Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "I've a meeting with Mr Carlile at eleven fifteen," Wilson said standing before the secretary's desk.

  “Chief Inspector Wilson?" the secretary asked.

  Wilson nodded. "The very same."

  "He's expecting you. His office is on the first floor at the rear of the building." She turned her head in the direction of a white staircase at the rear of the room.

  "Thanks." He moved towards the staircase expecting one of the minders to intercept him on route and frisk him. The two men remained seated and simply watched his progress towards the staircase.

  "Chief Inspector Wilson," Carlile stood on the first floor landing with his hand extended. "It's always a pleasure to meet with the brave constables of the PSNI. One of your colleagues was murdered by a terrorist bomb this morning. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I’ve already sent a message of condolence to the poor man’s wife."

  Wilson didn't respond but simply shook Carlile's hand and followed him towards the rear of the building. As he walked behind the founder of the UDF, he thought that the years had not been kind to Carlile. The two men were almost the same height but Carlile's tall thin body was beginning to hunch and Wilson had noticed brown flecked pouches of skin hanging on what had been twenty years before the striking face of Protestant resistance.

  "Please sit down, Inspector." Carlile took his place behind the desk in what had once been a back bedroom in the original house.

  Wilson saw spats of rainwater begin to run down the only window in the room which overlooked a small concrete yard at the rear of the house. A tall barbed wire fence surmounting the outside walls of the yard was visible through the rain splattered pane of glass. He looked away from the window and sat in the chair which Carlile had indicated.

  "Well, Chief Inspector, we're always pleased to receive a visit from the members of our security forces."

  Wilson looked directly at Carlile. As in Jennings office, the wall behind him was covered in photos depicting the leader of the UDF in proximity to the great and the good. Pride of place on the wall went to a photo of Carlile in close conversation with President Clinton. Ranged around the centre-piece were photos of the leader of the UDF with lesser but nonetheless important beings. The message was clear. The man seated across from him represented about as much influence as could be wielded in the province of Ulster.

  "I'm afraid my visit is of an official nature," Wilson said crossing his legs.

  "I've never liked the air of formality that accompanies an official police visit," Carlile said punching a button on his desk. "I don't suppose you'd have any objection to one of my assistants attending the interview. Very often there's a degree of disagreement later about what exactly was said during one of these official visits."

  Wilson shook his head. "I have no objection." He was never happy dealing with members of the political fraternity. Divining the truth from the statements of the criminal classes was a cake walk in comparison with the politicians who had raised lying to an art form.

  "Send Richie up," Carlile said into an intercom on his desk. "Well, Chief Inspector, should we commence."

  Wilson leaned forward in his chair. "I'm investigating a series of murders in Belfast over the past week."

  One of the men who had been seated downstairs entered the room.

  "This is Richie Simpson," Carlile said introducing the new arrival.

  "I've heard of him," Wilson didn't offer his hand. What he'd heard about Simpson hadn't been good. He was a known ex-hard man who'd seen the error of his ways and nowadays believed in the political process as a way to preserve Protestant Ulster. Bullshit, he thought, once a terrorist always a terrorist. Simpson slouched into a chair beside his mentor. Wilson took an instant dislike to the man.

  "You were saying, Chief Inspector," Carlile continued. "You are investigating these heinous sectarian murders."

  "Yes, and in the course of my inquiries I had reason to speak with Robert Nichol."

  "Ah, yes, poor Robert," Carlile interrupted a little too quickly "A brave servant of the people of Ulster. His tragic death will be felt by us all. I personally was very close to Robert and I've accepted to give the eulogy at his funeral."

  "There are a couple of peculiar coincidences connecting Robert Nichol to our current investigation."

  Carlile leaned across the desk. "You mean you suspected Robert Nichol of murder. You cannot be serious, Detective Inspector."

  "I didn't say that he was suspected of murder. What I would say is that I believe that he had information which could have been vital in helping us solve these murders."

  "Now that the poor man has taken his own life it's unlikely you'll ever get that vital information. It's the curse of this Province that the police always seem to be hamstrung in their efforts to bring the murderer to justice. If I or my associates can help," Carlile turned and looked at Simpson, "we surely will."

  "I was hoping you'd say that, sir. You see all the murdered men were residents of the Dungray Home for Boys during the period when Nichol was the warden. As I've already said, I interviewed him only yesterday and I felt, rightly or wrongly, that he was withholding information. By an amazing coincidence, he takes his own life on the evening after we interview him. By another coincidence, the other investigating officer on the cases, DS Whitehouse, was blown to pieces and an attempt was made on my life."

  "Will this madness never stop," Carlile sat bolt upright in his chair. "I heard the reports on the radio but I had no idea that the officer in question was you. You're a very lucky man indeed, Inspector."

  Wilson smiled in admiration. Carlile was one of the best 'handlers' that he'd ever seen. His concern actually appeared genuine.

  "We've looked into the files at Headquarters and quite honestly there isn't much information on Mr Nichol's activities while he was at Dungray. I understand that you and he were quite close at the time and I wonder whether you could give me any details which could help me."

  Carlile let himself slide back in his chair. The question was how much information to give the man from Tennent Street. He had heard quite a lot about Ian Wilson and what he had heard was borne out by his first impressions. Wilson was a tough honest copper and nobody's fool. Once he got the bit between his teeth it would be a hard ride for everybody concerned. He would have to tread carefully the narrow bridge between appearing to help the man and yet making sure that the water remained as muddied as possible. It would be no easy feat.

  "I’m trying to think how I might be of assistance to you," Carlile began warily. "Robert was a fundamentalist Protestant like myself and had already established some sort of loose Protestant association of young men before I decided to found the UDF. I knew him, of course, as a fellow politician, although he was strictly second rate."

  Wilson was left to draw the obvious inference.

  Carlile continued. "Then Robert tired of politics and seemed to drop out of sight. I've only had sporadic contact with him since then."

  "Would his virtual retirement from politics have had anything to do with his being implicated in a homosexual murder of one of the boys in his home?"

  Carlile winced involuntarily. "I am not aware that he had been implicated in any such affair."

  Wilson let Carlile's response stand although he felt the man was lying through his teeth. "Do you have any idea why his file is restricted for security reasons?"

  Carlile was beginning to see the danger in Wilson continuing to probe in the direction of links between the UDF and Nichol. It was time to toss the Chief Inspector a bone. "You understand, Chief Inspector, that a man in my position gets to hear a great many things about the more dubious happenings in this Province." Carlile was encouraged by Wilson's nod. "In Robert's case there was a great deal of gossip. For example, it was widely believed in the nineties that there was a strong connection between Robert and a `dirty tricks' group within Military Intelligence."

  "Can you be more explicit?" Wilson asked. That was two mentions in one day of the connection between the recen
tly deceased Robert Nichol and Military Intelligence. He could almost feel himself being led along by the nose. He had already decided that he was going to play along. The phrase ‘dead men tell no tales’ ran through his mind.

  "I don't know all the details," Carlile pressed his two skeletal hands together in front of his face. "It appears that a group of intelligence personnel decided to implement a rather unofficial programme of discrediting major political figures. Myself included I should hasten to add. Some of their ruses were relatively crude, such as setting up bogus bank accounts in the name of a public figure and effecting payments to that account which would be consistent with bribery. That was what happened in my case. Where the targets were more partial to sins of the flesh, their pleasures were catered for and were then documented in great detail. In effect, Military Intelligence set up an unofficial blackmail operation."

  "And Nichol was part of this `dirty tricks' sex network?" Wilson asked his mind racing because of the information he'd just received.

  "That was what was rumoured at the time. I'm afraid Robert's sexual preferences ran to his own sex. We shouldn't malign the dead but I suppose nothing can hurt him now. I must warn you, Inspector, that what I am telling you cannot be proven. The tracks of this operation have been well and truly covered."

  But it was so bloody plausible, Wilson thought. If Military Intelligence was tying up some loose ends, that would explain everything. It would also close the door on his investigation. This was the broadest hint he had yet received. In Ulster British Military Intelligence was taboo. Case closed. Time to go home.

  "Is there anybody I could contact who could give me concrete details of what you’ve just told me?" Wilson asked with obvious excitement in his voice.

  Carlile started to laugh. "The only man who could have helped you is lying dead in a mortuary at this moment. Don't you remember the number of coincidental deaths of people involved in the Kennedy assassination? These people are trained to cover their tracks. Everything that you've heard in this room will remain in the realm of rumour and gossip. That is unless someone from the inside comes forward and exposes the whole rotten scheme. For my own part, I can tell you no more."

  "I can't tell you how much you've helped me," Wilson stood to leave. He had no idea how he was going to proceed but at least the fuzz which had been clouding his brain was beginning to lift. He could see an embryo of a motive developing. He had no doubt that the man McColgan had stopped near Girwood Park was the murderer and that he was possibly connected to Military Intelligence. He was being skilfully led into a cul-de-sac where he would be conveniently parked until ‘they’ decided what to do with him. He wondered which rural enclave was going to get the benefit of his services. And just how long he was going to be permitted to live by the maggots under the rock he'd turned over? If he exposed them, he was facing a lifetime of looking over his shoulder.

  The leader of the UDF made no move to stand up and Wilson leaned across the desk to shake his bony hand. "The best of luck, Chief Inspector, I hope you get your murderer," Carlile said as he shook his hand. He motioned to Simpson to stay where he was.

  Carlile watched Wilson's back disappear down the stairs.

  "Why the hell did you tell him all that?" Simpson asked.

  Carlile put a finger against his thin lips. He waited about one minute and then pushed a button on the intercom. "Is he gone?"

  "Yes," the secretary replied.

  The leader of the UDF sat back in his chair a wide smile creasing the white flesh which stretched across his cheeks. "The reason I imparted a morsel of information to DCI Wilson, Richie, is that I was working on the principal that you don't get something without giving something up. Our main fear was that Wilson would start probing around into our involvement in covering up Nichol's little incident with Jamison. I've managed to point him at a maze from which there is no exit. The sex ring which was set up by Military Intelligence with Robert's help is as real as the nose on your face but delving into it is going to be the most frustrating experience of the DCI’s career. With Robert dead the only weak link in the chain has ceased to exist. The ranks will close behind one another and Wilson will find himself running around in circles. Nobody on the Army side is going to admit that Military Intelligence used a boy's home as a brothel for homosexual politicians and civil servants they wanted to set up."

  "But if Wilson gets frustrated trying to nail M.I., maybe he'll turn his attention back to us."

  "Our only weak link died with Robert as well," Carlile sat forward and looked into his lieutenant's face. "But just for good measure we're going to cement our relationship with the Chief Inspector. We're going to give him the murderer of those men in East Belfast and that's where you come in. I want you to get to Rice. If the killer is in Belfast, Rice will eventually find him. Promise him anything because I want to be the one that hands DCI Wilson his man on a silver platter and I want to do it to-day."

  "But what if Rice can't find him?" Simpson asked.

  "If the stakes are high enough? Rice will produce the goods," Carlile said confidently, "I leave it in your capable hands, Richie, but I want to hand him over to-day." The leader of the UDF shuffled a wad of papers on his desk signifying that the interview was over.

  CHAPTER 43

  Wilson's mood was black as he drove through the rain soaked streets towards Tennent Street. He finally knew where his case was going. Nowhere. What a bloody idiot he'd been. It had been staring him in the face since he had looked down on Patterson’s blood soaked corpse and he had still failed to see it. He pictured George’s round peasant face. Why had George been murdered? He could see that someone might want him off the case but why take out George. The only conclusion he could draw was that George knew something that shouldn’t see the light of day. If that hypothesis was true, what the hell could that have been and what was so secret that George wouldn’t spill it. The rotten bastards, he said softly to himself. Patterson, Peacock, Bingham, Nichol and George: they were all expendable. He'd been expendable too except blind luck in the form of Kate had intervened. They were all pawns in a game in which they hadn't even realised that they were players. Some bastard as yet unknown was issuing death sentences on people he didn't care about. The man carrying out those sentences was probably also a pawn playing out the part which had been allotted to him. Whether he was murdering for money or King and Country didn't matter to Wilson. He was going to have the bastard. He'd been right all along. From the moment he'd seen Patterson's body, he'd known instinctively that they weren't dealing with one of the usual Belfast triggers. He had the outline of the motive for the murders, the existence of the `professional' was effectively established. But he was no nearer to putting his hands on the bastard or his unseen handlers. Please God, he thought, if you have any pity in you at all, let me get this bastard. He'd open the swine up like a fresh oyster and lay bare the maggots who killed with such ease. `Gardiner' was still out there somewhere flashing his Military Intelligence card every time he was near exposure. That bloody card made him 'official' and untouchable. I'll have you, you smug bastard, he thought. And all the bosses in London won't be able to pull you out of my hands when I do nab you. He'd have McColgan in as soon as he reached Tennent Street and get a sketch made of the bastard. If he was still in Belfast, he'd get him. Or maybe putting the murderer's face on the front page of the Belfast Telegraph would only serve to have him whipped back to whatever hidey hole they'd dragged him from. A wave of despair washed over him. Maybe the game was over and the killer had already gone to ground. Unlikely, his instincts screamed. The fact that George had withheld something of importance from him bothered him. Wilson was first and foremost a copper. Nothing interfered with the investigation. Whatever was turned up, however embarrassing to the hierarchy was put on the table. George obviously wasn’t made like that. He’d done the favours and licked the arses and he had paid the price. Whatever he knew was going to be interred with his corpse. Whoever was running the killer probably knew more about their
investigation than they did themselves. It had to be that somebody within the organisation was tracking them and passing on the information. He found himself thinking about Roy Jennings. The sneaky little bastard would crawl up whatever arse was necessary to get to the top of the totem pole. His mind flipped through the other possibilities. It could be any one of the detectives in the Murder Squad. Northern Ireland was the quintessential totalitarian state. Nobody was quite sure who was in whose pocket. He would have to live with the conclusion that George had been murdered because he knew too much. That could mean that whatever was taking place wasn't over yet and someone didn't want PSNI paws stuck into their business. He began to relax. Things were probably coming to a head but he still had time. The question was how much. He turned off Sydney Street West into Tennent Street and parked in his usual spot inside the fortress. A blast of wind laden with rain blew across his face as he exited from the car. The rain felt cold and fresh. He lifted his head to the sky focusing on the remains of the observation tower which had once dominated the end of the street. I'm alive, he thought, when I should by rights be dead. George, or whatever was left of him, was lying on a slab in the city morgue while he was celebrating his escape. "If I get him," he said softly speaking to the sky. "No power on earth is going to take him away from me. That's a promise."

  Ivan McIlroy slumped down into an easy chair in the living-room of Rice's terraced house in Woodvale Road. He was bone-tired. His eyes felt like two piss-holes in the snow and he was beginning to feel that he'd never sleep again. He'd been on the go ever since the taxi-driver had reported his suspicions about his passenger the previous evening.