by Fee Derek
‘I take it you’re going to follow up,’ McDevitt said pushing the button to call the barman. ‘You’re like one of those bloodhounds that go bounding off as soon as they get a sniff. Even if it’s a false scent.’
The barman’s head appear and McDevitt made the sign for a refill.
Wilson put the paper into his pocket. ‘I’m thinking on it.’
‘Did we come here to talk or did we come here to drink?’ McDevitt said.
‘Hard day in court?’ Wilson finished his drink. He’d planned on a heavy night but the paper in his pocket meant that going over his limit was now a non-starter.
‘Tell me about it.’ The drink had arrived and McDevitt felt around in his pocket before producing a £10 note. He handed it to the barman and waved him away. ‘Cummerford’s good value for the front page but two weeks in court makes me want to eat my head.’ He started on his second drink.
‘How’s Kate doing?’ Wilson asked.
‘I can almost hear those heart strings singing,’ McDevitt smiled. ‘She took over in the afternoon and produced a masterclass in turning Cummerford from “murderer” to “poor wee girl whose mother was murdered by a coven of witches”. You boys got a good going-over for your incompetence in investigating the disappearance. By the time she handed over to Gold, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house except for an old cynic like yours truly, of course. Kate left Gold that last hour and he was forced to walk on eggshells. He couldn’t have been seen to be on the side of the coven.’
‘Do you think it’ll be over tomorrow?’ Wilson asked.
‘Maybe, certainly the day after.’
That meant Wilson had at least one day to follow up on the name Boag had given him. He was waiting until the trial ended before he contacted Kate. He needed a yes or a no, and at the moment he was ready to accept either decision. This break business was just some bullshit to postpone a real decision. The look on Helen McCann’s face told him all he needed to know about her feelings towards him.
‘Still thinking about your slimy friend?’ McDevitt asked.
‘No, I’m wondering what time the first flight leaves for East Midlands.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s where Lee Dixon lives.’
‘Who the fuck is Lee Dixon?’
‘He’s the man whose name is on the sheet of paper that Boag gave me.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The dining hall in Coleville House was of baronial standards. The table, which was the centrepiece of the room, was built specially and could easily accommodate twenty guests. The ceiling was double height and the walls were oak panelled. The Lattimers prided themselves on the manner in which they had employed the best craftsmen in Ulster in the construction of their family home. This evening, the three people dining seemed like pygmies in the context of the grand surroundings. Sir Philip Lattimer sat at the head of the table, as was the tradition. To his right sat his principal guest, Helen McCann, while on his left sat Lord Carncastle. Lady Lattimer had absented herself, as she was so often required to do when her husband was having a “business” dinner. Sir Philip had resisted talking business while he consumed his smoked salmon starter and his quail main course. His concentration on his food was so complete that he ignored the fact that his guests had barely touched theirs. Both Helen McCann and Lord Carncastle were conscious that the preservation of their trim figures excluded the consumption of large quantities of food. The already portly Sir Philip had no such foibles.
‘Excellent,’ Sir Philip said as he pushed his empty dessert plate away. He nodded at the maid standing unobtrusively at the side wall, and the plates disappeared from the table. He turned towards Helen. ‘I’m glad you could join us this evening. We were wondering whether this business with your policeman chap was really worth the hassle. It has been suggested that it should be wound up considering the level of resources we have committed to it and the rather limited success to date.’
‘I don’t agree.’ Helen McCann dabbed at her full lips with her napkin. ‘I’m committed to removing Wilson as a threat to our organisation. I have some insight into this man. If you think that he has forgotten about the deaths of Grant and Malone, you are seriously deluded. Wilson doesn’t give up. The cases will remain open for him until he finds out who killed them and why they died.’
‘I understand that our man Rice has disappeared from the scene,’ Lord Carncastle said. ‘And of course we were all saddened by the death of Jackie Carlisle. But the fact that neither man is available means that there is very little likelihood that Wilson will be able to make the connection to us.’
‘I tend to agree with that assessment,’ Lattimer put in quickly. He was beginning to believe that the vendetta between Helen and the policeman had nothing to do with Circle business but was personal. ‘Added to the fact that the whole operation has been a mess from beginning to end.’ He stared directly at Helen. ‘Your trust in Sinclair and Jackson has been singularly misplaced. They have shown themselves to be hamfisted at best and incompetent at worst. We cannot get away from the feeling that the whole operation has had a personal element. That is not part of the ethos of our organisation. We have managed to have Wilson removed from his job. Was it really necessary to launch him on what is proving to be a worthless exercise?’
‘As I said, you don’t understand your man.’ Helen returned Lattimer’s stare. ‘Men like Wilson don’t stay sidelined for long. We’ve taken advantage of the Chief Constable’s illness to bring Wilson to the edge of an abyss. The job he loves is gone, his former partner is gone, he’s living in a rented apartment, and he’s just about to receive a blow to everything he holds dear. It is not enough to take everything from him. People like Wilson must be destroyed.’
‘Perhaps we should have asked Rice to kill Wilson instead of those other chaps.’ Lattimer gave a low chuckle. ‘Would have saved a lot of bother.’
Lord Carncastle smiled. ‘We are a business organisation, not the Mafia.’
Lattimer returned the smile. ‘Aren’t we?’ He liked the idea that he was some sort of gangland boss. There was a cachet to being a criminal. It was a hell of a lot more exciting than being a board member of a whole load of stodgy companies. Being a member of the Circle was the most exhilarating part of his life. He looked over at Helen. She was so intense that she should have the word ‘Ulster’ tattooed on his forehead. Personally he didn’t give a damn for Ulster and most of the peons who lived there. He had more money than he could possibly spend. The only reason he was involved in what had become Helen’s enterprise was the thrill of committing crimes and getting away with them.
Helen looked at her dining companions. One was a country squire whose family fortune was made by a turncoat and a slave trader. The second came from a family that had prospered from kissing the Royal butt. Carncastle was an accomplished peddler of influence and a sex addict. If you asked them for their agenda, they would say it was the preservation of Ulster. That was a joke. Their real agenda was the same as hers, the preservation of their wealth and position. She knew all their secrets. She was the repository of the secrets of the good and the great of Ulster. That was her advantage, her means of control. She was in no doubt that her dining companions would prefer to see the back of her. Then it would be good old boys together. They didn’t realise that she was more of a man than the two of them put together. They couldn’t understand someone like Wilson. He was as committed to his job as she was to maintaining the connection with Great Britain as a means of preserving her wealth. There was no lake of blood he wouldn’t wade through if it meant he would bring a miscreant to justice. The two idiots at the table thought that such men could be negotiated with. She knew that they had to be destroyed. It was necessary to take away from them everything that they held dear. She wanted Wilson so weak mentally that he would have to retire from the PSNI. She knew that the operation against him she had conceived had not been perfect. But it was still on track although it had wobbled along the track. However, the end was close and t
he abyss was in sight.
‘Apropos the Chief Constable,’ Carncastle said. ‘I attended a meeting of the Policing Board last week and it appears that he will not be returning to his job. Its been confirmed that he has pancreatic cancer and he intends to concentrate on his fight against the disease.’
‘What about our friend, Jennings?’ Lattimer asked.
‘Most unfortunate,’ Carncastle replied. ‘His stock depreciated at the wrong time. A year ago, I could have pushed his case and probably would have been successful. Today, I would simply be wasting my time. Jennings is in rehabilitation. He’s damn lucky that we’ve been able to save his career.’
‘We’ve invested a lot in that man,’ Lattimer said. ‘And he’s no bloody use to us sitting in Cumbria.’
‘I’m working to get him back,’ Carncastle said.
‘And Wilson?’ Helen McCann said.
‘I suppose that since you say he’s standing on the edge of an abyss,’ Lattimer said, ‘we might as well give him a push.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Wilson looked through the rain-streaked window of flight BE 361 as it circled over East Midlands Airport. He had managed to cut short the session with McDevitt in the Crown and was back in his apartment in time to call Lee Dixon and arrange a meeting. Then he went on the Internet and booked the early-morning flight at an extortionate rate. As soon as the plane landed, he left the terminal and made for the taxi rank. He glanced at his watch. It was 8.15. He wasn’t expected at Dunmurry until 9.00 and when he didn’t show Sinclair and Jackson would raise the hue and cry. That wasn’t his problem. He was more than pissed off with being watched by people who were supposed to be his colleagues. There was a short queue for taxis. After a short wait an aged BMW 520 pulled up beside him.
‘Where to, mate?’ the driver said through the open passenger window.
Wilson gave him an address in Ottawa Road.
The driver looked him over. ‘Get in,’ he said.
Wilson settled himself in the back seat.
‘You ever been to Leicester?’ the taxi driver asked as he moved off.
‘No.’
‘Know anything about Ottawa Road?’
‘No.’
‘You a copper?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Only two types of people go to Ottawa Road, coppers or chavs and you ain’t no chav.’
‘What the hell is a chav?’
‘You don’t have chavs on the Emerald Isle?’
‘Depends what they are.’
‘Louts who go around dressed in fake gear and looking for trouble.’
‘We have those.’
‘People around Ottawa Road think a barbecue is six chavs warming their hands over a burning car. If you’ve got business there, I hope you’re wearing a stab vest.’ The taxi driver looked in the mirror. ‘But I think that maybe you know how to handle yourself.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’
The cab left the airport and continued onto the M1, the main arterial motorway in England that connected London with the North. They entered Leicester after a fifteen-minute drive and twenty minutes later they drew up in front of the address Wilson was seeking in Ottawa Road. The area, and in particular the structure they stopped in front of, was slightly rundown. The building was a block containing eight maisonettes, four on either side of a central entrance. The block was in urgent need of refurbishment and had obviously been built by the local authority probably in the mid-1950s.
‘Twenty quid,’ the taxi driver said, ‘including the danger money.’
Wilson fished the £20 note from his pocket and passed it across.
‘You goin’ to be here long?’ the driver asked.
‘No idea,’ said Wilson about to alight.
‘If you’re goin’ back to East Midlands you might have a problem gettin’ a taxi here.’ The driver removed a card from the small leather bag on the front passenger seat. ‘Give us a call when you’re ready and one of our guys will pick you up.’ He passed the card back to Wilson. ‘By the way, that’s a chav.’ He pointed at a young couple walking in their direction. The boy was wearing a Nike baseball cap, a Burberry jacket, Levi jeans and Nike trainers. The girl, who looked no more than thirteen, was pushing a pram. She had stringy blonde hair and her face was an orange colour that certainly could not be found in nature.
Wilson took the card. ‘Thanks. He pushed open the car door as soon as the young couple had passed. The taxi moved off immediately. Wilson stood on the footpath and looked at the maisonette block. The eight units were two-storey and typical of a design that was in use throughout the United Kingdom. The bottom would be the living/dining/kitchen area with the bedrooms on the upper floor. The ground floor of each unit was separated from the footpath by a miniscule grass-gated garden. The accommodations were intended for families and Wilson hadn’t considered that Dixon might not be alone. There were no numbers visible on any of the entrance doors. He was looking for No. 2 so he assumed that either the maisonette on the extreme left or the extreme right ground floor would be No. 1. He decided to make the extreme left No. 1. He pushed the gate open to what he assumed was No. 2. The garden was completely overgrown and a soiled single mattress was propped up against the wall at the side of the front door. The mattress was laid on top of the wooden skeleton of what had once been a coffee table. Wilson pushed the bell. His watch said that he was on time but there was no movement from inside. After a few minutes, he rang again. A window from the upper floor opened.
‘If you’re selling something, you can fuck off.’ The voice was slurred either through sleep or alcohol.
‘Mr Dixon,’ Wilson shouted before the window shut. ‘It’s Ian Wilson from Belfast.’
‘I’ll be down,’ the voice said as the window closed.
Wilson stood close to the door as the rain, which had held off while he was in the taxi, began to fall again. His back was already soaked by the time the door creaked open.
‘Come in!’ The man who opened the door stood aside so that Wilson could enter.
Wilson walked into the small hallway. The carpet showed signs that it had started life as a grey colour but it was now a darker shade of black. The wallpaper on the wall leading to the upstairs was faded and peeling. The Dixons, if indeed there was a Mrs Dixon, were certainly not known for being house-proud. Wilson was ushered into the room to his left. He deduced that it was the living room if only because it contained a 40in flat screen TV, a two-seater settee and a battered faux leather club chair. The carpet resembled the one in the hallway and he could see the indents where a coffee table had stood; possibly it was the discarded wooden skeleton he had seen in the front garden. There were a half dozen empty beer cans at the side of the club chair.
‘Take a seat,’ Dixon said brushing some loose pages of a newspaper off the settee.
Wilson looked at his host. Dixon was emaciated. His fair hair was long and lank on his head. He eyes were red-rimmed with dilated pupils either from excessive alcohol or drugs. A scraggy fair beard hung off his pointed chin. His thin body was covered by a tee shirt that was several sizes too large for him and training bottoms hid what Wilson assumed were pipe-thin legs. His face was pale and thin causing the nose to jut out from two caved-in cheeks. Except for his face, every exposed part of his skin was covered in tattoos. His right arm had a tattoo of an inverted dagger with wings on the top. Wilson knew that Dixon should be about sixty but he looked older. He tried to imagine the narrow face as it might have been forty years before. The faces of the men in the photograph of the MRF were engraved on his brain and he ran through them to see if Dixon was the real thing. He searched the face and saw the likeness to the young man on the extreme right of the photo. Dixon was the one cradling a Sterling machine gun and leaning against a car. Although he might not have been aware of it, he was aping the arrogant look that had been made famous by the young Clyde Barrow. In the photo, he looked young, hard, and dangerous. It wasn’t a look that had stood the test of time.
‘I forgot all about you.’ Dixon sat in the club chair and removed a rolled cigarette from the pocket of his training bottoms. He lit the cigarette and the air was filled with the distinctive smell of marijuana. Dixon sucked the smoke in and held it. He looked at Wilson then took a second toke holding the smoke in his lungs until he burst out in a fit of coughing. ‘Medicinal,’ he said when he saw the look on Wilson’s face. ‘My body got fucked up serving Queen and country, my body and my fucking mind. Did I mention money on the phone?’
Wilson removed an envelope from his inside pocket.
Dixon smiled exposing a row of black gapped teeth. ‘Give it here!’ He held out his hand.
‘When we’re finished,’ Wilson said.
‘No money, no talk.’ Dixon leaned back and sucked on his cigarette again. ‘I’m not about to betray my country and my colleagues without the readies.’
Wilson wanted to get on with business before Dixon became too stoned to be sensible. Reluctantly he leaned forward and passed him the envelope.
Dixon took it and flipped the lid open. He quickly counted out the £500 it contained. ‘Right, we’re in business. What do you want to know?’
Wilson explained that he was a police officer and that he was investigating the shooting of two young men in Beechmount Parade in 1984. He already knew that the shooting had been carried out by some kind of undercover unit of the British Army and that the RUC had colluded in the clean-up and the cover-up. He was led to believe that Dixon had been one of the men in the car.
Dixon coughed and put out the cigarette before slipping the remnant into his trouser pocket. ‘Fucking hell, I can hardly fucking remember what happened two days ago.’ He stared laughing and descended into a fit of coughing. ‘When he lifted his head, his eyes squinted at Wilson. ‘Hey, where did you get my name? And my fucking address and telephone number?’