Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (23 page)

             
"Perish the thought," Nichol said keeping his head bent. "My boys were all pure, clean living Christians. It was never a question at the time."

             
"I understand that you were involved in paramilitary activities in the mid-eighties.' Wilson said.

             
"Oh dear no, Inspector," Nichol raised his head and smiled condescendingly as though Wilson had made a silly joke. "We did have a Protestant prayer group for young men but in no way could it be called a paramilitary organisation. Just a group of young men committing themselves to the work of the Lord."

             
That's a crock of shit, Wilson thought. He considered pursuing this line of questioning but couldn't see where it would get him. What the hell connection could there be between the vicious murder of a young man fifteen years previously and the executions of the past week? "I think we've taken up enough off your time. Thanks for your assistance." Wilson said.

             
"I'm afraid I wasn't much help," Nichol said starting to rise from his armchair.

             
"Stay where you are, sir," Wilson said moving towards the living-room door. "The Detective Constable and myself can see ourselves out."

             
Nichol slumped back into the chair. "Thank you, Chief Inspector. If I can be of any further assistance don't hesitate to call on me."

             
"Thank you, Sir," Wilson said, "I'll do that."

             
The two detectives left the living room and let themselves out through the front door. The earlier light rain had cleared. Wilson stood outside the house staring at the grey clouds zipping across the sky. Three young men who had been residents of an orphans’ home had died violently. One over twenty years ago and two within the past few days. Even in Belfast that was too much of a coincidence.

             
"Our enquiries don’t appear to be getting us anywhere," Moira said as her chief settled into the seat beside her.

             
"If you want to become an ace detective, you're going to have to listen and look a little more carefully" Wilson said looking at her. Moira’s normally wild red hair had been plastered to the top of her head by the rain. "Nichol recognised the two names all right. He put on a pretty good act as a poor infirm old man but I think he's a lot bloody smarter than you might give him credit for. He didn't expect us to bring up the Jamison business. I wonder if he knows why the file disappeared."

             
She started the car and began moving back towards the Crumlin Road.

             
"Nichol is an ex-politician," Wilson continued. "That means he's a practised liar. I have a strange feeling that we've just been handed a crock of shit. But it's a crock that will probably hold up. Did you notice anything?"

             
"Nothing much except he seemed pretty particular about his appearance," She turned onto the Crumlin Road and piloted the car back in the direction of Tennent Street. "I'm always a bit suspicious about guys who run football teams or act as councillors for young boys. My Dad reckoned that a lot of them were a bit queer."

             
“Maybe your Dad should have been a policeman himself.” Wilson said. "So you think our friend Nichol is a homosexual?"

             
"I wouldn't be surprised."

             
"Neither would I, McElvaney ace of detectives. Neither would I."

As soon as the two detectives had closed the door, Robert Nichol stood up and walked slowly to the window. He pulled aside the curtain and watched them make their way towards their car.

             
"Rotten bastards," Nichol said under his breath. "Dredging up that filthy little bollocks Jamison after all these years." The dirty little boy had deserved to die. He had cheated shamelessly on him flaunting his new role as a rent boy for all and sundry. He could just about remember the rage he had felt at the time. It had surged through his body and had turned him into a wild animal whose anger could only be satisfied by the letting of blood. Sweat began to break out on his forehead as he re-lived the moment he had ended Jamison’s life. He ran his hand through his steel grey hair. Billy had saved his bacon on the Jamison business but the price had been high. He'd been forced, very reluctantly, to step aside and leave Billy in sole control of the Ulster Democratic Front. The party he had helped found was like a baby to him and Billy had demanded that he hand over that baby because of one little transgression which was easily swept under the carpet. And he had reluctantly agreed. He thought that he would never hear the name Jamison again. He shuddered as he thought what might happen if the police opened up that particular can of worms. He didn’t think that there was a statute of limitation on murder. He could go to jail for the rest of his life but he would not be alone.

             
He returned to his chair and flopped into it. Patterson and Peacock, how well he remembered those two boys. He had a mental picture of both Patterson and Peacock as fresh-faced ten year olds. Jesus had called both of them just as he had called Jamison. Except for them he had used an assassin as an intermediary. He had seen a report of Patterson’s death on the television and had read about it in the newspapers. The details had been skimpy but it appeared to be a normal sectarian killing. Then a day later Stanley Peacock had been murdered and he had felt a profound feeling of disquiet. He sighed for his former charges. They'd been such beautiful boys. What a pity that they had grown up. And yet he had denied them to Wilson. His feelings of self-preservation had told him that it would be very dangerous for him to admit that he knew them well as boys in Dungray. Surely the Lord was not going to let them punish him after all this time.

             
"Detective Chief Inspector Wilson," he said quietly to himself. Where had he heard that name before? Although he had been forced out of Ulster's political life he still kept in touch with all his old friends. There was something about DCI Wilson that he should know but he was damned if he could remember what it was. He smiled to himself. There was no need to worry. Jamison was simply a putrid corpse who had momentarily surfaced to bother him. He could be just as easily buried again. There was no evidence linking him to the youth. Not a shred had been kept. He was completely safe. The Lord still had work for Robert Nichol to do. Wilson could yap about his feet like a dog but he could not hurt him. However, a few phone calls would not go amiss. Those who Nichol had served in the past would have to be reminded of their obligations to him. The evil policeman would have to be restrained before he did any lasting damage to God's servant.

CHAPTER 27

Wilson’s sense of apprehension, which had been rising since the first moment he had laid eyes on Patterson's corpse, had reached mountainous proportions. As the investigation evolved, the cocktail was becoming more explosive. Three men had been murdered in cold blood apparently by a professional. The only connection between two of those men led to a bizarre unsolved homosexual murder where the file had mysteriously gone missing. The latest piece of the jigsaw, Nichol and his shadowy paramilitary past, only added to Wilson’s mounting apprehension. Wilson was an old time policeman. He liked solving crimes and he liked putting the culprits behind bars where they belonged. During his twenty year career in the police force he had come to hate one word - political. Crimes that were ‘political’ were ten times harder to solve. ‘Political’ prisoners made a laugh of the penal system and ‘political’ murderers where released to walk the streets after serving only a fraction of their sentences. Evidence against ‘political’ criminals conveniently disappeared. Colleagues could not be trusted as shadowy individuals who operated with carte blanche from their political masters manipulated the investigation. He was beginning to get the feeling that the Patterson and Peacock murders could turn out to be ‘political’ and if that was the case he was in deep trouble. Jennings would jump gleefully on his inability to solve the crimes and attempt to force his retirement.

             
As soon as they had returned to Tennent Street, directly after their interview with Nichol, Wilson had instructed the young constable to dig up everything the PSNI had on Nichol. The file on the Jamison murder might no longer exist but there should be sufficient material in the archives to get a fix on the ex-warden of Dungray. He had also put in a call to one of his contacts in the 'Belfast Telegraph' and a file on Nichol would soon be dispatched to Tennent Street. Something very rotten was going on and experience told him that the man who slipped the string on the sack would have to jump out of the way pretty damn quick if he was to avoid the shit.

"DI Wilson," Jenning
s’ Secretary said formally as Wilson entered Jennings' outer office. "The DCC is waiting for you." She immediately pressed a button on her secretarial set. "DI Wilson is here," she announced.

             
Wilson walked to the office door and opened it. He’d expected the call from the DCC’s office since he’d arrived back from interviewing Nichol.

             
Jennings was seated in his elevated position behind his desk. Wilson's eyes were again drawn to the prominently positioned photograph of a smiling Jennings shaking hands with Billy Carlile, Mr. Politics of Ulster. Knowing the `great man' wouldn't do Jennings any harm in his quest for the job of Chief Constable of the PSNI. Carlile was well known for supporting his own men.

             
"What's this I hear about you broadening the Patterson and Peacock investigation?" Jennings said sharply looking up from the papers on his desk.

             
"You're very well informed," Wilson said. He wondered who Jennings' informant was. "DC McElvaney found a link between the two men. It's a bit of a shot in the dark but both just happened to be residents in Dungray Home for Boys at the same time."

             
Jennings shuffled uneasily in his chair.

             
Jesus Christ, Wilson thought. Why the hell is everybody suddenly on edge? Whitehouse he understood. But the DCC was another matter. The shit was getting very close to the fan.

             
"That's not all," Wilson said watching the DCC closely. "McElvaney's a bit of a computer buff. She’s also keen, hard-working and perseverant. I’m beginning to think that she’ll make a hell of a good detective.  She found the connection by slaveing all night over a hot machine. During her investigation, two strange things happened. Firstly, she tried to access the file of Robert Nichol who was the director of the orphanage during the period both Patterson and Peacock stayed there. The file is restricted and none of our passwords will open it."

             
Jennings nervously shuffled the papers before him on the desk.

             
"You may remember Nichol because he was active in Loyalist politics in the early seventies then dropped out of sight,” Wilson continued. “Secondly, it appears that Nichol was questioned in a murder case. The body of another ex-resident of Dungray named Jamison was found dismembered and distributed throughout various parts of North Belfast. DC McElvaney tried to locate the file on this case in our archives but it seems to have gone for a walk. And nobody knows where it's gone to.”

             
"I understand you've been to see Nichol," Jennings said.

Wilson noticed that the DCC had dropped his affected English accent. The effort of keeping it up and keeping his nerve at the same time was obviously too much for him. That was bloody fast he thought to himself. Nichol must have been on the phone as soon as they had left his house. "Yes, I interviewed him," Wilson said.

              Jennings sat stiffly in his chair. His hands were pressed together in his praying mantis pose. "I have to say, Inspector, that I don't like the direction this investigation is taking," Jennings said slowly as though dwelling on every word. "Do you have any concrete evidence linking Nichol with either the Patterson or Peacock killings?"

             
"Not directly," Wilson replied. "But I suspect that he knows something about the two men which could help us in our enquiries."

             
"That's not good enough," Jennings said.

             
"No, what's not good enough is that this man's computer file is restricted which is impeding our investigations and that the file pertaining to a serious crime has apparently been purposely removed from our archives. That's what's not good enough."

             
"This may be the last opportunity I have to tell you that you are currently talking with a superior officer," Jennings' normally pallid face was streaked with red. "Therefore you will treat me with respect and you certainly will not tell me what is and what is not good enough. Do you understand?"

             
"Yes sir,"

             
"Good," Jennings relaxed slightly. "The reason Nichol's security file is restricted is that he was involved in our intelligence gathering operations the details of which are still highly confidential and sensitive."

             
"I'm sorry sir but I don't like the sound of this at all," Wilson said. "Are you telling me that Robert Nichol is effectively off limits?"

             
"What I'm saying," Jennings leaned forward across his desk, "is that Robert Nichol was part of an intelligence operation which I cannot discuss with you. If you have concrete evidence linking him to the murder of either Patterson or Peacock, you may pursue the matter. If not, he's to be left alone. His security file stays locked. Understood?"

             
"Perfectly," Wilson said trying to suppress his anger. "And the missing murder file on Jamison?"

             
"I shall issue an instruction to archives to carry out the most thorough search and to report their findings to me. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

             
Wilson stood up. "Perfectly, Sir," he laid on the sarcasm.

             
"Then you may leave."

             
Wilson strode towards the door and pulled it open. He marched out banging the door behind him.

             
The Secretary jumped at the sound and returned to her typing.

             
What in God's name had he done? Wilson asked himself as he closed the door to the outer office. He'd already slipped the string to the sack and he was being advised to jump back before the shit began to fly. It remained to be seen whether he had sufficient brains to accept what might turn out to be good advice.

DCC Jennings cracked his knuckles and ran through the possibilities in his mind. He perceived Ian Wilson as a definite threat to his ambition of one day reaching the highest level in the Force. Somehow he would have to get the bastard off this particular case. Wilson was the anomaly that the Force could well do without. If only the man would retire, he could promote Whitehouse and then he could sleep easily at night knowing that somebody was covering his back. Maybe Billy could help. Jennings looked at his watch - it was almost five o'clock. Billy would be in the offices of the Ulster Democratic Front. Jennings picked up his private phone and began to dial.