Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  Simpson took a mouthful of his whiskey. He had only one card to play and now was the time to play it. "Maybe we can put some business your way," he began looking around the faces at the table, "I didn’t come here with anything concrete in mind. Maybe you can think about what you might be interested in."

  "Maybe we can," Rice said without consulting the other men. "I wouldn’t advise you to renege on this one Richie."

  "We know better than that," Simpson could feel the bile rising in his throat. He was well aware that if Rice wanted him dead then it would be done without the batting of an eyelid.

  "Right," Rice said. "That it? We'll hold off and give the Peelers a shot at clearing this one up"

  The four men around the table laughed in unison. "Fat fuckin' chance," McGreery said. "Most of the Peelers in Tennent Street would need a map to find their own arseholes."

  Simpson shook his head and rose from the table.

  "Don't you forget our bargain, Richie boy," Rice laughed and nodded towards the door. "You've got forty-eight hours."

  Simpson accepted his dismissal and left the room.

  "Fuckin' crawlin' bastard," Rice said when the door had closed behind Simpson. "Get the word on the streets. No retaliation until we give the order. Anyone who breaks ranks will be lookin' for a new pair of knees. Any word on who topped the Prods?"

  "It happened on my territory," Ivan McIlroy, Rice's lieutenant, stood behind his chief's chair. "I've been bangin' heads together but nobody is sayin' a word. The Other Side swear that they have nothin' to do with it."

  "You can't trust those fuckin' bastards," White said angrily.

  "One thing you should have learned in the `Kesh', Norman," Rice said harshly. "Is that we can trust them a damn sight more than we can trust fuckers like Simpson and the politicians he works for. The Provies and us are the same people. We're both in business now. At least in Ulster the poor will get to inherit something. They say they're not involved I believe the buggers." He turned to McIlroy. "Get the boys onto the streets. Somebody or other saw or heard something, then I want to know it." He ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin. "If the Fenians didn't kill the Prods and we didn't do it then who the fuck did? More to the point why were three nobodies topped? Find the answers, boys. Find the answers."

  McGreery moved with a speed which belied his bulk and was through the door of the backroom almost before Rice had finished. White and Younger turned to bid Rice good-bye but he was already lost in thought.

  Rice's intuition was telling him that somewhere in this mess there lay an advantage and he was straining all his senses trying to listen to his inner voice. He didn't see White and Younger leave the room nor did he hear the door close behind them. Even though he held the guns, the politicians held the power. Fuck power he wanted cash and lots of it. When you're forced you have to turn your hand to what you know. And he knew how to wreak pain on people to get what he wanted. This business might allow him to squeeze the balls of some of the bastards that looked down on him. That was the content of the message running around inside his head.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wilson hadn't noticed the light outside the office change from winter gloom to dark of night. The review of the statements Graham had taken from Peacock’s neighbours provided him with a picture of a seriously troubled young man. Nobody seemed to mourn his passing but at the same time nobody had any idea who might have pulled the trigger on him. It was evident that Peacock was an alcoholic and a wife-beater. He was also unsociable and withdrawn. There was no evidence that he had been involved in either politics or criminal activity. He had few friends if any and the results of the post mortem had shown that he had been cutting himself over a long period of time with either a scalpel or a razor blade. His arms and legs were covered in scars. The question still remained as to why someone would have wanted both him and Patterson dead. The investigation was as stalled as it had been before the review of the statements. Graham had left his office just after four o'clock and Wilson had spent the past three hours immersed in the paperwork associated with the running of a small police squad. He was faintly aware of desk-lamps being progressively switched off in the main squad room. When he finally raised his head from a pile of staff reports at ten minutes past seven in the evening. He saw that only Moira's desk-lamp remained lit although there was no sign of the young red-haired constable. The squad room looked dark and gloomy with the light from the single desk-lamp casting an eerie glow around the walls of filing cabinets and the mountains of loose files which surrounded the steel desks. The light barely illuminated the array of black and white crime scene photographs which had been pinned to the whiteboard.

  This was surely a job for an optimist, he thought as he looked back on a day which had yielded not one centimetre of progress on any of the three active murder cases currently being handled by his group. It was night again with the attendant problem that the killer of Patterson and Peacock could be preparing to strike again. If there was a schedule or a pattern to the killings, he was no nearer finding it than he had been the previous evening.

  He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate on the typewritten documents before him. Lines of black lettering coalesced and separated as he blinked to clear his vision. He needed to rest. God, how he needed to rest. At this point every evening he longed for a home and family to help him deal with the frustrations of his daily life. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Where in God's name had it all gone wrong? Over the past year he'd had plenty of time to replay the events of his life searching for the one moment which had soured his relationship with his wife. There was a time when he and Susan could have made it work. They could have been happy. Produced their two point four children and lived like other people. Somehow his commitment to the Force had always managed to get in the way of their happiness. That was bullshit. The Force was only one small part of it. It had mostly been down to him personally. Maybe the defining moment had been the night when the piece of shrapnel tore his thigh away and ended his brilliant rugby career? Or perhaps it was the night he had decided to cheat on his wife for the first but not the last time? Or maybe it was his father's obsession with both the Force and rugby which had defined him and his place in the world. When he was playing rugby the women had flocked around him and he had gotten used to having sex with whoever he pleased. Sex and work became his drugs. If he lived in the US he would have declared himself a sex addict and attended a clinic. But this was Ireland. Sex addicts just had to get on with their lives. Why was it that he couldn't shake the thought that he personally was responsible for Susan's death? All the articles he'd read supported this hypothesis. Sure, hereditary could produce cancers. But so could stress. And he had brought more stress into that poor woman's life than any person deserved to endure. After her death he was left with the guilt and the house in Malwood Park. Both he and the dwelling his wife had desired were cold and lonely, devoid of comfort. It was too late to think of what he might have done to avoid what had happened between them. It was time to tread steadfastly on. Work to house and house to work.

  "Boss."

  Wilson started at the sound. He shot forward and banged his knee against his desk. Moira McElvaney stood in the doorway, a smile lighting up her attractive face.

  "Oh shit," Wilson bent forward and began to rub his injured knee.

  "I was just wondering whether you'd dropped off," she said trying to suppress a smile.

  "Fat bloody chance with idiots like you around," Wilson pushed his chair back from the desk. "I was just getting ready to leave," he eased his bulk out of his battered armchair. He had suddenly stopped feeling sorry for himself. This nice young woman was possibly the only person in Belfast who was lonelier than him and yet there she was smiling away. "What would you say to finishing that drink we were having last night?" Loneliness will be the death of me, he thought as he issued the invitation.

  "Great," Moira said enthusiastically. "Maybe we'll get bleeped again."

  "You blood-thirsty yo
ung cub," Wilson squeezed around his desk. He sometimes thought there had been more than a little malice in Jennings assigning him the cubby hole in the corner of the squad room as his office. Nobody in his right mind would put a man of his size into such a confined space. "Maybe tonight all the murdering bastards will stay at home and we'll be allowed a peaceful evening," he pulled on his anorak.

  "Let me get rid of these," she held up a handful of files. "My eyes are bugged out from looking at those damn screens. There's so much bloody information on the mainframe. It'll take me years to sift it." She went to his desk and laid the files carefully in the centre.

  Oh Christ, Wilson thought picturing the dark cloud laden sky and streaming rain outside. Ireland would be a marvellous place if it wasn't for the weather.

  "Let's forget the pub and have a drink at my place," Wilson said. He didn't need the impersonal jollity of a bar right now.

  "Are you sure?" her eyebrows raised. She was mildly surprised at her chief's suggestion. She had heard of Wilson’s reputation with women and she didn’t need this kind of complication. “Two nights in a row and already I'm invited home. Tongues will certainly start to wag if that gets out. Wouldn’t we be better off in some pub or other.”

  Her earlier enthusiasm had faded and he could see the concern in her eyes. “Damn it all, I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “I’ve had guys older than you come on to me,” she said. She was beginning to feel that she had over-reacted and she wanted to defuse the situation. "I'm aware that you have a reputation so I'm assuming that we're really only talking about a drink."

  “OK then, I’m your superior officer.” He wanted to smile but he kept it inside. The evil that men do follows them, he thought. The poor wee lassie was scared that he was going to proposition her. Twenty years ago, no ten years ago there would have been a bloody good chance.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to trust you.” The smile was back on her face.

  "Do you know Malwood Park?" Wilson asked. His mouth suddenly felt very dry and he had the strong need for a large whiskey.

  She shook her head.

  "OK. You follow me in the heap of shit you call a car and I'll do my best not to lose you."

  A gust of wind blew a sheet of rain over the two detectives as they left the station. They sprinted for their respective cars through the driving rain.

  "Jesus!" Wilson said as he slid into the front seat of his Toyota. He brushed his hand through his damp hair and a stream of water ran down his neck. Across the car park he saw a slow moving windscreen wiper blade alternately hide and display McElvaney's smiling young face. Oh to be back there again, he thought looking at the happy expression on the young constable's face. Such innocence. Was he ever that innocent? Perhaps once, a very long time ago. He searched for that innocent Ian Wilson in his memory but couldn't find him. He put the key in the ignition and started the car.

  The Lada followed closely behind Wilson's Toyota as the two cars left the police car park. Wilson looked at the gloomy scene of darkened streets and equally darkened terrace houses through the swishing wiper blades as he turned left onto the Shankill Road and away towards the security of his stockbroker belt abode. The Shankill was deserted. Lights burned brightly from dilapidated public houses. The 'troubles' had caused a re-evaluation of building improvements. What was the point of refurbishing a faded paint-peeled facade of a pub if the place could disappear off the face of the earth at any time? Since the end of the 'troubles' that had all changed. The carpetbaggers had arrived and the price of property had sky-rocketed. Old fashioned pubs had been replaced by entertainment palaces. Except in the old working class areas where the drab exteriors were maintained to reflect the drab lives of the customers. He drove slowly glancing occasionally into the rear view mirror to ensure that McElvaney's Lada was behind him. To his right a man burst through the front door of a pub caused him to pull sharply to his left. The man staggered a few steps then braced himself against the wall of the pub before launching a stream of vomit in the direction of the gutter. Good old Belfast, he thought, nothing ever changes. He piloted the Toyota onto the Westlink and south towards the M1 motorway. As the city centre fell away behind him, he unconsciously pushed his foot on the accelerator and hoped that McElvaney's Lada could keep pace.

  Wilson pushed open the glass-panelled front door and ushered Moira into the hall.

  "Wow," she said looking appreciatively around the large expanse. "This is some place," she ran her fingers along the walnut case of an antique grandfather clock which stood at the foot of the staircase which led to the upper story of the house. "I bet this clock cost a few bob." She looked around but Wilson was no longer in the hallway. She deposited her coat on a brass hook which protruded from an old wooden hall-stand.

  "In here," Wilson called from the living-room.

  She entered the living-room and saw Wilson standing before a small mahogany drinks cabinet already sipping from a glass of amber liquid.

  "Sorry I started without you," he held up a bottle for her approval. "Jameson all right?"

  "I’m not really a whiskey person," she said lowering herself into a leather club chair. “Any chance of a vodka and diet Seven Up?”

  He frowned and then searched among the bottles on the bar. "Smirnof alright.”

  She nodded.

  “No Diet Seven Up. Tonic?”

  "Please."

  Wilson poured her a liberal shot of vodka and topped it up with a bubbling bottle of tonic. He then gave himself a quick refill. He handed the tall glass to Moira and immediately raised his own.

  "Cheers," she said.

  "Down with the criminal classes," Wilson said taking a slug from what was a very large whiskey and soda. He smiled at the way she looked about the room.

  "It’s a hell of a house, eh," Wilson said savouring the taste of the whiskey and soda. "You too can have a house like this. That is if your husband is acquisitive enough and if you wish to spend most of your life up to your ears in hock."

  "I resemble that remark already," she sipped her drink. "I don't think I'll ever have a house as imposing as this."

  "Imposing, is it?" Wilson smiled. "Now that's the benefit of a good education for you. There probably isn't another constable in Tennent Street who can pronounce the word 'imposing' never mind using it in it's proper context." Wilson downed the contents of his glass and poured himself a refill. He raised the vodka bottle in his guest's direction but Moira shook her head. "Susan, that's my late wife, made sure that we scrimped and saved until we could afford this place. She called it her dream house. Then she scoured the auction rooms so that we could furnish it. Most of this stuff was bought for a pittance."

  "I’d say it's worth a fortune now," she said. She remembered that someone had told her that Wilson was a widower but in her nervousness she had forgotten.

  "So they tell me," Wilson walked to the window and looked across the rain-soaked neglected lawn. An awkward silence flooded the room.

  "Are they real?" she asked after a minute of total silence.

  Wilson turned and saw that she had left her seat and was standing before a display case containing a collage of four international rugby jerseys and tasselled caps.

  "They are indeed," Wilson was beginning to feel the mellowing effects of the alcohol. “You can buy them in the shops now but when I collected them they came off the backs of men I played against.”

  "You actually represented Ireland," there was awe in her voice. She stood staring at the glass-windowed case.

  "So it appears," Wilson moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another drink. "But long before your time. I was a flank forward to be reckoned with in those days. Tackled like a train and ran like a gazelle. Then I took part of a Provo bomb in the leg and I wasn't so fast about the field after that."

  "There's a Lions jersey in there," she said. “You actually played for the Lion’s”

  Wilson seldom thought of those halcyon days now. If it wasn't for the constant remi
nder of the display case he would have thought it simply a dream. Susan had erected the case as a reminder. Not only to him but to all those fortunate enough to be invited into their living-room. While he had been at his peak, Susan had harboured delusions of him as a future Chief Constable. Malwood Park was part of that dream. The poor deluded woman, he thought. If the Provo bomb hadn't stopped him, he might have continued for another couple of seasons but he already knew that rugby wasn't going to be his fortune. He'd been born twenty years too soon for that. There had been as little chance of ‘Ian Wilson plc’ in those days as there had been of him ever achieving his wife's ambition for him. As soon as his sporting prowess had disappeared, his honesty permitted the jackals of RUC Headquarters to descend on him. That was why he occupied a cubby hole in Tennent Street instead of a sumptuous office at Castlereagh.

  "Let's blame the Provos," Wilson said lifting his glass in a toast.

  "I never heard about your sporting accomplishments," she said turning away from the case for the first time. “My dad is a big fan. I bet he’s heard of you.”

  "Former sporting accomplishments," Wilson said. "It's all ancient history now. A glass case full of ageing jerseys and tattered caps.” He looked at his almost finished glass. “I'm drinkin' too much." His words contained the scent of a slur. "But I suppose it comes with the job. We're two bright sparks, aren't we? Not a real friend in the world between us." The thickness was now evident on his tongue. "Not one single real friend. They hate you because you're a woman and a Catholic and they hate me because I'm not one of them. Some life. Eh!"