The Psalm Killer

by Chris Petit

  G had first been alerted to the Bunty–Baker operation over lunch with a governor of the BBC, a friend of various intelligence departments and reliably indiscreet. That lunchtime’s rumour concerned G’s intelligence rivals moving into Northern Ireland behind his back. G was angry but hardly surprised. The status of Northern Ireland had always been contentious. Technically, as part of the United Kingdom, its security was an internal affair. But its proximity to the Irish Republic and susceptibility to infiltration from across the border meant that in practice, and despite much protest, it had fallen into G’s domain.

  G passed on this tidbit to Davenport. He also left him to come up with an effective response. G was such an excellent delegator that he left the office at five sharp, four-thirty on Fridays, confident that Davenport would cope. Davenport worked in an office known as F4 and was thought to be an analyst, assessing data and evaluating it for future projections. To an extent this was true, but most of that work was delegated in turn, leaving him free to concentrate on strategy.

  Davenport’s assessment of Northern Ireland led him to two conclusions, reinforced after consulting American analysts about mistakes made in Vietnam. The conflict would go on for at least a decade because guerrilla movements with significant local support do not get defeated, however hard they are hit, and that in the long run they must be negotiated with.

  These views put Davenport’s organization at odds with the rest of the security forces. The army, or influential sections of it, believed that Northern Ireland was just another colonial war to be won by intelligence gathering and covert operations, until the terrorists were hammered into unconditional surrender.

  Such a fundamental disagreement of approach led to a growing strain between Davenport’s outfit and army intelligence. By 1972 their policy of joint information gathering amounted in practice to little more than frosty silence.

  G’s gossip-gathering lunch with the man from the BBC alerted Davenport to the fact that their rivals – known as Internal within the department for some inexplicable reason, rather than by the initial and number that everyone else called them by – were secretly moving into Northern Ireland on the invitation of the army to conduct a joint operation.

  Thanks to Candlestick, Davenport was able to monitor the Baker–Bunty operation from the start and, when the time came, to break it up by using Candlestick to stampede Baker back to England. Davenport derived mild amusement from watching the Baker case end in farce. In court Baker had proved such an unreliable witness that the exasperated judge had thrown out his evidence and given him twenty-five years instead. But his enjoyment at his rival’s misfortunes was tempered by the fact that his own department had recently suffered an enormous setback because of similar illegal activities. One of their agents had gone on trial for bank robbery and queered the pitch by announcing that the raid was part of his brief as a British spy. The immediate prognosis was extremely gloomy, which was why G was making an unheard-of exception and breaking the sanctity of his weekend for a Saturday meeting.

  G kept rooms in Albany and entertained at the RAC Club, which he preferred to more established ones for its anonymity, and occasionally condescended to drink in the Red Lion in Duke of York Street when with Americans seeking London atmosphere. It struck Davenport as slightly silly that G, whose work covered the globe, confined his activities to less than half a square mile of London. There were occasional speculations about a home in the country and even a wife, but neither had been sighted.

  They met at the RAC Club, which Davenport found inconvenient as it meant coming in from Stanmore.

  ‘God, is it that gloomy?’ said G, after Davenport’s assessment.

  Davenport had concluded that because of basic differences of opinion between themselves and the army, and the damaging publicity they had suffered in the last year, the department would almost certainly have to cede Northern Ireland to MI5.

  ‘I’m buggered if I’ll see them in there,’ said G.

  Davenport caught him taking an approving look at himself in one of the wall mirrors. Dangerously vain, dangerously stupid, he thought.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked, turning his attention back to Davenport with a smile prompted by the reassuring sight of his own reflection.

  ‘We capitulate. Pull out and let them take over.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’

  ‘Let me explain, sir.’

  It took Davenport ten minutes of fluent talking to outline his plan. G tugged at his chin and Davenport wondered how much he was taking in.

  ‘Bully for you if you can get it to work,’ said G afterwards. ‘Three questions.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why the Officials and not the Provisionals?’

  ‘Softer target, more mercenary and almost certainly more susceptible to splits.’

  ‘Are you sure you can get the Candlewick defection to work?’

  ‘We’ve been laying the seeds for some months, and there’s a surprise on hand which should ease his passage. He may find the crossing rough but I can more or less guarantee he’ll end up on the beach.’

  ‘Do you really think you’ll have a ceasefire by next year?’

  Davenport could see from the eager gleam in G’s eye that his knighthood was the real issue here.

  ‘If the Provisionals swallow this Heatherington laddie, there’s a chance. We should know any day now. With luck, everyone’s attention will be taken up by the strike.’

  ‘That’s not us behind it, is it?’ asked G, suddenly looking as though he ought to be paying more attention.

  ‘Internal.’

  A national strike was being threatened by Protestant workers in protest against the recent Westminster–Dublin power-sharing agreement. Both Unionists and large sections of the British government were panicked by the implications of the agreement. The usual cry had gone up that Ulster was being sold down the river. Davenport thought it was a pity it hadn’t been dumped years ago. He remembered his father saying that Churchill had offered it to the South in exchange for it getting off the fence and joining the war.

  ‘How much is Internal involved?’ asked G.

  ‘Up to their necks.’

  G studied his nails. ‘I thought they probably were.’

  ‘Incidentally, if our little sting works, there ought to be an added bonus in the form of the final dismantling of the Baker–Bunty network. Watch this space.’

  ‘What about this surprise you’ve got lined up for Candlewick? None of my business, but what are the chances?’

  ‘Risky, but worth it if it comes off.’

  ‘Yes, but what are the chances of not killing the bugger?’

  Davenport laughed. ‘Rather depends whose finger’s on the trig.’

  Because of the strike whole areas of the city were without electricity and none of the street lamps were on. There should have been no danger walking in such a secure district. They were strolling down a wide avenue close to the university near where Becky lived, past safe suburban gardens. She was just saying that it was the first proper warm night of the year and how romantic it was when Candlestick saw the silver Cortina. Cortinas were gunmen’s cars. He had used one himself for Tommy Herron and his first thought was the illogical one that it was the same car resprayed.

  He had only seconds to throw her to the ground. Her scream was as high as a cat’s, and strangely exciting. Then came the dull crump of bullets raking the pavement. He felt nothing, only anticipation of the end, and in his mind’s eye saw the oil stains on the workshop floor from the day he’d shot Tommy Herron.

  He was aware of the car accelerating away and the firing stopping. He risked raising his head. They were lying by a low front wall. He hauled Becky into the garden behind, which at least afforded some protection, and waited for the Cortina to come back and finish the job. It was stationary about a hundred yards down the road, engine idling.

  At least they were helped by the power cut. Candlestick could hear the residents starting to react to the shooti
ng, calling out. He could see the car’s reversing lights come on as it started to move towards them. Then, to his surprise, it paused and drove away at high speed.

  Becky bit her lip and was greenly pale. She had been hit twice, from what he could tell, in the shoulder and in the arm. The wounds felt clean and there was very little blood. His only concern was to get away before the security forces arrived. Because of his status as a deserter, hospital was out of the question.

  When he tried to help her up his own leg buckled under him and he realized that the wet in his shoe was blood. Adrenalin had stopped him from registering that he had been hit. He managed to hobble and support Becky at the same time and got them through the garden and into the next, without attracting attention. From there it was a short walk to the Lisburn Road, close to where Becky lived, which was fortunate as there was no transport because of the strike.

  He got Becky upstairs to bed, relieved that her flatmates were out. The electricity was still off but the gas worked and he boiled water, then cleaned and bandaged her wounds. He found some aspirin and a cleanish dishcloth that he used as a tourniquet on his leg to cut out the worst of the pain. The bullet had entered below the ankle. He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t come back to finish off the job.

  ‘Where’s the nearest phone?’ he asked her.

  There wasn’t one in the flat. He could tell from the panic in her voice that she did not want him to go.

  He took her bicycle, which was downstairs in the hall. Peddling hurt less than walking, any wobbliness down to how long it was since he had ridden a bike.

  His worry that the phone system would be out of order too turned out to be groundless, but there was no answer from his contact’s number, nor Tranter’s London number, which was supposed to be permanently manned. It looked like they were deliberately cutting him loose, driving him into the arms of Breen. Breen was probably why he had been shot at. The UDA must have found out or been told – who by, he wondered bitterly – that they had been cutting deals.

  He tried the only number he knew for Breen, a daytime one, and got no answer. A couple of bars Breen used were listed in the book and he left messages at both. It was all he could do, he decided, other than wait.

  She was asleep when he got back. He sat in the window watching the street, resting his leg, trying to ease the throbbing. The pain made it hard to think.

  Just before midnight, Becky’s flatmates returned and he listened to them moving around, preparing for bed, giggling in the dark.

  The sound of a car drawing up woke him from his doze. It was two o’clock. Candlestick moved to the window and saw the silhouette of a man getting out. The street lamps were still off and he could not be sure if it was Breen. There seemed to be a second man too. Candlestick risked knocking on the window to draw their attention and was relieved to be greeted by a cautious wave.

  He hobbled downstairs and let them into the house.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked Breen with no sign of his usual humour.

  Candlestick explained.

  ‘And what the fuck am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Get the girl seen to for a start. I can take my own chances.’

  ‘I thought we had enough trouble with this bloody strike without you getting yourself shot up. Did you get a look at them?’

  ‘It was a UVF fellow I’ve seen around.’

  He decided it was safer if he told Breen that.

  ‘Jesus. I suppose you’d better come with us.’

  Becky started when he woke her.

  ‘There are some men here who’ll look after us.’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I have lectures in the morning.’

  Her eyes were feverish. He told her that it was just for the night and that she’d be back in the morning. Becky started sucking her thumb and burrowed deeper into the bed. In the end Breen and the other man had to carry her, wrapped in bedclothes. Candlestick heard Breen curse under his breath as they stumbled in the dark.

  They put Becky on the back seat and covered her head with a blanket, and Breen told Candlestick to lie on the floor in front of her. He hesitated, looking for some sign of sympathy from Breen and found none.

  ‘Or you can go in the fucking boot like you did for Tommy Herron.’

  He hoped the jolt he felt when Breen spoke didn’t show. Breen’s eyes burned bright with anger.

  ‘Christ, son, you’ve a nerve coming to me. I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

  28

  MARY Ryan continued to take up her share of headlines, more than anything because of her transparent innocence. Harder-hearted officers referred to her as the Virgin Mary. In spite of her Catholicism even loyalists jumped on the bandwagon. Cross listened to one on the radio as he shaved, thundering on. ‘This country has become a country of murder. Violence is our virus and when a poor wee girl becomes the innocent victim of such uncontrolled terror then it is up to us to stand up and ask: who are the real perpetrators of this evil?’

  Cross disagreed. Violence in the North had always struck him as controlled. The unusual thing about Mary Ryan’s death was that it threatened middle-class security. Middle-class Belfast had it pretty cushy, which was why it was so outraged. Mary might not have been one of them as such, but she was respectable and the last person – in their eyes – who deserved to be murdered.

  He turned off the radio as the minister cranked himself up for an onslaught against the Papist terrorists at the root of it all. The real enemy, Cross thought, was bigotry. He had worked that much out years ago, along with most others. Not that this understanding made any difference. People were proud of their bigotry. It went across the board, from his parents-in-law down. The Brits were the worst. For all they cared they could have been talking about events in Tierra del Fuego.

  When he arrived at the barracks he got out a clean sheet of paper and took the phone off the hook. The frenzied attack on Mary Ryan, the mutilations, all suggested a killing with a sexual motive. Poor Mary, he thought, never looked at twice until then. He pictured her attending Sunday Mass and hurrying home afterwards alone for want of anyone to talk to.

  ‘You’d expect us to be dealing with a sex maniac,’ said Westerby, echoing Cross’s hunch.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Cross.

  They were in the barracks’ canteen. Cross had been surprised when Westerby had come over with her tray and asked if she could join him. The ranks didn’t usually mix. Her behaviour would probably be interpreted as pushiness, she realized, but it was too late to change her mind. She was aware of one or two strange looks as she sat down.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Mary Elam, sir.’

  ‘In that case you’d better speak to DI Cummings. He’s in charge of the case now.’

  Westerby hesitated, then confessed that she had nothing definite to offer beyond speculation.

  ‘You’re fond of speculation, aren’t you?’

  She couldn’t tell if he was being unkind.

  ‘Go on,’ he said eventually. ‘Speculate.’

  Again she could not decide if he was annoyed. She ploughed on, feeling that she was stating her case badly.

  The way she saw it, she said, Mary Elam was vulnerable on two fronts. Casual sex might have resulted in her meeting her killer. Plus she was running around in a hardcore loyalist area where her very presence was enough to get her killed.

  ‘Which rather rules out the sex maniac.’

  ‘I know. Besides, the two killings aren’t similar enough. Except—’

  Cross looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘Both cases involved abduction. The two Marys were both taken somewhere. What do you think the killer did with them, between seizing them and dumping their bodies?’

  She’d asked the question without really being sure whether there was any connection between the two deaths, but Cross leaned forward, interested. He hadn’t thought of either case in terms of abduction before. Westerby repeated that she’d been struck by the fac
t that both women had been held somewhere. What had happened in those missing hours?

  Cross’s mind kept returning to the Strathaven Bar. Mary Elam’s connection with the place was the greatest anomaly in what they’d been able to discover about her. She’d probably liked the risk of taking men there, for the extra sense of danger it added – a Catholic sneaking into a Protestant stronghold. Privately Cross was fairly sure that’s why she’d been killed but he had no evidence. Hargreaves had turned over the Strathaven and questioned McElwaine to no avail. From what he’d heard, Cummings was making no progress either, which gave him a certain satisfaction.

  He asked Westerby to try and picture what might have happened to Mary Elam if things had gone wrong at the Strathaven.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Use your imagination.’

  ‘You mean speculate?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cross laughed.

  ‘Oh, well.’ She pulled a face as though the idea seemed funny to her. ‘We know she was picked up by someone in a van, on the Tuesday. Her killer, perhaps? The fact that we can’t trace the van suggests he’s covering his tracks. Like I said, you’d expect a sex maniac, except there are no signs of interference.’

  ‘Unless he didn’t touch her.’

  ‘You mean he was a looker?’

  ‘It’s possible. The likelier possibility is that someone in the Strathaven found out she was Catholic.’

  ‘That might explain the delay. If she was interrogated before she was killed.’