Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (34 page)

CHAPTER 42

Wilson arrived outside the offices of the Ulster Democratic Front in Sandy Row at exactly ten minutes past eleven. The Toyota had been cleared by the bomb squad and he had been returned to Malwood Park to collect it. On the journey back to the centre of Belfast, he ran over the events of the past few days in his head. Five murders had been committed without a single clue as to who the perpetrator or perpetrators might be. The motive was still unclear although he was now certain that it had something to do with Dungray Home for Boys and Robert Nichol. Whoever had placed the bombs knew where he and Whitehouse lived as well as the cars they drove. That information was strictly on a need-to-know basis. Maybe they had been followed over the past few days? If they had it had been a very professional job. The bastard who had set the bombs had known exactly where to find them. As he had suspected, the bomb boys were unable to recognise the bomb as being set by one of their regulars. He thought about the `professional'. There was no reason why the man shouldn't be as well versed in explosives as he was in guns. But why turn his attention to Whitehouse and himself when they weren't even close to finding him?

             
He switched off the motor and slammed his hand into the steering column. The frustration was getting to him. Unless he collared the killer soon both he, and by extension Kate, would be in grave danger. He didn't care much for his own miserable hide but George Whitehouse was the last person who was going to die because of his stupidity.

             
The offices of the Ulster Democratic Front were housed in a building which had formerly consisted of a ground floor shop with accommodation on the two floors above. He entered the front door and found that the shop had been transformed into a large reception area. He looked around the tastefully decorated room. The receptionist sat at a desk to the left of the door, a picture of the founder of the UDF glaring across her shoulder. At the other side of the room, two large men in almost identical blue suits sat on a couch. Carlile's minders looked up from their newspapers and examined him.

             
"I've a meeting with Mr Carlile at eleven fifteen," Wilson said standing before the secretary's desk.

             
“Chief Inspector Wilson?" the secretary asked.

             
Wilson nodded. "The very same."

             
"He's expecting you. His office is on the first floor at the rear of the building." She turned her head in the direction of a white staircase at the rear of the room.

             
"Thanks." He moved towards the staircase expecting one of the minders to intercept him on route and frisk him. The two men remained seated and simply watched his progress towards the staircase.

             
"Chief Inspector Wilson," Carlile stood on the first floor landing with his hand extended. "It's always a pleasure to meet with the brave constables of the PSNI. One of your colleagues was murdered by a terrorist bomb this morning. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I’ve already sent a message of condolence to the poor man’s wife."

             
Wilson didn't respond but simply shook Carlile's hand and followed him towards the rear of the building. As he walked behind the founder of the UDF, he thought that the years had not been kind to Carlile. The two men were almost the same height but Carlile's tall thin body was beginning to hunch and Wilson had noticed brown flecked pouches of skin hanging on what had been twenty years before the striking face of Protestant resistance.

             
"Please sit down, Inspector." Carlile took his place behind the desk in what had once been a back bedroom in the original house.

             
Wilson saw spats of rainwater begin to run down the only window in the room which overlooked a small concrete yard at the rear of the house. A tall barbed wire fence surmounting the outside walls of the yard was visible through the rain splattered pane of glass. He looked away from the window and sat in the chair which Carlile had indicated.

             
"Well, Chief Inspector, we're always pleased to receive a visit from the members of our security forces."

             
Wilson looked directly at Carlile. As in Jennings office, the wall behind him was covered in photos depicting the leader of the UDF in proximity to the great and the good. Pride of place on the wall went to a photo of Carlile in close conversation with President Clinton. Ranged around the centre-piece were photos of the leader of the UDF with lesser but nonetheless important beings. The message was clear. The man seated across from him represented about as much influence as could be wielded in the province of Ulster.

             
"I'm afraid my visit is of an official nature," Wilson said crossing his legs.

             
"I've never liked the air of formality that accompanies an official police visit," Carlile said punching a button on his desk. "I don't suppose you'd have any objection to one of my assistants attending the interview. Very often there's a degree of disagreement later about what exactly was said during one of these official visits."

             
Wilson shook his head. "I have no objection." He was never happy dealing with members of the political fraternity. Divining the truth from the statements of the criminal classes was a cake walk in comparison with the politicians who had raised lying to an art form.

             
"Send Richie up," Carlile said into an intercom on his desk. "Well, Chief Inspector, should we commence."

             
Wilson leaned forward in his chair. "I'm investigating a series of murders in Belfast over the past week."

             
One of the men who had been seated downstairs entered the room.

             
"This is Richie Simpson," Carlile said introducing the new arrival.

             
"I've heard of him," Wilson didn't offer his hand. What he'd heard about Simpson hadn't been good. He was a known ex-hard man who'd seen the error of his ways and nowadays believed in the political process as a way to preserve Protestant Ulster. Bullshit, he thought, once a terrorist always a terrorist. Simpson slouched into a chair beside his mentor. Wilson took an instant dislike to the man.

             
"You were saying, Chief Inspector," Carlile continued. "You are investigating these heinous sectarian murders."

             
"Yes, and in the course of my inquiries I had reason to speak with Robert Nichol."

             
"Ah, yes, poor Robert," Carlile interrupted a little too quickly "A brave servant of the people of Ulster. His tragic death will be felt by us all. I personally was very close to Robert and I've accepted to give the eulogy at his funeral."

             
"There are a couple of peculiar coincidences connecting Robert Nichol to our current investigation."

             
Carlile leaned across the desk. "You mean you suspected Robert Nichol of murder. You cannot be serious, Detective Inspector."

             
"I didn't say that he was suspected of murder. What I would say is that I believe that he had information which could have been vital in helping us solve these murders."

             
"Now that the poor man has taken his own life it's unlikely you'll ever get that vital information. It's the curse of this Province that the police always seem to be hamstrung in their efforts to bring the murderer to justice. If I or my associates can help," Carlile turned and looked at Simpson, "we surely will."

             
"I was hoping you'd say that, sir. You see all the murdered men were residents of the Dungray Home for Boys during the period when Nichol was the warden. As I've already said, I interviewed him only yesterday and I felt, rightly or wrongly, that he was withholding information. By an amazing coincidence, he takes his own life on the evening after we interview him. By another coincidence, the other investigating officer on the cases, DS Whitehouse, was blown to pieces and an attempt was made on my life."

             
"Will this madness never stop," Carlile sat bolt upright in his chair. "I heard the reports on the radio but I had no idea that the officer in question was you. You're a very lucky man indeed, Inspector."

             
Wilson smiled in admiration. Carlile was one of the best 'handlers' that he'd ever seen. His concern actually appeared genuine.

             
"We've looked into the files at Headquarters and quite honestly there isn't much information on Mr Nichol's activities while he was at Dungray. I understand that you and he were quite close at the time and I wonder whether you could give me any details which could help me."

             
Carlile let himself slide back in his chair. The question was how much information to give the man from Tennent Street. He had heard quite a lot about Ian Wilson and what he had heard was borne out by his first impressions. Wilson was a tough honest copper and nobody's fool. Once he got the bit between his teeth it would be a hard ride for everybody concerned. He would have to tread carefully the narrow bridge between appearing to help the man and yet making sure that the water remained as muddied as possible. It would be no easy feat.

"I’m trying to think how I might be of assistance to you," Carlile began warily. "Robert was a fundamentalist Protestant like myself and had already established some sort of loose Protestant association of young men before I decided to found the UDF. I knew him, of course, as a fellow politician, although he was strictly second rate."

Wilson was left to draw the obvious inference.

Carlile continued. "Then Robert tired of politics and seemed to drop out of sight. I've only had sporadic contact with him since then."

              "Would his virtual retirement from politics have had anything to do with his being implicated in a homosexual murder of one of the boys in his home?"

             
Carlile winced involuntarily. "I am not aware that he had been implicated in any such affair."

             
Wilson let Carlile's response stand although he felt the man was lying through his teeth. "Do you have any idea why his file is restricted for security reasons?"

             
Carlile was beginning to see the danger in Wilson continuing to probe in the direction of links between the UDF and Nichol. It was time to toss the Chief Inspector a bone. "You understand, Chief Inspector, that a man in my position gets to hear a great many things about the more dubious happenings in this Province." Carlile was encouraged by Wilson's nod. "In Robert's case there was a great deal of gossip. For example, it was widely believed in the nineties that there was a strong connection between Robert and a `dirty tricks' group within Military Intelligence."

             
"Can you be more explicit?" Wilson asked. That was two mentions in one day of the connection between the recently deceased Robert Nichol and Military Intelligence. He could almost feel himself being led along by the nose. He had already decided that he was going to play along. The phrase ‘dead men tell no tales’ ran through his mind.

             
"I don't know all the details," Carlile pressed his two skeletal hands together in front of his face. "It appears that a group of intelligence personnel decided to implement a rather unofficial programme of discrediting major political figures. Myself included I should hasten to add. Some of their ruses were relatively crude, such as setting up bogus bank accounts in the name of a public figure and effecting payments to that account which would be consistent with bribery. That was what happened in my case. Where the targets were more partial to sins of the flesh, their pleasures were catered for and were then documented in great detail. In effect, Military Intelligence set up an unofficial blackmail operation."

             
"And Nichol was part of this `dirty tricks' sex network?" Wilson asked his mind racing because of the information he'd just received.

             
"That was what was rumoured at the time. I'm afraid Robert's sexual preferences ran to his own sex. We shouldn't malign the dead but I suppose nothing can hurt him now. I must warn you, Inspector, that what I am telling you cannot be proven. The tracks of this operation have been well and truly covered."

             
But it was so bloody plausible, Wilson thought. If Military Intelligence was tying up some loose ends, that would explain everything. It would also close the door on his investigation. This was the broadest hint he had yet received. In Ulster British Military Intelligence was taboo. Case closed. Time to go home.

             
"Is there anybody I could contact who could give me concrete details of what you’ve just told me?" Wilson asked with obvious excitement in his voice.

             
Carlile started to laugh. "The only man who could have helped you is lying dead in a mortuary at this moment. Don't you remember the number of coincidental deaths of people involved in the Kennedy assassination? These people are trained to cover their tracks. Everything that you've heard in this room will remain in the realm of rumour and gossip. That is unless someone from the inside comes forward and exposes the whole rotten scheme. For my own part, I can tell you no more."