Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (30 page)

CHAPTER 36

The shadows of the deserted car park behind the pub on the Ormeau Road concealed Simpson perfectly from any nosy passer-by. It was one o'clock in the morning and the pub had long since disgorged its final customers. The building stood in complete darkness. A shiver passed through him. The bastards were running late. He heard the sound of a powerful engine and moved out of the shadows as a Sherpa van wheeled into the parking lot and made at speed for where he was standing. The van-driver braked hard as he approached him and the rear of the van swung around. The back doors swung open and Simpson dived inside. He threw himself on the floor and felt the course blanket being thrown over his head. The door of the van closed as soon as he was inside and the vehicle accelerated out of the car park. He lay quietly on the floor as the van raced through the darkened streets of Belfast. His heart pounded but he knew better than to take the blanket off himself. When it was safe his handler would let him know.

             
After a drive of about five minutes the van began to slow down. Simpson felt the blanket being removed from his head.

             
"Richie, my boy," Simpson's handler smiled as he dumped the blanket over a settee which stood against one side of the van. "Sorry for the urgent arrangements."

             
"You guys are going to get me killed," Simpson said looking around the rear of the van. He had been in many such vehicles since he'd been 'touting' for the British Secret Service. The van had been fitted out specially to receive people like him. A strong light had been set into the roof and illuminated a table and chairs as well as the settee. This was how the Forces Research Unit of the British Army liked to conduct its business.

             
"Let's not exaggerate," the handler said sitting on one of the wooden chairs. "We need to talk." He produced a small bottle of Bushmills from his pocket and offered it to Simpson.

             
Simpson took the bottle and drank greedily from it. "What do you want?" he asked passing the bottle back.

             
The handler screwed the lid on the bottle and replaced it in his pocket. "Information," he said quietly. "I need to know what you know, Richie. I need to know what's happening."

             
"We're all caught up with these murders," Simpson wished that the Brit would pass the bottle back his way. "Billy's in a flap because the PSNI boys want to open up Nichol's file."

             
"Why does that put Billy in a flap?"

             
The van turned a corner and both men braced themselves against the table which was secured to the floor of the van.

             
"Give me a fucking break. You people know more about that than we do. Billy's afraid that some honest policeman will find out what really happened all them years ago in Dungray. But weren't you boys at the heart of it?"

             
The handler remained silent while Simpson said a silent prayer for the re-appearance of the Bushmills. The events of the evening had given him a thirst.

             
"Billy thinks that the murders are linked to what happened in Dungray but he hasn't got a clue who's behind it."

             
"And do you, Richie?"

             
"Not a fucking idea. Billy was wonderin' whether Nichol might be the boy behind it."

             
"And was he?" the handler's voice was as smooth as silk.

             
"I don't think so," Simpson was beginning to sweat. He had a psychological  problem every time he met his handler. A little voice inside him told him that this man, whose name he didn't even know, knew his innermost secrets. He'd been trained like some sort of performing dog to completely unburden himself to whoever was his handler at the time. Bouncing around in the rear of the Sherpa van Simpson was wracked with guilt. Not guilt at what he had done but guilt because he hadn't yet told his handler about it.

             
"I offed Nichol this evening," the words spilled from his lips.

             
"Billy really is in a flap," the handler said coolly. "I assume that he ordered you to do it."

             
"That he did. He was afraid that the old bastard was goin' to crack and send him down the crapper." Simpson ran his fingers through his hair feeling its wetness. "I tried to make it look like suicide. I gave it to him in the head. The gun's lying beside him."

             
"Not to worry, Richie. We're not too bothered that Nichol is out of the way. We'll make sure that the Plod keep away from you. We wouldn't want such a valuable asset to be destroyed over somebody like Nichol. What about the other murders? Who do you think is behind them?"

             
"I told you," Simpson was bathed in relief. They were going to make sure that he'd never be got for Nichol. "We don't have a clue. It's got to be something to do with Dungray but that’s all we know. Willie Rice and the boys are lookin' for the bastard. I wouldn't like to be in his shoes if they get their hands on him."

             
"Are you sure you've told me everything?" the handler's voice had not changed in pitch since he'd begun to interrogate Simpson.

             
"Are you jokin' me? What the hell do you think I might have kept back.'

             
"Good boy, Richie," the handler put his hand inside his jacket and removed a wad of five pound notes. He slid them across the table to Simpson. "Two hundred pounds as usual."

             
Simpson picked up the notes and put them into his pocket.

             
"And Richie," the handler said his tone hardening. "I want to know the very instant something breaks on these murders. For instance I want to know immediately if Rice gets a line on who's behind the killings or on the murderer himself."

             
Simpson nodded.

             
"And Richie, it's important. Do I make myself understood?"

             
"When I know, you'll know. Alright"

             
"Good boy," the handler stood and lifted the blanket from the settee. "You know the drill," he said turning to face Simpson.

             
"I do surely." Simpson left the seat and lay down on the floor of the van directly in front of the doors. The blanket fell over his head. He lay there in silence wondering how many different touts would be touched for information. Maybe Billy himself was a tout for the Brits. It wouldn't surprise him. The van drove on before coming to an abrupt stop. The doors opened quickly and Simpson was rolled into a dark corner of the car park from which he had been picked up. The Sherpa had disappeared before he had picked himself up.

CHAPTER 37

Roy Jennings shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was taking a considerable risk in coming personally to Billy Carlile's office at the Ulster Democratic Front headquarters. Anybody seeing him arriving at or leaving this office after midnight wouldn't need an abacus to put two and two together. But the apparent suicide of Robert Nichol made a meeting with Ulster's mover and shaker indispensable.

              "This thing is going too far, Billy," Jennings said settling himself again in the chair. "That bastard Wilson is trying to turn over our neatly arranged apple cart. He and his team are like a group of pigs poking around in a trough of rubbish. Sooner or later  they're going to uncover all the filth we've so carefully buried." He pursed his thin lips. "We should have forced Wilson out years ago."

             
"I suppose there's no chance we could replace him with Whitehouse on this one," Carlile said.

             
"Out of the question, I'm afraid. All we'd need would be another one of those bloody investigations by some smart copper from Cumberland or some other English backwater. It wouldn't take some smarmer two days to crack George. There's too short a connection between George's brain and his mouth."

             
"Then we'll just have to ride out the storm. We've done it before."

             
Jennings was disconcerted by the sight of the man who sat across the desk from him. Carlile's face looked paler than usual and folds of loose flesh hung from his pallid cheeks. He didn't look like a man who was going to be able to tough it out for much longer. The politics of Ulster were beginning to take their toll on the leader of the UDF. Jennings pursed his lips and wondered how many dark secrets were locked away in Carlile's head.

             
"You've no idea who's behind the latest killings in East Belfast?" Jennings asked.

             
Carlile opened his hands. "I have no idea in the wide world."

             
Carlile's face showed no emotion but Jennings couldn't shake the feeling that he was being lied to. For over ten years Jennings had been allied to this powerful politician and that allegiance had paid off handsomely. He was only one step from the top of the career ladder and Carlile would be a vital element if he was to capture the job he had sought since his first day as a recruit. No matter how Carlile was involved, Jennings couldn't desert him now.

             
"If by chance you did know anything, there's still time for us to fix things," Jennings knew that he was fishing in very deep waters.

             
"Please believe me, Roy," Carlile's face flushed momentarily. "I'm as anxious as you to find the people doing these murders." He stared into the Deputy Chief Constable's eyes. "Sooner or later the boys on the Shankill

are going to get annoyed watching your lads chasing around after their tails. Then they're going to take thing
s into their own hands. That won't improve our negotiating position with a Prime Minister who's intent on getting out of Ulster as soon as possible. If we want to win this one, we're going to have to convince the Brits that the IRA are the only terrorists."

             
"We can't let that happen," Jennings said. An all out war between the UVF and the IRA in West Belfast might seriously disrupt his carefully constructed career. "We have to put a lid on this business for once and for all."

             
Carlile stared straight ahead. "We may not be able to stop it. Controlling the new breed at the top of the UVF is like trying to hold onto a team of runaway horses. All those people want is murder and mayhem and the more of it the better. They don't have once ounce of political savvy. All they see is the Brits ready to jettison Ulster and the Papists being put in control. I suppose that we're responsible in our own way for creating the monster. I'm getting more than a little annoyed myself standing up for Rice and his people. There isn't an ounce of difference between them and the IRA. They're a shower of murdering scum."

             
"Since when have you been singing this new tune?" Jennings asked.

             
"I'm tired, Roy," Carlile said. "Tired of standing before a television camera ranting about the IRA and in the same breath trying to explain the 'frustrations' of the Protestant community. What the hell difference is there between murderers? The IRA justifies their murders by shouting about 'the cause'. The UVF excuses their murders by complaining about their 'frustration'."

             
"You need a holiday is all," Jennings said. Carlile looked beat. His time was coming to a close and Jennings would have to make the push for the big job shortly if he was going to be paid back for all the times he'd helped Carlile out. If only they could get over the current crisis. A cold shiver ran down Jennings' spine. The message from the men in his office that afternoon had been crystal clear. Military Intelligence and MI5 had a very specific interest in the murders which had taken place during the past week. Jennings' wasn't to know what that interest was but he was to keep both MI5 and MI informed of every step in the investigation. And nobody outside the four people attending the meeting in his office was to know anything about the involvement of the British Secret Service in the affair. That made Jennings very nervous. He wanted to discuss this event with Carlile but he wasn't about to fly in the face of MI5.

             
"I'd better be going," Jennings’ nervousness was getting the better of him. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'll do my best to keep Wilson away from the UDF but you've got to keep a lid on things in West Belfast."

             
"We're sitting on a powder keg, Roy," Carlile sat back in his chair "One false move and the whole thing goes up. You, me, everybody connected with us will be caught in the blast. Wilson didn’t get anything out of Nichol. You can take my word on that. We must keep our nerve and look out for one another. Do you understand me, Roy."

             
Jennings nodded.

             
"Sleep well, Roy." Billy Carlile forced a smile but he felt that his tame policeman would have difficulty in complying.

             
As soon as Jennings left the room, Carlile closed his eyes. Lord but he was tired. He had hoped to die before all the evil they had set in motion during the nineteen seventies came home to roost. He and his party colleagues had purposely created the political vacuum into which the terrorists of both camps had gratefully jumped. Giving up their own responsibility as politicians was a ploy they had used to force the Brits back onside. In fact, they had handed over the city of Belfast and perhaps the whole Province of Ulster to the most evil beast they could have imagined. He had been foolish enough to think that it was controllable but he had been wrong. They had opened Pandora's box and they were going to have to pay. His own responsibility in the Province's history was beginning to weigh on him. He'd been able to justify the excesses of his co-religionists with the rallying cry of 'No Surrender' but how could any cry explain away the depravity of Lennie Murphy and the butchers. The business with Nichol might wipe away whatever political reputation he had left. He didn't regret the decision to save Nichol's bacon. If they'd let Nichol swing then he and the party would have swung with him. He ran his hand over his bald pate. He was as bad as the scum in the UVF. He'd ordered Nichol’s death to save his own political reputation.

             
"To what depths descended," he said under his breath as he pushed himself slowly out of his chair. "To what depths descended."