by Chris Petit
55
WITH ten days to the start of the next cycle, Candlestick phoned again, several times in quick succession. At least Westerby presumed it was him because the phone was put down with nothing said.
Her earlier optimism had quite disappeared. Although her relationship with Cross continued to build in intensity, the rest of her life was falling apart. She knew about Cross’s holiday with the children now and accepted it as a desperation measure, but that did nothing to quell her anxiety. Also Martin had taken to calling round at odd hours after his computer. She had been about to open the window, thinking it was Cross, when she saw him and darted back, hoping he hadn’t seen. His phone calls were a protracted mixture of aggression and self-pity. The row wasn’t really about the computer but having her back. She stalled, saying she needed time – meaning the computer but letting him think she meant herself – and told him she’d call soon.
The fifth time the phone went and nobody said anything, Westerby went on the offensive. ‘Why are all you men such pests?’ she screamed and hung up. It rang again immediately.
‘Do you still want to meet?’ said the voice in its dull monotone.
In spite of herself, she let her feelings intrude. ‘It’s not up to me, is it? I’m not calling the shots,’ she said tartly.
In his silence she felt him, like Martin, reaching for her. She sensed a yearning that was perhaps not there in Cross, preoccupied as he was with all the other unresolved bits of his life.
She wanted to bring up the question of Candlestick’s childhood and didn’t know where to start.
‘When I was seven,’ she said falteringly, ‘I had this friend a bit like you. He had fair hair and pale eyes and we used to tell each other everything.’ She held her breath, hoping she had hooked him. ‘There were no secrets between us,’ she went on. ‘We played doctors and nurses and all the usual things kids that age do. We thought babies came from weeing together into a pot, so we did that. Did you have a friend like that?’
Again the silence.
‘And we told each other everything – the kind of person we’d end up marrying, and all our secret thoughts like wishing our parents would die in a crash so everyone would have to feel extra sorry for us. But my friend had one secret he wouldn’t tell me, though I’d told him all about myself and even made up stories to try and get him to say what it was. What do you think his secret was?’
She could hear the tension in his breathing. For a second, she was sure he was standing in the room right behind her.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
‘For a moment I thought you were here.’
‘Like I was close to you?’
Westerby felt her skin creep. ‘What do you think his secret was?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t have one. He just said he did.’
‘No, he did. I think it was to do with his mummy.’
There, she’d said it. The breathing became more rapid.
‘Do you think it was to do with Mummy?’
God, she sounded like a demented presenter on some toddlers’ television programme. She was reminded, unwillingly, that the Shankill killings had also cynically been known as the Romper Room murders, a name borrowed as a sick joke from a children’s item on Ulster Television.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘I think—’ There was a noise at the other end she could not identify, a soft rustling. ‘I think his mummy didn’t love him. I think his mummy didn’t look after him when she should have done. I think she betrayed him.’
The rustling continued, a noise like dry leaves in the wind. There was a long silence, then he hung up. Later, she wondered if he hadn’t been crying.
Cross had been given clearance to consult various files on the INLA in the hope that it might take them a little further along the trail. He doubted if anything of use would turn up as Candlestick’s tracks would be too well covered.
He wasn’t allowed to take the files out of Moffat’s office and felt uncomfortable with Moffat there. He sat with his hands over his ears like a schoolboy trying to study. So scrappy, was his first thought on looking at the documents, most of which were typed, often poorly, on foolscap paper. No doubt an intelligence handler would know how to evaluate the material. To him it barely amounted to meaningless loose ends – names of people seen going in and out of buildings, mostly.
Moffat had spent the weekend in England and seemed in a better mood than usual.
‘Who do you work for?’ Cross asked Moffat for the sake of mischief.
‘Rather not say,’ said Moffat jauntily.
‘And what about our man? Who did he work for?’
Moffat shook his head. ‘Doesn’t have any bearing.’
‘It has some.’
Moffat smirked. ‘His employers lost the Northern Ireland contract.’
‘MI6, you mean.’
‘Precisely.’
‘And what do they say about him?’
‘That he was a mercenary, essentially, who sold himself to the highest bidder, and occasionally did work for them on a freelance basis.’
‘Not as an agent.’
Moffat shook his head. ‘Too unreliable.’
Cross felt the slipperiness return. He wondered whether Moffat was lying to him or had been lied to in turn.
They moved on to surer ground, discussing contingency plans to prevent the next murder. They knew the next victim would be a twenty-eight-year-old Protestant. The only uncertainty was the initial of his or her last name. If they were right about Ecce Agnus Dei, it would begin with an E. Moffat’s team would draw up a list of all potential victims in the greater Belfast area.
‘There can’t be more than a busload’s worth,’ said Moffat flippantly. ‘Send ’em all on a five-day holiday courtesy of HMG.’
He seemed very cool.
As she dialled, the numbers clicked down the line softly, away into the distance. When Molly Connors answered she sounded tired, Westerby thought, as tired as her. Westerby confessed that she was at her wit’s end trying to come up with some lead, however slender, on the Englishman Molly had met. She asked again if there was anything else about the drive they had shared to Belfast.
‘It was God knows how many years ago,’ said Molly with an edge of impatience. ‘He sat in the back. I told your inspector this.’
Westerby apologized and said that she wasn’t wasting time. It was urgent, perhaps even a matter of life and death. She heard Molly sigh.
As it turned out there was little wrong with Molly’s memory. She remembered the journey very well, starting with the disagreement she’d had with Breen over the state of the car’s tyres.
‘What did Breen talk about?’ Westerby asked.
‘Everything and nothing,’ said Molly. ‘He thought Becky looked peaky and needed feeding up. Francis rambled on in the way Francis rambled on. If he was in the mood he could keep up a running commentary on anything.’
‘Do you remember anything in particular?’
Westerby listened to her silence and imagined Molly shaking her head.
‘Did the Englishman say anything?’
‘Not to speak of,’ said Molly. She apologized for not being able to remember more. She had been nervous, she said, because she was due to see Bernadette more or less straight after Breen and hadn’t been able to cancel.
‘Did you feel uncomfortable seeing her?’ asked Westerby.
‘No, but Francis was in an odd mood, now I come to think of it.’
Breen had been increasingly preoccupied the closer they got to Belfast and had tried to get Molly to break her date with Bernadette and meet him instead later. He badgered her until she had almost given in, but had refused because she did not want to be seen to be weak in front of the silent Englishman.
They agreed Breen would drop her at the Royal Victoria Hospital, where Bernadette was a nurse. Having lost the argument, he ignored her and started telling one of his stories, addressing himself to the Englishman. The story she remembered wa
s about the hospital and concerned someone known to both men. Breen told it as an example of the sometimes mind-boggling inefficiency of the security system. An activist of his acquaintance had found work in the Medical Records Department of the hospital, which gave him access to the addresses of thousands of people, including those in the security forces.
She remembered Breen laughing his booming laugh and saying, ‘Would you fucking believe it? The fellow’s known to the army and RUC. They even bloody interned him. Then they let him walk into a job like that.’ I remember the story very well because he was so busy telling it that he drove straight past the hospital and dropped me at the bus station instead, and we had a row about that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Westerby. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
Her heart was beating hard as she hung up. She told herself not to get excited, it was probably nothing. After looking up the number of the Royal Victoria, she picked up the phone again and asked for personnel.
The head of personnel passed her on to a clerk and Westerby gave her the information she needed and said she would wait however long it took.
The woman came back empty handed. There was no one listed in staff records under the names Evans, Francis or Albert. Perhaps he had used another name. She checked with the head of the department, who’d been there a dozen years. No fair-haired Englishman had worked there during his time.
She hung up, disappointed.
Five minutes later she was back on the telephone to the hospital, again to the records department. The same clerk sounded less patient this time and took a lot longer. There were no medical records at the hospital for any of Candlestick’s victims. Westerby had the wrong hospital.
She tried the City Hospital, and when the personnel department did not answer she got the switchboard to put her directly through to records.
Panic struck, and she rang off as soon as she heard the voice. Her immediate thought was: He’s there. It’s him.
She doubted herself straight away. Had the man that answered the telephone had that same flat English accent or was it her imagination?
She wasted the most frustrating twenty-five minutes of her life trying to get hold of Cross. He sounded abrupt when she finally reached him in Moffat’s office. After she had finished, he said, ‘I see,’ like he was dealing with some low-level bit of information and told her to wait there.
It took him half an hour. He wanted Candlestick alive. This had meant not telling Moffat, who would no doubt bring in one of the tactical squads which would lure Candlestick into a field of fire, exactly as Moffat wanted. Cross proposed to her that they go immediately to the hospital. Seeing her hesitation, Cross asked if she was certain that it was Candlestick. She said she was sure and not sure. He said they should at least reconnoitre, even if they did not have the chance to arrest him without calling in help.
They drove to the hospital in tense silence. Westerby was not convinced that she and Cross and an old service revolver were adequate opposition.
They went straight to the records department. Westerby asked the first clerk she saw if there was an Englishman working there, while Cross tried to look inconspicuous.
‘Fair haired,’ she added, looking around hopefully.
The clerk nodded and said that she wasn’t sure if he was in. ‘He only does a couple of days.’
Westerby had to avoid looking at Cross in case she betrayed her excitement.
The clerk went off to look and came back with the news that he was probably in the staff canteen.
The canteen was crowded with lunchtime diners. Cross and Westerby tried to look as natural as possible as they joined the long queue waiting to be served. There were about a hundred and fifty people in the room and no immediate sign of Candlestick. Westerby scanned the heads of the diners.
‘I can’t see him,’ she said to Cross.
‘There are more tables round the corner.’
The canteen was L-shaped and part of it ran away behind the food counter. They wouldn’t be able to see round the corner until they got to the head of the queue. Westerby spotted some toilets on the far side of the room and told Cross to wait.
She walked towards them, feeling unreal and exposed, frantically searching around while trying not to look obvious. The tables down the side of the food counter were behind her and she wouldn’t see them until her return. She wondered if he was eating alone.
In the toilet she splashed her face with cold water, avoided looking at herself in the mirror, took a deep breath and walked back out.
He was sitting at the back of the room staring out of the window. She didn’t spot him at first and couldn’t see his face properly until she got closer. Then she saw it was him. She was sure it was. Yet he looked so normal in his brown tweed jacket, a little scruffy even, which she hadn’t expected. But that wasn’t what made her nearly miss him. He’d grown his hair. The semi-crew cut she’d been expecting was gone. His hair was long, almost biblical.
Now that she’d seen him she felt calmer. He didn’t look up and continued to gaze out of the window. He was sitting alone at a table for four. Westerby made a mental note of the area around him. It was slightly emptier than the main dining space. A group of four sat immediately across the gangway from him. The tables and chairs were fixed, she noted, making getting in and out awkward, which could be to their advantage. It meant he couldn’t push back his seat. Here’s the plan, she thought to herself.
He glanced up briefly and seemed to look straight through her, then went back to staring out of the window.
She joined Cross at the head of the queue, next but one to the cashier. His tray had been loaded unthinkingly. Westerby calmly took it and told him to pay.
She spoke softly and urgently, her head close to his, making sure no one else could hear. Cross nodded and gripped the gun. His raincoat was the kind with a pouch pocket. It meant he could slip his hand through the opening and hold the gun unencumbered.
Westerby said, ‘He doesn’t suspect anything. He’s looking out of the window. He’s grown his hair, by the way.’
Cross went over the plan in his head, checking for any fault. Westerby sitting herself down next to Candlestick should be enough distraction for him to get into place. They would have no more than five seconds of surprise, she’d said. Cross decided he would fire under the table without warning, if necessary. He looked forward to the prospect, even relished it.
Westerby led the way. Over her shoulder Cross saw Candlestick come into view and thought, like her, how ordinary. Someone brushed past, making him suddenly think that he must look horribly conspicuous in a raincoat. Everyone else was either in hospital uniform or indoor clothes. Something felt wrong and he glanced down and froze. The gun was exposed, sticking out of his coat like some ridiculous metal tool, there for anyone to see. He hastily flicked it back under cover and told himself to concentrate. They had about fifteen feet to go.
Westerby focused only on the diminishing distance between her and her target. She was so sure of herself that she could see the handcuffs snapping on the wrists that lay resting on the table, waiting.
Six feet away Candlestick jerked his head as if stung. He swung round and his eyes locked on Westerby’s. They blazed with uncontrolled fury. She had never seen anything like it. Something’s warned him, she thought. He’s seen something.
For a frozen moment they stared at each other. Westerby saw a sneer of recognition. He knows me, she thought. His hatred was of such intensity that she could almost feel it burning her flesh.
She reacted instinctively as soon as Candlestick started to scuttle sideways out of his seat. She hurled her tray as hard as she could, then dropped to the floor to give Cross a clear aim.
She heard rather than saw the tray hit its target, followed by the crash of falling china, and looked up to see Candlestick scream in rage as scalding tea splattered down him.
Cross lost vital seconds dragging the gun free of his pocket. The front sight snagged in the material, delayin
g him further. As he cleared it Candlestick was grabbing hold of the nearest diner, yanking her up by the hair, so hard that she screamed. Cross levelled the gun a fraction too late. Candlestick already had the woman against him and a canteen knife at her exposed throat. There wasn’t any way Cross could risk firing.
He watched helplessly as Candlestick dragged the woman backwards towards a set of double doors behind him. He took a step forward and Candlestick jerked the knife against her throat. The woman screamed again. Cross could hear a hum of consternation building in the background. Westerby shouted that they were police and everyone was to stay where they were. Cross was surprised at how much he took in – the young woman with dyed black hair and a white face, and the fact that she wore a canary-coloured cardigan – but the detail that impressed itself upon him most of all was Candlestick’s look of sheer malevolence.
He was gone in the blink of an eye.
They searched for ten minutes and found nothing, their dashed hopes turning to frustration and anger. They’d been that close, said Westerby holding up her forefinger and thumb. ‘Two more seconds and I could have touched him.’
‘What alerted him?’ asked Cross.
‘He saw something,’ she said without being able to say what. She thought back to the look of recognition she’d seen in him. It wasn’t for her, she realized. It was Cross. He knew what Cross looked like. The thought hit her like a truck. It was in the notebook. He’d known all along. He’d been referring to Cross in the hospital when he’d written: He was here. I saw him, not expecting that. The shock of the unexpected.
But even before then he’d seen something. Recognizing Cross came afterwards.
A minute or so later they ran into Moffat in one of the hospital’s endless corridors. He was with a small posse of plainclothes officers all armed and looking urgent.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ said Moffat. He was beside himself with anger. ‘Where is he?’
‘You tell me,’ said Cross.
‘Jesus fucking H Christ!’ said Moffat, jabbing a finger at Cross. ‘You. Come with me.’
