Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "It's Richie. Is he there?" Simpson asked when the telephone at the other was answered.

  "Yes, Richie," the deep bass voice of Billy Carlile came on the phone.

  "We've got a major problem," Simpson began. "I've just had that idiot Whitehouse on the line. Somehow the investigation into the two men murdered in West Belfast this week has got around to Robert Nichol."

  "What!" the air exploded across the telephone line. "How the hell did that happen?"

  "It turns out that the two murdered men were residents at Dungray in the early nineties. Some smart arsed policeman came up with Nichol's name and they think he might be able to help them with their enquiries."

  "The stupid meddlers," the anger was evident in Carlile's voice. "That business was dead and buried. We had assurances."

  "Whitehouse or somebody else on the inside screwed up. Some fool didn’t wipe the computer file. There was a reference to Nichol in some note about the Jamison murder."

  "I don’t believe this is happening" Carlile said. "We need this problem like we need a hole in the head. The British are about to drop the boom on us and something comes up that could remove us from the political scene altogether. This has all the ingredients of a disaster. We've got to talk face to face. If we don't do something about this right away it could get out of hand. Meet me at my office in fifteen minutes."

  Simpson replaced the phone. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he shouted. The whole bloody house of cards was going to come tumbling down because some son of a bitch had topped a couple of orphans. Why couldn't the bastard have picked on some other section of the population? Why in God's name hadn't they thrown Nichol to the wolves when they'd had the chance? He ran the palm of his hand over his stomach trying to dispel the pang of fear which gnawed at his entrails.

  CHAPTER 26

  A pall of dark grey rain completely obscured the Black Mountains as Detective Constable Moira McElvaney piloted the police car north on the Crumlin Road towards the Woodvale area of Belfast. The regular beat of the windscreen wipers revealed the labyrinth of narrow streets which extended away on both sides of the city's main artery. The entrance to each road was decorated with faded paintings of the province's flag or a hooded figure holding a Kalashnikov aloft and standing over the legend `UVF'. The peace line, a wall of concrete and steel cladding which snaked its way through gardens and across roads creating a physical separation between Ulster's two communities, could be seen barring the exits of some of the streets on their left. A convoy of British Army armoured vehicles covered in brown/green camouflage paint rumbled out of the rain towards the two policemen like a line of Neolithic beetles. The heads of two soldiers wearing visored helmets protruded from steel turrets in the roof of each vehicle. Neither Moira nor Wilson remarked on the cavalcade. The scene of rumbling personnel carriers and visor wearing soldiers would have had science fiction connotations of a futuristic authoritarian state on the British mainland. In Northern Ireland it didn't even merit a mention.

  Wilson sat in the passenger seat lost in thought. He felt old and tired. Twenty years of living with the stench of human degradation and decomposition was beginning to take its toll. How could one police a situation where the dismembered body of a young man can be found and the case dropped within a week? Where was the justice for the dead man? And what bastard had removed the file from the archives condemning the dead youth to eternal injustice? Enough was enough. He glanced across at McElvaney. The detective constable was young and obviously stubborn. He envied her. He remembered being young and stubborn himself but somehow his youth had been dissipated in the fruitless pursuit of justice while his toughness had increased to the point where he felt himself incapable of normal human emotions.

  "Turn left in here," Wilson said automatically.

  Moira glanced at the street sign indicating the entrance to Glenside Park. Beneath the street sign was a white sprayed `Fuck the Pope' and beneath that `No surrender' in alternate red, white and blue letters. The houses in Glenside Park were just one grade upmarket from the red brick terraced dwellings which lined the Crumlin Road. Small gardens separated the houses from the footpath. She drove slowly along the street while Wilson searched for the house number.

  "That's it," Wilson pointed to a slightly run-down house twenty feet further down the road. "It would be just our luck if Nichol wasn't at home."

  She stopped the car directly in front of the house that Wilson had indicated. As Wilson climbed out of the car he thought he saw a movement at the corner of the lace curtain covering the ground floor window. It appeared that somebody was home. The yellow pebble dash of the top half of the front wall of the house had been stained dark grey by a stream of rain water which emanated from a hole in the centre of the gutter. Nichol evidently wasn't the do-it-yourself type. He pushed open the iron gate and made his way up the short path to the door of the house. Moira joined him in the covered porch.

  "It rained forty days and forty nights in the Bible but it looks like we might break that record," she said as she slipped under the cover of the porch.

  Wilson pushed the bell and the two police officers turned to face the door.

  Nothing happened. Wilson pushed a second time maintaining pressure on the bell for several seconds.

  "It looks like we're out of luck," Moira said.

  "I noticed the curtains moving after we pulled up outside. Somebody's home alright." Wilson pushed the bell for the third time keeping the pressure on the buzzer. He released the bell when he heard scuffling noises coming from the interior.

  "Who the hell is makin' all that bloody racket?" a croaking voice called from inside.

  "Detective Chief Inspector Ian Wilson of the PSNI," Wilson answered. "And Detective Constable McElvaney," he added as an after-thought.

  "Push your warrant card through the letter box," the voice from inside the house said.

  Wilson removed his warrant card from his inside pocket and pushed it through the letterbox.

  After several seconds, the two police officers heard the lock of the front door being worked and the door opened slowly.

  "You can't be too careful," the man who opened the door handed Wilson back his warrant card. "Many a man has ended up dead by being too hasty in opening his own door."

  Wilson judged Robert Nichol to be in his sixties and a well preserved sixties at that. His angular parchment coloured face was topped by a neatly combed quiff of steely grey hair and a pair of flinty light blue eyes surveyed the two PSNI officers. Nichol wore a stylish checked sports-coat and grey flannel pants. A strong smell of perfume assailed Wilson nostrils. He had never met the man in the flesh before but he had seen him numerous times on television and at one point Nichol's picture had appeared regularly in the newspapers. As far as he could see Nichol hadn't changed all that much since he had helped Billy Carlile found the Ulster Democratic Front. Nichol and Carlile had been the twin architects of the politics of hate. They had created a political entity that catered to the basest instincts of their constituency. They stood against Popery, Catholic priests and the surrender of their British identity. It was clear that a lot of Protestants agreed with them by putting the 'X' against Carlile's name at the ballot box. Wilson couldn't remember how or why Nichol had faded from the scene. At one time Nichol and Carlile had been as inseparable as Siamese twins. But nowadays when people thought of the UDF they thought only of Carlile.

  "Are you Robert Nichol?" Wilson asked noticing that Nichol leaned on a walking stick which he held in his right hand.

  "I am indeed," Nichol said. "What can I do for you?"

  "We're hoping that you can assist us with a murder investigation, Mr. Nichol," Wilson said. "I think it'd be better if we could speak to you inside."

  Nichol moved aside slowly and let the two police officers enter the narrow hallway of his house.

  "The living room is on the left," Nichol said pointing at an open doorway. "How in heavens name can I help you with a murder enquiry, Chief Inspector? I’m an old man who leads a very qui
et life."

  "That remains to be seen, sir." Wilson looked around the hallway before walking into the living room. The interior of the house was in direct contrast to the exterior. The mirror at the centre of the hallstand was gleaming. The brass hooks shined to the golden gloss. Whoever did the cleaning was fastidious. He wished his cleaning lady would take lessons from whoever did Nichol's house. The mania with cleanliness was also apparent in the small living room into which Nichol ushered them. The cloth-covered three-piece suite which dominated the room looked like it had just left the showroom. The only intrusion on the air of cleanliness was the pervasive smell of cat. Wilson sat on one of the armchairs and watched Nichol make his way slowly into the room and deposit himself in the other single armchair.

  "Now, how can I help you, Chief Inspector?" Nichol asked.

  McElvaney sat on the two-seater couch which stood between the two armchairs. She produced a notebook from her inside pocket and held it on her knees.

  "Detective Constable McElvaney and myself are investigating three murders which took place earlier this week," Wilson began. "On the surface, the killings appear to have a sectarian motive. All three victims were Protestants. None of them appear to have any connection with the paramilitaries."

  Nichol’s face registered perplexity. "I'm afraid you've got the better of me, Chief Inspector," He sat with his two knees together, the walking stick was propped into the groove formed by the knees. "I've hardly been outside the house these past few weeks. The poor state of my health only allows me out on Sunday so that I might worship the Lord." He fiddled with his walking stick to emphasise the point.

  "Bear with me a while please, sir," Wilson said. "The killings carry all the hallmarks of having been carried out by a professional. We want to know why these particular men were selected." He noticed a smile flit across Nichol's thin lips. "Of course, we're well aware that in the area of sectarian murder there doesn't necessarily have to be a motive. We have managed to find a connection between two of the victims. James Patterson and Stanley Peacock were both residents of Dungray Home for Boys during the period nineteen ninety to nineteen ninety-two. I understand that you were the warden of Dungray during that period."

  "That I was, Inspector," Nichol shuffled and put both his hand on the top of his walking stick. "But I'm afraid the dead men's names mean nothing to me," he said. "May they rest in peace with the Lord. Patterson and Peacock you said?"

  Wilson nodded in affirmation. He took two police photographs of Patterson and Peacock out of his pocket and passed them to Nichol.

  "These are photographs of two of the men murdered this week, Patterson and Peacock," Wilson said. "Perhaps you don't remember the names but maybe the faces will strike a bell."

  Nichol examined the photographs closely then shook his head. "No sorry, Chief Inspector. These photographs are of grown men. I might just be able to remember the boys if I had younger photos of them. These mean nothing to me." Nichol passed the photos back to McElvaney. "The Lord is sometimes cruel, Chief Inspector. He gives life and then he takes it away. We must learn to accept the Lord's will."

  "Must we?" Wilson said. "You're quite sure you don't remember them at all?"

  "Of course countless boys passed through Dungray during the time I was in charge there. You're talking about nearly twenty years ago." He closed his eyes as though lost in thought. "Patterson and Peacock. No, Inspector, I'm afraid I can't help you with that one." Nichol held his fingers interlinked. He looked into the distance. "I was doing the Lord's work in running that home. There are so many boys that need the comfort that only the Lord Jesus can provide."

  Very impressive, Wilson thought as he watched Nichol's face turned towards heaven. He had never trusted zealots and he wasn't going to start now. Perhaps Nichol was trying to deflect them with his little piece of theatre. "We appreciate that, Mr. Nichol," he said. "I can assure you that they were there when we say they were and that you were in charge during that period."

  "I'm sure you’re right," Nichol was huddled over his walking stick again. The warrior of Christ had shrunk back into the old man. "It's just that my memory isn't all it used to be," he lifted his head and smiled at Wilson. "I can hardly remember what I did yesterday."

  You should be on the stage, Wilson thought as he watched Nichol's performance. "The only factor that links Patterson and Peacock is Dungray. That's a fact. When we ran Dungray and murder through our computer we came up with another name. Ronald Jamison." Wilson noticed Nichol's light blue eyes flicker at the mention of Jamison's name. It was momentary and not one other feature on his face responded. "Jamison was also murdered. Maybe you remember him."

  "That poor unfortunate creature," Nichol's eyes glossed over. "Jesus called him unto Him. He's standing at Christ's side in Paradise." He looked towards the ceiling of the room as though expecting to see reflected in the white plaster the images of the murdered boy and his Maker.

  "You remember the case?" Wilson asked.

  "How could I forget, Chief Inspector," Nichol let his gaze descend slowly. "I've had my fair share of successes helping young men to find their way in the world. But sometimes I have failed some of those who were in my charge. I failed young Jamison and that weighs heavily on my conscience. My only consolation is that he is with Christ."

  "Nobody was ever found for the murder," Wilson said. "The case seemed to die very quickly."

  "The poor boy left Dungray and fell in with bad company," Nichol's knuckles showed livid white above his cane. "I hold myself responsible for letting him leave the home," Nichol shook his grey mane. "I wish to God the police had found the evil person who snuffed out his life. Maybe then I could live easier with my guilt."

  Wilson watched Nichol lean over his cane again a look of abject sorrow on his lined face. It wasn't right, he thought. Something was wrong but he couldn't yet put his finger on it. He remembered Patterson's notebook. "Was Jamison homosexual?"

  "Perish the thought," Nichol said keeping his head bent. "My boys were all pure, clean living Christians. It was never a question at the time."

  "I understand that you were involved in paramilitary activities in the mid-eighties.' Wilson said.

  "Oh dear no, Inspector," Nichol raised his head and smiled condescendingly as though Wilson had made a silly joke. "We did have a Protestant prayer group for young men but in no way could it be called a paramilitary organisation. Just a group of young men committing themselves to the work of the Lord."

  That's a crock of shit, Wilson thought. He considered pursuing this line of questioning but couldn't see where it would get him. What the hell connection could there be between the vicious murder of a young man fifteen years previously and the executions of the past week? "I think we've taken up enough off your time. Thanks for your assistance." Wilson said.

  "I'm afraid I wasn't much help," Nichol said starting to rise from his armchair.

  "Stay where you are, sir," Wilson said moving towards the living-room door. "The Detective Constable and myself can see ourselves out."

  Nichol slumped back into the chair. "Thank you, Chief Inspector. If I can be of any further assistance don't hesitate to call on me."

  "Thank you, Sir," Wilson said, "I'll do that."

  The two detectives left the living room and let themselves out through the front door. The earlier light rain had cleared. Wilson stood outside the house staring at the grey clouds zipping across the sky. Three young men who had been residents of an orphans’ home had died violently. One over twenty years ago and two within the past few days. Even in Belfast that was too much of a coincidence.

  "Our enquiries don’t appear to be getting us anywhere," Moira said as her chief settled into the seat beside her.

  "If you want to become an ace detective, you're going to have to listen and look a little more carefully" Wilson said looking at her. Moira’s normally wild red hair had been plastered to the top of her head by the rain. "Nichol recognised the two names all right. He put on a pretty good act as a poor in
firm old man but I think he's a lot bloody smarter than you might give him credit for. He didn't expect us to bring up the Jamison business. I wonder if he knows why the file disappeared."

  She started the car and began moving back towards the Crumlin Road.

  "Nichol is an ex-politician," Wilson continued. "That means he's a practised liar. I have a strange feeling that we've just been handed a crock of shit. But it's a crock that will probably hold up. Did you notice anything?"

  "Nothing much except he seemed pretty particular about his appearance," She turned onto the Crumlin Road and piloted the car back in the direction of Tennent Street. "I'm always a bit suspicious about guys who run football teams or act as councillors for young boys. My Dad reckoned that a lot of them were a bit queer."

  “Maybe your Dad should have been a policeman himself.” Wilson said. "So you think our friend Nichol is a homosexual?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised."

  "Neither would I, McElvaney ace of detectives. Neither would I."