Free Nothing but Memories (DCI Wilson Book 1) by Derek Fee Page A

hear," he continued, "that our sterling efforts have been recognised and that the Deputy Chief Constable himself has decided to boost our ranks. This young lady, and here I emphasise the word lady," Wilson stood aside to reveal Moira completely, "will be joining us as of to-day. I'm sure you'll all make Constable Moira McElvaney welcome."
                  Five pairs of eyes glared in the direction of the doorway. If Wilson had been introducing a new Protestant colleague, there might have been a rush to be the first to pump the new man or woman's hand. And with those handshakes an important number of messages would be passed. This time nobody moved.
                  "Such enthusiasm," Wilson forced a smile. "Well Constable," Wilson took Moira’s elbow and led her into the room. "That wizened old reprobate on the left is my number one man, DS George Whitehouse,"
                  Whitehouse remained stock still refusing to acknowledge the introduction.
                  "Moving clockwise," Wilson continued ignoring the intended insult to Moira, "we have Eric Taylor, Ronald McIver, Harry Graham and Peter Davidson."
                  Wilson had expected Whitehouse’s reaction but he had wondered how the others would react. He stared hard at Eric Taylor.
                  Taylor cleared his throat and moved forward. “Welcome to the Squad,” he said extending his hand towards Moira. “I suppose that’ll be the end of the dirty joke sessions.”
                  “Only if the jokes are lousy,” Moira pumped his hand.
                  Peter Davidson looked sideways at Whitehouse and then followed Taylor’s example.
                  Two in, three out, Wilson thought. It could have been worse but it could have been a damn sight better. The atmosphere was bound to be charged for a couple of days but then it would work itself out. He could never see Whitehouse condescending to drink with his new colleague but as long as they could work together Wilson wouldn’t care about their social arrangements.
                  “You’re in luck joining us at this point in time,” Wilson said turning to face Moira. “You are currently standing in the Incident Room for the investigation into the death of one James Patterson.” He nodded to a whiteboard on which a series of stark black and white photographs of the Patterson murder scene were affixed. “Patterson was shot in the head last  night by an assailant or assailants unknown. You are going to have the pleasure of assisting the best Murder Squad in Great Britain in bringing the perpetrator or perpetrators of this crime to justice. Eric, update on the enquiry please.”
    “Nothing, boss,” Taylor began. “Whoever did the shooting didn’t leave a trace behind. Not so much as a hair from his head was found at the sight. The SOCOs swept up a load of shite at the scene but nothing that appears to tie in to the killing. The pathologist has finished with the body . The autopsy showed up nothing new and the body is being transferred to the morgue. The basics you know. Only interesting item is that Patterson appears to have been into self mutilation. The pathologist found scars on his arms which were consistent with self-inflicted cuts from a razor blade. If we don’t need the body for any further tests, they want to get him in the ground straight away. Since he hasn’t any money to speak of the state will have to cough up for the pine box. Nothing exceptional on our victim. He was born, he lived and he died. There’s no news on the gun. That’s where we stand for the moment.”
    “Thanks, Eric,” Wilson turned to his Detective Sergeant who appeared to be sulking at the rear of the office. “George, any news on whether our boy was a ‘player’?”
                  Whitehouse stared straight ahead his lips clenched tight.
                  “DS