Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Now that he’d cleared a space, he pulled the computer keyboard forward. Allen’s words had been dancing around his mind for the past few days, and now curiosity had got the better of him. He was pretty sure he was the only person in the building, save for the security guards, because he’d walked the length of the wide corridor outside and not seen a chink of light. He hadn’t turned on the main light in the office and was using the desk lamp, which illuminated only one end of the room.

  He began to tap away at the keyboard. He punched in his name – Ryan – and his password – Bombay – after the city of his birth. He waited as the computer went through its slow awakening. He hadn’t logged in since leaving London, so he went first to check his personal files, but there was only one message and he was disappointed to see it was from Tina, Jenkins’s PA. It read, ‘Behave yourself over there.’ Tina never gave up.

  He pressed the command key again and punched in IRA. People. M. From here he could access Special Branch files as well as the Service’s own and it meant there were thousands of entries.

  It was hard to know where to start. He found a file that had been written up on the attack on Henderson. It gave a factual description of the attack and the personnel involved and noted that court proceedings were underway against Seamus McGirr.

  Ryan wondered how the hell Paddy had got away with it.

  Then he spooled up the page and was surprised to see the detail involved in their ‘backgrounder’. The intelligence for the attack had been gathered over a period of two months, the report said, and it named all the operatives involved. It noted the day – even the time – on which Gerry McVeigh had given his final approval.

  Ryan knew they hadn’t got that from Colette.

  He flicked through the files again until he found the most up-to-date profile of Gerry. He opened it and was stunned by the first sentence, which was written in bold:

  WARNING: ‘Foxglove’ has made it clear that Gerry McVeigh represents a real threat to the emerging peace process. He remains implacably opposed to all attempts to negotiate a solution and is attempting to foster dissent amongst other leading Republicans.

  Ryan sat back in the chair and exhaled noisily. Who, he asked himself, is Foxglove? Gingy Hughes – now deceased – or someone else? The other tout?

  He was suddenly transported back to his mother’s garden and to the tall, stooping, mauve and cream flowers in the beds by the porch. He could remember, distinctly, her explanation of the name – ‘the flowers are like little fox’s gloves’ – and he could recall watching the bees slipping quickly in and out of them.

  Somebody was a gardener …

  He read on through Gerry’s file and saw two further references to Foxglove’s warnings. On a hunch, he then opened Paddy’s file and found another reference there.

  He found nothing in Colette’s file – it looked as if it hadn’t been updated and he wondered if that was deliberate – and there was only one oblique reference in the mother’s records. The file noted her background in surprising detail, recording the effect of the death of her youngest son Sean in the late 1970s. It said:

  ‘Foxglove’ has reported that there are severe tensions within the McVeigh family. Despite having been born into a Republican family, Mrs McVeigh seems to have been driven firmly away from violence by the death of her youngest son, Sean, at the hands of the Army. Her stance – in contrast to that of her oldest son – has caused repeated clashes. This is exacerbated by the death of the father from cancer four years ago. Gerry McVeigh is said to be trying to pursue the legacy of his father, a notoriously hardline Republican.

  Ryan leaned back in his seat again and tapped his pencil on the desk.

  His own father had died of cancer. He thought of Colette living through what he’d had to endure.

  It left him with a strange sensation – a sudden sense of affinity when no new intimacies had been wanted.

  He wondered if she missed her father as much as he did his own.

  He flicked idly through some of the rest of the files and was just about to finish when one in particular caught his eye, reminding him of Allen’s comment and the reason why he was here in the first place.

  Somehow, he already knew.

  The file was headed simply ‘England’. He opened it and froze. The room was cold, but the shock made him sweat. He mumbled quietly, ‘Oh God.’

  Ryan woke the next morning a few minutes before his alarm went off. The first shards of sunlight were filtering in through a gap in the curtains and, for once, it was easy to get up. He hadn’t slept well.

  He stood, naked, in the middle of the room and rummaged around in the brown duffel bag that he still hadn’t unpacked. His running kit was wrapped in a plastic bag and was thus easy to find. When he pulled it out, the stench was terrible. His shorts and lycra boxer shorts were still damp with sweat from the last run weeks before and he winced as he pulled them on. He found a dirty T-shirt at the bottom of the bag and pulled a large, warm, Adidas sweatshirt over the top.

  He picked up his cigarettes from the bedside table and walked out to the car, which started first time. He drove up past the House of Sport and then turned right into the car park by the river. It was a beautiful morning and there were already plenty of cars parked here. As he got out, he saw a man in a tweed hat strolling up towards him with a young boxer on a lead. As Ryan began his jog, the dog lunged playfully at him and he stroked its head briefly.

  Then he was down by the Lagan and watching the smooth waters of the river. As the path and the river bent round to the left, he tried to relax. He knew he was angry, but somehow it seemed hard to tie in a slim, pretty woman with so much of his own family’s suffering. He wondered if he should want to punish her. He thought about the other tout – Foxglove, or whatever his name was. He thought it would be so easy to punish her, to let her go.

  It took him about twelve minutes to get up to the bridge over the Lagan and then he crossed over it and ran back on the other side. There were quite a few people out now, running, walking their dogs, and he found it an oddly pleasurable experience to be out doing something resolutely normal. Eventually he caught sight of the old road bridge back over the river and sprinted the last couple of hundred yards. He spent a few minutes bent double, recovering his breath, and then he got into the car and switched on the radio. It was just before nine.

  He found himself thinking of Gerry McVeigh in a new light. He found it hard not to empathize with a man pursuing the legacy of his father.

  The news came on just as he was passing the House of Sport, but there was nothing dramatic. A couple of coffee-jar bombs in Derry and a failed mortar attack in Crossmaglen. No casualties.

  As he pulled back into Malone Beeches, he heard Gerry Adams giving an interview demanding clarification of the peace declaration.

  Inside the house he showered quickly and ate a bowl of cereal before nearly making himself sick with a cigarette. At about a quarter to ten he got back into the car and drove down to Castlereagh. As a concession to what the police usually wore, he’d put on a half-respectable pair of blue jeans and a tweed jacket.

  The traffic was heavy and it took him nearly half an hour to get across town to Castlereagh. He showed the men on the gate his ID and then parked round the back. He waited in reception for about twenty minutes for Allen, though he thought he was approaching the stage where he might be able to go in on his own.

  When he arrived, Allen looked his usual dishevelled self and, as they stepped into the corridor, Ryan asked him quietly, ‘How did you know?’

  Allen looked puzzled and Ryan expanded, ‘The business in England. I looked at the files.’

  Allen stopped dead. The corridor was empty. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t,’ he said. ‘It was a guess. I’ve seen your file. I remembered the case and saw your mother’s maiden name.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got a memory like an elephant. A brother?’

  ‘Uncle.’ Ryan took out his cigarettes and played absent-mindedly wit
h the packet, twisting it through his fingers.

  Allen leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

  Ryan sighed. ‘It’s all right. What does it mean?’

  ‘It means nothing. It doesn’t change anything. Use it.’

  It was Ryan’s turn to look puzzled.

  ‘Perhaps she has a conscience,’ Allen said.

  ‘I thought you said they never repented.’

  Allen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everyone has a conscience.’

  Allen turned. He walked down the corridor and Ryan followed him in silence. Before they got to the end, Ryan asked, ‘Who is Foxglove?’

  Allen stopped again. He was smiling. ‘I think you know better than to ask that.’

  ‘But you know?’

  ‘I might do.’

  ‘Why can’t you give a straight answer?’

  ‘Because then you’d never let up.’

  ‘Belfast Brigade staff?’

  Allen smiled. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘Come on, Brian, for fuck’s sake …’

  Allen touched his arm. He was standing close to him and Ryan could smell his breath. ‘Sometimes the best touts are players,’ he said. ‘But they have their drawbacks. When they know something and we act upon it, sometimes the leak is easily traced back to them. So what I’m saying is that sometimes it’s people close to those that count who make the best touts. Don’t know everything, maybe, but less open to suspicion because they’re not meant to know in the first place – like our woman and that attack on Henderson.’

  ‘So?’

  Allen laughed and turned away again. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Arsehole,’ Ryan said and Allen laughed again.

  They were at the source unit now and Allen turned in. The chief inspector was standing there, smoking and looking, Ryan thought, rather older than the last time he’d seen him. He thought this was a job that would age you very rapidly. He sat down and leaned back in the seat. He found himself staring at the wall ahead of him, which was covered by a huge map of the greater Belfast region. The map was littered with pins and and pen marks.

  Ryan looked at the map and found his eyes drawn to the cubby holes on the left of it. There were about twenty or thirty in all, but two caught his attention – the two biggest holes nearest to the map.

  One had ‘Shadow Dancer’ written under it. The other had ‘Foxglove’.

  The room was thick with smoke and Ryan felt so choked he had no desire to smoke himself.

  The chief inspector opened the file on his desk and blew a plume of smoke into the air above him. ‘Not much specific at the moment,’ he said. ‘Not much activity in her area as far as we can tell – a lot of operations on hold because of fear of a tout …’ The chief inspector looked up and grinned before continuing. ‘We are looking out for some arms coming in over the next few weeks – a collection of AK-Ms, some handguns, semtex – because they appear to be running short, but otherwise it’s mostly just a question of pushing her hard – really hard – on the internal mechanics of what is happening at the moment. We know the hardliners are very unhappy, Gerry McVeigh a leader among them, and we really need to push everyone so that we can start trying to nail down where we’re going.’

  The chief inspector took another long drag on his cigarette, smiled at them again and pointed at the ceiling. ‘I can tell you, the pressure for information is getting pretty heavy at the moment, so don’t be afraid to lean on her …’

  The briefing lasted a few more minutes and then Allen suddenly looked at his watch and stood up. As he did so, Ryan felt a brief surge of adrenalin. He followed Allen downstairs and into the front of a waiting grey Granada. He noticed they had no driver this time.

  Allen took them down Castlereagh Road and, as they passed Central Station, he smiled. ‘I think we need to do a bit of work on our woman.’

  Ryan frowned at him.

  ‘Have you got your walking shoes?’

  Ryan nodded slowly.

  ‘I thought we might take our woman on a little walk. Reassure her. Win her over. You know what they say about this game; it’s a battle for hearts and minds.’

  Ryan didn’t respond.

  They waited for Colette in a quiet cul-de-sac opposite the headquarters of Northern Ireland Electricity, just off the Malone Road. Allen had a small radio in his hand and the two back-up Land Rovers were hidden out of sight round the corner.

  The surveillance teams were out, ready to ‘clean’ her approach, and their voices were clipped and urgent on the radio.

  Colette walked into the hall to get Mark’s coat and, as she pulled it off its hook, she heard Catherine crying. She came back to the front room. ‘What have you done, Mark?’ she asked.

  ‘He punched m-m-m-me …’ Catherine said.

  Colette sighed and stepped forward, holding out Mark’s coat. He held his arms stiffly by his side and refused to put them in the sleeves.

  ‘Come on, Mark,’ she said.

  He didn’t budge.

  She crouched down, gripped his arms and shook him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘What on earth is wrong with you?’

  He looked at her sulkily.

  ‘Look, that’s enough.’ She felt a momentary sense of panic. ‘Mummy is late, so put this on, please – and stop bullying your sister.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Mark! Put this on. Now!’ She took his arms and forced them into the anorak sleeves. She turned to see her mother standing in the doorway. ‘Are you still OK to pick them up later?’ Colette asked.

  Her mother nodded. ‘Where are you going? Why don’t you take them with you?’

  ‘I’m just going into town, but I can’t––’

  ‘Oh, go on, they haven’t been down for––’

  ‘I think it’s better this way, Ma. Just as long as you’re all right to––’

  ‘Take them with you.’

  ‘I can’t, Ma.’ Colette could tell there was tension in her voice now. ‘Look, I just don’t know how long I’m going to be, all right?’ She looked up, saw the doubt and uncertainty – and irritation – in her mother’s eyes, took hold of Catherine and Mark, and more or less dragged them out of the front door.

  She walked quickly round to Margaret’s and gave them a brief hug before catching a taxi down to the city centre. As she got out and began the long walk up to the Malone Road, she felt guilt and fear in about equal measures.

  She felt foul. The guilt was pervasive. She resented Mark again for not understanding, but why in the hell should he? She told herself she had no choice, but at the back of her mind she felt …

  Well, if she didn’t have a choice, why did she feel guilty?

  As she passed Queen’s University she looked at her watch and realized how late she was going to be. She felt a sense of panic and began to run.

  She ran quickly to begin with, then slowed to a walk as she passed Eglantine Avenue, then started to jog again as she passed the garage. She was out of breath and she knew the fuckers wouldn’t understand.

  She walked the last fifty yards or so and felt the dampness in her armpits. As she turned the corner into Stranmillis, she saw the grey Granada. Its engine was running, the fumes puffing slowly out of the exhaust.

  She opened the nearside back door and got in. Her man was sitting in the passenger seat, the big Prod was driving. The Prod turned to her. ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said again, with greater menace.

  She sighed loudly. ‘For fuck’s sake—’

  ‘All right,’ Ryan said. He looked over the corner of the seat. ‘All right. Lateness just spells danger, that’s all.’

  ‘Lateness just spells two kids who won’t do what they’re told,’ she replied.

  She looked out of the window. They were silent for a moment and she watched a young woman wheeling her pram along the pavement beside her.

  The Prod turned to her. ‘We have some
work to do. Do you have any commitments?’

  Colette didn’t understand.

  ‘Is anyone expecting you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Ma. The kids. I said I’d be back for tea.’

  The Prod spoke quietly into the radio, dismissing the back-up units and then he drove. He took them up to the ring road and then down through Saintfield to Ballynahinch and beyond. At two o’clock in the afternoon, the traffic was relatively light.

  Colette didn’t understand what they were doing or where they were going. The Brit turned several times to look at her, but his face was impassive and, when she smiled at him, he didn’t smile back.

  As they travelled further and further away from Belfast, she felt a growing sense of unease. She thought of challenging them but realized she was effectively their prisoner.

  Without the Brit, she’d have been frightened.

  She realized she was foolish to rely on him. What logical reason was there to trust any of them? They were still the enemy.

  They passed the small holiday town of Newcastle and climbed around the coast road that stretched south towards the Republic of Ireland. It was a beautiful day, the winter sun streaming dramatically through the rolling clouds, bringing a brilliant light to the sea and to the green hills that ran down to meet it.

  They followed the coast road for about 5 miles and then the Prod, Allen, turned right to head inland. A mile further on, he stopped in a lay-by at the turn of the road. He looked over his shoulder at Colette. ‘I hope you like walking.’

  She didn’t reply. Allen pointed to a path on their right. ‘It’s all right.’

  Colette didn’t move. She was frightened now.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Ryan said. But he stared at her grimly. She followed them tentatively along the track. The ground was slightly damp beneath their feet and her white trainers were getting covered in mud. She wondered how she would explain that to her mother.

  Fifty yards down the track they turned towards the mountain and began to climb upwards, following a neat stone wall surrounding a green field that was full of sheep. They were out of the sun now, the wood on their left ensuring the path was still cold from the overnight frost.