Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (35 page)

             
"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.

             
"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."