Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (39 page)

CHAPTER 49

"Ah! Detective Inspector Wilson," Jennings came forward from his desk. As Wilson entered his office. "May I introduce you to Chief Constable Sir Thomas McKannan." Jennings was a model of obsequiousness.

              The Chief Constable of the PSNI stood and extended his hand to Wilson. He was tall and grey-haired and dressed in his blue uniform. He exuded 'gravitas'. "Pleased to meet you Detective Chief  Inspector."

             
The handshake was firm. "Likewise," Wilson said.

             
"Our two friends here are from the Home Office," Jennings said without offering their names. Both of them remained seated and neither made any move to shake hands.

Wilson
stared at the man and woman from the 'Home Office'. They looked straight through him. The man was the elder and had an unremarkable rotund face topped off by a bald pate. Strands of wispy grey hair were just visible hanging down the back of his neck. His grey eyes looked out from beyond the thick lenses of horn-rimmed glasses. He hadn't bothered to remove a well worn Barbour wax jacket. His younger companion was dressed in a dark polo-neck jumper beneath a black leather blouson and black trousers. She was as plain as her dress sense. She returned his stare through bottle-top glasses. If these two were with the Home Office, Wilson was a monkey's uncle. Wilson knew a spook when he saw one. A smile played on his lips. He was about to be sold a barrel of shit.

             
"Firstly let me say how sorry I am about the death of your colleague DS Whitehouse," the Chief Constable began. "He wasn't the first man to give up his life for the Force and he certainly won't be the last. He will of course be buried with full honours."

             
"Of course. He was a brave man," Wilson hated himself for uttering such a cliché. He knew it sounded trite but his emotions were so strung out that he could think of nothing else.

             
"Please sit down," Sir Thomas indicated the chair beside his.

             
Wilson sat beside the Chief Constable and directly across the desk from Jennings. The spooks were seated to the side. They were there not as the principles but as the chorus to Wilson’s Greek tragedy.

             
"And I understand it congratulations are also in order," Sir Thomas replaced his sombre look by his pleased look.

             
Score one for Saatchi and Saatchi, Wilson thought. The Chief Constable had handled the change of mood like the true professional he was.

             
"You apprehended the fellow who's been murdering people in West Belfast." Although McKannan was born and raised in County Antrim, like Jennings he had deduced at an early age that the possession of a British accent was an added advantage. He had therefore cultivated an Oxford accent long before he had been sent to serve in the Metropolitan Police. The accent only served to irritate Wilson.

             
"Only briefly," Wilson replied staring at the two 'Home Office' officials. The Chief Constable and his Deputy tried to ignore the remark. He didn't care. "I mean I only apprehended the man for a short period." Like five seconds, he thought.

             
Sir Thomas looked at Jennings.

             
"I've been looking back on your file, Ian," Jennings began flicking through a blue folder on the desk before him.

             
Wilson did not miss the significance of the use of his Christian name.

             
"Do you recognise this document?" he pushed a typed sheet across the desk towards Wilson.

             
"It is a copy of the Official Secrets Act."

             
"Signed by whom?"

             
"By me." Even his signature on the document looked younger and stronger than its current variant.

             
"You do, of course, understand the consequences for yourself were you to contravene any of the sections of the Act."

             
"I think that I do."

             
"Good," Jennings continued preening himself. He was the star turn on the stage. "Then I have to inform you that everything associated with the events of this afternoon are covered by the Official Secrets Act. The murders of Patterson, Peacock and Bingham are closed."

             
"And DS Whitehouse's murder?"

             
Jennings and the Chief Constable shifted uneasily in their chairs. The two officials from the 'Home Office' didn't bat an eyelid. Dead Plods in Northern Ireland were a dime a dozen.

             
"I think that in the fullness of time the man shot in Fortingale Street this evening will be proved to be DS Whitehouse’s murderer," Jennings said grasping the nettle. His initiative would certainly not be forgotten by his superior who was already casting a benign smile in his direction.

             
"So it's all neat and tidy," Wilson said looking at his superior officers. "Five men and one woman murdered and the murderer apprehended and then disappeared. No nasty questions to answer. No court case. The lone assassin theory vindicated. A thoroughly satisfying conclusion. The widow Whitehouse will be pleased."

             
For the first time since he entered the room Wilson noticed the older 'Home Office' man flinch. He'd touched a raw nerve. His remark wasn't in the script and he was deviating from the part of the hapless copper which had been so carefully constructed for him. He hadn't landed the collar. So he could be blamed if the shit began to fly.

             
"I think I've put the whole thing together," Wilson said removing Patterson's copybook from his pocket. He noticed that he had the undivided attention of every man in the room. "I suppose I should have seen it much sooner it was so bloody obvious. But sometimes you can miss something that's staring you in the face." He tossed the copybook across the table towards Jennings. "I should have guessed what was on when I found that copybook at Patterson's."

             
Jennings held the battered copybook by the edges of his fingers. He prised open the first page and looked at the sketches. Wilson watched as the DCC's face turned into a scowl. Jennings held the copybook in a position where the two 'Home Office' officials could see it clearly.

             
"If I'd been awake when I saw that book for the first time," Wilson said. "I might have saved poor old George’s life. That was the key. That's what it was all about. Dungray, Nichol the pederast, the boys that someone wanted dead. An ancient screwed-up intelligence operation. A sex ring to trap a person or persons unknown. Except that that person or persons no longer has all their screws in place and wanted the pawns in the operation removed." He looked at the faces of the two from the 'Home Office'. "I suppose that we’ll never get to the bottom of why six people had to die?"

             
The question hung in the air unanswered.

             
Jennings pulled himself up to his full height. “Neither I nor the Chief Constable appreciate your tone. The murders have been solved. The responsible is dead and the matter has been closed.”

             
"I'm afraid we've seriously underestimated you, Detective Chief Inspector," the older ‘Home Office' man spoke. The accent was Oxbridge overlaid with a military clipping of the words. "This is as far as you go. You’ve done a commendable job in tracking the killer down and I’m sure we’re all very grateful to you. You’ve also managed to avoid a resumption of hostilities. All in all, a job well done.”

             
"It’s nice to be appreciated," Wilson said angrily. "All’s well that ends well."

             
The senior spook removed a paper from the inside pocket of his barbour jacket and pushed it across the desk towards Wilson. "Do you know what that is?"

             
Wilson ignored the sheet of white folded paper.

             
"It is a Public Interest Immunity Certificate. It has been signed at the highest possible level. It means the case is closed, Inspector. Permanently. The murderer has been found by the ever-attentive police. I understand that a search of what was left of his lodgings has turned up nothing. He had no possessions with which to identify him. His body has been stolen and will in all probability never be found. He’s a dead end. The trail stops there. I can of course understand your sense of frustration but I would caution you to accept the situation as you find it. Any other course of action on your part could have serious repercussions for your career."

             
“Maybe I’m not so sure that I want to continue to be a policeman.”

             
“Then that would be a pity,” the Chief Spook said. “Perhaps you should discuss this with your lady friend. As a QC she should be able to give you valuable advice.”

             
So they knew about Kate and him. They would have a complete dossier on him. His affairs. His betrayal of his wife. It would all be used to discredit him if he went any further. Wilson could feel the anger boiling up inside him. They had him where they wanted him and he was beginning to realise it.

             
"I dare say that some snotty rag might run the risk of publishing your sordid little story but we still control enough of the press to make sure that the great unwashed British public give as much credence to your utterances as they do to those of foreign politicians. Think about it for a second. You’re a disaffected man, Chief Inspector. You haven't been promoted in the past ten years and you resent it. In a station of over one hundred people you don't have one person that you can call a friend. And then there is the question of your sexual peccadilloes. That could see you out of the Force without a pension. You cheated on your wife even when she was dying horribly. What will Joe Public think of that?" The 'Home Office' man's tone never changed by as much as a decibel. There was neither anger nor jubilation in it. He removed a batch of photographs from a briefcase at his feet and tossed them on the table in front of Wilson.

             
The Detective Chief Inspector picked slowly through the ten or so black and white photos.

             
"You have some very peculiar drinking companions," the 'Home Office' man continued indicating some photos of Wilson, McElvaney and Cahill in the Republican Club." I wonder what could we make of that little gathering and your current dalliance of course." He indicated a photo of Wilson and Kate McCann making love which had undoubtedly been taken by a hidden camera in his house. "If you are unwise enough to pursue this matter, we'll break both you and your lady friend. I wonder will her obvious affection for you survive that."

             
Wilson fought to control his anger. He wanted to jump on the supercilious bastard and tear his living heart out. He took a deep breath and tossed the photographs of Kate and himself back on the pile. "You're nothing but scum. Do you know that. How the hell do you people live with yourselves?" He turned and looked at Jennings and the Chief Constable. "And you'd let them get away with this shit?"

             
The look on both men's faces answered the question for him.

             
"I can understand your indignation," the  Chief Spook said. "But it's over."

             
"I just go back to my little office and forget that all this happened."

             
“Just so. You’re a good policeman. It would be a pity to lose such a good officer.”

             
Wilson looked at the photos spread on the table and then at the DCC. Jennings' lips moved slightly.

             
"Don't say anything, Sir," Wilson said. "Or I'll smash your bloody head to pieces. I'll see you at the funeral along with all the other hypocrites." He turned and left the room.

CHAPTER 50

They sat at a table in the corner of the lounge at the ‘Crown’. Wilson was on his fifth whiskey and Kate held his hand while she stared into his eyes. The news from Kate’s  former boss at the Chambers in London hadn’t been good but had confirmed what Wilson already knew. The ‘powers that be’ wanted the whole matter of the Belfast murders swept under the carpet. Kate’s boss had been unequivocal,  the matter should be dropped immediately.

             
“It can’t end like this,” Wilson said for what seemed like the fifth time.

             
“You’ve got to let it go, Ian,” she said.  “It’s over. You can’t bring back George and the man who killed him is dead.”

             
“But there’s someone behind this whole mess and that’s the one I want,” Wilson was beginning to slur.

             
“You can’t go there. One thing I’ve learned in the course of my career is that justice is a somewhat elusive concept. Sometimes the guilty go free even after lengthy due process.”

             
“But that doesn’t make it right,” Wilson lifted his hand to signal to the waiter but Kate caught it and returned it to the table between them. “That smarmy bastard Jennings and his spooky friends will have won.”

             
Kate could see his eyes become glassy and his head began to droop. Life was cruel if someone with the integrity of Ian Wilson could be crushed at the whim of some faceless bureaucrat. But that was the way things were whether they liked it or not. The five people who had lost their lives for no good reason were only a drop in the ocean of deaths for no good cause. The men who wielded power at the centre would retire with their pensions and tend their rose gardens. Jennings would use his acquiescence to curry favour with those who could help him progress his career. His integrity level was zero but that was his trump card. Meanwhile their eyes and ears would be upon Ian and people like him. She glanced around the lounge. Nobody appeared to be taking a blind bit of notice of her and Ian. But that could be very far from the truth.

             
She ran her hand along his face. She felt a patch of wet where a tear had slipped from his eye. “Time we were away,” she said tossing back the remnants of her drink. “A taxi home this evening I think. We wouldn’t want to give Mr. Jennings and his friends the chance to cashier you. You’ll stay with me to-night.”

             
“Kate you are much too good to me,” Wilson stood up heavily. He lifted his glass. “May God in his mercy be kind to Belfast,” he announced to the room.