Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  “So where do we go from here, sir?” she asked.

  He stood up and extended his hand. “Welcome to ‘C’ Division Murder Squad. I suppose we should go and introduce you to your new colleagues.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Wilson was still wondering why he was the fall guy when they reached Tennent Street. Was Jennings trying to set him up for the coup de grace or did he genuinely believe that only Wilson could provide a sanctuary for a Catholic officer, and a woman at that, in West Belfast? Although he prided himself on the ability to read the criminal mind he had never fancied himself at trying to read people as complex as DCC Roy Jennings. He considered that to be way beyond his modest capabilities and most times he didn’t give a curse what people like Jennings thought. Right now with a peculiar murder case on his table he was staring down the barrel of the proverbial gun. A murder investigation was a funny animal and injecting a cause of contention into his squad at this particular moment could lead to motivational problems. He didn’t need that.

  "Okay, let's go meet the rest of the team," Wilson said as they rendezvoused in the reception area of the station. The phrase ‘into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred’ flashed through his mind. "Don't expect to be greeted with open arms."

  "I've learned in the last two years to expect precious little, sir" Moira looked directly into Wilson's face, "You give me the chance and I'll show you what I can do."

  Wilson started out the door. "As far as I'm concerned you're a member of my team, and that means what it always has. You get a thousand percent support from me whatever the situation. I suppose that I’m an anomaly for Northern Ireland. I was born religiously neutral."

  The animated conversation in the squad room died as Wilson stood in the doorway with Moira standing directly behind him.

  "Gentlemen," Wilson could see from their silent faces that word had already reached them. Mark up another success for the Tennent Street bush telegraph. "You'll be pleased to hear," he continued, "that our sterling efforts have been recognised and that the Deputy Chief Constable himself has decided to boost our ranks. This young lady, and here I emphasise the word lady," Wilson stood aside to reveal Moira completely, "will be joining us as of to-day. I'm sure you'll all make Constable Moira McElvaney welcome."

  Five pairs of eyes glared in the direction of the doorway. If Wilson had been introducing a new Protestant colleague, there might have been a rush to be the first to pump the new man or woman's hand. And with those handshakes an important number of messages would be passed. This time nobody moved.

  "Such enthusiasm," Wilson forced a smile. "Well Constable," Wilson took Moira’s elbow and led her into the room. "That wizened old reprobate on the left is my number one man, DS George Whitehouse,"

  Whitehouse remained stock still refusing to acknowledge the introduction.

  "Moving clockwise," Wilson continued ignoring the intended insult to Moira, "we have Eric Taylor, Ronald McIver, Harry Graham and Peter Davidson."

  Wilson had expected Whitehouse’s reaction but he had wondered how the others would react. He stared hard at Eric Taylor.

  Taylor cleared his throat and moved forward. “Welcome to the Squad,” he said extending his hand towards Moira. “I suppose that’ll be the end of the dirty joke sessions.”

  “Only if the jokes are lousy,” Moira pumped his hand.

  Peter Davidson looked sideways at Whitehouse and then followed Taylor’s example.

  Two in, three out, Wilson thought. It could have been worse but it could have been a damn sight better. The atmosphere was bound to be charged for a couple of days but then it would work itself out. He could never see Whitehouse condescending to drink with his new colleague but as long as they could work together Wilson wouldn’t care about their social arrangements.

  “You’re in luck joining us at this point in time,” Wilson said turning to face Moira. “You are currently standing in the Incident Room for the investigation into the death of one James Patterson.” He nodded to a whiteboard on which a series of stark black and white photographs of the Patterson murder scene were affixed. “Patterson was shot in the head last night by an assailant or assailants unknown. You are going to have the pleasure of assisting the best Murder Squad in Great Britain in bringing the perpetrator or perpetrators of this crime to justice. Eric, update on the enquiry please.”

  “Nothing, boss,” Taylor began. “Whoever did the shooting didn’t leave a trace behind. Not so much as a hair from his head was found at the sight. The SOCOs swept up a load of shite at the scene but nothing that appears to tie in to the killing. The pathologist has finished with the body. The autopsy showed up nothing new and the body is being transferred to the morgue. The basics you know. Only interesting item is that Patterson appears to have been into self mutilation. The pathologist found scars on his arms which were consistent with self-inflicted cuts from a razor blade. If we don’t need the body for any further tests, they want to get him in the ground straight away. Since he hasn’t any money to speak of the state will have to cough up for the pine box. Nothing exceptional on our victim. He was born, he lived and he died. There’s no news on the gun. That’s where we stand for the moment.”

  “Thanks, Eric,” Wilson turned to his Detective Sergeant who appeared to be sulking at the rear of the office. “George, any news on whether our boy was a ‘player’?”

  Whitehouse stared straight ahead his lips clenched tight.

  “DS Whitehouse,” the smile had faded from Wilson’s face. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

  Whitehouse pulled in air noisily through his nose. “No, Sir,” he said barely opening his mouth. “There's no criminal record. And he's not on the terrorist database. So it seems that he doesn't have any connection with a paramilitary organisation. But we’re still checking.”

  Wilson turned to Davidson.

  “Did you check his movements?”

  Davidson shot a sideways glance at Whitehouse before answering. “Shortly before the killing he was in The Auld Sash on the Woodvale Road. It appears that he dropped in regular as clockwork for an evening pint.”

  “There’s a mob that hangs out in The Auld Sash, isn’t there?” Wilson said. “Maybe he was part of it. You’re the expert on this kind of thing, George. Who do the mob from The Auld Sash belong to? UVF, UFF, LFF?”

  Whitehouse stared at Moira. “I have no idea, boss. I didn’t even know that a mob hung out there.”

  Wilson sighed. So it was going to be like that, was it. He really didn’t need the additional aggravation. If Whitehouse was going to continue acting coy around McElvaney, then the investigation might be compromised. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “Eric,” he said. ‘Any news from the lab boys on Patterson’s bed sit?”

  “Nothing, boss.” Again the sideways glance at Whitehouse. “No sign of visitors. No fingerprints other than the dead man’s. I checked with vice and they’ve never run across Patterson. It all a big zero.”

  “Nothing from the neighbours either,” McIver offered without being asked. “Patterson was a solitary bloke. Kept himself to himself. Nobody remembers him having a visitor of either sex. The only sound they ever heard from his room was the television or radio. The walls of that house are so thin that you could hear a budgie shit in the room next door. Sorry, boss, but we seem to be drawing blanks all over.”

  "Okay, boys," Wilson said. "I want the bloke who topped this Patterson character and I want him yesterday. I want every shred of evidence looked at again and again until we find something that links this guy to politics or religion or sex or whatever the hell reason got him killed."

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” Whitehouse said through clenched lips.

  “We’re all aware of your theory, George. Now can it. Moira will be the ‘receiver’ on this case.” He turned towards her. “In case you don’t know the jargon that means that you’ve got the shit job of sifting everything that comes in relating to this case. And I mean everything. Neither George or m
yself will have time to go over all the bits and pieces that come via the public but we need to see what’s important. It’s your job to know what’s important and what’s not. So get working on the statements that Eric collected last night, review the pathology evidence and go through the photographs. I want you operational as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Moira said enthusiastically.

  Wilson turned and walked towards his glass walled den. In the reflection of the glass, he saw Whitehouse glaring at Moira who was installing herself at the only empty desk in the room.

  “George, you, in my office now,” Wilson said from the door of his office.

  Whitehouse moved reluctantly after his chief.

  "Come in and close the door," Wilson took his place behind the desk.

  Whitehouse squeezed into the tiny office and searched for a clear space to plant his feet. The only clear floor stood on either side of a pile of documents rising like a stalactite towards the ceiling. Whitehouse put one foot on either side of the documents and pulled the door closed behind him.

  "Now," Wilson began raising his eyes slowly from the desk until he was staring into Whitehouse's scowling face. "I'm depending on you to make sure that there's no nastiness out there."

  "A woman and a bloody Taig," red lines stood out on Whitehouse's normally pale face. "We’ve made it our business to put people from her side behind bars."

  “You’re a good copper, George, but sometimes you’re a right cretin. The only side that woman is on is ours. I need this kind of shit from you like I need a hole in the head. McElvaney is an experiment and experiments have a time limit. So, if everybody relaxes, we can get over this hump together. This Patterson business is starting to give me a pain in my gut. I’m beginning to get one of my flashes and it says that whoever whacked Patterson isn’t finished. That means that if we don’t find out who did it then we could be looking at a complete resumption of hostilities. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  “We already know who did it,” Whitehouse said. “Some Fenian bastard did it. Forget about the motive. Hunt out every IRA bollocks and give them to me for a couple of days. I’ll give you your murderer.”

  Wilson leaned back in his chair. "Let’s try to use normal police procedure on this one,” he said sharply. “I’ve just been with the DCC and he has handed Moira McElvaney to me. That means that I’m responsible for her and that I’m going to make damn sure that nobody fucks around with her on my watch.” His voice hardened. “Do I make myself clear. If there's so much as one ounce of intimidation, I'll come down like a ton of bricks on whoever is responsible. I've heard said that some of our colleagues sympathise with the aims of the Loyalist paramilitaries and I’ve even heard that some of them were responsible in the not so distant past for leaking details of suspected IRA men to the death squads. If I ever located such a man I'd fry his arse in hell. McElvaney is off limits."

  Whitehouse didn't reply. The red streaks on his face were beginning to coalesce and purple patches began to appear. His shoulders slumped. His eyes became glassy. “This isn’t my RUC,” he said simply.

  “It isn’t even the RUC anymore, George. We’re now the Police Service of Northern Ireland. It’s all change at the station and we have to be prepared to change with the times.” Whitehouse looked like his favourite dog had just died. The man was certainly a bigot and possibly a misogynist but now his whole safe world was collapsing around his ears. And he certainly would not like it.

  "Boss," Whitehouse squeezed the word out of his throat. “Maybe I don’t fit into this new Service. I joined up because I sincerely felt that our way of life was under threat from the Fenians. They were the terrorists. They bombed and shot their way to the table and now they’re going to feast on our bones.”

  "Don’t be so bloody melodramatic" Wilson was developing what he called his 'evening headache' and it was only early afternoon. First Jennings, then McElvaney and now Whitehouse. He was a policeman not a bloody psychologist. “You joined up for the same reason that most of us joined. It was a bloody good job and it gave you a good living.”

  "Aye but now it’s all going to change," the colour in Whitehouse's face had returned to normal. His jowls appeared to hang lower on his cheeks. “New name, new uniform, new shield. They’ve kicked out too much at the same time. I used to be proud of where I worked. Now we’re going to be handed over little by little to the Taigs. It’s a bloody insult to all the brave men who died to hold back the tide of terrorism. The war in Ulster isn’t over. It’s only suspended. The Taigs won’t be happy until they’re joined to their Papist pals in the South. They won’t get that in my time so when they realise that they’ll dig up the guns and the bombs again. We've always been the front line against the bastards who're tryin' to end the rule of law in this province. The thin blue line stopping a Papist take-over of Ulster. How many funerals for blown-up or assassinated colleagues do we have to attend before we refuse to buy the line that we're like the police on the mainland?" He turned and looked through the plate glass window at his new colleague. “And now we have to grasp the snake to our bosom.”

  "If you ever quit this job you’ll find a new vocation with a dog-collar," Wilson said trying to lighten the mood. He knew that George wasn’t alone in thinking that there was too much change on the way. For men like him, born in the nineteen sixties into a Protestant-dominated world, the thought of power sharing and working alongside Catholics in jobs that were traditionally reserved for Protestants was anathema. He had recently attended a management seminar where the problems associated with the change were discussed and he was told to empathise with people like George. But not while I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, he thought. His head was pounding now. "I understand where you’re coming from, George. But we’ve got to move on and we’ve got to take our responsibilities whatever the politicians get up to."

  Whitehouse didn’t reply. He just stood there wearing his hang dog look.

  Wilson picked up the Patterson file from his desk and handed it to Whitehouse. "Give this to Constable McElvaney on your way out. I want every available man on this case. If we are talking IRA then I want a name and a number. And I want it yesterday. Got it."

  Whitehouse leaned forward slowly and took the file. As he stood back his right foot caught the edge of the document stalactite and files cascaded across the floor tumbling into other stalactites which crumbled in their wake. He bent down in a vain effort to stay the domino effect.

  "For Christ sake, leave them, " Wilson waved his hand at the outer office.

  Wilson surveyed the mass of documents strewn around his floor and rubbed the palm of his left hand across his forehead. The headache which had begun in Jenning's office and was reaching a crescendo. He opened the top drawer of his desk and flipped the top off a tube of strong pain-killers. He popped two tablets into his mouth and swallowed them. It would take at least ten minutes for the drugs to take effect. Then he could think about calling a secretary to help clear up the mess. He sat with his head in his hands looking out at the still silent squadroom. McElvaney sat at her desk staring at the file which Whitehouse had dropped wordlessly in front of her. Now I know how Christ felt in the Garden of Gethsemane, he thought.

  CHAPTER 9

  Moira read the last page of the Patterson murder book and closed the file. She tossed the buff coloured folder on top of her tiny steel desk in the squad room, let out a deep sigh and stretched in her chair. A strong vodka and orange and a hot bath was what she needed right now. The squad room was deserted. All her new colleagues had departed. Thankfully they hadn’t bothered to proffer any invitations for a drink. She couldn’t have handled that. She’d known that working with six men was going to be difficult. The smell of testosterone was palpable in the room reminiscent no doubt of the locker-room of the Los Angeles Rams. However, her options were limited. It was apparent that she was never going to become one of the boys. That just wasn’t going to happen. They were wearers of the sash to a man. Thei
r Thursday nights would be spent in the company of like-minded individuals trading peculiar hand shakes with one trouser leg rolled up. She smiled at the mental picture of the exposed hairy legs. Was she totally mad? What the hell was a Catholic woman doing in the middle of colleagues who were either Masons or members of the Orange Lodge or maybe even both? The only thing they had in common was that they were coppers. Maybe that wouldn’t be enough. She stretched her arms upwards and brought her hands together it mock supplication. Who would be a newby in an all male Protestant squad? That was the inevitable process of integration but it might last a bit longer in this case. She allowed her arms to drop as she sank into her chair. For the moment and for the foreseeable future she would have to be ‘hail fellow well met’. That would mean laughing at any asinine jokes that would really be intended to put her down either as a woman or a catholic. Eventually she might be admitted to the after-work drink ritual. But that would depend on whether her new colleagues would appreciate being seen with her in their usual watering holes. She came from a town with two Chinese restaurants, one of which was the catholic Chinese while the other was the protestant Chinese. After all this was Ulster. What the hell am I doing here? she thought. More importantly what the hell am I trying to prove? There were women detectives all over the United Kingdom. Some had been in the job for eons more than her. Also some of those women were also Catholics. So there was nothing special about her. Why then did she feel like she was a test case? She looked towards the end of the room where Wilson sat pouring over files. His desk lamp illuminated his face. He definitely doesn’t want me here, she thought. But he has to play along with the game. They had leaned on him to take her. Everybody would be waiting for her to screw up and when she did they would dump on her like a ton of bricks. And I asked for all this, she thought. She felt a sudden dart of pain in her stomach and wasn’t sure whether it was hunger or fear. Don’t be such a wet, she thought. You knew what you were getting into. Nobody said it was going to be a rose garden and anyway what do you care. Two years at the most and then it will be back to Strabane and a bit of family support. Her eyes began to fill as she thought of her parents. They were so damn proud of her. She had worked hard to get into University. After the African adventure she managed to land a good job with the Ministry of Social Welfare. Her parents thought that she had hit the jackpot with her marriage to an up-an-coming accountant. Then it all went down the toilet starting with the day her husband had decided to show her his true colours by giving her a good thump. She’d given him the mightiest kick in the balls she could muster and then packed her clothes. That was the end of the marriage and the job at the Ministry. Her parents tried to convince her to go back but she’d hit a watershed. No son-of-a-bitch was ever going to lay a hand on her again. They had stood by her when she had joined the Police Force. And her mother had shed buckets of tears when she had been posted to Belfast but at least she had made it to detective constable. She had seen tears form in her father’s eyes also but he wouldn’t allow himself to show weakness in front of her. He was too old-school for that. A tear crept out of her eye and she brushed it away. Maybe she was a bit old-school herself. Christ she had to get out of this mood or she would be on the next train home. She looked down at the file on her desk. The details were skimpy. She thought that perhaps Sergeant Whitehouse was right. On the surface it looked like James Patterson had joined the long list of sectarian murders. There were no witnesses to the event and there appeared to be no clues as to who might have been responsible. The murder appeared to be a classic act of mindless violence. A death based on no other motive than religion.