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

thoughts.
                  "The way things look the state will have to bury the poor bastard."
                  "That's going to screw up the media no end," Wilson said. "No grieving relations to be interviewed and no bigwig Loyalist pols carrying the Union Jack draped coffin. No luck with the house-to-house enquiries?" Wilson asked.
                  "Wise up. The uniforms could have your life for keeping them out half the night for nothing. Patterson was let go by Mackies last year. I sent a constable around there  to see if anyone there could throw any light on him. Like I said last night, the poor sod happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  It looks like we can chalk another one up to the Fenian murderers." Whitehouse placed a single sheet of paper on the desk in front of his superior. "It's all in there," he said as he laid the paper on top of the monitor of the computer. "The pathologist examined the body last night. Nothing new. The autopsy won’t give us anything new. Three shots, the last two were a waste, the first shot killed Patterson instantly. Ballistics ran a quick check on the shells. Standard nine millimetre. Could have been fired from something like a Browning."
                  "Is that certain?"
                  "No. It’s just an educated guess."
                  "Do we have any 'players' on the street with this kind of M.O.?" Wilson asked picking up the file.
                  "Not that I know of," Whitehouse thought for a minute. "It took some fuckin' balls for a Taig to march into Protestant West Belfast to do this one."
                  “Let’s not make too many leaps in the dark concerning our perp,” Wilson was annoyed that he had used the word ‘perp’. He hated the American cop shows with their super-cool hero living in a luxurious converted warehouse apartment. Their snappy dialogue was full of words like ‘perp’ and now it was beginning to influence him. He looked at the paunch hanging over Whitehouse’s belt. Nothing could be further from the super-cool image of the cop show. But Whitehouse was a damn good policeman despite the fact that he was also a bigot. He glanced at the photographs of the deceased which had already been included in the file. It had been a neat clinical job.
                  "Are you finished with the paper?" Whitehouse's request cut across Wilson's thoughts. "There were a few football matches in England last night."
                  Life goes on, Wilson thought folding the newspaper and tossing it to his colleague. The death of James Patterson hadn't even been sufficiently novel to keep Whitehouse's attention.
                  "Read it later," Wilson pulled his anorak from the coat stand. "Don't ask me why but something about this one bothers the hell out of me. The killer wanted to make sure that Patterson was well and truly dead. If Patterson wasn't a 'player' then there's got to be another reason. I want to see where this character lived." Wilson squeezed past Whitehouse into the body of the squad-room. "We'll take your car."
     
                   
                  Whitehouse pulled up outside the house which had been Patterson's home. Leopold Street was typical of the urban blight which the well-meaning Victorian Belfast City Fathers would inflict on the future generations. The dilapidated red-bricked labourer's cottages stood side by side the length of the road.  But areas like this were on the up in 'new' Belfast. 'Yuppiedom' had arrived in Belfast along with the Peace Agreement. The upwardly mobile young professionals wanted to live in the city. They wanted to ape their London and New York equivalents by gentrifying the old Victorian streets. The architects and interior designers were doing a roaring trade and the price of property was beginning to reflect the new optimism. The red-brick front of