Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (10 page)

             
“Somebody wants to start trouble,” Whitehouse said defensively. "In the past we know who that usually was."

             
Wilson ignored the remark. “I’m becoming more convinced that we have a new player in the game. And a very dangerous player he is too. Some things don't quite gel." They crossed the road from the booth. "Why these guys? Why Patterson and why this poor asshole. If it's the same killer and I'm sure it is, what has he got against the men he kills. Patterson didn't have either a friend or an enemy. And then he's too damn professional. Most of the so-called gunmen in this town wouldn't have been able to hit that booth with a burst of automatic fire. If they had managed to hit it, they'd probably have succeeded in breaking every pane of glass and leaving the two occupants completely untouched. But not our boy, he marches in cool as you like, fires two shots and scores two hits. Then he stands over the attendant's body and delivers a coup-de-grace." He looked along the darkened doorways which lined the street. "I bet, Sergeant, that if your boys look really hard, you're going to find some trace of our friend in one of those doorways." He was beginning to get a feel for his new adversary. The killer was cool and calculating. "He waited, sheltered in one of those dark hollows, until he couldn't wait any longer. The second man must have bothered him. I get the distinct feeling that our man likes to leave things all neat and clean. Let's get the photograph boys and the forensics people in here." Wilson stood up and turned towards the door.

             
Moira appeared at Wilson's shoulder. "The garage owner's just arrived, sir. The pump attendant was one Stanley Peacock. He's got an address in  Sydney Street. No ID. on the second man yet. Peacock was on the late shift. Due to finish at eleven."

             
"Any next of kin?" Wilson asked.

             
"Wife or at least partner," she replied. "So the owner thinks. He isn't big on human relations. They operate the basic employment contract - the staff worked and he paid them. End of story."

             
Whitehouse studiously ignored his new colleague. "Sydney Street. It looks like two more Prods bite the dust."             

             
Wilson nodded in agreement. "It's a safe bet."

             
"If this new player of yours is a rogue, he's got balls of steel. Once in here he wouldn't stand a dog's chance of gettin' out," Whitehouse said

             
"But he did," Wilson started back towards the petrol station. He was dealing with a ghost or someone very familiar with the area. Maybe not someone from the area but at least someone who had spent some time casing the petrol station and its environs. Nobody would have noticed him as he checked out his victim and established his escape route.

"George, check if anyone at the petrol station saw a stranger lurking around the area over the past few days," Wilson said. He doubted it would lead to anything but you never knew. Thirty years of 'troubles' had led the citizens of Belfast to ignore people they did not recognise. It was just another puzzle to add to those already occupying his thoughts.

              Moira and Whitehouse fell into step behind their chief. Each avoided looking at the other.

             
"I hope you weren't planning on an early night," Wilson said glancing around the assembled ranks of PSNI men. He could feel the resentment coming off them with the steam from their breath. It was cold and wet and combing the area for evidence was going to be a shitty job. "I want this street fine combed," he addressed the grumbling policemen. "Everything is to be bagged and handed to SOCO." He turned to face Whitehouse. "Every house is to be canvassed and I want the results of the canvas written up and on my desk to-morrow morning.” He turned to Whitehouse and Moira. “Time to give the bad news to the next of kin. This is one of those occasions when it’s useful to have a woman constable on the team. Eh, George?"

             
Whitehouse ignored the remark.

             
"And since Constable McElvaney is new to this business, I think I’ll go accompany her." He turned to Moira. "Let's go tell Peacock's nearest and dearest that they've been bereaved before some ‘presstitute’ from the 'Sun' beats us to it."

CHAPTER 13

Wilson piloted the Toyota through the deserted streets of West Belfast lost in thought. Two professional killings on his patch in such a short space of time was certain to bring all kinds of shit down on his head. The brass in Castlereagh would be watching events with more than their usual interest. He had never been near the top on their list of high fliers but he was well aware that he topped their list of people they could easily do without. More than once a Lodge brother had stood in the wings waiting for him to fall on his face. The drop had been avoided only with large helping of good fortune. Maybe his luck was about to run out. These killings could be the loose canon that was finally going to blow him out of the water. The stakes were too damn high. The Province was living on a knife-edge between peace and a full scale return to violence. Nobody in their right mind wanted a return to the bombing and killing but history had already proved that there were a lot of people in Ulster who could be described as having mental
aberrations. The politicians would be running around like chickens with their heads chopped off trying to keep the lid on the rapidly boiling kettle. There was a more than even chance that some crazy was already planning a retaliation for Patterson. Peacock’s death would only add to the pressure. If the situation boiled over, heads would roll and the first sacrifice would be the senior investigating officer.

             
Moira peered through the side window searching for house numbers as Wilson turned into Sydney Street. "It’s on the left hand side about ten houses down," she said well aware that she had spoken the first words since the two had entered the car.

             
"Let's get this over with," Wilson said switching off the car and stepping onto the pavement in front of a decrepit row of red brick houses.

             
Being the bearer of sad tidings was Wilson's private version of the hell. He had listened far too often to the anguished screams and the howls of pain. He knocked on the door wishing the distasteful task could have been delegated to somebody else.

             
"Yes."

             
The woman who opened the door was so pale and haggard that Wilson assumed that he had been beaten to the punch. He noticed that the area under her left eye was dark and puffy. He fished around in his pocket for his warrant card and flicked it open.

             
"I'm Detective Chief Inspector Wilson and this is Constable McElvaney."

             
The woman made no attempt to speak.

             
"You're Mrs. Peacock?" he asked.

             
She laughed bringing a vestige of animation to her pale visage. "You could say that."

             
Wilson raised his eyebrows.

             
"I'm Jean Black, Chief Inspector," she said. "There's no Mrs. Peacock. But I suppose I'm the closest thing to it."

             
A baby screamed inside the house but Jean Black ignored the shrill sound.

             
"May we come inside?" Wilson asked.

             
A look of apprehension passed over Black's face. "What the hell's goin' on? What do you want with me?"

             
Wilson forced himself past the woman at the door and entered the narrow hallway of the house. Moira McElvaney followed him. "We're sorry for disturbing you but I'm afraid that Mr. Peacock was involved in a shooting accident earlier this evening."

             
The look of fear disappeared from her face. "Nothing trivial I hope," she said her mouth curling in a sneer.

             
Wilson was slightly thrown by her demeanour. He felt like an actor who was being fed the wrong lines in a scene he had often played before. Where was the terror and fright at the thought of a loved one being injured or possibly killed?

             
"I'm afraid Mr. Peacock is dead," Wilson said trying to get the right amount of solemnity into his deep voice. “He was shot at his place of work earlier this evening.”

             
"Who did it?" she asked matter-of-factly.

             
This was going all wrong for Wilson. He'd expected her to collapse at the news but she stood directly beneath him in the narrow hallway her pale tearless face turned up towards his.

             
"So far we’re in the dark on that," he answered.

             
A smile creased Jean Black's thin lips. "Well if you do manage to find him. Tell him thanks from Jean Black will ye." She noticed the look on the two copper's faces and began to laugh out loud. "I've spent the last six months tryin' to get that bastard barred from this house," she said. "But the little fart down at the court wouldn't give me an order because we weren't married. Common law doesn't count. The man with the gun has given me what the beak wouldn't. Thanks mister." She tipped her forelock in salute.

             
"Was Mr. Peacock involved with any paramilitary organisation?" Wilson asked.

             
Jean Black laughed again. "Are you kiddin'. That bastard was only good for beatin' on women." She leaned forward towards Moira displaying the eye Wilson had noticed earlier. "This is what you can expect from your man, dearie. And that was only a taste. I've been in the Royal Infirmary twice. I had my jaw wired for three months. Stan wouldn't hit anything that might hit back. He was a fuckin' coward. A yellow-livered bastard to his boot-straps." A tear slid out of her eye and rolled down her cheek.

             
"Do you have any family that might be
'involved'
?" Wilson asked.

             
She hesitated for a moment. "Involved in what?" she said more firmly than was necessary.

             
"Drugs, maybe something on the other side of the law."

             
"You people are a fuckin' joke," Jean Black spat at them. "The poor man is probably lyin' in the morgue and you're tryin' to blacken his name. Well fuck you."

             
Wilson saw McElvaney take a note.

             
"Do any of your family feel strongly enough about Mr. Peacock to want to do something about him?" Wilson asked.

             
"You could fill a football ground with people that Stan had pissed off."

             
"About your family," Wilson said quickly. "I assume we could add them to the list."

             
"You can leave my fuckin' family out of it," Jean Black folded her arms across her thin chest. "If Stan was thick enough to get himself killed that's his business. I won't have my relations bothered over that lousy bastard." The baby's screaming had reached a crescendo. "What happens now?" she asked suddenly busy to get on with her life.

             
"His body will be taken for a post-mortem examination," Wilson said trying to be delicate out of habit. "His boss identified him so at least you've been spared that. It wasn't a pretty sight. Because he died violently there'll have to be an autopsy. After they release the body you’ll be able to arrange the funeral."

             
"You can keep him as far as I'm concerned," she said. "Why the hell should I bury him?"

             
"No reason," Wilson said turning towards the door. Moira already had it open. "One of my officers will be along to-morrow morning to take a detailed statement. In the meantime if you could make a list of those who might possibly have wanted to do your husb... partner harm. And the press will probably bother you to-morrow," he said by way of a parting remark.

             
"Do they pay for interviews, photos and the like?" she asked.

             
Wilson turned to face her and saw her previously dull eyes sparking at the thought of financial gain.

             
"I suppose so," he said and turned towards the car.

             
"So much for the grieving Common Law widow," Wilson said as he and Moira settled themselves into the seats of the Toyota.

             
“Another of those partnerships forged in heaven,” Moira said. She didn’t notice Wilson looking away. "You think she could be involved?"

             
Wilson’s brow furrowed. He was wondering whether every relationship in the world between men and women was fucked up. His certainly had been and from what he had gleaned from McElvaney so was hers. Who were they to throw stones at Jean Black?

“I think she would like to have been involved.” The ranks of murderers were littered with unhappy spouses who had topped their ‘better haves’. He’d seen it plenty of times himself and visited many a hospital ward to visit a victim where the murder process did not reach its culmination.  He turned the key in the ignition and the car’s engine sprang into life. “It never ceases to amaze me that people who hate each other as much as they must have actually can stay together. I’m no expert on children but I’d guess that the squealing baby was probably less than one year old which means that Miss Black was probably intimate with the victim fairly recently.”

“Unless the child wasn’t his,” Moira said.

“Point taken,” he said smiling. That was a woman thinking like a man for a change. “But if I had to hazard a guess I’d say that Jean Black is not involved. To-night’s events have also convinced me that there may be more to these killings than meets the eye. You might just be in for a lesson in real old style police work. What really bothers me is the time question. We’ve got three dead bodies in the past two days. All three probably killed with the same gun. That usually spells either a sectarian murder spree or a turf war. An outside bet would be a serial killer but they usually start by being messy and then refine their method. The Shankill Butchers were another good example of serial killers refining their technique as they progressed. Since as far as we know none of the victims appears to be ‘connected’ we can probably rule out the turf war. And much as I hate to admit it it’s beginning to look like George was right about the sectarian angle. We’ve got to stop this lunatic before there’s any escalation. The fact that he leaves us no clues bothers me. The crazies aren’t usually so professional. This asshole knows how to kill. That means he’s done it before. We start with the usual suspects. That’ll mean leg work and hours of overtime. We’re going to have to beat the bushes to force this guy into the open.”  He piloted the car away from the curb. “We’ve done enough for one day and I’m not as young as I used to be. I’ll drop you back to the station. Your Lada’s probably pinning for you.”

              Moira sat before the screen in the basement of Tennent Street station. Lines of computer generated text stared back at her. For the previous two hours she had scoured every data source for information on Patterson, and Peacock. She had ignored the second victim at the garage since Wilson was sure that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The 'magic machine' as Wilson had called it had thus far yielded paltry results. Patterson was as clean as the driven snow while Peacock had two arrests for aggravated assault. Jean Black had sworn both warrants. All Moira had for her trouble was a pair of sore, red-rimmed eyes. Neither of the victims appeared to have any connection with the Belfast criminal underworld and she has found no evidence to support a connection with paramilitary activities. Yet there had to be some reason why these specific people had been selected. She sat back and rubbed her aching eyes. The action only served to increase the discomfort. What a sad case she was. Wilson had dropped her at the car park and instead of heading back to her small apartment she’d decided to spend a few hours on the computer. Sad. Twenty-eight years old. Failed marriage. New job with unappreciative colleagues. What she needed was a couple of belts of Stoly and a curl-up in front of a rom-com. And maybe a good cry. What the hell was she doing in this bloody police station in the middle of Protestant West Belfast? What was she trying to prove? Was she totally bloody insane? She looked at the lines of text on the screen. Perhaps the random theory was correct. If so, she was currently embarked on the biggest waste of time of her career. It was time to think outside the box. There may be nothing in the Criminal Records Bureau but there had to be some link somewhere. Officially she had no access to either the Home Office computer or the Department of Social Welfare. But when you've already hacked in once the second time is easier.  She pushed a series of keys and a new menu appeared on the screen. In the centre of the screen was a panel which asked for her password. She pulled a Moleskine notebook out of her bag and leafed through some pages. After a few minutes she found what she was looking for and typed the password. Miracle of miracles it still worked. She now had access to UK Government databases. It was inconceivable that no reference existed to either of these men on some government database or other. She moved the cursor down the line of available data until he reached the words 'social welfare'. She pressed the 'enter' key and screen went blank. After a few seconds, the prompt 'name' appeared on the screen. She typed 'Peacock' for the umpteenth time. The screen cleared and the prompt 'first name' appeared. She typed 'Stanley' and leaned back in her swivel chair. The screen went blank and after half a minute the word 'wait' appeared in amber letters. Why not. It was too late for Stoly and a Rom-Com that would turn her into a teary mess. She'd already spent half the night messing around with the damn thing. A few more minutes wouldn't matter.