by Duncan James
***
Bill Clayton wanted time to think, and he always did that best on his own, in the garage full of old toys.
He was worried.
There were things going on which he hadn’t expected and didn’t understand. Not usual, that. He usually knew what was happening and why, and he wasn’t often taken by surprise by the turn of events, either. But he was now. Could he be losing his touch? Surely not. But he needed to understand what was going on, or he couldn’t decide what to do about it. He needed to think. He needed to get the facts sorted into some sort of order, if there was one.
It was possible that it all started with his poor, dear wife. Only been married a few months, they had, and almost immediately went to Northern Ireland for Bill to take up his present posting. She wasn’t used to the military life, or to the security situation in the Province, and hadn’t got used to the idea that Bill was in a high-risk job. She’d been shopping in Lisburn, as if she was at home in her cosy Hampshire home of Farnham. Protestant Lisburn in County Down was usual pretty safe, but you still needed to be careful and be aware. Dorothy obviously wasn’t. It must have been while she was in the supermarket that someone had planted the bomb, under their car parked at the back. At least she didn’t suffer. Killed instantly, thank God. They never did discover who did it, but Bill had always secretly and guiltily believed that he was the real target. They had recognised the car. On the other hand, it could just have been a warning for him to back off. In the end, it had had just the opposite effect.
But now his uncle. First his wife, and now his uncle. Were the two events related, or was it just a co-incidence after all this time? A settling of old scores, perhaps, and not connected to the current operation at all. Not many people even knew he had an uncle. There certainly weren’t many outside his small family circle. The Prime Minister, the Cabinet Secretary, Alistair Vaughan – that was about it, really. It must be a co-incidence. None of them ever met his wife, or knew anything about him when he was posted to Northern Ireland. Come to think of it, though, he did know Alistair before his posting to Belfast, but he was a Commander at Scotland Yard even then. Surely he could be trusted. What had the Prime Minister said? “Only people who were totally trustworthy must be told.” But that had included Vaughan. He had been brought into the loop by the Cabinet Secretary, no less. Could the Cabinet Secretary himself be trusted? It was he, of course, who had given Vaughan his uncle’s old envelope, with the list of bank accounts in it. Had Vaughan then passed it on to someone else?
Who else knew? Closer to home, both Captain Foley and Sergeant Wilson could have seen the envelope and noted the name and address. And what about the mysterious Commander Marsden, who had suddenly appeared on the scene, out of no-where? He had been a pillar of strength through this operation, like the rest of the team. Surely he was absolutely trustworthy. But would any of them who had seen the envelope have known that Edward Benbow was his uncle? Had he mentioned it? He didn’t remember. If someone was trying to get at him through his family, perhaps he should warn his father to take more care? Would he be next?
Then there was the death of Sean Doyle. He felt bad about that – really bad. If he’d been quicker off the mark, Sean might still be alive today. He just hoped he hadn’t suffered too much at the hands of his IRA masters and captors. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have talked, whatever they did. He was thoroughly trained by the Army to be able to resist that sort of thing, but you never could be sure. Everyone had a limit to what they could take. But Bill Clayton had a nagging un-ease about the whole thing. Something wasn’t right, somehow. The more he thought about it, the odder he thought the whole thing was. It just wasn’t like the IRA to dump people into Strangford Loch, or anywhere else come to that, when they had finished with them. Their methods of disposal were usually much more thorough than that. There was usually no trace left at all – no bodies for the mortuary, no clues, no forensic evidence, nothing. No bodies, no post mortems – exactly the policy that had been adopted during Op. Honolulu. And yet there was poor old Sean, floating face down in the Loch. He must find out what the result was of the post mortem. Find out how much the ex-Army padre might have suffered and how much he might have been tempted, after all, to talk, to put an end to it all.
He ought to get back to the office, really. There were things he had to do; people he had to talk to.
And yet, suddenly, Bill Clayton didn’t know whom he could trust anymore, or who he dared talk to about all this.
There was a soft knock on the partially open door, and Sergeant Wilson peered in. It was her turn to ask the question now.
“Are you all right, sir? I’ve brought a hot cup of tea, if you’d like it.”
“That’s kind of you – thanks. And I’m fine. Just worried about a couple of things that I wanted to try to get my mind round. A cuppa will help no end. Come in and shut the door,” he said.
“Is that wise?” she asked, “shutting the door, I mean. People might talk.”
“Frankly, I don’t care,” replied Clayton. “But I suppose you could do without gossip.”
She went over with the tea, and shut the door behind her.
“I was just thinking,” said Clayton, “that I should get back to the office, if only to apologise to you and Captain Foley. I’m sorry if I acted a bit cross, but I was.”
“We did wonder.”
“I hope I wasn’t too rude. I would hate to think that I’d upset you in any way.” Clayton realised that he wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Catherine.”
He hadn’t called her that before.
“Don’t be silly, sir. No offence was taken at all, although we were surprised that you were so upset. We haven’t seen you in a mood like that before.”
“Was it that bad?” Bill Clayton was becoming even more embarrassed.
“It was funny, really. You shut the office door, which you haven’t done for simply ages, and your hat missed the peg. We knew something must be wrong.” Catherine Wilson grinned.
“To be honest, I suddenly felt I wasn’t in control of events any more. Things have happened which I don’t understand and wasn’t expecting, and which I can’t yet explain.”
“I’ll help if I can,” said Wilson, “and I know Captain Foley will as well if you want us to. But what exactly is the problem?”
“The problem is that I’m no longer sure who I can trust and who I can’t.” said Clayton. “And I desperately need to talk this through with someone, just to get my thoughts in order, but the fact is there could just be a traitor at work within the small team involved in Op. Honolulu. I’m not saying there is, but there could be, and until I know for sure, one way or the other, I can no longer be sure who to confide in.”
“This sounds quite appalling,” said a shocked Wilson. “There must be someone in authority you can talk to.”
“I don’t yet need anyone in authority, as you put it, although eventually I shall. At the moment, I can only think of the Prime Minister as being beyond suspicion, but I shall need to know more before I go to him. No. At the moment, I just need someone intelligent who can listen, and help me sort out the facts.”
“How about Commander Marsden?” queried the Sergeant.
“I can’t even be sure of him, at the moment,” replied Clayton. “Until I know more, I can’t be sure of anyone.”
“Not even me?” asked Wilson.
He looked at her, and his anguished expression softened.
“Since you ask,” he said, “and since there’s no-one else about, I can tell you that I would trust you with my life – with anything and everything.”
“Well, thank you,” she said, simply. “So why don’t you?”
He looked at her again, and sipped the now-cold mug of tea. He sighed.
“We’d better get back before Brian Foley comes to find out what’s going on. Not that anything is, but I’m sure part of your task was to humour me back into the office.”
“You’re qu
ite right, actually,” grinned Wilson.
Clayton stood and stretched. “Let’s go, then. But it would be nice to talk things through with you later, if you’re not doing anything.”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Shall we meet up in the office after dinner?”
“If you’re really doing nothing, why don’t we meet before dinner,” suggested Clayton. “I know a quiet restaurant where we could grab a quick meal, and talk at the same time. We’re unlikely to be seen by anyone from here, either.”
“That would be really nice, if you’re sure that’s OK. I mean, I know we’re not supposed to socialise, being different ranks and all that.”
“What the hell! I’m happy to risk it if you are,” said Clayton. “It would be a great pleasure to take you out, if I may. And I’d really like to talk to you, about all sorts of things; not just this.”
“I’d really like that, too,” she said. “I’m no traitor, either!”
“That’s about the only thing I’m really sure of at the moment,” said Clayton with a grin.
He suddenly felt a good deal better, and much happier. On the way back to the office, they arranged where and when to meet. Foley looked up as they got there.
“See?” he said to Sergeant Wilson, “I told you a woman’s touch was what was needed at a time like this!”
“The mug of hot tea helped a bit, too,” said Clayton. “Sorry I was a bit abrupt earlier on. I suppose I ought to see what’s in the ‘in’ tray.”
“Not a lot, actually, sir,” said Wilson, the Sergeant Chief Clerk again. “A few memos, a couple of e-mails for you to look at and delete, and a letter marked ‘personal’. Not hand-writing I recognise, I’m afraid.”
“That shouldn’t take long then,” said Bill Clayton, as he went into his office, leaving the door open this time. “Where’s Commander Marsden, by the way.”
“Said something about exercising his horse, which I take it means that he’s using the helicopter for something or other,” replied Captain Foley.
“Nice to have my office to myself again.”
Clayton settled as best he could, but he was still anxious about the recent turn of events. More than that, perhaps, he was excited about the prospect of a quiet evening out with Catherine Wilson. He was looking forward to that.
He was brought back to earth with a jolt when he opened the letter addressed to him personally.
It was from Father Sean Doyle.
It was short and cryptic, obviously hastily written a very short time before his death.
Clayton read it over and over again.
“My dear Bill,” it read. “I’m sure you know me well enough to recognise what is in my character and what isn’t, in spite of what may be suggested. And I’m sure I know you well enough to be confident that you will spot a red herring when you see one. May the Good Lord bless you. Regards, Sean.”
The envelope contained a second, scribbled note, almost more alarming than the first. But it would explain a few things, if it was accurate. He read that over and over again, too, even though it was only a few words. After a few moments’ thought, he pushed the note into his pocket. He would keep that to himself for the time being, until he was sure whom he could share it with. But he at least now had something to go on, and a possible, if tenuous, link between all this and his uncle. He needed to know more, but would need time to work out how best to check this out.
Clayton stood slowly, patted his pocket, and went to the door.
“Come in you two,” he said.
‘Now what,’ they thought.
“Sit down, and listen to this. The letter I had is from Father Sean Doyle.”
They both knew Doyle’s background, and that he was – or had been - one of their best men. Clayton read the letter to them, twice.
“What on earth is that about?” asked Foley.
“There always seemed to me to be something odd about Sean’s death,” said Clayton. “It’s one of the things I was trying to puzzle out earlier this afternoon. The odd thing about it in particular is that the IRA doesn’t usually leave people who they have assassinated lying about, which is what we had assumed had happened to poor Sean. We assumed that they had decided it was he who was creaming off their funds, and that after they had tried to get him to talk, had killed him to put a stop to it or as punishment. This letter suggests that Sean somehow knew what was going to happen to him.”
“It could also suggest,” offered Sergeant Wilson, “that he committed suicide before they got to him. We need to know how he died.”
“Then let’s find out, quickly,” said Clayton, reaching for the phone. “We need the results of the post mortem, and fast.”
They sat there while he spoke to his contact at the Queen Victoria Hospital, where the post mortem had been carried out. He almost looked relieved at the end of the conversation, but immediately dialled again to speak to the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of the enquiry into Doyle’s death.
At the end of it, he sat back and looked at them both.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “For the last few years, Sean has been risking his neck on our behalf, and so far as we know, he was never suspected as being anything other than a parish priest. Thanks to his exceptional bravery and total loyalty, he won’t be now, either.”
“Why, what happened?” asked Sergeant Wilson.
“You were right; it was suicide. There wasn’t a mark on his body, so no torture thank God. He was found full of barbiturates, which he took before swimming out to the middle of the Loch. That was obviously a deliberate attempt to avoid the attentions of the IRA, and the risk of being forced to give away his real role in life. But he didn’t stop there. The police have found child pornography in his rooms and a computer full of downloaded material, mostly of recent origin. The police believe he was a paedophile, who was about to be uncovered. They are already appealing for possible victims to come forward.”
“That letter makes absolute sense now,” said Foley.
“That’s one hell of a red herring he’s laid, too,” said Wilson. “Blackening his own character in such a vile way just to protect us and our Op. Honolulu.”
“You’d better dig out his file for me, if you would,” said Clayton. “I shall need to square this away with his poor parents, if they are still alive.”
