by Duncan James
***
On the other side of Belfast, Major Bill Clayton called in one of his staff.
“Off hand,” he asked, “how many weapons have we captured that have been used in terrorist killings?”
“Off hand,” replied his second-in command, Captain Brian Foley, “I’ve no idea. But I could find out.”
“Please,” said Clayton. “And find out where they are and whether I can borrow them.”
“Now what are you up to, sir”, quizzed Foley. “Or are you not going to say.”
“Right as usual,” agreed the Major. “But I shall want a couple from each side, Republican and Unionist, and the more they’ve been used the better.”
Captain Foley left, shaking his head. It was so often impossible to work out what the boss was up to, but in the end, there was always a good reason for his often-bizarre demands.
“And while you’re at it,” Clayton called after him, “get some captured ammo to go with them.”
Foley thought there might be a clue in there somewhere.
“And get the Chief Clerk in here,” Clayton shouted after the retreating figure. So loudly, in fact, that the Chief Clerk heard him from two offices away, and scurried in without further bidding.
“Ah! Sergeant Wilson - just the chap I wanted. You must be psychic!”
Sergeant Catherine Wilson was just about getting used to everyone being a ‘chap’ so far as Clayton was concerned.
“I’ve got a little job for you, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to dig out all those dossiers we’ve built up about the villains of this parish - you know, the ones which try to list all the evidence against them - and trot across to the NI Police HQ at Knock with them,” said Clayton. “Go through them with one of your chums in special branch or the anti-terrorist squad, or both, and make sure they’re all as complete as we can make them. Then I want a duplicate of each folder. They must be classified at least Secret, so I’ll sign the authorisation when you’re ready, and then sign for possession of the duplicates. I shall be taking them to London later, but nobody needs to know that. Any questions?”
“Only the usual one, sir,” replied Sergeant Wilson, “but I expect I’d get the usual answer, so I shan’t bother asking.”
“Good man,” said Clayton. “On the button as always! Off you go.”
He watched her disappearing figure. As Sergeants go, she wasn’t a bad looking one, even in uniform, and he had once seen her out of uniform, jogging. Even better. She was damned good at her job, too.
