Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (19 page)

Sammy Rice was fit to be tied. Nobody but nobody woke up the UVF chief at three o'clock in the morning unless some catastrophe had occurred. Rice sat huddled in his dressing gown in the front parlour of his terraced house in Woodvale Road in West Belfast. A convection heater blew a blast of lukewarm air across his feet and into the cold room.

              "This better be bloody good," Rice glowered at the three men standing facing him.

             
"It is," Ivan McIlroy, Rice's eyes and ears on the streets, stood on the other side of the heater. "This is Bobby Gillespie and Steve Lennon from the `Black Bear' mob. You might remember them." The two men who had approached Case in the `Black Bear' earlier that evening stood at McIlroy's side.

             
Rice looked at the two men standing beside his principle lieutenant. Both were covered with grime and looked like they'd just about survived fifteen rounds with a sex starved gorilla. The younger of the two had an angry looking black mark down the side of his face. Rice couldn't remember meeting either man but he nodded his head in affirmation.

             
"You can see from the state of them that the two boys were in a real dust up this evening," McIlroy continued.

             
"Get to the point Ivan or get the fuck out," Rice huddled closer to the heater. His patience was growing thin.

             
"Look Sammy, you yourself told me to report anything peculiar and you'll find this very bloody peculiar? OK."

             
Rice nodded.

             
"Bobby and Steve were havin' a few jars in the `Black Bear 'this evenin' when they spied a stranger at one of the tables. The boy wasn't one of the locals. Bobby and Steve reckoned he might be a Taig."

             
"Don't give me that shit," Rice said looking harshly at the two men. "They were out for a bit of fucking violence."

             
"You're right they were," McIlroy threw an admonishing look at the two men. "The stupid bastards were with a few mates so they decided to ask the stranger outside. You know the score. The guy went along quietly enough. When they got him outside they started asking questions and the bastard went berserk. He beat the shit out of the four of them and get this, he picked on one of them and lopped off all the fingers on his right hand. The guy's in the Royal Infirmary. They're tryin' to sown the fingers back on."

             
Rice sat upright. "You mean to tell me that some bugger single-handedly beat up four members of the UVF."

             
"You've got it," McIlroy said.

             
"Who the fuck was he?" Rice's mind was replaying the conversation the Belfast Command had had with Simpson. Anything out of the ordinary. He'd seen almost everything during his lifetime as a terrorist but this one beat banagher. He looked at the two men who stood in front of him. Whoever had beaten up on these guys was one tough bugger.

             
"We don't fuckin' know," the young man with the mousy hair spoke with apparent pain.  His voice was garbled. "The bastard started on us as soon as we got him into the yard behind the pub."

             
"Tell me exactly what happened," Rice wrapped himself in the dressing gown. "Leave nothing out."

             
Gillespie began to describe the events of the earlier part of the evening and the violent happenings in the back yard of the `Black Bear'. "It was all so fast none of us knew what was happenin'," he concluded. "When we came too the bastard was gone and Georgie’s fingers were lyin' around the yard. We picked up the fingers and they’re bein’ sown back on at the Royal. They say that he'll never have the full use of his hand again."

             
"Lucky it was his hand and not his dick," McIlroy said laughing.

             
"What did he look like?" Rice asked. The barbarity of Case's actions made no impression on the UVF leader.

             
Lennon's swollen face frowned as he tried to picture the man who had inflicted the injuries on him. He glanced across at Gillespie. "He was about medium height," he began, "and well built. Aged maybe thirty to thirty-five, dark hair, the face I don't remember so well. Nothing about it stood out. He was wearin' a reefer jacket and he spoke with a Belfast accent." He shook his head. "That's all I can remember."

             
"That's fucking marvellous," Rice said angrily. "Some arsehole beats the livin' shit out of four of you, lops the fingers off one of you and all you can remember is that he was a pretty ordinary bloke who was wearin' a donkey jacket. Get to hell out of here you pair of gobshites. I'm only sorry he didn't cut your fucking heads off."

             
Gillespie and Lennon turned and left the room.

             
"What do you make of it?" Rice's asked as soon as he and McIlroy were alone.

             
"Damned if I know?" McIlroy asked. "The `Black Bear' mob is one of our toughest unit. Anybody who could take out four of them has got to be somebody to worry about. The bastard must be some kind of superman."

             
"Who do you think he was?" Rice asked.

             
"It sounds like SASman to me," McIlroy said using the term applied by both the Protestant and Catholic paramilitaries to the members of the British Special Air Service. "Only somebody of that kind could've gotten out of the `Black Bear' alive."

             
"Couldn't he be a Provie?" Rice asked.

             
"No chance. They don't have anybody that good on their books."

             
"OK," Rice said trying to order his thoughts. "Let's just suppose that this guy was SASman. And then let's suppose that he's the one who offed the three Prods. Then we have to ask ourselves what the fuck is goin' on? Why are they doin' it?"

             
"Could be they want to get the Provies and ourselves at each others throats. It wouldn't be the first time the Brits've used disinformation tactics," McIlroy said.

             
Rice sat thinking for a moment. It certainly wasn't beyond the Brits to launch an operation aimed at getting the Provies and the UVF to start slaughtering each other. It had been done before. If that was what was happening then why didn't he know about it. For the past five years he had been secretly working for the Military. Only on the surface of course. They had proved useful allies in his climb to leadership of the UVF. Many an adversary had been lifted off the streets after a tip-off to the Brits. Rice made a mental note to follow that one up with his contact in Military Intelligence. But what if the Brits weren't involved? Could the bloke in the 'Black Bear' be the killer Simpson was looking for? What if the motive wasn't political? What if the killer was a rogue, some twisted bastard murdering for some motive known only to himself? If the bastard was acting from personal motives, why kill only Protestants? Rice knew all the questions but he still had to work out some of the answers. Something was beginning to smell rotten and he wanted badly to be the first man to locate where the smell was coming from. For the present he was one step ahead of everybody else. He was the only one with a description of the guy who might be the killer. Even if that description was half-baked. It wouldn't matter. The UVF had tentacles that stretched into every house on every street in the Protestant ghettos of East and West Belfast. He was going to find the bloke from the 'Black Bear' and he was going to find out why he was topping ordinary Protestants. Then he was going to use that information to squeeze some advantage out of the Brits. Fuck Simpson and his limp-wristed politician friends.

             
"There's something fucking rotten goin' on here, Ivan," Rice said switching off the heater and standing up. "And I want to be completely on top of it. Right."

             
McIlroy nodded in affirmation.

             
"If that bastard is somewhere in Belfast," Rice said. "Then I want to know where he is. Contact the rest of the boys. Give them a run down on what happened tonight and warn them to keep their mouths shut. They're to put the word out on the streets that we're lookin' for a stranger. The description isn't worth crap but give it to them anyway. I don't care what it takes, I want that bastard first." Rice switched off the light in his living room and walked McIlroy into the small hall of his semi-detached house. Gillespie and Lennon stood waiting beside the front door.

             
"This is top priority. Drop everything else and get on it." Rice slid the large bolt on the steel inner door and let the three men out onto the street. Spits of rain and a cold breeze blew around his feet as he watched the three men disappear into the rain-laden darkness. Arseholes, Rice thought watching Gillespie and Lennon’s departing figures. They'd almost got the bastard.  As he closed and bolted the front door and the steel inner door, a second thought struck Rice. The bastard had the four `Black Bear' boys at his mercy, but he didn't kill any of them. Rice wondered why.

Case woke in his small bedsit and turned his head slowly towards the window. A stream of grey light entered through the gap where the two pieces of tattered paisley printed fabric which constituted the curtains met. He pushed down on the bed with his right hand and a bolt of pain shot through his right side where the kick from the dickhead at the ‘Black Bear’ had landed during the previous evening’s fracas. He lifted up the side of his tee-shirt and looked at the black and red streaked weal which covered the bottom section of his ribs. He'd rolled with the kick but the skinny bugger had managed to connect with him. I should have really hurt that little bastard, he thought, taking no pleasure from the memory of the kick which he had delivered to the side of the bastard’s prostrate head. He ran his fingers over the weal. The skin hadn't been broken and the bruise would soon fade. He sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. No physical jerks this morning. The UVF bastard had made any kind of exercise impossible. He felt another flash of annoyance. The early morning exercises were part of his ritual. He had learned in the SAS that it didn't require brains to kill effectively. The expert killer needed no thought processes to get rid of his victim. Killing for the professionals was instinctive. To keep the instinct honed it was necessary to keep in practice and keep the body in shape. He thought of the fat slob and the weedy youth who had confronted him in the bar the previous evening. The look on their thick Irish faces showed that they were no strangers to violence but there was a world of difference between them and him. They were pack animals. Jackals banding together to hunt and slay the weak and defenseless. He considered himself a sleek killing machine, equally skilled with pistol, combat knife or his bare hands.

             
He walked to the window and looked down into the terraced street below. A steady stream of light rain washed gently against the glass of the window and blurred the view of the street beneath. Time was running short. Two more clients to service and then he would replace the Belfast gloom with the brilliant sunshine of the `Costa'. Care would have to be his watchword from now on. Under other circumstances he would have preferred to finish off the bastards from the `Black Bear'. But a bundle of dead bodies in the backyard of a pub would lead to a hue and cry even in a city as accustomed to mass violence as Belfast.

             
Case moved to the battered locker which stood beside his bed. The top of the furniture was scored with deep dark rectangular scorch marks, a testament to the smoking habits of the room's previous occupants. He ran his index finger along one of the many depressions before opening the top drawer and lifting out a fresh white shirt. Nice and clean, he thought holding up the shirt. Just like his business in Belfast. Up until last night that was. There were four sons-of-bitches out there who could recognise him. That was if their brains had been switched on. Nobody would ever connect him with the killing of Patterson and Peacock but there was sure to be four very angry Protestant terrorists roaming the streets today. That complicated matters. All he needed was a couple of crazed bigots hunting for him. He slipped his arms into the cool white cotton, feeling the tingle as the fabric brushed against the weal on his side. He'd have to lie low for a while. To hell with the bastards in London and their schedule. He was going to get out of Belfast alive no matter what schedule they imposed on him.

             
Case moved to the window and pulled the tattered curtains aside. The rain was still falling in a light silent mist. He looked across at the terraced houses facing him. It could have been a working class area of any big city in England if it wasn't for the spray painted graffiti covering the redbrick walls. The slogans `Fuck the Pope', `Kill the Provos' and `No Surrender' which stared back at him from the walls opposite marked the street as typically Northern Irish. A quarter of a mile away on the other side of the 'Peace Wall' the houses looked the same but the slogans were altered to reflect the different political leanings. He closed the curtains. He didn't give a shit about politics. As far as he was concerned, all the politicians could go screw themselves. The Paddies could slaughter each other until kingdom come. All the conflict in Northern Ireland was good for was to field test the British Army. He prised open the loose floorboard and revealed the hiding place of the steel suitcase. He went through the ritual associated with the opening of the case and removed the file on his next target. He read the three type-written pages for the fiftieth time. It was a no sweat job like the other two. The only trick was that it would have to be done in typical IRA fashion. He looked at the face of the man in the eight by four inch black and white photograph that his principals had provided. He felt nothing for the person behind the photograph. It was simply business. Sometime, somehow this poor bastard had aggravated somebody in authority and he was going to have to pay for it. He slipped the typewritten pages and the photo back into the clear plastic container and replaced it in the side pocket of the case. 

             
He was replacing the floorboard when he heard a soft knock on the door. He hammered the loose board into place with the side of his hand and stood up quickly. "Come in," he said.

             
The door opened and Betty Maguire stuck her head into the room. "I've a lovely fresh egg for your breakfast, Mr.  eh!, Joe."

             
"Thanks, that's very nice of you to offer, Mrs. M," Case said closing his shirt and moving towards the open door. Maybe to-day wouldn't be such a bad day to lie low, he thought as he slapped Mrs. Maguire's plump departing behind. The hit wasn't until this evening and Mrs. Maguire's backside presented a more enticing prospect than another day at the flicks.

Wilson's eyes were stinging and his throat felt like the bottom of a parrot's cage as he slung his heavy overcoat over the coat-stand in his cluttered office. He hadn't had the courage to look in a mirror but he hoped that he didn't look as bad as he felt. However, he had a sneaking feeling that he did. Then there was the embarrassment.  His face reddened when he thought about his performance in front of McElvaney. He was coming apart at the seams. What the hell was he up to? Did he want to get in her pants? If he did he was making a damn poor job of it. Kate McCann’s business card stared back at him from a shelf in the kitchen. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand concentrating on the mobile number written in blue ink. He replaced the card on the shelf and turned on the radio. The early morning radio news programme announced the resumption of talks about talks in the Middle East. Nothing changes, he thought. The conflicts just moves around the world. Some gobshite detective in Beirut was probably looking into the death of a Christian killed by a Muslim or vice versa. His Lebanese colleague and he were just a couple of unlucky innocent bystanders. He could not dispel the feeling that the two murders formed only part of a pattern which would eventually involve many others. It rarely stopped at two or three. No detective involved in investigating the sectarian murders of the 1970's could forget how mismanagement compounding ineptitude had allowed gangs of vicious criminals to murder, sometimes in the most horrible fashion, dozens of innocent people. It always bothered him that the RUC had failed miserably to put all the members of the murder gangs away. In the tangled web of terrorism and lies, false accusations and downright perjury that typified the judicial process in Northern Ireland, he had at last begun to accept that the PSNI, or indeed any police force, could only be partially successful against clever terrorists.

             
The squad room was empty and Wilson settled himself behind his desk to get in a few minutes of uninterrupted work. Every member of the squad would have to pump in all the hours that God would send until they located the man or men responsible for the three murders. Jesus Christ, he thought as he looked at the mound of files lying on his desk. His throat felt so dry that it ached continually while the point just above his right temple pounded with a regular syncopation which would have been the envy of a drummer in a jazz band. He placed the top file in front of him and telephoned his squad's secretary to fetch him up a cup of strong sweet tea. The tea arrived five minutes later and was almost strong enough to keep the spoon upright in the middle of the cup. He drank a mouthful of the liquid which streamed down his throat like a torrent of nectar. Then he opened a file and began to work.

Detective Constable McElvaney looked over the computer printouts for what must have been the twentieth time. She had finally hit on one factor which connected Patterson and Peacock. It had been so simple that she couldn't understand how she hadn't seen it before. But then again maybe it had been too simple and so maybe it meant absolutely nothing. The files from the Department of Social Welfare had shown that Patterson and Peacock had both been orphans. At first sight this fact seemed inconsequential. No policeman in his right mind could believe that there was a serial killer concentrating solely on orphans. But she could not deny that it was the only possible fact which connected the two men other than the fact they lived and worked in the same city. She had spent hours dipping into the Social Welfare computer files. Each of the two men had passed through a series of homes and foster-parents before being released into the community at sixteen. She started to cross reference the two men's lives and came up with only one connection. Both men had been residents of the Dungray Home for Boys between the years 1990 and 1992. She switched her attention to information on the Dungray Home for Boys. The institution was run by a group of Protestant fundamentalists and other than giving the barest of details the Social Welfare file on the Home was useless. She printed out the details from the Social Welfare file and switched to the PSNI and Military Intelligence files. Nothing. Not even the slightest mention of Dungray. She was disappointed because she was sure that she was on to something. She told herself that there was no reason why there should have been police files on the Home. But something was niggling her. Days of examining files had produced only this single tenuous link between the two men and like a dog with a bone she wasn't going to give up this lead easily. She picked up the print-out of the Social Welfare file. A column in the file indicated the names of the individuals who had run the home since its inception. She located the years 1990 to 1992 and ran her finger across the paper until it came to the name Robert Nichol. She interrogated the PSNI files one more time and when prompted by the computer she entered Nichol's name. The amber screen went blank and she sat back while the machine scanned the thousands of files which had been built up by the police and military since the creation of the state of Northern Ireland.

             
This was the new police work, she thought listening to the whirr of the computer terminal. The `bobby on the beat' was an anachronism. The old style of police work had its uses in an age where a man in a blue uniform knew most of the people on his beat. These days the information on citizens of a country consisted of patterns of charged particles stored God only knew where. Whereas the old style policeman picked up his information from gossip on the streets, the new police could tap into a myriad of databases that could literally trace the history of an individual from birth to death. Big Brother had arrived. She could feel a tinge of excitement as she waited for the machine to disgorge its information. Something told her that the long hours sitting before the computer screen and pouring over the files was going to pay off. The screen flicked and she leaned forward. She stared at the small box in the centre of the screen. The word `RESTRICTED' flashed on and off in the centre of the box. The words `enter access code' flashed in the left hand bottom corner of the screen. She typed in her access code and pressed `enter'. The machine emitted a beep and the legend `enter access code' reappeared. She hit the escape key and the screen changed to the data search menu. What the hell was going on? Why should the file on the warden of an orphans home be restricted? She selected the PSNI and Military files and keyed in her access number. When the machine prompted her for her request she typed in Nichol's name for the second time. There had to be some problem with the machine. Her access code should have been sufficient to open up all the files held by the PSNI and Military Intelligence. She waited anxiously as the machine searched for Nichol's file. The screen flicked into life and her heart sank as she saw the same small box dominating the centre of the screen. Angrily she pushed the escape key. What the hell was so special about Robert bloody Nichol that his file had been restricted? Somebody was being very cagey about Mister Nichol. She leaned over the keyboard of the terminal. There was more than one way to skin a cat. It was a certainty that if there was a PSNI or Military Intelligence file on Nichol that there would be a cross reference to him in some other file. She asked the computer to search for the name Robert Nichol in any of the other files. This was going to be a long job. The machine whirred and her eyes glared at the empty screen. Occasionally the word `working' flashed on the screen. The minutes dragged by as in the bowels of the station the computer examined thousands of yards of computer tape. She was about to give up when the screen suddenly filled with text. She blinked her eyes and focused on the fuzzy amber letters. She scanned the text moving quickly from line to line. Finally her eyes lighted on the name `Robert Nichol' buried in a line of text. She returned to the top of the data file and began to read slowly through the words.