Read Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) for Free Online

to himself as he scanned the paper for any further mention of the killing. Maybe Whitehouse was right. Thirty years of violence had bred a new type of individual, the psychopath couldn’t give up killing even when the so-called ‘war’ was over. All of the main groups and most of the splinter organisations had accepted the political compromise which had finally stopped the violence. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t some twisted individual out there with a gun who was willing to continue the war all on his own.
                  "Mornin’, boss," Whitehouse stood at the door of Wilson's office. Nobody ever tried to enter the office, there just wasn't enough room. "You're about early."
                  Wilson looked up from his newspaper and sighed audibly. "Good morning to you George. Some day you're going to surprise me and say something subtle but I think I'm going to have to wait a bit yet." He shifted his eyes to the newspaper "I see that our client of last night made page eight of the 'Telegraph'.  Sign of the times. What did you get on him?"
                  "His name was James Patterson," Whitehouse leaned against the door-jam. "Address in Leopold Street. He was some class of a lackey in the office over at Mackies. Then got laid off. No previous with us. I've already checked him out with our intelligence people in Castlereagh and with Military Intelligence in Holywood. Nobody's got a dicky bird on him. He's as pure as the driven snow as far as we're concerned. A right anonymous wee bugger if there ever was one."
                  Wilson's mouth creased into a smile. "You mean to tell me that the standard press statement was true this time."
                  Whitehouse nodded.
                  "Any chance that he was a 'sleeper'?" Wilson asked.
                  "Your guess is as good as anybody's on that one," Whitehouse replied. "Tryin' to keep an eye on the active ones is hard enough without attemptin' to rope in the fools who think they'd like to become part of the action."
                  "What about the next of kin? Have they been informed?"
                  "That's the easy part. There are no next of kin. The poor bugger was an orphan. Just like the song says `no mommy's kisses, no daddy's smiles'." Whitehouse paused but Wilson didn't react. "Not only was this guy nobody's child," Whitehouse continued. "But he was nobody's brother or nephew. We can't find a living soul who's related to him. This guy could have landed from Mars yesterday there's so little on him. It wouldn't surprise me to find that he hadn't a friend in the world either."
                  Wilson thought about the small body with the half head lying Christ like on the wet Belfast street. Nobody owned him, nobody loved him and nobody befriended him. But some bastard took away the only thing he had-his life. Something stank to high heaven in a society where the gun culture had taken over. Maybe it was inevitable after Ulster had seen so much useless death that had basically gone unpunished. You could rub shoulders in your local pub or greasy spoon with someone who had dropped a woman continually on her head until it had cracked open like an eggshell. Or maybe you could have a quiet drink with someone who had set a bomb that had maimed women and children. Wilson didn't agree with amnesty. He wanted to put the psychopaths where they belonged - behind bars. Only brain-dead politicians would put some of the idiots he'd banged up back on the streets. One thing he was sure of, whoever had killed Patterson wasn't new to it. He done it before. Probably many times before. And if he or she turned out to be someone that the pols had released as some kind of political compromise there would be hell to pay. He'd see to that.
                  "We can expect a quiet funeral, then," he said lost in his