DCI Wilson: Nothing But Memories Part 8

Moira stiffened and released her hold on the door-handle of the car.

"Looks like you made a conquest," Wilson called from the backseat. "Get into the car before they kidnap you."

Moira stood glaring indignantly at Cahill's a.s.sistant for several seconds before she turned and sat into the back seat alongside Wilson. She slammed the door shut behind her.

As soon as the door closed, the driver slipped the car into gear and they moved off in the direction from which they had come. The driver's relief at moving off was noticeable to Wilson in the backseat.

Moira let out a long breath. "I could kill that b.l.o.o.d.y sod," she said. "He's so smug and superior. They're the one's who are in control now. We created a power vacuum and those people have just jumped into it. I've had the same reaction from some of my parent's neighbours. How do they expect to get a fair crack of the whip if they don't appreciate Catholics who join the police force." Her hands were shaking and she felt a shiver run along her spine. "They make me so b.l.o.o.d.y mad."

"It's not so funny when you get it from both sides," he said. He noticed that she was shivering and his first inclination was to put his arm around her. In a fatherly-way he told himself. But she was a twenty-something very attractive woman and he was her direct superior. He saw the eyes of the driver in the rear mirror. Think about your pension, he told himself. "Don't worry about it. It's always tough when you cut trail. Just think the next Catholic detective at Tennent Street will have a much easier ride."

She felt the shivering subside. She was bigger than a few stupid remarks from a petty criminal. She'd hung tough when it was necessary and Wilson was right it could only get easier. She sucked in a few deep breaths as they rode along in silence.

"What did you think of Frank Cahill?" he asked when he felt she had regained her composure.

"He reminded me of my father," she said. "A grey-haired old man with a twinkle in his eye and a liking for a drop of the hard stuff."

"It just shows that appearances can be deceptive. Frank is as tough a customer as you'd hope to meet. As is your father I suppose."

"So we learned nothing."

"I wouldn't say that," Wilson sat back. "I have a sneaking feeling that Cahill is telling the truth. They don't know anything and a blind man could see that they're as worried as we are." He sat in silence for a few moments. "I don't like this one at all."

"Then you definitely don't agree with DS Whitehouse," she said.

"Somebody is using their modus operandi as a blind. That somebody wants us to think that the IRA is behind the killings. Maybe the plan is to get the paramilitaries back into business and at each others throats. Maybe the Chinese are not happy with the restaurant trade and want to move in on the crime business. Maybe it's the Russians or the Albanians. Or maybe it's the b.l.o.o.d.y Martians. I don't know. The peace is still a fragile thing perhaps somebody doesn't want peace. The question is who the h.e.l.l is that somebody."

"So we exclude Cahill and his a.s.sociates?" Moira asked.

"At this point in time we exclude n.o.body. We've managed to pa.s.s the ball to Cahill for a while. He doesn't want rogue operators queering his pitch and causing trouble between him and his new Loyalist friends. I reckon that it won't take him long to get the word out that if there is a rogue out there he wants to know who it is. Maybe he'll flush the b.a.s.t.a.r.d out for us."

Wilson sat back in the car and fished around in his pocket for his packet of antacids. Nothing in Northern Ireland was as simple as it seemed and the Patterson and Peac.o.c.k murders already looked complicated. It didn't auger well for the future.

Cahill's lieutenant watched the police car accelerate down the street. He'd heard of Wilson but then again everybody involved with the criminal fraternity in Belfast had heard of Ian Wilson. For some weird reason Frank had wanted to see him. Frank was old school and his generation were moving on or at least moving out. He was willing to humour the old man during his last days but his successor was already flexing his hands around the reins of power. They had made the transition from terrorism to business. There was no longer a need to collect money for bullets and bombs so it could be used in developing the business opportunities that arose from the strategic advantages they had developed during the troubles. Most of their footsoldiers were adept at running clubs, organising protection and robbing banks. There were also those who had already killed and who could kill again but it was best to keep those individuals in check. The Prods were in the same business on their side of the line and that didn't bother him. The two opposing paramilitary groups who had fought each other during the 'Troubles' had learned that coexistence was preferable to annihilation. It was always dumb that the Protestant and Catholic have-nots had gone for each other's throats while the fat cats had kept a respectable distance from the fray. He watched as Wilson's car disappeared into the distance. He had the idea that Wilson was not the kind of copper his new organisation would be able to deal with. He re-entered the club and made his way to the booth were Cahill sat. The old man's face was so grey that he already looked dead.

"First Richie Simpson, now Wilson," Cahill's lieutenant said sliding into the seat directly across from his mentor. "This thing could get out of hand. What do you think, Frank?"

"That was about trouble, Sean me boy," Cahill coughed into the white handkerchief and Sean noticed small flecks of red appearing through the white linen. Cahill glanced up and saw the look on the young man's face. "Yes, Sean, I know what you're thinkin' and you're right. It won't be long now. You'll soon be in charge but you won't last long if you don't stop shoving that s.h.i.t up your nose."

"For G.o.d's sake, Frank, you'll live to be a hundred," Sean doubted seriously whether Cahill would see out the month. "And the s.h.i.t I shove up my nose is as recreational as the Jameson you drop down your gullet. So why are we in trouble?"

"We're not in trouble, yet," Cahill drew in a deep breath. "Wilson is something of a strange cat for a Peeler. We have it on good authority that he isn't one of the boys. Not a Lodge man. The PSNI is a bad place not to be a Lodge man. No promotions. Lots of grief." He paused to draw in another large breath and used the hiatus to refill the gla.s.s that still stood before him from the bottle of Jameson.

"So?" Cahill's young lieutenant was not well known for his patience.

Cahill sipped the whiskey and felt the golden liquid sting his throat as he swallowed it. "So when Wilson decides he has to visit our neck of the woods to deliver a message, I'm inclined to listen."

"What message?"

Cahill looked into the young man's eyes. What the h.e.l.l are things coming to? The man who would take over from him was a f.u.c.kin' drug addict. Off to the f.u.c.kin' toilet at every hands turn to light up whatever bit of brain he had left by snorting cocaine. Death would be a release not only from the pain but from the s.h.i.t he was leaving behind. The struggle used to mean something but now you were either a politician or a criminal and Frank Cahill had never been much of a politician.

"Get your f.u.c.kin' brain in gear. The message is that there's some b.o.l.l.o.c.ks running around the Protestant area gunning people down," he paused and coughed "And that our friends on the other side aren't goin' to be allowed to stand around watchin' it happen. So sooner or later, maybe to-day or to-morrow, they're goin' to have to show their b.a.l.l.s by comin' over here and wastin' a few of our people."

"n.o.body's that stupid," Sean said. "We've all learned that killing each other is bad for business. The fact that Richie came here to discuss the situation with us shows that we're all on the same page."

"You stupid young git. Don't you think that there's some idiot in the Shankill with s.h.i.t for brains but a nine millimetre buried in his back garden who's just itchin' to add to his tally. Richie and his lads might be able to put two and two together but they're not in control of all the psychos and neither are we. We have a legacy here in this Province. There's more than one man who has already killed walkin' the streets of Belfast. You know the psychology as well as I do. Once you've tasted the power of the gun you want to feel it again. You and your generation are goin' to have to live with the legacy we've left you until all the psychos are dead. If we don't put a stop to this then we're all up s.h.i.t creek again."

"What do you have in mind?" Sean asked.

Cahill looked at the three men seated at the bar. "We start by gettin' those lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds off their a.r.s.es and out on the streets." For the first time that morning Cahill's voice had something of its former strength. "It wouldn't be the first time some fool went over the top. If there's someone operating outside the organisation, I want him. Do I make myself clear, Sean."

"Aye," Sean was surprised by Cahill's transformation. "What do we do?"

"Contact all our people on the street. Grill the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. If they know anything about the murders I want to hear it. And check the guns we put away. I want the name of every b.o.l.l.o.c.ks who's in the know and who might have got his hands on a nine-millimetre. Get every available man on the streets now. They're to pump the locals. I want every ounce of gossip."

"That's a tall order," Sean stared at the rejuvenated Cahill.

"Just do it, Sean." Cahill watched as his heir apparent left the booth and strode towards the bar rousing the men from their lethargy. By the end of the day every former IRA man in the city would have a bug up his a.r.s.e about the murders in West Belfast. Something or someone would crawl out of the woodwork. If there was a rogue operating on the other side of the Shankill Road, Frank Cahill wanted to meet him. He picked up the gla.s.s of Jameson and drained it. The whiskey was beginning to drown the pain which was his constant companion. He thought about what Wilson had said. Neither side wanted to be drawn in a renewal of the conflict.

The G.o.dfather' refilled his gla.s.s from the whiskey bottle. "Ian Wilson," he said raising his gla.s.s in a toast. "The only honest Peeler I've ever met," he added and finished off the contents of the gla.s.s in a single swallow.

CHAPTER 18.

Case made sure that the door was locked before he prised up the loose floorboard and took out the small metal suitcase containing the tools of his trade. He laid the box on his bed and carefully composed the combination on the two locks. After double checking the combinations, he flicked the twin catches open. Moving his hands slowly, he carefully raised the lid of the metal suitcase. Opening the d.a.m.n thing was always a tricky business. A small charge had been inserted in the combination mechanism so that if anyone tried to open the suitcase without knowing the combination both they and it would disappear in a puff of smoke and a blast of hot air. While he was completely at home with weapons, he always felt a tinge of fear running down his spine when explosives were involved. Guns could be trusted. Explosives were temperamental. The lid gradually moved back and revealed the contents: the Browning automatic used in the three murders, spare ammunition clips, and a small container of Semtex, the Czechoslovak manufactured explosive which had been favoured by the IRA. The metal suitcase had been fitted with a special felt lining into which depressions had been made to hold each item of contents snugly. He lifted the Browning out of the base and removed an oil can and rag from their positions. He began to clean the gun methodically, just as his sergeant had taught him. The feeling of power and pleasure he got from holding the gun spread slowly through him. It was a pity that it was going to be one whole day before he could use it again. A simple phone call earlier that morning confirmed that the next victim would not return to Belfast until to-morrow morning. It didn't matter, he thought as he cleaned the barrel of the gun, he was well within schedule and the local coppers would be running around like chickens with their heads up their a.s.ses. He sat back and considered the chaos he must be causing the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in Tennent Street. They'd have enough on their plate without trying to solve the little problem he was setting them.

Case laid the Browning on the bed and walked to the sideboard. He picked up the remains of last night's bottle of Bushmills and a gla.s.s and then put them down again. He poured a double measure and dropped it back in one gulp. He resumed his cleaning of the Browning until he was satisfied that the gun was in mint condition. He replaced the gun in the metal suitcase, slipped the catches, turned the combination locks and returned the case to its hiding place beneath the floorboards. To-day would be a day of rest. He'd ramble into the centre of town and take in a flick. Why not? He thought about the policemen trying to solve the murders he'd committed. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. No rest for the wicked, he said softly under his breath. He donned his coat and let himself out of his bedsit.

It was almost lunch time when Wilson and Moira arrived back at Tennent Street Police Station. Wilson ignored the greeting of the Duty Sergeant and made his way directly to the office which housed the Murder Squad. The only occupants of the room were Eric Taylor and Harry Graham.

"Where's George?" Wilson asked from the doorway of his office.

"Don't know," Taylor replied without looking up from his paperwork. "He was here a minute ago."

"What the h.e.l.l do you mean you don't know," Wilson's voice was raised well above its usual level. If he was going to be put under pressure then he was going to observe his managerial prerogative by pa.s.sing it on. "This is a police station, isn't it? People do work here, don't they?"

Taylor and Graham looked up slowly from their desks. They had both been with Wilson long enough to recognise his mood. There was great pain waiting around the corner for someone.

"George stepped out a few minutes ago, Boss," Taylor said quietly. "He didn't exactly say where he was going."

"Did he exactly say anything?" Wilson asked.

"No," Taylor wished there was some other answer he could have given.

"Well go and find the b.u.g.g.e.r for me. And don't come back without him." Wilson pealed off his anorak and tossed it at the coat-rack in the corner of his office. "You," he turned to face Moira, "you write up a detailed note of our meeting with Cahill and don't forget to put in a description of that young lieutenant of his."

Taylor stood up and started for the duty desk while Moira took off her coat and took her seat behind her desk.

Wilson sat behind his desk and ran his hand through his hair. He was beginning to wonder whether he had been too hasty in buying Cahill's 'not us boss' story. The lack of a connection between Patterson and Peac.o.c.k was the factor that bothered him most. If the killer was selecting his victims at random, it could take months or forever to uncover the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And all the time Jennings was waiting in the wings ready to pounce on him if he failed to stop the murders. Outside in the pubs the Protestant avengers would be stoking their anger with Guinness. Unless they were restrained some poor Catholic randomers were going to pay for the three killings with their lives. It was a heavy burden for him to bear that it was up to him to stop such a scenario.

"This job s.h.i.ts," Wilson said quietly under his breath. He rummaged around his desk rearranging papers into new bundles as he went. "Now where the h.e.l.l did I put those computer printouts?" The piles of paper refused to yield the computer sheets that he sought.

"You were looking for me," Whitehouse said from the doorway.

"Glad you decided to join us," Wilson looked up from his cluttered desk. "Where the h.e.l.l were you?

"Here and there," Whitehouse said.

"Out and about," Wilson said sarcastically.

"I suppose that Mr. Frank 'a.r.s.ehole' Cahill gave you nothing," Whitehouse said.

Wilson didn't reply.

"I told you not to bother with that b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Whitehouse sneered. "You should have listened to me. Haul the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks in and give me and the boys a couple of days with him. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's in it up to his scrawny neck."

"Ever hear of innocent until beaten guilty," Wilson said. "You better haul him in soon if you want to give him the rubber hose treatment. He's on the way out. In fact one blow of a rubber truncheon would probably be enough to send him to his Maker."

"You're jokin'?" a wide smile creased Whitehouse's face. "That's the best news I've heard all year. G.o.d must be a Protestant."

Whitehouse's lack of humanity didn't surprise his chief. "The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's dying," Wilson said. "From the look of him he could be gone soon."

"It can't be too soon for me," Whitehouse spat out of the corner of his mouth. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"I wouldn't celebrate just yet if I were you. Sometimes the devil you know is better than the devil you don't know." Wilson thought of the cold eyes of the young man who had been at Cahill's side in the club.

"I'll settle for spittin' on the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's grave."

One more or one less, Wilson thought, wouldn't make too much difference. The PSNI had been responsible for taking lots of murderers off the streets but that had never seemed to slow down the level of violence. He had always believed that they should have been attacking the cause and not the effect. Thank G.o.d the politicians had woken up to that fact eventually.

"I might be losing my marbles but I'm inclined to believe Cahill this time," Wilson said. "I don't think he's involved."

"You're sodding mad," Whitehouse said, his colour rising. "If it quacks like a duck and it looks like a duck then it's a f.u.c.king duck. It's the way they operate. They b.l.o.o.d.y did it. Now they're tryin' to crawl their way out. Rotten sodding b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Don't ask me why," Wilson said raising his hand to stifle Whitehouse's tirade. "But I don't believe he'd try something like this right now. There's something else that worries me. Both the Chief Constable and the DCC are watching this investigation like hawks. The politicians are beginning to pa.s.s water in case the three deaths start the whole cycle of violence off again. That means pressure all the way along the line. If it was drugs or a turf war they wouldn't give a curse. But the problem with these murders is that it looks sectarian and that's what keeps the big boys awake at night. Has anyone from the Press been on?"

"Not so far."

"We should be thankful for small mercies," Wilson said knowing that it was only a matter of time before some smart jurno would get on the bandwagon to stoke up whatever flames were out there. Playing on fear and prejudice was always a winner. "It's bad enough trying to catch these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds without having the bra.s.s breathing down our neck. Hopefully the Press will stay out of it for a few days yet. Until we turn up whoever's behind the killings I want maximum presence of police on the streets."

"Wise up, Boss," Whitehouse said. "Do you really believe that the Super is goin' to saturate the streets for a couple of dead Prods. Think of the cost of the overtime. If this professional bloke of yours knows the game, he'll close down for a few days and we'll be back where we started. The 'randoms' are the worst to second guess."

"It's not random," Wilson said with more conviction that he felt. The only way the killer could be caught would be by finding the pattern. "This guy is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with us. Three dead bodies and no clues. If he was into the numbers game he'd hit a pub or a betting shop just like the rest of the crazies. No, it's not random. He's got the names and he's got a schedule and if we don't get a break soon he'll be finished and we'll be none the wiser."

"Maybe we're missing something," Whitehouse said. "It could still be something personal. Drugs, women. Nothing to do with politics or religion."

Wilson turned and looked at the whiteboard in the squad room. On it were pinned the photos from the two crime scenes. Beside each set of photos was a brief description of the victims. "This b.a.s.t.a.r.d has me stumped. There's something that connects our victims. It could be anything. Maybe they look like his old man. Maybe it's the colour of their eyes. Maybe they both screwed his wife." He slammed his hand on the desk and the paper piles jumped. "It's not drugs, it's not a turf war and it's probably not religious or political. We could just have an old-fashioned serial killer on our hands. If he was killing women, that might be a valid hypothesis. We've got to find what connects the victims."

"That could be a tall order, Boss," Whitehouse said. "These are n.o.bodies. We've interviewed Peac.o.c.k's friends. It's work, boozer and home for a burnt offering from the Misses and maybe a bit of a punch up if he's in the mood. Patterson didn't have a life, just an existence. The w.a.n.ker didn't even have a pet."

"For the sake of argument let's a.s.sume that Cahill's telling the truth," Wilson held up his hand again to stifle Whitehouse's incipient protest. "You yourself said that it would take b.a.l.l.s of steel for a Catholic to march so deep into Loyalist territory to carry out a.s.sa.s.sinations. So let's start by eliminating some possibilities. What about a new Loyalist feud?"

"No sodding way," Whitehouse said. "Since the last UVF/UDA action there hasn't been a peep in that direction." His round face hardened. He hated to think of his own people shooting each other. But they had and he was in no doubt that if another turf war erupted then they would do it again. He thought back to his meeting with Richie Simpson. If there had been a Loyalist feud, Simpson wouldn't have come near him but he couldn't tell Wilson that.

"You're pretty d.a.m.n sure about that," Wilson stared at his colleague. After ten years together he could read his Sergeant like a book. George was holding something back and this wasn't the time to be playing secrets. "Is there some nugget of information you'd like to share with me?"

Whitehouse delayed replying a little longer than was necessary. "What are you gettin' at?" he said defensively. For the past few months Wilson had a habit of making insinuating remarks about Whitehouse's Loyalist connections.

"Don't get your knickers in a knot," Wilson was amused by Whitehouse's unease. "It's just that you're a Shankill lad yourself. You went to school with most of the Loyalist leaders. You drink in the same pubs as them. You attend the same Lodge as them. It's only natural that they might let something slip to you every now or then." Wilson saw a fine bead of sweat burst from Whitehouse's hairline. "I'd never think of suggesting that you might be in collusion with them."

"You'd better f.u.c.king not," Whitehouse's colour heightened further.

Wilson watched Whitehouse's discomfort with pleasure. It was another little demonstration, if more was needed, that his loyal Sergeant was not to be totally trusted "Maybe it's time we made some use of these Loyalist contacts of yours. You could ask around and find out whether there's a 'new 'player' on the Protestant side."

"That's if anyone will talk to me," Whitehouse said.

"Don't underestimate your powers of persuasion," Wilson said smiling. "It never ceases to amaze me that we're so much better informed on the activities and personnel of the Republican side than we are on the Loyalist side."

Whitehouse said nothing and continued to lean against the door-jam. He stared at the bulky figure sitting behind the desk. Why was it that he had to work with the only officer on the Force who didn't regard the Fenians as the enemy? If the rumours in the station were to be believed Wilson wouldn't be sitting behind that desk for long. The boys at the top wanted people they could trust implicitly. There was no doubt that Wilson was probably the best detective on the Force but he was a loose canon himself. You never knew what he was going to do and that didn't sit well with the top bra.s.s.

"Get on with it George," Wilson looked at the papers on his desk. "We won't catch our man by spending our days holding the wall up. Let's find out whether your contacts can solve our little problem."

Whitehouse turned quickly from the door.

Wilson bundled up the scattered doc.u.ments on his desk and formed a neat pile. Maybe, he thought, if he were to throw the handful of A4 pages into the air, the one with the piece of information which would lead to the professional with the nine millimetre would land on the top of the pile. That police work should be so easy. He looked through the gla.s.s part.i.tion into the squad room where four detectives from his staff of six were working. He continued to stare at the group until Harry Graham raised his head and met his superior's eyes. He beckoned Graham by crooking the index finger of his right hand. The detective stood up wearily from his desk an approached Wilson's tiny office.

"Let's go through the statements you collected from Peac.o.c.k's neighbours, Harry," Wilson said when Graham presented himself in the doorway.

There had to be a clue somewhere. No matter how clever the murderer had been he had to make one small slip. But it would certainly be buried in a mountain of c.r.a.p and would require hours of sifting and examining to turn it up. But that was what the British taxpayer paid him to do. He and his men would continue to wade through the c.r.a.p until they located that nugget of information. No matter how long it took.

CHAPTER 19.

Simpson looked around the faces of the four men who sat in the back room of the `Balmoral Bar'. He coughed and felt bile in his mouth as his nose and stomach reacted to the smells of stale beer from the bar and the ammonia from the open door of the toilet that competed with each other before combining to create a mixture with the potency of mustard gas. He decided to make the meeting as short as possible. The men sitting around the table in the back room of the bar had at one time const.i.tuted the entire Belfast High Command of the Ulster Volunteer Force, the most hard-line and vicious of the Protestant paramilitary groups. Each man sitting at the table had murdered in the name of Ulster. In Mafia parlance, each of the former UVF chiefs was a `made man'. Some many times over. All four had served terms of imprisonment in the infamous `Long Kesh' prison outside Belfast. But now all four were free men unstained by their 'criminal' pasts. He felt uncomfortable in the company of these dinosaurs. But even dinosaurs were useful to the political movement. The connection between the Protestant political parties and the paramilitaries went back to the establishment by Edward Carson of the original Ulster Volunteer Force which was intended to safeguard Ulster from invasion from the Catholic South. The best known UVF was created with political connivance in the 1960's but the membership lacked the discipline of Carson's original force and the UVF had become synonymous with brutal sectarian murders. Many of the Protestant politicians regarded the UVF as an evil, but a necessary evil. The organisation was often the instrument which had been used to terrorise the Catholic population. However, like their IRA `brothers', the former UVF chiefs had slowly gravitated towards the status of `G.o.dfathers' and each man made his living exclusively from the proceeds of his criminal empire. As the organisation metamorphosed from a sectarian strike force to a criminal conspiracy, so the hold of the politicians over the organisation had diminished.