DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 6

Simpson took in the information without blinking. "Maybe it's a queer thing."

"The kills are too clean and clinical for queers," Whitehouse remembered Wilson's deduction. "Queer killings are crimes of pa.s.sion. Mostly carve ups. Wilson thinks ...." Whitehouse stopped himself.

"Let's have it. That b.o.l.l.o.c.ks might have caused us more trouble than he's worth but at least I know there's something more than b.u.t.terflies runnin' around in his head."

"Wilson might have his head up his a.r.s.e. He thinks that there's a totally new player out there. A professional killing selected victims."

"Why only Prods?"

"How the h.e.l.l do I know." Whitehouse finished his gla.s.s of whiskey. "Why don't you ask the great soddin' detective himself?"

Simpson could feel the frown lines on his forehead deepening. As soon as the night's news was out there was going to be h.e.l.l to pay. The denizens of the Shankill would be baying for blood in a big way. "Okay, I want to know everything that happens on these ones. Right."

A wicked grin came over Whitehouse's face. "I've one other t.i.tbit of information that might tickle you," He glanced at the empty gla.s.s of whiskey but Simpson ignored the manoeuvre. "There's a Taig working in the squad. A young woman PC called McElvaney. Before we know it the PSNI will be overrun with Catholics. It's the tip of a giant f.u.c.kin' iceberg."

Simpson shook his head. "Grow up, George. Take my advice and learn to live with it. If the Brits have their way, you'll be pile suckin' McElvaney long before you reach retirement age. Get your mind off the Taig and get concentrated on my business. I want to know what's happenin' before it happens if you know what I mean. Thanks for the information, now p.i.s.s off home."

Whitehouse picked up his wet overcoat and reluctantly put it on. He moved off towards the door of the pub without looking back.

Simpson watched Whitehouse's departure. As soon the PSNI detective had closed the pub door behind him, he stood up and walked over to the bar. The barman instantly moved to his side. "Where's the private telephone?" he said curtly. He had a mobile in his pocket but after Prince Charles had announced to the world via his mobile that he fancied being a tampon, he and the boys had decided that land lines were the only way to go.

The barman led the way to the rear of the pub and inserted a key in a door marked 'PRIVATE-Staff Only'.

"Wait a minute I'll switch the line over from the bar." The barman withdrew and left Simpson standing in the doorway.

The smell of stale beer was worse in the office than in the bar. Simpson entered the cramped room, picked up the phone dialled a local number. "It's Richie, is he in?" he said when the phone was answered.

"Please hold on," the female voice on the other end sounded warm and friendly.

He stood holding the phone for twenty seconds. "Yes," the high pitched Northern Irish accent which the public knew so well came over the line.

"I just had a little chat with Whitehouse," Simpson said. "You were right on the b.u.t.ton. They're as much in the dark as we are. I've been in touch with the other side but they swear blind that they have nothing to do with it. They're as b.l.o.o.d.y worried as we are. Something smells to high heaven and you know what that means. Somebody's out there makin' mischief for both us and the Fenians."

"What do you recommend?"

"The first thing is to avoid a bloodbath. We'll have to keep the 'hard men' in line."

"How?"

"I don't b.l.o.o.d.y know but I'll come up with something. In the meantime we'll have to find out who's behind the killings. If it's some rogue from the other side they've agreed that they'll clean it up."

"That's big of them," the voice said sharply. "What if it's a rogue Prod? It's happened before."

"We'll stop it," Simpson said emphatically.

"I hope that you're as good as your word. I'll make sure that the police concentrate their minds on finding the culprit. Meanwhile, I'll leave the day to day business in your capable hands." The phone went dead.

Simpson replaced the handset on the cradle and sat down in a dilapidated office chair. What in G.o.d's name was going on? he asked himself. The only positive thing was that Wilson was in charge of the case. He thought about his conversation with Whitehouse. The idiot's mind was back in the dark ages. But he could be very b.l.o.o.d.y useful. It takes all sorts to make a cause, he thought and he started to laugh.

CHAPTER 16.

Wilson finished reading and then closed the file which Moira had left on his desk. Nothing. Peac.o.c.k was just a twenty six year old n.o.body. So much for the common points with Patterson. Neither man seemed to warrant the trouble it had taken to murder them. And yet someone had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that they died.

"That's all?" he asked.

"That's everything that the government knows about Peac.o.c.k. Where do we go from here?" she asked.

Wilson looked up into her red-rimmed eyes. One day on the squad and she was already beginning to look washed out. But even washed out she would still turn heads. Welcome to the PSNI. It wouldn't take long before she was wishing that she was working sixteen-hour days for an investment bank. At least there she would be paid for being shat on.

"First off if we don't find a link between Patterson and Peac.o.c.k then we're in real trouble because that will mean that our killer is selecting his victims at random. That will make him very hard to find. So we need the link. In the meantime we start by following cla.s.sical police procedure. We're coppers and that means that we start shaking trees and seeing what falls out." He pushed back his chair as far as it would go and leaned back. "Since I saw the shambles at the petrol station last night, my stomach's been as tight as a ducks a.r.s.e. We're not dealing with the usual sort of trigger happy Provo or UVF man. From the minute I saw Patterson's body I've had the feeling that we're dealing with a professional killer. This man knows his business as well as I know police work. I'd guess that he's had some training. Probably army or at least high-quality paramilitary. That means we can limit the suspects to any one of a couple of thousand men."

"How can you deduce that?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows.

"Seriously," she said. "I want to learn."

"There are two general categories of murderer in the province. The first is your common or garden psychopath. Ulster is fertile soil for this boy. Take Lennie Murphy. He and his merry men liked to lift their intended victims out on the street. The poor unfortunate b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were taken back to a drinking club for a bit of fun and frolics before being taken to some waste land and hacked to pieces."

She screwed up her face in mock pain.

"Exactly," Wilson said. "There have to be a few marbles loose up there," Wilson tapped the side of his head, "before you can get into that kind of business. It's always bothered me that it took us so b.l.o.o.d.y long to get a fix on those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. The butchers were just a gang of psychopaths who got their rocks off by hacking up people. Any people. After a while Lennie and the boys didn't bother to ask your religion. But they weren't alone. Anywhere else in the world serial killers like Lenny Murphy, the King Rats and the Mad Dogs would be cla.s.sified alongside people like Fred West, Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer. But Northern Ireland is a special case. Justice British style ends at Stranrar. This place used to be awash with ma.s.s murderers who are downright psychopaths. We just give them stupid tabloid names like 'King Rat' and 'Mad Dog' but they were real live people who got off on killing people. The fact that they were so-called political didn't make our life any easier."

"But why doesn't the justice system just treat them as serial killers?" she asked. "What's so b.l.o.o.d.y political about killing a vagrant?"

Wilson let the question hang on the air. He had devoted his life to bringing killers to justice and he had no answer to the Constable's question.

"Okay what's the second kind of murderer?" she asked when she saw that Wilson wasn't going to answer her original question.

Wilson broke out of his reverie. "The second type of murderer is the hapless volunteer. He's so hyped up on twisted political claptrap that he blindly follows orders. Someone decides that a particular person has to die and the murderer simply fulfils the contract. This bloke is the complete amateur. He comes in blastin' with whatever weapon the G.o.dfathers stuck into his hands and he takes out everybody in the vicinity of the target. The UVF did it with automatic weapons. The AK-47 was the ideal invention for this guy. The object is to hit as many poor b.u.g.g.e.rs as possible with a hail of bullet and then scarper. The IRA favoured your bomb. Both are indiscriminate and there's no specific target. It was the local equivalent of the suicide bomber. We're talking fear and carnage. Have you ever seen the results of a bomb or a wild shooting?"

She shook her head.

"Not a pretty sight. I sometimes think the dead are the lucky ones. Most of the detectives in this office have been to counselling. Murder is one thing but to accompany it by tearing the bodies to pieces adds a level of sickness that's hard to square with human beings. Am I boring you?"

"No," she said. She'd heard most of this before at the college but not from someone who had been at the coalface. "Go on."

"Sometimes the two general types cross the line. They begin by killing to order and then become psychopaths. Other times the psychopaths can disguise their blood l.u.s.t and kill only when ordered. That's what makes Patterson and Peac.o.c.k different. In each case the killer got the man he wanted to get. He's not indiscriminate and he's not sick. Also he's left us nothing to work with and no clue as to where he'll strike next."

"Maybe he won't strike again," she said.

"Chance would be a fine thing." The phone on Wilson's desk rang and he picked up the receiver. "Yes. Right away," he replaced the handset slowly. "Two calls from the DCC's office in one week. It's a royal pain in the a.r.s.e being so popular."

She watched the big man squeeze his way out from behind the desk. Bead's of sweat stood out on the Chief Inspector's brow. There was a faint odour of stale whiskey in the air as Wilson moved towards her. Was this what twenty years of police work can do to you?

"I'm getting fed up to the teeth of these confession sessions with the DCC," Wilson said as she retreated into the main Squad Room to permit her chief's exit from the cramped office. "When I was a kid in Sunday school they taught me that Protestants were against confession. But I think they're only against it when there's a priest involved. Why don't you go through those files again." He picked up a small file from his desk and handed it to her. "Here's the report on last night's canvas of the houses close to the garage. There's nothing of interest but go through it before pa.s.sing it on to Eric. Find me something, anything that'll link the victims and help me get my hand on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who's doing them."

"He's waiting for you," the Secretary looked up from her desk as Wilson entered.

Once more into the valley of death, he thought as he strode towards the open door.

Jennings' face was so long that he looked like his favourite dog had just died.

"Sit down," he said curtly. "Let me get right to the point. I've had the Chief Constable on to me this morning. He's wondering what in the h.e.l.l you're doing about this d.a.m.n outbreak of sectarian killings," Jennings picked up a metal paper clip and began to straighten it. "It appears that some political personages have been making representations to him concerning the disquiet in the Protestant neighbourhoods. The Chief Constable is very concerned that your inactivity could lead to retaliatory action by Loyalists. In other words he wants b.l.o.o.d.y action and he wants it fast. Where do we stand?"

"I've got all my available men working on this one," Wilson eased himself into the chair in front of Jennings' desk. He stared over his superior's shoulder at the montage of photographs which lined the wall. The central subject was always Jennings. He could be seen smiling and shaking hands with several of the principle Protestant politicians. Taking pride of place in the centre of the collection was a picture of the Superintendent shaking hands with the former Prime Minister of Great Britain while a prominent Evangelical Protestant politician looked on. Mixing with the great and the good was Jennings' stock in trade. He would soon have to make room on the wall for photos of himself in cahoots with Nationalist politicians. Wilson was sure that his smile would be as wide for both sides of the political divide.

"We think that the same gun was used in the three killings," Wilson continued. "But that hasn't been confirmed. Two of the men, Patterson and Peac.o.c.k, were the intended victims. We think that the third man was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There's no real evidence other than the ejected sh.e.l.ls. The gun doesn't feature in any previous shootings in the province and we haven't come up with a witness for either of the killings. We've established a hot line but so far that hasn't produced a lead. As you might have already concluded, an arrest is not considered imminent."

"So the killings are random and might possibly be sectarian," the DCC looked at the file on his desk.

"They could be," Wilson leaned back in the chair. "But I don't buy it."

"What exactly are you trying to tell me?" the DCC has dispensed with the paper clip and had graduated to turning the silver b.u.t.tons on his tunic absentmindedly.

"Whoever did these killings was very careful about the selection of the target and he made d.a.m.n sure that the target wasn't going to make a miraculous recovery." Wilson was suddenly aware that Jennings was hanging on his every word. What the h.e.l.l is going down here, he thought as he watched the anxious face of his superior. He'd handled dozens of murders in his tenure at Tennent Street but Jennings had never taken a blind bit of notice. The Chief Constable had dropped a ferret down Jennings' trousers and that meant the Chief Constable himself was being squeezed, big time. "If you want my opinion I don't think that there is any paramilitary involvement. n.o.body is stupid enough to get involved in carrying out a.s.sa.s.sinations like Patterson's and Peac.o.c.k's. Also," Wilson added quickly before the DCC could intervene. "Neither of the two men had any relation with any of the paramilitaries or the criminal fraternity. So we're looking at two random murders carried out by a professional killer. It doesn't gel."

"I don't see where this is leading us," Jennings' left eye twitched as he stared at Wilson.

"I think we've got a new kid on the block. I have no idea what he's up to but he's been in this business before. I also have no idea whether he belongs to a grouping or whether he's a lone wolf. All I know is that he picks the target, he makes sure of the kill and he leaves nothing for us to work with. We've given the 'usual suspects' a quick once over but there's no obvious candidate."

"An interesting theory but complete conjecture," Jennings was coming alive again. "Now I don't like telling you how to conduct your investigation but it is imperative that we solve these murders. I don't have to remind you that we are sitting on a powder keg and if somebody has been stupid enough to be playing with matches we could be looking at another twenty-five years of conflict. I want you to get in touch with Frank Cahill. Set up a meeting with him. Find out what he knows about the killings. Somehow we have to convince him that it's as much in his interest as it is ours for him to put a stop to this d.a.m.n foolishness."

Wilson winced at the mention of Cahill's name and a bolt of pain shot through the back of his head. 'Two-gun' Frank Cahill had been, and possibly still was, the chief IRA 'G.o.dfather' in Belfast. Although nominally a brigade commander in the IRA, Cahill used his position to set up a criminal operation which would have done credit to the Mafia. Cahill controlled extortion rackets, building scams, booze, robberies and prost.i.tution over a large area of West Belfast. No kind of economic activity was possible in Cahill's area unless tribute was paid to the 'G.o.dfather'. The man was sc.u.m.

"It won't help," Wilson said staring into his superior's eyes.

"That remains to be seen," Jennings replied coldly. "I want you to get them to stop before the other side starts and we have an all out war on our hands. Frank Cahill can help us to stop that war and you're the one who is going to ask him for that help."

" Take my word for it Cahill's not involved. There's no profit in killing civilians."

"In words of one syllable, see him right away and get this b.l.o.o.d.y thing stopped," Jennings began to shuffle the papers on his desk. "You've led a rather charmed life in the Force. I'm sure that it's no surprise to you that there are some people here at Headquarters who've been waiting quite a long time to see you land on your a.r.s.e." Jennings lifted his eyes from the papers and looked at Wilson. "Of course, I've never numbered myself among them. However, if things go wrong on the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k cases you could very well find yourself pounding a beat in Pomoroy."

Wilson felt the twitch at the corner of his mouth and wondered whether it had been visible to Jennings. He knew that his rejection of earlier approaches to become 'one of the boys' would stifle his chances of promotion but he never thought that the 'Lodge brothers' would actually go gunning for him. Jennings' message had been received loud and clear. And despite his a.s.sertions to the contrary, the DCC would be the first to ram the knife into his back.

"By the way," Jennings said. "How's McElvaney working out?"

"She's bright," Wilson stood to leave. But not bright enough to pa.s.s on a poisoned chalice, he thought.

"Is she working on the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k business with you?"

"Yes," Wilson stood in front of the desk.

"You'll keep an eye on her of course." Jennings smiled. There was no doubting the double meaning in the statement.

Wilson began to open his mouth but closed it again. Jennings would only draw pleasure from any reply that he might make. His eyes fell on the photograph with the beaming smiles of the DCC and his political friends. The pressure was only beginning. If he didn't find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d behind the killings Jennings would use whatever clout he had to put an end to whatever career he had. The ante was being upped and Wilson could see that he was being prepared as a sacrificial lamb. So be it, he thought as he turned and without saying a word marched towards the door of Jennings' office.

Wilson finished reading the last file which had been prepared by his lads on the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k killings. The ballistics report had confirmed his suspicion that the same gun had been used in both killings. The pathology reports added nothing new. The regulars at the King's Head had been questioned but n.o.body had any knowledge of Patterson. So what was new. A second canvas of the residents of the Newtonards Road had produced one nugget. A resident who had been on night shift remembered seeing a man wearing a donkey jacket sheltering in a doorway across from the garage. It had been dark and raining so the witness had hurried on. The man might have been tall or short, thin or fat, black or white. He'd read Jean Black's statement on Peac.o.c.k and concluded that she would have been the prime suspect in his death under normal circ.u.mstances. A check on her family had thrown up two brothers who had served sentences in the Maze. Both had been questioned and had produced cast iron alibis for the time that Peac.o.c.k had been gunned down. So what was new. The work of six detectives and any number of uniforms had produced absolutely nothing to go on. He closed the final report and thought about his meeting with Jennings. It stuck in his craw to have to meet with a former IRA boss in the hope of getting a lead. He rubbed his eyes and tilted his chair back. He would have been a total fool if he hadn't realised the exposed situation the three killings had put him in. The situation on the streets, where the tension had increased appreciably, would increase the pressure on the Chief Constable for a quick result. That pressure would manifest itself eventually in a move to get him off the case and to hand it to a more politically in-tune officer. That eventuality might even suit most of the men sitting in his Squad Room. He stood up then stretched before moving his head from side to side to release the tension. He walked into the Squad Room and stood beside Whitehouse's desk.

"What's the word on the streets on the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k business?" he asked.

Whitehouse thought about his meeting with Simpson in the 'Linfield Arms'. "Exactly what you'd expect," he answered definitively. "I hear that some people are gettin' pretty p.i.s.sed of. They want to know what the h.e.l.l is going on."

"Anybody in particular?"

"You know as well as me, boss" Whitehouse said slowly. "As far as ninety per cent of the population are concerned this kind of thing is finished. They can accept the drug gangs killing each other but not John Citizen being plugged for no reason at all. The press have put the word out that neither Patterson or Peac.o.c.k had any involvement with the criminal underworld in Belfast. So what are people to think? Add to that the fact that all the dead are Protestant and some of the old fears start coming back. Word on the street has it that some of the former Loyalist paramilitary leadership are not too happy with Prods bein' blown away in their own back garden. A few hotheads are callin' for retaliation. You know the way it is with them boys. n.o.body can say how long they'll be kept in check. It might be that things could blow up at any minute. Everybody's on edge. It could get hectic."

"Great minds obviously think alike," Wilson slapped his sergeant on the back. "I just had the same message from the DCC. He suggested that I go and talk with Frank Cahill."

Whitehouse frowned. "Not that old b.u.g.g.e.r," he said between clenched teeth. "We should have put him away years ago. He's not political any more so he should be fair game but he always seems to be one step ahead of us. "

Wilson watched McElvaney glance up from the file she was studying.

"I'm sure you'd find lots of people who'd agree with you. However, the law requires proof before we can put someone away. Whether we like it or not some stupid bureaucrat thinks that Frank Cahill has developed a certain political status which puts him in the 'difficult to apprehend' category."

"To h.e.l.l with the sodding bureaucrats," Whitehouse's face was flushed. "Frank Cahill is nothing but a b.l.o.o.d.y criminal. When the chips are down I'd put him in the same category as the Krays."

"Then maybe the DCC's suggestion wasn't so far of the mark after all. Maybe a word in his ear might get things moving in some direction. To be honest it might do more good than sitting around here on our collective a.r.s.es."

"You really think that Cahill is involved somewhere in this business, do you?" Whitehouse turned his head to face his superior.

"As a matter of fact, George, just like you, I don't," Wilson replied taking a black leather address book from his pocket and skimming through the pages.

Whitehouse watched as Wilson leafed through the book. "Pull the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in," he said. "Lock him up in Castlereagh. Sweat him and maybe he'll give you your killer."

"That's not on and you know it," Wilson had located his page and held the book open with the palm of his right hand. "Suppose for the sake of argument that I'm right and Cahill isn't involved. He's going to be b.l.o.o.d.y curious about the killings looking like IRA executions. And don't think for one second that the thought of 't.i.t for tat' killings wouldn't have crossed his mind. He can only maintain his position in the Catholic enclaves as long as he's seen as the great protector. If there is a backlash and if the Catholic community blame him for it, that's Frank Cahill up the Swannee. He'll want to know who's responsible for the killings as much as we do. Maybe we can flush the b.a.s.t.a.r.d out between us. That is unless you have some better idea?"

Whitehouse stared ahead blankly.

"I didn't think so," Wilson said picking up the phone from Whitehouse's desk.

"Jesus, I've seen it all now," Whitehouse said. The red colour had moved from his cheeks to his entire face. "A DCI in the PSNI ringin' up to make an appointment with a murderer."

"Careful, George, I don't want you in the Royal Infirmary with a stroke," Wilson said composing Cahill's number. "It's bad manners to drop in unannounced."

"I wouldn't talk to that b.a.s.t.a.r.d to save my life," Whitehouse said setting his jaw.

"You won't have to," Wilson finished dialling. "I'm taking McElvaney with me on this one."

"What!"