Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1)

by Derek Fee

  CHAPTER 23

  Case woke in his small bedsit and turned his head slowly towards the window. A stream of grey light entered through the gap where the two pieces of tattered paisley printed fabric which constituted the curtains met. He pushed down on the bed with his right hand and a bolt of pain shot through his right side where the kick from the dickhead at the ‘Black Bear’ had landed during the previous evening’s fracas. He lifted up the side of his tee-shirt and looked at the black and red streaked weal which covered the bottom section of his ribs. He'd rolled with the kick but the skinny bugger had managed to connect with him. I should have really hurt that little bastard, he thought, taking no pleasure from the memory of the kick which he had delivered to the side of the bastard’s prostrate head. He ran his fingers over the weal. The skin hadn't been broken and the bruise would soon fade. He sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. No physical jerks this morning. The UVF bastard had made any kind of exercise impossible. He felt another flash of annoyance. The early morning exercises were part of his ritual. He had learned in the SAS that it didn't require brains to kill effectively. The expert killer needed no thought processes to get rid of his victim. Killing for the professionals was instinctive. To keep the instinct honed it was necessary to keep in practice and keep the body in shape. He thought of the fat slob and the weedy youth who had confronted him in the bar the previous evening. The look on their thick Irish faces showed that they were no strangers to violence but there was a world of difference between them and him. They were pack animals. Jackals banding together to hunt and slay the weak and defenseless. He considered himself a sleek killing machine, equally skilled with pistol, combat knife or his bare hands.

  He walked to the window and looked down into the terraced street below. A steady stream of light rain washed gently against the glass of the window and blurred the view of the street beneath. Time was running short. Two more clients to service and then he would replace the Belfast gloom with the brilliant sunshine of the `Costa'. Care would have to be his watchword from now on. Under other circumstances he would have preferred to finish off the bastards from the `Black Bear'. But a bundle of dead bodies in the backyard of a pub would lead to a hue and cry even in a city as accustomed to mass violence as Belfast.

  Case moved to the battered locker which stood beside his bed. The top of the furniture was scored with deep dark rectangular scorch marks, a testament to the smoking habits of the room's previous occupants. He ran his index finger along one of the many depressions before opening the top drawer and lifting out a fresh white shirt. Nice and clean, he thought holding up the shirt. Just like his business in Belfast. Up until last night that was. There were four sons-of-bitches out there who could recognise him. That was if their brains had been switched on. Nobody would ever connect him with the killing of Patterson and Peacock but there was sure to be four very angry Protestant terrorists roaming the streets today. That complicated matters. All he needed was a couple of crazed bigots hunting for him. He slipped his arms into the cool white cotton, feeling the tingle as the fabric brushed against the weal on his side. He'd have to lie low for a while. To hell with the bastards in London and their schedule. He was going to get out of Belfast alive no matter what schedule they imposed on him.

  Case moved to the window and pulled the tattered curtains aside. The rain was still falling in a light silent mist. He looked across at the terraced houses facing him. It could have been a working class area of any big city in England if it wasn't for the spray painted graffiti covering the redbrick walls. The slogans `Fuck the Pope', `Kill the Provos' and `No Surrender' which stared back at him from the walls opposite marked the street as typically Northern Irish. A quarter of a mile away on the other side of the 'Peace Wall' the houses looked the same but the slogans were altered to reflect the different political leanings. He closed the curtains. He didn't give a shit about politics. As far as he was concerned, all the politicians could go screw themselves. The Paddies could slaughter each other until kingdom come. All the conflict in Northern Ireland was good for was to field test the British Army. He prised open the loose floorboard and revealed the hiding place of the steel suitcase. He went through the ritual associated with the opening of the case and removed the file on his next target. He read the three type-written pages for the fiftieth time. It was a no sweat job like the other two. The only trick was that it would have to be done in typical IRA fashion. He looked at the face of the man in the eight by four inch black and white photograph that his principals had provided. He felt nothing for the person behind the photograph. It was simply business. Sometime, somehow this poor bastard had aggravated somebody in authority and he was going to have to pay for it. He slipped the typewritten pages and the photo back into the clear plastic container and replaced it in the side pocket of the case.

  He was replacing the floorboard when he heard a soft knock on the door. He hammered the loose board into place with the side of his hand and stood up quickly. "Come in," he said.

  The door opened and Betty Maguire stuck her head into the room. "I've a lovely fresh egg for your breakfast, Mr. eh!, Joe."

  "Thanks, that's very nice of you to offer, Mrs. M," Case said closing his shirt and moving towards the open door. Maybe to-day wouldn't be such a bad day to lie low, he thought as he slapped Mrs. Maguire's plump departing behind. The hit wasn't until this evening and Mrs. Maguire's backside presented a more enticing prospect than another day at the flicks.

  Wilson's eyes were stinging and his throat felt like the bottom of a parrot's cage as he slung his heavy overcoat over the coat-stand in his cluttered office. He hadn't had the courage to look in a mirror but he hoped that he didn't look as bad as he felt. However, he had a sneaking feeling that he did. Then there was the embarrassment. His face reddened when he thought about his performance in front of McElvaney. He was coming apart at the seams. What the hell was he up to? Did he want to get in her pants? If he did he was making a damn poor job of it. Kate McCann’s business card stared back at him from a shelf in the kitchen. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand concentrating on the mobile number written in blue ink. He replaced the card on the shelf and turned on the radio. The early morning radio news programme announced the resumption of talks about talks in the Middle East. Nothing changes, he thought. The conflicts just moves around the world. Some gobshite detective in Beirut was probably looking into the death of a Christian killed by a Muslim or vice versa. His Lebanese colleague and he were just a couple of unlucky innocent bystanders. He could not dispel the feeling that the two murders formed only part of a pattern which would eventually involve many others. It rarely stopped at two or three. No detective involved in investigating the sectarian murders of the 1970's could forget how mismanagement compounding ineptitude had allowed gangs of vicious criminals to murder, sometimes in the most horrible fashion, dozens of innocent people. It always bothered him that the RUC had failed miserably to put all the members of the murder gangs away. In the tangled web of terrorism and lies, false accusations and downright perjury that typified the judicial process in Northern Ireland, he had at last begun to accept that the PSNI, or indeed any police force, could only be partially successful against clever terrorists.

  The squad room was empty and Wilson settled himself behind his desk to get in a few minutes of uninterrupted work. Every member of the squad would have to pump in all the hours that God would send until they located the man or men responsible for the three murders. Jesus Christ, he thought as he looked at the mound of files lying on his desk. His throat felt so dry that it ached continually while the point just above his right temple pounded with a regular syncopation which would have been the envy of a drummer in a jazz band. He placed the top file in front of him and telephoned his squad's secretary to fetch him up a cup of strong sweet tea. The tea arrived five minutes later and was almost strong enough to keep the spoon upright in the middle of the cup. He drank a mouthful of the liquid which streamed down his throat like a tor
rent of nectar. Then he opened a file and began to work.

  Detective Constable McElvaney looked over the computer printouts for what must have been the twentieth time. She had finally hit on one factor which connected Patterson and Peacock. It had been so simple that she couldn't understand how she hadn't seen it before. But then again maybe it had been too simple and so maybe it meant absolutely nothing. The files from the Department of Social Welfare had shown that Patterson and Peacock had both been orphans. At first sight this fact seemed inconsequential. No policeman in his right mind could believe that there was a serial killer concentrating solely on orphans. But she could not deny that it was the only possible fact which connected the two men other than the fact they lived and worked in the same city. She had spent hours dipping into the Social Welfare computer files. Each of the two men had passed through a series of homes and foster-parents before being released into the community at sixteen. She started to cross reference the two men's lives and came up with only one connection. Both men had been residents of the Dungray Home for Boys between the years 1990 and 1992. She switched her attention to information on the Dungray Home for Boys. The institution was run by a group of Protestant fundamentalists and other than giving the barest of details the Social Welfare file on the Home was useless. She printed out the details from the Social Welfare file and switched to the PSNI and Military Intelligence files. Nothing. Not even the slightest mention of Dungray. She was disappointed because she was sure that she was on to something. She told herself that there was no reason why there should have been police files on the Home. But something was niggling her. Days of examining files had produced only this single tenuous link between the two men and like a dog with a bone she wasn't going to give up this lead easily. She picked up the print-out of the Social Welfare file. A column in the file indicated the names of the individuals who had run the home since its inception. She located the years 1990 to 1992 and ran her finger across the paper until it came to the name Robert Nichol. She interrogated the PSNI files one more time and when prompted by the computer she entered Nichol's name. The amber screen went blank and she sat back while the machine scanned the thousands of files which had been built up by the police and military since the creation of the state of Northern Ireland.

  This was the new police work, she thought listening to the whirr of the computer terminal. The `bobby on the beat' was an anachronism. The old style of police work had its uses in an age where a man in a blue uniform knew most of the people on his beat. These days the information on citizens of a country consisted of patterns of charged particles stored God only knew where. Whereas the old style policeman picked up his information from gossip on the streets, the new police could tap into a myriad of databases that could literally trace the history of an individual from birth to death. Big Brother had arrived. She could feel a tinge of excitement as she waited for the machine to disgorge its information. Something told her that the long hours sitting before the computer screen and pouring over the files was going to pay off. The screen flicked and she leaned forward. She stared at the small box in the centre of the screen. The word `RESTRICTED' flashed on and off in the centre of the box. The words `enter access code' flashed in the left hand bottom corner of the screen. She typed in her access code and pressed `enter'. The machine emitted a beep and the legend `enter access code' reappeared. She hit the escape key and the screen changed to the data search menu. What the hell was going on? Why should the file on the warden of an orphans home be restricted? She selected the PSNI and Military files and keyed in her access number. When the machine prompted her for her request she typed in Nichol's name for the second time. There had to be some problem with the machine. Her access code should have been sufficient to open up all the files held by the PSNI and Military Intelligence. She waited anxiously as the machine searched for Nichol's file. The screen flicked into life and her heart sank as she saw the same small box dominating the centre of the screen. Angrily she pushed the escape key. What the hell was so special about Robert bloody Nichol that his file had been restricted? Somebody was being very cagey about Mister Nichol. She leaned over the keyboard of the terminal. There was more than one way to skin a cat. It was a certainty that if there was a PSNI or Military Intelligence file on Nichol that there would be a cross reference to him in some other file. She asked the computer to search for the name Robert Nichol in any of the other files. This was going to be a long job. The machine whirred and her eyes glared at the empty screen. Occasionally the word `working' flashed on the screen. The minutes dragged by as in the bowels of the station the computer examined thousands of yards of computer tape. She was about to give up when the screen suddenly filled with text. She blinked her eyes and focused on the fuzzy amber letters. She scanned the text moving quickly from line to line. Finally her eyes lighted on the name `Robert Nichol' buried in a line of text. She returned to the top of the data file and began to read slowly through the words.

  CHAPTER 24

  It was a bad day in the life of Ian Wilson. As he'd become older, he'd realised that alcohol didn't agree with him but that didn't stop him from over indulging now and again. As he left the weekly management meeting, he headed straight for his office and the biggest mug of coffee obtainable in Tennent Street. The weekly meeting with his colleagues was usually difficult enough to take, but this morning's effort had pushed him to the limit of his self control. Nobody with a pounding head wanted to listen to other people's petty problems and his colleagues were past masters at elevating the trivial to the heights of importance. He could tell from their expressions that they had smelled the booze on him. Poor old sod, they would think to themselves. Used to be a good copper but gone to seed since his wife’s death. Then the snickering would start. His throat felt raw and tender. He slid into the narrow space behind his desk, drained his coffee and signalled to Davidson to bring him a refill. He looked at the mass of papers littering his desk and his stomach turned. To-day was not the day to view grizzly photos or read graphic descriptions of torn flesh and ruptured organs. Davidson entered the office and poured the contents of a coffee pot into the empty mug sitting on a beer mat which was placed close to Wilson’s right hand.

  "It's like that is it, boss?" Davidson said retiring towards the door.

  "You playing at being a detective again," Wilson said eyeing the mug of steaming black liquid at his right hand. "It's worse than that."

  "Did you take any paracetamol?" Davidson asked.

  “Yes,” Wilson said curtly.

  “And try a few mints. This office smells like a brewery.”

  Wilson burped. "Thanks for your kind offer of assistance. Your concern has been noted. I’ll include the phrase ‘full of the milk of human kindness’ on your next assessment." He waved the detective constable back towards the squad room.

  Somehow, Wilson thought, he would have to slip away for a few hours sleep. Alcohol and lack of sleep were a bad combination for someone in his line of work.

  Wilson looked up and saw McElvaney standing at the door with a sheaf of computer paper in her hand. It was the last sight in the world he wanted to see.

  “Look, about last night,” Wilson began

  “Yes,” she interrupted quickly. She squeezed into the office and pulled the door behind her. “I wanted to thank you for making my introduction to the squad so easy. I really appreciate your efforts to help me to settle in but I think that we should curtail the socialising until I’m more integrated into the wider group. Two nights in a row might be considered by some people as inappropriate.”

  “You’re quite the diplomat,” Wilson took a slug from the mug of coffee and wondered why he bothered with alcohol. “But of course you do have a point. I’m sure that you’ll develop a circle of friends of your own age over time.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I do appreciate what you were doing but I’m alright now.”

  “I only wish that I had been the one to clarify the situation,” Wilson drained the coffee mug. “So what can I do
for you?”

  "I think that I've got something." The young constable's eyes were shiny with excitement.

  "OK let’s hear it." Wilson motioned to the space directly before his desk.

  "I've found a link between Patterson and Peacock," she couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "It’s tenuous but at least it’s something. They were both orphans and residents of a boy's home called Dungray at the same time in the early nineties."

  Wilson lifted his head and grimaced as though in great pain.

  "I know it's pretty feeble stuff but you asked me to find a link between the two dead men."

  Wilson picked up the mug of black coffee before realising that it was empty. "OK," he heard his voice rasping as he replacing the cup on the mat. "Stop playing `McElvaney, Ace of Detectives' for just one second and think about what you just said. This city is so small that you can usually find some link no matter how tenuous between any two of its citizens."

  "That's not all," she interrupted her superior. "The man who ran the home at that time was a Robert Nichol." She paused to let the name sink in.

  "So," Wilson said.

  "Nichol should have some sort of security or social welfare or at least employment file but there's nothing on record about him. Every piece of government information on this man is restricted and none of our codes can access the computer files."