by Derek Fee
Wilson made his way to the front door and pulled in a breath of cold fresh air. Outside a police van was disgorging the lab team already wearing their white plastic overalls.
Whitehouse's radio crackled. He listened to the radio for a few moments and then turned to face Wilson. "True to form. Claimed by the IRA."
Yes, Wilson thought, true to form but why didn't he buy it. It'd be so easy to lay it at the feet of the terrorists. Another unsolvable crime until somebody in the cells at Castlereagh or Kilburn broke down and admitted it. He sucked in a deep breath trying to clear his mind. These political crimes were a bloody labyrinth. When you thought you could see the light at the end of the tunnel it usually turned out to be a train heading in your direction. His stomach rumbled and he got the taste of sweet and sour bile in his mouth. He was beginning to feel like a man on a precipice. One false move and he would tumble into the abyss. And he probably wouldn’t be alone.
"They can take him away now," he said and walked towards the nearest police car. He waved to the head of the forensics team. "
He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and called the Station. "Get me McElvaney," Wilson said tersely into the phone.
"Evening, boss," Moira’s voice sounded tired. Join the club, Wilson thought. A couple of days in Tennent Street had put a dent in her youthful zest.
"Not a very good evening, I'm afraid, Moira," Wilson tried to put an enthusiasm he didn't feel into his own tone. "Anything on this Bingham character?"
"Do you have any specific question you want to ask, boss?"
"Don't pull my bloody chain, Moira, I'm not in the mood. What do you have?"
"He was in Dungray the same time as the others," she paused to let the information sink in.
"I had a bet with myself on that one. I won. Anything else."
"Not a sausage," she said. “But it’s early days. I just did the most obvious check. If we have four victims three of whom were inmates of Dungray at the same time, shouldn’t that mean something.” She left the obvious conclusion to her chief.
Wilson held the phone without speaking. Dungray had to be the key to this whole affair. And his connection with Dungray was Robert Nichol. So whether God almighty Jennings liked it or not he was going to squeeze Nichol until the bastard squealed. They were all connected somehow: Jamison's death, the missing file, the block on Nichol's file and the four murders. All would lead back to the spider or spiders sitting at the centre of the web pulling the strings. And when he nabbed the spider, he would have the murderer as well.
"Thanks Moira," Wilson felt the young woman needed a lift. "You've done a terrific job so far. Away off home with you and have a rest. I'm goin' to need you in top form early tomorrow morning."
"Goodnight, boss," she replied and the phone went dead.
Wilson handed the microphone back to the officer in the car and moved back towards the house. Bingham's body had been removed from the hallway and dark red blood stains splattered the area around the chalk mark on the floor which indicated where Bingham's body had lain. He searched among his emotions for the revulsion he should have felt at the scene. There was none. He had seen it all so many times before. The only emotion he felt was anger.
He turned to face Whitehouse. "Time to call it a night, George." Wilson left the hallway and stood on the footpath. There was nothing more either of them could usefully do. A solitary police Landrover that stood outside the house the only remaining evidence that a crime had been committed there.
"Fuck it," Whitehouse said and pulled the hall-door shut behind him. "Another body and we're nowhere nearer to nailin' the bastard."
"Excuse me, sir."
Wilson turned and noticed that one of the constables had detached himself from the Landrover and stood before the two detectives.
"Yes Constable," Wilson said. The man who had addressed him was about fifty years of age. He smelled a veteran who had the desire to live long enough to collect his pension. He looked into the man's face and recognition dawned on him. "It's Stanley McColgan isn't it?"
"You've got a good memory, sir," McColgan beamed.
"I never forget a good man, Stanley. What can I do for you?"
"It may be nothing," McColgan began hesitantly. "But right after the murder we stopped a man over by Girwood Park." McColgan paused as though deciding whether to proceed. "As soon as I started to question him, the bloke pulled out a Military Intelligence ID card."
"What!" Wilson said. "Was it genuine?"
"It looked genuine enough." McColgan saw the consternation on Wilson's face and knew in that instant that he had screwed up mightily. "But something about the bastard's been bothering me since. I know I should have pulled him but we're not supposed to stop them guys."
All Wilson's faculties were now trained on the constable. "You weren't to know. Tell me, Stanley, what did the man look like?"
"He was wearin' a black reefer jacket. I'd guess his height at about six feet. Weighed maybe eleven stone. His hair was plastered to the top of his head so I couldn't tell the colour but it was cut short in a sort of military fashion. That's another reason why I thought he might be genuine. Jesus it's hard to remember what he looked like. He was clean shaven with rugged features. His eyes seemed to look straight through me. They sent a bloody chill up my spine." McColgan remembered the feeling and didn't appreciate it. "The bastard was bad news. I remember the name on the ID. card. It was Bryan Gardiner."
"What about his accent?"
"Cockney. I don't know if it was genuine but I'd bet my life he was a Brit alright."
"Did you search him?" Wilson asked.
McColgan pulled his cap tighter on his head. "No, Sir, I didn't."
Wilson knew that there was no point berating the older man for his error. "What makes you think he wasn't the real thing?"
"I can't put my finger on it but there was something about the bastard that didn't smell right. He looked and sounded the part and the card he produced was genuine enough but thirty years on the job tells me he was as phoney as a two pound note. If it wasn't for the standin' order sayin' not to screw M.I. up, I would have taken the bugger along."
"Would you recognise him if you saw him again?" Wilson asked hopefully.
"I think so. You get your hands on him and I'll finger him."
"Thanks Stanley, you've been a great help. One of my boys will contact you to-morrow and we’ll take a detailed statement."
McColgan turned to leave and then turned back to face Wilson. "I know I screwed up, Chief Inspector, but the way things are I might have been in a bigger mess if I'd pulled him and he'd been genuine."
"I understand that, Stanley. You did the right thing." Wilson watched as McColgan made his way to the waiting police car. Both McColgan and he knew that there had been a screw up. There was no point in making a big deal of it.
"Is that it for to-night?" Whitehouse asked.
"What's that George?" Wilson's mind was miles away. Another piece had been added to the jigsaw but instead of assisting a solution it simply muddied the waters even more.
"I'd like to get out of here if that's OK with you," Whitehouse said.
"Off home with you," Wilson said. "There's nothing more we can do here this evening. I want you round here first thing in the morning to interview the widow."
Whitehouse was trying to make sense of the night's events. He shuffled away towards the Antrim Road taking the path used earlier by Case. Jesus Christ, he thought, how the hell was Military Intelligence involved in leaving four Prods dead? Were the Brits tryin' to start a war? This was a vital piece of information which would have to be passed on double quick. He paused when he reached the Antrim Road. He looked back and saw that there was nobody behind him. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Simpson would want to know about the man with the Military Intelligence ID card.
Wilson punched his right fist into his open left palm without even feeling the blow. Like Whitehouse he was trying to make sense of what he had learned. It was very
possible that the man McColgan had stopped was the man they were looking for. If that was so, they had just missed the only break they'd had in the case to date. But how and why did the murderer have access to what appeared to be a genuine MI ID card? And who the hell was he working for? There were a lot more questions than answers so far. McElvaney and the `magic machine' at the office would check `Gardiner' out. The result would be that no such person ever existed and that no M.I. card had ever been issued in that name. Even the `magic machine' could be presented with a blank wall. This case was turning him into a clairvoyant. He cursed having let McElvaney go for the night and started walking back through the rain towards his car. The closer he got to the killer and the motive for the murders the more muddy the water was becoming. Getting out of this one was going to take tact and diplomacy. Two qualities for which he'd never been well-known. Box clever, Ian me auld son, he said to himself as he slipped under the yellow crime scene tape.
CHAPTER 33
Robert Nichol pressed a button on the remote control and the channel changed on the television. Nichol stared at the screen. Two women comedians tried to outdo each other in being crude. "Lord God," Nichol said softly and shook his head as another stream of profanity burst upon his ears. To his mind women talking about their bodily functions was the height of toilet humour. This is what we've come to by throwing away Christian values, he thought. There was a time in the recent past when a woman didn't use words which were more common on building sites. Now anything went. God would certainly exact a great punishment from these women for their sins. Nichol pressed the buttons again flicking through the stations looking for a news programme. He was still unsure of the content of what he had picked up from the end of the previous BBC News programme. Could it really be true that the Leslie Bingham of Meadow Street who had been murdered by the IRA was the same person as the wee boy who had been in his charge all those years ago at Dungray? May God have mercy on his immortal soul if it was. And may the Republican bastards who killed him rot in hell. The news of Bingham's death had brought pain tinged with such wonderful memories. They had all been there in the golden years of Dungray. Leslie had been such a beautiful little boy. Just like Jimmy Patterson and Stan Peacock. And that deceitful little bastard Jamison. All his beautiful boys were being killed off. He hadn't meant to kill Jamison. The threat of exposure had driven him mad. The devil had temporarily entered his body and had made him do dreadful things. All his life he had fought against invasions of his body by the satanic powers. Nobody had blamed him for killing the little ingrate. Even God had forgiven him. All that was over now. He hadn't had to go to prison or anything like that. Billy had organised it so that nobody had to go to jail. He had been able to go on almost as before. His eyes stared at the screen of the television but they saw in his mind's eye the parade of young men he had inducted into the ranks of the `Save Ulster' volunteers. That had been his finest hour. A group of fine upstanding young Protestant men had been established to fight for their God and their Province. The devil had entered his body many times during those years. The heady mix of religious fundamentalism and patriotism made the young men's sexual juices flow. The devil in Robert Nichol had taken full advantage of every possibility open to him. Those had been the halcyon days: his beautiful boys at the home and a steady supply of dedicated youths through `Save Ulster'.
Nichol moved his position in the chair and a pain shot through his hip. The operation hadn't been a total success. He would pray to God and they would try again. For the present he would be grateful for small mercies. His lifestyle of twenty years ago if followed to-day would undoubtedly have led to his death in this age of Aids. What a pity that Jimmy and Stan and Leslie had to die so young. Nichol suddenly felt cold and he raked the fire into life. A ghost had passed over his grave. He gripped his Bible in his hand and his small eyes darted around the room searching in the shadows. His beautiful boys were being removed one by one. "My soul is clean," he whispered under his breath. "Dear God, my soul is clean."
Case whistled as he ambled along the road from his digs. The job was going according to plan. No sweat. A few more days in dreary old Belfast and then a couple of months in the sun. He never used a mobile for his contacts with London. Not since the ‘Tampon’ tapes anyway. But it was a hell of a job finding a public telephone box in the era of the mobile phone. He pulled open the door of the phone box and went inside. He carefully stacked four fifty pence pieces on the phone and then dialled the number. The phone gave two rings and was then picked up.
"Yes," the voice on the other end said.
"Mr. Bingham's package arrived this evening," Case said using the code he'd been given.
"That is excellent news," the voice appeared pleased. "So far you've performed excellently, Mr. Case. We are more than happy with your work. However, there has been a rather unexpected hitch. I'm afraid you will have to deliver two more packages than we anticipated. Some rather important ones."
"The more packages that get delivered the higher the cost," Case said smelling a sizeable bonus to his already substantial fee. He'd manage at least a year in the sun out of this job.
"That is completely understood,” the voice said smoothly. "We think that seven and a half thousand per package would be a fair figure."
"That seems about right by me," Case was surprised by the level of payment but there was no way he was going to show it. "Who do I deliver to?"
"I've arranged for the details of the recipients of the packages to be available at the dead letter drop we agreed before your departure. Delivery must be made immediately"
"That's not the way I work," Case said. Rush jobs generally ended in fuck-ups.
"We're sure that you're equal to the task."
"If I can't make it to-night, what about to-morrow?" Case asked.
"The financial arrangements are consequent on delivery to-night, “the voice said firmly. "Perhaps the packages should have Czechoslovak stamps."
"I'll do my best," Case said thinking of the extra fifteen thousand pounds.
"Good man. I knew we could count on you. Report to-morrow."
The line went dead on Case. Had he held the apparatus to his ear for just a fraction of a second more he would have heard the click as the voice activated tape recorder on the phone at the other end switched itself off.
Simpson walked purposefully towards the small terraced house in Ligoniel. He'd taken the precaution of parking his car several streets away. The cold wind swirled around him. It was a blast that foretold a hard winter. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the jagged edges of the Walther P38. The gun was the kind of museum piece that Nichol might be expected to have locked away. He turned into Glenside Park and walked quickly to the door of Nichol's house. He knew the house well. Many years before he'd been one of those Protestant youths who had been fired by Nichol's brand of patriotism and Protestant fundamentalism. He'd been one of the first recruits of 'SAVE ULSTER'. He'd sat at the feet of the master and dedicated himself to do whatever was necessary to preserve a Protestant Ulster. And because of that he'd been one of the first to discover Nichol's 'weakness'. Robert Nichol didn't give a shit about Ulster. All he wanted was a supply of young boys to feed his desires.
The old bastard was still awake, Simpson thought when he saw the light burning in the downstairs lounge. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. If there'd been more time, he would have organised it differently. He should have gone to Rice and had one of the UVF psychos finish Nichol. But that would have put him in Rice's pocket for the rest of his life. The IRA might have done the job for him but they had no interest in killing Nichol. He was more of a liability to the Protestant cause alive than dead. It wouldn't be the first time that the other side had helped out with one of the Prods pressing problems. Killing Nichol didn't bother him. It was twelve years since he had been blooded by the UVF and ever since then he'd been respected as a `hard man'. He also had a personal score to settle with the old bastard.
He knocked on the door. The s
ound of the television ended abruptly and he noticed from the corner of his eye a movement in the curtain of the lounge window. You didn't get old in the Northern Ireland political game by not being careful. Nichol had spent more than half his life on IRA death lists and they still hadn't managed to nail him. He heard a shuffling noise from inside and then a series of locks being opened.
"Richie," the door opened just wide enough to admit Simpson. "Get yourself inside."
Nichol shuffled out of the younger man's way. "You can't be too careful," he said re-locking the door.
Simpson heard a series of bolts sliding into place. The house was like a bloody fortress. It had been at least two years since he had seen Nichol. He was taken aback at how well the old pederast continued to keep himself. Nichol's lips were lightly rouged and he could see the traces of the cosmetics which covered the old man's face.
"Hello, Bob," Simpson waited until the door had been locked before he spoke. "I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd drop in."
Nichol raised his eyes. "Long time no see, Richie," Nichol walked slowly ahead of Simpson. "Come into the lounge. Can I get you a wee drink?"
"No thanks," Simpson dropped into an ancient over-stuffed cloth covered armchair.
"You were in the neighbourhood, you say," Nichol sat down opposite the young man. He felt apprehensive but didn't know why.