Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (15 page)

Cahill  stuck his hand out to Wilson.

              Wilson took the old man's hand and shook it without speaking. Cahill looked frail and bent as the two police officers towered over him. He held out his hand to Moira and the young constable waited for Wilson's nod before taking it.

             
"Be careful around this fellah, Moira," Cahill said as she released his hand. "He's got a reputation for getting people into trouble. Even with his own people. Now, be off the two of you." Cahill slumped into his place in the corner of the booth.

             
"A pleasure doing business with you, Chief Inspector," Cahill's lieutenant motioned towards the door. As he passed the men at the bar, he signalled for them to retake their seats. He opened the inner door and led the two police officers into the hallway. As they left the drinking area of the club and the steel door clanged shut, Wilson thought that on a humanitarian level he should feel some sorrow for the sick old man they had left behind. But whatever sorrow he might have felt was submerged by the grossness of the crimes which the man had committed during his lifetime. Like many others who had been involved in the 'Troubles', Frank Cahill had repented publicly but he had sent many innocent men and women to meet their maker. Cahill's lieutenant opened the front door and a flood of grey light entered the hallway.

             
"I hope we can avoid you visiting us again," he said holding the door fully open.

             
"So do I," Wilson said looking directly into his face. "But I have a feeling both of our hopes will be dashed. See you around."

             
Moira walked to the car and held the door open for her superior. Wilson noticed that while they had been inside the building the driver had turned the car around so that it was facing back the way they had come.

             
"On the other hand, Moira," the lieutenant said from the doorway. "You're always welcome to visit."

             
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 assistant 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 bloody 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 bloody 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 bloody Martians. I don't know. The peace is still a fragile thing perhaps somebody doesn’t want peace. The question is who the hell is that somebody."

             
"So we exclude Cahill and his associates?" Moira asked.

             
"At this point in time we exclude nobody. We've managed to pass 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 bastard 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 Peacock 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 shit up your nose."

             
"For God's sake, Frank, you'll live to be a hundred," Sean doubted seriously whether Cahill would see out the month. "And the shit 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 glass 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 hell are things coming to? The man who would take over from him was a fuckin' drug addict. Off to the fuckin' 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 shit 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 fuckin' brain in gear. The message is that there's some bollocks 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 balls by comin' over here and wastin' a few of our people."

             
"Nobody'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 shit 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 shit 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 bastards off their arses 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 bastards. 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 bollocks 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 arse 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 glass 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 godfather' refilled his glass from the whiskey bottle. "Ian Wilson," he said raising his glass in a toast. "The only honest Peeler I've ever met," he added and finished off the contents of the glass 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 damn 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 asses. He sat back and considered the chaos he must be causing the poor bastards 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 glass 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 bastards. 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 hell 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 passing 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 bugger 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 Peacock 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 bastard. 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 shits," Wilson said quietly under his breath. He rummaged around his desk rearranging papers into new bundles as he went. "Now where the hell 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 hell were you?

             
"Here and there," Whitehouse said.

             
"Out and about," Wilson said sarcastically.

             
"I suppose that Mr. Frank ‘Arsehole’ Cahill gave you nothing," Whitehouse said.

             
Wilson didn't reply.

             
"I told you not to bother with that bastard," Whitehouse sneered. "You should have listened to me. Haul the bollocks in and give me and the boys a couple of days with him. The bastard'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. God must be a Protestant."

             
Whitehouse's lack of humanity didn't surprise his chief. "The poor bastard'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 bastard'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 God 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 fucking duck. It’s the way they operate. They bloody did it. Now they're tryin' to crawl their way out. Rotten sodding bastards."

             
"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 pass 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 bastards without having the brass 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 screwing 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 bastard 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 nobodies. We've interviewed Peacock'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 wanker didn't even have a pet.”

             
"For the sake of argument let's assume 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 balls of steel for a Catholic to march so deep into Loyalist territory to carry out assassinations. 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 damn 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 fucking 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."