Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "Then we'll just have to ride out the storm. We've done it before."

  Jennings was disconcerted by the sight of the man who sat across the desk from him. Carlile's face looked paler than usual and folds of loose flesh hung from his pallid cheeks. He didn't look like a man who was going to be able to tough it out for much longer. The politics of Ulster were beginning to take their toll on the leader of the UDF. Jennings pursed his lips and wondered how many dark secrets were locked away in Carlile's head.

  "You've no idea who's behind the latest killings in East Belfast?" Jennings asked.

  Carlile opened his hands. "I have no idea in the wide world."

  Carlile's face showed no emotion but Jennings couldn't shake the feeling that he was being lied to. For over ten years Jennings had been allied to this powerful politician and that allegiance had paid off handsomely. He was only one step from the top of the career ladder and Carlile would be a vital element if he was to capture the job he had sought since his first day as a recruit. No matter how Carlile was involved, Jennings couldn't desert him now.

  "If by chance you did know anything, there's still time for us to fix things," Jennings knew that he was fishing in very deep waters.

  "Please believe me, Roy," Carlile's face flushed momentarily. "I'm as anxious as you to find the people doing these murders." He stared into the Deputy Chief Constable's eyes. "Sooner or later the boys on the Shankill

  are going to get annoyed watching your lads chasing around after their tails. Then they're going to take things into their own hands. That won't improve our negotiating position with a Prime Minister who's intent on getting out of Ulster as soon as possible. If we want to win this one, we're going to have to convince the Brits that the IRA are the only terrorists."

  "We can't let that happen," Jennings said. An all out war between the UVF and the IRA in West Belfast might seriously disrupt his carefully constructed career. "We have to put a lid on this business for once and for all."

  Carlile stared straight ahead. "We may not be able to stop it. Controlling the new breed at the top of the UVF is like trying to hold onto a team of runaway horses. All those people want is murder and mayhem and the more of it the better. They don't have once ounce of political savvy. All they see is the Brits ready to jettison Ulster and the Papists being put in control. I suppose that we're responsible in our own way for creating the monster. I'm getting more than a little annoyed myself standing up for Rice and his people. There isn't an ounce of difference between them and the IRA. They're a shower of murdering scum."

  "Since when have you been singing this new tune?" Jennings asked.

  "I'm tired, Roy," Carlile said. "Tired of standing before a television camera ranting about the IRA and in the same breath trying to explain the 'frustrations' of the Protestant community. What the hell difference is there between murderers? The IRA justifies their murders by shouting about 'the cause'. The UVF excuses their murders by complaining about their 'frustration'."

  "You need a holiday is all," Jennings said. Carlile looked beat. His time was coming to a close and Jennings would have to make the push for the big job shortly if he was going to be paid back for all the times he'd helped Carlile out. If only they could get over the current crisis. A cold shiver ran down Jennings' spine. The message from the men in his office that afternoon had been crystal clear. Military Intelligence and MI5 had a very specific interest in the murders which had taken place during the past week. Jennings' wasn't to know what that interest was but he was to keep both MI5 and MI informed of every step in the investigation. And nobody outside the four people attending the meeting in his office was to know anything about the involvement of the British Secret Service in the affair. That made Jennings very nervous. He wanted to discuss this event with Carlile but he wasn't about to fly in the face of MI5.

  "I'd better be going," Jennings’ nervousness was getting the better of him. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'll do my best to keep Wilson away from the UDF but you've got to keep a lid on things in West Belfast."

  "We're sitting on a powder keg, Roy," Carlile sat back in his chair "One false move and the whole thing goes up. You, me, everybody connected with us will be caught in the blast. Wilson didn’t get anything out of Nichol. You can take my word on that. We must keep our nerve and look out for one another. Do you understand me, Roy."

  Jennings nodded.

  "Sleep well, Roy." Billy Carlile forced a smile but he felt that his tame policeman would have difficulty in complying.

  As soon as Jennings left the room, Carlile closed his eyes. Lord but he was tired. He had hoped to die before all the evil they had set in motion during the nineteen seventies came home to roost. He and his party colleagues had purposely created the political vacuum into which the terrorists of both camps had gratefully jumped. Giving up their own responsibility as politicians was a ploy they had used to force the Brits back onside. In fact, they had handed over the city of Belfast and perhaps the whole Province of Ulster to the most evil beast they could have imagined. He had been foolish enough to think that it was controllable but he had been wrong. They had opened Pandora's box and they were going to have to pay. His own responsibility in the Province's history was beginning to weigh on him. He'd been able to justify the excesses of his co-religionists with the rallying cry of 'No Surrender' but how could any cry explain away the depravity of Lennie Murphy and the butchers. The business with Nichol might wipe away whatever political reputation he had left. He didn't regret the decision to save Nichol's bacon. If they'd let Nichol swing then he and the party would have swung with him. He ran his hand over his bald pate. He was as bad as the scum in the UVF. He'd ordered Nichol’s death to save his own political reputation.

  "To what depths descended," he said under his breath as he pushed himself slowly out of his chair. "To what depths descended."

  CHAPTER 38

  Wilson stretched out his arm in the bed and ran his fingers across the smooth skin of Kate's shoulders. She slept with her back to him her curly blond hair silhouetted against the whiteness of the pillow. He turned and pressed himself into her buttocks. She felt warm and smooth. He let his hand run over her breasts and then down her buttocks to the softness between her legs. She moved into his hand and pushed her buttocks against his erect penis. He slipped into her and they made love gently until he could contain himself no longer and he ejaculated. Their lovemaking the previous night had been tireless. Better than either of them could ever remember. Both seemed to be searching for some higher level of release from the coupling of their bodies. There were important demons to exorcise. He had been totally sated. He held her and kissed her bare shoulders.

  "I didn't think that you had anything left after last night," she mumbled and curled into sleep again. “Working with that attractive female constable must have given you some added zest. Did you try to bed her yet?”

  “She could be my daughter,” he laughed but realised that given half a chance he might have attempted to bed her during the past week. “I’m a clapped out old copper. You’re the only one who can raise me to action.”

  He slipped out of the bed taking care not to disturb her. It was a strange feeling sleeping with a woman after such a long period of abstinence. He crossed to the bathroom and stood in the shower cubicle. Where do we go from here? he thought as he turned on the water and stood under the hot stream. He knew that he had been wrong to shut Kate out during all those long months of loneliness. But what could he offer her? He was an ageing copper who had reached his zenith in the Force ten years earlier. If he was lucky he would be allowed to reach retirement with the exalted rank of DCI. There was the distinct possibility that he would fall into one of the traps his colleagues occasionally laid for him and that he would wind up pounding the beat again. What future was that to offer anyone? Perhaps he should have listened to Susan. Would it really have been so difficult for him to have become a Lodge member and used his fleeting fame to push himself up the ladder? A picture of Jenni
ngs flitted across his mind. Hell no, he thought. At least he was able to look at himself in the mirror every morning. But maybe she was right about getting out. Perhaps it was time to plan for the day when he could hand his warrant card in and give the job the two fingered salute. The water streamed over him and he began to soap himself. Was this really the first day of his new life? he asked himself as the water poured over him. Could an old dog get sense and maybe learn a few new tricks. It had never happened in his experience. He'd just have to wait and see.

  Sergeant George Whitehouse poured the hot water into the cup and stirred until the instant coffee was totally dissolved. He bit into the stale cheese sandwich and then tossed the remnants into the rubbish bin. The food in the station canteen had to be better than this crap. He could have breakfast later. His wife was off looking after her demented parents in Londonderry and he was left to fend for himself. That’s the way his marriage had been. Every time her parents whistled she was off to them on the first train and to hell with him. This morning George had a hell of a headache. Add to that the fact that he’d woken early and couldn’t get back to sleep and you had one very sore bear. Every time that his wife was away he piled on the booze. Their only child had pissed off to London as soon as she’d finished her A-levels and they were lucky if she dropped by once a year to see if they were still alive. He sipped the coffee and wondered what Wilson would have in store for him to-day. It had better be something light. That McElvaney woman was wheedling her way in pretty well. The Chief was a sucker for a pretty face. He wondered whether he’d already scored with her. Rumour had it that Wilson had screwed every female officer in the Station. The bastard would get up on the crack of dawn. He picked up the cup of coffee and made his way into the lounge. He pressed the remote control to bring the television to life. Wilson might be a bit of a lad with the women but he was a damn good copper. The problem was he was too good. Real life isn’t like the cinema. Real life was about sucking up to the brass to get ahead. You never saw the TV cops licking their bosses asses but that was the only road up in the modern police force. Wilson licked no one’s ass. That was why they couldn’t trust him. Some day they’d get rid of him and that would be his chance to move up. Until then he was going to do everything he was told to do.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost time for the news. He flicked the remote to the BBC.

  "The body of Robert Nichol the former politician and civil servant was found at his home early this morning. Mr Nichol died from a gunshot wound."

  He almost dropped the coffee cup as he bent quickly and increased the volume.

  "Mr Nichol, who was active in the politics of the Province during the early nineteen seventies, had recently suffered a serious illness. The police do not suspect foul play." The newsreader moved on to the next story.

  They finally got to Nichol, he thought to himself. It had been alright to disappear the file but someone had decided that Robbie Nichol had become hot again. He wondered what Wilson will make of that one.

  He knocked off the television and returned to the kitchen. He threw the remains of his coffee into the sink and quickly rinsed the empty cup. It was time to get to the Station. He closed the door of his small semi-detached in Rosemary Street.

  The Ford was parked exactly where he'd left it the previous evening. When he tied one on he was sometimes surprised to find the car in front of his house the following morning. That car probably knew it’s way home. He walked briskly towards the car and opened the driver's door. He smiled to himself. The police did not suspect foul play in the Nichol death. That was a bloody joke. Once Wilson got his teeth into that one there’d be hell to pay. He took his place behind the wheel and slipped the key into the ignition. The key made a slight clicking sound before it engaged the starting motor. The world disintegrated around him. His eardrum blew out and the force of the explosion tore his body open. The pain was excruciating but short lived. He was dead before the fire had started to consume what the explosion had left of his corpse.

  Wilson raised the volume of his radio when he heard Nichol's name being mentioned. He listened carefully to the news report and then slammed his fist into the kitchen table. The place settings, which he had carefully laid for Kate and himself, jumped with the impact of the blow. Nichol was dead and their chances of getting a lead on the motive for the killings had disappeared with him. They had been so close. And why now? If only they'd had the chance to interrogate Nichol further. The bastard would have cracked. He was sure of it. He smiled when he heard the final phrase about the police not suspecting foul play. That was a piece of horseshit. Someone somewhere was running scared. Moira and the magic box was beginning to prise up a stone and all the little beasties underneath were beginning to tear at each other afraid of being caught in the light. Nichol had become exposed and represented a threat to the status quo. Therefore, he'd had to die. Suicide my arse, he thought.

  He became aware of the noise of bacon sizzling on the pan over the gas fire.

  "Shit!," he looked down at four pieces of very well done bacon. He'd wanted everything to be perfect.

  "I like my bacon well done," she stood in the doorway watching him. "There's no need to get all temperamental about your cooking."

  He stood watching her for a moment. "It was supposed to be perfect." His case had just been blown by Nichol's death but he still managed to smile.

  "It is," she walked forward and kissed him. "Christ, I must look a mess." She sat down at the table.

  He stared at her. “You’re the most perfect mess I’ve ever seen.” He recovered the charred bacon from the pan and put it on the plates beside the poached eggs and the fried tomato. He put one of the plates in front of her and took the other place at the table. "I made coffee and tea."

  "Covering all bets." She covered his hand with hers. "I'm glad I came here last night."

  "So am I," he said. "And I'm sorry for being such a bloody fool."

  "It was understandable," she said biting on a piece of toast. "I have great difficulty seeing a great big hulk like you moping around being sorry for himself out of a misplaced sense of guilt."

  "I don't think that guilt has anything to do with size," he said beginning to eat.

  "With me size is everything," she smiled and looked at him.

  A smile flitted across his lips.

  "Come on, lighten up," she said.

  "What happens next?"

  "Who the hell cares? Let's just take it one step at a time." She forked some egg into her mouth.

  "And the future?" he asked.

  "To hell with the future," she said. "Living in Ulster makes one very aware that living is a day by day experience. Even when Susan was alive I never asked you to leave her. That was your idea. Since we're together again there are no pre-conditions. We give it a try and we see how things go. Have your breakfast like a good man."

  "My appetite's a wee bit off," he said.

  "Something to do with me?" The smile faded from her face.

  "No. I just heard on the news that Robert Nichol topped himself."

  "So what," she relaxed and continued to eat her breakfast. "He won't be missed. I never had much time for any of those fundamentalist bible thumpers."

  "McElvaney and myself interviewed Nichol yesterday on the Patterson and Peacock murders. It turns out that both Patterson and Peacock were resident at Dungray when Nichol was in charge there."

  Kate immediately stopped eating. "That’s just too much of a coincidence. I've got the most awful feeling about this business. Ian, you've got to be extra careful. I don’t trust Jennings. Actually the only person I really trust is you."

  "You think that Jennings had something to do with Nichol taking his own life? That's a bit far fetched even for here."

  "I'd put nothing beyond that bastard," she stood up and moved behind him cradling his head in her arms. "Promise me that you'll take extra care from now on."

  He kissed her hands. "I promise. Nichol was on edge when we spoke to him yesterda
y. Maybe our visit pushed him over the edge."

  "That doesn't sound like the Robert Nichol I remember," she planted a kiss on the top of his head. "It's about time I was out of here. You won’t believe this but I have an interview this morning for a place in chambers."

  “What’s the expression for barristers. Is it break a leg?” He looked at his watch. "Jesus, is that the time. I should have been at the office half an hour ago myself. You've only been here overnight and already you're distracting me." He stood up and held her in his arms. "Thanks," he said kissing her.

  The ringing of a mobile telephone split the air.

  "Not now," he said.

  "Go on answer it," she said straightening her clothes. "We can distract each other to-night."

  "That's a promise," he said heading for the phone.

  She watched him walking away from her. Maybe it was her imagination but he seemed to have regained some of his bounce. He looked more like the old Ian Wilson. You stupid bloody woman, she thought to herself. She was old enough not to try and deceive herself. They were good for one another and she would try to keep their relationship on the rails but she had no illusions. Ian Wilson was a maverick. Anything could happen with him and to make matters worse it probably would. But what the hell. At least she would enjoy the ride.

  "Yes," he said into the phone.

  "I've got some bad news inspector," the Station Sergeant's voice was sombre. "We’ve had a report that a car has been blown up in Rosemary Street. It was a Ford registered to George Whitehouse.” The Duty Sergeant hesitated. “We’ve recovered a badly burned body at the scene which we are assuming are George’s remains. I’m sorry, sir. All the lads are."

  "Oh Jesus, no." the words exploded from his mouth. He pulled in a deep breath to quell his rising panic. What the hell was going on? George Whitehouse blown to pieces. What possible reason could there be for killing George? His mind raced. He could visualise George as he had last seen him. He'd get whoever did it. Whether they were inside or outside the PSNI he would get them and he would nail their skins to the wall. "Are you positive it’s him??" he asked when he found his voice.