Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "How are you, Bob?" Simpson asked.

  "The good Lord is still taking care of me," Nichol leaned on his walking stick accentuating its presence. "I don't think the hip operation was a success so I might have to go in again soon. You're looking good. Life in the Ulster Democratic Front agrees with ye. You say that you were in the neighbourhood but I fancy you want me to do something for you or Billy. Would I be right?" He smiled his most disarming smile. He had always known that sooner or later they would come crawling back looking for his help.

  You're right, only we'd like you to drop dead, Simpson thought instantly.

  "I hear the police paid you a visit to-day," Simpson leaned back in the chair. "We're gettin' the willies that somebody might start diggin' around in the Jamison business. It seems that we didn't cover your tracks as well as we might have."

  Nichol hid his disappointment and looked into Simpson's thin face trying to divine the 'real' purpose of his visit. There was no immediate danger. Billy didn't send the likes of Simpson out to murder people but what his guest reported back could seal his fate.

  "My soul is clean," Nichol said clasping his hands over his chest. "I sinned but the Lord God has forgiven me. There's nothing that man born of woman can do to me now. My sin was absolved years ago."

  "You're not on the pulpit now, Bob. This is Richie. You can cut the bullshit."

  "Do you remember the early days of the `Save Ulster' group?" Nichol said.

  Bad tactic, Simpson thought as he nodded. It was the last thing he needed to be reminded of right now.

  "We sat around in this very room formulating the plans which were going to keep Ulster British. Those were heady days Richie, weren't they?"

  Were they? Simpson nodded again. He could smell the cheap Eau de Cologne that Nichol was wearing. He should have known. But he'd been young and he'd been wrapped up in the whole 'Save Ulster' business. He didn't know his arse from his elbow but Nichol was going to teach him. What a bloody fool he'd been. Taken in by one of the oldest tricks in the book. Nichol had used his powers of speech to whip up the young volunteers. But what he really wanted was fresh young arses.

  "You know I helped Billy set up the Ulster Democratic Union," Nichol said.

  Simpson nodded slowly.

  "Of course you do," Nichol smiled at the recollection. "Sure weren't you there yourself with us." He pulled his chair closer to Simpson. "By God we showed the Brits who wielded the political power in this Province."

  Keep talking, Simpson thought. Keep reminding me. You're only makin' it easier for me to do what has to be done.

  "That little ingrate Jamison nearly ruined everything for us," Nichol continued. "God forgave me and thank God that Billy cleared all that business up. I have nothing to fear. All the evidence was destroyed. The policemen who came here to-day were only groping in the dark. They know nothing."

  Maybe not now, Simpson thought, but they suspect and that might be enough to bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. Billy had been right. Nichol was living in his glorious past and if somebody was willing to listen long enough to his ramblings, all kinds of secrets might come out.

  "Billy's worried," Simpson said simply.

  "Sure there's nothing to worry about," Nichol forced a smile. His apprehension had returned with the realisation that Simpson would do whatever was necessary to protect the UDF. If that meant he had to die, then Simpson certainly wouldn't flinch from the act.

  Simpson stood up slowly. "Ever since you screwed up with Jamison you've represented a major threat to the UDF." He walked across the narrow lounge and stood beside Nichol. "Against the advice of everybody else, Billy stood by you. The police're goin' to try and re-open the whole business. It's time you paid Billy back."

  Nichol turned and looked up at Simpson. "You're not serious," he reached out his hand and touched Simpson on the leg. "You and I were very close once."

  "Get your hands off me," Simpson said sharply. The smell of Nichol's Eau de Cologne swam in his nostrils. That smell forced to the surface the memories he had suppressed for many years back. I should have killed the bastard years ago, he thought looking at Nichol's shrinking figure.

  "You wouldn't would you, Richie?" Tears forced their way along Nichol's cheeks. "Jesus doesn't want you to do this."

  "This time God wants you to die," Simpson removed the Walther from his coat pocket. "We'd prefer if it looked like you did it yourself. There'll be fewer questions. Just put your fingers around the butt and I'll do the rest. Jesus is calling you."

  Nichol looked at the small revolver. It was the time of retribution. He was being called by God to pay for all the dreadful sins he had committed during his life. The youthful faces of Jimmy, Stanley and Leslie swam before his eyes as he extended his right hand towards Simpson. Such beautiful boys to have died so young. Nichol felt he was swimming in a dream and that he was being asked to make a magnificent gesture. The Lord wanted him to die. He would be a wonderful martyr. He would follow the beautiful boys and stand before God for the part he had played in their deaths. He felt the matte plastic grip of the revolver against the palm of his hand and he closed his fingers around it. Dear God forgive me for all the wrong I've done during my life. He felt Simpson rotating his hand but he kept staring steadfastly before him at a picture of Jesus on the opposite wall. Such beautiful boys, he thought as the gun exploded beside his ear.

  The noise of the shot reverberated around the tiny sitting room. Nichol's body slid slowly over the arm of the armchair and Simpson let the gun fall naturally onto the floor. He bent quickly and felt for a pulse. Nothing. It was time to get out. Shots were nothing new in Ligoniel and he had no fear of being stopped in such a staunchly Protestant area. He took one more look at Nichol's dead body and left the room.

  CHAPTER 34

  Case paced anxiously around his room. After phoning London he'd gone straight to the dead letter box and retrieved the papers which had been sent by his boss. If he'd known the contents, he would have asked the bastard in London for double. Taking out a couple of stupid stiffs who didn't suspect a thing was one job, but taking out two policemen on one night was a totally different kettle of fish. He looked at the dossiers one more time. A fucking detective chief inspector and a sergeant. The files were copies of the original personnel dossiers on the two men. What chance did these poor bastards stand against the kind of juice that could lift their confidential files at will? If they hadn't been lining his pockets, he could have felt sorry for the poor sods. The bastard in London was right. This wasn't a walk up and shoot situation. Both men would probably be armed and on their guard. There was no way he was going to expose himself to grief when he was this close to getting the job done. This was a job for Mr. Semtex just as London had suggested. It was a stroke of luck that he'd come well prepared. The Czechoslovak explosive had become the trademark of the Provisional IRA and topping the two coppers with it would place the crime squarely at the door of the Irish terrorist organisation. He picked a piece of the putty-like explosive from his suitcase and moulded it in his hands. It was going to be a long night but a profitable one. He packed the Semtex and two detonators into a small hold-all. The two bastards lived at opposite ends of Belfast. Transport was unavoidable and he didn't like that. Rush jobs are fuck-up jobs. That was the credo of the Regiment. He looked around the cramped bed-sit. Not to worry. If anyone could handle it, he could. It was nearly over and the fifteen thousand pounds would be the icing on the cake. He picked up the hold-all and went out into the Belfast night for the second time that evening.

  It was after eleven o'clock when Wilson turned the Toyota off the Lisburn Road and onto Balmoral Avenue. He turned right into Harberton Road and followed the road around to the right skirting the dark shape of the Balmoral Golf Course. This wasn't the shortest route to his house but occasionally he needed to pass through a setting of suburban bliss to contrast with the perennial bleakness of the Shankill. He looked at the lines of neat designer houses set back into their own grounds. There
was no sign here of the other Belfast. It hadn't been thought necessary for the government to run a `peace wall' through Malone to separate the Catholic doctors from their Protestant dentist neighbours. He turned left onto the Upper Malone Road and passed the expansive Malone playing fields. There were no such recreational areas in the Shankill or the Falls. The plebes played in their adjoining streets continuing the traditions of their segregated parents.

  Wilson was mentally and physically exhausted. He could still see Bingham's mutilated body as vividly as if it were plastered to his windscreen. The crummy little terraced house in East Belfast would never be the same again. In the near future workman would come and fill in the holes made by the bullets that had killed Bingham. The blood would finally be erased after the ninth or tenth washing of the walls. But the scene of the murder would always remain fresh in the minds of those who had seen it. Bingham's death would be used by the local rabble-rousers to whip up hatred against the Catholic community and would serve to swell the ranks of the local UVF. Join us and we'll protect you. And the fools would swallow it and join up. There would be no end to it. He turned right into Malton Drive and then took the second left into Malwood Park. He was almost home.

  Wilson brought the car to a stop fifty yards from his house. A Peugeot 305 was parked close to his driveway, much too close to his driveway. From his position he could see a single shadowy figure in the driver's seat. He looked around the deserted road searching the dark spots for a second shadow. This was the type of scene every police officer dreaded. Since its inception, every member of the Force had lived in fear of the assassin's bullet. Every time one of their number was callously murdered the message was hammered home: next time if you're not careful, it'll be your name that'll be pinned up on the notice board. He turned off the motor and extinguished the car's headlights. One advantage of living in Malwood Park was that strangers stood out a mile. If the car had been a Mercedes or a Jaguar, he might have assumed that his neighbours were entertaining. But a Peugeot 305 was a dead give-away. It could only mean one thing. Somebody was waiting for him. Well perhaps they would get more than they bargained for. He put his hand under his coat and loosened his Baretta from its holster. Through the steamed-up windows he could see the figure in the Peugeot sitting perfectly still. He slid slowly out of the driver's seat trying to stay as close as possible to the ground. The car door opened and he slipped onto the wet pavement. He made his way slowly forward crawling on hands and knees. The person in the Peugeot was a fuzzy image through the steamed-up rear window. He was twenty yards from the Peugeot when he slipped his hand under his coat and removed his revolver. He began to suck in deep breaths steeling himself for action. He crawled the last few yards until he reached the back of the car. It would all happen very quickly. He ran through his sequence of actions before taking the safety off the gun. Breathing deeply one last time, he flung himself around to the driver's side of the car and wrenched the door open.

  "Don't move a muscle or I'll blow your fuckin' head off," Wilson stuck the gun at where he anticipated the driver's temple would be.

  Kate McCann sat glaring directly in front of her. He thought that she was about to burst into tears.

  "Oh Jesus!" he said lowering the gun. "I'm sorry Kate. I thought somebody was lying in wait for me."

  "It's OK. It's OK," she drew in a large breath and held it in her lungs. "Oh God. Give me a minute to get my senses back. I decided to follow up on your invitation," the words came in gasps. "We've wasted enough time. What I didn't expect was to have the life half scared out of me." Although she tried to control herself, there was still a slight catch in her voice.

  "There's a funny side to this," he said returning his gun to its holster and holding the car door open. "I've just ruined my best trousers crawling through the gutter. Let's get inside so I can slip into something more comfortable." He shook his wet legs and then handed her a door key. "You go inside. I'm just going to put the car in the drive."

  Kate got out of the car and carefully locked the door. The die was cast. After he'd left the restaurant she sat for half-an-hour thinking about their situation. The time for foolish pride was over. She wanted him badly and she could think of no good reason why she had refused his offer of meeting her later. She walked up the driveway and slipped the key into the front door. Her hand hesitated before turning the key. This was Susan's house. The home of the woman that she had both envied and pitied. She turned the key but couldn't push the door in. There was a sense of violation that she couldn't overcome.

  "Quick," He took her hand from the key and pushed the door in. "If I don't get out of these wet clothes I'll get my death of cold. The drinks are in the living-room. I'll have a very large Jameson."

  He was bounding up the stairs before she could reply. She walked into the hall and quietly closed the door behind her. The hall was tastefully furnished with antiques. Everything screamed Susan at her. It was a woman's house. There was nothing here of Ian's. She walked into the living-room and switched on the light. Again as she glanced around the room she felt Susan’s presence in every stick of furniture. Her eyes were drawn to the glass cabinet containing his sporting trophies which adorned one of the walls. Another of Susan's marks. Had it been placed there out of love for her husband or out of pride at his achievements? It really didn't matter. It was there and it showed that Susan had cared. Her heart was beating normally now. She moved to the drinks cabinet and poured them both a stiff whiskey. There was no point in holding back, she thought as she poured the drinks. They both knew that she was staying the night. The old mistress of the house would be well and truly laid to rest.

  "A penny for them," he said from the doorway. He was wearing a terry cloth dressing gown that had seen better days.

  "I was just thinking about the number of times I wondered what your house looked like." She crossed to him and handed him his drink.

  "And what do you think?" he asked.

  "It's not your house," she said sipping the whiskey. "It's your wife's. God I feel like I'm violating her by coming here this evening. I thought that in the time that you've been here alone you would have put your own personality on the place. But you haven't. She’s still here. She's in every stick of furniture. I can feel her presence everywhere."

  Wilson heard the sound of melancholy in her voice. He took a deep draught of the whiskey. "I needed that. It's been a bloody terrible evening. Horrible bloody murder. Killed in his own home. His wife found him with his brains scattered all over the hall. Sometimes I wonder if there'll ever be an end to the shit."

  "When this shit ends," She said quietly. "People will still be killing each other. Only if Jennings has his way somebody other than you will be investigating the who and the why. That’s why we need the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Only when people face up to the terrible things they did will we be able to move ahead. The only problem is that nobody seems interested in either truth or reconciliation. Television programmes won’t solve the problem. We need to get it all out in the open." She went to the sofa and sat down.

  "I hate to burst your bubble but it’s never going to happen," he said moving to her side and standing over her. "There are too many people who don’t want what really happened to come out. The creatures under the rocks that you’re trying to turn over are a hell of a lot more dangerous than you think. But enough of shop talk. Why did you come?"

  "Like I said we've lost enough time. If we're going to put things together, then we should start as soon as possible."

  He put his two huge hands down and gently pulled her to her feet. They kissed both tasting the whiskey on the other's mouth. She could feel his erection beneath the thin dressing gown. His hand ran over her body as they pressed their lips together. She pulled herself back still aware of Susan's presence in the house.

  "It's OK," he said following her face with his and planting kisses on her cheeks and neck. His hands were on her bottom pulling her close against him.

  "I know," she said and moved
her lips to his again.

  They held each other prolonging the kiss as long as they could. When they stopped he took her hand and led her from the living-room into the hall.

  She stopped for a moment at the foot of the stairs. "Not in her room, Ian. Not in her bed."

  "No," he bent and kissed her on the forehead. "Not in her bed."

  CHAPTER 35

  Case's watch showed five past eleven when he hailed a black taxi at the junction were the Woodvale Road becomes the Shankill Road. The night was dark and cold and the streets were deserted. The taxi pulled in to the curb where he stood and the driver carefully inspected his prospective fare before winding down the side window.

  "Where to?" the driver leaned across towards Case.

  Good bloody question, Case thought. He hadn't yet decided which order to do the bastards in. The inspector lived in the Malone area while the sergeant lived just off the Donegal Road.

  "The Upper Malone Road," Case said deciding quickly. The Belfast accent was perfect as usual. He opened the back door of the taxi, tossed the hold-all containing the Semtex and the detonators onto the floor and sat on the red leather seat.

  The taxi driver slipped the lever on his meter, pulled away from the footpath and moved away down the Shankill Road.

  "It's goin' to be a bitch of a winter," the driver said looking at his passenger through the rear mirror.

  Case didn't reply. Taking the taxi had been a risk. Ideally he would have preferred to stay away from any situation where he could be examined and later described. What he didn't need was a talkative taxi driver. So far his stay in Belfast had been totally anonymous. Finding a bed-sit with Mrs. Maguire had been a stroke of luck. She was always so spaced out on vodka that the police would probably get a description of her dead husband.