Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (11 page)

             
She leaned back and closed her eyes. There was another life. At the week-end she’d put her glad rags on and hit the night spots. Maybe she’d meet someone who had even a trace of a brain. Most of the men she met were only interested in a quick lay. She’d had more than her fair share of those and that part of her life was over. Christ but I need a friend. She thought of Wilson. She’d been told he was attractive and that his personality drew women like bees to honey. And she had to concur. He was old enough to be her father but he had a certain something. Maybe if he had been just a bit younger. At least he’d had the good grace not to proposition her on her first day. But she had the feeling that he found her attractive. Get those damn ideas out of your head girl, she thought.

             
She opened her eyes and looked at the screen. The life and times of Stanley Peacock, she murmured softly as she bent forward to examine the information on the screen. She read quickly moving down through the standard Social Welfare template. Name, address, age, details of the dead man's schooling and early life were scrolled down the screen for his benefit. When she came to the end of the text, she continued to push the 'page down' button. There had to be something else. She wanted so badly for the computer to give her the motive for Peacock's murder that she almost kicked the machine in frustration. There was nothing of any use in the file. What use was the name of his schools, mother's and father's first names? She scanned the text again. It's in there somewhere, she thought looking at the orange letters. She just wasn't smart enough to see it.

             
"Sad bloody cow!" She bashed a series of keys and the printer beside the computer terminal began to whirr. When the noise stopped she pulled the typewritten pages from the tray and put them into a blue coloured folder. She slammed back the swivel chair and switched off the computer terminal.  What an unmitigated waste of time, she thought as she started towards the Squad Room. 

CHAPTER 14

Case entered the hallway of his lodgings in Leopold Street and dumped his rain-soaked donkey-jacket on a free hook on the hall-stand.

             
"Filthy night, Mr. Case," Betty Maguire's head peeped around the door of the downstairs parlour.

             
"Filthy night, indeed, Misses M," he replied employing the Scouse accent he used with the landlady. He was well versed in laying a trail of confusion. Different accents, different identities, lies built on lies, built on lies. When he left Belfast it would take a genius to hang the different people he had created onto one man. And nobody would be looking for Joseph Case.

             
"Would you not come into the parlour and warm yourself in front of the fire, Mr. Case," the landlady's Belfast accent was so thick you could cut it with a knife. "I'll make us a lovely cup of tea and we could watch television together."

             
"No thanks, Mrs. M," Case smiled his most engaging smile, "I've had a hard day and I just want to crawl into bed with a book."

             
"Lucky book," Mrs. Maguire said and gave him her version of a demure smile.

             
"Night, Mrs. M," Case ascended the staircase towards his room on the second floor.

             
That silly old bitch could become a problem, he thought as he closed and locked the door behind him. What I don't need at this point in time is a widow in heat looking for a bit of sex.

             
"Lucky book," he said mimicking Mrs. Maguire's accent perfectly.

             
It just needed one word of encouragement and the silly bitch would have her pants down before you could say 'Jack Robinson'. In a way he was tempted. Betty Maguire wasn't a bad looker and although she was nearing the top of the hill she wasn't over it yet. Why shouldn't he have all the creature comforts while he was in this shithole. But a relationship with somebody as desperate as his landlady could lead to problems. And his boss in London had been very insistent that there should be no problems. So he would just have to go on playing the perfect lodger. He would continue to go to his non-existent job at exactly the same time every morning and he would be perfectly polite to all and sundry. Two weeks after he left nobody would be able to remember anything about him except that he had always been cheerful and helpful. They wouldn't remember whether he was tall or small, fat or thin, nothing. As long as he could resist Betty's amorous advances, nothing of him would be left behind.

             
Case took the Browning out of his pocket and slipped it into the drawer of the battered locker which stood beside his bed. He needed, no he deserved, a drink. So far so good. He pulled out the bottle of Black Bush from beneath the bed and poured himself a large measure. The golden liquid burned down his throat and warmed the pit of his stomach. He sat down in the decrepit stuffed armchair which along with his bed dominated the room of the old Victorian house. The control for the television lay beside his hand and he flicked the button that would bring the ancient set into life. The screen flickered and an image of a game show host came slowly into focus. Case lowered the volume until the host's voice was simply a purr. He didn't need to listen to crap. What he wanted was to savour the success of this evening. His mind ran back over the hit and he could feel a mild adrenaline rush as he relived the scene in the petrol station. It had been bloody perfect. There would be no trace of him having been there and the second bloke's death would confuse the local coppers. The only thing that was missing was someone to share his triumph with. Back in his army days there were always mates in the mess to boast to. Deep inside there was a need to belly up to the bar and fill someone's ear with the story of how MI5 had picked him to get rid of some Belfast shit and what a great job he was doing of it. But that wasn't the way it worked in his new life. He'd have to get used to keeping his scores to himself. He emptied his glass and poured another large measure of whiskey. He made an imaginary gun with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Pow, pow. Two shots fired from the doorway and two direct hits. It was real 'Dirty Harry' stuff. Make my fucking day and nothing personal.  He'd come a long way from the skinny-arsed kid that had rolled the punters.             

             
He poured himself a third measure of whiskey. Just another week and he could join the rest of the boys on the Costa. A winter of sun, sea and sangria with maybe a bit of sex thrown in. He made the imaginary gun again with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Pow, pow.

CHAPTER 15

              The police car dropped Whitehouse at the corner of the Shankill Road and Snugville Street. He glanced at his watch as soon as the car pulled away from the footpath. He had five minutes before the appointed time of his meeting with Richie Simpson in the 'Linfield Arms'. To hell with Wilson, the bloody slave-driver, he thought to himself, as he bundled his coat around him and started off in the direction of the pub. He'd spent two sodding hours picking up bits of crap from around the murder scene. And what did they have to show for it. Sweet bugger all. A selection of trash that could have been picked up on any street in Belfast but not one single shred of what the 'Great Detective' would call evidence. He scowled. He'd love to dump all the shit we've collected onto Wilson's desk and see the expression on his face. Whitehouse hustled along the darkened streets. He had been born and raised in this warren of tightly packed houses. He knew everybody who lived here and everybody knew him. That was an edge that Wilson would never have. Most of the hard men of the area had been at school with him and he had used that connection to break a few cases but he wasn’t that stupid that he didn't know he was being fed what they wanted him to know. George Whitehouse had spent his life walking a very fine line between doing his job and maintaining his position within his community.

             
He quickened his pace when he saw the entrance of the 'Linfield Arms' directly ahead.

Richie Simpson looked up from his drink as the front door of the pub opened and Whitehouse came in. About bloody time, Simpson thought. He had been wondering whether to abandon his vigil but the stakes were too high. The PSNI Detective Sergeant looked more harassed than usual. Simpson watched Whitehouse search the crowded bar until their eyes locked.

              Whitehouse pushed his way through the crowd at the bar towards the back of the pub where Simpson was sitting at a table.

             
"You took your time," Simpson pointed to the wooden chair opposite him.

             
Whitehouse removed his sodden overcoat and threw it over the back of an empty chair. Simpson watched as Whitehouse's short body slumped into the chair across from him.

             
"You look bolloxed. You need to get one down you." Simpson raised his hand and the barman arrived instantly. "What'll ye have?

             
You're not looking so great yourself, Whitehouse thought. Simpson's face hadn't been made to conceal his thoughts. The heavy crows-feet around his eyes mirrored the deep frown lines etched into his forehead. His dark greasy hair was tied back in a ponytail. It didn't take a genius to see that Simpson was a man with something on his mind.

             
"Bushmills," Whitehouse said settling himself in the chair. "Make it a double," he added before the barman could disappear. "I've spent half the night arsein' around in the dark tryin' to find
'evidence'
."

             
"I thought that’s what you coppers live for," Simpson smiled and took a drink from the pint of Guinness in front of him.

             
"Very sodding funny," Whitehouse said feeling the bottoms of his trousers sticking to his legs. He let a smile slip from his lips after the remark. He didn't want to get Simpson's back up. He was a direct connection with the Protestant politicos and a harsh word dropped in the wrong ear could put an end to Whitehouse's career such as it was.  Being a Lodge brother wouldn't save him if he didn't prove to be a loyal brother.

             
"What's on your mind?" Whitehouse asked. "You didn't ask me here to pass the time of day." The two men had known each other since their schooldays. While Whitehouse had joined the Royal Ulster Constabulary, Simpson had clawed his way up the Loyalist political ladder from street bullyboy to semi-respectable political hatchet man. Nowadays Simpson and violence had parted company. That didn't mean that he couldn’t have an assassination carried out or a good beating delivered. It had been easier to arrange for the headbangers with the skinhead haircuts and tattoos from their arses to their necks to carry out the dirty work. Simpson had paid his dues via a couple of years behind bars for attempted murder. If the bastards in Whitehall decided to ditch the province, he could see Simpson and his pals governing an independent Ulster. And why shouldn't he, others had marched the same demagogic road to power as him. He glanced around the pub and noticed Simpson's 'minder' leaning against the bar about fifteen feet away. Even in a staunchly Protestant area, Simpson's life was so important that he had to be protected at all times.

             
"Right you are. Bein' a policeman hasn't interfered with your powers of perception," Simpson said.

             
The barman arrived and put a small jug of water and Whitehouse's whiskey on the table.

             
"And just because you've graduated to wearing a suit you’ve no reason to look down on people who you've used in the past," Whitehouse ignored the water and immediately lifted the whiskey. "Death to the begrudgers," he said looking into Simpson's brown liquid eyes. He took a mouthful of the golden liquid and felt the heat passing from his throat to his stomach. "Let's have it? I still have a home to go to."

             
"I heard what happened to-night over by the Newtonards Road," Simpson began his voice barely above a whisper. "Some very important people are gettin' their knickers in a knot about three Prods being killed. You know the way things stand in West Belfast, the Prods look to the local leaders to make sure that they sleep quietly in their beds at night. It's all about protection. As soon as a few Prods bite the dust out come the hard men with their guns and the next thing you know you're walking down to the local boozer tryin' to avoid the dead bodies they leave scattered about. End result a return to lots of funerals, a return to the bad old days when nobody could make money. Returning to that shit is in nobody's interest but unfortunately some of the younger headbangers might not know that. Can you see where I'm goin'?"

             
Whitehouse nodded. His eyes were hooded from fatigue.

             
"We need to know what you know," Simpson said. "That's why you're here. Our relation is mutually beneficial, George. You help us to help you."

             
Whitehouse leaned forward conspiratorially. "It looks like the same bloke pulled the trigger on all three."

             
It was Simpson's turn to nod his head.

             
"I've never seen anything like it. The bastard does them dead cool then stands over them and makes sure with one dead centre in the skull. You should see the mess he leaves behind. It looks like the same gun was used in the three killings this week. A nine millimetre. I’ll know more when ballistics get through with testing the new shells. As far as we can tell he works alone. But up to now nobody has come up with anything. For all we know he might be part of a team. So far we’ve got nothing."

             
Simpson sat quietly digesting the information while Whitehouse utilised the pause to take another gulp of whiskey.

             
"Have your people got an idea of the reason why?" he asked.

             
"Not a fucking clue. Three dead and no apparent reason. Either there's a psycho on the streets or those boys were into something that we don't know about."

             
"We've checked the first one out. Nobody's heard of him. Patterson drank in the 'King's Head' but he wasn't part of the scene there. The boys reckon he got his kicks by rubbin' shoulders with them. He was a bloody joke, man."

             
"That's not the only way he got his kicks," Whitehouse took a gulp of whiskey and launched into a description of the search of Patterson's flat.

             
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 passion. Mostly carve ups. Wilson thinks ...." Whitehouse stopped himself.

             
"Let's have it. That bollocks might have caused us more trouble than he's worth but at least I know there's something more than butterflies runnin' around in his head."

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

             
"Why only Prods?"

             
"How the hell do I know." Whitehouse finished his glass 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 hell 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 titbit of information that might tickle you," He glanced at the empty glass 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 fuckin’ 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 piss 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 button. 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 bloody 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 bloody 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 God'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 bloody useful. It takes all sorts to make a cause, he thought and he started to laugh.