by Derek Fee
"We've got three possibilities," McIlroy said taking the can of beer which Rice offered him. "Two are Brits on temporary jobs with Shorts. They're sharin' a digs on the Crumlin Road right on the edge of our search area."
Rice leaned forward as McIlroy took a slug from the can. He knew his lieutenant and he could tell Ivan had kept the best wine till last.
"The third one is a much more active possibility. While the boys were makin' enquiries in Fortingale Street, some of the residents told them there was a strange lad livin' in one of the houses. But when the boys called around there, the old doll who owns the place swore she doesn't keep lodgers." McIlroy took another slug from the can watching the look of anticipation on his boss's face. "The neighbours described someone who looks very like the boy we're lookin' for. He never seems to be around much during day-time. Keeps himself to himself sort of. Nobody knows whether he works or not. The only thing they're sure of is that there's somebody livin' there for the past week or ten days."
"Jesus Christ" Rice said. "Right under our fucking noses. This bloke has a set of balls whoever he is. How many people are in the house?" he asked sitting on the edge of his chair
"As far as we know just the owner-Mrs Maguire-and our boy," McIlroy drained the can, crushed it and threw it into a waste bin.
"What do you think, Ivan?" Rice could barely contain his excitement.
"I think it's him," McIlroy lay back in the chair. "What I can't make out is why the old doll didn't shop him to us."
"Fucking brilliant," Rice's mind was running through what needed to be done. "Did you leave anybody behind?"
"A neighbour is one of ours. I left two of the boys with him to keep an eye on the place. Nobody stirred out of there this morning so if it's our boy he's still inside. The neighbours have it that the Maguire woman is a dypso. She often doesn't surface for days on end."
"I know you're bolloxed but I want you to get down there. This is one fucker I don't want slippin' through the net. Have you got me now?"
McIlroy shook his head.
"Tell them boys to keep a bloody good eye on that place. You can rest up for a week when we put this business away. You've earned yourself two weeks in the Canaries with this one."
I'll believe it when I see, McIlroy thought and he smiled in appreciation. He'd heard promises like that from Rice plenty of times before.
"I want to be totally clued in. If that bastard moves a muscle out of there I want to know about it pronto. What are the blokes like that you left there?"
"Third division," McIlroy answered trying to stifle a yawn. "Alright for trampling the streets and throwin' a frightener into the Taigs but there's no way I'd put a gun in their hands. They'd more than likely blow their own fucking heads off."
"I want you to organise a stand-by unit. Pick the best lads that we've got and arm them to the teeth. We'll keep them holed up in the Riverside in case we need them. That bastard showed how dangerous he is at the `Black Bear'. You better put the local unit on the alert as well. We might need a couple of extra bodies urgently."
McIlroy moved slowly out of the chair. "That's a tall order," he said. "I'd better get on it right away." He started walking towards the front door, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "I hope all this effort is goin' to be worth it."
"Take it from me, Ivan," Rice said, "we're going to turn that boy in Fortingale Street into his weight in cash."
Wilson punched the `Leaning Towers of Pisa' stacks of files which covered his desk and sent them flying across the floor of his tiny office. Several other piles of documents on the desk tottered briefly before regaining their stability. Frustration was building to a crescendo. Since returning from Castlereagh to Tennent Street, he had been frustrated beyond all acceptable limits. One of his men had been slaughtered. A woman had been widowed and yet the security apparatus which had been set up to protect life in the Province was being used to frustrate his attempts to bring the murderer to justice. Jennings had been quick off the mark. No matter what favour he called in, the files on Dungray were not going to be opened. His contacts were all too busy to take a call from him. The whole business smelled like hell. He was creating enough of a stink himself to ensure that his transfer to parts unknown would be expedited. Despite his misgivings he had issued an APB for `Gardiner' and at that very moment McColgan's description of the man was being turned into a police sketch. If `Gardiner' was still in Northern Ireland, he would not get out easily. That was bullshit, he thought. Assuming `Gardiner' was genuinely a spook and working under orders from London, there was every possibility that he would get back safely to the mainland. An unmarked car would simply drive him to Aldergrove Airport and he would disappear off the face of the earth as far as the PSNI were concerned. Well this time it wasn't going to happen.
Harry Graham appeared at Wilson's door. He was holding a sheet of paper in his hand. "The artist has just finished," he said handing the paper to his boss. "McColgan claims it's a damn good likeness."
Wilson took the sketch from Graham's hand and looked at a very passable representation of Case. His first thought was that the picture looked like the face of a football hooligan. A thin layer of cropped hair stood on top of a sharp angular face. The cheekbones stood out of an otherwise unremarkable oval face. He stared into the dark eyes. "You bloody did it all right," he said softly as he held the black and white computer likeness before him. His instinct developed over twenty years in the job told him that this was the bastard who had already killed five people and who would kill again unless he stopped him.
"I want every copper in Belfast to have a copy of this sketch within the hour," Wilson said, still concentrating on the man's features. "If anyone knows or has seen this guy, I want to know about it immediately."
"It's already on the way, boss. We're running off the copies and we've got messengers waiting to rush them around the stations."
"Well done, Harry," Wilson tried to burn the murderer's features into his mind. "I want this one badly. He's a callous son-of-a-bitch and I want him nailed before he does any more mischief. Has anybody managed to dig up the names of any of the other occupants of Dungray during the period when Patterson, Peacock and Bingham were resident there?"
"Moira’s working on it. There should be something shortly."
Wilson noticed that Graham had used her first name. That was a high level of acceptance. Moira McElvaney had made it into his squad.
"If the bastard is going to hit again, I want to know where it's going to be. And I want to be there waiting. In the meantime check every damn report that was made in the metropolitan area last night. Maybe our friend 'Gardiner' stumbled into another patrol."
"You'll get him, boss," Graham said looking directly at Wilson. "George could be an awkward bastard but he was one of us. We all want to get the bastard that did him." Graham turned and went into the Squad Room. "And if anyone can nail him it's you."
I wonder will we get you? Wilson thought looking at the sketch. And if we do, what will we do with you. He raised himself out of his chair, walked to the wall directly across from his desk and pinned the sketch to the wall. The face of Joe Case was looking directly at his seat. He retraced his steps walking over the files which littered the floor. He dropped his bulk into his swivel chair and the seat groaned as it took his weight. He lifted his eyes until he was looking directly at the sketch.
"A penny for your thoughts," Kate McCann stood at the door of his office.
"What are you doing here?" he turned to look at her. He felt his humour brighten as soon as he heard her voice.
"You mean people will talk," she tried to close the door behind her but the files covering the floor prevented her. She kicked the coloured cardboard containers blocking the door into the Squad Room and pulled the door shut. "There, we can talk in what passes in this place for complete privacy. And I don't give a damn about what people might say."
"Good for you," he said smiling at her. He looked beyond her and saw Moira staring into his
room. There was a smile on her pretty face. "That's the bastard I'm looking for." He nodded at the sketch pinned to the wall.
Kate looked at the likeness of Case. "He's quite unremarkable really. A bully probably but not the kind of person you'd expect to be a murderer."
"Just some mother's little boy trying to make his way in the world," Wilson said sarcastically
"Do you think you'll get him?"
"Oh, we'll get him alright. The question is will we be able to hold him."
"What do you mean by that?"
He explained about `Gardiner' flashing an MI identity card the previous evening and about the possible motive for the murders provided by Carlile.
"I don’t like it Ian. You’re mixing with people who wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of you. And I don’t mean just out of Tennent Street."
"This is political. I can feel it in my bones. The question is whether I’ll be allowed to continue with the investigation." He stared at the sketch on the wall. “The killer might already be out of Belfast. I might already have missed the boat on this one.”
“Maybe it would be better for you if he was already gone. But that wouldn’t really satisfy you. Would it?”
“I want him so badly it’s an ache in my stomach. He’s killed five people on my patch and nobody does that. I want him and I want to know why those five had to die.”
“Now I’m really worried, Ian. You’ve got to be prepared to let this go. Have you faced up to the possibility that you won’t be able to solve this one?”
“If I don’t get him it won’t be the first one to get away. But blowing up George and trying to kill me have made it personal. Maybe they, whoever they are, shouldn’t have done that.”
“I’ve still got some friends in London and the Head of Chambers there has some pretty important connections. Maybe I can find out something that’ll help.”
“It’s a long shot but give it a try. I’m in the firing line but that’s what they pay me for. I don’t want you exposing yourself so whatever enquiries you make, be ultra discrete.”
She smiled. “Your concern is touching. Maybe you do care a little.”
He stood and moved close to her. “I care a whole bloody lot. Now that I’ve found you I don’t want to lose you.” He bent and kissed her aware of the eyes on them from the Squad Room. “One way or another this will be over soon and we can start building a life together.”
She returned his kiss. “I can’t wait.”
“Now off with you,” he said opening the door of his office. “I have a bastard to catch. I’ll call later.”
He watched her disappear through the doorway. She was one hell of a woman and he didn't really deserve her. He was buried in shit and she was the only person in the world that he truly trusted. Everybody needed someone like Kate in their lives. This time he was going to hold on to her. His eyes scanned his tiny office. Not much to show for twenty years service. If they'd told him the first day he'd joined the Force that this was the way he was going to end up, he might have had second thoughts. But that was long ago and far away. He'd had his chances to ingratiate himself with the brass and he hadn't taken them. His character wouldn't allow him to do it. He was going to stay a Detective Chief Inspector until the day he retired. Unless they decided to break him. He'd seen enough frame-ups in his life to know that if they really wanted him in uniform again that could be easily arranged. He was beginning to feel that his relationship with his current employer was terminal. The only question remaining was which particular straw would break either his or the Force's back.
CHAPTER 44
Case looked out of his bedroom window into the deserted rain soaked street below. His internal alarm bell had been ringing quietly away for some hours but he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on the source of the danger. Maybe topping the Maguire woman had set it off. But he doubted it. He pulled aside the dirty net curtain for the umpteenth time and looked down the road. Nothing. The filthy weather was even keeping the housewives away from their shopping and the unemployed men off the street. He turned from the window and moved to the hiding place he had made under the floorboards. The threadbare carpet which had earlier covered the floor was rolled up and stood in the corner of the room. A small amount of Betty Maguire's blood had soaked through the thin threads of the carpet and onto the wooden boards below. The dead woman in the next room was just one more reason for getting out of this God forsaken kip as soon as possible. By this time tomorrow, it would all be over and he'd be back in London collecting all that lovely lolly. The escape plan he'd prepared was simplicity itself. He would steal a car in Belfast and drive it South over any of the unapproved roads in South Armagh that he knew like the back of his hand. Then he'd dump the car in Dublin and hop the next ferry for Hollyhead. Then the train to London to collect his money. He could see the mounds of bank notes in his mind's eye. It was a pity about the hit on the second copper but maybe the scare that had been thrown into him had been what was required. He wondered whether he should try to charge for the attempt but decided it wouldn't be professional. In his business you only got paid if you succeeded.
Case bent down, loosened the floorboards and lifted the steel suitcase. He laid it on the bed and carefully composed the code numbers for the locks. The lid sprang open when he applied pressure to the clasps. One single dossier lay on top of his equipment. He had carefully burned the dossiers he'd received on Patterson, Peacock and Bingham as well as the information on the two coppers. His Military Intelligence ID had also gone up in smoke. It had a 'once only' use value. The copper he'd flashed it at would put two and two together sooner or later. Case looked at the Browning and the Uzi lying side by side in the specially fashioned case. By to-morrow morning, the suitcase and its contents would be lying in the mud at the bottom of the Lagan River. It was a pity that he had to ditch the weapons and the Semtex but these things were easily replaceable and the consequences of getting caught with them didn't justify the risk. He lifted out the final dossier, lay back on the bed and started reading.
Patrick McGinn was another `mister nobody' just like all the others. Case re-read the two typed pages which described the life of his next victim. He looked at the photograph pinned to the first page. It showed a thirty year old with lank fair hair, a round face and a weak chin. To-morrow McGinn would be dead and Case's contract would be completed. He took the street map of Belfast from the locker beside his bed. He'd already sussed out McGinn's house in Jellicoe Drive in the Skegioniell area of East Belfast. He traced his finger along the map on the route he had marked out between Fortingale Street and his destination.
The internal alarm bell was still buzzing away. Case dropped the type-written pages on the bed and crossed to the window. The street was still deserted and the rain beat against the mural of the hooded UVF man holding his Kalashnikov aloft. Case looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. He'd hit the streets at about eight and he'd be on his way to the Irish Republic by ten. The job was almost over. One more hit and he was home and dry.
CHAPTER 45
Simpson turned his car off the Shankill and along the Woodvale Road passing Woodvale Park on his left. Rice's house lay half a mile up the road. There had been something about Rice's voice on the phone. An excitement that Rice had been unable to conceal. Something had broken. But what? He thought back to the meeting with his British handler. If Rice and the boys ever found out that he was touting for the Brits then his life wouldn't be worth a spent match. And leaving it wouldn't be pleasant either. The UVF had its fair share of psychopaths who'd like nothing better than to make a tout's last few hours on earth the most painful of his life. He felt a pang of fear grip at his stomach. Everybody in Northern Ireland was aware of their own mortality but those who strode both sides of the fence were acutely aware that the next moment might be their last. All it needed was one tiny mistake. A careless remark. An otherwise innocent sighting somewhere he shouldn't be. He was caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. And it was all about two
measly hundred pounds a month. He must have been mad to have been sucked in by the Brits. They had him by the balls and they were going to squeeze until his eyes watered. He pulled the car in to the curb outside Rice's house and switched off the engine. Two men lounging across the street suddenly came to life. He quickly got out of the car and turned to face them. One of the men obviously recognised him because he tapped the other on the shoulder and they resumed their positions.
The door was opened almost as soon as Simpson rang the bell. Rice stood in the hall-way holding a spring loaded inner steel door ajar. A smile stretching nearly from ear to ear. Above the smile Simpson could see that Rice's eyes were as dark and as dead as always. "Come in, Richie," he opened the door fully to admit Simpson. "I appreciate you comin' over so quickly."
"The tone in your voice didn't leave me much option." Simpson stepped inside and the steel door clanged shut behind him. He wondered whether the villa in the Canaries was secured in the same manner as the house in the Woodvale Road. He doubted it.
Rice led the way into a small but comfortably furnished living room. A large flat screen TV in the corner of the room displayed a snooker match. "I didn't get a chance to see the last few frames last night," he said nodding at the TV set by way of explanation.
"So," Simpson said sitting in the chair which Rice indicated. "It seemed urgent."
"You'll be wantin' a drink?" Rice asked.
"A Black Bush would go down alright, I suppose." Simpson didn't appreciate the cat and mouse game but there wasn't much he could do about it.
Rice watched the snooker on the television as he moved to a small bar and poured two large whiskeys.