by Alan Parks
McCoy had no real clue where they were going, but the town seemed to get more normal the further they got away from the centre. Faulds chatted away, asked after Murray and the others they knew and had in common. Took out his wallet when they stopped at the lights, showed him a picture of a fat toddler sitting on a swing. Stuart. The wife was pregnant again, too.
Twenty minutes or so later he pulled in the gates of what looked like a hospital and they got out. Faulds told him he’d be back in five minutes and headed for a low building with a big sign saying ‘CITY MORTUARY’ on the front. McCoy was going nowhere near that so leant on the car, lit up and waited. Wondered what being a polis here must be like. Bloody awful, he decided. Looking over your shoulder all the time, mirror on a stick under your car, scared to go into the wrong street. Scared of being kidnapped and shot or, even worse, being tortured. Being a polis was bad enough, never mind all that on top. Having said that, Faulds seemed happy enough. Wife and family, a normal life. Maybe.
He appeared out the building door, buff file in his hand.
‘You sure you’re hungry?’ he asked.
McCoy nodded. ‘Starving.’
Faulds grinned. ‘You better be.’
Three rashers, two fried eggs, three sausages, two kinds of fried bread, black pudding, half a tomato, a potato scone and what looked like white pudding stared up at him from a plate. No wonder Faulds was the size of a bloody house. Looked tasty, though. Like it would fell an elephant, too, but McCoy did well, almost cleared it. Sat back, took a sip of rotten tea and burped.
‘’Scuse me,’ he said.
‘No worries,’ said Faulds, wiping the last of the egg yolk off his plate with a bit of toast.
‘Now the important stuff is out the way, what was it you wanted to ask me about?’ he said.
McCoy sat back, lit up. ‘How much traffic is there between Glasgow and Belfast? Paramilitaries, I mean.’
‘Quite a bit,’ said Faulds. ‘Mostly Glasgow this way. People bringing money for the boys, that sort of thing. Plus Glasgow’s full of bloody Territorial Army bases. And they have armouries, and those bloody armouries aren’t that secure, so we get the weapons for break-ins there, occasional Semtex from mining concerns. For every shipment we stop there’s probably another twenty that get through.’
‘And the other way?’ asked McCoy.
‘Mostly that’s people on the run, either from the police or the Boys. Or guys in the brigades that need to disappear for a while, let the heat die down.’ Faulds took a sip of his tea. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t hypothetical?’
‘No. Just trying to get some background. A guy we’re looking for in Glasgow has gone missing, looks like he was abducted, might be mixed up in it. The kidnap was pretty professional stuff, maybe paramilitary. Would be on the Catholic side.’
‘That case you’re probably asking the wrong guy. RUC intelligence isn’t great on the Provos, better on the UDA.’ Faulds grinned, sat back. ‘You might have been better asking your pals at the funeral.’
‘How’d you know about them?’ asked McCoy, surprised.
Faulds tapped the side of his nose. ‘Belfast’s a small town. Seamus Cooper was a kent face. Maybe in, maybe not, but he definitely had connections. You not see the photographers at the graveyard?’
McCoy shook his head.
‘Must have been doing a good job for once.’ He looked serious for a minute. ‘You should be careful, Harry. No matter what your pal Cooper is, or who his pals are, you’re a police. An instrument of the British State, as they say. And now, thanks to the funeral, the IRA know you’re here. You need to watch yourself.’
McCoy nodded. Hadn’t really thought about it before. Hadn’t been worried. Was starting to be now. Tried to make light. ‘Going back tomorrow. They’d have to be quick.’
‘They are,’ said Faulds. ‘So watch yourself. I mean it.’ He looked up at the clock on the wall.
‘You need to go?’ asked McCoy.
Faulds nodded. ‘Meeting back at Musgrave at three, need to go see someone on the way. You fit?’
‘Not sure I can stand up after that. Think I’ve eaten enough for a few days.’
‘Puts hair on your chest,’ said Faulds, grinning. ‘And meat on your bones. Breakfast of champions.’
They hadn’t gone far, couple of miles, when Faulds turned into what looked like a new housing estate. Pulled up outside a house with its curtains closed.
‘You okay here for five minutes?’
McCoy nodded and Faulds got out. Obviously didn’t intend to tell him what he was doing and McCoy wasn’t going to ask. He lit up, looked round the estate. Same as all the ones in Scotland.
Houses all much the same, few kids about on bikes. He rolled the window down, tried to lower the temperature in the car. Belfast wasn’t as hot as Glasgow, but it was still stifling. He looked at his watch. That was ten minutes already. Was obviously going to be longer than Faulds thought.
For want of something to do, he picked up the file from the mortuary. Opened it gingerly – if there were any photos, it was getting shut again straight away. Luckily it seemed to just be printed sheets. He skimmed them. Usual blood results, stomach contents. There was a drawing at the back, outline of a man with the wounds marked. Crosses across the kneecaps. Usual paramilitary punishment stuff.
‘Solving my cases for me, are you?’
He looked up and Faulds was at the window. ‘Sorry, was just bored.’
‘No worries,’ said Faulds, getting in.
‘What happened?’ asked McCoy, putting the file back on the seat.
‘Guy found dead in the park off Falls Road. No ID, no clothes, just his underpants on. Been tortured, kneecaps blown off before they killed him.’ He started the car.
‘Hate to say it,’ said McCoy, ‘but isn’t that kind of thing par for the course here?’
Faulds indicated and they set off. ‘Would be, but a couple of things don’t make much sense if he was dumped there with that done to him. Would be the UDA or the UVF that would have done it, but there’s no claim from either and those boys like to crow when they’ve killed someone.’
They turned back out onto the main road and the clunking started again.
‘Bloody thing!’ said Faulds, slapping the steering wheel. ‘And another funny thing. Torture wasn’t just the usual kind.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked McCoy.
‘He’s only one finger left on his left hand. Looked like they had been cut off with bolt cutters, something like that. Whatever they wanted to know, looks like it took them three fingers to get it out of him. More like something we used to see over your way, eh? Remember that guy – who was he again? Wee Cammy? Got half his toes cut off for nicking two hundred quid from Ronnie Naismith. You’d have thought it was the crime . . .’
Faulds kept talking but McCoy had stopped listening. He reached over, got the file, started flicking through it.
‘What’s up?’ asked Faulds.
McCoy was skimming it. Reading it to himself.
Five foot ten. Approx. age forty. Sandy hair.
He looked at Faulds. ‘Can we go look at the body?’
Faulds did a double-take. ‘You want to see a body? You?’
McCoy nodded.
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was him all right. Finn Kelly. Alice Kelly’s dad. Recognised him from the hospital and the trip in the car. Same fair hair swept to the side, same long nose. He tried not to look at his hands. Seeing his ruined face was bad enough.
McCoy took his mask off and Faulds pushed the big body drawer back in.
‘You know him?’ asked Faulds.
McCoy shook his head. ‘My mistake. Can we get out of here?’
Faulds nodded, already looked preoccupied. ‘I’ll drop you off at the hotel. Need to get into Musgrave quick.’
McCoy got back in the car, wondering if he’d done the right thing. He’d said he didn’t recognise the body before he’d had a chance to think. Maybe he just didn’t want to ge
t Faulds and the RUC involved. Maybe he just needed time to work out why Finn Kelly was lying in a mortuary drawer back in Belfast. Knew if he said anything that would be it. Special Branch would be all over it.
Supposed he should call Murray, let him know what he’d found. Whole case was going to get an awful lot more complicated if the paramilitaries were involved. Special Branch were involved. God knows how much paperwork. Meant they’d probably be bumped off it as well. After they’d done the donkey work, that is. Might just leave it until tomorrow. Go and see Murray in person. After all, he was still off sick and Kelly wasn’t going anywhere. He decided to give himself the day to try and find out more. If he couldn’t, he’d go see Murray and tell him he’d seen a body, tell him he wasn’t sure if it was Kelly or not.
McCoy stood outside the Europa and watched Faulds drive off, gave him a wave. The driveway in front of the hotel was a row of expensive cars, drivers in them, waiting. He’d promised Faulds again that he’d be careful. The Crown Bar across the road from the hotel was as far as he was to go. He agreed, told Faulds he was going to go to his bed, have a rest, spend some of Cooper’s money on room service. All of which was true, but he had something else to do before that: try and find out what on earth Kelly was really doing in Belfast when Alice went missing.
Finn had told his wife he was working on a building site. Seemed a logical place to start. They hadn’t been able to turn up the mysterious mate he was supposed to be working for. His wife had said he was called Colm, that was all she knew. McCoy crossed Victoria Street, headed for the noise and dust of the construction going on behind the Crown Bar.
The site was a half-built office block, picture of what it was going to be like on a big board on the fence round it. Was a huge thing, had to be twenty or so storeys. WINDSOR HOUSE. Wasn’t sure that was the best name for something in Belfast, but what did he know. He showed the photo of Kelly around, got a lot of shaking heads and can’t help you’s. A guy with a clipboard and a suit tucked into wellies told him there was another big building project going on down by the Lagan. McCoy got directions and started walking. He knew he was clutching at straws, but it gave him something to do and it was definitely better than sitting in the Rock waiting for the wrong person to ask him what he did for a living.
Turned out it was a big post office they were building and it turned out no one recognised Finn there either. Another tip. Some bomb clearance site on Donegall Street had been taking on casual labour. He wanted to stop for a drink, but Faulds had made him wary, scared of going in the wrong place. He was sure it was all rubbish, but something about the city, the army, the checkpoints was getting to him, making him nervous. Started to wonder if he was being followed. Decided he was just getting paranoid. Who’d be following him? He wasn’t bloody James Bond.
He got a bit lost on the way, was about to forget it, turn back and go to the hotel bar, when he saw the site up ahead. A red sandstone building had been surrounded by a temporary fence, one side of it half collapsed. The buildings leading up to it were scarred and pitted, windows blown out. He called over one of the guys behind the fence, a middle-aged man spraying a pile of rubble with a hosepipe, trying to keep the dust down. The worker unwrapped the cloth around his mouth and nose and approached the fence.
‘Looking for someone,’ said McCoy. ‘Was working on a site.’
He held out the photo and the man squinted at it. Shook his head.
‘No recognise him?’ asked McCoy.
‘Not that, son. I don’t have my bloody specs on. Couldn’t even tell you if it was a picture of me.’ He turned, shouted ‘Paul!’ and a young guy with a skinhead put down his shovel and wandered over. McCoy showed him the picture.
‘Guy was working on a site. You recognise him?’ he asked without much hope.
Paul shook his head.
McCoy went to put the picture back in his pocket.
‘He wasn’t working on any site, believe me. Not that guy.’
‘What?’ asked McCoy. ‘You know him?’
Paul shook his head, took a ginger bottle full of water out his back pocket and had a long slug. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but this bloody dust dries up your throat so much you can’t speak. Couple of days ago was my sister’s engagement party. Me and my brother jumped ship. He was back from the navy, hadn’t seen him for ages. We ended up in the Crown.’ He tapped the picture. ‘This guy was propping up the bar, half pissed. Started talking to us, a load of shite but he was buying so we didn’t mind. Had a wallet bulging with twenties.’
‘What did he say?’ asked McCoy.
‘Said he’d come into money, was going to go to Spain. Was staying across the road at the Europa – a suite, no less – until he got going.’
‘He say what the deal was?’ asked McCoy.
Paul shook his head. ‘Said it was hush-hush. Tapped his nose, all that shite. Kept wanting to drink ‘to the Boys’. Just another arsehole in town pretending he was a bigger man than he was. We waited until he went to the jacks and we fucked off. Had had enough.’
He started coughing, got his bottle out again, had another slug. ‘He a pal of yours?’
McCoy shook his head.
‘Good,’ said Paul. ‘He’s the last kind of guy you want to hang about with in this city. Drunk and talking shite too loud and in the wrong place about “the cause”. You get them here, Americans mostly, think that because their great-grandfather came from the back arse of Limerick they’re in the bloody provos. The kind of stupid bugger that says shite like that in front of the wrong person and ends up killed.’
McCoy thanked him, walked away. According to all they knew, Kelly didn’t have a pot to piss in, never mind the money to stay in the Europa and go out on the town acting like Daddy Warbucks. What was he bringing from Glasgow that was worth that much? He was a casual labourer, no way was he going to get a hold of guns to sell. Information, maybe? Semtex from some destruction job? The whole thing just didn’t make sense. Maybe he was just a courier, taking stuff back and forward? Would it pay that much? Didn’t think so.
About ten minutes later McCoy realised he was lost. He looked up and down the street for someone to ask, but there was no one around. Hughie Faulds’ warning started echoing in his head.
Be careful. Don’t go anywhere but the Crown. The IRA know you are here.
He turned a corner and saw a black Granada with two guys sitting in it at the end of the street, engine running. Started to get a bit scared, told himself not to be so stupid. No one was interested in him. Just an everyday guy over for a funeral. He started walking. Tried not to hurry. Granada started up, moving his way.
He turned into another street, could see the concrete tower of the Europa in the distance, immediately felt better. Wasn’t that far now. Be in the room soon, club sandwich and a few beers on Cooper’s tab. Had a smile to himself about how easily he’d got spooked. Heard a rush of feet coming towards him, tried to turn and a bag went over his head.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It came in waves, the panic. Your hands are tied, there’s a hood over your head, you’re in the boot of a car in Belfast. Just think about that. You’re fucked. Best you can get away with is a beating or a kneecapping and we all know what the worst is. Dragged out the car, forced to kneel, feel of a gun barrel at the back of your head and then nothing.
The car turned sharply and he hit the side of the boot. Shifted, tried to get in a less painful position. Wasn’t easy. Had no idea how long he’d been in there, just knew he wanted out, wanted to be in Glasgow buying a drink at the Victoria, talking shite to Wullie the barman. Wanted to be anywhere but where he was.
The car turned again, seemed to drive off the road, started lurching from side to side. A huge wave of fear and nausea as he realised they were driving across a rutted field. Only one reason to be in a field. And that was the worst reason he could think of. The car slowed, stopped. He could hear two doors opening, then being banged shut. Then nothing. His heart was racing. Felt like it was thumping in his
chest. Felt like he was going to start crying or to piss himself.
He could hear voices – not what they were saying, just the noise and rhythm. And then he heard a gunshot and he thought he was going to be sick. Started praying to his mum, God, anyone to get him out of there. He tried to separate his hands, but they were tied tight at the wrist. Bag over his head smelt of sweat and hair oil, realised it must have been used before. Another lurch of terror. Heard someone laughing. Heard crows or some sort of birds squawking.
Wondered if this was it. Where he was going to die. Crying for his life in a field outside Belfast. Another lurch of fear. What if they thought he was something more than just a Glasgow polis? What if they thought he was Special Branch or Intelligence? That he knew something. Something that they would torture him to find out? That was it. Fear broke him and he was sick into the bag, felt it run down his chin. Had never felt as scared or as lonely in his life. Realised he was sobbing too.
And then the boot opened, hands pulled him out and he was dropped onto the ground. The bag was pulled off his head. He blinked a few times in the dim evening light, looked up. Realised he was looking up into the face of William Norton.
‘What did I tell you, McCoy?’ he said. ‘Don’t ever try and take the piss out of me.’ He smiled, wiped some cigarette ash off the sleeve of his blazer. ‘And what did you go and do?’
He pulled his foot back and kicked McCoy straight in the face. McCoy’s nose burst and blood added to the sick and the tears. He tried to sit up, couldn’t. All he could do was lie there and look at Norton and Duncan Stewart his driver, and the fact that Duncan Stewart was holding a gun.
‘How did you know I was here?’ he managed to get out.
‘I didn’t,’ said Norton. ‘Not until Duncan saw you outside the Europa, was waiting to pick me up, take me to the ferry, and there you were. Asked the boys at the site across the road what you had been asking them. So we thought we should have a chat and get the later ferry.’
