Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  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 t
o 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.

  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.