Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  "Who exactly is Frank Cahill?" Moira asked breaking the silence in the car.

  Wilson smiled. If you lived in Belfast you assumed that only visitors from another planet didn't know who Frank Cahill was.

  "Frank Cahill is the model of what they call a 'godfather'," Wilson said. "Officially he's a member of the Command Staff of the Provisional IRA but unofficially he runs one of the largest criminal organisations in the city. He's the man behind illegal drinking clubs, protection rackets, prostitution, drugs and illegal taxis. You name it and Frank Cahill's got a greasy paw in it somewhere. He's spent most of his life in one prison or other but always for 'the cause'. He was released under the Good Friday Agreement. Frank Cahill has paid his Republican dues and now he's collecting the rewards."

  Moira looked across at her superior. "I hate to find myself in the company of DS Whitehouse but if he's nothing but a common criminal, why don't we lift him for straight-forward criminality?"

  "Two reasons," Wilson said looking out at the dismal rows of red-bricked terraced houses plastered with graffiti depicting balaclava wearing freedom fighters holding Kalashnikovs above their heads. "Firstly, Cahill is so bloody careful you wouldn't believe it. There's probably not one single piece of paper in his whole operation. Nobody in their right mind would testify against him because not only would they be signing their own death warrant but they'd also be putting every member of their family on the firing line. Secondly, if we did have the goods on him, which we don’t, the political fall-out would probably mean that a warrant wouldn’t be issued. In any case if we did issue a warrant he’d probably skip to the South." He nodded at the terraced streets. "This is his area. Everybody here knows Frank Cahill and a lot of people here would still protect him with their lives. Our local mafia chiefs have learned a lot from their Sicilian cousins."

  The car turned into a deserted street. Rubble and uncollected trash lay strewn around the ground.

  "It's the blockhouse looking place at the far end," Wilson pointed over the driver's shoulder.

  The edifice which Wilson had indicated stood alone at the end of the street. It was a low red-bricked building distinguished by a series of small barred windows running along the side. The red brick facade facing the street had a large steel door in the centre. On either side of the door was a life sized painting of a hooded Provisional IRA man standing beneath the tricolour of the Irish Republic.

  As the car drew to a halt in front of the building, the steel door opened and two men emerged. Both were short and thickset. They were dressed identically in jeans and leather jackets.

  "You're Wilson?" the young man who opened the door on his side of the car smiled showing a row of brown stained teeth.

  Wilson nodded.

  "He's waitin' inside for you."

  As Wilson emerged from the car he looked down at the hand of the man who had opened the car door. A tattoo of a machine gun with the letters IRA in green white and gold had been crudely sketched on the back of the man's hand.

  "The driver can wait here," Wilson said as he stepped onto the footpath. Moira had exited from the other side of the car.

  "That’s an improvement of the usual Protestant tart," the IRA man said letting his eyes roam over Moira’s body.

  “It’s nice to be appreciated,” Moira said. “But why do I feel I need a shower?”

  “Enough of the repartee,” Wilson said. He could smell whiskey and stale tobacco on the IRA man’s breath.

  "I wouldn’t touch you, skank, if you were the last woman on earth," he indicated the second IRA man. "My comrade will hang around outside to make sure that your driver doesn't get into any trouble. Someone might take it into their head to run away with your nice unmarked police car." He nodded in the direction of the driver. "Can we assume that neither of you is carrying. I'd really like to search your friend," he smiled exposing the full range of his stained teeth.

  Wilson laughed. “Dream on. Neither the Constable nor myself are carrying a weapon and you’ll just have to take our word for it. Touch one of us and you'll live to regret it. Go inside and tell Frank I’m having none of this bullshit.”

  The bouncer reflected for a moment and then stood back. "Inside," He pulled the door open and ushered Wilson and Moira into the building.

  Wilson stepped into the club and was immediately enveloped in darkness. He stopped just inside the door to give his eyes time to become accustomed to the low level of lighting. Gradually the dark shapes began to take form and the two policemen found themselves in a small hallway. The outer and inner steel doors were shut and bolted behind them. The doorman walked to an electronic box situated on the wall directly across from the entrance door. He typed in a series of numbers and a door in the dark wall slid open.

  "We don't want any uninvited guests," the man in the leather jacket pushed the door fully open. "After you."

  The two detectives walked into a large room which constituted the drinking area of the Club. Wilson's eyes were gradually becoming accustomed to the dim lighting. The left hand side of the large room was dominated by a long bar at which three men sat. All three turned as Wilson and Moira entered. Their scowling countenances displayed their antipathy to the new arrivals.

  "Come on," the man in the leather jacket bustled the two policemen forward.

  Wilson started walking towards the rear of the room passing the tables and chairs which littered the open area. As he reached the end of the bar, he saw two men seated in a booth located directly behind the bar area. Frank Cahill and one of his lieutenants sat at a small table on which a lamp with a grimy shade stood. Wilson walked directly to the booth and sat on the side opposite the two men. Moira pushed in beside him. She didn’t like the look of the men seated at the bar but she wasn’t about to show it. Her heart was pounding but as long as she was close to Wilson she felt she could keep her courage up.

  "I hope that they’re all as pretty back in Tennent Street, Ian," Cahill's voice wheezed as he forced out the words.

  "They surely are, Frank," Wilson said settling himself into the booth. It had been nearly two years since he'd last set eyes on Cahill. Time had not been kind to the 'godfather'. Even in the darkened room he could see the pallid skin and the sunken eyes. Cahill's hair or what was left of it had turned snow white and stood out in tufts from his cadaverous face. His jacket might once have fitted his frame but now looked a couple of sizes too big. Wilson could smell something on the fetid air and he imagined that it might be death.

  "This is Constable Moira McElvaney," Wilson laid his hand on the arm of the young woman sitting beside him and he felt her tremble at the touch. The poor lassie is probably scared out of her wits. “Frank is one of the old school, Moira. He’s too smart to harm a police officer. Isn’t that so, Frank?”

  Cahill smiled. “Well not such a pretty one anyway.”

  "Moira’s a strange name for a Protestant," the young man beside Cahill spoke.

  “Maybe I’m not a Protestant,” Moira heard her own voice and was astonished at how steady it appeared. Wilson put his hand on her arm and squeezed. She took it as a sign of approbation and smiled.

  "I won't bother introducin' my young associate," Cahill's hissing voice broke the silence. "For obvious reasons," he continued, his thin wizened face breaking into a smile. "Let's just say that he helps me with my business affairs."

  The young man at Cahill's side was in his thirties which meant that he had been brought up in the "Troubles' but he had a more polished look than the thugs at the bar. His hair had been professionally cut and his features had not been ravaged by drink. He gave the impression of a personable young man wearing a well tailored pin striped suit and if he hadn't been sitting beside Cahill, Wilson would have taken him for an accountant or a lawyer.

  "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 r
uns 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 off
icers 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."