by Derek Fee
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 m
obile 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.
CHAPTER 16
Wilson finished reading and then closed the file which Moira had left on his desk. Nothing. Peacock was just a twenty six year old nobody. So much for the common points with Patterson. Neither man seemed to warrant the trouble it had taken to murder them. And yet someone had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that they died.
"That's all?" he asked.
"That's everything that the government knows about Peacock. Where do we go from here?" she asked.
Wilson looked up into her red-rimmed eyes. One day on the squad and she was already beginning to look washed out. But even washed out she would still turn heads. Welcome to the PSNI. It wouldn’t take long before she was wishing that she was working sixteen-hour days for an investment bank. At least there she would be paid for being shat on.
"First off if we don't find a link between Patterson and Peacock then we're in real trouble because that will mean that our killer is selecting his victims at random. That will make him very hard to find. So we need the link. In the meantime we start by following classical police procedure. We’re coppers and that means that we start shaking trees and seeing what falls out." He pushed back his chair as far as it would go and leaned back. "Since I saw the shambles at the petrol station last night, my stomach's been as tight as a ducks arse. We're not dealing with the usual sort of trigger happy Provo or UVF man. From the minute I saw Patterson’s body I’ve had the feeling that we’re dealing with a professional killer. This man knows his business as well as I know police work. I’d guess that he’s had some training. Probably army or at least high-quality paramilitary. That means we can limit the suspects to any one of a couple of thousand men."
"How can you deduce that?"
Wilson raised his eyebrows.
"Seriously," she said. "I want to learn."
"There are two general categories of murderer in the province. The first is your common or garden psychopath. Ulster is fertile soil for this boy. Take Lennie Murphy. He and his merry men liked to lift their intended victims out on the street. The poor unfortunate bastards were taken back to a drinking club for a bit of fun and frolics before being taken to some waste land and hacked to pieces."
She screwed up her face in mock pain.
"Exactly," Wilson said. "There have to be a few marbles loose up there," Wilson tapped the side of his head, "before you can get into that kind of business. It's always bothered me that it took us so bloody long to get a fix on those bastards. The butchers were just a gang of psychopaths who got their rocks off by hacking up people. Any people. After a while Lennie and the boys didn't bother to ask your religion. But they weren't alone. Anywhere else in the world serial killers like Lenny Murphy, the King Rats and the Mad Dogs would be classified alongside people like Fred West, Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer. But Northern Ireland is a special case. Justice British style ends at Stranrar. This place used to be awash with mass murderers who are downright psychopaths. We just give them stupid tabloid names like ‘King Rat’ and ‘Mad Dog’ but they were real live people who got off on killing people. The fact that they were so-called political didn't make our life any easier."
"But why doesn’t the justice system just treat them as serial killers?" she asked. "What's so bloody political about killing a vagrant?"
Wilson let the question hang on the air. He had devoted his life to bringing killers to justice and he had no answer to the Constable's question.
"Okay what's the second kind of murderer?" she asked when she saw that Wilson wasn't going to answer her original question.
Wilson broke out of his reverie. "The second type of murderer is the hapless volunteer. He's so hyped up on twisted political claptrap that he blindly follows orders. Someone decides that a particular person has to die and the murderer simply fulfils the contract. This bloke is the complete amateur. He comes in blastin' with whatever weapon the godfathers stuck into his hands and he takes out everybody in the vicinity of the target. The UVF did it with automatic weapons. The AK-47 was the ideal invention for this guy. The object is to hit as many poor buggers as possible with a hail of bullet and then scarper. The IRA favoured your bomb. Both are indiscriminate and there’s no specific target. It was the local equivalent of the suicide bomber. We’re talking fear and carnage. Have you ever seen the results of a bomb or a wild shooting?”
She shook her head.
“Not a pretty sight. I sometimes think the dead are the lucky ones. Most of the detectives in this office have been to counselling. Murder is one thing but to accompany it by tearing the bodies to pieces adds a level of sickness that’s hard to square with human beings. Am I boring you?"
"No," she said. She’d heard most of this before at the college but not from someone who had been at the coalface. “Go on.”
"Sometimes the two general types cross the line. They begin by killing to order and then become psychopaths. Other times the psychopaths can disguise their blood lust and kill only when ordered. That's what makes Patterson and Peacock different. In each case the killer got the man he wanted to get. He’s not indiscriminate and he’s not sick. Also he’s left us nothing to work with and no clue as to where he'll strike next."
"Maybe he won't strike again," she said.
"Chance would be a fine thing." The phone on Wilson's desk rang and he picked up the receiver. "Yes. Right away," he replaced the handset slowly. "Two calls from the DCC's office in one week. It's a royal pain in the arse being so popular."
She watched the big man squeeze his way out from behind the desk. Bead’s of sweat stood out on the Chief Inspector's brow. There was a faint odour of stale whiskey in the air as Wilson moved towards her. Was this what twenty years of police work can do to you?
"I'm getting fed up to the teeth of these confession sessio
ns with the DCC," Wilson said as she retreated into the main Squad Room to permit her chief's exit from the cramped office. "When I was a kid in Sunday school they taught me that Protestants were against confession. But I think they're only against it when there's a priest involved. Why don't you go through those files again.” He picked up a small file from his desk and handed it to her. “Here’s the report on last night’s canvas of the houses close to the garage. There’s nothing of interest but go through it before passing it on to Eric. Find me something, anything that'll link the victims and help me get my hand on the bastard who's doing them."
"He's waiting for you," the Secretary looked up from her desk as Wilson entered.
Once more into the valley of death, he thought as he strode towards the open door.
Jennings' face was so long that he looked like his favourite dog had just died.
"Sit down," he said curtly. "Let me get right to the point. I've had the Chief Constable on to me this morning. He's wondering what in the hell you're doing about this damn outbreak of sectarian killings," Jennings picked up a metal paper clip and began to straighten it. "It appears that some political personages have been making representations to him concerning the disquiet in the Protestant neighbourhoods. The Chief Constable is very concerned that your inactivity could lead to retaliatory action by Loyalists. In other words he wants bloody action and he wants it fast. Where do we stand?"
