by Tana Collins
‘You experienced a flashback?’
‘I must have done. Look Carruthers, I’ve been in hiding, sleeping rough. In truth I’ve never really been the same person since Northern Ireland. It took me a long time to get over what I witnessed. And what I did. I suppose that’s why I like the safe environment of university life.’
Hardly a safe environment if you’re going to be bringing out contentious books, thought Carruthers. This man is full of contradictions. ‘You’ve just said it took you a long time to get over what you did. What did you do, professor?’
‘I did a politics degree then masters and a PhD after I left the army.’
Carruthers wasn’t sure if Holdaway was starting to ramble or if he had just misunderstood the question but he let him continue.
‘I was always fascinated by politics, just not destined to be on the cutting edge, that’s all. We aren’t all cut out to be foot soldiers. I found a niche at university. I’m good at lecturing. OK, so the students get on my bloody nerves, but I guess you can’t have everything.’
‘You say you like the safe environment of university, professor, yet you court controversy with your academic opinions.’
There was a knock at the door of the interview room. Fletcher walked in holding a plate of sandwiches.
‘Thanks Andie. Can you also get on to the press liaison office and get someone down here. I’d like to get a nationwide broadcast arranged: our bomber could be anywhere now.’
Fletcher placed the sandwiches on the table between them. ‘Right you are,’ she said and left the room.
Holdaway pounced on a sandwich and took a bite.
‘Right. Back to 1972,’ said Carruthers.
‘It’s not something I like to talk about,’ Holdaway said with his mouth full.
‘Do you want them to take another potshot at you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You clearly saw action whilst you were over there.’ He watched Holdaway take another sandwich. Who knew when the man had last eaten?
There was only one thing that made any sense and that was if Holdaway had actually been involved in the policing of the march. He thought about Bloody Sunday. One of the most infamous days in Irish history and British politics. The worst civilian massacre by the army since Peterloo in 1819.
He voiced his thoughts. ‘Were you involved in the actual policing of the Bloody Sunday march?’
Holdaway nodded. He then put his head in his hands.
‘Professor Holdaway, I need you to tell me everything that happened,’ said Carruthers. ‘Everything that Private Holdaway did on that fateful day.’
Holdaway nodded. Perhaps he was finally going to let Carruthers in. ‘I was young,’ he said. ‘Just nineteen. Too young. “The Troubles” as they were called had started in 1969. By 1972 they’d worsened. Street patrols were the worst. You never knew when you’d come across a sniper or a car bomb. You couldn’t let your guard down for a second. My God, I saw one poor chap… Blown up by a car bomb. Unrecognisable… They had to shovel him up, or at least shovel what was left of him up. Right in front of me. It was terrible.’
‘Is that the incident to which you were referring? The reason you got medically discharged from the army?’
Holdaway shook his head. ‘30 January 1972, the Army deployed the Parachute Regiment to suppress rioting at a civil rights march in Derry.’
Bloody Sunday. Carruthers nodded, trying to encourage Holdaway to talk about the infamous day when troops had opened fire on demonstrators, killing thirteen and injuring another twelve.
‘It was bloody.’ Bitterness had crept into his voice. ‘It was absolute mayhem. One minute it was peaceful then… well, all hell broke loose. We were terrified. I was terrified. I was nineteen, inspector, nineteen. What were you doing at nineteen?’
Carruthers thought about it for a moment. Probably getting pissed in the student union bar. ‘You’d better tell me everything. And start at the beginning.’
Despite his hunger Holdaway pushed the plate of sandwiches away. ‘It’s more than forty years ago. My memory might still be vivid but I can no longer remember the detail.’
Carruthers nodded. ‘Tell me what you remember.’
‘We’d got wind before the march that an IRA sniper was operating in the area. At least that’s what we were told. We were given permission by our commander to go in to arrest rioters. It was an unlawful march, after all.’ He swallowed. ‘I remember running down Rossville Street and across wasteland with other soldiers.’
‘Rossville Street?’
‘That’s how we entered the Bogside. I had a strong impression I was being shot at. I heard a crack of fire. A few moments later I heard a volley of shots. I looked around me to see other soldiers. They looked as if they were under fire.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I could see it in their postures. They were crouching.’
Carruthers looked at Holdaway. The man was pretty spot on with certain details but then he’d probably relived the day thousands of times over the last forty years. How much of it was true Carruthers didn’t know. Perhaps Holdaway no longer knew. He did know one thing, though. Memories are notoriously unreliable. He knew that every soldier and protestor witnessing the same event would have a different interpretation of that event. And consequently, a different memory. And a memory already over forty years old – now that was another matter altogether.
‘Look, there is one thing I need to tell you,’ said Holdaway, ‘I’m an alcoholic, albeit a functioning one. I have been for a long time.’ Carruthers wasn’t surprised. It concurred with what Sadler had told him. The only surprise was Holdaway’s admission. He wondered if the seeds of the alcoholism lay in the man’s soldiering days… But he couldn’t afford to be distracted
‘Thank you for your honesty. Please continue.’
‘I got separated from the other soldiers. I don’t know how it happened. I remember my knees shaking. I thought they were going to buckle under me.’
Carruthers saw a fine sheen of perspiration on the man’s face.
‘I remember being down an alleyway chasing protesters. I was on my own. No backup. I can feel the fear now. I heard a shot behind me. It was loud and close. On instinct I turned, crouched and fired.’
‘How many shots?’
‘Three. Thought they had fired at me. The next thing I saw was a young woman falling. She’d been shot. I’d shot her.’
Dear God. Ewan Williams’ sister. It has to be.
‘And the shot behind you?’
‘The noise had been another soldier shooting a protester.’
‘Do you remember the name of the woman you shot?’
‘A man shouted to her. He called her Meg. He shouted her name but it was the look on his face I’ll never forget.’
‘His face? Whose face?’
‘The man with her who was cradling her head when she fell. I assume it was her husband. He stared right at me. It was a look of such intensity and hatred. I’ll never forget it. Of course, I found out her name. I needed to find out. It was Margaret McDaid.’
Carruthers leant forward. Steepled his hands on the table.
‘They’ve found me,’ said Holdaway, pushing his water away from him. ‘It’s all over. We got promised anonymity during the enquiry,’ he said bitterly. ‘But that was never going to happen. It was bad enough when I got called back to give evidence during the Saville Enquiry.’
Perhaps that’s why he wanted the book. To read up on the findings of the enquiry and perhaps get a feel for the public mood, as if he didn’t already know. Carruthers had a brain wave. He opened his notebook, flicking it back until he came to the interview with Sadler. He made eye contact with Holdaway. ‘You took a few months off work during 2002?’
Holdaway nodded. ‘I got called to give evidence at the Saville Enquiry.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t handle it. I had a breakdown afterwards. Had to take some time off work.’
Now it was Carruthers’ turn to no
d.
‘They’re coming after us,’ said Holdaway.
Carruthers frowned. ‘Who are?’
‘You must have heard that soldiers who took an active part in the shootings are being investigated for murder? Dear God, a sixty-six-year-old man – an ex-soldier is currently being held for murder. They’re saying two-hundred and fifty men may be requisitioned.’
Carruthers had heard this. He also knew that families of those killed would welcome the news. There would, however, be those less happy with the news. Certain former military commanders for one. He’d skim read that in the book. He looked keenly at Holdaway, who was staring at Carruthers with haunted eyes.
‘I can’t get over the fact the man who fronts Bryn Glas 1402 is the brother of the woman I shot more than forty years ago. When I was researching and I found out…’ For a moment the older man’s voice and attention slipped away, he was shaking his head. You have to understand, inspector, we were trained soldiers of the Parachute Regiment. We had a job to do. Whether it was fitting that 1 Para should have been deployed into the Bogside in Derry at all, that was not my call to make. As a soldier you have to follow orders. And you have to make split second decisions. Sometimes we get those decisions wrong.’
In the silent moments that followed, Carruthers could see Holdaway was back on that terrible day, reliving the moment he shot an unarmed woman.
TEN
SATURDAY AFTERNOON, 2ND JUNE
‘Holdaway thinks they were trying to kill him. He’s terrified. He’s also, by his own admission, a functioning alcoholic,’ said Carruthers.
Bingham brought his mug of steaming coffee up to his lips. ‘I wouldn’t be too thrilled if somebody had just blown my car up either. Well, we need to get some confirmation of Williams’ involvement before deciding whether he intended to kill Holdaway or not. We need to find the man on the stairs. Could be a critical witness. Clearly wasn’t Williams. Too young. Williams will be well into his sixties now.’
‘It’s out of term time,’ said Carruthers. ‘All the undergraduates have gone home. So who was he? Didn’t look like your typical student, according to Holdaway.’
‘In what way?’
‘For one, he was older.’
‘Mature student?’ wondered Bingham.
‘Holdaway doesn’t think so. Adamant he’s not the bomber though. Pretty convinced the man saved his life.’
‘Well, he’s got to be one or the other, surely? Bomber or student?’
‘He was nervous, according to Holdaway,’ continued Carruthers. ‘Fiddling with the strap of his rucksack.’
Bingham cracked his knuckles. ‘Well, we now know the bomb was on a timer. If he was the bomber, it begs the question why did he need to be there at all? What went wrong? Did he change his mind, couldn’t go through with it? Purposefully decided to delay Holdaway from getting to his car? Ideals are all well and good but perhaps once he’d come face-to-face with his victim, couldn’t murder him in cold blood.’
‘He’s definitely suspect,’ said Carruthers. ‘Apart from everything else, he disappeared as soon as the explosion occurred.’
‘We need to find him,’ said Bingham.
‘And we will, sir. Holdaway’s currently building up a profile of the man as we speak. We’ll get that circulated to the press as soon as possible. And we’ll see if we can get anything useful from the car park CCTV. Luckily it wasn’t damaged in the explosion.’
‘Why didn’t you know ahead of interviewing him that Holdaway had an army background? Parachute Regiment. Served in Northern Ireland in the early 70s for Christ’s sake,’ snapped Bingham.
‘I wasn’t in possession of the information,’ Carruthers ignored Bingham’s outburst – which he’d been expecting – and continued calmly. ‘He was invalided out with mental health issues, what would today be diagnosed as post-traumatic stress disorder. He believes he suffered a flashback when the car bomb exploded.’
‘Christ. There was nothing in his biog about him being in the army,’ said Bingham.
‘Well, I suppose you wouldn’t want to publicise the fact you’d served in the Parachute Regiment in Northern Ireland around the time of Bloody Sunday,’ said Carruthers.
‘I’m not expecting his bloody memoirs. But… Christ Almighty. Make it your business to find out every detail of what happened. Don’t leave it to Dougie Harris. Useless article. I presume he was the dunderhead that was supposed to give you the background information. Of course it wouldn’t be Andrea Fletcher. She’s too bright to make that kind of mistake. She’ll go far. Pity she’s a woman.’ There was an embarrassing pause before Bingham coughed realising what he had just said.
‘Don’t let Andie hear you say that.’
‘Good God. Of course not, man. Sensitive creatures, women. Likely to take it the wrong way. Probably end up at some tribunal or other.’
Carruthers groaned inwardly. Talk about foot in mouth. Bingham could give Prince Philip a run for his money sometimes.
‘Let’s hope to God the Irish aren’t involved. This is way over our heads. I want you to find McGhee and brief him – without baiting him. Now, what about Holdaway’s personal life? Did you find out anything useful there?’
Carruthers thought about the conversation he’d had with the professor after the lengthy talk about his short-lived military career. ‘He’s been with his wife for over thirty years. Says he’s happily married and had never cheated.’
‘You don’t believe him?’
‘Wife’s on holiday without him.’
Bingham shrugged. ‘Not uncommon for a couple to have separate interests and holiday apart.’
‘With all due respect, sir, she’s hardly gone potholing.’
‘I know all the evidence is pointing towards Ewan Williams but there’s one thing I don’t understand,’ said Bingham.
‘Which is what?’
Bingham cracked his knuckles again. ‘Why leave it this long to go after Holdaway?’
***
‘Do you fancy the pictures tonight, Siobhan?’ said Tomoko. ‘I could do with a break from studying. It might take your mind off things for a while.’
Siobhan smiled weakly and wiped her eyes. ‘No thanks. Don’t think I can face being with people who are enjoying themselves. Not until they catch whoever killed Rhys. Besides, Castletown hardly feels safe at the moment, what with that explosion. I heard it was a car bomb and that one of the politics professors was the target.’
‘It’s really scary. We could always watch a DVD here instead. Let’s both have a break and stick on the TV. There’s due to be a news update soon. Perhaps there’ll be news of an arrest.’ Tomoko grabbed the remote control and pointed it at the TV in the corner of the sitting room.
‘Breaking news. Police have issued an impression-fit of a man they want to question in connection with the car bomb in Castletown. The man is approximately five feet seven inches, stocky build, short cropped hair and an English accent,’ the newsreader continued.
Siobhan’s cup clattered noisily in its saucer as she stared open mouthed at the picture.
‘Oh my God,’ said Tomoko ‘I know I only met him a couple of times but doesn’t that just look like…? It can’t be though. They said he has an English accent.’
‘I’m phoning Inspector Carruthers. It’s him, Tomoko, I’m sure it is. That’s Dave Roberts.’
***
The day had ended up being hot, with a heat haze over most of Fife. The beach had been crowded with holidaymakers, mostly families sporting brightly coloured windbreakers as protection either against the cold easterly wind or occasionally strong sun. Many were still there.
Having phoned the police, Siobhan decided to go for a short walk to clear her head before her interview with Inspector Carruthers. She gathered her rucksack, putting in a bottle of water and her mobile phone. She set out through the maze of pebble-dashed accommodation to the gate that led to the beach. She gazed out to sea. The usually soothing motion of the tide didn’t calm her today. Her hea
d was buzzing with unanswered questions and an icy fear gripped her heart, as she contemplated the possibility that Dave may be linked to the bombers. If that was the case, what part then did Rhys’ death play in the drama unfolding in this university town?
Rhys couldn’t have got himself involved with terrorists, could he? No, it was unthinkable. Even the thought of Dave playing a part seemed ludicrous, despite his unsavoury views.
What turns people into terrorists? she wondered. The really scary thing is how normal a lot of terrorists appeared. They are the people next door, they hold down jobs. One of the Glasgow bombers was a medic, for goodness sake. How many news reports are there of parents who hadn’t known their own sons and daughters had been terrorists? mused Siobhan. Sometimes the bombers were even parents themselves.
Siobhan couldn’t clear her thoughts of all these unanswered questions. They seemed to be on a constant loop in her head. Before she knew what she was doing she’d left East Castle Beach behind her, and briskly walked past the packed children’s play area and crazy golf course, climbing the steep path past the cathedral towards the West Castle Beach on the other side of town. The children’s shouts started to recede into the distance. A moment’s loneliness gripped her. She wondered how people could still be carrying on as if nothing had happened.
After a few minutes she stopped and gazed at the vast expanse of beach. That was more like it. That was a real walk. The tide was out. She started walking over the sand, kicking her way through the seaweed and shells. She walked further on the beach than she had ever walked before. Away in the distance beyond the late heat haze of the day were the lush evergreen trees of Pinetum Park Forest, punctuating the horizon like an oasis in the desert.
A strong breeze blew towards her. It was hard going walking into a headwind in sand. After a few minutes she stopped. Breathless, she scanned the panorama. Once she stopped, the heat hit her as if an oven door had been opened. To the right was the ebbing tide, and to the left the grassy banks of sand dunes. She brought out the bottle of water from her rucksack and thirstily drank from it. The still hot wind fanned her face as she continued walking. The noise of dogs barking and children shouting receded into the distance as she walked further away from the ancient town. She turned back to face it, admiring its spires glinting in the sun. She breathed in the sea air, the salt hitting the back of her throat as she swallowed. The wind brought a lock of her hair over her face. She brushed it out of her eyes and turned round so she now had her back to town, and continued walking.
