by David Hough
She set down her mug hand. “Martin Foster, you know damned well I’ve been in love with you since we were both small kids. Nothing has changed and nothing will change until the day you marry. And most likely it won’t be to me. At least I’m sensible enough to see that.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Now go and find that girl and talk to her. Find out the truth, Martin, once and for all.”
She was right, of course, he would have to go back out there and find Sorcha, make his peace with her and get to the truth behind her life. Then he pictured again the image of the girl in Sorcha’s clothes. What was going on? Maybe the police would know something.
It was worth asking.
***
December 1980
Martin didn’t touch alcohol, so it was left to me to finish the bottle of wine I’d ordered. Another cost that would go down as a legitimate expense on my tax return.
“So you went out looking for her,” I said. “I presume you found her?”
“Eventually. But the bombs were exploding by then. You know that she was caught up in those explosions?”
“Yes. I heard her testimony in court, but I’ve still to learn the detail of what happened to her. It affected her badly, didn’t it?”
He nodded. “She saw people killed, saw the bodies… there was one killing in particular… a young woman with a baby…did she tell you about that?”
“Not yet.” We were running ahead of the story here and I wasn’t yet ready to delve into what Sorcha saw. I wanted to hear all of that directly from her.
It was, however, clearly a problem in Martin’s thoughts. “It upset me when she told me about it, but… what could I do? It wasn’t my problem…”
Not his problem? He must have realised that his words carried no conviction. I sensed that he wanted to say more, but he knew how most English people regarded the Ulster violence and he was wary of getting into an argument with me. It was the only way to avoid facing the truth. The more honest Ulster Irish sometimes did that, in those odd moments when the truth became too much to bear. They told us outsiders what they thought we wanted to hear, and then told each other something a little more acceptable to their own ears. Maybe it was something we all did when the facts became too painful.
“Sorcha will tell me about it in time,” I said.
Martin pushed his plate away from him and glanced at his watch. He’d eaten only half the meal. “I’d better be going now. I promised Emily I wouldn’t stay more than an hour.”
“She worries about you?” I was disappointed at ending the conversation there. I had more questions to ask about his experience of the run-up to the bombings.
“Far too much,” he said, and the look on his face told me she was right to worry. Eight years had passed and it was so obvious that he was still affected by what happened on Bloody Friday.
Chapter Thirteen
December 1980
It was raining heavily, and the forecast looked bad for the next few days, so I cancelled my planned drive over to Wales. Instead, I telephoned Will Evans one Friday evening. Milly and the girls were at the cinema and Will was preparing to go out to his local pub, but he’d give me half an hour of his time.
It wasn’t much but I aimed to make the most of it.
“Tell me what happened after that car bomb. The one you came so close to.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1255 BST
Will and McIlroy had to take a detour on the way back to their police barracks to avoid the Shankill riot. Will was exhausted as they strode past the North Castle Street front desk area. He wasn’t physically hurt… well not too much… but he was mentally washed out.
The duty sergeant tried to intercept them, but McIlroy brushed him aside.
“The Superintendent wants…” the sergeant began.
“He can bloody well want!” McIlroy snapped and led Will on along the corridor to their office.
“We could go straight to the canteen for a coffee,” Will said.
“Bugger that. We need something stronger.” McIlroy pulled open the office door with a force born out of raw resentment.
Will followed him in and slammed the office door behind them. The DCI grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a desk drawer. They each downed the first glass in one go. The next ones went down slower. Will felt marginally better as the alcohol began to take effect. His breath would be tainted when he got home, and Milly wouldn’t like that, but it was a small price to pay.
McIlroy’s face was pale and his eyes had taken on a spasmodic tic. He put his feet up on his desk, but he was far from at ease. Then his phone rang. He put down his glass with a look of annoyance and picked up the receiver. His irritation continued to show on his face as he listened and made the occasional ‘yes, I understand’ reply. He silently mouthed the word ‘Boyle’ to Will and scowled. There was no use of the word ‘sir’ and that still bothered Will. His boss was suffering because of their senior officer and there was nothing he could do about it.
McIlroy finished by saying, “I’ll tell him straight away.”
“That was our beloved leader,” he said when he put down the receiver. He picked up his glass, drained it and refilled it.
“And what news did he have for us, boss?” Will waited expectantly. He had a notion something important was coming. After a few silent of seconds, he added, “Why didn’t you tell him what happened to us out there in the jungle?”
“Later, Will. When I feel calmer. It always helps to make reports of that ilk when you’ve calmed down.” The DCI studied the amber liquid and then took another deep gulp. Finally, he said, “In the meantime I have some good news and some bad news from our beloved leader. The good news is that your annual leave will be reinstated with effect from tomorrow morning. You and the family can bugger off to Wales.”
Will let out a sigh of relief. “And the bad news?”
“Too many informants are coming up with the same story as Jimmy Fish. There really is something big in the offing, so we’re both on compulsory overtime until this evening. We should know by then what it’s all about.”
The damper came down on Will’s mood. “Damn. Milly will be furious if I’m late home.”
“It isn’t your doing, Will. She can’t blame you. Give her a call and tell her the good news first.”
“And when she hears the bad news she’ll have more ammunition to harp on about us getting out of Ireland for good. And she’ll be right.”
“You think so?”
“It was my decision to carry on working here. I went against her better judgement. Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe I’ve been unkind to my wife and daughters. Maybe I should call in at the church on the way home.”
“A lot of ‘maybes’, Will.”
“Maybe that’s why I should go to confession.”
McIlroy gave a short, cold chuckle. “Wrong solution, Will. You Catholics spend too much time confessing to your priests. You know what I say? I say that if you do wrong you should say sorry to the person you hurt, not your priest. Tell Milly you’re sorry, Will. Tell her… not your priest. Make it up to her as best you can. Take her to bed as soon as you get home. It’s what I would have done with my missus if she hadn’t left me.”
“You think sex is the answer?” Will took another sip of whiskey.
“For you or me?”
“Either of us, boss.”
He shook his head. “Damned if I know.”
Will went silent for a full minute. The problem between McIlroy and his wife was none of his business. He was curious about it, wanted to find out how the problem arose, who was really to blame: Boyle or Mrs McIlroy? Or both? But it wasn’t his place to ask.
Instead, he said, “Do you remember that film, the one that was in the cinema a while back? Two years ago I think it was. The one where they said love is not having to say you’re sorry?”
McIlroy snorted loudly. “Load of bollocks. They got it all wrong,
didn’t they? Typical Hollywood nonsense. You want my thoughts on it? I reckon love is not doing the things that require you to say sorry. That’s what they should have said in the film. Don’t do the things that require you to say you’re sorry. And if you do go wrong, have the courage to say you’re sorry.”
Will’s thoughts were clouding because of the whiskey, but he saw the sense in his boss’s words. Why didn’t he see it before? He would have a lot to say to Milly when he got home. He emptied his glass and reached out to the bottle for another refill. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. You’re a bit of a philosopher, aren’t you, boss?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the whiskey talking. There’s another thing you should know. Something Boyle just told me, about the knife used to kill Johnny Dunlop,”
“Yes?”
“It was a serrated kitchen knife. It could be the same one that was used to take off that boy’s dick.”
“Could be?”
“Or one very similar. My gut feeling is that the same weapon was probably used.”
“And Jimmy Fish? Was the same knife used on him?”
“No. He was knifed with a straight edge, not a serrated one.”
“So maybe we have two killers?”
“Or one killer with two knives. Knives are two a penny on the streets around here.”
“So are the bombs.”
The phone rang again. Will picked it up this time. It was the front desk.
“There’s a guy here at the desk, Will. Wants to talk to someone about a missing girl.”
“What’s his name?”
A brief silence followed while the desk sergeant questioned the visitor. Then he spoke again into the phone. “Says his name is Martin Foster. He thinks the missing girl may be in some sort of trouble. Thinks she may get shot.”
“Have we any relevant information?”
“There’s news just coming in about a girl who was shot in that riot at the end of the street. No details yet. There’s nothing else that fits.”
“Okay. Hang on to him. I’ll be along straight away.” Will slammed down the phone and eased himself to his feet. “Someone at the front desk wants to talk to us about a missing girl. Could be a shooting. You want in on it?”
“Might as well.” McIlroy screwed the top back on his whiskey bottle. “You can do the interview and I’ll take the notes.”
They collected the man from the front desk, took him to an interview room and sat opposite him.
Will introduced himself and McIlroy, and then he asked, “Tell us about your problem.”
The young man placed his forearms flat on the desk and clasped his hands together. “It’s my girlfriend. I think she may be in danger and I can’t find her. I need to know if you have word of any relevant killings in this area in the past few hours.”
“You think she may have been killed?” Will said, ignoring the request for information.
“It’s possible. There was a girl shot on a riot line. Less than an hour ago. I was there. It wasn’t her, but that girl was…”
“Hold on there, will you.” Will noticed his boss struggling with his notes. “First, let’s get some basic information for our records. Can you just confirm again your name and your address?”
“Martin Foster.”
“Address?”
He gave an address in Harold Street.
“And your girlfriend’s name is…?
“Sorcha Mulveny.”
“Sorcha…?” Will jerked upright in his seat and glanced at McIlroy. “I see. Now, tell us why you think she may be in danger.”
“I was about to tell you. The girl I saw was shot in a riot at the end of this street, by the junction with the Shankill Road. She was wearing Sorcha’s clothes.”
“Similar clothes?”
“No. Not similar. They were Sorcha’s clothes.” His voice carried a measure of insistence. “That’s why I think something bad may have happened to her. That’s why I came here.”
McIlroy leaned sideways and put a hand on Will’s arm. It was a sign he wanted to speak. He drew back his lips and asked, “Martin, why don’t you tell us something about Sorcha Mulveny? If we’re to help you, we need to know more about her. You said you saw her in a riot.”
“I thought it was her because of the clothes she was wearing. But it wasn’t her.”
“Not her, but it was her clothes?”
“That’s right.”
McIlroy paused before asking a critical question. “Sorcha is a common Catholic name. I take it you are both Catholics?”
“She is. I’m not.”
Will gave McIlroy a knowing look. A mixed match in Belfast: if one side didn’t get you, the other would.
“That riot was in a Loyalist area. What would Sorcha be doing there?”
“I don’t know. But it’s where the other girl was shot. The one who was wearing her clothes.”
“I see. And how long have you known Sorcha?”
“A month or so.”
McIlroy nodded and went on in an apparently amiable tone that Will recognised as subterfuge, a way of getting the young man to discard any inhibitions. “All right, Martin. Does Sorcha have any connections with any Republican organisations? People who might want to harm her?” He was careful not to mention IRA or INLA.
The young man’s eyebrows twitched, as if he was troubled by the question. “I think she has connections with some unsavoury people.”
“Such as?”
“There’s a man called Fitzpain.”
Will tensed. That name again! “What about him?”
“We were at a hotel in Oldpark Road this morning, me and Sorcha. And this man turned up. She told me I had to leave straight away, as soon as he got there.”
“I see. And did you leave?”
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t see what happened between him and Sorcha?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I met her later in Royal Avenue. We had a row and I haven’t seen her since. Then I saw this girl in her clothes… at the riot… and that girl was shot dead. And…”
“Yes?”
Martin’s eyes were now burning with ill-controlled fear. “I saw someone with a gun. I thought it was one of those UVF thugs, the one they call Mad Mac McKinnon. But I could have been mistaken.”
McIlroy maintained his calm approach. “What happened to McKinnon? If it was him?”
“He lost himself amongst the mob.”
“That’s the way his sort operate, Martin. And that’s when you decided Sorcha could be in real danger? Is that right?”
“Yes.” The young man kept his arms firmly on the table, but his fingers were twitching.
“Why would the UVF be after Sorcha Mulveny?”
“I don’t know.” He stared straight into McIlroy’s face, his gaze fixed and unblinking. Will knew instantly he was telling the truth.
“I see,” McIlroy continued. “Have you tried the hospitals?”
“All of them. They couldn’t help.”
“All right, Martin. There’s not a lot we can do right now. We certainly don’t have any information that will be of help to you, but we will get back to you if we discover anything.”
“She’s not in trouble with the police, is she?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” McIlroy kept a straight face.
“I thought I’d ask because you are policemen.”
“An astute observation, Martin.” McIlroy rose from his seat to indicate the interview was ended.
Will escorted the young man back to the front desk and reassured him again that they would be in touch if they had any news. He looked distinctly worried as he left the building.
Back in their office, McIlroy planted himself in the chair behind his desk, raised his arms, leaned back and intertwined his hands behind his head. “What do you make of that young man, Will?”
“Naïve.”
“I agree. Heading for a disaster if he’s not careful,” the DCI
said. “Meanwhile the Mulveny girl could be in real danger. If McKinnon and the UVF are after her, she’s dead meat. But we now know a little bit more about her, especially that she may be mixed up with Republican dissidents.”
Will sat in his own chair and studied the few notes his boss had made. “Not a lot we can do about it. What do you think she’s done to piss off the UVF?”
“Who knows? Maybe it’s because of that lad who had his dick cut off… he was a Protestant, wasn’t he? And he was found right behind the Mulveny’s house. I have a feeling that Sorcha Mulveny may hold the key to a number of investigations. Not just the lad who ended up with no dick. She could also be involved with the killing of Johnny Dunlop and Jimmy Fish. If she’s dead, the vital information will have gone with her. I’d rather like to find her alive.”
“And interview her?”
McIlroy replied through gritted teeth. “With a just enough pressure to find out what she really knows.” He was still gritting his teeth when the telephone rang again.
He picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” His expression turned to alarm as he listened. “Okay. We’ll take the York Road one.”
“Trouble?” Will said as the receiver was slammed down.
McIlroy rose quickly from his seat. “Our beloved leader again. The bomb warnings have started. Just two so far: York Road Railway Station and Smithfield Bus Station. Come on, Will. This could be what Jimmy Fish was telling us about.”
Will looked at the wall clock. It was now 1345. How much warning had been given? Would they have time to get there before the bomb exploded?
“What about lunch?” he asked.
“Pick up a couple of sandwiches from the canteen on the way out. We may be busy for the rest of the day.”
***
December 1980
The half hour had stretched into an hour and I had learned a lot. I thanked will for his time and then I read through the first draft of what would be Part One of the book. The story was coming together well, but something bothered me. The image that emerged from the printed pages was one of horror, and it was going to get worse. Far worse. Was I being fair to the people of Northern Ireland? Was I right to rake over such a terrible day in Irish history? Would it be more helpful if I allowed those events to fade in people’s minds?
