by Alan Veale
‘Course I’m fucking sure.’ The older man clapped him on the shoulder to strengthen the point. ‘Got to hand it down the generations, like Mickey wanted. You’ll do it right, you being a policeman an’ fond of the Pope. Won’t you? When the time’s right, pass it down to young Brendan, okay?’
Patrick Faulkner still hesitated, staring at the manila envelope in his hands as if it might somehow crumble into dust. ‘Okay. And this is proof the British Government were responsible?’
‘I’d swear it on Marion’s life. Them and that American feller. Read it for yourself but for fuck’s sake be bloody careful. Sensitive as a dose, know what I mean?’
‘Does Marion know about this?’
Walter Palmer blinked, mindful he was talking to a policeman as well as his favourite son-in-law. Best to tell the truth, then… up to a point. ‘She does. Leastways, she knows, but she’s never read any of it. Look, I know she’s my daughter but you know what she’s like. Fuckin’ women never keep their mouths shut, do they? Yak, yakkety yak. And then she used to work for that publishin’ company, didn’t she? Can you imagine what would happen if they got their hands on it? Wipe bloody Portadown off the fuckin’ map!’
Later, once the old man had left, Faulkner spread the fragile pages over the table and did his best to make sense of the whole thing. Forensics had never been his specialty, but he looked at the evidence in front of him and tried to form a reasonable conclusion. This was old stuff, going back to 1911. Familiar names: Pirrie, Ismay, Morgan, even Churchill. The Titanic, and all those who died. Did any of it matter now?
His father-in-law’s family had kept the documents for over seventy years. Now Walter had chosen him to keep them safe until the next generation were ready to take up the baton. For what purpose? Surely such sensitive material could be put to better use in difficult times?
Family ties. Faulkner remembered Walter’s wider circle of relatives held another connection that could prove useful. His thoughts took another direction, and he reached for pen and paper to jot down some ideas.
*
Weeks later, in a flat in Westminster, a young boy found little pleasure in a childhood game.
‘You’re cold, Timothy! But you do have a shapely backside. Try nearer the window.’
The recommendation came with an appreciative chuckle as a thirteen-year-old boy sat on his heels turning his head in search of a stronger light. It amused the man to watch as his new playmate searched to his right, the material in the blindfold just thin enough to lead him on. The boy adjusted his position slightly before crawling forward a few more inches.
‘Warmer!’
The boy sensed something solid in his path a moment before he hit it. The result was a slight bump to his head.
‘Shit!’
Laughter behind. ‘Oh, Timmy, Timmy! You don’t know how warm you are, you really don’t. Are you not enjoying Hunt the Thimble?’
The boy rubbed his head and bit his lip. The truthful answer would have been ‘no’. Apart from the embarrassment of banging into furniture while blindfolded, he was also feeling sore from an earlier encounter. Shuffling around like this on all fours while stark naked was not his idea of fun. But he felt sure it was better to please the man than to make him angry. He tried crawling in a new direction.
‘Cold! No, Timothy. To your right. To your right! WHAT?’
This last was not directed at the boy. A male secretary stood uncomfortably at the Cabinet Minister’s elbow, studiously averting his eyes from the playful scene initiated by his employer.
‘Telephone, sir. PM’s office.’
A call from the Prime Minister on a Sunday afternoon was highly unusual, but could not be ignored, so he closed the door on his new playmate. The left hand was one world; the right hand another, and it was in that direction he must now follow. The amusement he had christened ‘Timothy’ would keep for a few minutes.
Picking up the handset in his office, he took a deep breath before announcing himself: ‘Peter Gris speaking. What’s up, Jaeger?’
‘She wants to see you,’ came the clipped but fruity tones of Antony Jaeger. ‘Bit of a panic on affecting your new playground, old chap. I trust you weren’t into anything too... distracting?’
The recently appointed Secretary of State for Northern Ireland sighed in exasperation. Wearing only a bathrobe and slippers, he’d hoped the interruption would be brief. ‘Nothing I can’t put aside for an old friend. How serious are we talking? Is it the old enemy?’
‘Not this time,’ said Jaeger. ‘But I get the impression she needs a blue-eyed boy who can’t say no.’
Don’t we all? thought Gris. He put aside the memory of Timothy’s backside and pressed the PM’s secretary for more information. ‘And how soon is this particular blue-eyed minister required to attend?’
‘Yesterday would be good.’
‘Christ, this must be worth a good bung. You do realise I’m knee-deep in all of Douglas’s reports from before the recess?’
A fruity chuckle came over the line. ‘Peter, Peter… please don’t shoot the messenger! But speaking of bungs, I have it on good authority a certain Right Honourable Gentleman is standing there with a silver thimble up his arse.’
*
A little less than an hour later, Peter Gris was shown into an office slightly smaller than his own within the matrix of rooms that formed 10 Downing Street. The Prime Minister remained seated at her desk and pointed deliberately at the chair to her left. That was a good sign. The new Northern Ireland Secretary knew he was not in any trouble, or he would have been directed to the one facing her.
‘Peter, good of you to come.’
His lips forced a tight smile. ‘My pleasure, ma’am. How can I help?’
‘I won’t keep you any longer than necessary. Peter, are you aware of any history for a chap called Patrick Faulkner with the RUC?’
It meant nothing to him, and he said so.
‘He’s trouble,’ she announced. ‘Or at least he has been. I want you to ensure he doesn’t make any more for us. Have a look at these.’
The folder she passed to him held few pages, and he scanned the contents as quickly as possible. The first item was a letter from Faulkner, purporting to be a senior officer with the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The initial paragraph indicated that the addressee, ‘Gerry’, worked for a newspaper in Northern Ireland. On the face of it, Faulkner was offering to sell material for a story that could damage the British Government, including the reputation of the late Winston Churchill. He claimed to hold evidence that the government of 1912 had actively colluded in covering up the facts surrounding the fate of RMS Titanic. More alarming in Gris’s eyes was a claim to have information regarding the sexual habits of at least one senior name in the present government.
The Prime Minister spoke again. ‘We were lucky. The package was intercepted before it reached the news desk.’ Gris looked up while trying to mask a flurry of panic. ‘Peter, I’m treating this seriously for two reasons. Faulkner has historical family connections to workers at Harland & Wolff. It seems there is a very real risk in that quarter.’
Gris nodded. The Belfast shipbuilders had been nationalised less than ten years earlier, which put the threat squarely in his own patch. ‘These photocopies of old letters?’
‘Possibly forged, but in the wrong hands they could be interpreted as compromising relationships between Churchill, who was then President of the Board of Trade, and Lord Pirrie who was—’
‘Chairman of Harland & Wolff.’
‘Correct. You will also be aware the wreck has been discovered?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The second reason is that an American scientist has just found the Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic. It seems likely that is what prompted the timing of this letter. Look at what he says about Ismay.’
Gris was grateful not to have to admit the news of Titanic’s reappearance had eluded him. He turned over two pages and found a letter referring specifically to J. B
ruce Ismay, managing director of the White Star Line which owned the notorious ship. The contents made uncomfortable reading.
He felt lightheaded as he thought about the paperwork on his own desk intended to cement an Anglo-Irish Agreement in only a few weeks’ time. One person’s greed could blow it all apart.
‘Is this for real? Did the Government have something to do with the sinking?’
‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘There’s no evidence at all. But the last thing we need is for anyone to believe there is. The allegations against Churchill’s memory are absurd. I want this whole thing stamped on at once. Faulkner is now your problem.’
‘He’s a rogue officer, then? You’ve had him checked out?’
She nodded. ‘He’s an inspector, but it seems he’s also a sympathiser with militants. I want him removed, and I want a guarantee of silence. Do you think you can do that, Peter? Discreetly, of course.’
Gris ran a hand through his mane of hair while considering multiple options at speed. One part of his deviant mind had already reached a potentially favourable outcome.
‘I think I can say you have my guarantee, Prime Minister.’
Three
The Land Rover reversed onto the road without incident.
‘Head for Loughgall.’
They turned to the right, Brendan remembering to breathe again, caught between threat and salvation. His initial panic subsiding enough to remember that was where his Da worked. The RUC barracks were in Loughgall. Was there a chance of rescue there? He knew about the service pistol hidden under the seat, but what chance was there of using it? All he could do was watch his father slowly moving up the gears, trusting that something would happen to get them out of this mess.
‘Now take a left.’
They had only gone a few hundred metres. Turning left would mean heading south on a narrower road towards the border with the Republic. Bandit country. Faulkner took the corner slow, desperately trying to think what lay ahead. Next to him Brendan was aware of three things: on his left was a man with a knife, on his right was his Da, but his immediate concern was on what had just happened between his legs.
It was fully dark now, and not another vehicle in sight. The headlights raked the high hedgerows either side of a token asphalt surface. Parsifal returned his knife to its sheath, bracing himself with one hand on the dashboard and the other on the bulkhead behind. Seatbelts were redundant; the occupants restrained by uncertainty.
Lights ahead. Then a figure standing in the roadway.
Faulkner slowed. Opportunity? He glanced to his left at the man in black.
More figures ahead. One standing in the centre of the road, an arm raised in authority. Two more to his right, both apparently carrying assault rifles, and all three in military clothing. Behind them were at least two vehicles clearly not for civilian use. Faulkner could not believe his luck. He chanced a jibe at his captor.
‘Hey Mick, what do you want me to do now? Run for it?’
There was no reply. Faulkner brought the Land Rover to a halt barely four metres from the lead soldier. A solidly built officer in a black beret barred the road, his cap badge glinting in the headlights, this last object a welcome beacon of reassurance. The use of military style uniforms was common among several organisations in Ulster, but no one could mistake this patrol as anything other than British.
The Land Rover idled in the glare of a powerful searchlight mounted on an army vehicle. As the officer moved round to the driver's door Faulkner switched off the headlights as well as the engine. He wound down his window, knowing the procedure.
‘Thank you, sir. Please step outside your vehicle.’
‘I will, sergeant. But would you first relieve me of this passenger? He’s assaulted me and my son!’
There was little reaction from the officer in charge, but then the passenger door was flung open, prompting a loud shout. Faulkner turned towards Brendan in time to see the man in black being pulled out by two armed squaddies. They bundled their captive to the ground and screamed at him to spread his legs and place his hands on top of his head.
‘Sir? Can I see some ID?’
Faulkner stepped down in front of the officer and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Patrick Faulkner, inspector with the RUC, Loughgall Barracks. Thanks for this. My son’s petrified.’
The army officer used a small torch to examine the card, then shone it inside the Land Rover at Brendan’s tear-stained face. Another shout came from outside the vehicle. ‘Sarge! This one’s got a knife! We’ve disarmed him, sarge.’
Faulkner followed the officer and saw a soldier kneeling on top of his captive. The man’s mask had been removed and he was wincing at the pressure of an assault rifle against his ear. Another soldier stood over him, holding up a knife for inspection. ‘No ID, sarge.’
‘Very good, corporal.’ The officer turned back to Faulkner. ‘Looks like you’ve had a lucky escape, Inspector. I’ll have to take you for debriefing at our barracks. What’s the situation with the boy? Are you his legal guardian?’
‘Yes! Well, no… he should be at his mother’s. We’re divorced. He lives in Portadown. He’s only eleven.’
‘I understand. Bring the boy with you. We’re at Mahon Road, two minutes away. We’ll take the lad back to his mum. But I will need a full report from you.’
‘Understood. But can you get your squaddies to check my vehicle? I think this feller was tampering with it while I was in the house.’
It took a full minute to coax Brendan out of the Land Rover, and the boy clung tight to his father as they followed the officer. Seeing their attacker back on his feet, held firmly by the two soldiers, Faulkner hesitated. He strode over to the man and stared him in the face.
‘Better luck next time, Mick!’ Then he spat on the ground and turned away.
*
Brendan was worried. It must have been an hour or more since he had seen his father, and he’d been left alone in a room they had told him was an officer’s mess. It didn’t look much of one to him, but then these were the Brits. Brits-give-you-the-shits. He never told anyone his mother was English. Not his fault.
His pants were on a radiator, still damp because the heating had gone off before they arrived. Embarrassed by the dark stain at his crotch, after ten minutes on his own he had whipped them off and used a wet cloth to sponge them at the sink. He’d seen Ma do that more than once. Now he shivered and looked down at his sodden underpants and the yellowing stain. Should he do the same with them? He didn’t want Ma to know he’d wet himself. Things had turned out okay after all, hadn’t they?
But he didn’t understand why they’d locked him in.
‘Be back in ten minutes,’ said the soldier, after making him a cup of tea. Now it was well past eleven. Ma would kill him. The tea wasn’t like they had at home. It tasted funny, so he’d left most of it.
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Had he time to retrieve his pants from the radiator? Low voices on the other side of the door. He made his move, but not quickly enough. The door opened just as he got to the radiator, so he stopped and tried to look relaxed. He’d expected someone in uniform, but this man was wearing a suit. At least he was smiling.
‘My, my! What an intriguing picture,’ said the stranger. ‘Oh yes, we had a little accident, didn’t we? Nothing to be ashamed of, dear boy. Come and sit down over here.’
English. Brendan recognised that, but he didn’t speak like the soldiers, or his Ma. He sounded more like someone off the telly. The tall man with a thick mane of hair and specs that glinted in the light selected an armchair near the empty fireplace and sat back in it, crossing his legs and looking very much at home. He pointed to a similar chair opposite and Brendan took the hint.
‘So, you’re Patrick’s boy?’ The stranger spoke again in his silky English accent. ‘Brendan, isn’t it? Good. Very good. My name is Mr Gris. But you can call me Uncle Peter.’
*
The developing situation in Armagh had been communicated
to Peter Gris in Belfast an hour earlier by the major in charge of G Squadron, 22nd SAS Regiment. It would have been a surprise to anyone serving in the Royal Ulster Constabulary to know the SAS were operating out of Portadown. Officially, G Squadron had the working title of 4 Field Survey Troop, Royal Engineers.
Faulkner read the name beneath the officer’s shoulder flash as he was directed into an interview room.
‘He’ll be fine, Inspector. We’ll let him clean himself up, give him a cup of tea and then take him home to his mum.’
‘Thanks, Captain.’ Faulkner was visibly more relaxed. ‘I’ll be getting some grief from his Ma in the morning! But I swear I’d no idea he intended to bike over to mine this evening. Kids, huh?’
‘Indeed,’ agreed the officer. ‘If we can just fill in a report, we can let you get on with whatever you have to do.’
The paperwork took almost thirty minutes, but it was thorough enough. Faulkner insisted he knew of no reason why he had been singled out for attention by militant dissidents. No, he made no secret of his occupation, and he kept a small social circle, purely within the drinking establishments of Portadown. No, he had no reason to believe he had any enemies, other than those expected for a serving policeman. Yes, he would be careful to check his vehicle in future.
Faulkner was driven back to his Land Rover at the checkpoint, now turned around ready for the return journey, and with one of the squaddies standing guard.
‘Sir? You should know we did find an IED attached to the underside. It’s been made safe and removed. Our boys’ll check it out in the morning to see what we can find out.’
Faulkner shuddered. He had suspected as much, but it was a sobering thought to realise how close he (and Brendan) had come to violent death. He nodded his thanks and climbed into the car, checking the time on his watch: 10.42. He knew he should go and face the music at Marion’s, but the thought of downing a quick pint held more consolation. He gunned the engine and shoved a cassette into the player: Brothers in Arms.
