Cause of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  Tommy Doyle was short, had been stocky but was starting to look worn at the edges; what had once been hard muscle was beginning to sag through lack of use. His hair was like a wet black hand slapped on the top of his head, and no matter which way he tried to comb it, there was never enough to go round. The pub fights plus a bit of boxing when he was a younger man had thickened his eyebrows, and his nose had been broken so many times it had retreated into his face to hide from the next bout. He wondered what they were fighting for now though, and it choked him that those boys who’d been proud to serve in PIRA were sitting down with the Brits and making sure they were in a good place come the day. Worse still if they were filling their wallets with tout money. He was still trying to put up a fight, although every time they moved there was a team of Peelers in the way. There was a tout somewhere close and he rubbed his eyes, trying to get the thoughts out of his head. There wasn’t a single good thing in his life and people wondered why he’d such a short fuse!

  They’d been told to run around specific roads with the bag and had only been briefed less than an hour before. No weps were to be carried and, if they were stopped, they were to keep it shut with no lip to the Peelers. They were onto a tout – no doubt about it – and this run on a cold winter’s night was the bait. The Big Man must have a suspect, must have fed him some shite story to give to his handler and they were on their way. Well, that was all right with Doyle. He just hoped they made the bastard suffer before they put one in his brain.

  ‘F-fuckin drive will ye, B-Bobby, before we die of old age,’ he said finally.

  The car moved slowly forward towards the Ormeau Road, and the electronic device plumbed into the car’s undercarriage flicked into life, telling the surveillance team exactly where Doyle and Connery were headed. Macallan knew all about them. As far as she was concerned they were both unpredictable nutters, and if they were stopped they would kick off unless an awful lot of guns were stuck in their faces.

  She decided to try Cowboy at the agreed number, but the voice that answered was someone else. It asked her who she was looking for and she tried a bogus name and the wrong number routine. The voice said that the person she was looking for wasn’t available and had been taken away on urgent business. The phone clicked dead on her and she tried not to panic. She grabbed the mic to call for an abort on the operation, only to be beaten to it by the firearms leader calling for the team to close on the car and detain the occupants.

  6

  O’Connor arrived at Macallan’s office right on time. She’d expected nothing else. Okay, she thought, he’s the boss, but it’s nice to go for a pub lunch with a man and it’s been too long. It dawned on her that this was a good sign – the problems in Belfast and then the break-up with her lover had dampened her more basic instincts almost to extinction. It was one of those rare occasions where the sun shone in Edinburgh so they walked through Stockbridge and filled in some background for each other with small talk. He was easier company than she’d imagined, and despite his reputation of being a very private guy, he was interesting – though the conversation always came back to work. She got what Harkins had told her about him and his ambition: anything less than reaching the rank of chief constable would be failure for this man.

  They managed to find the last two seats in a decent pub and she thought she’d make the right impression by having the veggie option, when what she wanted was the steak pie and chips. O’Connor chose the salad and she thought that was probably what he wanted – definitely not a steak-pie man. There was no doubt in her mind that he was very controlled, disciplined and quite a contrast from a lot of the alpha males she’d worked with in Northern Ireland. This was the future face of senior policing.

  O’Connor liked what he saw in Macallan and had spent a lot of time looking into her background. She had the most outstanding record he’d seen in a long time, and that might have worried him, as he instinctively mistrusted anyone with a CV that came near to matching his own. There weren’t many about that could do that. Macallan was educated although she’d dropped her law degree, and, unlike his education, hers was not paid for by family wealth. She’d done it all against the paramilitaries and had received a string of commendations. However, he knew about the incident in Belfast, so she was unlikely to overtake him in the promotion race and there would be caution for a while before she was considered for another rank. He liked her though, and her reserve appealed to him. He preferred to stay clear of the job off-duty and it was rare to feel so comfortable in police company. Her eyes were striking, the tiniest slant suggestive of Slavic blood somewhere in her family genes, and he thought she was good-looking rather than pretty or beautiful. She didn’t smile enough, but when she did he saw something he liked, and when they were discussing something she cared about, there would be a small blaze in the eyes. O’Connor was enough of a politician to realise that she’d attract friends and enemies; her talent and intellect would trouble some of the less gifted who happened to outrank her. In that strange way that men can self-deceive, it didn’t occur to him that he might be in both camps.

  O’Connor opened up about his background – it had been privileged, and the family had made a fortune in a transport business. His father had humble enough beginnings but realised as a young man that he knew better than his boss. He’d been right, and it seemed that O’Connor had inherited his father’s driving ambition. Like Macallan, his decision to join the police had surprised his friends – and infuriated his father, who’d wanted him in the business. He’d always been fascinated by police work and admitted to being a fan of detective stories.

  Macallan relaxed with his mild soul-bearing and decided an admission to liking detective stories made him at least half human. She wondered if that’s why he liked jazz – life imitating art. There was still a gnawing worry that she seemed to be hitting it off with both Harkins and O’Connor and she just didn’t think it should be this easy. She promised to protect herself and not get too close too soon – she was still dealing with the wounds picked up in Belfast.

  The plus side was that whatever was coming the way of the MCT, it looked likely they had the right mix of people to handle it. As for O’Connor, she thought he was too ambitious, but that whoever led such a high-profile team had to be. In this service there was a constant battle for resources and she knew that O’Connor could probably outmanoeuvre anyone who stood in his way. If she could stay on board with him, she knew that he’d be a powerful ally. She’d spent her career doing it her way, but she was wise enough to know that to succeed, you had to be part politician and make sure you didn’t piss off the right people.

  Real politicians knew this already. How often had she heard a talking head from Westminster say that little can be achieved in opposition? Still, she was what she was, and where it mattered, her instincts were to face up to a problem. If it meant a bit of a battle, then that’s where it would go.

  They left the pub after a couple of hours, walking slowly back to HQ without saying too much. They didn’t need to and just enjoyed the lowering sun, which painted the damp trees and streets in reds and gold. They had become comfortable with each other in a short time and relished the moment. Both O’Connor and Macallan had few close friends and both could fairly be described as isolated characters, so this had been a good afternoon.

  Macallan watched the citizens pass her by and realised that she was starting to see them as just other people rather than trying to read every face that might be giving her too much eye contact or pulling a concealed weapon. She knew she would have to accept that this was a different place. She wanted this new life so much – to trust people again – and she was starting to ache for physical contact. No one had put their arms round her since Belfast.

  The Belfast Incident

  She gripped the edge of the window and looked down on a textbook stop – everyone in the right place, and Doyle and Connery stepping out of the car, doing exactly what they were told. It proved she was watching one part of a set-up. She calle
d the 24-hour duty desk to get backup out looking for Cowboy, but she already knew it was over.

  Macallan had been right to worry about those shadows. Far enough away not to be obvious but close enough to see the Peelers do their best, the dissident intelligence officer saw everything he needed to see. This was no routine stop – a firearms team had been waiting for the volunteers and that was case closed. He spoke quietly to himself, using Cowboy’s true name: ‘Well, that’s you fucked then, Bertie Gallagher.’

  At that very moment, Gallagher was being transported in the boot of a car to a safe house, where as much information as possible would be extracted before he was given his red card.

  Doyle and Connery were lying on the ground while the arrest team checked the car for weps or explosives. When they opened the bag, no one needed to explain that the operation had been organised on shite information or a set-up, but that wasn’t their problem and meant they could get an early finish away from the streets.

  One of the arrest officers was Jackie Crawford. Not the smartest of God’s creatures but hard, fit and perfect for the ‘heavy team’. He was popular with the boys, built like a light heavyweight boxer, which was exactly what he was at amateur level, and a top amateur at that. Like so many others he came from a police family that had sacrificed much during the Troubles. His father had been a uniformed sergeant in Londonderry and lost part of his left leg in a sniping job in the city. He survived, but worse was to come for the Crawfords when his brother, Billy, a constable in Bessbrook, South Armagh, was ambushed on his way to the station. He’d been taken alive by a PIRA active service unit and his body bore the signs of torture when he was found over the border in the Republic.

  The firearms team leader was satisfied that the car was clean and the boys in the car would be taken to Antrim Serious Crime Suite to be interviewed; CID would take care of that end of the business. They’d be delighted at that, knowing the whole fucking thing was a set-up – that Doyle and Connery could just sit there and laugh in their faces.

  Doyle was handcuffed and the team leader told Jackie Crawford to take him over to a van for transport back to Antrim. Doyle recognised Crawford right away, remembered watching the young boxer who was quite a handful and had seen him when they were scouting the Peelers for targets in Belfast. He knew all about the Crawford family but felt nothing about that particular tragedy other than ‘fuck them, they’re Peelers’. The Big Man had told Doyle to say nothing if they were stopped, and he’d meant it. ‘Shut the fuck up, smile and you’ll be back on the street in no time. Do you hear what I say, Tommy? It’s important.’ Doyle had heard what the Big Man had said, but he was cold, felt like shite and this was too good a chance to miss.

  Macallan watched the scene from her OP, trying to work out what would be the best move for her. Branch officers would already be on the job, trying to contact agents who might know where Cowboy was being held. If they got him alive, she would take him away from Belfast herself and the commander could stick her in a uniform – it didn’t matter any more. She wished again that she were in bed with Jack.

  She watched the young officer walk Doyle towards a van as the rest of the team either stood down or tried to get the car off the road to let the traffic move again. Doyle looked like a child against the bulk of the Peeler who was guiding him. She wondered how someone the size of Doyle could have caused so much mayhem, but that was often the way and most Peelers agreed that the ‘wee men’ were the worst.

  Doyle looked up at Jackie Crawford and realised that when the war was over he would no longer be the enemy or a ‘legitimate target’. Well, fuck that. He smiled when he spoke to Crawford. ‘I saw you f-fight, young man. B-boxed meself, so like to see a good fighter. You still doing it then?’

  Crawford didn’t really want to discuss life with Doyle, but then nothing had been found in the car and he’d be out on the street the next morning. The man looked ill and past his best, so why not humour him? ‘Still fighting and love it. Best sport in the world. Where did you box then?’

  Doyle ignored the question. ‘Know your family as well. That cunt of a father of yours, has he grown another leg yet?’

  Doyle arched his back in pain as his arm was squeezed. Crawford was built like a gorilla but remembered the training. ‘Don’t let them get into your head – that’s what they want.’

  Although Doyle felt like his arm was breaking, this would make a good story for the boys over a drink; he could take an awful lot of pain. ‘Y-you know what I heard, young man? I heard that when the boys hooded that b-brother of yours, he squealed like a f-fuckin’ girl before they stamped his ticket. Pissed in his p-pants, he did.’

  They were beside the van now and Crawford’s training couldn’t stop the anger welling up from the soles of his boots. He hit Doyle twice in the belly – and realised how frail the man was. Doyle went down on his knees, gasping to get air into his lungs, and his aching guts hit him with more pain that he’d ever endured. Crawford had to hand it to him; he was a tough little fucker – just knelt there on the ground dealing with what was surging through his body. Crawford leaned over Doyle and whispered in his ear, ‘How did you like that then? Sting a bit, did it?’

  Macallan watched this little incident in shock and realised the whole night was turning to rat shit. She’d tried to ignore the spook as much as possible that night, as he’d made it clear there was nothing in it for him and that he was only there under orders as an observer, but now . . . ‘Did you see that?’ she asked him.

  He had been putting his gear together. ‘Sorry no, getting my stuff wrapped up. Anything interesting?’

  She looked round at him and lit another cigarette. ‘One of the support team just floored Stutter.’

  The spook looked bored, sighed and carried on packing his bag. ‘In that case, I definitely saw fuck all. I’ll be on my way.’

  Doyle vomited on Crawford’s boots and the pain came under control. He’d never let any man see him fall over and cry. He looked up at the Peeler’s face. ‘Give me a hand up there, son. I’m f-freezing me bollocks off on this street. When we get to the cells, I’ll have two s-sugars if you don’t mind.’

  In the rear of the van, he rested the back of his head against the cold wall and prayed that this would pass quickly so he could get back to the street. He knew he had a long night ahead of him. He would be grilled by the CID asking the same stupid questions over and over again. Still, it was what had to be done for the cause. The only problem was that he was having trouble with what that cause was supposed to represent.

  Macallan thought of all the training that went into keeping these guys from crossing the line, but Doyle had obviously hit a raw nerve with the young Peeler. She’d had enough, would leave it to CID and pick it up first thing in the morning. She’d head back to the office to see if anything had come in on Cowboy, but she knew the answer to that already. The following day would be hard enough, and the thought of explaining it all to the commander meant she’d have a very large drink before hitting her mattress tonight.

  By the time Macallan was opening her front door, Cowboy’s body was being dumped near the docks in Belfast. They’d wanted it to be found to send a clear message to the Brits that there were volunteers still in the fight.

  7

  Macallan hardly noticed the next few weeks passing, and getting the MCT working burned up all the time anyone on the team had. She found that O’Connor tended to let her get on with running the MCT while he played his politics. They worked well together, but there was no time for socialising and getting to bed at night was enough until the team was running smoothly. There was warmth when she spoke to him, and they both knew that somewhere down the line there was more to discover. She was starting to remember and feel those small human emotions that had been numbed in Belfast – the banter in the squad room that was barely politically correct, Harkins pretending he wasn’t human then giving her a wink, and most of all, the way she had to try and break off eye contact with O’Connor. It felt good, heal
thy, and she realised how lonely she’d been and that she didn’t want to hide herself from the human race again. She was starting to gain a reputation as a doer in the force and someone with a fearsome range of skills.

  Harkins did more than anyone to beat the raw material of the team into shape, and Macallan came to care what happened to him. She could see that looming retirement could end up as a tragedy for the man; she’d seen it before – divorced from his two families, who’d moved on well without him, drinking habits that just stayed marginally on the right side of a serious problem and not a friend outside the force. He’d lived the job as if it would never end, but now the end was in sight and she knew that in the quieter moments, it was getting to him.

  They’d started having a regular Thursday night drink, which served two purposes: it allowed Harkins to tell Macallan how well she was doing or whether she had, in fact, fucked up. It also let her talk to the man who had to some extent taken up Bill Kelly’s mantle, even though they were two very different men. She knew he cared about her (but there was no chance of an admission), he could make her laugh and he was the closest thing she had to a friend so far.

  They tapped glasses and, as always, he threw the first one down in one gulp.

  ‘Cheers, Mick – and thanks for what you’ve been doing. God knows what we’d do without you.’