove it he was certain that Simpson's phone was being monitored by either the Special Branch or Military Intelligence. In any case he wanted to keep his relationship with Simpson strictly their business.
"Go ahead, " Simpson's tone was as smooth as velvet.
"You told me to inform you if anything happened down here."
"I'm listening," there was a note of interest in Simpson's tone.
"It appears that our new Catholic constable has found a link between the two dead men," Whitehouse began. "Both the bastards spent time in Dungray during the early nineties."
"Why should that bother us?"
"They've latched on to Nichol. The sodding Taig dug up a fragment of a computer file on the Jamison business."
"I thought all traces of that affair had been erased." A profound feeling of unease swept through Simpson. That old pederast bastard Nichol had almost ruined them once before and the affair was going to come back to haunt them.
"Don't worry," Whitehouse interrupted Simpson's thoughts. "We destroyed the Jamison file years ago. There isn't one single scrap of paper left. But that doesn't mean that some bollocks didn't leave a short sodding description of the case on the computer by accident. I've read the file. It says bugger all. Nichol has nothing to do with the murder of either Patterson or Peacock and as soon as Wilson and his tame Taig find that out they'll piss off and leave him alone."
Simpson's mind was working at a mile a minute and all he could foresee was a disastrous event. Opening up the Nichol can of worms would inevitably lead back to his political masters who had worked so diligently to bury the affair. If that happened there would be hell to pay. Wilson was the key to the whole bloody thing and he was about the only person that they couldn't get to.
"Is there any way to get Wilson off the track?" Simpson asked hopefully.
"Wise up," Whitehouse laughed into the black mouthpiece. "You know Wilson as well as I do. If you try to throw him a shimmy, you'll only make him twice as anxious to get to the bottom of what happened to Jamison. Let him talk to the old fucker. Tell Nichol to keep his big trap shut and you're in the clear. The connection is slim so next week the sodding Taig'll be off on another lead."
"Holy Shit!" Simpson could feel a wave of panic pass through him. "This was your fucking baby, you stupid bollocks. You were supposed to bury that deeper than the holds of hell. The last thing in the world
we needed right now was for that old chestnut to reappear.” If Whitehouse had been in front of him he would have hit him. “Let me think for a second." The wheels inside his brain were moving so quickly that he couldn’t concentrate properly. The possibility of the police opening up something so potentially damaging to his boss and their party had thrown him into a blind panic. "I want to know exactly what's goin' down and when. If he's goin' to interview Nichol I want to know the when and the where."
Whitehouse could hear the fear in Simpson's voice and it threw him. Simpson didn't scare easily. "Don't worry I'll keep on top of it," he said.
"You bloody better," Simpson said. "You've fucked up enough already by not covering up the traces. Don't balls this one up."
The line clicked and Whitehouse was left listening to outer space. He slammed the receiver back on to its cradle and kicked the ball of wet paper on the floor of the cabin. It was all that bloody woman’s fault. If she hadn't been nosing around on the computer, the Nichol business would never have come to light. As soon as they could get Wilson out of the way, she was going to find herself back on the beat whatever the new policy on Catholics was. George Whitehouse was going to take care of that personally.
He stood in the phone box for several moments weighing up the situation. Simpson's reaction had surprised him. Maybe there was more to this than met the eye. Perhaps he should take advice from elsewhere. The Master of the Lodge should know about the latest developments. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of PSNI Headquarters in Castlereagh. "I'd like to speak to DCC Jennings," he said as soon as the operator came on the line.
Simpson walked to the sideboard in his living room and took out a bottle of Bushmills whiskey. He poured himself a large shot and then slumped into an armchair. Yesterday his main purpose in life was to keep a lid on Protestant retaliation for three murders. A full-scale return to violence might cause the Brits to cut the Province loose. The great British public would probably clap until their hands fell off if that came about. The threat from Nichol was much greater. Nichol could undermine the Ulster Democratic Front. He took a long slug of the amber liquid. There was a big difference between keeping the lid on sectarian retaliation and having the Nichol affair blow up in their faces. He drained the glass. He'd never understood why they hadn't let Nichol take the fall for the Jamison business. There would have been political fall-out. But they would have managed to survive it. The situation was quite different now. If it ever came out that a major Protestant political grouping had suppressed evidence and instigated a cover-up of a murder just to protect their political reputations, the Party would be finished and they might all go to jail. He didn't need to be a rocket scientist to realise that this thing was too big for him. It was going to require major muscle to keep the lid on whatever Wilson managed to come up with and he just didn't possess that kind of juice. He stood up, walked reluctantly to the telephone and dialled a number.