‘Would you like a cup of tea or a drink?’ I yelled into the living room.
‘Bit early for me. Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘No, go ahead.’
I went back into the living room, stoked the fire, sat down opposite him and gave him the ashtray.
‘Wolfgang Rihm?’ he enquired, gesturing towards the stereo. ‘I’m impressed. I thought I was the only person in Ireland who’d heard of him,’ I said.
‘Not my sort of thing at all,’ he replied. ‘But one must keep up with the new developments, mustn’t one?’
‘If you say so, Mister …’
‘Oh, I’ve never been one for surnames, if you don’t mind.’
‘What can I do for you then, Mr X?’
‘Oh, you can call me Jack. Everyone calls me Jack.’
He gave me a thin smile. We had reached the portion of Klavierstück Number 1 that sounded like a demented child practising her scales.
‘Congratulations are in order, of course. Tony McIlroy turning on you like that. You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘Very lucky. Is that what you want to talk to me about?’
‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ he asked, looking out of the window. ‘I think the rain has stopped.’
‘OK.’
When I had first moved here in 1981, it used to be that I could cross the street and walk for ten seconds and be in the Irish countryside, but now they had built houses on the Barn Field and the Barley Field and half of the old cricket pitch. However, if I turned right and walked to Victoria Road and kept walking north, eventually Victoria Road became Victoria Lane – a single, unmetalled track used only by tractors – and there, among the wild blackberry, raspberry and blackcurrant bushes, we were in another Ireland. An Ireland of stone walls and cattle. An Ireland of fortified bawns, passage tombs and dolmens. In ten minutes we were centuries displaced from the tarmac and the phone lines and TV.
‘Cleansing to be outside. Good for the soul,’ Jack said.
‘If you say so.’
‘I know that you are not an unreasonable man, Mr Duffy,’ he said.
‘Then you don’t know me very well, Jack,’ I countered.
He sniffed at that and tipped the ash from the end of his cigarette.
‘I’ve read the report you wrote about what happened with you and Tony McIlroy. I’ve read your speculations about why Tony McIlroy pulled that gun on you. Fortunately, none of those speculations have so far made it into the media. Have you read the papers?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘They’re saying that McIlroy was drunk and depressed over his resignation from the Met. They’re saying that you tried to console him as an old friend, take him out for a nice evening, but after too much booze he just snapped and started shooting blindly into the street with an illegal hand gun. Reluctantly, you had to shoot him, to protect yourself and others. You’re something of a quiet hero in a way. Maybe they’ll give you a medal.’
‘You know what really happened. He killed Chief Superintendent McBain.’
‘The team from Larne RUC that searched his house found no evidence linking your friend with McBain’s death.’
‘The sniffer dogs found trace evidence of Semtex.’
‘But no actual Semtex.’
‘He used it all. Tony did it. He as good as confessed. He was an engineer. He got the plastique from the Loyalists and he made two bombs. And he conspired with Harald Ek to kill Lily Bigelow.’
‘It’s certainly an interesting hypothesis, but again, there’s zero evidence.’
‘I’m going to find that evidence. He did it. I know he did it.’
‘Hunches don’t count for anything in court.’
We walked a little further up the muddy lane.
‘Did you know that Harald Ek is currently in Dublin, helping set up the Lennätin factory there?’
‘I may have heard that somewhere.’
‘You’re not going to try and have him arrested are you?’
‘If I can make the case, I am going to have him arrested.’
‘To what end?’
‘To have him tried for murder.’
‘You really think the Irish police would extradite a foreign national to Northern Ireland to face a murder trial on the basis of your evidence? I mean to say, old boy, what evidence? Not a sausage. You think they would jeopardise a deal with Lennätin to appease you? And you must be aware that Finland and the United Kingdom do not have an extradition treaty; if he’s released on bail, Mr Ek can simply fly back to Helsinki and there’s nothing anyone can do.’
‘Who do you work for, Jack?’ I asked.
‘I don’t work for anyone, Mr Duffy. I’m an unpaid advisor to the government.’
‘Which government?’
‘The British government, of course.’
I didn’t believe him. ‘Are you MI5?’ I asked.
‘I work for the government in a private capacity,’ he insisted.
‘Which department?’
‘If you must know, I’m an advisor to the Home Office.’
‘But you used to be MI5, didn’t you? Did you know Kate Albright?’
He thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘I knew Kate. A remarkable young woman. A great career ahead of her. Such a tragedy.’
‘What do you think Kate would advise me to do with Mr Laakso and Mr Ek?’
‘Kate would be telling you exactly what I’m telling you. Drop the case, Inspector Duffy. All you have is supposition. Motive, circumstantial evidence, but no proof of any kind. No proof, in fact, that any crime whatsoever was committed in the case of the young lady. What you’re doing is stirring up a lot of trouble for no good reason. Is it a question of justice? Is that it? I thought you were a little too cynical for such a sentiment.’
‘Again, you thought wrong. Or at least, you thought wrong in this instance.’
He dropped his cigarette in a puddle and stood on it.
‘If it’s a question of justice, then perhaps we can make a representation to the Finnish government through the proper channels. We could show the Finns your evidence and perhaps Mr Ek will be quietly disciplined …’
I looked him square in his steady, grey-blue eyes. He was offering me a deal of sorts.
‘How would that work?’
‘You would end your inquiry. When a suitable period has elapsed, your suspicions would be passed to the Finns. They would look into it.’
I considered it.
It began to drizzle. Sheep baahed in the field to the left. Cows mooed in the field to the right. Rooks and gulls called out warnings as a hawk soared above them.
‘No. I’ve been to Finland. I know how the system works. It’s exactly the same there as here. Laakso and Ek are powerful men. Nothing will come of your representations.’
‘It’s better than nothing, surely.’
‘I’m not beaten yet.’
‘That’s not what I hear.’
‘Oh? What do you hear?’
‘I hear that Larne RUC have dismissed as absurd your take on the McBain murder and I’ve heard that the DPP is still pursuing the murder case against Mr Underhill.’
‘Underhill will get off. I’ll testify in his defence if necessary. And if all my inquiries are dead, why the necessity of this little talk?’
‘Because a beaten man, an angry, irrational man can cause a tremendous amount of trouble. Why not just do what your superiors want you to do and let this one go, eh? Do you fish, Inspector Duffy?’
‘No, I don’t bloody fish.’
‘Nevertheless, you understand the concept of cutting the line, don’t you?’
‘I can’t do that. This thing is big. There’s kids involved. A conspiracy. I’m not letting that go!’
Jack’s eyes widened with alarm.
‘Conspiracy? What utter tosh!’
‘And I owe it to Lily Bigelow.’
‘You met her, didn’t you?’
‘Briefly.’
‘Yes. They told me there was a personal d
imension,’ he mused. ‘Most unfortunate.’
‘Says you.’
‘It’s not just that you met Miss Bigelow, is it? You believe that you were – to use the jargon of our times – socially engineered by Tony McIlroy?’
‘If that’s the way you want to put it, yes. Him and Ek together. They looked at my old cases and designed a murder just for me.’
Jack shook his head. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he said sympathetically.
I could tell that he wasn’t a bad sort. Just another geezer with a job to do. The job, of course, being me.
We turned and began walking back towards the house. He lit another cigarette with a gold-plated lighter.
‘So you think Ek did it?’ he said.
‘I know he bloody did it.’
‘Why?’
‘To protect his boss. To protect the firm. And because he could. A killer kills and killing’s always been easy for him.’
‘And if you can prove it?’
‘I’ll have the Garda arrest him in Dublin and we’ll at least attempt to get him extradited up here for a trial.’
He shook his head. ‘That will ignite a scandal that will be the end of the Lennätins’ investment in Ireland.’
‘Let the chips fall where they may.’
‘A cavalier thing to say. Don’t you care about the jobs?’
‘What jobs?’
‘Five hundred jobs in Dublin. Up to a thousand more over the next five years. Jobs in subsidiary industries up here, too. Mobile phones. The future, Inspector Duffy.’
‘That’s what they said about the DeLorean.’
He laughed. ‘That is what they said about DeLorean. But this time it’s real. Ireland is poised to be the hub of a growing industry. The industry of the twenty-first century. The future isn’t in heavy industry. The future is in information. A literate, English-speaking workforce, highly educated and willing to work for a salary significantly lower than their American counterparts. Thousands of new jobs all over Ireland.’
‘And a human life? The kids in that institution?’
The pupils in his eyes contracted as he turned to look at me. Examining me, perhaps, like a curious specimen in his collection of beetles. ‘Sorrow is knowledge, Inspector Duffy, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.’
‘Says you.’
‘I can see that I’m not getting through to you.’
We had reached #113 Coronation Road now. We went inside and I gave him his coat and umbrella. I did not invite him into the living room for a drink.
‘Or perhaps it’s pride? Is that what this is about, Inspector Duffy?’ he asked, with a slight and rather unbecoming, sneer on his face.
‘What do you mean, pride?’
‘A determination to prove everyone wrong about you.’
‘I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.’
‘I think you do. You must be aware of your RUC record. A less-than-stellar police career, no real high-profile convictions. The fact that you never found out who killed Lizzie Fitzpatrick in that other so-called “locked room” incident when you were with Special Branch. That fact that, for the last six years, you’ve been treading water here. A constant source of embarrassment to your superiors, a disappointment to your friends.’
‘Listen, Mr Ogilvy, it never made it into the newspapers or the RUC files, but I did solve the Lizzie Fitzpatrick case. I found out who killed her and how he did it and why he did it. If Tony McIlroy did social-engineer me, he fucked up. Maybe I’m not a great detective, maybe I’m not even a good detective, but I am fucking persistent. And I am going to find out how Ek did it and I’m going to bring the bastard down for it. The UK government might not like it, the Irish government might not like it, but if I can make a case, the RUC will support me and the police down south will support me, too. Cops everywhere love nicking villains. Have a nice day.’
I closed the door and I watched him go down the path and get into a waiting silver Mercedes.
After he’d gone, I sat down on the living-room sofa, shaking. Frustration, rage, regret.
‘Fucking bastards, the lot of them!’ I said to the cat and walked out to the shed and opened the bottle of poteen.
I poured myself half a jam jar of the stuff and diluted it with orange juice. I drank it and stared out through the shed window at the blackbirds and the starlings and the rain falling slantwise into the garden.
Aye, Ek and McIlroy had used my own case history against me, my own perceived failures. Failures I had aplenty, but not in this instance. I had not been defeated by the locked-room problem like the case file suggested. They were the eejits, not me. Not Carrick CID. Not this time.
But the thing that was killing me was how he did it? How did he get away with it? While poor, misguided, desperate Tony McIlroy was off killing Eddie McBain, Ek was killing Lily Bigelow.
‘How?’ I asked the cat.
The cat meowed. It had no idea.
I poured another glass of poteen.
And another.
I put on the radio, alternating between Radio 3 and Radio 4 and when I got bored of news and classical music I tweaked the shortwave and found Radio Albania, which was preaching Maoism and the glories of the Revolution under Comrade Inver Hoxha.
I was drunk and it was pitch black when the poteen bottle was finally empty.
The rain hadn’t ceased the entire day.
I locked the shed door, walked up the greasy garden path, slipped, fell hard on to the cement paving stones.
My head cracked.
Blood poured.
You know what the rest is:
The
rest
is
silence …
25: BREAKING THE CASE
Pain. Rain. Excited conversation.
‘Jonty, call 999.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, he is not! I can see him breathing. Call the ambulance. Go!’
‘Did somebody shoot him?’
‘No! Away and call the ambulance before I take the back of my hand to you!’
I tried to sit up. I couldn’t. My head was on fire. A torch in my face.
‘Lie there, Mr Duffy, the ambulance is on its way.’
It was Mrs Campbell from next door with, seemingly, all of her kids. Janette was holding the back of my head.
‘Wha– What happened?’ I managed.
‘You fell on the wet path. You’ve cut yourself badly. Your wee cat was meowing like mad otherwise you might have lain here all night and bled to death like your man from Bridge Over the River Kwai, what’s his name?’
Saved by the friggin’ cat.
The ambulance came.
Three-inch cut across my forehead. Only three inches, but deep. Eleven stitches. Overnight in the hospital.
Concussion and vision tests. Everything good. But I still had to endure a lecture from a young doctor about my blood alcohol level.
I listened to the lecture and agreed to change my ways. He released me and I called in at the station with a bandage around my forehead that everyone thought was a practical joke. I filled the boys in on all the latest developments. Crabbie insisted that I go home. Walked me out, leading me by the elbow.
‘Home, Sean and stay there,’ he said.
I went to the cake shop, bought a thank-you cake, came home, went next door to the Campbells with the cake.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have, Mr Duffy. There was no need for that.’
‘If I can ever do anything for you.’
‘Well themuns in here are all too lazy. Could you take Tricksie for a walk some night?’
‘How about now?’
‘Shouldn’t you be resting?’
‘No. Fresh air is what the doc said I need.’
Down Victoria Road and on to Downshire Beach.
Raincoat, wellington boots. Black water.
The usual architecture of destruction: shopping trolleys and rubbish and rusting boats
and even the odd wreck of a car. Winding mouths of the Mill Stream and the Lagan. Smell of dead seaweed and chlorine.
Dusk over the Antrim Plateau.
A vast, hypnotic murmuration of starlings.
‘How many birds do you think there are up there?’ I asked Tricksie.
‘About a hundred thousand,’ a bearded young man with binoculars said behind me.
‘Really? That many?’
‘Oh yes. Sometimes the Belfast Lough murmuration can swell to half a million birds, but not at this time of year.’
‘Why do they do it?’
‘Some people say it’s to confuse the peregrines and sparrow hawks. But there aren’t many peregrines in the lough waters these days. Personally I think they just do it for the pleasure of it.’
We watched the starlings carve up the red sky in a complex ballet of sudden turns and abrupt stillnesses and radical changes of direction.
‘How do they not bump into each other?’ I asked.
‘Oh it’s a simple scale-free behavioural correlation. The range scales with the linear size of the flock.’
‘What?’
‘The change in the behavioural state of one animal affects, and is affected by, that of all other animals in the group, no matter how large the group is.’
‘I see. You’re some sort of scientist then, are you?’
‘Nick Baker, University of Ulster,’ he said, offering me his hand.
‘Sean Duffy,’ I said.
‘And what do you do, Sean?’
‘I’m in the police.’
‘And you’re also a birdwatcher?’
‘No, not really … But this is fascinating.’
‘Isn’t it, though?’ he agreed.
‘It’s all simple mathematics, is it?’
‘Yes. If you video a flock like this and freeze-frame it, you can see that each bird affects about a dozen birds around it and that way the whole flock acts almost as one organic entity, like one bird.’
‘You did this freeze-framing?’
‘No! I wish. The application of chaos theory to starling murmuration – that’s the kind of thing that gets you in Nature, that’s the kind of thing that gets you promotion.’
We watched for a few minutes more, until the sun finally set and the starlings roosted for the night. I walked Tricksie home and then set off for the station.
Something Baker had said started a cog whirring in my brain.
Rain Dogs Page 27
