by Tana Collins
‘We all need a reason to get up in the morning. Something to believe in. Something to keep us going.’
‘Most people have family and jobs for that.’
Ewan laughed. ‘You’ve got spirit. I like that. And you remind me of someone. Someone close to me, before her life was blighted by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ He stared at a point fixed somewhere behind Siobhan’s head. ‘Someone had to pay for that,’ he continued. ‘There are events from the past, my past, which you don’t know about. Bringing you here was a mistake. I see that now. I’m sorry you got hurt.’
‘Why did you bring me here? What did you think I might know?’
‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s obvious you didn’t know anything. All I know is that this is going to have a very different ending to the one I saw. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.’
Ewan fell silent. His eyes turned to the roof as rain started hard and unexpected. His eyes seemed infinitely sad as he looked back at Siobhan. ‘I’ve seen and done many things in my time, Siobhan, but I’ve never hurt a woman. I’ve seen women hurt, though. One woman in particular. That changed my life as well as hers. She was my sister.’ An image suddenly came into his head of his nineteen-year-old sister walking by his side wearing the paisley-patterned dress she always loved to wear. She looked so young, so beautiful, so full of hope. Full of promise of a future she would soon be denied.
‘What happened to her?’
‘She was shot by a soldier. Over in Northern Ireland. On a peace march.’ He laughed but the laugh was hollow. ‘Somewhat ironic, don’t you think? I vowed revenge, but at the time she made me promise I wouldn’t seek it.’
‘She sounds like an incredible person.’
‘She was.’
‘What changed? What changed for you to go after him now, after all this time?’
‘She died a couple of months ago. After her death, I didn’t feel I had to keep my promise any longer.’
‘If this happened in Northern Ireland, why are you up in Scotland?’
‘I came after the man who shot her. He wrote a book and I recognised his photograph on the back of it – even after all these years. I think you call it serendipity.’
‘Professor Holdaway? He shot your sister? The car bomb. That’s why he was targeted? Did you mean to kill him? He was unhurt though. He wasn’t in the car. He escaped.’
‘He hasn’t escaped, Siobhan. Neither one of us has escaped. We’re both caught up in a dance to which there is no end. The past always catches us up. And all our actions have consequences. I’ve found that out. I’m older now. I regret a lot of what I’ve done. Perhaps my life would have been different had my sister not been shot. I often thought about the man who shot her. I hated him. That hate consumed me. I often wondered whether he regretted what he did.’
‘Don’t go after him,’ Siobhan advised. ‘I’m sure he’ll have his own demons to deal with, if he is any sort of a decent human being.’
‘If I have a job to do, I always finish it. I’ve waited so long to make Holdaway pay for what he did. In the end, I didn’t get the opportunity.’ He stood up. Walked towards her. ‘I’m going to let you go, Siobhan. I’ll–’
Gunfire peppered the air outside.
Siobhan screamed.
‘Keep down,’ shouted Ewan pulling her on to the floor. He grabbed an old blanket from the far side of the bale of straw and threw it over her.
He pulled out his gun and reloaded it.
‘It’s alright. I’m not going to use it on you,’ he said. ‘Keep your head down, keep quiet, and you won’t get hurt.’ Ewan pushed her head down hard.
Ewan crept to the front of the barn, opened the door a crack, just wide enough to look out. The rain was bouncing off the ground. Visibility was poor. He couldn’t see anything except the dirt track leading up to the gate, to the left, the farmhouse. Beyond, the rolling fields of Fife were shrouded in low hanging cloud. He knew they had come for him, were outside. Time was short. He shut the door. Crouched with his back to it, cradling his gun to his chest.
***
Carruthers and McGhee crept forward. Carruthers trained the binoculars on the barn. He touched McGhee’s arm to get his attention. ‘That guy’s back,’ he hissed. ‘No body or shovel though.’
As the man walked towards the barn, Carruthers saw a movement behind a fence. One of the marksmen. The terrorist jerked round, drew his gun. Fired.
There was a shout of pain. The marksman had been hit in the shoulder and went down. Suddenly there was a volley of shots from several different places, hidden shooters. The terrorist collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
A woman’s shriek trilled from inside the barn.
‘Shit, there is a woman in there after all.’ Carruthers hoped against hope it wasn’t Siobhan Mathews.
The rain was coming down in sheets now, making visibility even more difficult. His hair was plastered to his face. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes sticking to him. Even his feet were wet inside his trainers. There was a rumble of thunder. Lightning lit up the darkened sky. Outside the police marksmen held their positions, awaiting their next command.
***
Inside the barn, Ewan stood up and very carefully opened the barn door a fraction with his gun barrel and looked out. His eye took in the same view of the drive and the farmhouse. He opened the door a little further to widen his field of vision. This time he was rewarded. He caught sight of movement some way behind the gate. Police. He could smell them a mile off.
He knew the farm was most likely surrounded. There would be more than just two officers. Whatever else happened, he wasn’t going to be taken alive. He wasn’t a fool. Still, Holdaway was finally dead. He smiled, but it was a sad smile, as he kept his eye on the movement by the gate.
***
1972. He was with the marchers. It was cold but with a bright blue sky. He looked around him. The people he was with were purposeful but peaceful. He looked across at his sister wearing her favourite paisley-patterned dress embroidered with flowers. January. She wore her velvet cape over her dress. She took his hand and squeezed. He squeezed back. Her new husband was walking by her side. His friends beside him. Marching because they wanted peace. An end to the bloodshed. But then the first shots. People running. He grabbed his sister’s hand and they began to run too. Found themselves down an alley separated from Meg’s husband and his friends. He could hear people running behind him. A shot so loud it filled the air. Meg screamed. A second shot then a third. A moment later it was carnage. Shouts. Screaming. Gunshots. Terror. Saw the soldier on his knee in a firing position. Looked back at his sister. She fell as in slow motion. Pain and shock painted her face. Then he saw it. An ever-expanding pool of blood seeping from her body.
***
Ewan caught a movement as one of the two plain-clothes men adjusted his position, exposing his shoulder as he did so. He recognised the tall grey-haired cop. As Ewan drew his gun he saw the stockier man realise the danger and shove his colleague out of the way. Ewan pulled the trigger. Both men went down as the barn door was thrown open and the leader of Bryn Glas 1402 burst out shooting.
***
Ewan didn’t make it ten yards before he was cut down by a hail of bullets. His death ended his forty-year search for the former soldier who had shot his sister.
He lay spreadeagled on his back with his eyes wide open and glassy, as if looking heavenward. No look of surprise was registered on his face, for he had already known his fate. A trickle of blood came out the side of his mouth and coursed down his neck.
TWENTY-THREE
Carruthers was winded by the weight of McGhee’s body landing on top of him. He shifted to roll McGhee off him, as he struggled to sit up, squinting against the falling rain.
‘McGhee?’ No response. ‘Alistair?’ His growing urgency was revealed in his voice, as he realised that the man wasn’t moving. It was then that he saw the pool of blood, which seemed to be spreading at an alarming rate.
&
nbsp; ‘Christ, McGhee’s been hit!’
One of the marksmen crawled over to them. ‘Ambulances are on their way.’
McGhee’s eyes flickered, as Carruthers crouched beside the prone form. He looked into the face of the man that he blamed for the breakup of his marriage. He realised he didn’t want McGhee to die. They would never be bosom buddies, but here was a fellow police officer who’d been shot. It could so easily have been him. His voice was full of emotion as he spoke. ‘You’re going to be alright, Alistair. Ambulance is on its way.’
‘Christ,’ murmured McGhee. ‘First names. I must be in a bad way.’ His breath came out in ragged gasps.
‘You’ll be just fine,’ Carruthers said with more conviction that he felt. Carruthers opened his rucksack and brought out his first aid box.
‘Might have known you’d have a first aid box. Were you head boy at school as well?’ McGhee groaned in pain.
‘Boy Scouts. Keep quiet. I need to apply pressure.’ He grabbed a bandage, threw the box on the ground. He applied firm pressure but within moments the blood was seeping through the bandage, even as the rain soaked it from above.
‘Where the fuck is the ambulance?’ shouted Carruthers.
As if in answer he heard sirens. Looked round to see a convoy of six ambulances snaking their way up the dirt track to the farm.
The marksmen had by now closed in on the farmhouse and barn, but seemed reluctant to enter.
‘What’s holding them back? There’s a woman in there. She might be hurt.’
‘Might be wired. Can’t go in all guns blazing.’ McGhee said through gritted teeth.
‘Wired?’ repeated Carruthers feeling stupid.
‘Tripwire. Booby-trapped. And if there’s one booby-trap device, there could be a second. Depends how much Semtex they managed to get hold of, and whether this was part of their plan. Ahh,’ McGhee cried in pain as he shifted position.
Carruthers swallowed hard, worried about the sheen of sweat on McGhee’s pale face. He did his best to stop the bleeding. His own shirt was covered in McGhee’s blood, the rain spreading the stain. A quick image entered his head of the bloodied T-shirt found at Charlene Todd’s. ‘We need to get you to hospital.’ When he had looked up again, the marksmen had now entered the barn. Again they heard a woman cry.
‘Go and find out if it’s her.’ The words were slow and slurred. McGhee’s breathing was becoming laboured.
‘I’m not going to leave you. And stop talking. Save your energy.’
The paramedics had arrived and crouched on the other side of McGhee. They ripped his shirt and applied pressure to the wound with a large bandage. Then they gently laid him on a stretcher and hoisted the stretcher up.
McGhee’s complexion had taken on a greyish look. He was trying to speak. Carruthers had to lean close to hear him.
‘Go on, man. If it makes you feel better bring me a bunch of grapes in hospital.’
Carruthers hesitated, but knowing McGhee was now in safe hands, he grasped McGhee’s uninjured shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. There was nothing more he could do here. He then hurried over to the barn stepping over the spread-eagled body of Ewan Williams. One of the marksmen stopped him.
Carruthers grasped his arm. ‘There’s a woman in there. I think I know who it is.’
‘You’ll have to wait until the site is secure. When it is, I’ll give you the go-ahead. OK?’
Carruthers waited. It seemed like an age. He saw the ambulance carrying McGhee snake its way back down the farmhouse track. He prayed the man would survive. He finally heard the words he wanted. ‘Site’s secured. You can go in now.’
Carruthers thanked him and stepped inside. His eyes took a while to adjust to the greater dark in the barn, before settling on a figure partially covered by a filthy blanket on the ground, surrounded by two of the marksmen one of whom who was kneeling beside it.
‘We need another stretcher over here,’ the marksman called.
Carruthers’ heart missed a beat and with four long strides he was beside the huddled figure. He leant over the man and was shocked at what he saw. It was Siobhan Mathews. Her face and top were streaked with dirt and dried tears. There was a rip in her skirt. She was lying in a pool of what he could only guess was her own urine.
‘Is he dead?’ she whispered.
‘Who?’ asked Carruthers, having to draw down closer to her so that he could hear her faint whisper.
‘That man?’
‘I think so, yes. Oh my God, Siobhan.’ She turned her head away from him. ‘We need to get you to hospital.’ He picked up one of Siobhan’s hands in his. It was icy cold. He began to rub it.
‘I want to see a female doctor. Can you arrange it?’ She looked into his eyes as she spoke. Carruthers felt a lump in his throat, and could only manage a nod. ‘You’ll come with me?’ Siobhan looked up at him.
‘Of course I will.’ He could call the station from the hospital, and at the same time check up on Alistair McGhee’s progress. Just as he was heading out of the barn he noticed a rucksack in the corner and a dirt-streaked file on the ground. He bent over to pick them both up. Once they were safely in the ambulance Carruthers opened the file. It was the missing paperwork belonging to Rhys Evans.
TWENTY-FOUR
THURSDAY MORNING, 7TH JUNE
‘Should you be back at work so soon, Andie?’ asked Carruthers. He was leaning over her desk.
‘I feel fine now, Jim. Just try to keep a good woman down. I’m just sorry I missed all the action though. What’s the latest on Superintendent McGhee?’
‘Bingham’s seen him more recently than me,’ said Carruthers, grabbing his coffee and notebook. ‘Let’s get to the debrief. He can fill us in.’
‘Right, thanks for attending,’ said Bingham a short while later in the meeting room. ‘As you know, Ewan Williams has been killed. As has John Edwards.’
‘How’s Superintendent McGhee?’ asked Brown.
‘McGhee’s undergone an operation to remove the bullet. He lost a lot of blood but should make a good recovery. He was lucky. Bullet missed all his major organs. He’ll be in hospital for a while. There’re transferring him to one closer to his home. I’m sure we all wish him well.’
There were general murmurs of agreement.
‘I heard he was asking to stay up here in Scotland,’ said Carruthers. ‘Apparently he wants to have a break from the English.’
They all laughed.
‘Dinnae blame him,’ said Harris. ‘I wouldnae want to be surrounded by the fucking English either.’
Fletcher scowled at him. ‘If they had any sense they wouldn’t let you cross the border.’
‘OK, let’s get serious,’ said Bingham. He turned to Carruthers. ‘What about Siobhan Mathews? How’s she doing?’
Carruthers was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I think she’ll take longer to recover. It’s more the psychological scars.’
Carruthers didn’t tell the rest of the station about Mathews’ rape, although he knew he would tell Bingham in private later. Siobhan had asked him to keep it quiet, and since the man who raped her was dead, he would respect her wishes without pushing. ‘She’s been really brave. I think Williams knew he wasn’t going to get out of there alive. He used her as a confessor.’
‘As we now know, Williams’ real interest lay in paying Holdaway back for the maiming of his sister.’ said Bingham.
‘Why no’ just pay for an assassin to kill him?’ asked Harris.
‘He would never have paid an assassin. Remember – this wasn’t a business dealing gone wrong. It was personal. As the core members of the so-called terrorist group are now dead, we’ll never really know for sure, so this is pure speculation. However, I think Williams wanted Holdaway to suffer. He literally wanted to terrorise him, to keep him awake at night fretting about why he was being targeted. That’s why he sent the hate mail.’
‘His writing a book on the failings of Welsh nationalism and buying a second home were opportunities just too good to
miss, I suppose,’ said Fletcher. ‘With those facts, he was able to inspire and motivate the other members of Bryn Glas to go after a legitimate target.’
‘Remember that had he not written that book, had it not been so ruddy popular and stocked in Waterstones, Williams would probably never been able to track Holdaway down,’ commented Bingham.
Carruthers wondered if this were true. He remembered what Holdaway had said. Four hundred and fifty former soldiers were going to be re-interviewed about the events of Bloody Sunday.
‘Why did Williams have Dave Roberts murdered? Was it because he knew too much? Outlasted his usefulness?’ asked Harris.
‘He’d definitely outlasted his usefulness. It was only a matter of time before the police picked him up. Perhaps Williams was worried Roberts would try to strike a deal with the police. Lesser sentence if he cooperated. He more than likely knew where Williams was hiding out. Could have blown his chances of getting to Holdaway. And remember, Roberts let Holdaway live. That in itself would have shown Williams that Roberts wasn’t as committed as Williams thought he should be.’
Bingham cleared his throat. ‘Right now, I don’t know if any of you have seen the ridiculous headlines in one or two of the daily rags?’ He picked up a newspaper and waved it around. ‘Terrorists infiltrate Britain’s armed forces,’ he read out aloud. ‘I would just like to make it clear for all of you that terrorists have not infiltrated our armed services. A press statement later today will be released to that effect. The MOD is not in the least bit happy about this.’
Harris, who had his own copy under his arm, hid the paper under an old copy of Playboy.
‘The MOD have to find a way of getting that ruddy paper to issue an apology and retract the story before it sets off a general panic in the British public. It really is quite scandalous what these people think they can get away with. Freedom of the press has gone too bloody far, in my opinion. The RAF will be issuing their own statement about Dave Roberts being an active member of the BNP.’
Carruthers remembered some of the more unsavoury headlines of the gutter press about refugees, Muslims and terrorists, and had to agree with Bingham about freedom of the press.
