Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

Rice handed Simpson his drink. "Slainte," he said raising his glass.

  Both men drank deeply before Rice re-took his seat. The television still seemed to be his main pre-occupation. "I think we might be able to help you out after all," he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

  "Does that mean you have a line on the fucker?" Simpson couldn't believe his ears. Carlile had the luck of the devil. They'd be able to hand the killer over to Wilson and the business with Nichol would be forgotten. But was Rice going to hand him the real killer or was he setting up a patsy.

  Rice turned to him, the smile on his face widened and he nodded.

  The look on Rice's face was unmistakable. He knew where the murderer was. "Well where the hell is he?" Simpson didn't try to hide the excitement in his voice.

  "All in good time, Richie, all in good time. We’ve got the bastard covered. Anytime we want him we can pick the bugger up."

  "Who is he?" Simpson was sitting on the edge of the armchair.

  "How am I supposed to know? We haven't picked him up yet. We've only found him for you."

  "How do you know he's our man?" Simpson asked.

  "Do you want a written guarantee? He's your man. Take my word for it."

  Simpson finished his whiskey. "Mind if I help myself," he said moving to the bar before Rice could reply.

  "Be my guest," Rice watched him as he went to the bar and poured himself a large measure of Black Bush. He noticed that Richie’s nerves were on edge. He looked like a man with a sea of troubles on his mind. Sammy Rice didn't like nervous people.

  "So do we horse trade," Rice said when Simpson was in his seat again.

  "That's what I'm here for," Simpson sucked greedily on his whiskey. The liquid was gradually removing the fear in his stomach.

  "Me and the boys own a couple of buildin' firms. We've put in a tender for some local authority housin'. It wouldn't do us any harm I suppose if Billy put in a good word on our behalf."

  "I suppose it wouldn't at that," Simpson said.

  "Can I take it then that we’re organised?"

  "This kind of thing is tricky," Simpson couldn't believe how greedy the bastards were. Rice and his pals had certainly learned everything the Mafia had to teach. He wondered how much Rice and the other UVF leaders were about to rip off. The man had balls there was no doubting that. He was asking for a licence to print money at the expense of the British Government. "Billy would be taking a hell of a risk getting behind something like that. Surely there's something else he could do for you?"

  "I thought you people wanted this fucker badly," there was a flash of anger in Rice's eyes. "Don't fuck about with me. I've got the bastard on tap and I can keep him that way. Or I can let him get on with reducin' the population of West Belfast and blowing up policemen."

  "He was the one who planted the bombs?" Simpson said incredulously.

  "Who the hell did you think did it? Santa Claus. One of our taxi driver's dropped the bastard close to Wilson's place in Malone last night." Rice stared into Simpson's eyes. "Either you have the authority to negotiate or you piss-off."

  "I've got Billy's authority to make a deal."

  "Then do we have a deal on the housing tender or not?"

  "OK. We'll support you on the housing tender." What the hell, Simpson thought, it was no skin off their noses. Some of the councillors would rant and rave for a while but it would eventually become yesterday's news and the only people who would suffer would be the inhabitants of the jerry-built houses and the British tax-payer.

  "That's my boy," the twinkle was back in Rice's eyes. He took the glass from Simpson's hand and refilled it with whiskey. "You know better than to renege on me." He handed Simpson the glass of whiskey. "Don't you, Richie?"

  Simpson took the glass and swallowed some of the contents. "We'll keep our side of the bargain," he said.

  "Good. You'll find your boy here." He handed Simpson a slip of paper with Case's address in Fortingale Street. “The old doll who owns the house is called Maguire."

  Simpson stared at the slip of white paper. He could hear his handler's words ringing in his ears. The Brits wanted this guy as badly as Billy and the police did. What the hell was goin' on? Who the hell is this guy?

  "That's right, Richie. The bastard has been living right in the centre of my territory. He must have balls as big as an elephant's. He's living within a mile of where we're sittin' right now."

  "You're sure he's still there?" Simpson's voice was anxious.

  "Nobody's stirred in that street since we've started watchin' the house. He's in there and we've got him."

  Simpson's brain was racing. Both his masters needed to know the whereabouts and neither of them would appreciate the other knowing first. If he informed the Brits first they'd instruct him to keep his mouth shut until they did whatever they had in mind to the bloke. That scenario might drop Billy in even more shit with the police. He quickly made up his mind what had to be done.

  "Mind if I make a call?" he asked.

  "I was wonderin' when you were goin' to ask me that," Rice sipped his Black Bush. "Be my guest."

  Simpson went to the hall, took out his mobile phone and dialled the headquarters of the UDF. He explained to Carlile the content of his conversation with Rice and gave him the address where the murderer could be found.

  "You've done very well, Richie," Carlile said. "When this affair is out of the way we'll have to re-appraise your position within the organisation."

  Where had Simpson heard that one before. "What about Wilson?" he asked.

  The smooth burr came over the line. "You can leave Wilson to me. Well done, Richie."

  The line went dead in Simpson's hand. He dropped the mobile into his pocket and returned to the sitting-room.

  "Your boss happy then, is he?" Rice smiled wickedly. "Don't worry, Richie, when we take over this Province, the likes of Carlile will only be a memory and we'll find a place for you. Good men with a set of balls are always in demand."

  Simpson said nothing.

  "You don't like to think of us in charge here, do you?" Rice continued warming to his theme. "Nobody likes to think of the men with the guns headin' up the government." Rice walked to the bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey. "But look around you. Yesterday's terrorist is today's world leader. Look at your man Mandela. Ulster belongs to us. Not to the Taigs and not to the big farmers in the Unionist Party." Rice spat onto the ground. "We'll wipe them bastards out before we start on the Taigs. Fucking parasites. We know who we can count on. Don't we, Richie. After we take over, we can afford to turn ourselves into politicians. We'll be just like the blacks in Africa: bombers and terrorists one day, politicians the next. Mark my words, Richie, Carlile, the UDF, the Unionist Party and the Nationalists won't count for dog shit. If you ever want to throw your lot in with us, just give me a call. I mean it."

  Simpson finished his whiskey and stood up. He looked at the smiling man who stood before him. If this was the future leader of Ulster, he wanted no part of it. Simpson smiled at the chief of the UVF thinking that he had to get out of there to make a second phone call. It was time to place the call to his MI5 handler. They were going to go apeshit when they heard that Billy already knew. But that was another day's work. The big trick was staying alive and that was something that you did one day at a time. "Thanks for the drink," he said handing Rice the empty glass. "I'll remember what you said."

  CHAPTER 46

  Wilson put down the phone, took a deep breath and leaned back in his battered swivel chair. Something primeval in him made him want to scream in triumph. He had the bastard. Carlile had come good and now, like hundreds of other citizens of Belfast, he owed him one. He never thought that someone like Carlile would drop a present into his lap. Why hadn't Carlile used the well tried route of the DCC? It didn't really matter. He sprang out of his chair with a burst of energy which he hadn't felt in years. The bastard had been living right in the centre of the Shankill all along. This one would need special care. Anyone capa
ble of planning and executing a series of murders from the centre of the Protestant enclave was someone to be treated with extreme caution.

  "Harry," Wilson screamed at the top of his voice.

  "Yes, boss," Detective Constable Harry Graham stuck his head around the edge of the door. The rest of the Murder Squad looked up from their work. It was obvious to all that Wilson had hit high gear.

  "We've got him, Harry," Wilson said, his voice betraying no emotion. "He's holed up in a Mrs. Maguire's house in Fortingale Street."

  "Jesus Christ! How did you find him?" Graham said incredulously.

  "An informant," Wilson said without feeling the need to give any further explanation. He pulled a street map of Belfast from his desk drawer. "I want half a dozen well armed detectives down there straight away. Without causing any alarm, they're to try and get the neighbours out. I don't want anyone near our man. If it's anyway possible I want the evacuation to be done discretely. One family at a time. Get on to operations. I want road blocks across the bottom of the Agnes Street, Conlig Street, The Old Lodge and Bristol Street. That place is to be sealed off tighter than a duck's arse. I want nobody going in and nobody going out without me knowing about it."

  Graham was busy writing the instruction on a pad. "What about the Army, boss?"

  "There's no need to call them in for one man. Anyway our boy isn't a terrorist, he's just a common murderer. Everyone's to be issued with a bullet-proof vest. Get on your bike, Harry. Get the rest of the squad to help you because I want everything in place within a half hour. Keep Moira out of the firing line. I don’t want her killed on her first case."

  "No problem, boss," Graham consulted his notebook. "What about upstairs?"

  Wilson knew it was proper procedure to inform his superiors about a major operation. But in this case he concluded it might be better if Jennings was appraised when the operation had been successfully concluded. Jennings' involvement might only screw the operation up. "I'll organise the warrant," he told Graham. "You can organise everything else on my authority."

  "I almost forgot, Skipper. Moira dug up the name of another bloke who was at Dungray at the same time as the others." He looked at his notebook. "It's a Patrick McGinn with an address in North East Belfast."

  "Get someone over there and bring McGinn in."

  "Jesus Christ!" Graham muttered as he left the office.

  Wilson opened his desk drawer and removed his gun and a box of cartridges. He opened the base of the automatic and flicked out the magazine. It was full. He glanced over his shoulder into the squad-room and saw Harry Graham giving frantic orders to the other detectives. Eric Taylor and Ronald McIver put their coats on and, after looking in the direction of his office, rushed out the door. Moira McElvaney was standing still and looking bemused. Harry was keeping her out of the action and the look on her face said that she didn’t like it.

  “Boss,” Moira strode towards Wilson’s office.

  “Sorry, Moira,” Wilson pulled on his coat. “Somebody has to hold the fort.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “I’m holding the fort because I’m a woman. I was okay for dealing with Cahill and his men but now my sex is keeping me away from the action.”

  “Not true,” Wilson said as he crossed the office. He had no time to debate. “Every other officer on the squad has experience in this type of action. You don’t. End of story. Nothing to do with your sex, lots to do with you being the junior officer. Your time will come. Now stand by those phones and if someone from Headquarters tries to interfere, buy me some time. I’m out of here.” He rushed away before Moira could challenge him.

  They would be set up in Fortingale Street in five minutes and the evacuation of the houses beside Mrs. Maguire's would begin shortly after that. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. This was the lull before the storm. In half an hour, all the machinery would be in place and it would be his job to conclude the operation without anybody being killed. He wanted `Gardiner' badly and he wanted him alive. "You'll spill your guts to me," he said quietly. "And when you do I'll take everyone involved down with you."

  Case sat bolt upright on the bed and looked at his watch. A film of sleep still clouded his vision and he had to blink several times before he could see the face of the watch clearly. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. His stomach rumbled and he remembered that he hadn't eaten since the previous evening. He swung his legs off the bed and stepped into his jeans which were lying on the floor beside him. A cup of tea and a sandwich would help to quash the eruption in his stomach. The internal alarm bell was still clamouring away without any apparent reason. He slipped on a black sweater and made his way downstairs to the back kitchen. He switched on the kettle and made himself a cup of tea and a ham sandwich. Just a few more hours and it would all be over.

  A turn of the century Orange Hall stands on the corner where Agnes Street and Fortingale Street intersect. The large billboard outside the hall carried a rain soaked poster declaring `The Lord is My Shepherd I shall not want'. Across the road, the corner house facing the hall had a mural painted on its side depicting William of Orange astride his horse holding a sword in his hand. Underneath the painting was another legend `Remember 1698-NO SURRENDER'. Beside King William in black relief was a hooded figure holding a Kalashnikov aloft. The small group of people passing by in the rain paid scant attention to the police activity taking place behind the barriers which had been strung across the road at the rear of the hall. The citizens of Belfast had seen it all many times before.

  Wilson's car drew up on the Agnes Street side of the hall and the DCI got out. A number of police Landrovers and PIGS, the PSNI armoured personnel carrier, were parked close by. They were drawn up in a neat semi-circle like a group of covered wagons anticipating an Indian attack. Police officers moved around the vehicles their dark blue rain coats puffed out by the padding of the obligatory flak jackets. Wilson walked towards the police vehicles. A PSNI constable detached himself from the other officers and came towards him.

  "DCI Wilson?" the constable asked. He was young and fresh faced and Wilson noted the exaggerated tone of respect in his voice. He remembered what Moira had said about his reputation among the younger officers. The Heckler and Koch machine gun which hung from his shoulder seemed incongruous with his youth and innocence.

  Wilson nodded.

  "DC Graham's established a forward observation post in Bristol Street. Would you follow me, sir."

  "It OK., Constable," Wilson replied. "I'll see myself there." He could sense the young man's disappointment. It wasn't his day to pander to other people's need to be part of the circus which was about to arrive in town.

  Wilson walked towards Bristol Street and the young policeman returned to his colleagues. The street of terraced houses ahead of Wilson was narrow and deserted. A scene straight out of Victorian Britain. Wilson slid his hand into his pocket and ran his fingers along the metal of his revolver. He hoped to God there would be no killing although the possibility couldn't be ruled out. If the bastard was a professional, then there was an outside chance that he might recognise the hopelessness of the situation and give up peacefully. If, on the other hand, he was a rogue terrorist, anything could happen. A dark shape moved out of a side street sixty yards ahead and before he could recognise the police raincoat Wilson had already drawn his revolver. The policeman beckoned him forward. Wilson replaced the gun in his pocket and moved quickly down the street.

  "DC Graham is expecting you, sir," the constable said as Wilson approached. "We're set up about forty yards from the house. DC Graham reckons we shouldn't go much closer."

  Wilson turned the corner and saw Graham twenty yards ahead.

  "Thank God you've arrived, boss," Graham said switching off his two-way radio. "The officer in charge of the uniforms is a real hero type. He's been pushing me to let him try rushing the place. Here you better put this on." Graham handed his superior a flak jacket and a luminous orange outer half jacket.

  Wilson pulled the
jackets on over his coat with difficulty. There was no way it was going to button so he left it flapping. "No way. We don't want anybody killed unnecessarily. I want that man inside the house alive. You make the hero, understand that. Did you get everybody out?"

  "The street's clear for fifty yards on either side and the rest of the residents have been told to stay inside."

  "Good work, Harry. Any movement from inside the house?" Wilson asked.

  “Not a lot. We may have a problem.”

  “Spill it,” Wilson said.

  “According to the neighbours we should have two people in the house. The owner, Mrs. Maguire, and our boy.”

  “So?”

  “We put the heat sensors on the house as soon as we arrived. They only show one heat source. Either Mrs. Maguire or our boy is not there.”

  Wilson was thinking what the DCC would say about the cost of this operation if it was unsuccessful. “There’s no chance the sensors were faulty?”

  “None,” Graham said. “We have to suppose that the one source is our boy.”

  “Then where’s the Maguire woman?”

  Graham hunched his shoulders. “Let’s think positively, boss. Let’s assume that the heat source is our boy. Right now he’s upstairs in the front bedroom.”

  "I hope for my sake that it is him. I wouldn't like to explain all this shit to Jennings. What about the road-blocks?"

  "All in place," Graham replied. "If our man is in there then there's no way he's going to get out. And if he isn't there were goin' to look like an awful bunch of tools."

  A uniformed inspector detached himself from a group of police officers and approached Wilson. "How do you want to play this?" he asked.

  "Low key," Wilson replied, "I don't want any shooting if it can be avoided. If there is shooting, your men are to fire only on my orders. Understood."

  The inspector nodded.

  "Now get me a walkie-talkie and a loud-hailer," Wilson said. "I'm going to go down there and talk to the bugger."