Taking off his overcoat and draping it over his arm, he addressed the officer.
“I have an appointment.”
“Of course sir, might I see your letter?’
He pushed it across the desk and waited.
The policeman lifted a telephone. “A Mr Barnard for his 2.30 appointment… thanks.”
He gestured. “If you’d like to take a seat over in the public waiting area someone will be right out to collect you.”
For a brief second Eban thought he heard his own incredulous voice say, ‘What fucking lunatic scheme is this?’, and he thought about turning around and walking right out again.
Last chance.
No-one would ever know, much less care.
But he knew in his marrow that this was never an option.
Every road had led him here.
And here was where it would begin and end.
For better or for worse.
Eban moved over to a social area with pot plants, a coffee maker and a large wall-mounted TV with the sound turned down.
Three others sat there already, forming a tight huddle.
An older man looked off into the distance, seemingly having zoned out all and any activity around him. Whilst a younger man – perhaps his son – sat on the edge of the leatherette couch, his knee bouncing up and down in anxious apprehension.
He wore a denim jacket with a shirt and loosely knotted tie, suggesting perhaps a detour from a manual job to be here.
A young woman left the group and moved toward the coffee maker.
Eban noted that the sounds around him seemed strangely muted.
Barely audible piped music, the ping of the lift as the doors opened, the ringing of telephones off in the distance, voices. It was like being in some hermetically sealed bubble.
An Asian man glided past with a floor-polishing machine, its brushes rotating. But even this seemed strangely dulled.
Everything smelled faintly of furniture polish and disinfectant.
But behind that was the unmistakable odour of public toilets.
That masked smell he recognised from airport lounges and car salesroom lobbies.
The smell of fifty different kinds of faeces held back by lavender mist and spring morning dew.
Concealing to appeal.
Before he had time to sit, a hand on his shoulder made him jump.
“Mr Barnard? Sorry to startle you. Can I get you a wee cup of tea or anything?” The policewoman was smiling at him.
“No… no, I’m fine thanks.”
“Alright then, if you’d like to follow me, Inspector Watson will see you now.”
She led him through swishing double doors, and down carpeted corridors.
To either side of him he could see rooms full of library-style shelving, holding hundreds of files from floor to ceiling. Cardboard boxes with names and dates written on the side stood in piles on the floors. Others were marked, ‘Forensic Evidence’.
As he moved down the corridor, a door opened momentarily in a side room where a stout man sat in front of a tape recorder, across from another man taking notes. Eban thought he heard the man say, “On the 17th October 1983, my father was abducted from his place of work by two men, taken to the Hightown Road outside Belfast and—”
The door closed again.
Eban noticed again how much he was sweating.
He’d dressed for winter in an insulated ski-coat that had seen better days. His woollen beanie and heavy crew neck sweater ensured the walk from the town centre to the offices was an uncomfortably overheated one.
He took out a handkerchief and dabbed the back of his neck. Laughing self-consciously, he remarked to the woman walking ahead of him,
“You probably think I’m one of those people who get nervous – guilty, I mean – around policemen… policewomen, I mean…”
“Och, no sir… not at all.” She didn’t look back.
“I’ve just got a bit of a cold.”
They turned a corner into a long passageway.
Coming in the opposite direction was a plain-clothes office, his laminated identity pass clipped to his jacket. As they drew closer Eban noticed the man’s eyes widen as he came level with him. It was at first a look of recognition, which then changed to one of naked astonishment. The man stopped and turned around as they passed, making no pretence at covert observation. He watched them, open-mouthed, as they disappeared down the passageway.
Eban’s stomach lurched. It’s begun… he thought.
When they reached Dan Watson’s office he was on the phone.
Eban could see the tall man through the partially closed blinds on the glass office walls.
Watson looked up and Eban thought he heard him say, “Yes… he’s with me now.”
Watson looked again, this time squinting, trying to focus through the gaps. He said something else, urgently, furtively, that Eban could not catch. The policewoman knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
She stood aside and allowed Eban to enter.
Dan Watson pushed his chair back to stand. His face drained of colour. He still held the receiver to his ear, “Christ…” he whispered. “It’s like seeing a ghost.”
He replaced the phone in its cradle unsteadily.
He pulled himself together.
“Sorry Mr Barnard – Eban – will you come in?” He nodded toward the officer.
“Jenny, will you tell the switchboard no calls? I’ll let them know when.”
She left, closing the door.
Eban entered, and placing his padded, threadbare overcoat over the back of the chair, sat down. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs and began to arrange the folders he was carrying on the table in front of him.
Watson still stood, rubbing his chin, seemingly perplexed.
Eventually he sat on the edge of the desk. Unexpectedly, an exasperated laugh of disbelief escaped him.
Eban sat back with a start.
Watson was shaking his head.
Eban was becoming irritated. “Is there something I’m missing here?”
Dan Watson held up both palms in an effort to placate him. I’m sorry. You’ve got to appreciate, after all these years… well… you just look so like him.”
“Don’t you think I’ve heard that before?”
“Have you?”
“Only all my life.”
“Your brother was held in pretty high esteem around here.”
Watson leaned back across the desk and pulled open a drawer.
Removing a coffee mug, he passed it to Eban.
Embossed on it was a photograph of Dan Watson and Alex Barnard, Eban’s older brother. Both were smiling and in uniform.
Underneath this it read, in bold black letters, Elementary, My Dear Watson!
“He had that done for me when I made detective. He was one of the good guys, your brother; one of the best… oh, I’m sorry…”
He proffered his hand as an afterthought. “Detective Inspector Dan Watson. We’ve never actually met before, have we?”
Eban let it hang there for what seemed a long time.
When it became apparent that there would be no handshake, Watson self-consciously returned it to his pocket.
Eban felt that he had regained a modicum of control in what was fast becoming a prematurely unstable situation. “No, not that I’m aware of,” he said, holding the taller man’s gaze.
“He never really… well… mentioned you a lot. I mean…”
“No need to feel awkward, detective; we weren’t close.”
Watson seemed uncomfortable. “No, I just meant that he kept clear boundaries between work and home life; family – you had to back then, in this job.”
Eban was becoming irritated.
This was not going as he had planned it a thousand times in his head.
His pulse was racing and he could hear himself say, more abrasively than he intended, “And a lot of good it did him. Still… times have changed for the better I take it? Pret
ty cushy number you have here, detective…” He gestured around the office. “Beats plodding the streets, eh? No danger you’ll finish up like poor brother Alex.”
Dan Watson was rather taken aback by the combative nature of Eban’s attitude.
“Alex knew the risks, we all did – we all do. The dissident threat is still a real one.”
Eban was tiring of the clichés already. His anxiety was causing him to accelerate the process that he had so patiently and meticulously planned for so very long.
It was almost as if someone else was in the driver’s seat.
Somewhere behind his eyes, pulling the levers.
He could barely believe the words that were spilling out now from his lips.
Suddenly, irrationally and with real anger he said, “Look, Christ – spare me; this is the reason I didn’t go to his funeral: so I wouldn’t have to listen to all of this ‘buried with full military honours’ bullshit!”
Dan Watson was stung on behalf of his dead friend, but wasn’t entirely sure how to react.
“Hey, hey, hey… hold on now! That’s no way—”
“And here you are, all these years later, still banging on about duty and honour and—”
Watson resorted to professional detachment as he’d been trained to do. “Just calm down Mr Barnard. Can I get you a coffee; some water?”
It seemed like some kind of hiatus.
Eban breathed in deeply, closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. In full knowledge of what was yet to come.
If he was to see this through, he’d have to somehow hold it together. He mustered a steadier tone. “Have you read my letter?”
Watson hadn’t finished. “Just so as you know, your brother died protecting the citizens of this…”
Eban closed his eyes again. He felt his shirt sticking to his skin.
Breathing deeply through his nose, he clenched his fists, out of sight below the desk, and tried again. “Have you read my letter?”
Watson talked over him. “…Province. He was an inspiration to the men who served with him and under…”
Eban’s jaw set with tension. He raised his voice an octave. “HAVE YOU READ MY LETTER?!”
Watson too spoke more loudly. He was determined to finish what he had to say. “…AND IT’S BECAUSE OF MEN LIKE ALEX BARNARD, THAT—”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, an ice-cold calm flooded through Eban.
From where he knew not, but the quality of this newfound resolve was distinctly malevolent in character and purpose.
An unruffled look spread across his features.
He relaxed.
He smiled.
“Tell me, detective – what have my brother and the black taxi cab that brought me here got in common?”
Watson looked bewildered.
Eban waited for a moment. “No? Well, it’s obvious: they both took five in the back.”
He leaned back, smiling. Pleased with himself.
Dan Watson was incredulous. Oscillating somewhere between disgust and fury.
Eventually he spoke, close to a whisper.
“Is that supposed to be funny? Your brother died a hero.”
Eban was ready for him.
He rolled up one of the newspapers on the desk into a tight rod. “My brother died on his knees, tending his rose bushes: three to the back of the head.” He reached out his hand in front of him and aggressively slapped the paper down three times.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
It was too much. Watson exploded. He jumped to his feet.
“FUCKIN’ MURDERIN’ SCUM! COWARDS! THEY SHOT HIM WHILE HE LAY FACE DOWN… DYING ON THE GROUND!”
He rounded the table and put his face close to Eban’s.
His breath smelled of peppermints and halitosis. His voice lowered to a threatening hiss.
“Listen, you little prick: Alex Barnard was twice the man you’ll ever be. If you didn’t look so alike, I wouldn’t believe you had the same blood running through your veins!”
Eban sighed in an exaggerated fashion, still not quite believing the self composure he was somehow enjoying.
“As I was saying, did you read my letter? I’ve filled out all the necessary request forms. I didn’t come here for this!”
Watson collected himself. “Then why did you come?”
“You people investigate unsolved murders, don’t you? I mean, that’s what you do: bring ‘closure’” – he sarcastically accompanied the word with a mid-air quotation sign – “to poor unfortunates who live their lives without answers. You make historical enquiries, no?”
“We help people move on with—”
Eban was briefly disgusted. “Crawling; digging around in the past, through the muck… it must feel like living in limbo land for you as well as them.” He was suddenly jolted by a bolt of realisation. Of memory. It shook him.
“As well as… me.”
He recovered shakily. “Like I said… I didn’t come here for this.”
Watson saw him waver. “And like I said, why did you come?”
“For answers.”
“To what?”
“The victim, for a start; what happened to the victim. Give me an address.”
“I have someone looking into that. Your letter says serious assault; possibly murder. Well… which is it?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me.”
“Well, it’s a long time ago.” Watson pulled a file across his desk. “No name… a date… a street… McGrew’s pub. That’s all you’re giving us?”
“That’s all I can give.”
Watson felt back on home turf now. He stood up, gesturing to the door.
“Well Mr Barnard, you can take it that we’ll be in touch if…”
Eban, who had been waiting for the right moment, played his trump card.
It was the moment he had visualised a hundred thousand times in his mind.
He was determined to do it justice. “But I haven’t confessed yet. I came to confess.”
Dan Watson was tired of being toyed with.
He had a full afternoon’s agenda ahead of him and had become unsettled and unnerved by this ghost, this doppelganger of his late partner who had seemingly come here today for little other reason than to harangue him and fuck with his head.
“Confess? Confess to what?”
Eban Barnard stood slowly, pushing his chair away from him. He walked around the desk and leaned over the detective, putting his wrists together. Inviting invisible handcuffs.
“I killed my brother… and… he deserved what he got.”
The big man couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Grabbing Eban by his lapels, he hoisted him clean off the floor, and knocking over a coat rack, pushed him hard against the wall, cracking the back of Eban’s head in the process.
Sergeant Coulter, hearing the noise, knocked on the door.
“Everything alright sir?”
Watson regained control of himself and let Eban drop.
“Everything’s fine,” he called back with a shaky voice.
Eban brushed the creases from his shirt. Buttons that had popped in the altercation bounced on the desk. He rubbed the back of his head gingerly. “Everything’s not fine though… is it, detective?”
Watson took a deep breath and cast around for some modicum of professional composure.
“Mr Barnard, given that I was one of the arresting officers of the scum that boasted of killing my friend – and your brother – Chief Superintendent Alex Barnard, I’d have to respectfully contend that you are full of shite, and that you’re a liar, a sick fantasist… or both. They served time and were released under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, more’s the pity. There’s nothing to consider; nothing to investigate. This charade is over.”
Again he gestured to the door.
Eban was suddenly desperate again. He needed to make him understand.
“For God’s sake, man – did you not read my letter?” he pleaded.
Watson w
as again in full control.
He opened the folder on his desk. “Your letter says nothing about your brother. You say on the forms that you want us to investigate the attempted murder of some fellow called…” He put on his glasses and squinted for effect. “Oh that’s right: you don’t have a name – someone who was seriously assaulted, possibly murdered in 1970.”
“Correct. Unsolved, isn’t it?”
“Yes, along with about a thousand others or more. Listen, I’ve looked into it; we’ve spoken to people… it was right at the start of things; very bad times, but you need to give me more, otherwise I see no good reason to—”
Eban became suddenly animated. “So you think maybe he didn’t die…?”
“I can’t answer that at this time, and you’re not immediate family; in fact you can offer no reason for an interest in this case.”
Eban looked crestfallen. Then he linked his fingers under his chin in a rather officious manner.
“I’ve paid my fee and filled out all the necessary paperwork. I’ll take it to the police ombudsman if I have to.”
Dan Watson realised that he really didn’t need something like this getting out to the press. Especially from Alex Barnard’s lunatic brother.
He rolled his eyes, “Look mate… what is it you want from me?”
Eban pushed the folders he had brought with him across the desk at the detective.
“Find out what happened to the victim. Hear my confession.” He was beseeching him.
“That you killed your brother Alex…?”
Eban stared at him intensely. In silence. It was oppressive. Finally he spoke.
“Arrest me!”
“For God’s sake man, think about what you’re saying. It makes no sense, any of it.”
“Please… I’m begging you.” There were tears in Eban’s eyes.
Dan Watson rubbed hard at his own eyes. “Alright. I must need my fuckin’ head examined…” He paused for a moment, once again trying to balance this debacle in his own mind.
“Alright, out of respect for his memory we’ll hear whatever bollocks it is you have to say. But only for your brother’s sake, you understand? Not for yours, do you hear me? Not for you!”
He picked up the telephone.
“Gerry, set up the cameras and mics in Interview Room 1. There’s a man here says he wants to tell us a story.”
White Church, Black Mountain Page 8
