by Derek Fee
His flinty grey eyes looked straight ahead. “No Robbie, you’ll not bring me down with you,” he said softly.
CHAPTER 29
It was almost time for Case to go to work again and it was feeling good. He climbed quietly out of his landlady's bed making sure not to wake the old bag in the process. Betty Maguire had proved as saucy as she had pretended. They had spent the day between screwing and pouring copious amounts of vodka down Mrs. M's throat. The more she drank the more performance she demanded from him and he had satisfied all her little fetishes. Eventually fully sated by sex and vodka the slut had fallen asleep. She wasn't the oldest women he had ever screwed. That distinction belonged to one of the old slags his mother hung around with. He was barely twelve years old when she had pulled him on top of her drunken body and helped him inside her. That type of experience wasn't to be found on the pages of the 'Joys of Sex'. He didn't mind giving it to the old biddies. What he did mind was listening to the drunken life stories. Mrs. Maguire had fairly bent his ear while he'd been pokin' her. He had a friend to the death. He could count on Mrs. M. no matter what. That might be useful over the next few days. He pulled on his trousers and left her bedroom closing the door noiselessly behind him. Moving along the narrow corridor, he entered his own room and locked the door. There was a certain thrill to be had from living right in the centre of his killing ground. Out there on the streets, the police were probably turning the place inside out looking for him and all the while he's sitting right in the middle of them givin' them the finger. The fuzz were so fucking dumb that he could have knocked off half the population of Belfast before the bastards would catch on to him. He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty five. Outside it was already dark. He pulled back the dirty curtains and watched a veil of black clouds from the direction of the Black Mountains roll over Belfast like a dark blanket. If he'd have ordered the weather he couldn't have made a better job of it. He prised up the loose floorboard and lifted out the steel suitcase which contained his weapons. Taking care to follow the opening sequence exactly, he composed the combination and flicked the switches which released the lid of the case. He removed the Browning and a clip of ammunition. He had planned to-night's killing as to be a door step job, a classic IRA assassination. Taking up the classical firing position he pointed the Browning at the cracked mirror on the tallboy. A thrill ran through him. This was the very last sight on earth that to-night's victim would have. He felt the surge of power.
He slowly came out of the firing position and sat on the bed methodically braking down and cleaning the individual parts of the Browning. Lovingly he brushed the dark matt metal of the gun's barrel with the soft cleaning cloth. He stroked the metal as he would a woman's breasts. It was his only true friend. A friend who never disappointed him. Every person in the world that he had trusted had finally betrayed him. That's the way it happened with all of them. His mother used to be his friend but then she tried to turn him in. Norma was his friend until he caught her fucking the black man. The officers in the Regiment were his friends until he was court marshalled. Well fuck 'em. He didn't need anyone except Mr. Browning as his friend. He finished cleaning the gun and re-assembled it. He slipped the weapon and the 13 round ammunition clip into the pocket of his reefer jacket. A two page dossier on his next victim sat on the bed beside him. He picked up the closely typed pages. The title page bore the legend `British Army Intelligence' and beneath it `A report into the activities of Leslie Bingham'. A large red `CONFIDENTIAL' had been stamped across each of the pages. Having friends in high places was the only way to go. It was a pity that all Leslie Bingham had in high places were enemies.
CHAPTER 30
`The Crown' was one of Wilson's favourite haunts. Maybe he was caught in a time warp but he felt comfortable in surroundings which had been maintained exactly as they had been constructed in 1848. There wasn't a piece of laminated plastic in sight and the gaslights produced the kind of ambience which the mock Victorian pubs spent thousands of pounds trying to recreate. He sat in one of the free wooden pews directly beneath an ornate window dating from the construction of the pub. The 'Crown' could make the weather, Belfast, the `troubles' and murder seem a million miles away.
When Kate McCann entered the lounge the eyes of every man in the room swivelled to take in the sight. She was wearing a back jacket and skirt combination over a white blouse which set off perfectly her blond hair and her sallow complexion. Wilson felt his heart rate increase as she made her way towards the table at which he was seated. She stood before him for a full minute before taking the seat directly across from him.
Before either of them could speak a waiter appeared at her side. “Double vodka and tonic,” she said stifling his ‘Good Evening’.
“Well Ian,” she said leaning forward slightly. “I’m here because I found your telephone message intriguing. It sounded rather pathetic and since I have never associated you with being pathetic I thought I should at least see the changes which time has ravaged on you.”
“You look fabulous, Kate,” he said admiringly. “As usual. And I deserve whatever invective you want to hand out.”
The waiter returned and placed a glass containing a double vodka and a small bottle of tonic on the table.
Kate poured some tonic into the glass without taking her eyes off Wilson. “You haven’t changed, Ian. You’re still the same prick that cast me adrift five years ago. Five years older and yes a little more pathetic but I bet you’re still spinning lines aimed at getting into the pants of some young copper.”
“You’re half right,” Wilson said. “I am certainly more pathetic but it has been a hell of a long time since I coaxed any woman to have sex with me.”
“And that reputation of yours?”
“A man can live on his reputation for a hell of a long time. Things didn’t finish right between you and me. I was wrong to end it the way I did but at that point the guilt was more than I could handle. I know I didn’t give Susan the cancer but back then I knew that I had brought plenty of grief into her life. I needed to make up for that by staying with her when she needed me most.”
“How gallant,” she stared straight at him. “I had a career in Belfast and you took that away from me. You can’t imagine how annoyed I was to learn that my psyche was so fragile that a rejection from someone like you could send me into a spiral of depression.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional.”
“So I suppose I was just collateral damage.’ Anger flared in her eyes.
“No, I should have talked to you but the whole business with Susan and the doctors, the meetings to discuss possible treatments, the disintegration I witnessed in her every day allied to the shit this job throws up left me in a very bad place. I wasn’t thinking straight. The days were a blur. After Susan died it took me weeks to get back to myself and by then you were long gone and I heard that you’d been taken on by one of the major chambers in London. I was history and you had a new life in front of you.”
She finished her vodka and tonic and looked towards the bar. The waiter was staring directly at her. She signalled for a refill.
“So that was why you didn’t bother to follow me,” she said. “The great love that you professed for me while I was in your bed had evaporated and you were happy to see the back of me. My departure didn’t strike you as having anything to do with you. I was simply pursuing my dream of working in London. Even a mediocre detective might have put two and two together and come up with four.”
The waiter placed a fresh glass containing a double vodka in front of Kate and then left.
“Don't be under any misapprehension, Ian,” she said while pouring the tonic into the glass of vodka. “I haven't come here this evening to conduct a post-mortem on our dead relationship.”
“Is our relationship dead?” Wilson leaned towards her.
She hesitated for a moment. “It would appear so,” she said after some reflection.
“I don’t really think you mean that. OK I di
dn’t follow you and maybe I should have but I honestly thought that I was doing you a favour. You’re a Queen’s Council, Kate. I’m nothing but a copper with a faded rugby career. I’m going nowhere. I’ll retire as a DCI. What the hell use am I to someone like you?”
“That was for me to decide. Where did you get my mobile number?”
“I snaffled your card off Jennings’ desk.”
She smiled. “I may be able to forgive you in time, Ian, but I will never forget.”
“That will do for me,” Wilson returned her smile and touched her hand. “Damn it all. Kate, but I missed you. Give me a second chance and you won’t regret it. “
“We’re not there yet, Ian. “
“Shall we begin with dinner?”
“ I’ve got to be the biggest fool in Belfast on two accounts. Firstly, I’m trying to get this idea of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission going and secondly I’m going to have dinner with you.
CHAPTER 31
It was almost half past seven when Case crossed Carlisle Circus and made his way along the east side of the Antrim Road. Winter was descending rapidly on Belfast and as he passed each junction the bitter North East wind that whipped across Belfast Lough cut him like a knife. He ignored his cold fingers and dug his hands deeper into his reefer jacket. The Regiment had trained him to operate whatever the conditions. Heat, cold, rain, all that mattered was getting the job done. The thousands of pounds which the British taxpayer had invested in his training had not gone to waste. All his senses were attuned to the task at hand. His eyes continually scanned the deserted streets. He had already encountered two PSNI Landrover patrols on the short half mile walk from his lodgings in Fortingale Street. That was two too many as far as he was concerned. Maybe it was just his imagination but he thought that there were more coppers on the streets than usual. It was only to be expected that the buggers would be on the look out for him. He smiled to himself. Stupid bleedin' bastards. This was going to be a quick in and out job. The boys in blue wouldn't even realise that he'd come and gone. Leslie Bingham could count himself already dead. He glanced at his watch again. The sod was probably sitting before his telly watching the latest episode of `Coronation Street' without knowing it was going to be the last episode he'd see. He made his way quietly through the narrow streets keeping as close as possible to the houses. The smell of the salt air from the Lough mixed with spilled oil from the docks tickled his nostrils as he turned into Upper Meadow Street. A blast of cold wind from the East hit him as he turned the corner. What a fucking dump, he thought as he plodded along. Cold and wet and fucking miserable. And the locals killed each other because of this shit hole. Mad fucking Paddies. The sooner the Brits pulled out the better. Leave the buggers to slaughter each other. That's what the bastards needed.
Meadow Street was typical of the back streets of East Belfast. The housing stock dated from the end of the nineteenth century and consisted of grimy red bricked terraced houses. He checked the house numbers as he walked slowly along the deserted street. Bingham's looked exactly like all the others. A light was burning in the ground floor window and he could see the blue/red reflection of the coloured television through the net curtains. True to form he thought as he lifted the Browning out of his inside pocket and checked that the safety was off. He screwed on the silencer and stood directly before the door. Taking a deep breath he pressed the buzzer.
A sound of movement came from inside the living room. Case heard the steps approaching the front door and braced himself.
"Yes," Leslie Bingham's face was as blank as a sheet of plain white paper as he opened the door.
Case stood back removing the Browning from his pocket as he did so. He stared into Bingham's face for identification purposes while at the same time raising the gun. The man at the door was the person whose picture was in the file back at the bedsit. He fired the gun three times in rapid succession, the silencer muffling the sound. The top of Bingham's head disintegrated showering fragments of bone and brain along the hall until they splashed against the door at the far end. Bingham's body jerked before falling back into the hall of the house. Case knew his victim had died instantly but he quickly stepped inside and fired one further shot, placing it exactly between Bingham's eyes. He turned and started walking back the way he had come.
None of 'em expect it, Case thought, and smiled to himself. There was no challenge in taking out bozos who couldn't put up a fight. This was money for old rope. He remembered the border engagements between the SAS and the South Armagh Brigade of the IRA. There was a bunch of tough bastards. They never asked for quarter and they didn't expect it. The only prisoners that were taken were the dead ones. He'd never felt more alive than he had when he was in the middle of a fire-fight with the Provos. Best high in the fucking world. It certainly beat the hell out of standin' on some Joe Bloggs' doorstep and blowing the fucker's brains out. You could get brassed off with this job. If it wasn't for all the lovely lolly it was earning. Just one more, he thought as he walked calmly away. One more unknown civilian blown away and then off to the Costa.
The street was still deserted and he had almost reached the end of Meadow Street when he heard an ear piercing scream. Somebody's brain had finally found the gear and Bingham's body had been discovered. It was time to get out of there. The thought of running never entered Case's mind. He had taken part in enough assassinations to know that the first thing that attracted the attention of the police was some silly bugger hoofing it at top speed in the opposite direction from the action. Stay cool, he told himself. He was simply a punter headin' for the nearest boozer for a drink with his mates. He turned left at the top of Meadow Street and could see Girwood Park directly in front of him. In the distance was the grey forbidding shape of Crumlin Road Jail. He crossed the Antrim Road and started towards the entrance of the park.
"Don't move."
Case was startled. He looked around and saw two police constables standing beyond the entrance to the park. The man who had spoken wore a black padded flak jacket over his black police raincoat and held a machine gun cradled in the crook of his arm. A PSNI Landrover was parked twenty yards further along the road. He knew that he'd blown it. If he'd been concentrating he would have noticed the bastards before he walked out into the open.
"Yes, you," the constable said bringing his machine gun to the ready.
Fuck, Case muttered under his breath. No point in tryin' to blast his way out.
"What's a matter. officer," Case said in his broadest Cockney accent. He put both hands in the air.
The two constables looked at one another.
Case smiled inwardly. He knew that his accent would throw the men off guard.