by Derek Fee
"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."
Wilson felt the twitch at the corner of his mouth and wondered whether it had been visible to Jennings. He knew that his rejection of earlier approaches to become 'one of the boys' would stifle his chances of promotion but he never thought that the 'Lodge brothers' would actually go gunning for him. Jennings' message had been received loud and clear. And despite his assertions to the contrary, the DCC would be the first to ram the knife into his back.
"By the way," Jennings said. "How's McElvaney working out?"
"She’s bright," Wilson stood to leave. But not bright enough to pass on a poisoned chalice, he thought.
"Is she working on the Patterson and Peacock business with you?"
"Yes," Wilson stood in front of the desk.
"You’ll keep an eye on her of course." Jennings smiled. There was no doubting the double meaning in the statement.
Wilson began to open his mouth but closed it again. Jennings would only draw pleasure from any reply that he might make. His eyes fell on the photograph with the beaming smiles of the DCC and his political friends. The pressure was only beginning. If he didn't find the bastard behind the killings Jennings would use whatever clout he had to put an end to whatever career he had. The ante was being upped and Wilson could see that he was being prepared as a sacrificial lamb. So be it, he thought as he turned and without saying a word marched towards the door of Jennings' office.
Wilson finished reading the last file which had been prepared by his lads on the Patterson and Peacock killings. The ballistics report had confirmed his suspicion that the same gun had been used in both killings. The pathology reports added nothing new. The regulars at the King’s Head had been questioned but nobody had any knowledge of Patterson. So what was new. A second canvas of the residents of the Newtonards Road had produced one nugget. A resident who had been on night shift remembered seeing a man wearing a donkey jacket sheltering in a doorway across from the garage. It had been dark and raining so the witness had hurried on. The man might have been tall or short, thin or fat, black or white. He’d read Jean Black’s statement on Peacock and concluded that she would have been the prime suspect in his death under normal circumstances. A check on her family had thrown up two brothers who had served sentences in the Maze. Both had been questioned and had produced cast iron alibis for the time that Peacock had been gunned down. So what was new. The work of six detectives and any number of uniforms had produced absolutely nothing to go on. He closed the final report and thought about his meeting with Jennings. It stuck in his craw to have to meet with a former IRA boss in the hope of getting a lead. He rubbed his eyes and tilted his chair back. He would have been a total fool if he hadn’t realised the exposed situation the three killings had put him in. The situation on the streets, where the tension had increased appreciably, would increase the pressure on the Chief Constable for a quick result. That pressure would manifest itself eventually in a move to get him of
f the case and to hand it to a more politically in-tune officer. That eventuality might even suit most of the men sitting in his Squad Room. He stood up then stretched before moving his head from side to side to release the tension. He walked into the Squad Room and stood beside Whitehouse’s desk.
“What’s the word on the streets on the Patterson and Peacock business?" he asked.
Whitehouse thought about his meeting with Simpson in the 'Linfield Arms'. "Exactly what you’d expect," he answered definitively. "I hear that some people are gettin' pretty pissed of. They want to know what the hell is going on."
"Anybody in particular?"
"You know as well as me, boss" Whitehouse said slowly. "As far as ninety per cent of the population are concerned this kind of thing is finished. They can accept the drug gangs killing each other but not John Citizen being plugged for no reason at all. The press have put the word out that neither Patterson or Peacock had any involvement with the criminal underworld in Belfast. So what are people to think? Add to that the fact that all the dead are Protestant and some of the old fears start coming back. Word on the street has it that some of the former Loyalist paramilitary leadership are not too happy with Prods bein' blown away in their own back garden. A few hotheads are callin' for retaliation. You know the way it is with them boys. Nobody can say how long they'll be kept in check. It might be that things could blow up at any minute. Everybody's on edge. It could get hectic."
"Great minds obviously think alike," Wilson slapped his sergeant on the back. "I just had the same message from the DCC. He suggested that I go and talk with Frank Cahill."
Whitehouse frowned. "Not that old bugger," he said between clenched teeth. "We should have put him away years ago. He's not political any more so he should be fair game but he always seems to be one step ahead of us. "
Wilson watched McElvaney glance up from the file she was studying.
"I'm sure you'd find lots of people who'd agree with you. However, the law requires proof before we can put someone away. Whether we like it or not some stupid bureaucrat thinks that Frank Cahill has developed a certain political status which puts him in the 'difficult to apprehend' category."
"To hell with the sodding bureaucrats," Whitehouse's face was flushed. "Frank Cahill is nothing but a bloody criminal. When the chips are down I’d put him in the same category as the Krays."
"Then maybe the DCC's suggestion wasn't so far of the mark after all. Maybe a word in his ear might get things moving in some direction. To be honest it might do more good than sitting around here on our collective arses."
"You really think that Cahill is involved somewhere in this business, do you?" Whitehouse turned his head to face his superior.
"As a matter of fact, George, just like you, I don't," Wilson replied taking a black leather address book from his pocket and skimming through the pages.
Whitehouse watched as Wilson leafed through the book. "Pull the bastard in," he said. "Lock him up in Castlereagh. Sweat him and maybe he'll give you your killer."
"That's not on and you know it," Wilson had located his page and held the book open with the palm of his right hand. "Suppose for the sake of argument that I'm right and Cahill isn't involved. He's going to be bloody curious about the killings looking like IRA executions. And don't think for one second that the thought of 'tit for tat' killings wouldn’t have crossed his mind. He can only maintain his position in the Catholic enclaves as long as he's seen as the great protector. If there is a backlash and if the Catholic community blame him for it, that's Frank Cahill up the Swannee. He'll want to know who's responsible for the killings as much as we do. Maybe we can flush the bastard out between us. That is unless you have some better idea?"
Whitehouse stared ahead blankly.
"I didn't think so," Wilson said picking up the phone from Whitehouse’s desk.
"Jesus, I've seen it all now," Whitehouse said. The red colour had moved from his cheeks to his entire face. "A DCI in the PSNI ringin' up to make an appointment with a murderer."
"Careful, George, I don't want you in the Royal Infirmary with a stroke," Wilson said composing Cahill's number. "It's bad manners to drop in unannounced.”
"I wouldn't talk to that bastard to save my life," Whitehouse said setting his jaw.
"You won't have to," Wilson finished dialling. "I'm taking McElvaney with me on this one."
"What!"
Moira had her head buried in a file.
Whitehouse was about to continue when Wilson held up his hand.
"This is Detective Chief Inspector Wilson from Tennent Street," he said into the phone, "I'd like to meet Mr. Cahill as soon as possible." he cupped the mouthpiece with his hand. "Moira, finish up there. We’re going on a little excursion."
Whitehouse ground his teeth and stared ahead.
Wilson pretended not to notice. Whitehouse was a good copper but he was mired in the past. Someday he would recognise that it was time to move on.
"Yes," he returned his attention to the phone, "I know it. We'll be there in twenty minutes."
CHAPTER 17
When you had lived in Belfast for more than twenty years you developed an antennae which could calculate the level of tension in the city in an instant. As soon as Wilson left the station his antennae told him that the level of tension on the streets had reached seven on his scale of one to ten which put it very definitely in the red zone. He had seen it higher but this was definitely the highest it had been since the end of hostilities. The air of tension even permeated to the unmarked police car that carried Wilson and Moira away from Tennent Street and onto the Shankill Road. The most notorious street in Belfast's turbulent history was deserted except for a few housewives doing their early morning shopping. The car passed the filthy facade of the 'Balmoral Bar' which had gained notoriety during the 1970's as the home base of the 'Balmoral Bar Gang', a rogue group of the Ulster Volunteer Force which terrorised the Catholic population of West Belfast through murder and torture. The building looked shabby and run down. All peeling paint and black soot stains. It was impossible for the onlooker to divine the atrocities which had been conceived and perpetrated behind the crumbling facade. The Shankill had not yet benefited from the peace dividend and still wore a shabby and run down look. The police Vauxhall moved through the centre of the Protestant ghetto and turned right onto Northumberland Street before heading towards the Falls Road and passing the concrete barrier that divided the city's two communities. Walls had fallen in Berlin while walls had been constructed in Belfast
Wilson sat silently in the back of the car. A loud gurgle emanated from his stomach. The portents were not good. He popped two antacid tablets into his mouth hoping that they would calm the impending storm in his stomach. The driver turned onto the Falls Road. Moira scanned the streets through the side window like a newly arrived American tourist.
To their left the towers of the Divis Flats dominated the gloomy skyline. They passed a burned-out building on which a large mural depicting a hooded figure raising a Kalashnikov above its head had been painted. Above the mural was the legend 'Provisional IRA', while the words 'You are entering free Belfast' were painted in bold white letters at the figure's side. He wondered whether such a thing as 'free Belfast' had ever existed. Since the Battle of the Boyne, Belfast had been synonymous with religious hostility, slums and economic exploitation. Desperation and deprivation were the bedfellows of Belfast's citizens. The back streets of Belfast were the equal of the worst slums of Glasgow or Liverpool. In the twentieth century, the city had distinguished itself for its pogroms and its current notoriety resided in its position as the former murder capital of Great Britain. So much for freedom. A few yards down the street a second giant mural depicted the virgin and child. The local population saw nothing incongruous in the appearance of the two contrasting murals on the same short stretch of road.
Wilson rolled down his window and sucked in a deep breath of dank polluted air. His joints felt stiff and he had the beginnings of a pain at th
e base of the small of his back. They were travelling into the heartland of republican Belfast. This was the area where the PSNI once feared to tread. Here the uniformed policeman had been considered a legitimate military target. Passing through the lower Falls towards Andersonstown, a police patrol vehicle might have expected to be fired upon or to be blown up, so they just didn’t bother to go there. How could their fellow citizens on mainland Britain understand such a situation? This was the stuff of television drama. During the 'Troubles' Belfast had resembled a post apocalyptic world where justice did not exist. A comfortable world of Western plenty turned upside down by the fear of the bullet and the bomb. The reign of anarchy replacing the rule of law. In its time Belfast had been compared to Beirut but it and the capital of Lebanon had moved on. He looked out the side window as the car passed Miltown Cemetery. The graveyard which contained the bodies of many victims of the `Troubles' was eerily enveloped in a shroud of grey misty light. Along the wall of the cemetery the local graffiti artist had composed an Ulster equation 'STOP COLLUSION NOW- RUC/Brits +UDA/UVF = MURDER'.
"We're almost there, Sir," there was a slight catch in the driver's voice and he passed his tongue across his parched lips after he spoke.
"Go straight to the Republican Club on Coolnasilla Avenue," Wilson said. "They're expecting us so there shouldn't be any problems."
Wilson looked at the faces of the passers-by. They looked just like their Protestant counterparts on the other side of the concrete and barbed wire wall which still divided their city. Their strides were heavy with the burden of the murder and hate which they had borne for thirty years. These people deserved hope.