He made his arrangements. He caught the 2255 BA flight from Heathrow and settled down with a brandy. Nice air hostess … she fussed over him, even though she didn’t appreciate his importance, the importance of his flight. He didn’t hear her remark to the rest of the cabin staff, that he looked the sort who’d complain at the drop of a hat. Hedge touched down at Dublin airport at one minute to midnight, right on time. He was met by an unmarked car that whisked him to Garda headquarters. The driver was a cheery, round-faced Irishman with fair hair, not the lugubrious, dark Irishman that filled so much of Ireland, and he talked a lot. Hedge answered monosyllabically. The Irish accent, he found, grated; and he didn’t like the Irish anyway, British people basically who thought they were foreigners, though why anybody should want to be a foreigner was beyond Hedge’s comprehension. When the questioning was over, and he hoped it wasn’t going to take too long, he would pass the rest of the night in the luxury of the Shelburne Hotel, where accommodation overnight had been booked for him, and in the morning he would take a walk along O’Connell Street which once in better days had been Grafton Street, after the Duke of Grafton — shocking to think Nelson was no longer there, his pillar blown to smithereens by order of what called itself a responsible government — and then he would fly thankfully back to London.
On arrival at headquarters Hedge was welcomed genuinely enough but nevertheless received a shock. Hesseltine, it seemed had got things wrong — or hadn’t been honest with him. He was not to be permitted to interview the friends of McMahon at all. That had never been the idea, he was told firmly. He would be allowed to listen in, by means of bugs, from a room adjoining the interrogation room, and afterwards he could put any further questions through the medium of the Irish interrogating officer. He protested but to no avail.
“Scandalous. To bring me all this way!”
“But think now, Mr Hedge.” That Irish accent again. “It’d do no good at all, now would it? An Englishman to do the questioning, of men like these two? Sure it’s not a word they’d utter in your hearing, if they knew.”
Well, perhaps they had a point. In any case they were adamant. Hedge was forced to make the best of it. He was given a large whisky, Irish. It was surprisingly good — Old Bushmills, Black Bush. The best, they said. The Irish always boasted.
*
The men had come back as promised, the grey-suited man and the one with the heavy beard. The grey-suited man was armed with a small automatic. By this time Shard was normal; speech and movement had returned, but the handcuffs were still in place and his arms behind him. The day was darkening; a little earlier he had got to his feet and looked out of the window. All he saw was a blank wall, the stone wall of a building. He was probably still somewhere in the north, but that was all he could say. Scotland, England — he didn’t know.
The bearded man said, “Well, now, Mr Shard.” Shard saw that he held his jacket over his arm, the jacket he’d taken off aboard the train from Glasgow and which had been placed over him after his removal from the toilet compartment. Now the bearded man produced Shard’s notebook, in which — or on which to be precise, on the paper cover — Shard had jotted down the number of the tail’s car in Glasgow.
“So you knew,” the man said. “You spotted the tail.”
“Yes.”
“And your driver would have reported it, of course. Well, no matter. That car was abandoned soon after —”
“And had been stolen, of course.”
“Of course. And carried new number plates. We’re not fools, Mr Shard. Nor, I think, are you.”
Shard didn’t comment. The bearded man scratched reflectively beneath his chin and said, “Money, now. We’re all in need of it. Do you take bribes by any chance, Mr Shard?”
“I do not.”
There was a smile from both men. “You’re wrong, you know,” the bearded man said. “Very wrong. Your bank account is now one hundred thousand pounds the fatter. And then there is the fact that your wife leaves your garage door open when she goes out.”
Shard’s mouth set. “What do you mean?”
The man explained fully. Shard felt murderous, knowing what Beth would be suffering, knowing too that Mrs Micklem was currently part of the scene, part of what would look like disgrace. But no-one would believe, surely, not even Hedge. This was crazy, and he said so.
The man shook his head. “Many respected people have taken bribes as you well know. No-one is above suspicion, and the notes in your garage are very real. There will be more payments to follow —”
“Anyone trying to make a payment will find himself in the bag —”
“Yes, perhaps. Yes. That doesn’t worry us.”
“Why not?”
The man shrugged. “You’ll see, Mr Shard.”
“What’s the point of this. What do you gain from it?”
“If you think about it, perhaps you’ll see for yourself. A discredited policeman is not a happy thing to be, Mr Shard.”
“I told you. They won’t believe it.” Shard spoke through clenched teeth, wishful to get his hands round the man’s throat, squeeze, shake him like a rat. Both men were laughing at him now and he took a step forward, a useless step with his hands held behind his back but it was a reflex action and it was stopped dead by the grey-suited man’s gun, which moved like lightning and came down on his temple. He staggered and fell, and the men laughed again and then left him, presumably to think about it as suggested. There was blood on his head, running down his face, and his head ached. He thought of the men as rats. They had involved Beth. But he had experience enough not to be surprised. In the force you got used to all kinds of dirt and families were never sacrosanct. He also had experience enough to know that the bearded man had been truthful insofar as plenty of police officers had been sentenced for taking bribes, and this would be regarded seriously until such time as he could present himself in London. And that was another point: he had disappeared. That wouldn’t look good. Of course, the train guard would make a report and two and two could quickly be put together. But of itself it didn’t prove anything, and he had to accept that the dirty money in his garage would be real.
Or would it?
There could be bluff around. He could only hope so. But he didn’t believe it. They knew about the garage, knew that Beth so often left it unlocked. They’d cased the joint, and they would scarcely go to the trouble of doing that without following up. And why were they unworried about the prospect of another payment leading to an arrest?
It didn’t make sense. And he still couldn’t see where the gain lay for them. He racked his brains, endlessly, as night came on. That next in-payment to his account: it could be made by post, presumably. That was why they weren’t bothered. But it hadn’t sounded quite like that. And there was still the query, why?
Just after the light had gone, largely because of that close stone wall, food was brought, both men again. The grey-suited man stood by with his automatic while the other man fed Shard, like a nurse, with bread and soup and a glass of water. The blood had dried now and his face felt stiff, his head still aching. When fed, he was left alone again and a hall-hour or so later the men came back and a mattress and pillow were thrown in through the door.
*
In the early hours of next morning Hedge in Dublin was easing away cramp in his neck as he concentrated on an earpiece, the receiving end of the wretched bug. It didn’t seem to be working properly; in Ireland, nothing did. There were crackles, and every now and again it faded and then came back with increased sound which Hedge found tiresome. It was all tiresome; the voices were mainly those of the interrogators; the accused men spoke but seldom and then not very usefully. They admitted the shooting since they couldn’t very well do anything else. But they were giving nothing away, not yet anyhow. It was going to be a lengthy process; Hedge thought wistfully of the comfortable bed in the Shelburne Hotel, all the luxury and then an ample breakfast with nice strong coffee — not that he hadn’t been brought coffee from time to
time, he had, but it was terrible stuff from a canteen, wishy-washy in a cheap cup bearing some sort of crest and insignia in case it got stolen, like. British Rail. It made Hedge hiccup at one point, loudly and painfully, and he hoped to goodness the bug wasn’t two-way or something. He searched in his pockets for a Rennie and found he was out of them. He clicked his tongue: Miss Fleece again. He would have to tell her … he came back to the present when a loud voice in the bug said, “Ah, get stuffed,” and then the thing went into one of its fade periods, and he missed the rest.
Then something more germane came across, loudly again. A man said, “Fuck England.” That was more like it, and Hedge listened intently for more heresy. He got it. “Fuck the bloody British. Fuck the Royal Navy.” Ah! Faslane? The voice veered off the mainland of Britain, however, though the pejorative remained the same. “Fuck Paisley, fuck the bloody Northern Ireland Secretary, and begod fuck Cardinal O’Fiaich too if that’s what the bugger says.”
Hedge sucked in disapproving lips at the constant use of the four-letter word. But he believed there was a sound of incipient hysteria … not quite the word, these men were tough. But something of the sort, and there might come a crack. After a few more moments and a few more expletives there was a sound like a slap followed by a yell of pained surprise. The Garda seemed to be getting tough as well. Soon after that an officer came in to see Hedge.
“We’ve been interrogating them together, you’ll realise, Mr Hedge —”
“Yes! You said you were going to. If you recall, I said they should have been done individually.”
“We have our methods, Mr Hedge.”
“Yes, yes. Do I take it you’re now going to separate them?”
“That’s the idea,” the officer said briskly. “One one side, one the other.”
“Of me? Rooms either side of here? Goodness gracious, I can’t listen to two separate interrogations at once, I’m not superhuman!”
“You have a point, Mr Hedge. Take your choice, right or left.”
Hedge fumed. “Which offers the better prospect? Which do you advise?”
“Garrity. Room to your right. We’re going to crack him. The other’s impervious, waste of time.”
“Is Garrity the one who kept on using — er —”
“Yes.” The tone was disparaging. The Garda officer was a good Catholic, a devout man who hadn’t liked the reference to Cardinal O’Fiaich. Garrity was going to pay for that and a good deal else beside. Hedge had already been told that Garrity’s companion, the man in the other interrogation room, had been wanted for a good long while, both sides of the border and in England. His name was Phelan. Hedge had never heard of him so far as he could recall; no doubt he was known to the Yard — Hesseltine hadn’t said so, but Hesseltine often kept things to himself and then had the impertinence to suggest that he, Hedge, was unforthcoming.
There was a tapping sound from the bug and Hedge started listening again. The book was being thrown at Garrity now; there were a few more fucking this and thats and then there was a squealing sound followed by threats, quickly cut off. The Garda was nicely on top now, Hedge believed. Garrity was in for murder and was going to get a rough ride. In past years a number of Garda men had lost their lives, and prison officers in Mountjoy Gaol had been beaten up by Garrity’s friends from time to time, and the prison service wasn’t going to love Garrity when they got him inside. They wouldn’t go outside the law, not much, oh no, but there were ways as Garrity well knew. Hedge believed he heard the sound of sobbing; Garrity was young, had very likely been bulldozed by threats into Detachment X, and hadn’t toughened up fully yet. When the Garda officer resumed, he could be heard reciting all the crimes that were going to be pinned on Garrity, who wouldn’t see freedom again maybe till he was an old, old man, if then. Then he changed his tack, the usual routine, hinting at how Garrity could benefit by co-operation. There were some crimes that just might not be put down to Garrity and life inside could be made happier by words dropped in the right quarter.
Then the more matey scene was dissolved: Hedge’s bug told him the interrogators were being changed round. There was silence for perhaps ten minutes: Hedge looked again at his watch and thought of bed, but perhaps he would get there soon now. After the ten minutes were up, another voice came through the bug, sharper, hoarse, hectoring — the man from the other interrogation room taking his turn and keeping to the routine.
“It’s no use, Garrity. Phelan’s talked.”
“He’d never do that.”
“Well, now, he just has, d’you see. Begod, he’s shopped you good and proper, so he has, Garrity. Do you want to hear?”
Silence. Again the intent Hedge eased the cramps in his neck. The interrogator went on again. “The Stephen’s Green killing —”
“I never!”
“Phelan says you did so. Phelan’s very positive — dates, times, names, you know what I mean. The killing of a priest in Belfast, the shooting from a car in the Falls Road that got the wrong man, but the wrong man was as dead as if he’d been the right one. Now, the holy father’s not going to like that any more than we do, Garrity. And Phelan’s against you now, d’you see.” There was a pause, then a familiar name came through to Hedge. “He’s talked about McMahon, Garrity.”
McMahon in London, dead outside the RAMC headquarters in Millbank. McMahon who’d talked of bribery. Hedge knew, or was pretty sure he knew, that Phelan hadn’t in fact mentioned the name at all, but it was possible Garrity would fall for it, for how else would the Garda know?
Garrity asked hoarsely, “What about McMahon, then?”
“You tell me,” the other voice said.
“You don’t know, do you?” Garrity sounded a shade happier, just a shade. Hedge listened to the Garda interrogator demolishing the happiness, inventing a lot more that Phelan hadn’t said, stressing the fact of the DEATH hand-outs in Phelan’s briefcase, of the murder of McMahon, himself a member of Detachment X as well as INLA. Phelan, the Garda officer said, had talked about a civil bombing campaign in England. Did Garrity dispute what Phelan had said? If he did, it would be foolish, and bad for him when he went inside. But co-operation would bring full protection against the IRA and INLA and any other ill-disposed persons in the Irish gaols. Hedge heard that far but no farther: the bug went on the blink and there was nothing but fizzes and crackles and a high whine cutting through them. Hedge seethed, took out the earpiece and shook it, but it was no use. He wrenched it out again and sat for a long while in total frustration. So typically Irish.
The Garda officer came in and Hedge ranted at him. The officer listened patiently: in this, they were both on the same side and Hedge was considered important in London. Then he said that his assessment of what Garrity had come across with, taking that together with Garrity’s silences and omissions, was that Detachment X was after civil rather than military targets in Britain. Hedge stared blankly and said, “Oh, rubbish, my dear fellow! So far these people have clearly been concerned with military, or anyway naval, targets and I —”
“Ah — so far, Mr Hedge. Yes. But I say again, my assessment is that in the future they will not be —”
Hedge said pettishly, “It’s a large assumption on what sounds like thin evidence.”
The Garda man disagreed; there had been, he said, a strongly positive reaction from Garrity and he knew his own people better than did Hedge. Detachment X, he insisted, was in his view not interested in stopping holocausts. “I think it’s all a blind, Mr Hedge. There’s going to be something big, sure enough … but I doubt if it’s to be military. Or naval.” He paused, looking down at Hedge. “We’re not done with Garrity yet, or Phelan either. Phelan may talk in time, since he knows Garrity’s a weak man and likely enough to have talked. Are there any questions you’d like put, Mr Hedge?”
Hedge said, “Yes, there are —”
“Listen now,” the Garda man interrupted, sharp and sudden. The bug, placed by Hedge on a table, had come back to life. Just audible came sobbing, t
he sounds of panic and hysteria, and a number of faint fucks applied largely to the Garda. But not only the Garda: Phelan too.
“There,” the interrogator said. “Now what do you think of that?”
*
Hedge had put his wishes to the Garda: he wanted them to ask Garrity about Detective Chief Superintendent Shard and the deposited cash. He wanted Garrity questioned closely about targets to be attacked by Detachment X and when they were scheduled for. It had to be asked; he didn’t really expect results. Garrity and Phelan might not know in any case, they must be the small fry, the left hands who wouldn’t be told what the right hands were doing. Not unless something was imminent, anyway.
Hedge was right about the nil result. Garrity had nothing to offer. Phelan hadn’t uttered. It was four a.m. by the time Hedge had been driven in another unmarked car to the Shelburne, where he retired to bed weary and cross. He was up late for breakfast but had some sent to his room. It was an excellent breakfast. After it he took his self-promised walk along O’Connell Street in a masochistic frame of mind, thinking again about Lord Nelson. An act of ingratitude — after all, Nelson had fought for the Irish as much as for the rest of the British Isles. British Isles! Sick joke now, with Southern Ireland so long defected and all its inhabitants waiting their chance to blow London up.
Hedge went back to his room at the Shelburne to pay his bill and collect his overnight bag and he was on the point of leaving by taxi for the airport when he was approached by a man, an Englishman whom he vaguely remembered having seen before in London. In the Foreign Office … the man introduced himself as Harcourt-Fanning, he must be Foreign Office. He was, now, of the Embassy in Dublin. He was plainly in a state of suppressed nerves. There had been an explosion, he said. Word had just come through. Fifty estimated pounds of explosive had gone off in a car in the New Forest.
“New Forest!”
“We doubt if it was meant to, Mr Hedge. The Irish … it went off prematurely. There’s nothing left of the men, of course, and not much of the car.”
Shard at Bay Page 6
