by Scott Hunter
Doherty nodded. ‘I looked through everything later,’ he said. ‘After they were back at barracks – your car, the ambushed vehicle, the van. I wasn’t supposed to keep anything but I smelt a rat, just knew there was some kind of cover-up going on. I–’’
‘–What did you find in the van?’ Moran interrupted, leaned forward.
‘No weapons,’ Doherty conceded. ‘Just rubbish. Fast food cartons, sandwich wrappers and the like. It was a pigsty. And there was blood, of course,’ he added quietly. ‘A lot.’
‘What did you keep?’
‘Didn’t touch any of the rubbish,’ Doherty said. ‘But I bagged up the stuff on the dash – Armitage’s orders. He wanted a military investigation, but after the arson attack there wasn’t much left to investig–’
‘Anything at all of interest that you’ve hung on to?’ Moran interrupted a second time. At last he felt as though he had the upper hand, psychologically if not in actuality.
‘Matches, some bits of paper. Fag packets. All crap, but…’ he shrugged. ‘I thought, you never know.’
Moran’s eyes lit up. ‘And you have these with you?’
Doherty’s hand went into his bag again, took out several clear plastic folders. A look of almost feral cunning passed briefly across his face. ‘Be my guest.’
The contents were a museum snapshot of the 1970s. Moran handled each item carefully; they were mostly trash, as Doherty had suggested, but there was something at the bottom of one folder that he was keen to examine more closely.
He withdrew the cigarette packet carefully and set it before him. It was yellowed with age, the colours faded to an almost sepia tint, but the name of the brand was still clearly recognisable.
Player’s Number Six.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘It’s just a fag packet.’ Doherty was getting restless watching Moran scrutinising the fragile cardboard. His blue eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, but the guy was still restlessly alert. The revolver remained in his hand, his forefinger loosely curled around the trigger.
‘True. And common enough back in the day.’ Moran held the packet up to the penumbral light filtering in around the edges of the closed curtains; dawn was not far away. What he was looking for? There was something, some lost detail lurking in the furthest corner of his memory.
The packet was intact, empty save for the thin silver foil which had once protected the contents. He ran his fingers over it, pressed the corners and edges, frowned. The corners of the top of the packet had been torn and folded back, like a paper aeroplane’s wings.
The implications hit him in the chest with a sick jolt. If the envelope wasn’t damning enough, here was something incontestably tangible.
‘What? What is it?’ Samantha read his expression, leaned forward. Wordlessly, Moran unpacked the silver foil. It came out easily. Either the light application of the original glue had ceased to be effective or … or it had been previously removed and reinserted.
He peered inside, still unsure what he was looking for. But there it was, written in small capital letters, in faded biro.
BNZ2154 5.57
Moran looked up. ‘And this was in the van? You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure.’ Doherty snapped.
‘You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?’ Samantha said softly, casting an anxious glance at Doherty. ‘Tell us, for God’s sake. Let’s get this over with.’
‘This belongs to Joe. My friend.’ Moran tapped the empty packet. Empty, sure, but for its damning inscription. ‘He wrote the number inside. That’s what he gave to the guys outside the bar.’
‘Number? What number?’ Even Samantha was getting impatient now.
‘The car registration number,’ Moran said wearily. ‘And the time it was due at the checkpoint.’
The hospital was a grey, depressing-looking building. Moran turned up his collar and walked quickly across the busy road to the entrance. A quick query addressed to a loitering kitchen porter and he was on his way to Magowan Ward.
Joe had got off lightly. An inch or so to the right and the bullet would have entered his chest – but then Joe had always had the luck of the devil. As Moran entered the ward he caught sight of his friend immediately, first bed on the left. He was surprised to see that Joe had a visitor, a young man in a smart jacket and expensive-looking leather shoes. They were conversing in low, urgent tones, but the conversation stopped as soon as Moran appeared at the bedside.
‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ Moran said. ‘I’ll pop back in five.’
Joe waved his good arm. ‘Not at all, Brendan. We were just finishing up.’ He nodded to the young man. ‘I’ll see you around, all right?’
The young man gave Moran a tight-lipped smile, nodded a goodbye to Joe and left.
‘So, Brendan. Nice of you to pop in. Thought you’d be back home by now.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’d hardly be heading home without making sure you were OK, would I?’
Joe regarded him with a satisfied expression. ‘Like I said, you’re a good man, Brendan. Through and through. I appreciate it, I really do.’
‘So. How is it?’ Moran asked, frowning at Joe’s bandages.
‘They’ve pumped me full of stuff so I can’t feel a damn thing,’ Joe grinned. ‘But what about you? That was a crazy bloody suicidal thing you did out there, right enough. You’re damn lucky they didn’t fill you full of holes, too. Then what would I have told your ma?’
Moran shrugged. ‘What else was I going to do? They couldn’t save her, anyway.’ He fixed his eyes on the window, a rectangle of Belfast monochrome.
‘But you were there for her, that’s what matters,’ Joe said gently.
Moran cleared his throat. ‘I’ll not forget her face, nor her boyfriend’s face for that matter.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘One of the soldiers, guy named Doherty. They were an item.’
‘Oh, God.’ Joe shifted uneasily on his pile of pillows. ‘I had no idea.’
‘And why would you?’ Moran smiled grimly. ‘You were busy getting shot at the time.’
‘So I was, that’s true.’ The grin was back. Nothing fazed Joe for long.
A companionable silence ensued as a nurse appeared and busied herself around the bed, removing and replacing items with professional speed and efficiency. She made a few pen strokes on the chart clipped to the bedstead and Joe winked at Moran. ‘Thanks, nurse. I’ve a terrible headache, right enough. Can you give me anything for it?’
The nurse, a pretty, dark-haired girl of around twenty-five, whipped out a thermometer and took Joe’s wrist in her hand. Frowning, she examined her fob watch. ‘You’ve no temperature. Pulse is normal.’
‘Not when you’re around it isn’t,’ Joe grinned.
Moran groaned, found something interesting to look at outside as the nurse flushed. ‘Sure, there are genuinely sick patients here without the likes of yourself wasting my time.’ She stormed off in a flurry of starched affront.
‘Can’t blame a fella for trying, eh?’ Joe appealed to Moran.
‘I can’t see there’s much wrong with you,’ Moran smiled. ‘I’ll leave you in the medical profession’s capable hands.’
‘Oh, and how capable they looked too.’ Joe winked again.
‘By the way,’ Moran picked up his coat. ‘Who was your friend?’
‘No one important.’ Joe’s expression changed subtly, became more guarded. ‘Just a guy from Queen’s.’
‘Really?’ Moran cocked his head to one side. ‘What, checking their future star graduate isn’t going to peg out on them before he’s even got started?’
‘Something like that.’
Moran hesitated, wondering whether to press his friend for more information, but decided against it. It was none of his business, probably totally innocent. He shrugged his coat on. ‘Well, then, take care. I’ll catch up with you when you’re home.’ And with that, Moran left his friend to the bustling activity of the ward and the cautio
us attentions of the on-duty nurses.
Janice was waiting for him at the station, her face pale with concern. They embraced.
‘I haven’t slept a wink. Oh, Brendan, thank God you’re safe. I couldn’t believe it when I heard what had happened. Here.’ She held out the morning paper. He scanned the front page. Sure enough the headlines were screaming outrage, and there was a rough shot of the targeted car, but it was the second photograph which made him catch his breath.
‘Who the hell gave them a photo of me?’ He read the leader, trying to understand. The account was concise, his name being mentioned in the context of his attempt to save the fallen soldier. Armitage was quoted, and although Moran’s help was noted, there was some sense of ambiguity within the terse editorial style. The last sentence read: Concerns are being raised that the gunmen were tipped off by an insider, possibly a member of the Gardaí.
‘What the hell? They think I was involved? And the way they’ve placed the photo, it looks like–’
Janice’s hand was on his arm. ‘I know. The Superintendent’s already been asking for you. He wants to see you. Urgently.’
Dermot Flynn was a pragmatic man. He believed in hard work, attention to detail and no bullshit. He had worked his way up from plain Garda to Superintendent by dint of a keen observational aplomb and sheer bloody-mindedness. His father had enjoyed a long career as a naval officer and his speech was consequently peppered with nautical analogy, a habit he had passed on to his offspring. This peculiarity had earned Superintendent Flynn the nickname of ‘The Captain’, but he was nevertheless well-regarded by his subordinates and considered trustworthy by his superiors. In the young Brendan Moran, Superintendent Flynn had spotted the signs of a future high-flyer, but the day’s newspaper report threatened a premature fall to earth, highlighting as it did, intentionally or otherwise, the potentially serious issues of integrity and – worse still – duplicity.
Did Flynn believe Moran capable of such a betrayal? No, frankly, but then, he had known apparently upright and honest men who had succumbed, if not to temptation, then to other tried, tested and often applied methods – coercion being the usual favourite. The report mentioned Moran’s attempt to save a fallen soldier. Commendable, and totally in character – and yet, somehow, the journalist had constructed his prose so as to simultaneously suggest possible Gardaí collusion in the ambush.
Flynn grunted, laid the newspaper down on the polished surface of his bureau. Bloody press. The world’d be a better place without them, so it would. And yet the recent suggestions of Gardaí involvement in the border areas, specifically regarding the smuggling problem, had clearly caused a corporate pricking up of ears in the world of journalism.
Flynn picked up the paper again. The way they’d plonked Moran’s mugshot right next to the ‘Gardaí involvement’ paragraph, rather than further up, next to the brief description of his attempt to rescue a stricken soldier. Just a typesetting issue, an unfortunate layout? Or something else?
His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp tap on his door.
‘Come!’
‘Morning, sir. You wanted to see me?’
‘Ah, Moran. Have a seat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Sailed slap into a force 12, by the look of it.’ Flynn tapped the paper.
‘Yes, sir. It looks bad, though – what they’ve said, the way my photograph–’
Flynn raised his hand. ‘I know. I know. It’s not ideal, I agree. But let’s start from the beginning. Tell me all.’ Flynn sat back and folded his arms. Always best to hear it from the horse’s mouth, and he was a good listener.
When Moran finished, he nodded. ‘It’s a bravery commendation should be coming your way, not a chorus of pointing fingers.’
‘I only did what I could,’ Moran said quietly. ‘It was a mess. The people in the car didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Two RUC high profiles,’ Flynn said. ‘They were well-informed, the perpetrators.’
‘Yes and maybe no,’ Moran replied. ‘Apparently it wasn’t the first time they’d been over the border for meetings. No security. They didn’t even bother to change the number plate. It wouldn’t have been hard to follow them.’
Flynn nodded. ‘Senior RUC. Staunch Protestants.’
‘In God we trust?’ Moran raised his eyebrows.
‘Indeed.’ Flynn smiled, not humorously, but wryly at Moran’s intuitive grasp of his meaning. ‘But your friend? How is he?’
‘Still enjoying his hospital stay, I imagine,’ Moran replied. ‘The female attention, if not the treatment.’
Flynn gave a short laugh. ‘Well, you’ve both emerged unscathed, more or less, but I think it best to keep a low profile for a while. There may be unwarranted interest following all this.’ He waved at the open newspaper. ‘If anyone contacts you – wanting to ask questions – let me know, would you? We shall try to divert, where possible.’
‘Of course, sir…’
Flynn picked up the hesitation, raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘And…?’
Moran cleared his throat. ‘Actually, there was something else. Regarding my profile.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well sir, there’s this … position, in the UK, in Berkshire. It looks like it might be a good move for me. I was going to ask your advice.’
‘England? Well, well.’ Flynn wasn’t often taken aback, but this was a surprise. He’d been right then, about that ambition.
‘I haven’t made any firm commitment yet, sir. I just think that it might be an opening – to broaden my horizons.’
‘It’d be our loss,’ Flynn said. ‘And it’s a big move. Think hard.’
‘I will, sir.’
On his way out, Flynn called him back. ‘Garda Moran?’
‘Sir?’
‘Remember what I said. Low profile. Watch who you talk to.’
‘I will, sir. I … I appreciate your trust.’
‘Think nothing of it. We’re all on the bridge together.’
Moran nodded, closed the door softly behind him.
The next day, he met Janice for lunch, a hurried midday rendezvous. As they emerged arm-in-arm into the afternoon gloom it began to rain, softly at first, but rapidly escalating to a downpour. Moran had a local visit to make, and as neither were carrying an umbrella he suggested that Janice might borrow his car, a rusty old Ford requisitioned from the Hannigans’ stock of barely-roadworthy farm vehicles. It was an appropriate replacement for the Cortina, made the same kind of protesting noises.
Janice laughed as he handed her the keys. ‘Sure I’ll be careful with Mr H’s pride and joy.’
Two minutes later came the muffled noise of the explosion.
He ran, stumbling towards the wreck, but there was nothing to be done.
His Janice, his forever girl, was dead.
Three weeks later, just ten days after the funeral, DC Brendan Moran arrived in Reading, Berkshire to begin work with the Thames Valley Constabulary.
He carried his pain silently, and, at least during waking hours, set his mind resolutely on the future.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘I only have your word for it,’ Doherty said. ‘It could be your fag packet. You could have given the info to the boyos.’
‘Sure I could,’ Moran said testily. He slipped the packet back into its plastic wallet. ‘But I didn’t. It could be checked for prints – as could any other items you’ve squirrelled away. At least you’ve had the sense to keep the evidence in bags.’
Doherty’s resolve seemed, for the first time, to falter. ‘You really think it was your mate?’ Confusion was etched on his face and for a moment the ex-soldier looked lost, like a child struggling to understand how something which had always been a certain way had now changed before his eyes, like some unexpected conjuring trick.
Moran pressed his advantage. ‘Sadly, yes. It’s the most logical explanation.’ A brief image of Joe in hospital, the furtive visit by the unnamed young man, flashed across his mind. A debrief
ing? More than likely. If only he’d pressed Joe at the time, maybe if he’d been able to identify the young man … if only, if only. Here you go again, Brendan. He shook the thought away. ‘If it’s justice you’re after, Doherty, you’d better get the right man.’
The look of cunning Moran had glimpsed on Doherty’s face earlier had been replaced by a far-away, contemplative expression. ‘Yes, I want justice,’ he said quietly. ‘But not just for myself and Alice. For the families of those murdered men.’
‘OK. Why don’t you put the gun away now?’ Moran suggested gently. ‘And let’s think about the next stage.’
Samantha had been silent for a while. Now she spoke up. ‘Justice for the families? Yes, I think that would be entirely appropriate.’ She was leaning forward, her body language vibrant with anticipation. ‘But what else did you collect from the van, Liam? Do you have it in storage somewhere? A lockup? Is that it?’
Moran looked at her in surprise. Something new had crept into Samantha’s tone; a hunger, or quickening – like a wild animal scenting its prey.
A scrabbling, scraping noise started up from the direction of the back of the house – the sound of claws on wood. Doherty gesticulated with the revolver. ‘Someone let that damn animal in. Go on,’ he told Moran. ‘Make it quick.’
Moran needed little encouragement; he needed time to work on a problem pitched from an unexpected quarter…
How did Sam know Doherty’s Christian name?
He hadn’t mentioned it, and Doherty, so far as he was aware, had declined to introduce himself.
He checked his inside pocket. The plastic wallet crackled at his touch. He’d only needed a moment while Doherty’s attention had been fixed on Samantha; hopefully Doherty wouldn’t notice its absence. It wasn’t any kind of guarantee. Fingerprints? Maybe, maybe not. Handwriting, though. A scribbled car registration number. Could it be tested? Could identity be established? Again – maybe, maybe not. It was something, though, something to take away, to work with.
