Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (37 page)

CHAPTER 46

Wilson put down the phone, took a deep breath and leaned back in his battered swivel chair. Something primeval in him made him want to scream in triumph. He had the bastard. Carlile had come good and now, like hundreds of other citizens of Belfast, he owed him one. He never thought that someone like Carlile would drop a present into his lap. Why hadn't Carlile used the well tried route of the DCC? It didn't really matter. He sprang out of his chair with a burst of energy which he hadn't felt in years. The bastard had been living right in the centre of the Shankill all along. This one would need special care. Anyone capable of planning and executing a series of murders from the centre of the Protestant enclave was someone to be treated with extreme caution.

             
"Harry," Wilson screamed at the top of his voice.

             
"Yes, boss," Detective Constable Harry Graham stuck his head around the edge of the door. The rest of the Murder Squad looked up from their work. It was obvious to all that Wilson had hit high gear.

             
"We've got him, Harry," Wilson said, his voice betraying no emotion. "He's holed up in a Mrs. Maguire's house in Fortingale Street."

             
"Jesus Christ! How did you find him?" Graham said incredulously.

             
"An informant," Wilson said without feeling the need to give any further explanation. He pulled a street map of Belfast from his desk drawer. "I want half a dozen well armed detectives down there straight away. Without causing any alarm, they're to try and get the neighbours out. I don't want anyone near our man. If it's anyway possible I want the evacuation to be done discretely. One family at a time. Get on to operations. I want road blocks across the bottom of the Agnes Street, Conlig Street, The Old Lodge and Bristol Street. That place is to be sealed off tighter than a duck's arse. I want nobody going in and nobody going out without me knowing about it."

             
Graham was busy writing the instruction on a pad. "What about the Army, boss?"

             
"There's no need to call them in for one man. Anyway our boy isn't a terrorist, he's just a common murderer. Everyone's  to be issued with a bullet-proof vest. Get on your bike, Harry. Get the rest of the squad to help you because I want everything in place within a half hour. Keep Moira out of the firing line. I don’t want her killed on her first case."

             
"No problem, boss," Graham consulted his notebook. "What about upstairs?"

             
Wilson knew it was proper procedure to inform his superiors about a major operation. But in this case he concluded it might be better if Jennings was appraised when the operation had been successfully concluded. Jennings' involvement might only screw the operation up. "I'll organise the warrant," he told Graham. "You can organise everything else on my authority."

             
"I almost forgot, Skipper. Moira dug up the name of another bloke who was at Dungray at the same time as the others." He looked at his notebook. "It's a Patrick McGinn with an address in North East Belfast."

             
"Get someone over there and bring McGinn in."

             
"Jesus Christ!" Graham muttered as he left the office.

             
Wilson opened his desk drawer and removed his gun and a box of cartridges. He opened the base of the automatic and flicked out the magazine. It was full. He glanced over his shoulder into the squad-room and saw Harry Graham giving frantic orders to the other detectives. Eric Taylor and Ronald McIver put their coats on and, after looking in the direction of his office, rushed out the door. Moira McElvaney was standing still and looking bemused. Harry was keeping her out of the action and the look on her face said that she didn’t like it.

“Boss,” Moira strode towards Wilson’s office.

“Sorry, Moira,” Wilson pulled on his coat. “Somebody has to hold the fort.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “I’m holding the fort because I’m a woman. I was okay for dealing with Cahill and his men but now my sex is keeping me away from the action.”

“Not true,” Wilson said as he crossed the office. He had no time to debate. “Every other officer on the squad has experience in this type of action. You don’t. End of story. Nothing to do with your sex, lots to do with you being the junior officer. Your time will come. Now stand by those phones and if someone from Headquarters tries to interfere, buy me some time. I’m out of here.” He rushed away before Moira could challenge him.

They would be set up in Fortingale Street in five minutes and the evacuation of the houses beside Mrs. Maguire's would begin shortly after that. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. This was the lull before the storm. In half an hour, all the machinery would be in place and it would be his job to conclude the operation without anybody being killed. He wanted `Gardiner' badly and he wanted him alive. "You'll spill your guts to me," he said quietly. "And when you do I'll take everyone involved down with you."

             
Case sat bolt upright on the bed and looked at his watch. A film of sleep still clouded his vision and he had to blink several times before he could see the face of the watch clearly. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. His stomach rumbled and he remembered that he hadn't eaten since the previous evening. He swung his legs off the bed and stepped into his jeans which were lying on the floor beside him. A cup of tea and a sandwich would help to quash the eruption in his stomach. The internal alarm bell was still clamouring away without any apparent reason. He slipped on a black sweater and made his way downstairs to the back kitchen. He switched on the kettle and made himself a cup of tea and a ham sandwich. Just a few more hours and it would all be over.

A turn of the century Orange Hal
l stands on the corner where Agnes Street and Fortingale Street intersect. The large billboard outside the hall carried a rain soaked poster declaring `The Lord is My Shepherd I shall not want'. Across the road, the corner house facing the hall had a mural painted on its side depicting William of Orange astride his horse holding a sword in his hand. Underneath the painting was another legend `Remember 1698-NO SURRENDER'. Beside King William in black relief was a hooded figure holding a Kalashnikov aloft. The small group of people passing by in the rain paid scant attention to the police activity taking place behind the barriers which had been strung across the road at the rear of the hall. The citizens of Belfast had seen it all many times before.

             
Wilson's car drew up on the Agnes Street side of the hall and the DCI got out. A number of police Landrovers and PIGS, the PSNI armoured personnel carrier, were parked close by. They were drawn up in a neat semi-circle like a group of covered wagons anticipating an Indian attack. Police officers moved around the vehicles their dark blue rain coats puffed out by the padding of the obligatory flak jackets. Wilson walked towards the police vehicles. A PSNI constable detached himself from the other officers and came towards him.

             
"DCI Wilson?" the constable asked. He was young and fresh faced and Wilson noted the exaggerated tone of respect in his voice. He remembered what Moira had said about his reputation among the younger officers. The Heckler and Koch machine gun which hung from his shoulder seemed incongruous with his youth and innocence.

             
Wilson nodded.

             
"DC Graham's established a forward observation post in Bristol Street. Would you follow me, sir."

             
"It OK., Constable," Wilson replied. "I'll see myself there." He could sense the young man's disappointment. It wasn't his day to pander to other people's need to be part of the circus which was about to arrive in town.

             
Wilson walked towards Bristol Street and the young policeman returned to his colleagues. The street of terraced houses ahead of Wilson was narrow and deserted. A scene straight out of Victorian Britain. Wilson slid his hand into his pocket and ran his fingers along the metal of his revolver. He hoped to God there would be no killing although the possibility couldn't be ruled out. If the bastard was a professional, then there was an outside chance that he might recognise the hopelessness of the situation and give up peacefully. If, on the other hand, he was a rogue terrorist, anything could happen. A dark shape moved out of a side street sixty yards ahead and before he could recognise the police raincoat Wilson had already drawn his revolver. The policeman beckoned him forward. Wilson replaced the gun in his pocket and moved quickly down the street.

             
"DC Graham is expecting you, sir," the constable said as Wilson approached. "We're set up about forty yards from the house. DC Graham reckons we shouldn't go much closer."

             
Wilson turned the corner and saw Graham twenty yards ahead.

             
"Thank God you've arrived, boss," Graham said switching off his two-way radio. "The officer in charge of the uniforms is a real hero type. He's been pushing me to let him try rushing the place. Here you better put this on." Graham handed his superior a flak jacket and a luminous orange outer half jacket.

             
Wilson pulled the jackets on over his coat with difficulty. There was no way it was going to button so he left it flapping. "No way. We don't want anybody killed unnecessarily. I want that man inside the house alive. You make the hero, understand that. Did you get everybody out?"

             
"The street's clear for fifty yards on either side and the rest of the residents have been told to stay inside."

             
"Good work, Harry. Any movement from inside the house?" Wilson asked.

             
“Not a lot. We may have a problem.”

             
“Spill it,” Wilson said.

             
“According to the neighbours we should have two people in the house. The owner, Mrs. Maguire, and our boy.”

             
“So?”

             
“We put the heat sensors on the house as soon as we arrived. They only show one heat source. Either Mrs. Maguire or our boy is not there.”

             
Wilson was thinking what the DCC would say about the cost of this operation if it was unsuccessful. “There’s no chance the sensors were faulty?”

             
“None,” Graham said. “We have to suppose that the one source is our boy.”

             
“Then where’s the Maguire woman?”

             
Graham hunched his shoulders. “Let’s think positively, boss. Let’s assume that the heat source is our boy. Right now he’s upstairs in the front bedroom.”

             
"I hope for my sake that it is him. I wouldn't like to explain all this shit to Jennings. What about the road-blocks?"

             
"All in place," Graham replied. "If our man is in there then there's no way he's going to get out. And if he isn't there were goin' to look like an awful bunch of tools."

             
A uniformed inspector detached himself from a group of police officers and approached Wilson. "How do you  want to play this?" he asked.

             
"Low key," Wilson replied, "I don't want any shooting if it can be avoided. If there is shooting, your men are to fire only on my orders. Understood."

             
The inspector nodded.

             
"Now get me a walkie-talkie and a loud-hailer," Wilson said. "I'm going to go down there and talk to the bugger."

CHAPTER 47

              The sandwich and tea helped to quell the disturbance in Case's stomach but did nothing to dispel the feelings of anxiety which dominated him. He had left the residue of his snack on the kitchen table and had moved back to his room upstairs. For some reason he felt the need to be close to his shooters. As soon as he entered the front bedroom, he moved to the window overlooking the street and drew back the curtain. Nothing. What was it about this town that a street could be empty of people for almost one whole day. Then the penny dropped. That was the problem. This was a working class area of Belfast. No matter how bad the weather there were always kids on the street or old biddies going next door for a fag and a chat. But not to-day. Since early morning, there hadn't been a single person on the street. He tried to open the catch on the window. It wouldn't budge. The two pieces of metal were cemented by a large russet blob of rust. He pushed hard on the catch and the assembly came away in his hand, the catch separating completely from the two parts of the wooden window frame. The bottom half of the window initially resisted his efforts to push it up but it finally eased and he managed to open it wide enough to get his head outside. He put his head slowly through the gap left by the raised bottom panel. A gush of cold rain rapped against his face and caused his vision to blur. He tossed his head and looked quickly up and down the street. Nothing. He was pulling his head back into the room when a movement at an intersection twenty yards down the street caught his eye. He immediately recognised the muzzle of a rifle protruding from the wall. He quickly withdrew his head and turned to the bed where the steel suitcase remained open where he had left it. He picked out the Uzi and a handful of magazines. He slipped a magazine into the machine gun and made his way to the back bedroom. Betty Maguire's bleached white body lay on the ground where he had left it. She looked like a marble cast of his former landlady. A dark red patch covered the thin eiderdown and snaked into a pool of powdery dried blood which lay beside the body. He wondered who the hell was lurking outside? It had to be the police. But how the hell had they managed to get a line on him. He walked to the back window, pulled aside the curtain slowly and looked out across the back gardens of the houses on Fortingale Street. Each garden was directly connected to that of the house immediately backing on to it. Low wooden fences or hedges separated the small gardens from each other. If he had to make a run for it, this was the route he was going to have to take. He made his way to the front of the house cradling the Uzi in his arms.

A wicked rain laden wind whipped into Wilson's face as he turned the corner into Fortingale Street. He pushed closer to the wall as he walked slowly towards the Maguire house. Everything was in place. Sharpshooters had been stationed on the roofs of two houses at the end of the street and the back of the house was being covered from the windows of the houses directly behind it. Mr Gardiner was going nowhere. Wilson felt somewhat better about the operation knowing that there was someone in there. He'd been seen poking his head out through one of the upstairs windows. Maybe they should have taken their opportunity for a shot at him, but he wanted this one alive. He inched his way along the street glancing occasionally into the front room of the deserted houses. Stopping twenty yards from the house he took shelter in the recess of a doorway. His stomach gurgled as though he hadn’t eaten in a day and he felt sweat running freely down his face and the back of his neck. This could very well be the big one. He could remember vividly the day the bomb had gone off beside him. He had hit the deck but not quite quickly enough. When he woke up in hospital he found that his only serious injury had been in his thigh. Half of his muscles had been removed and he would no longer run like a young gazelle around the rugby field. The news had shattered both him and his career. But he had learned to live with it. Now he was in the firing line again and if he was right about the man in the house then it could all end here for him. He looked down at the loud-hailer and noticed that the right hand was shaking. Steady on now, he thought to himself. It's nearly full time and we're just about to win the game. This wasn't the time to panic. With a little bit of luck everybody involved would still be breathing at tea-time. All that was needed was for him to talk the bastard out.

Case heard the steps approaching along the street. All his faculties were concentrated on his problem. They hadn't trained him to think in the Regiment. They'd trained him for action. He had made a quick assessment of the situation and had concluded that his chances of escape were slim. If the police had already surrounded the house, the odds were that they'd already put snipers in strategic positions. Things didn't look too healthy. The word in the Regiment had it that sieges usually ended badly unless there was a hostage handy. He started laughing. What a bloody idiot. He shouldn't have offed old Betty until he had no more use for her. But he didn't know this morning that by afternoon the house was going to be surrounded. He'd have to suss out what they wanted and try to negotiate the best possible deal for himself. They'd do him for Mrs. M's murder and the Browning would link him in to the other four killings. There was the Semtex to tie him in to the copper's death but that was only circumstantial evidence. At most, he'd be up for five murders. If he kept his mouth shut, then the boys in London just might pull his chestnuts out of the fire. Fat fucking chance. They'd run a mile from him. Chances were that they'd have him murdered before he'd get a chance to send them down the river. You're on your own in this one, Joe me old mate, he thought.

             
"Mr Gardiner, are you inside?" The tinny sound of the loud-hailer penetrated the front bedroom. "My name is Detective Chief Inspector Wilson of the Police Service of Northern Ireland. I have a warrant for your arrest in connection with the murders of James Patterson, Stanley Peacock, Leslie Bingham and Detective Sergeant George Whitehouse. We've got the building completely surrounded. We don't want anyone to get hurt anymore than you do so why don't you come out with your hands raised."

             
"Gardiner. Bollocks," Case said quietly as he moved to the half open window. The fat copper who'd stopped him after he'd done Bingham. I should have taken the two bastards out, he thought. Making sure not to expose any part of his body for a possible shot, he looked down into the street. He couldn't see the copper with the loud-hailer. The bastard was sheltering in a doorway just down the road. He pressed himself against the wall of the bedroom. If the place really was surrounded, there was very little chance of getting out.

             
"In a pig's arse I will," Case screamed through the open window mimicking the Belfast accent perfectly. "I've got the owner of the house tied up as a hostage. Get me a car and I'll let her go when I'm away."

             
Wilson was taken aback by the accent. McColgan had distinctly said that Gardiner had spoken with a Cockney accent. "Bring the woman out and let her talk to us through the window," Wilson pulled the walkie-talkie from his pocket. "Harry."

             
"Yes, boss," Graham's voice crackled over the radio.

             
"He says that he’s got a hostage. Are you sure about the heat sensor?”

             
“Absolutely sure, boss.”

             
“You better get the tear gas ready."

             
Case rushed into the back room and picked up Betty Maguire's body. He hauled her to her feet and carried the chalk white form into the front bedroom. "Come on, Betty you've one more little job to do for your Joey," he said tugging her into the front room. It was a long shot but it just might come off. He looked at Maguire's body. Nobody in their right mind was going to buy this.

             
"You out there," he shouted through the window, "I'm going to put her head out. Don't shoot." Case manoeuvred the body to the open window and dangled the head over the pavement. He tried to make the head turn and look down the street but failed. Then he abruptly pulled the body inside again.

             
Wilson watched the woman's head appear through the window. Her hands seemed to be held against her back and the head and neck were oddly stiff. The head quickly disappeared inside again.

             
"I didn't hear her speak," Wilson said into the loud-hailer. He felt that he could add Mrs. Maguire to the list of victims.

             
"She's too scared to speak," Case shouted letting the stiff slide onto the floor at his feet.

             
"The Maguire woman is dead, Harry," Wilson said quietly into the walkie-talkie.

             
He switched off the walkie-talkie and raised the loud hailer to his mouth. "I don't believe you've got anything to bargain with there. We’ve done a heat scan of the house and it shows only one heat source. Face facts, it's over. We've got the house surrounded and it's only a matter of time before you give yourself up. The sooner you do it the better it is for everybody. In ten minutes, we're going to start lobbing the tear gas." He set the loud-hailer on the ground and removed the pistol from his pocket.

             
"You do and you'll have a fuckin' war on your hands," Case could have kicked himself. Of course they would have done a heat scan of the house. "I've enough firepower in here to take plenty with me." He launched a kick at Betty Maguire's corpse. "You were no good, dead or alive," he said angry at himself for killing her before her usefulness had run out. He might live to regret that action. He had to think. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly forcing himself to relax. There was only one possibility. He began dumping the few piece of furniture in the room onto the bed. Taking  the suitcase from the bed, he moved to the door and carefully lit the edge of the bedspread with a lighter. The cloth caught fire immediately and within seconds the mattress was ablaze, smoke billowed from the darkened cloth and flames licked at the furniture piled on top of the bed.

             
Wilson saw the smoke pouring from the front window and knew immediately what had happened. He pulled the radio from his pocket. "Harry."

             
"Here, boss."

             
Wilson’s breath came in short bursts. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins. "He's set the bloody house on fire. Give the order to toss the tear gas in. Concentrate on the ground floor windows. There's to be no shooting unless absolutely necessary and then only on my command." Wilson heard Harry Graham relay his orders. "He's going to try to make a break for it in the confusion. And for God's sake tell somebody to get the fire brigade."

             
Smoke and flames were beginning to pour out of the front window of the room where the fire had been started. The window pane shattered and sprayed tiny shards of glass across the road.

             
"Shit," Wilson said watching the flames. This was one mad bastard whoever he was. He was either going to die in a hail of bullets or he was going to fry.

             
Two police men wearing riot gear and bullet proof vests rushed past Wilson and fired tear gas canisters into the upper and lower stories of the house. The canisters left the muzzle of the launchers with a dull thudding sound and landed amid the inferno Case had created in Fortingale Street.

             
As soon as he heard the canisters landing, Wilson covered the twenty yards to the door of the blazing house.

Smoke was already drifting through the downstairs rooms as Case made his way along the hall towards the kitchen and the rear of the house. He heard the smashing of the glass and the thudding of the tear gas canisters as they hit the floor of the front room. It was only a matter of time before some fools in balaclavas would storm the house. He cradled the suitcase in his arm. Then there'd be shit to pay. He had only a few minutes to get out. The smoke from the fire was combining with the white plume of tear gas to form an acrid eye and throat stinging mixture. He stood behind the door between the kitchen and the back garden and prepared to go out.

Wilson put his full weight against the front door and it splintered in pieces. A stinging mixture of gases rushed through the opening into the street. He dashed into the hall-way and threw himself on the ground in a firing position.. The hallway was empty but thick fumes swirled about the banister leading to the upstairs floor. Smoke poured down from the upper story and Wilson reckoned that there was no way their man was still up there. That left three possible rooms on the ground floor. He held his handkerchief to his mouth as he made his way towards the rear of the house.

Case exited from the rear of the house like a magician appearing suddenly on a stage in a puff of smoke. Before the snipers at the rear of the house could focus on the fleeing figure he had disappeared into the foliage between the two gardens. So far so good, he thought as he sat hunkered against the hedge. He pulled the Browning automatic out of the suitcase and stuck it in his waistband before stuffing three magazines into his pocket. It was time to get rid of the suitcase so he pushed it into the hedge. His shoes were already sinking into the soft ground beneath his feet and rain pelted into his face washing away the effects of the smoke and gas. This was shit or bust. He knew that what he was doing was crazy. But it was a hell of a way to go. It was like the last scene of `Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid'. Except that he didn't fancy the thought of dying in a blaze of glory. He pressed closer to the hedge and made his way slowly towards the rear of the small garden.