by James Deegan
‘That’s a matter for Mr Baxter, whom I briefed yesterday evening,’ said Murphy. ‘He’s the lawyer, after all.’
Gary Baxter took a sip of water and paused. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not murder. The shootings of O’Brien and both Casey brothers were themselves lawful. They were armed men posing a threat to life. Gerard Casey needs a little thought, because he survived that initial shot for a while.’
‘Exactly,’ said Maguire. ‘The chest? The ambulance?’
‘As for the chest,’ said Baxter, ‘the soldiers claimed they were trying to perform CPR and an attempt was made to apply a first field dressing – one was seized which was covered in Mr Casey’s blood.’
‘Mr Casey?’ said Murphy, sharply. ‘He’d just murdered an unarmed twenty-year-old man, let’s not forget.’
‘He might have been unarmed,’ said Conor Maguire, ‘but his family were terrorists, through and through. His father was a leading UVF man, lived and died by the sword.’
Which was true enough: Billy Jones Senior had himself been assassinated during the war that had erupted after his son’s killing.
‘Whatever, I suspect that that explanation would still hold,’ said Gary Baxter. ‘And, anyway, the key issue, both for that and the ambulance, is causation. As I understand it, the post mortem found that Gerard Casey was doomed by the initial shot?’
Kevin Murphy looked at his file. ‘Both his carotid and subclavian arteries were breached,’ he said. ‘The coroner heard from a cardio-vascular specialist, fellow called Briggs. He said, quote, “If this had happened in my operating theatre Gerard Casey would still have died”.’
Baxter sat back in his chair, and looked at ACC Charles Hope. ‘Well, that probably nails it, then,’ he said. ‘We should seek counsel’s advice, but it’s going nowhere. The soldiers may or may not have acted as we might wish. But murder? I doubt it.’
The room was silent for a few beats. Then Conor Maguire said, ‘What about stopping the woman from calling an ambulance?’
‘Both soldiers said that the ambulance was requested through the military communications net,’ said Murphy. ‘But there’s the fog of war. They had dead terrorists and for all they knew others who were injured and potentially other shooters. They were trying to do CPR, a crowd was already gathering outside. Yes, they stopped the woman picking up the phone, but that was SOP. They didn’t know who she might be calling. Everything went through the Ops room. The Duty Watchkeeper got a radio message at about 7.20pm and relayed that to the ambo immediately.’
‘But surely they could have been quicker?’
‘Perhaps. But it would be very hard to prove.’
‘What can you tell us about this new witness?’ said ACC Hope.
‘She’s a Roman Catholic,’ said Murphy, ‘but she has no known connection to Sinn Fein, or any Republican terrorist organisation. Nothing of concern in her background.’
‘Criminal record?’
‘No. She works in the accounts department of a small business off the Falls. Widowed, but her husband had no connections. He died in a straightforward road traffic accident six years ago.’
‘So why’s she come forward now?’
Murphy shrugged. ‘We haven’t interviewed her properly yet. She told the desk sergeant she’d heard someone mention Sean Casey’s name, and it brought the whole thing back. It’s usually because they’ve had something on their mind and they want to get it off their chest.’
‘And what about bringing the soldiers in?’ said Hope.
Gary Baxter pursed his lips. ‘I think an arrest would probably be justified, in the light of these allegations,’ he said. ‘We could see what they have to say. You never know.’
‘They’ll lawyer up and go no comment,’ said Murphy. ‘Would you fancy going up to Maghaberry with the blood of two Caseys on your hands? It’s just one witness’s word against the two of theirs.’
‘Who were the soldiers, as a matter of interest?’ said Conor Maguire.
Murphy nodded. ‘I was just going to come on to them,’ he said.
25.
KEVIN MURPHY ADJUSTED his reading glasses, and looked at his notes.
‘Michael John Parry, born Toxteth in Liverpool. Father was a docker. Joined the Third Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, 3 Para, as a seventeen-year-old. Mentioned in Dispatches for actions at Mount Longdon in the Falklands. Travelled to Northern Ireland for their residential tour in early 1989, by which time he was a corporal.’
He looked at the three men opposite him. ‘I remember that period well myself,’ he said. ‘3 Para ended up losing seven men. Two in a drowning, five to PIRA actions. One of them was a young private called Murray who was tortured to his death after a honeytrap girl lured him out to west Belfast. Most unpleasant. Anyway, he left the Army in 1998 at the rank of sergeant. Currently employed as a delivery driver for Parcelforce in Huyton, near Liverpool. Married, two grown-up daughters. No criminal record apart from a couple of minor pub fights as a young squaddie.’
‘And the other one?’ said Hope.
Murphy reached for his water and took a good swallow. ‘Yes, John Carr’s a wee bit more interesting,’ he said. ‘Born in Niddrie, south-east Edinburgh. Parents were decent, hard-working people. Joined 3 Para at seventeen and was a lance corporal when he arrived here in 1989.’
He paused for a moment. ‘I must stress the need for confidentiality here,’ he said. ‘In January 1990 he left Northern Ireland and went back to the mainland to attempt selection for the Special Air Service. Passed that course in the summer and went straight out to the first Gulf War with 22 SAS. He spent the next nineteen years in the Regiment. You name it, he’s done it. Fair bit of time over here, plus Afghanistan, Iraq, Africa… Twice decorated for gallantry. Known at Hereford as “Mad John”, which tells its own story.’
‘Also out of the Army now?’ said Charles Hope.
‘He retired from the SAS and the military at the rank of Sergeant Major. Did a year or so as a security manager with an oil company down near Basra, then a bit of private security work in Baghdad and Kabul, and now works as head of UK security for a guy called Konstantin Avilov, one of those ex-KGB billionaires that grow on trees in London. Carr reports in to Avilov’s head of security, a former Russian Foreign Intelligence Service spook by the name of Oleg Kovalev.’
‘Personal life?’ said Hope.
‘He met and married a girl from Bangor when he was here. Two children, divorced when he left the Army, and the ex moved back over here. He’s been a bit of a dabbler in the stock market. Whispers of insider trading, but nothing’s ever been proved. He owns a big house in Hereford, and apparently has the use of a nice flat somewhere in north London.’
‘Does anyone remember working with him?’ said Maguire.
‘I actually have a vague memory of the guy myself,’ said Murphy, ‘but his last sustained period in Northern Ireland was as part of a joint police–Army team tasked against the South Armagh sniper in the nineties. Most people will have moved on.’
‘What was he like?’
Murphy shrugged. ‘It’s a long time ago,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ said the ACC. He turned to Conor Maguire. ‘My main concern, if there’s no charges to be brought, is dealing with the inevitable media shitstorm,’ he said. ‘There’s a further complicating factor, too. Kevin?’
‘The Army patrol that day was nominally led by a young second lieutenant who had only arrived in battalion a week earlier, and in Northern Ireland a day or two before. He was out on familiarisation, being babysat till he learned the ropes, so Parry was effectively in charge.’
‘Significance?’ said Maguire.
‘That second lieutenant is now Lieutenant-General Guy de Vere, ex-Director Special Forces, now Commander Field Army. Basically, the British Army’s 2IC, and a decent bet for the top job sometime in the next three or four years.’
Charles Hope looked at Maguire. ‘So you see the issue. Between that and Pat Casey and the SAS, the media’ll have a fiel
d day,’ he said. ‘Not to mention Sinn Fein, and others. We must avoid any suspicion of cover-up or whitewash. No rioting. No political fall-out. So what’s our PR strategy?’
There was a long silence, while Conor Maguire thought.
‘Well, you can guess my personal position,’ he said, eventually. ‘The first thing we should do is make full disclosure to Pat Casey and his mother, and assure them that we’ll assist the family in any civil action. Parallel with that, we should formally announce that we’re re-opening the case, and then we should investigate it thoroughly, and let the courts decide.’
‘That sounds awfully like throwing two innocent men to the wolves,’ said Kevin Murphy.
‘What?’ said Maguire, mockingly. ‘Do you not have faith in our own officers and the courts?’
‘The punishment is the process. Their names and addresses will be revealed. Their lives could be endangered. Their families’ lives. All in the name of a PR exercise.’
‘The British Army has done a lot of very bad things to my people in Northern Ireland.’
‘If you want to get into that,’ said Murphy, ‘your people have done a few bad things themselves. I knew the fellows who recovered the body of the UDR reservist that Sean Casey tortured to death. They didn’t sleep for weeks. I saw plenty of similar things myself. Let me tell you, him and Ciaran O’Brien…’
‘Whoah, gents,’ said Charles Hope, palms raised. ‘Let’s just take the heat out of this. Right, here’s our actions. Gary, can you speak to counsel and get me a formal advice? Kevin, can you visit the new witness in person and stress the importance of her speaking to no-one about this until we’ve concluded our enquiry? Conor, can you work up a full strategy document for me, starting with a statement that’s ready to go in case it all blows?’ He sat back. ‘I think that’s it, for now. Christ, I sometimes wish I’d stayed at the Met.’
26.
KEVIN MURPHY WALKED out of that meeting and down the corridor to the lift.
Whistling.
Nonchalant.
Got into the lift.
Travelled to the basement.
Got out, walked down the corridor.
Stopped in front of a window marked ‘PROPERTY STORE’.
‘How’s it going, Rob?’ he said to the civilian employee on the other side of the glass, a former RUC man of the old school who’d been invalided out, after a car bomb blew off his foot, and re-employed on contract. They went back years.
Rob put down his paper.
‘How the devil are you, Kev?’ he said, with a big grin.
‘Not so bad…’ began Murphy.
After a few minutes of small talk, he said, casually, ‘So, I need to get into the store to have a look at something from one of the cold cases we’re looking at.’
‘No problem, pal,’ said Rob, clicking on his computer keyboard. ‘What is it?’
‘I need to book out some exhibits relating to the Crown and McIntyre.’
Tap tap tap on Rob’s keyboard.
Murphy was uncomfortably aware of the little CCTV camera watching him.
But he had a legit reason to be here, and as long as he was careful…
‘Sorted, Kev,’ said Rob. ‘Just sign when you come back out?’
‘Surely,’ said Murphy.
The door to the property store buzzed and opened, and he walked in.
He headed straight for the relevant section, but once he was out of sight of Rob, and the cameras, he stopped.
Picked a shelf.
Rooted quickly through the first box.
Then the second.
The fifth looked promising – a box of stuff recovered from a local fence who’d been charged with burglary and handling.
Found what he was after in a matter of moments.
Not crucial to establishing the guy’s guilt, so no harm would be done.
Perfect.
Put it in his pocket, collected his exhibits, and walked back to Rob to sign out.
27.
JOHN CARR GOT back from the gym at a shade after midday with a good endorphin buzz on, and arms and legs that felt like lead and were burning with lactic acid.
He wasn’t a phys nut, or a born gym monkey like some of the lads in the Regiment had been, but he stayed in shape because it was good for business, in all sorts of ways.
He lifted weights – a lot of them – three times a week, and ran seven miles on the other four days. When time allowed he fitted in a fifteen-mile swim or a hundred miles on the static bike, to keep his CV in good order. He topped it all off with training and fights at a mixed martial arts club in Kentish Town at least once a fortnight.
As a result, he wasn’t all that far off the shape he’d been at his physical peak.
But, fucking hell, it took a lot more work to stay there than it had in his twenties.
He stripped off his kit, dumped it for his cleaner to deal with, and padded naked into his bathroom.
He weighed himself – at ninety-six kilos, a shade over fifteen stone, and eight per cent body fat, he was happy enough – and went for a long, hot shower.
After that, he knocked up some chicken pasta and a protein shake, and when he’d finished those he made himself a cup of tea and went to sit in his living room to sort out some admin.
A few bills and a bit of junk mail.
A letter from the Regiment inviting him to a Clock Tower Fund supper – guest speaker, ex-DSF Guy de Vere. Which made Carr wince, and think of Antonia de Vere, and carefully, guiltily, slide the letter back into its envelope.
Another, this one from the fixtures secretary of the Regimental rugby club inviting him to play in a vets’ team against the Royal Navy. That one he put to one side: in his day, Carr had been the SAS representative side’s first XV blindside, and he missed the fun of smashing people on the pitch and getting pissed with them after the match. A chance to turn out and batter the matelots was not to be missed.
A couple of begging letters from military charities which he supported.
All good.
Then he took out his notepad.
His day job was to handle the UK security for Konstantin Avilov, a one-time KGB officer who had mysteriously acquired vast, worldwide interests in oil, mining, and information technology – perhaps not entirely coincidentally after his friend and mentor Vladimir Putin had become president of Russia in 2000. Avilov had trained under Putin at the old Kaluga facility, had spent a decade as his right-hand man, and had helped his boss to seize power in the maelstrom that had followed Boris Yeltsin’s resignation. He’d been handsomely rewarded for his loyalty and support, and now he was handsomely rewarding John Carr for his.
It was a simple enough job – Avilov was in London roughly two weeks a month, for business meetings and to party, and Carr and his London team received him and his travelling security, kept them alive – because there were real and present threats to him, as there seemed to be to many of these oligarchs – and then sent them on their way when they were finished doing whatever they were doing.
Two weeks later, rinse and repeat.
For that, Carr was paid six figures – nowhere near what he could earn in the world’s various blood-soaked sandpits, true, but London was short on rocket-propelled grenades and long on nightlife, and he also received handsome expenses, six-monthly bonuses, and the use of this three-bed flat in Primrose Hill and a very nice burgundy BMW X6. Carr was actually more of a biker – he owned a Triumph Thunderbird Storm, which he loved to thrash up and down the motorway when he got the chance – but on cold winter’s days like today, he had to admit, the Beamer was very pleasant.
The reason for the notepad was to sketch out a plan for the boss’s next visit, in a week’s time. He was coming over to complete some business purchase or other – Carr didn’t know the details, and didn’t want to know them – and would then spend a week in his flat at Chelsea Harbour, cutting a swathe through the capital’s best restaurants, bars and call-girls.
He had just drawn up the itinerary
and started selecting the team when his mobile vibrated on the coffee table in front of him.
A text.
He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello John,’ said the message. ‘Please call me to discuss something that you need to know about.’
‘Hmm,’ he said to himself.
He wasn’t a man to rush things.
Maybe he’d call later, maybe he wouldn’t.
But he was certainly intrigued.
And that bad feeling from earlier in the morning was back, grumbling in his belly.
He put the phone back on the table and went back to his planning.
28.
SEVERAL HUNDRED MILES away, a man in a black jacket walked into The Volunteer on the Falls Road in Belfast.
In the bad old days – or the good old days, it depended – the man would never have been able to meet his contact like this.
Back then, the ‘Vollie’ had been a favourite boozer among Belfast PIRA men, and when you walked through the door you did so under the assumption that you were being watched by the men in cars, or one of their associated groups.
Even if those evil fuckers were taking a day off, or following a more important target – sure, they couldn’t follow yous all, now could they? – the rumour was that they had a permanent eye-in-the-sky watching the front door of the bar, and a dozen other Provo hangouts. The Army Air Corps seemed to have a helicopter over the city all day and all night, the whop-whop of distant rotors punctuating any silence; aboard were supposedly operators using stand-off surveillance gear that let them recognise you from their aerial platform far away across town, and read the headlines on your copy of An Phoblacht, and count the change in your pocket.
So the rumour went.
But that was all in the past. Tony Blair, the Ceasefires, General John de Chastelain and all that… Now the SAS and most of the spooks had moved on, with bigger fish to fry – the kind of fish who wouldn’t be seen dead drinking Guinness in the Vollie, or anywhere else – and most of the time no-one was watching the front door, or much cared who was inside, or what was being discussed.
