Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (12 page)

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 sessions 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 S
ecretary 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?"

              "I've got all my available men working on this one," Wilson eased himself into the chair in front of Jennings' desk. He stared over his superior's shoulder at the montage of photographs which lined the wall. The central subject was always Jennings. He could be seen smiling and shaking hands with several of the principle Protestant politicians. Taking pride of place in the centre of the collection was a picture of the Superintendent shaking hands with the former Prime Minister of Great Britain while a prominent Evangelical Protestant politician looked on. Mixing with the great and the good was Jennings' stock in trade. He would soon have to make room on the wall for photos of himself in cahoots with Nationalist politicians. Wilson was sure that his smile would be as wide for both sides of the political divide.

"We think that
the same gun was used in the three killings," Wilson continued. "But that hasn’t been confirmed. Two of the men, Patterson and Peacock, were the intended victims. We think that the third man was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There's no real evidence other than the ejected shells. The gun doesn't feature in any previous shootings in the province and we haven't come up with a witness for either of the killings. We've established a hot line but so far that hasn't produced a lead. As you might have already concluded, an arrest is not considered imminent."

             
"So the killings are random and might possibly be sectarian,” the DCC looked at the file on his desk.

             
"They could be," Wilson leaned back in the chair. "But I don’t buy it."

             
"What exactly are you trying to tell me?" the DCC has dispensed with the paper clip and had graduated to turning the silver buttons on his tunic absentmindedly.

             
"Whoever did these killings was very careful about the selection of the target and he made damn sure that the target wasn't going to make a miraculous recovery."  Wilson was suddenly aware that Jennings was hanging on his every word. What the hell is going down here, he thought as he watched the anxious face of his superior. He'd handled dozens of murders in his tenure at Tennent Street but Jennings had never taken a blind bit of notice. The Chief Constable had dropped a ferret down Jennings' trousers and that meant the Chief Constable himself was being squeezed, big time. "If you want my opinion I don't think that there is any paramilitary involvement. Nobody is stupid enough to get involved in carrying out assassinations like Patterson's and Peacock's. Also," Wilson added quickly before the DCC could intervene. "Neither of the two men had any relation with any of the paramilitaries or the criminal fraternity. So we're looking at two random murders carried out by a professional killer. It doesn't gel."

             
"I don't see where this is leading us," Jennings' left eye twitched as he stared at Wilson.

             
"I think we've got a new kid on the block. I have no idea what he's up to but he's been in this business before. I also have no idea whether he belongs to a grouping or whether he's a lone wolf. All I know is that he picks the target, he makes sure of the kill and he leaves nothing for us to work with. We've given the 'usual suspects' a quick once over but there's no obvious candidate."

             
"An interesting theory but complete conjecture," Jennings was coming alive again. "Now I don't like telling you how to conduct your investigation but it is imperative that we solve these murders. I don’t have to remind you that we are sitting on a powder keg and if somebody has been stupid enough to be playing with matches we could be looking at another twenty-five years of conflict. I want you to get in touch with Frank Cahill. Set up a meeting with him. Find out what he knows about the killings. Somehow we have to convince him that it’s as much in his interest as it is ours for him to put a stop to this damn foolishness."

             
Wilson winced at the mention of Cahill's name and a bolt of pain shot through the back of his head. 'Two-gun' Frank Cahill had been, and possibly still was, the chief IRA 'godfather' in Belfast. Although nominally a brigade commander in the IRA, Cahill used his position to set up a criminal operation which would have done credit to the Mafia. Cahill controlled extortion rackets, building scams, booze, robberies and prostitution over a large area of West Belfast. No kind of economic activity was possible in Cahill's area unless tribute was paid to the 'godfather'. The man was scum.

             
"It won't help," Wilson said staring into his superior's eyes.

             
"That remains to be seen," Jennings replied coldly. "I want you to get them to stop before the other side starts and we have an all out war on our hands. Frank Cahill can help us to stop that war and you’re the one who is going to ask him for that help."

             
" Take my word for it Cahill's not involved. There's no profit in killing civilians."

             
"In words of one syllable, see him right away and get this bloody thing stopped," Jennings began to shuffle the papers on his desk. "You’ve led a rather charmed life in the Force. I'm sure that it's no surprise to you that there are some people here at Headquarters who've been waiting quite a long time to see you land on your arse." Jennings lifted his eyes from the papers and looked at Wilson. "Of course, I've never numbered myself among them. However, if things go wrong on the Patterson and Peacock cases you could very well find yourself pounding a beat in Pomoroy."