Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "Yes, boss," Graham replied.

  "Pass the word. Anyone caught fucking around with this investigation is going to pay a heavy price. I'm off to Castlereagh to stir some shit."

  Jennings’ Secretary was seated behind her desk when Wilson walked in the door.

  "I want to see him, now," he said.

  "I’m sorry but you’ll have to make an appointment." She looked directly into his strained face. Her hand moved towards the telephone.

  Wilson ignored her and opened the door to Jennings' office without knocking.

  Jennings’ phone was ringing as he looked up from his desk. He picked up the receiver and said OK.

  "What the hell is the meaning of this, DCI Wilson?" Jennings’ replaced the receiver and turned to face his visitor. "Nobody but nobody just barges into my office like this."

  "You can stuff your procedures up your arse," Wilson leaned his bulk across the desk separating the two men. "One of my detectives was blown to shit this morning."

  "I can understand your indignation and anger at DS Whitehouse’s death but it doesn't give you the right to invade my office in this manner. I greatly regret George’s death and, in fact, I've just been on the phone expressing my condolences to his widow. I assume you’ve had the good grace to do the same."

  Wilson tapped his forehead. "I'm about up to here with your shit. You don't give a fiddlers for George Whitehouse or any other constable on this Force. You'd sit on a mountain of corpses as long as it got you where you want to go. Yesterday you refused me access to Nichol's file. To-day both Nichol and Whitehouse are dead." He leaned across the desk until his face was only inches from Jennings'. "Does that strike you as coincidental?"

  Jennings didn't waver under Wilson's physical pressure. "You've been a policeman long enough to know that anything is possible."

  "You don't think that it's strange that just one day after we interview Nichol that both he and one of the investigating officers are murdered. And it would have been both investigating officers if everything had gone to plan. Maybe you can answers me this. Why was Nichol so bloody important that a police interview with him leads to both his and George’s death?"

  "I've heard about your lucky escape," Jennings pushed his swivel chair back from the desk. "Nichol's death is not being regarded as suspicious. It's a clear case of suicide. He was found in his living-room with the gun still in his hand. Perhaps you should examine your own conscience about the role your visit may have played in unhinging the poor man's mind."

  "Bullshit. I don't care if somebody took a video of him shooting himself. I don't buy it. That boy was buried up to his armpits in something dirty. He was murdered because his accomplices thought he might crack. What about the missing file on the Jamison murder? Somebody removed that file and that somebody is probably still around here somewhere. I want access to Nichol's computer file."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," Jennings said.

  Wilson walked around Jennings' desk catching his foot on the raised platform on which Jennings' chair was set. He grabbed his superior's collar and pulled him out of his chair. "You are fucking unbelievable. Dead bodies are turning up with monotonous regularity. Someone has blown up one police officer and attempted to blow up another and you persist in impeding this investigation. Watch my lips. I want access to that file, now."

  "You are one step away from being suspended," Jennings' bravado was belied by eyes that bulged with fear.

  Wilson wondered who Jennings was afraid of, him or somebody else? He drew back his right fist. "Now."

  "I said I can't give it to you," there was a catch in Jennings' voice. He added quickly. "It is a question of national security. Nichol was mixed up with Military Intelligence in the mid nineteen seventies. He was being used by them for some of their intelligence operations. Even I'm not privy to all the details but you'll certainly never get access to Nichol's file."

  Military Intelligence were involved after all. Everyone in Ulster knew about the `dirty tricks' campaign. During the nineteen eighties and nineties some smart alicks at the Forces Research Unit had got out of hand and set up public figures. Sometimes their methods weren't so subtle or their bedfellows so palatable. But how did Nichol fit in? The man had been some kind of second division politician and raving Protestant fundamentalist preacher. Maybe that was his introduction to the world of military intelligence. But he was also the warden of a boy's home and a leading suspect in a bizarre homosexual murder. Robert Nichol was ideal material for a `dirty tricks' operation. He thought back to the previous night and the man called Gardiner who he had stopped at Girwood Park. The bastard may well have been the genuine article but now they would never know. If he really was M.I., he wouldn't be left in their hands for more time than it took to get a car around to Tennent Street to get him out. It was entirely possible that the `professional' they'd been looking for was a member of some obscure branch of the British Secret Service. But why did the Secret Service need to murder nobodies like Patterson, Peacock and Bingham? A wave of despondency washed over him. Where could he go from here? Jennings had a self-satisfied look on his face. He couldn't shake the feeling that the smirking bastard was part of the whole rotten scheme of things.

  Wilson grabbed the two arms of the Deputy Chief Constable's chair and bent down to face him. "You can tell your contacts at Military Intelligence that they had better not be involved in either the East Belfast murders or in George’s murder. You can also tell them that no matter what barriers they put in the way I'm going to get to the bottom of this business irrespective of what kind of worms get dredged up." He stood back and started to cross the office towards the door.

  Jennings straightened his tunic and looked at the departing back of his detective inspector. "For your sake, I'm going to forget what has happened between us in this office this morning. DS Whitehouse’s death has obviously been a great shock to you. Otherwise your behaviour towards a senior officer would be unpardonable. But I warn you Chief Inspector, one more act of insubordination and you’ll be pounding a beat in Crossmaglen."

  Wilson looked over his shoulder and then left the room without speaking.

  Jennings watched the door close. Wilson posed the single greatest threat to his ambition of becoming the chief constable of the PSNI. Why hadn't the bloody bomb killed the awkward bastard? Jennings put his head in his hands. Nichol dead and Whitehouse murdered in the same twenty four hour period as the fourth victim of Wilson's `professional'. `C' Division was becoming awash with dead bodies. The sins they had committed in the Province's name were returning to haunt them. Jennings picked up the telephone and dialled Carlile's number. Only Billy would know what to do in these circumstances.

  Wilson exited Jennings’ office and paused for a moment beside the Secretary’s desk. A light plinked on the telephone handset on her desk indicating that Jennings was on the phone. I wonder who you’ve rushed to for succour, Wilson thought as he moved towards the door of the outer office.

  CHAPTER 41

  Case woke later than usual. It had been after two o'clock in the morning when he'd finally hit the sack. Placing the bombs had been a piece of cake but he had decided to walk the two miles between Wilson's house in Malwood Park and Whitehouse’s place in Rosemary Street. The taxi driver had spooked him. Everybody expected to be examined in Belfast but the taxi driver's interest had been more than passing. He got out of bed reluctantly and immediately began to go through his early morning exercise routine. Keeping fit had become a religion with Case. Even when he wasn't on a job, he kept his daily exercise pattern. The bruise on his side no longer bothered him. He began to do sit-ups. The first hundred were easy but after that he'd have to sweat. As he pumped himself up and down, he wondered about the results of last night's work. "Bang," he said through clenched lips as he pushed towards a hundred and thirty. Things were going pretty smoothly, he decided. Three of his four targets were already dead and there was the bonus of the two policemen. Shit! He should have listened to the news. It was beyond
the hundred and fiftieth sit up that he began to feel the strain. He pushed against the tightness in his stomach. One hundred and sixty. At one hundred and seventy he allowed himself to come to rest with his back on the floor. He remembered the two UVF stiffs who had approached him in the `Black Bear'. The older one had a gut that would have done credit to a woman nine months pregnant. You could always tell a Paddy terrorist by the size of his belly.

  Case stretched his arm up to his locker and switched on the small clock radio he had bought as soon as he'd moved in with Mrs. Maguire. The radio was set to a local station and the sweet voice of Van Morrison filled the air above his head. He rolled over and started the next part of his work-out. He pushed up on his knuckles the way he'd learned in his unarmed combat classes. He would never be able to thank the British government enough for all the time and effort they put into turning him into a killer. The music faded and a jingle led into a news bulletin.

  "Two men have been murdered in Belfast during the past twenty-four hours," the newsreader’s voice sounded young. "Last night in East Belfast, Leslie Bingham, a building worker was shot on the steps of his house in Meadow Street. Police said that Mr Bingham had no connection with either the security forces or the paramilitaries and suspect that the motive for the murder was solely sectarian."

  Case grunted as he pushed himself beyond the thirty press-up mark.

  "Early this morning," the newsreader continued, "a car bomb killed a PSNI constable. Detective Sergeant George Whitehouse died when an explosion, thought to have be caused by the Czech made explosive Semtex, ripped through his car. No group has claimed responsibility for the killing but the police say that the use of Semtex points to a splinter Republican group as the possible culprits."

  Case heaved himself past the fiftieth press-up and collapsed on the floor.

  "A similar explosive device was found under another officer's car in the Malone area of the city and the police have removed the device for a forensic examination."

  "Bollocks!" he said as he lay on the floor, I only got one of the bastards, he thought. He pushed himself off the floor and sat cross-legged beside his bed. It was a bad omen. The reason clients employed Joe Case was because they were sure that the job was going to be done properly. He stood up and began to go through a series of bending and stretching exercises designed to improve his suppleness. Somehow the copper had discovered the bomb. His bonus stood at seven thousand five hundred and the second victim had been alerted. Hitting the copper wouldn't be so easy now. He finished his exercises and crossed his bedroom to the off-white sink. He looked at himself in the chipped mirror. Rivulets of sweat ran from the edge of his cropped hair across his brow and down onto his face and neck. His muscles glistened under the sheen of the sweat. He turned on the tap and sloshed cold water onto his face and his torso. Exercising generally made him feel good but this morning there was something nagging at the back of his mind. The nosy taxi-driver and the botched attempt on the copper could be the start of things going wrong. He should never have taken the contracts on the two coppers. It was too rushed.

  There was a soft knock on the door. He tensed.

  "Are you awake, Joe?" Betty Maguire tried to make her voice sound deep and sexy.

  Case opened the door and put his head out to face his landlady. He nearly laughed. The old bag had tarted herself up. She'd managed to get the hair right but her hand hadn't been steady enough to apply the lipstick. The top of her upper lip and chin had been liberally covered with the garish red colour. For a second she reminded him of his mother, the dirty old slut. "What can I do for you, Mrs M?" he forced a smile.

  "I thought we might spend a little time together," the leer on Betty Maguire's face left no doubt as to what she had in mind.

  Oh fuckin' hell, he thought, looking into her cow-like face, she’s in love. "Not to-day, Mrs M, I'm a bit busy, see." In just two more days, I'll never have to look at her stupid Paddy face again, he thought.

  "You seemed happy enough with me before," Betty Maguire put on her petulant pout. She wasn't giving up so easily.

  "That was before," he said harshly, "now why don't you piss off like a good woman."

  Mrs Maguire hunched her shoulders. "Maybe I'll piss off and go searchin' for them two boys who came around here this mornin' askin' questions about somebody who could very well be you."

  He was instantly alert. Surely he hadn't left any traces. "What two boys were they, Mrs M?"

  "Two local boys who are connected, if you know what I mean."

  He knew well what Betty Maguire meant. It was the men from the ‘Black Bear’ looking for a bit of revenge. Maybe he’d gone a bit over the top takin’ that guys fingers off. He didn’t need the aggro now but that’s the way the cards had been dealt.

  "They wanted to know whether there were any strangers about," Mrs Maguire continued without prompting. "Sure we had a great chat there on the front step. They're lookin' for a fellah who bears a remarkable resemblance to you. It seems this fellah roughed up four of their men in a fight a few nights ago. They think he's livin' around here and they were canvasin' the whole street."

  So the fight at the Black Bear had been his undoing. All he needed was a couple of UVF thugs on his tail. It was too close to the end of the job for this type of complication. His earlier apprehension had been justified. It was easy to explain the taxi-driver's interest now. The taxis were owned and run by the paramilitaries so they obviously formed the front line of the information gathering crew. He'd have to move out of here quickly but where would he go. Everything had been so well planned and all of a sudden the plan was in crap.

  "You know me Mrs. M. I wouldn't hurt a fly. I hope you didn't shop me." he said innocently.

  "You can rest easy, Joe," Betty Maguire pushed in the door of his bedroom, "I told them nothing about you." She walked into the room and looked appreciatively at his bare torso. "The fellah they described seemed a little like you but there's no way I'd hand you over to people like that. Those boys would murder you as quick as they'd look at you."

  A smile spread over his face. All wasn't lost. He wouldn't have to move because the bastards still didn't know where he was. Maybe, just maybe, he could still get his business done and get out of Belfast in one piece. His only real problem stood directly in front of him. The old bag had become a liability. If he had a future in the killing business, Mrs. Maguire would have to die.

  "I think you probably did the right thing, Mrs M," he moved to the battered tallboy and pulled a shirt out of the drawer. "I'm grateful to you."

  "You're not putting on your shirt are you?" Betty Maguire put on her best coquette look. "You haven't shown me yet just how grateful you are."

  "Not yet," he dropped the shirt back into the drawer and removed his combat knife in the same swift movement. He crossed the gap between himself and Betty Maguire and threw his arms around her. She turned her badly painted mouth up towards his. "You're a darlin' girl, Betty," he said sliding the razor sharp knife through her clothing and past her ribs into her heart. He held her tightly as the smile faded from her painted face. Her body spasmed and then went limp.

  He pulled out the knife and let her body slide onto the ground. As a professional, he hated mindless killing but Betty Maguire's big mouth was going to get him killed if he hadn't stilled it. A pool of bright red blood stained the worn carpet at his feet. There was no need to clean up the mess. The body wouldn't be found for days. He pulled the eiderdown off the bed and wrapped it around the still warm body. Then he lifted up the bundle and carried it into the empty room beside his own. Living in the same house as a corpse meant nothing to him. He'd spent two days sitting in a dug-out on in Bosnia with two Serbs whose throats he'd cut from ear to ear. He didn't believe in the afterlife or ghosts. In his book, when you were dead you stayed dead.

  He slipped out of his blood-stained boxer shorts and tossed them on the floor close to the spot where Betty Maguire had lain. He carefully cleaned his body with a wet sponge and towelled himself vig
orously when he had finished. Even with Betty Maguire dead his days in Belfast were numbered. He smiled to himself. The PSNI and the thugs of the UVF were both out to get him and he was going to outwit the whole bloody lot of them. He extended the index finger of his right hand, cocked his thumb and pointed at the mirror above the sink. Bam, bam, 'Rambo' Case.

  CHAPTER 42

  Wilson arrived outside the offices of the Ulster Democratic Front in Sandy Row at exactly ten minutes past eleven. The Toyota had been cleared by the bomb squad and he had been returned to Malwood Park to collect it. On the journey back to the centre of Belfast, he ran over the events of the past few days in his head. Five murders had been committed without a single clue as to who the perpetrator or perpetrators might be. The motive was still unclear although he was now certain that it had something to do with Dungray Home for Boys and Robert Nichol. Whoever had placed the bombs knew where he and Whitehouse lived as well as the cars they drove. That information was strictly on a need-to-know basis. Maybe they had been followed over the past few days? If they had it had been a very professional job. The bastard who had set the bombs had known exactly where to find them. As he had suspected, the bomb boys were unable to recognise the bomb as being set by one of their regulars. He thought about the `professional'. There was no reason why the man shouldn't be as well versed in explosives as he was in guns. But why turn his attention to Whitehouse and himself when they weren't even close to finding him?

  He switched off the motor and slammed his hand into the steering column. The frustration was getting to him. Unless he collared the killer soon both he, and by extension Kate, would be in grave danger. He didn't care much for his own miserable hide but George Whitehouse was the last person who was going to die because of his stupidity.

  The offices of the Ulster Democratic Front were housed in a building which had formerly consisted of a ground floor shop with accommodation on the two floors above. He entered the front door and found that the shop had been transformed into a large reception area. He looked around the tastefully decorated room. The receptionist sat at a desk to the left of the door, a picture of the founder of the UDF glaring across her shoulder. At the other side of the room, two large men in almost identical blue suits sat on a couch. Carlile's minders looked up from their newspapers and examined him.