Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (25 page)

CHAPTER 30

`The Crown' was one of Wilson's favourite haunts. Maybe he was caught in a time warp but he felt comfortable in surroundings which had been maintained exactly as they had been constructed in 1848. There wasn't a piece of laminated plastic in sight and the gaslights produced the kind of ambience which the mock Victorian pubs spent thousands of pounds trying to recreate. He sat in one of the free wooden pews directly beneath an ornate window dating from the construction of the pub. The 'Crown' could make the weather, Belfast, the `troubles' and murder seem a million miles away.

              When Kate McCann entered the lounge the eyes of every man in the room swivelled to take in the sight. She was wearing a back jacket and skirt combination over a white blouse which set off perfectly her blond hair and her sallow complexion. Wilson felt his heart rate increase as she made her way towards the table at which he was seated. She stood before him for a full minute before taking the seat directly across from him.

             
Before either of them could speak a waiter appeared at her side. “Double vodka and tonic,” she said stifling his ‘Good Evening’.

             
“Well Ian,” she said leaning forward slightly. “I’m here because I found your telephone message intriguing. It sounded rather pathetic and since I have never associated you with being pathetic I thought I should at least see the changes which time has ravaged on you.”

             
“You look fabulous, Kate,” he said admiringly. “As usual. And I deserve whatever invective you want to hand out.”

             
The waiter returned and placed a glass containing a double vodka and a small bottle of tonic on the table.

             
Kate poured some tonic into the glass without taking her eyes off Wilson. “You haven’t changed, Ian. You’re still the same prick that cast me adrift five years ago. Five years older and yes a little more pathetic but I bet you’re still spinning lines aimed at getting into the pants of some young copper.”

             
“You’re half right,” Wilson said. “I am certainly more pathetic but it has been a hell of a long time since I coaxed any woman to have sex with me.”

             
“And that reputation of yours?”

             
“A man can live on his reputation for a hell of a long time. Things didn’t finish right between you and me. I was wrong to end it the way I did but at that point the guilt was more than I could handle. I know I didn’t give Susan the cancer but back then I knew that I had brought plenty of grief into her life. I needed to make up for that by staying with her when she needed me most.”

             
“How gallant,” she stared straight at him. “I had a career in Belfast and you took that away from me. You can’t imagine how annoyed I was to learn that my psyche was so fragile that a rejection from someone like you could send me into a spiral of depression.”

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional.”

“So I suppose I was just collateral damage.’ Anger flared in her eyes.

“No, I should have talked to you but the whole business with Susan and the doctors, the meetings to discuss possible treatments, the disintegration I witnessed in her every day allied to the shit this job throws up left me in a very bad place. I wasn’t thinking straight. The days were a blur. After Susan died it took me weeks to get back to myself and by then you were long gone and I heard that you’d been taken on by one of the major chambers in London. I was history and you had a new life in front of you.”

She finished her vodka and tonic and looked towards the bar. The waiter was staring directly at her. She signalled for a refill.

“So that was why you didn’t bother to follow me,” she said. “The great love that you professed for me while I was in your bed had evaporated and you were happy to see the back of me. My departure didn’t strike you as having anything to do with you. I was simply pursuing my dream of working in London. Even a mediocre detective might have put two and two together and come up with four.”

The waiter placed a fresh glass containing a double vodka in front of Kate and then left. 

“Don't be under any misapprehension, Ian,” she said while pouring
the tonic into the glass of vodka. “I haven't come here this evening to conduct a post-mortem on our dead relationship.”

“Is our relationship dead?” Wilson leaned towards her.

She hesitated for a moment. “It would appear so,” she said after some reflection.

“I don’t really think you mean that. OK I didn’t follow you and maybe I should
have but I honestly thought that I was doing you a favour. You’re a Queen’s Council, Kate. I’m nothing but a copper with a faded rugby career. I’m going nowhere. I’ll retire as a DCI. What the hell use am I to someone like you?”

“That was for me to decide. Where did you get my mobile number?”

“I snaffled your card off Jennings’ desk.”

She smiled. “I may be able to forgive you in time, Ian, but I will never forget.”

“That will do for me,” Wilson returned her smile and touched her hand. “Damn it all. Kate, but I missed you. Give me a second chance and you won’t regret it. “

“We’re not there yet, Ian. “

“Shall we begin with dinner?”

“ I’ve got to be the biggest fool in Belfast on two accounts. Firstly, I’m trying to get this idea of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission going and secondly I’m going to have dinner with you.

CHAPTER 31

It was almost half past seven when Case crossed Carlisle Circus and made his way along the east side of the Antrim Road. Winter was descending rapidly on Belfast and as he passed each junction the bitter North East wind that whipped across Belfast Lough cut him like a knife. He ignored his cold fingers and dug his hands deeper into his reefer jacket. The Regiment had trained him to operate whatever the conditions. Heat, cold, rain, all that mattered was getting the job done. The thousands of pounds which the British taxpayer had invested in his training had not gone to waste. All his senses were attuned to the task at hand. His eyes continually scanned the deserted streets. He had already encountered two PSNI Landrover patrols on the short half mile walk from his lodgings in Fortingale Street. That was two too many as far as he was concerned. Maybe it was just his imagination but he thought that there were more coppers on the streets than usual. It was only to be expected that the buggers would be on the look out for him. He smiled to himself. Stupid bleedin' bastards. This was going to be a quick in and out job. The boys in blue wouldn't even realise that he'd come and gone. Leslie Bingham could count himself already dead. He glanced at his watch again. The sod was probably sitting before his telly watching the latest episode of `Coronation Street' without knowing it was going to be the last episode he'd see. He made his way quietly through the narrow streets keeping as close as possible to the houses. The smell of the salt air from the Lough mixed with spilled oil from the docks tickled his nostrils as he turned into Upper Meadow Street. A blast of cold wind from the East hit him as he turned the corner. What a fucking dump, he thought as he plodded along. Cold and wet and fucking miserable. And the locals killed each other because of this shit hole. Mad fucking Paddies. The sooner the Brits pulled out the better. Leave the  buggers to slaughter each other. That's what the bastards needed.

             
Meadow Street was typical of the back streets of East Belfast. The housing stock dated from the end of the nineteenth century and consisted of grimy red bricked terraced houses. He checked the house numbers as he walked slowly along the deserted street. Bingham's looked exactly like all the others. A light was burning in the ground floor window and he could see the blue/red reflection of the coloured television through the net curtains. True to form he thought as he lifted the Browning out of his inside pocket and checked that the safety was off. He screwed on the silencer and stood directly before the door. Taking a deep breath he pressed the buzzer.

             
A sound of movement came from inside the living room. Case heard the steps approaching the front door and braced himself.

             
"Yes," Leslie Bingham's face was as blank as a sheet of plain white paper as he opened the door.

             
Case stood back removing the Browning from his pocket as he did so. He stared into Bingham's face for identification purposes while at the same time raising the gun. The man at the door was the person whose picture was in the file back at the bedsit. He fired the gun three times in rapid succession, the silencer muffling the sound. The top of Bingham's head disintegrated showering fragments of bone and brain along the hall until they splashed against the door at the far end. Bingham's body jerked before falling back into the hall of the house. Case knew his victim had died instantly but he quickly stepped inside and fired one further shot, placing it exactly between Bingham's eyes. He turned and started walking back the way he had come.

             
None of 'em expect it, Case thought, and smiled to himself. There was no challenge in taking out bozos who couldn't put up a fight. This was money for old rope. He remembered the border engagements between the SAS and the South Armagh Brigade of the IRA. There was a bunch of tough bastards. They never asked for quarter and they didn't expect it. The only prisoners that were taken were the dead ones. He'd never felt more alive than he had when he was in the middle of a fire-fight with the Provos. Best high in the fucking world. It certainly beat the hell out of standin' on some Joe Bloggs' doorstep and blowing the fucker's brains out. You could get brassed off with this job. If it wasn't for all the lovely lolly it was earning. Just one more, he thought as he walked calmly away. One more unknown civilian blown away and then off to the Costa.

             
The street was still deserted and he had almost reached the end of Meadow Street when he heard an ear piercing scream. Somebody's brain had finally found the gear and Bingham's body had been discovered. It was time to get out of there. The thought of running never entered Case's mind. He had taken part in enough assassinations to know that the first thing that attracted the attention of the police was some silly bugger hoofing it at top speed in the opposite direction from the action. Stay cool, he told himself. He was simply a punter headin' for the nearest boozer for a drink with his mates. He turned left at the top of Meadow Street and could see Girwood Park directly in front of him. In the distance was the grey forbidding shape of Crumlin Road Jail. He crossed the Antrim Road and started towards the entrance of the park.

             
"Don't move."

             
Case was startled. He looked around and saw two police constables standing beyond the entrance to the park. The man who had spoken wore a black padded flak jacket over his black police raincoat and held a machine gun cradled in the crook of his arm. A PSNI Landrover was parked twenty yards further along the road. He knew that he'd blown it. If he'd been concentrating he would have noticed the bastards before he walked out into the open.

             
"Yes, you," the constable said bringing his machine gun to the ready.

             
Fuck, Case muttered under his breath. No point in tryin' to blast his way out.

             
"What's a matter. officer," Case said in his broadest Cockney accent. He put both hands in the air.

             
The two constables looked at one another.

             
Case smiled inwardly. He knew that his accent would throw the men off guard.

             
"You don't have to put your hands up," the older constable said moving forward. "Sir," he added as an afterthought

             
"Fanks, officer," Case said dropping his hands. He was `sir', which meant the imminent danger had passed. He never ceased to marvel at how the Paddies started to bow and scrape as soon as they heard a good old Brit accent. God save the fucking British Empire.

             
"I'd like to see some identification, sir," the police officer said politely as he approached.

             
Case looked at the policeman. The copper was thirty pounds overweight and the straps of the bullet-proof vest were stretched to their limit. At close range he would probably have just enough time to nail the two bastards. But what was the point. Two dead coppers could screw-up the rest of his mission. That would piss off his bosses in London. That meant he wouldn't be used in the future. He wondered if either of the two men standing before him would ever know how close they came to death. The main thing was to keep them away from the Browning. That meant he wasn't going to be searched. Some of these bastards weren't as dumb as they looked. Some were even smart enough to put two and two together and come up with four. It was time to play an ace.

             
"Will this do, me old cock," Case said keeping his Cockney accent as thick as possible. He fished around in his coat pocket and pulled out the card which identified him as a member of British Military Intelligence. He handed the card to the police officer.

             
The constable let his machine gun hang on its strap while he took the card from Case's hand.

             
Case watched the expression on the man's face as he looked first at the card and then at him. He was hard put not to break out laughing in the constable's face. That put an end to your gallop, old son, he thought. There was no way he was going to be searched now. He'd been told only to use the card as a last resort. This was a last resort.

             
The fat constable looked at the card a second time.

             
"I don' suppose you'd like to tell me what you're doing here, Mr. Gardiner?" the constable asked, a new tone of respect noticeable in his voice. He handed Case back the card.

             
"Now you know better than that, officer," Case slipped the card nonchalantly into his pocket. "What's the flap?"

             
The police officer stared at Case. "We just got a report of a shooting incident in one of the adjacent streets. Some poor bastard was shot on his doorstep."

             
"Fuckin' IRA," Case said and spat into the gutter. "I'd love to run across one of the bastards. They should be strung up by the balls."

             
"We've got the area surrounded. Maybe this time we'll get our hands on the bastards." Constable Stanley McColgan had always gone by his instincts and he didn't like the man standing before him. Gardiner was young and fit and looked just like what you'd expect an undercover man from Military Intelligence to look like. In fact Gardiner looked just like every other British soldier in the Province. McColgan hesitated. Something told him that he should call this one in but standing orders were to keep out of these people's way. The Military Intelligence card looked genuine enough and the bloke was definitely a Brit. The thought of searching Gardiner flitted through McColgan’s mind. Why should these people be above the law? Maybe for once he should disobey an order. But what if Gardiner complained to his superiors about being searched? McColgan would get a sharp kick in the balls from his own boss. It wasn't worth it. There were so many undercover people running around the Province it was a wonder they didn't get in each other's way. Standing orders were standing orders and Stanley McColgan was one for sticking to the letter of the law.

             
"I'd get out of here sharp if I was you," McColgan said. "Or you're goin' to be flashin' that card all night."

             
The two constables walked back in the direction of their Landrover.

             
That old bastard isn't as stupid as he looks, Case thought as he watched the two men re-join their vehicle. He saw the fat constable throw a final glance over his shoulder at him. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea not to kill the two coppers. He quickly replayed in his mind the scene between himself and the policeman searching for some mistake he'd made which made the copper suspicious. There was nothing he could remember. Still he'd take even money that the old cop would spout off to somebody before the evening was out. What if he does? He said to himself. It would take some kind of evil genius to put together a report that a phoney Military Intelligence agent named Bryan Gardiner was in the area where a shooting took place linking him to the murder of Bingham. He glanced at his watch. It was already past eight o'clock and he had some important phone calls to make.

"Police confidential," the first voice on the
PSNI confidential number was invariable female, soft and warm.

             
"Just before nine o'clock this evening, an active service unit of the Irish Republican Army executed Leslie Bingham for crimes against the Republican people of Belfast." Case's Belfast accent would have passed muster in even the most critical public houses on the Falls or Shankill Roads.

             
"Would you repeat that please?" the woman said.

             
Case carefully repeated the message.

             
"May I have your name please," the woman's voice was complete without emotion. Case wondered if she spent her day talking to murderers.

             
Case took the Sim card out of his mobile phone and tossed it in the gutter. A light mist was enveloping Belfast and the large imposing Victorian jail across the road. He looked at the red bricked facade. It looked like something out of those corny Hammer House of Horror films. Nobody was ever going to put him into one of them places. The bastard of an officer who'd put him in the cooler had paid. Two days after his discharge came through he broke into his house and raped his wife. I'll bet the bastard is more careful who he shops these days. With a bit of luck he's tryin' to deal with a little bastard he'd left behind him.

             
He walked off into the mist heading for Fortingale Street. He'd call London later and report his success.