Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) (13 page)

             
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 off 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 the 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.

             
"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.