Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (14 page)

"So Chief Inspector," the young man said. "It’s rather strange to be getting a visit from you these days. We live in a period of peace and economic prosperity so our interactions with the police are limited. As you can see by the surroundings Mr. Cahill runs a successful bar business. So what can we do for you?"

              Cahill looked sharply at his colleague. "Relax, the Chief Inspector will get to the point in his own time" he turned to Wilson. "The young people are always in a hurry. It's been quite a while since you and I drank together." Cahill made a slight motion with his right hand towards the bar. One of the three men Wilson had seen when he entered picked up a bottle from the bar and brought it and four glasses to the booth.

             
"This is how business between men should be transacted," the old man hissed and slid a glass into position before each of them. He screwed the top off a bottle of Jameson and held it out towards Wilson. The Chief Inspector nodded and Cahill poured a large measure into the glass. Cahill moved the bottle towards Moira. She placed her right hand over the glass.

             
"No thanks," she said looking directly into the old man's eyes.

             
"You know what they say, Moira," Cahill's companion said, "You lie down with dogs you get up with fleas."

             
"Enough," there was menace in the hiss from Cahill's mouth. He poured himself a large measure of whiskey and screwed the cap back on the bottle. "Fuck the begrudgers." He lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply without looking at Wilson. "The doctors tell me that this stuff is slowly killing me;" he let out a wheezing laugh. "They're starting to tell me that everything I do is slowly killing me. If they're right about how long I've got, I'm afraid that you and I have concluded our business together. You won't ever have the chance to put me away again."

             
Wilson sipped his drink. "That would be a great pity. It would make many a copper’s day to see you banged up again."

             
Cahill smiled. "You're too damn honest to be a policeman." He took another sip of his whiskey. "I know that you probably won't believe me but I've always respected you. It's a hard enough job to find an honest copper these days."

             
Wilson could recognise the incipient rattle of death in Cahill's voice and realised that he wouldn't be long for this world. Justice was about to be thwarted by nature.

             
"Now to business. To what do we owe this particular visit?" Cahill put his glass on the table and dissolved into a fit of coughing. The man at his side patted the old man's back gently. Cahill's coughing subsided and he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief which his lieutenant proffered. "It must be something mighty important for the RUC, sorry the PSNI, to call on us personally" Cahill's voice was no more than a whisper.

             
"We've had three Protestants murdered in 'C' Division over the last few days," Wilson began. "Three Protestants shot with the same gun in two separate incidents. All killed deep inside Protestant territory." Wilson gave the exact locations of the murders. "The three hits were professional, very professional. Everyone is afraid that trouble is just around the corner again. It follows that a lot of people might think that you or some of your friends are responsible." He paused and looked directly at the two men opposite. Neither spoke. "You know as well as I do how these things work. The hotheads are already rattling the sabre. Unless it stops more bodies are liable to end up in the morgue. That worries me. Also there’s the question of putting the bastard who did this where he belongs – behind bars."

             
“Look me in the eyes," Cahill said and locked his stare on Wilson. “It’s over. We’ve all decided to move on. Some of us have even decided that the whole thing was one big bloody mistake.” He let his eyes fall to the table and he gripped his whiskey glass. “We’ve known each other a long time. I hope that you don’t take me for a bloody fool because that’s what I’d be if I allowed any of my people to get out of line. We don’t kill people any more, especially Prods. Full stop. I don't suppose you'd be here if the victims were connected with any paramilitary group."

             
"As far as we're concerned they're as white as the driven snow," Wilson replied.

             
"That means nothin'," Cahill said.

             
"So you come to us first," Cahill's lieutenant said. "A case of rounding up the usual suspects."

             
"Since the murdered men were Protestants, we got the bright idea of starting our enquiries with you," Wilson stared at the young man beside Cahill. His eyes were now fully accustomed to the light and he looked beyond the suit and the grooming. He concentrated on the eyes because that’s where you could see the damage of years of conflict. The young man's eyes were dark and lifeless. Wilson considered himself a fair judge of character but he could read nothing from those eyes. They were as cold as the eyes of a dead man. As long as men like this existed then the province would never be safe. Born in conflict and raised on a diet of sectarian violence. As a young child, he'd probably begun by throwing stones at British Army patrols before graduating to Molotov cocktails. They would have blooded him early and then put him at the feet of the master to learn his trade. And there was no better tutor in terrorism than Frank Cahill. He wanted desperately to believe that Cahill was right and that the conflict really was over. But he was afraid that there was more than one man with the dead eyes of the true fanatic out there on both sides of the divide. As long as that was true the conflict would never really end. Peace and reconciliation was the new cry. It was said that there would be no real peace until both sides were reconciled. The peace was holding but the reconciliation would be the most painful part of the process. Men would have to bear their souls and admit to acts which would horrify their neighbours and possibly the world. He wondered whether Cahill’s young lieutenant was ready to bear his soul. He doubted it.

             
"There's no offence intended," Wilson continued. "We had to start somewhere and here is as good as anywhere else."

             
"That's a load of shite?" Cahill's speech was almost inaudible. “We’re playing by the rules these days. The guns have been put away except for a couple of gobshites and we’re takin’ care of them ourselves. The killing is over. We’re all going to live happily ever after.”

             
Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Put yourself in my shoes, Frank" he stared at the old man. "The three stiffs were Prods. They were done professionally. Your people could have done it whether you authorised it or not."

             
"That's bullshit and you know it," Cahill's lieutenant interjected angrily. "Our discipline is tight. None of the people associated with Mr. Cahill are going to jeopardise the peace. Unlike others we haven't become politicians. We're businessmen. And we're not about to screw up our business interests."

             
Cahill shot a glance at his young colleague.

             
"What we’re saying is that we weren't involved," Cahill paused and wheezed in a long breath. "If a flea farts in Republican Belfast then I know about it. There may be some stupid fuckers about but I don't know anyone crazy enough to assassinate a target so deep in the Prod's territory. If the Prods didn’t get him then I would."

             
"What about a rogue? Somebody acting alone," Wilson asked.

             
"Not a chance. Like my young associate said, our discipline is tight. The politicians have convinced us that demographics are on our side. Some day there’ll be a united Ireland although I don’t think that I’ll be around to see it." The end of Cahill's sentence dissolved into a fit of coughing.

             
"What kind of gun was used?" the young man beside Cahill asked.

             
"A 9 millimetre," Wilson said.

             
"Brilliant, a nine millimetre," the young man said through the noise of Cahill's coughing. "The province was full of nine millimetres. Is it new on the streets?"

             
"As far as we can tell. The ballistics tests don't match anything we've come across before." This fact had been bothering Wilson. The majority of shootings in Belfast took place with guns that had already been used in many such incidents. Gunmen rarely held their own weapons but picked up the requisite hardware from an organisation 'quartermaster' just prior to a murder. As soon as the killing was done, the first task was to return the gun to the 'quartermaster'. The appearance of a 'clean' gun was an event. He had no doubt that Cahill had squirreled away more than a few guns during the de-commissioning exercise but he would maintain a strict control over them.

             
Wilson looked away from Cahill to the bar. The three men who had watched the entrance of the police officers had adjusted their stools and were seated directly facing the booth in which Cahill sat.

             
"Our first priority is to get the murders stopped," Wilson began when Cahill's coughing had subsided. "If he's one of yours, call him off before this thing escalates. Give me a name and I’ll do the rest. We need this asshole off the streets."

             
"I think that you need to get your ears tested," Cahill's lieutenant leaned forward towards the two police officers. "You've been told that our people had nothing to do with the killing of working class Protestant civilians. We fought a war against the British Army and the oppressive sectarian security forces. That war is over but some of the shit is still clinging to this Province. You people think you can con us just because you recruit a few Catholics and stick blue uniforms on them. You and your friends have killed over three hundred and fifty civilians since this 'trouble' started. And how many of you have been jailed for it? Not one man jack of you. You give your evidence from behind screens while some judge whitewashes you. If it's murderers you're lookin' for, you won't have to look very far. And you," he turned to face Moira. "You're the face on the new PSNI. A good-looking catholic woman that the Chief Constable can point to when the people from the Mainland ask about religious integration. You'll go far. And if they dump you out for any reason I'm sure we can find a place in our organisation for you." He smiled broadly when he'd finished speaking.

             
Moira ignored the smile and looked straight ahead.

             
Wilson stared at Cahill who seemed to have retreated into himself. "What do you say, Frank?"

             
"He may not be far wrong," Cahill said to Wilson his weak voice was in direct contrast to his colleague's shouting. "It wouldn't be the first time the Prods topped one of their own kind. They're more famous than us for their feuds. Sometimes it's not a question of religion but just plain old bloodlust."

             
"You're not listening," Wilson said. "This isn't a replay of the past. I don't think that this guy is a psycho. The man who did these killings was a pro. I think that maybe he does this for a living but I can't for the life of me think of why the victims warranted this level of attention."

             
Cahill opened his mouth to speak but Wilson held up his hand.

             
"Don't ask me for details just take my word for it," Wilson said. "I've seen more murder victims in my life than most coppers and I can recognise the difference between the work of a pro and a 'cut-up' job. I'll take your word for it that nobody from your side was involved." He stood and motioned to Moira to do the same. "We're leaving."

             
Wilson saw the three men at the bar stand up and push their stools aside.

             
"Don’t think that I’m so naive that I don’t understand what’s going on here," Cahill stood with some difficulty and faced Wilson. "I may be on my last legs but I don’t want to see this Province returned to a permanent state of war. There are still a few stupid buggers in the movement who can see a day when the Brits will pile into the long boats and sail off the island. But it probably isn’t going to happen that way. The way forward is through the ballot box. You wouldn't be here if you didn't think that something smelled almighty queer. I get the same pong. Somebody's messin' around in our back yard. Maybe he's tryin' to create grief between us and the Prods. That's for you to figure out. And I’m glad that it’s not up to me to solve. Maybe we'll see each other again but I don't think so. And if we do it'll have to be on the other side."

             
“We’ll keep it in mind,” Wilson said.

             
“I’m bunched, Mister Wilson” Cahill said standing with difficulty. “A couple of weeks the doctors tell me. I know that you think I’m scum but that’s not the way it started out. I really believed in what we stood for. It was all fucked up and too many people died because of it. I was just a pawn in the game. I want you to believe that. I always respected you.”

             
“I heard you on the television, Frank,” Wilson said. “But saying sorry won’t bring back the dead or re-grow lost limbs. No cause was worth the collateral damage.”