Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "God cursed us by givin' us nine months of winter and three months of spring."

  Case looked up and saw the driver's eyes examining him in the rear mirror. This was Belfast. Everybody was interested in everybody else and that was particularly true of taxi drivers. He knew enough about the geography of Belfast to realise that he didn't look like the type who'd ordinarily be travelling to the Malone Road.

  "It's not the type of night I'd want to be draggin'' myself out on," Case said laying on his Belfast accent with a trowel. "I just got a call from the big fellah in the job. He's gummed up his fuckin' plumbin' and muggins has to drop everything and go and fit it. The way things are I had to throw a few tools in my bag and haul me arse out," he nodded at the hold-all on the floor of the taxi. "At least he's goin' to pay for the cost of the taxi."

  The driver slipped smoothly onto the Westlink and began to head south.

  "All the capitalist bastards are the same," the driver glanced into the rearview mirror. "They'll drag the working man out at any time of the night that suits them. We had unions to stop the bastards from exploitin' us. But that bitch Thatcher put an end to them." There was something about the bloke in the back of the car that bothered him. Something was nagging at his brain but he was damned if he could remember what it was. It was best to play it cool until it came back to him.

  "Too fuckin' true, comrade" Case settled himself in the back seat and hoped the driver's curiosity had been satisfied.

  The Westlink was empty. The taxi passed Celtic Park and Andersonstown and joined the M1 motorway. The driver spat out through the window as they passed Celtic Park.

  "Look at that shit hole," the driver nodded in the direction of Andersonstown. "The Taigs are breedin' like rats over there. The bastards think they're goin' to breed us out of our country."

  "Don't worry. The boys'll get rid of the extra ones. Another couple of nights like Graysteel will put things straight." Case knew how to play the Northern Ireland game. He knew that a taxi plying for trade on the Shankill couldn't be driven by anything other than a member of the UVF or the UDA. The terrorist `godfathers' had long ago grabbed control of the profitable Belfast taxi business.

  "The more of the bastards we get the better." The driver nodded to his right and Case looked out the window to see the dark shape of Miltown Cemetery just off the side of the road.

  "Ay, too true," Case said with conviction.

  The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror again. It was comin' back to him. He remembered what was buggin' him about his `fare'. The man sitting on the back seat was a dead ringer for the bloke Ivan McIlroy was on the lookout for. Ivan had told all the drivers on the Shankill that there'd be a couple of extra quid for whoever could point him in the direction of the bloke who was sitting in the back of his taxi. As long as he could hold his cool, to-night was going to be his lucky night. He could already feel the twenty quid nestling in his pant's pocket. The taxi passed the sign for the Balmoral exit and the driver started to indicate. How the hell was he going to keep tabs on this bloke until he could get word to Ivan? If the boys were lookin' for this guy it was odds on that he was connected. He'd heard about the barney in the 'Black Bear' and there was no way he was going to tackle the bloke who'd put four of the mob into hospital. He remembered the bit about the severed fingers and he shivered. His mind was working overtime on how he was going to earn the twenty quid. Safely.

  They were travelling along Stockman's Lane.

  "What part of the Upper Malone are you goin' to?" the driver asked conversationally.

  "Drop me at the Special School. I'll walk from there."

  "Sure I might as well drop you where you're goin'. It's a wild night to be out walkin'."

  Case didn't reply. He had been aware for some time of the driver's staring at him in the rear-view mirror. His little alarm bell was ringing again. There had to be a reason why the driver was so interested in him? What was it? What mistake had he made? Christ but he was gettin' jumpy. Maybe he was suffering from what the sailors called `channel fever'. The job was nearly over and he was starting to get skittish. He took a deep breath. Professionals sometimes screwed up when they began to get too anxious about finishing a job. Maybe he should have let this one go but fifteen thousand pounds extra was something that could not be easily passed up. Case pulled in another deep breath. Fuck the taxi driver anyway.

  The taxi went into the tunnel which ran under the Lisburn Road and continued along Balmoral Avenue before turning into the Malone Road. The driver was sweating heavily. They were only half a mile from the Special School. The trip was almost over and he still hadn't come up with an idea for hanging on to his passenger. So near and still so far. The twenty quid was no longer nestling in his pocket when he swung right at the Malone Playing Fields and pulled in to the side of the road three hundred yards along the Upper Malone Road opposite the Special School.

  The taxi driver turned off the meter and craned around to face his `fare'. "That'll be six pounds fifty, comrade." He examined Case's face closely as he took the money from his hand. It was bloody lucky that he had decided not to bother tackling him. He'd seen enough `hard men' around the Shankill to recognise the look. The `Black Bear' mob must have been mad or pissed or both to have taken this guy on.

  Case lifted the hold-all from the floor of the cab and opened the back door.

  "Maybe you'd like me to hang around?" the driver put on his most friendly voice. "There's not much business to-night and you'll have a hell of a job pickin' up a taxi here at this time of night."

  "Thanks," Case slammed the back door of the taxi. His hand slipped into his pocket and closed around the handgrip of the Browning. Just one more fucking word from you and you're a dead man, he thought looking at the driver. "Ye know the way these bastards are, I might be hours yet. The fucker'll most likely run me home to save the taxi fare."

  This was the end of the road for the taxi driver. He'd pushed about as far as it was safe. Any further and he'd be lucky to end up like the mob from the 'Black Bear'. Most likely the medics wouldn't be able to put him back together again. It wasn't worth gettin' killed for twenty lousy quid. He smiled wanly, nodded and started away from the footpath. As he drove down the Upper Malone Road, he glanced into the rear mirror and saw his fare standing immobile were he had dropped him. He turned onto the Finaghy Road. He could always relay the message to Ivan on the cab radio. Then some greedy bugger would try to rip off some of the twenty. As soon as he was out of sight he’d get on the mobile. He refused to give up the hope that he'd get the payoff. He'd found the man Ivan was looking for. That ought to be worth something.

  Case watched the taxi disappear into the hazy darkness. The bastard behind the wheel would never know how close he'd come to dying. First right and then fourth left, he said to himself, moving off in the direction the taxi had taken. He had three knacks in life, he could mimic accents, memorise a map after one look and kill people. There wasn’t much of a need for people like him. But when there was he could make quick easy money. As far as he was concerned there was nothing wrong with that equation. He'd memorised the route to the houses of the two coppers. He would have preferred if this gig hadn't been necessary. But he wasn't about to look a gift-horse in the mouth. He would never have taken a contract to waste a copper on the mainland. It was too bloody dangerous to off a copper. But in Ulster who gave a shit. He reached the first corner and looked up at the plaque attached to the wall. Piece of piss, he thought to himself, turning into Malton Drive. This was going to be the easiest fifteen thousand pounds he'd ever earned. Every available policeman in Belfast was running around the Shankill and East Belfast looking for an IRA hit squad and here was he in the middle of `toffee nose land' where there wasn't a copper in sight. Piece of piss, he repeated to himself. Nice houses, he thought, as he walked past the rows of well kept bungalows and mock Georgian two storied dwellings. This was the other Belfast. The place where people could sleep safely in their cosy beds at night. He was about to change tha
t. The Chief Constable's phone would be ringing off the hook to-morrow when the good citizens realised that they were as vulnerable as their poor cousins.

  He checked the roads off to the left. Marwood Park was the next. The place was almost pitch black. A blagger's wet dream. This was just too easy. He had plenty of time to finish his business and move on to his second client. Money for old rope. The only thing that could fuck him was if his mark wasn't home. Still he had plenty of time. Two in one night. Bang, he said softly to himself feeling the power surge through him. He looked at the house numbers. They were consecutive. He stopped at the corner of the deserted street and counted off the houses. His eyes stopped when he reached the house he was looking for. Not bad for a copper, he thought as he examined Wilson's house. The place was in complete darkness but there were two cars parked outside. First stroke of luck. The mark was in. A Peugeot 305 was parked on the road directly outside his mark's house and a Toyota Corolla was parked in the driveway. The copper certainly knew how to pick a house but his taste in cars was shit.

  Case moved quietly along the street trying to keep in the shadows as much as possible. He thought it unlikely that any of the local `hurrah Henrys' would be up and about past midnight. They'd need their beauty sleep so that they could get an early start making money. His sergeant in the Paras had drilled him on the importance of being safe rather than being sorry. He waited ten minutes standing in the shadows directly across from the house. When he had assured himself that he hadn't been observed, he crossed the road and quickly slid under Wilson's Toyota. He removed a pencil light from his coat pocket and put it in his mouth. He pulled himself into a position just under the driver's seat and opened his hold-all. The Semtex was in two small two kilo blocks. He took out one of the blocks and began to mould the dark grey putty-like material. Trust the Czechs to come up with a little baby like this. Just one kilo of Semtex would blow the Toyota and its occupant to smithereens. He pressed the explosive into a crevasse between the chassis and the floor under the driver's seat. He practised laying this type of charge hundreds of times. The explosion would be concentrated right under the driver's seat. He smiled to himself. The bastard wouldn't know what hit him. He wouldn't stand a chance. The first fucking Paddy in outer space. He removed the detonator from the hold all and buried it in the Semtex. His deft fingers led the wires up through the engine housing and under the bonnet of the car. Without moving from underneath the car, he slipped the wires onto the contacts of the starting motor. As soon as the wires were securely fastened, he lay back and examined his handiwork. Perfect. His instructor would have been proud. He grabbed the hold-all and slid out from under the car. Without hesitating, he walked out of Wilson's driveway and back down Malton Drive. He glanced at his watch. It was only twelve thirty. He walked out onto the Upper Malone Road. If the other copper was at home that would really make his night.

  CHAPTER 36

  The shadows of the deserted car park behind the pub on the Ormeau Road concealed Simpson perfectly from any nosy passer-by. It was one o'clock in the morning and the pub had long since disgorged its final customers. The building stood in complete darkness. A shiver passed through him. The bastards were running late. He heard the sound of a powerful engine and moved out of the shadows as a Sherpa van wheeled into the parking lot and made at speed for where he was standing. The van-driver braked hard as he approached him and the rear of the van swung around. The back doors swung open and Simpson dived inside. He threw himself on the floor and felt the course blanket being thrown over his head. The door of the van closed as soon as he was inside and the vehicle accelerated out of the car park. He lay quietly on the floor as the van raced through the darkened streets of Belfast. His heart pounded but he knew better than to take the blanket off himself. When it was safe his handler would let him know.

  After a drive of about five minutes the van began to slow down. Simpson felt the blanket being removed from his head.

  "Richie, my boy," Simpson's handler smiled as he dumped the blanket over a settee which stood against one side of the van. "Sorry for the urgent arrangements."

  "You guys are going to get me killed," Simpson said looking around the rear of the van. He had been in many such vehicles since he'd been 'touting' for the British Secret Service. The van had been fitted out specially to receive people like him. A strong light had been set into the roof and illuminated a table and chairs as well as the settee. This was how the Forces Research Unit of the British Army liked to conduct its business.

  "Let's not exaggerate," the handler said sitting on one of the wooden chairs. "We need to talk." He produced a small bottle of Bushmills from his pocket and offered it to Simpson.

  Simpson took the bottle and drank greedily from it. "What do you want?" he asked passing the bottle back.

  The handler screwed the lid on the bottle and replaced it in his pocket. "Information," he said quietly. "I need to know what you know, Richie. I need to know what's happening."

  "We're all caught up with these murders," Simpson wished that the Brit would pass the bottle back his way. "Billy's in a flap because the PSNI boys want to open up Nichol's file."

  "Why does that put Billy in a flap?"

  The van turned a corner and both men braced themselves against the table which was secured to the floor of the van.

  "Give me a fucking break. You people know more about that than we do. Billy's afraid that some honest policeman will find out what really happened all them years ago in Dungray. But weren't you boys at the heart of it?"

  The handler remained silent while Simpson said a silent prayer for the re-appearance of the Bushmills. The events of the evening had given him a thirst.

  "Billy thinks that the murders are linked to what happened in Dungray but he hasn't got a clue who's behind it."

  "And do you, Richie?"

  "Not a fucking idea. Billy was wonderin' whether Nichol might be the boy behind it."

  "And was he?" the handler's voice was as smooth as silk.

  "I don't think so," Simpson was beginning to sweat. He had a psychological problem every time he met his handler. A little voice inside him told him that this man, whose name he didn't even know, knew his innermost secrets. He'd been trained like some sort of performing dog to completely unburden himself to whoever was his handler at the time. Bouncing around in the rear of the Sherpa van Simpson was wracked with guilt. Not guilt at what he had done but guilt because he hadn't yet told his handler about it.

  "I offed Nichol this evening," the words spilled from his lips.

  "Billy really is in a flap," the handler said coolly. "I assume that he ordered you to do it."

  "That he did. He was afraid that the old bastard was goin' to crack and send him down the crapper." Simpson ran his fingers through his hair feeling its wetness. "I tried to make it look like suicide. I gave it to him in the head. The gun's lying beside him."

  "Not to worry, Richie. We're not too bothered that Nichol is out of the way. We'll make sure that the Plod keep away from you. We wouldn't want such a valuable asset to be destroyed over somebody like Nichol. What about the other murders? Who do you think is behind them?"

  "I told you," Simpson was bathed in relief. They were going to make sure that he'd never be got for Nichol. "We don't have a clue. It's got to be something to do with Dungray but that’s all we know. Willie Rice and the boys are lookin' for the bastard. I wouldn't like to be in his shoes if they get their hands on him."

  "Are you sure you've told me everything?" the handler's voice had not changed in pitch since he'd begun to interrogate Simpson.

  "Are you jokin' me? What the hell do you think I might have kept back.'

  "Good boy, Richie," the handler put his hand inside his jacket and removed a wad of five pound notes. He slid them across the table to Simpson. "Two hundred pounds as usual."

  Simpson picked up the notes and put them into his pocket.

  "And Richie," the handler said his tone hardening. "I want to know the very instant somethi
ng breaks on these murders. For instance I want to know immediately if Rice gets a line on who's behind the killings or on the murderer himself."

  Simpson nodded.

  "And Richie, it's important. Do I make myself understood?"

  "When I know, you'll know. Alright"

  "Good boy," the handler stood and lifted the blanket from the settee. "You know the drill," he said turning to face Simpson.

  "I do surely." Simpson left the seat and lay down on the floor of the van directly in front of the doors. The blanket fell over his head. He lay there in silence wondering how many different touts would be touched for information. Maybe Billy himself was a tout for the Brits. It wouldn't surprise him. The van drove on before coming to an abrupt stop. The doors opened quickly and Simpson was rolled into a dark corner of the car park from which he had been picked up. The Sherpa had disappeared before he had picked himself up.

  CHAPTER 37

  Roy Jennings shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was taking a considerable risk in coming personally to Billy Carlile's office at the Ulster Democratic Front headquarters. Anybody seeing him arriving at or leaving this office after midnight wouldn't need an abacus to put two and two together. But the apparent suicide of Robert Nichol made a meeting with Ulster's mover and shaker indispensable.

  "This thing is going too far, Billy," Jennings said settling himself again in the chair. "That bastard Wilson is trying to turn over our neatly arranged apple cart. He and his team are like a group of pigs poking around in a trough of rubbish. Sooner or later they're going to uncover all the filth we've so carefully buried." He pursed his thin lips. "We should have forced Wilson out years ago."

  "I suppose there's no chance we could replace him with Whitehouse on this one," Carlile said.

  "Out of the question, I'm afraid. All we'd need would be another one of those bloody investigations by some smart copper from Cumberland or some other English backwater. It wouldn't take some smarmer two days to crack George. There's too short a connection between George's brain and his mouth."