Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (38 page)

The smoke and the gas seared Wilson's eyes and tore at his throat. He heard the back door crash open and passed through the hallway and into the small kitchen. Smoke and gas was pouring out the back door and into the welcoming fresh air. A crash of timber collapsing came from upstairs as he moved slowly towards the open door. He hadn't heard any shooting so Gardiner must have made it out into the garden. There was no way the bastard could escape. Or was there? He lay flat on the ground and crawled the last few yards to the open doorway. He sucked at the fresh air which was entering the room at ground level. Smoke and gas billowed in the air above his head. His eyes ached from the effects of the gas and tears streamed down his cheeks. He blinked and tried to focus on the garden in from of him. The garden was small maybe fifteen feet wide by twenty feet long. The hedge separating the adjoining houses was wild and overgrown. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his pocket.

             
“Our boy is in the back garden,” he coughed. “I’m coming out the back door. For Christ’s sake nobody fire until I say so. He slipped the walkie-talkie back into his pocket and crawled carefully past the open doorway until his head was completely outside. He welcomed the rain beating on his scorched eyes. A movement in the hedge fifteen feet ahead of him caught his eye. He blinked and tried to focus on the spot where he had seen the movement. The hedge moved again.

All Case's concentration was aimed at reaching the end of the garden without mishap. It was a slim chance but at least there was one.

Wilson slipped noiselessly into the garden. His eyes still stung but he had enough vision to pick out the shadowy figure pressed against the hedge near the bottom of the garden. The man was turned away from him. He raised his gun to the ready position.

             
"Freeze," Wilson shouted.

             
Case heard the shout and remained dead still where he was. One shout, one copper, he thought to himself. He could take him out but that would give away his position. Then the snipers would do their job. He decided to wait for his chance. The longer you stayed alive the better the chance of escape.

             
Wilson steadied his gun hand and concentrated so hard on the figure at the bottom of the garden that he felt his eyes were standing out inches in front of his face. Away from the swirling smoke his vision had cleared sufficiently to recognise the man whose likeness he had pinned on his wall earlier in the day. "Stay exactly where you are. I don't want to shoot but if you don't toss your weapons aside I'm going to put one in you that won't kill you but it'll hurt like hell." He held his gun steadily before him.

Case remained crouched in the hedge. He recognised the voice. It was the copper who had spoken to him on the loud-hailer. There was something about the soft lilting Paddy accent that told him he shouldn't doubt that the copper was prepared to carry out his threat. It was decision time.

Wilson watched as Case tossed the Uzi onto the grass in the middle of the garden. "Now the pistol," he said sure that Gardiner would be carrying more than one gun.

             
Case laughed deep in his throat. This copper was good. He reached into his waistband and pulled out the Browning. The grip felt good in his hand. This was his last chance. Whatever way he looked at it the odds were against him in a gun battle. It was time to let it go. He tossed the gun on the ground beside the Uzi.

             
"O.K." Wilson said without relaxing his grip on his gun. "Stand up slowly and turn around."

             
Case stood up and turned to face Wilson.

             
"Move away from the weapons," Wilson edged down one side of the garden and indicated to Case to move away from the Uzi and the Browning and back towards the house. Smoke continued to billow from the open back door and Wilson could hear the sound of a siren in the distance. He pulled the radio out of his pocket. "Harry, we're in the back garden. I've got him." Wilson slipped the radio back into his pocket and looked at his prisoner. He could hear the sound of a helicopter approaching. Probably one of the Army's reconnaissance choppers attracted by the plumes of smoke rising from the house. He looked up as a Westland Scout with Army markings skimmed over the roof-tops and hovered over his head. A man dressed in a black boiler suit and wearing a black balaclava sat in the rear seat of the helicopter cradling a rifle in his arms. As Wilson watched, the man lifted the rifle deliberately and pointed at the garden.

             
"No." the scream seemed to come from somewhere else but Wilson recognised it as his own voice. It was so harsh that it hurt his throat.

             
Two shots rang out almost instantaneously. Wilson whirled and saw his prisoner collapse onto the ground, half of his head blown away.

             
"Bastards," Wilson screamed and turned back to the helicopter. The pilot was already putting the machine into a turn and accelerating away from the scene. He emptied his pistol after the fleeing machine but knew that it was only a pointless gesture. He walked to the fallen body of the killer. The contents of the man's skull lay splattered across the wet grass. "I wanted him alive, you filthy bastards," Wilson screamed in frustration.

             
"Jesus Christ!" Harry Graham stood at the back door. "What the fucking hell happened, boss?"

             
"You wouldn't believe it even if I told you, Harry," Wilson put his revolver into his pocket. "Pick up the Uzi and the Browning," he nodded towards the two weapons. "The Browning will match the killings of Patterson, Peacock and Bingham." Wilson looked around the garden and noticed the steel suitcase in the hedge. He pulled the case out and passed it carefully to Graham. "Take this box of tricks to forensics and have it examined."

             
The fire in the house had died down but smoke continued to billow out through the broken windows.

             
"Is this our boy?" Graham asked nodding at Case's body.

             
"That's him alright."

             
"Who shot him?"

             
"Some bloke in a helicopter," Wilson answered simply.

             
"What do you mean, boss?" Graham asked puzzled.

             
"Just that. A bloke in a helicopter shot him and we're never going to find out who it was or why." A terrible tiredness spread over Wilson. "I'm going back to Tennent Street. You clear up here, Harry."

CHAPTER 48

It was all fucked up, Wilson thought, as he sat in his cubby hole of an office. He'd bought a half bottle of Jameson on his way back to the office. He needed something to kill the pain and the whiskey had seemed like a good idea. But when he had tried to drink it neat he had almost screamed with the pain. He got himself a coffee and laced it with the whiskey. The combination warmed his throat and chest as he drank from his cracked office cup. His whole life had changed in the past twenty-four hours. Nothing would ever be the same again. He should have known. Somehow he didn’t really care whether he remained a policeman or not. He sipped his coffee. His body slumped in his chair. Six months on some sun drenched beach was what he needed. That might just be about enough to put his body back but his soul was damaged irreparably He’d been right. Police work in Northern Ireland just wasn't possible. He'd solved a crime and yet he hadn't solved it. The murder of Gardiner would never be solved. It was a certainty that Gardiner wasn’t even his real name. Nobody would claim the body. There would be an autopsy and he would be cremated. They would take his fingerprints but there would be no matches. Everything would be cleaned up nice and neat. The files would be impeccable. The procedures would be followed to the letter. After all why not. He would be a hero. The murderer had been located and a potential flair up of hostilities between the paramilitaries had been averted. A multitude of excuses would be prepared: one of the snipers had become nervous and fired off a couple of loose shots, a ricochet had hit the prisoner, etcetera, etcetera. The bottom line was that nobody was going to admit that some SAS type sitting in the back seat of a Westland Scout had blown the bastard's head off. That scenario must have been a figment of his overactive imagination. And yet he could still see in his mind’s eye the black clad figure raising the rifle. Getting at the truth of the matter was out of the question. When Nichol died, he took whatever he'd known with him to the grave. Since Gardiner or whatever his name was had joined him on the slab, the reasons behind the murders would in all probability never be discovered. Somebody somewhere must be very happy with the result of to-day's job of work because he certainly wasn't.

             
He poured another shot of whiskey into the coffee and sipped the mixture. The pain in his throat was beginning to fade and the liquid slipped down easily. He looked at the wall opposite where the likeness of the murderer's face still stared back at him. He felt no sorrow for the man. He just wished he'd had the opportunity to try and unlock the secrets that were hidden behind those dark eyes. He looked around the rest of his office: his home for the past ten years.

             
He heard a noise at the door and looked up. Moira McElvaney stood in the doorway.

             
"You look terrible, Boss," she forced a smile.

             
“It goes with the territory. You heard about the fiasco?”

             
She nodded.

“I really wanted that bastard alive. Now we’ll never know what was behind the killings. He’ll be branded a lone wolf. A serial killer with no motive. Another file left hanging.”

“We located Patrick McGinn and brought him in. He’s in one of the interview rooms.”

Wilson had forgotten about McGinn. “Let’s go see Mr. McGinn,” Wilson stood up slowly and followed Moira out of the office.

The Patrick McGinn that sat at a small wooden table in the interview room was a small balding thirty something who would weigh in at 50 kilos sopping wet. Wilson assumed that the stunting had been the result of insufficient food in childhood. He introduced both himself and Moira before sitting down.

“Mr. McGinn,” he said sitting down. “Can I call you Patrick?”

Moira took the seat beside her boss facing McGinn.

“Why not,” McGinn wrung his hands nervously. “Are you the one who had me brought here?”

“I’m sorry if we interfered with your day, Patrick. We brought you here because we felt that there was a threat to your life.”

Sweat instantly broke out on McGinn’s bald pate.

“We think that threat no longer exists,” Wilson added quickly. “ Do the names James Patterson, Stanley Peacock and Leslie Bingham mean anything to you?”

McGinn’s face contorted. “I knew them a long time ago. We were in a children’
s home together. I haven’t seen them in twenty years.”

“Are you aware that all three men were murdered this week?”

“No.” There was genuine shock on McGinn’s face.

“You didn’t read about it or hear the news on the radio?” Wilson asked.

“I’m severely dyslexic and I avoid the news. It’s all bad anyway.”

“Can you think of any reason why someone should want to murder these three men?”

“Not offhand. Like I said I haven’t seen them since we were kids.”

“Did you also know a Ronald Jamison?”

McGinn swallowed hard and then dropped his head into his hands. “Yes,” he said so quietly that it was almost a whisper. “He was at the home as well.”

“Ronald Jamison was murdered. You knew that?”

“Yes,” again the whispered reply.

“Do you know who killed him?”

McGinn lifted his head slowly. His face was the picture of sadness. “No, but we assumed it was Nichol or one of his friends. But we were kids what the hell did we know.”

“You said Nichol or his friends. Who were these ‘friends’?”

Tears rolled slowly out of McGinn’s eyes. “Robert Nichol was a pederast. All the people you mentioned were abused by Nichol and the men he brought to the home. Some were local but a lot of them had English accents.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “They had sex with us. Sometimes we were forced to give them oral sex other times they buggered us.”

Wilson looked
across at Moira and saw that her eyes were glassy. “I know this must be extremely painful for you, Mr. McGinn. Do you have any idea of the identities of the men Nichol brought to the Home?”

“No. But they were important people. People Nichol wanted to do favours for.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“We saw what happened to Ronald Jamison. He was a spikey wee bastard. Said he was goin’ to shop the whole bunch of them. Then he disappeared and wound up dead. I put the whole business out of my mind for the past twenty years. Sometimes I can convince myself that it was all a dream and that it never really happened. But I sometimes wake in the middle of the night and the memories make me sweat even on cold nights.”

“We think that Patterson, Peacock and Bingham were killed because of what happened in Dungray,” Wilson said. “The man responsible for their deaths was shot dead earlier to-day. We are convinced that your life was in danger because of something you saw or heard during the abuse you suffered in Dungray. Are you sure you have no idea of why these men were murdered?”

McGinn dried his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Like I said my coping mechanism was to convince myself that it never happened. Maybe it didn’t. But I don’t remember anything that could have gotten them boys killed.”

Wilson was wondering where he could go next with the interview when Harry Graham stuck his head in the door.

“Boss, important,” he said simply.

Wilson rose slowly. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. McGinn. DC McElvaney will arrange for a police car to drive you home.” He shook hands with McGinn and left the room.

Harry Graham was waiting directly outside the room. His face, already long and angular, appeared to be dropping to his waist.

“What happened, Harry,” Wilson said on seeing Harry’s depressed demeanour. “Somebody kill your dog?”

“ No, Boss,” Graham said quietly. “I just don’t want to be the one to bring you this news.
”

“Get it out, Harry, and quick.”

‘There’s been a fuck-up. After you left Fortingale Road, we had the usual parade of crime scene investigators, the Coroner, a couple of shooting scene investigators. The place was like a three-ringed circus. Anyway, after the coroner finished with the body, two ambulance attendants arrived to take it away. They bagged the corpse and loaded it in an ambulance to take it to the Royal Infirmary.  Ten minutes later another ambulance crew arrived to do the same job. I assumed there’d been a screw up and sent the second crew away. Bottom line is that the first crew never made it to the Royal. The ambulance was stolen and has been found burned out. There was no body inside. The corpse has disappeared.”

“You are fucking joking me, Harry,” Wilson shouted. “Tell me that you are fucking joking me or I promise you that you’ll be pounding a beat to-morrow.”

“Sorry, Boss. How was I supposed to know? The crew were kosher. Proper uniforms, proper ambulance, the lot. You might have done the same.”

Wilson fought to contain his anger. Harry was right. They had been playing with the big boys and they had been gazumped. They’d lost the body and with it their only chance of finding out who exactly the murderer had been. The bastard had killed at least five men and one woman and could have been involved in the ‘suicide’ of Robert Nichol and they would never know who he had been

He put his hand on Graham’s shoulder. “It’s OK, Harry. Forget what I said. It could have happened to anybody.”

He moved off in the direction of his office. He’d always considered Tennent Street to be his womb. Now he felt threatened by it. Those who really pulled the strings could invade his womb. He felt totally exposed for the first time in his life. There was nobody to trust. He was alone and he had failed.

              The mood in the Squad-room was sombre. His team sat dejected at their desks. Wilson closed the door of his office, removed a bottle of Jameson from his desk and poured himself a very large measure.

             
Moira opened his door. “Better save it for later,” she said. “The Deputy Chief Constable wants you at his office. The Duty Sergeant was afraid to tell you in person. Apparently you’re looking for a head to bite off.”

             
Wilson took a sip of the whiskey before putting the glass on his desk. "Don’t go away. I’ll be back for you.” he said to the glass. “Well let's not disappoint the DCC." He opened his desk and removed the copy book which he had taken from Patterson's flat.

             
"What's that?" she asked.

             
"A little present for the DCC," he said shoving the copybook into his pocket.