by Chris Petit
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now I’m asking again, how many people has this person killed?’
‘Five, sir.’ She was getting muddled herself now. ‘Six.’
‘ONE! ONE! ONE! How many?’
‘One, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘Breen, sir.’
There was no point in arguing. Without Cross she had no protection. She felt her eyes pricking with tears. She hoped Moffat did not notice. His triumph would be complete.
‘That’s better. Now get out and stop wasting my time. Give my condolences to DI Cross when you next see him.’
Moffat enjoyed humiliating her, she realized. It was like a rape. She could imagine him using the memory to give himself a hard-on. Maybe he even had one already, she thought, as she turned on her heel and walked out.
40
Belfast, April 1977
BREEN sent him to England in 1977 and again the following year. He wandered in and out of the House of Commons dressed as a telephone engineer, his English accent taking him into places where an Irishman would be challenged, even by security guards as lazy as these. The cordon around the House was tight enough, but once inside he was astonished by the laxity.
His evenings were spent in meetings in a room above a shop in Museum Street with an Irishman and a horsy-looking Scot with tombstone teeth. He wondered who the Scot worked for. No names were mentioned. Conversations remained entirely to order. Nothing was discussed beyond the job in hand.
Close-range shooting was dismissed because of the uncertainty of escape. Sniping with a telescopic sight was given serious consideration, though, for propaganda purposes, a big bang was thought best of all.
Candlestick looked out of the window as the Scot droned on in a flat, technical voice. Across the road was the British Museum. He could not remember when life had last seemed ordinary and without edge. Perhaps the edge had always been there. Since the beginning. Since lying awake in the dark for as long as he could remember.
The Scot pointed out that whatever kind of bomb was used, it had to allow the bombers time to escape. The usual pre-timed device was no good, as the target’s movements were not predictable enough to guarantee that he would be in his car at the time of explosion. The Scot recommended a mercury-tilt switch. It was small and portable, and had the advantage of self-detonation. The explosion was triggered by the car’s movement.
Candlestick reported back to Breen, then went back to working on the farm. Neither Becky nor the farmer who employed him ever asked where he had been. His absence was taken for granted. He passed on the information about his London trip to Danny and heard no more.
Two years later, at the end of March 1979, he read in the newspapers how Airey Neave had been blown up in his own car as he was driving out of the House of Commons. Neave, who was close to the new Conservative Prime Minister, was about to become Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, a post he had actively sought, unlike all but one of his predecessors. Neave had wanted tougher anti-terrorist measures and a war with the IRA. That was what Candlestick gathered from reading between the lines of the British press, which made much of Neave’s heroic war record.
The Provisionals were first off the mark to claim the killing, followed by the INLA. Breen told Candlestick that whoever had phoned Ulster Television to put in a bid for the INLA had been told to fuck off. Tears of mirth ran down Breen’s cheeks.
Still laughing, he added, ‘I hope that fucker Neave died screaming for his mother.’
But shortly after the assassination Breen’s euphoria gave way to edginess. He became more like Tommy Herron in his indiscretion and paranoia, leaving Candlestick with the feeling that life was starting to repeat itself.
The next run up to Belfast did not end in a shooting as Candlestick expected but inside the maze of the Divis Flats, a crumbling labyrinth of public housing in the middle of the Falls. They’d parked on the outskirts of the city and taken a taxi.
‘Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut,’ said Breen. They were walking down an endless darkened corridor, one of several they’d taken. ‘I tell you, this lot make the plot in Julius Caesar look like a kiddies’ playground.’
There were half a dozen waiting in a stripped-out flat, all men, much younger than Breen, and cocky.
‘Who’s he?’
The one asking was a pale man with a Zapata moustache.
‘Never mind him,’ said Breen. ‘He’s mine.’
The meeting was a fractious affair dominated by squabbles and suspicion. Lack of funds seemed to be a constant worry and Breen came in for criticism.
‘You’re a rich man, Franny, that’s what I’m told.’ It was Zapata again. He did most of the talking while the others sat in sullen silence, smoking. ‘Maybe you should put your money where your mouth is.’
Breen tried to keep the meeting light. It was clear that he was the only one with any proper sense of organization.
‘Steeney’s out soon, then we’ll see some action,’ said Zapata, needling Breen.
‘You think you’re fucking cowboys in some Wild West shoot-up.’
‘Come on, pops, away to your deckchair.’ Breen gave Zapata a look of malevolence which Candlestick caught.
Nothing else was discussed beyond fantasies of lucrative bank robberies, which they all joined in.
At the next meeting there was something to talk about. It was hastily convened because one of the organization’s leaders had been gunned down by two men wearing military-style uniform. The man’s widow, who had been wounded, was accusing the SAS of carrying out the killing. She’d heard one of the assassins call out in an English accent.
The dead man was unusual in that his background was Protestant, his father an army major and a friend of Paisley.
‘The odd thing about Ronnie,’ Breen told Candlestick, ‘is that some of these wee Proddies are more enamoured of the cause than the staunchest republican. They think it’s dead romantic.’
It didn’t make Ronnie’s life any easier, he added, because the Officials had tried to kill him at least three times, and he was on the loyalist death list as a traitor.
Candlestick studied Breen during the meeting after Ronnie’s death, shaping the despondency of the rest and whipping up their desire for revenge against the security forces. The man was extraordinary. He gave nothing away. No one would have suspected for a moment that he had been instrumental in the assassination.
Candlestick had no idea who it was he’d shot until he read about it in the papers and realized it was one of the leaders of the organization he did most of his work for. Breen had merely passed him on to another man, leaving him with the impression that it was for a freelance contract.
There were four of them on the operation: himself, the planner, a second gun, and a driver. The planner had drawings of the house and details of its inhabitants. There were two adults and three children and on the night in question a guest was due to stay, also to be shot. Only the driver knew the address. The planner told them that as long as they kept strictly to their schedule there would be no trouble with army or police patrols. This information told Candlestick that their target was almost certainly a republican of some prominence if the job was being carried out with the tacit approval of the security forces.
A single blow from a sledghammer had taken care of the front door, and from there it was straight up the stairs. They knew which room to go to, but when they got there the occupants were already trying to jam the door. Candlestick got his arm through the crack and started firing until the door gave. A woman lay back injured on the bed, her nightdress stained with blood. The man was naked and crouched ready to ward off any attack. His adrenalin was up and the first three or four shots seemed to make no difference. Then with his next shot Candlestick saw the hole appear in the man’s forehead and the eyes go. He left the other gunman to finish him off while he went after the guest, who was cowering in the youngest child’s bedroom. The man waved in the direction of a screaming infant, as
though the presence of the child was enough to prevent any further violence. Candlestick shot him anyway and walked out of the room and downstairs, calling after the other man as he left.
At the bottom of the stairs he looked round just as the wife ran out of the bedroom and threw herself on the back of his colleague. Candlestick had only her arm and shoulder to hit. It was a risky shot but he fired twice and saw her fall back.
‘Jesus fuck, you were taking a risk shooting like that. You could’ve hit me,’ said the other man, hurrying downstairs.
‘I couldn’t care if I did,’ said Candlestick, laughing as he stood aside to let him pass.
Within minutes they were whooping it up on the Monagh bypass, swigging from a bottle of brandy thoughtfully provided by the driver.
‘I couldn’t half do with a shag,’ said the other gunman.
‘You should’ve done his missus while you had the chance,’ replied the driver.
Candlestick stared out of the window and did not join in the laughter.
When they parted the other gunman shook him by the hand, winked and said, ‘Nice one,’ which made Candlestick wish he had been less careful with his aim.
Several days later, after the meeting, he asked Breen, ‘What was that all about, shooting Major Bunting’s son?’
‘Cleaning out the stables,’ said Breen tersely. ‘Strictly between you and me.’
41
THE following Friday – the twenty-eighth – Cross was still in hospital and not allowed visitors until the next day. In spite of there having been no murder on the twenty-first, Moffat had refused to repeat the previous Friday’s operation. Westerby felt crushed.
On the Saturday she bought flowers from a stall outside the hospital. She had spent the morning trying not to think about whether there had been another killing. Martin had come round and she’d sent him away, pleading exhaustion. He’d hovered, looking concerned and put out, and afterwards she felt bad.
She found Cross up in one of the private rooms on the same floor as Maureen McMahon. In spite of steeling herself, she was shocked. The bruising to his head was bad enough to make her draw breath. One eye was black and still swollen. Even more distressing was his air of shrunken defeat. He looked like a man who’d had the spirit beaten out of him. He gestured feebly to show where he had been kicked in the throat.
They made sick-room small talk: thank you for the flowers; it’s good of you to come; are you all right? yes; I’m being watched.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’m being watched.’
‘What, here?’
‘No, before.’
’Did you see anyone?’
Cross shook his head gingerly, rolling it from side to side across the pillow. ‘Just a feeling.’
‘Was it the same people who, you know—’ She could not bring herself to say attacked him.
Cross shut his eyes and was still rolling his head. When he stopped he appeared to be asleep. Hospitals, thought Westerby, how she hated them.
It was the siren that made her think of it, the urgent hee-haw making its way down the Donegall Road. She dismissed the thought, walked on, then turned and went back. The two big hospitals alternated casualty days, she knew that. She checked with the main desk that it had been their turn the Friday before.
An hour passed before the casualty sister could give her any time. She had the hurried, distracted air of someone who deals with too many crises. She nodded curtly at Westerby’s request and said she would see what she could do. For the forty-five minutes it took her to return, Westerby sat with the casualty out-patients: two beaten women, a crying child with a broken arm, greasy, long-distance drunks nursing bad cuts and a raving man with a messianic beard.
The sister returned with a list, scrappily written in various hands. Westerby’s shoulders slumped as she read down it. Then, at the bottom of the page, she saw something that made her heart leap.
‘Is there anyone who can tell me how old this one was?’ she asked the sister.
The sister said she hadn’t been on duty at the time, but would try to find the records, if Westerby didn’t mind a further delay.
The answer was worth waiting for.
She was torn between sharing the news and being patient, out of consideration for Cross’s weakened state. Several times she took the lift up to his floor, each time losing her nerve, before excitement got the better of her. There had been a fatality, so fuck Moffat.
Hit and run. No witness. Aged fourteen. Catherine Edge.
She hadn’t died straight away. She’d hung on until the Sunday. Therefore she wouldn’t have come to Moffat’s attention. Perhaps because it was too normal anyway – everyone had been expecting something with guns or knives, dramatic enough to flatter the importance of the operation. Perhaps without all the hoo-ha on the streets he would have killed her differently. Instead he’d just run her over and nobody had noticed. Clever. That meant, Westerby realized as she hurried down the corridor towards Cross’s room, the pattern was more important than the method.
She knocked and apologized, at first thinking she’d got the wrong room. The woman sitting by the bed stared at her. Westerby took in the fine red hair and green eyes. His wife, she supposed, and so good looking too (herself no rival). She mumbled an excuse and closed the door before Cross could see her.
She walked down the corridor, trembling. From the flustered state of her, anyone would have thought that she had just caught them in the middle of having sex.
Westerby saw her again in the canteen from her position at a table behind the swing doors, out of sight of anyone coming in. Her first thought was to sneak out unspotted. Instead she watched her standing in the queue, an effortless cut above everyone else. Curiosity got the better of her and after the wife had bought her tea, Westerby went over and introduced herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to barge in upstairs.’
She wondered why she was apologizing. Deidre blinked a couple of times, signalling distracted recognition.
‘Are you a doctor?’ she asked.
‘I work for your husband.’
‘Oh,’ said Deidre. ‘He’s asleep now, poor man.’
Westerby asked if there was anything she could do. Deidre sounded surprised and grateful. Nobody else from the police had bothered to ask. There had only been the one call from them, breaking the news.
Westerby realized what an isolated figure Cross was in the force. She wondered if it had always been like that.
‘I suppose it’s my fault for being so stuck up with them.’ Deidre laughed, desperately trying to sound cheerful.
They were still standing awkwardly in the middle of the canteen. Westerby pointed to her table by the door and as she followed her she could not help cast an envious eye over her expensive clothes. The jersey was cashmere.
‘Does anyone know why it happened?’ Deidre asked as they sat down.
Westerby shook her head.
‘Do you think I was right not to let the children see him yet?’
Westerby was surprised. Deidre didn’t look the sort to seek approval.
They made small talk about the long hours involved in police work and the strain on the family, and Westerby realized how little Cross discussed work at home. This strict division between the job and the rest she’d noticed with herself too.
If Westerby were honest, she had initiated the meeting only out of nosiness and that had backfired. Deidre’s thoroughbred beauty was a reprimand to her curiosity.
Deidre asked if she was married. Westerby shook her head. She didn’t want to admit to being engaged.
‘We weren’t very happy,’ announced Deidre unprompted. ‘In fact, we were so fucking miserable I’ve been seeing someone else.’
Westerby registered the astonishment that she felt was required of her, but deep down she was not surprised by this abrupt revelation. Perhaps she had sensed it all along. Something about Cross hinted at a shadow over his life. She wondere
d at Deidre’s use of the past tense, like the man was dead.
‘Did he know?’
Deidre did not answer and instead dabbed her eyes with a fresh handkerchief. Westerby couldn’t remember when she’d last carried a proper one. Usually she had to make do with a tissue, and often a used one at that.
‘Part of him wanted something like this to happen,’ Deidre said with sudden fierceness.
‘That’s not true!’ Westerby was startled by the strength of her reaction. ‘He’s not one of the ones who go looking for trouble. God knows, there are enough of those. What happened can happen to any of us. It’s the risk we take.’
42
WESTERBY sat on her information about Catherine Edge because she did not trust Moffat. The feeling in the barracks, implied rather than stated, was that she had screwed up and it was her fault for having made out she was so smart. She was now paying the price by being ostracized.
During Cross’s slow recovery most of the force’s energies were taken up with preparations for the Orange Parades. It would be the annual marching season soon when Belfast resounded to the blood-rousing beat of the Lambeg drum. The bonfires and the drinking, the pipes and drums and baton-twirling, and the litter: Westerby remembered it all as faintly tawdry from her own childhood. The Lambegs had been pounded so hard that the noise made her feel sick and she had been anxious in crowds ever since.
She visited Cross once with Hargreaves, who sat awkwardly with hands on knees.
‘Done yourself well with the room, sir.’
‘It’s the influence of my father-in-law. He used to be a surgeon here. How’s the boat going?’
Hargreaves looked pleased to be asked and they spent the rest of the visit talking about that. Westerby was glad of not having to make the effort to talk. She looked at Cross. He was improved but still deathly tired.
The next time she went alone. She’d thought better of telling him about Catherine Edge. She also desperately wanted to confide her own fears about where the murders were going, but Cross was clearly in no state to cope with her anxieties. He even seemed profoundly uninterested in the identity of the men who’d put him in hospital. When Hargreaves had tried to talk about it, Cross had shrugged indifferently and said he hadn’t seen anything. Wait till he recovers, Westerby told herself.
