‘But shouldn’t we develop that? Ask the odd question?’
‘Sure,’ he smiled, ‘I imagine they’ll give you chapter and verse.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’ He yawned. ‘That’s your baby. I’m giving it to you. Another one for your shopping list.’
A couple of minutes later, the last of the coffee gone, Annie asked to use the bathroom. Cousins was still sitting at the table, scribbling notes for a report.
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘go ahead.’
Annie went into the bathroom and began to douse her face with cold water. Almost as an afterthought she called out, pulling open the door with her foot, telling Cousins about the conversation with Fat Eddie. The man had found nothing, she said. He’d looked, and he’d talked, and he’d asked around but there was nothing there. Cousins grunted from time to time, half-listening, and when she’d finished he put down his pen, got up, and crossed the room towards her. She eyed him in the mirror over the basin. He was leaning against the door jamb, watching her.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘You believe him?’
Annie shrugged, wringing the water from the flannel and emptying the basin. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but on balance … yes.’
‘You don’t think he was covering his arse? You don’t think the tip might have come from him?’
‘But why? Why should he bother with all that?’
‘I’ve no idea. Unless he wanted to keep a clean sheet with his Provo friends.’
‘He has no Provo friends. He’s past all that. That’s why he wanted out. That’s why he moved to Birmingham in the first place.’
‘No Provo friends? Come, come. You know these guys. You’ve worked with them. It’s a blood tie. Once you’re in, you’re in for good. Once a Provo, always a Provo.’
‘Why do we bother with touts, then? Why spend all that money?’
‘Eddie wasn’t a tout. He hasn’t taken a penny off us. Not one.’
‘No, you’re right.’
‘So …’ Cousins smiled. ‘I suggest we take what he says with a pinch of salt. No?’
Annie turned round at last. A single blond hair had caught on Cousins’ lapel. She reached out and brushed it off. Cousins didn’t move. If anything, he looked amused.
‘You know the trick in this game?’ he said at last.
‘No. Tell me.’
‘It’s two little words. Opportunity and timing. Knowing where to look and when.’
Annie nodded, searching for the ambiguities again, wondering what Cousins was really trying to say.
‘Clever of you to remember the suit,’ she said quietly, ‘under the circumstances.’
Freight Shed ‘B’ formed part of the ferry port. It was a long, low windowless building with big sliding doors at either end to let the freight trucks through from the inbound ferries. When Annie and Cousins arrived, the shed was empty except for a single Scania truck parked in one corner. The rear doors of the big freight container were open and there were portable lights on collapsible stands shining directly into the back.
Carefully arranged on the oil-stained concrete beside the truck were several flat-packs of ready-to-assemble furniture. One of them had been opened along the line of heavy staples, the cardboard packaging folded back, exposing the lettered sections inside. Nestling amongst the lengths of conti-board and the plastic packs of handles and hinges were five packages wrapped in black polythene and then secured with brown adhesive tape. Four of the packages were about the size of a one-pound box of chocolates, and a fifth lay beside them, the black polythene scissored open, a block of something that looked like putty visible inside.
Cousins nodded to the customs official standing guard. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’
‘Coming, sir.’
‘Soon?’
‘Any minute.’
Annie knelt beside the display, inspecting the unopened furniture packs. They all carried the same label, O’Keefe Discount Office Supplies, Longford, Eire. She glanced up, hearing the squeak of wheels. Two men had appeared with a trolley. On the trolley were a dozen or so collapsible chairs. The men began to arrange the chairs in a wide semi-circle around the cartons. Cousins was still talking to the customs official. When he’d finished, she stood up.
‘Where were they hidden?’ she said.
Cousins led her to the back of the truck. About a third of the contents had been offloaded and stacked against the wall of the freight shed.
Cousins peered inside the ribbed container. ‘There,’ he said, ‘on the left-hand side.’
‘Did you know what to look for?’ Annie nodded at the display. ‘Did you have box numbers? Some particular marking?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we had the product number. G26 something. The Space Saver Conference Desk.’
‘But a particular box?’
‘No, just the product number.’
‘So how many of these desks were there? On board?’
‘According to the manifest,’ Cousins frowned, ‘about twenty.’
‘And you got lucky first time?’
‘Christ, no.’ He led Annie through a door into an adjoining office. Most of the office floor was knee-deep in scissored cardboard and bits of desk. ‘We spent half the night with that lot. We must have gone through ten packs. At least.’
There were footsteps outside, then a movement in the open doorway behind them. Cousins looked round and for a fleeting moment, Annie saw the triumph in his eyes. She glanced over her shoulder, recognising the tiny figure she’d last seen on his feet in the Home Office meeting. Allder, she thought. Kingdom’s boss.
Cousins stepped across the office, flattening rolls of corrogated cardboard and Allder accepted his handshake without visible enthusiasm. He hadn’t bothered putting a coat over his three-piece suit and he was plainly freezing. Annie followed the two men back into the freight hall. They paused in front of the display while Cousins briefed Allder on developments overnight. The little policeman was making notes on a small leatherbound pad. The customs official had returned with an armful of automatic pistols, each one sealed in a polythene bag. He knelt by the display and began to arrange them round the blocks of plastic explosive. When he’d finished, he glanced up at Cousins for his approval. Cousins broke off a moment, viewing the effect from a number of angles, his eyes narrowed, and Annie watched Allder’s face, sensing the rage behind the tight little smile.
Cousins told the customs official he needed more light on the display. Then he turned back to Allder.
Allder was looking at his notes. ‘Bloke in Birmingham,’ he muttered, ‘Eddie McCreadie. Anything to do with you?’
Cousins was watching the customs official adjusting one of the lights. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the name’s familiar.’
‘Used him recently at all?’
‘Why?’
Cousins was signalling to the customs official, gesturing for him to bring the lamp a little closer. Allder was on the point of losing his temper.
‘He’s dead,’ he said briefly, ‘that’s why.’
Cousins at last looked at Allder. So did Annie.
‘Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come? What happened?’
‘Ran into the back of a parked truck. Last night. Pissed out of his brain.’
Cousins permitted himself a shake of the head. His eyes had gone back to the display.
‘What time?’ Annie said. ‘What time did this happen?’
‘I don’t know. Before midnight, certainly.’ Allder paused, looking at Annie. ‘Why?’
Annie glanced at Cousins, then shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
A small group of men and women had appeared at the far end of the freight shed. One of them had a video camera and a big silver tripod. Another carried a microphone on a long pole. The rest, according to the customs official, were local journalists, called in at an hour’s notice. After the press conference, they’d phone through their copy to the national papers.
Annie loo
ked round for Cousins but he was already shaking hands with one of the journalists, a tall, dark-haired, rather saturnine young man in an expensive cashmere coat. Annie felt a pressure on her arm. It was Allder.
‘Were you here last night?’ he said gruffly. ‘Were you part of all this?’
‘No.’
‘Know anything about the background? Where the information came from?’
Annie thought about Fat Eddie for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Anyone ever think to phone us at all? Or was it one of those private parties of yours? Invitation only?’
Annie looked down at him for the first time. She’d been watching Cousins, still deep in conversation with the man in the cashmere coat. She’d seen him before. She knew she had. Belfast again. Some other press conference. Some other post-mortem.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said.
Allder stared at her for a moment. He must have got up in a hurry because there were tiny nicks in his chin where the razor had slipped. He indicated the Semtex and the automatics. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know,’ he said, ‘don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this lot.’
‘I’m afraid I–’
‘What’s the story again? Some kind of customs tip-off?’
‘Look, maybe you should–’
‘Don’t bother, love. It’s OK. I don’t suppose it’s down to you.’ He patted her arm and then fell silent, watching the approaching journalists. The TV crew began to set up their equipment. The rest were peering at the stuff on the floor. Cousins was still deep in conversation.
Annie nodded at the man in the cashmere coat. ‘Who’s that?’ she said. ‘I know I’ve seen him before.’
She glanced at Allder. Allder was frowning. A bad morning was clearly getting worse.
‘His name’s Devereaux,’ he said tersely. ‘He reports on security issues for The Times.’ He glanced at Annie. ‘Nice to see old mates together, eh?’
The press conference lasted less than half an hour. Allder stood in front of the tiny gathering, one hand in his pocket, and offered a brisk summary of the night’s events. It was, he said, a significant find, yet more evidence that the Provisional IRA were willing and able to export their violence to the mainland UK. The Irish government, and his counterparts in the Irish Garda, had been notified and he anticipated some kind of statement from Dublin. In conclusion, he issued the usual plea for the public to be vigilant. Anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious, should be reported at once. Only by enlisting the support of the ordinary man and woman in the street could the police hope to stay ahead in the battle against the terrorists.
At the end of his speech, Allder called for questions. A couple of local journalists asked for clarification about the source of the consignment. Allder spelled out the name of the Longford company – O’Keefe Discount – but added that it would be daft at this stage to jump to conclusions. The fact that Semtex had turned up in one of their boxes didn’t necessarily point the finger at the Longford firm. There could be a thousand other explanations. At this point, he simply didn’t know.
The journalist sat down, making a note on his pad, and Allder was about to bring proceedings to a close when the man from The Times raised a hand. He had a clipped, slightly disdainful manner and as soon as Annie heard his voice she remembered where she’d seen him before. Belfast, definitely. One of the ministerial briefings she’d been obliged to attend at Stormont.
‘Anything else,’ Devereaux was asking, ‘Apart from the items on display?’
Allder did his best to duck the question, mumbling something about logistical back-up.
‘What, exactly?’
‘Bits and pieces. Nothing much.’
‘But what? Can you not say?’
‘No,’ Allder shook his head, ‘apologies, but no.’
Devereaux nodded, accepting the rebuff, and made a note on the back of a folded copy of The Times. Then he looked up again, indicating the arms cache with a nod of his head.
‘Would you call this operation a success?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Allder said carefully, ‘definitely.’
‘A tribute to good police work?’
‘A tribute to good intelligence.’
‘So how much of that intelligence would you attribute to other agencies?’
Allder looked briefly confused. ‘I’ve already mentioned the customs’ involvement,’ he said. ‘That’s where the information came from. That’s how we got to know.’
‘Of course,’ Devereaux was smiling now, ‘but what about other parts of the home team? MI5 for instance? To what degree were they involved?’
Annie glanced across at Cousins. He was standing in the shadows to one side, his hands in his pockets. He was smiling too, amused by the way Devereaux had skewered the little policeman. It was the perfect question, leaving Allder nowhere to hide, and Annie realised why the two men had earlier spent so long in conversation.
Allder, meanwhile, was playing the national security card. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment,’ he said coldly. ‘You wouldn’t expect me to answer that question, and I won’t. Except to say that the operational campaign against the terrorists is police-led. Always has been. Always will be.’
‘But intelligence is all-important, surely?’
‘Of course.’
‘Especially in a case like this.’
‘Yes.’ Allder did his best to smile. ‘And we have our sources, too.’
‘Too?’
‘As well as …’ He shrugged. ‘Other agencies.’
‘Like MI5?’
‘Yes.’ Allder nodded, impatient now. ‘Of course.’
There was a silence. The other journalists were bent over their shorthand pads, scribbling. The TV cameraman began to prowl amongst the goodies on display, filming them from close quarters, while Allder pocketed his notes and accompanied one of the customs officials out of the shed. The truck driver was in Special Branch custody elsewhere in the ferry port, and Annie wondered how long Allder would devote to him before making his own way back to London. Strictly speaking she should pay him a visit too, though Allder was now in charge of all inquiries.
Annie was still watching the journalists drifting away when someone stifled a polite cough beside her. Devereaux. The man from The Times.
‘Double top for Five, I’d say. You play darts at all?’
Annie shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘Pity. You’ve done well, you and Hugh. Though God knows what the Irish will say.’
‘You mean O’Keefe?’
‘Yes, but the Dublin Cabinet too. He knows most of them like brothers. In fact most of them owe him their jobs. That’s going to make life difficult. With Dessie smuggling arms.’ He beamed at the cameraman, still filming the little packets of Semtex. ‘Hugh and I are stopping for a spot of lunch on the way back. Care to join us?’
Annie travelled back to London in Cousins’ car, a brand new Volvo estate still smelling of the protective wax they injected at the factory. When she offered to share the driving, thinking he must be tired, he shook his head. Maybe after the pub, he said, depending on how much beer Devereaux forced down him.
They stopped for lunch at Carmarthen. It was market day and the pub was full of sheep farmers discussing the price of mutton. Devereaux found a table in the back lounge and insisted on buying the lunch. Cousins accompanied him to the bar, and watching the two men together, Annie realised that they must have known each other from way back. They had the same bone-dry sense of humour, communicating in half-sentences, the kind of code that only years of friendship can develop, and back at the table they both rocked with laughter when Devereaux recalled a mutual buddy who’d gone missing in the hills to the north. Apparently he’d been on some kind of Army survival test, and had finally reappeared three days overdue, but the point of the story was the abrupt change in the man’s eating habits. Ever since his adventure in the hills, he’d refused point blank to touch lamb.
‘Must have been a pretty one,’ Devereaux mused over the last of his shepherd’s pie, ‘probably broke his heart.’
A couple of hours later, back in the car, Annie brought Devereaux up again.
‘Was he one of your lot?’ she asked, watching the lumpy Somerset hills roll past.
‘My lot?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘SAS.’
‘You think I was SAS?’
‘I know you were. I saw the tie you were wearing at the Home Office.’ She glanced across at him. ‘Or was that disinformation?’
‘No,’ he grinned, ‘I wear it to intimidate the civil servants. It makes them nervous, keeps them in their proper place. They think we were the Wild Bunch. Poor fools.’
Annie smiled. ‘So what about your chum? Devereaux? Was he in the Regiment, too?’
‘Twenty-one. Not the real thing.’
‘Good as, though. Eh?’
Cousins looked amused, conceding the point with another grin. Twenty-one SAS was the territorial battalion, part-time soldiers who trained at weekends. They did most of their recruiting in the City and the twelve-month selection course was famous for its brutality. Annie had once had an affair with a young Lloyds broker who’d got as far as the final dozen. The experience had turned him into a monster, prone to outbursts of extreme violence, and she still had a scar at the bottom of her spine from the evening she’d announced the affair was over. She told Cousins about it now, not bothering to hide a tone of wistful regret when it got to the ugly bits.
‘I’m surprised,’ Cousins said when she’d finished. ‘The training’s about self-control. You’re supposed to be Mr Invisible at the end of it. The little mouse in the corner. The face that everyone forgets.’ He smiled. That’s why Devereaux never hacked it. He managed all the physical bits OK, tough guy and everything, but he hadn’t got the temperament for it. They couldn’t rope him down.’
‘Did they rope you down?’
‘They thought they did.’
‘So what does that make you? Compared to Devereaux?’
‘A better actor.’ Cousins grinned again. ‘No, Rupert’s an extrovert. He has ambitions. Scribbling for The Times is just a step, as far as he’s concerned. He’s after greater things.’
Sabbathman Page 18
