I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Cars all along the Newtownards Road were hijacked and set on fire. Shop windows were smashed and contents looted. Stones rained down on passing buses, amongst them a red double-decker giving a dozen American tourists a ‘We Love Belfast’ guided tour; the driver and guide immediately abandoned it and ran for their lives, leaving the Yanks somewhat perplexed by this apparent re-enactment of a riot which appeared astonishingly realistic. The Bangor to Belfast train was hijacked at Sydenham halt and guided into Central Station before being set ablaze. City Bus announced the cancellation of all services and workers were released early from work (to allow them to make their own way home, or to join the rioting, depending on their preference). Unionist politicians (with the exception of Pink Harrison) called for calm but blamed the PSNI for causing the disturbances. The PSNI stated that it had a duty to uphold the law and reiterated that it wished to speak to Pink Harrison as part of ongoing murder enquiries. The police, backed up by the Army, remained stoical in the face of violent attack. A number were injured, burns and broken heads mostly, and although several gun attacks were reported, nobody was hit.

  The Chief Constable, when asked for his reaction, said that, ‘These rioters will only succeed in damaging their own environments. They’re kids and they don’t really know what they’re doing, or why they’re doing it; it’s the shadowy figures who are manipulating these kids who have to answer for this.’

  A Sunday World reporter demanded to know who these shadowy figures were.

  The Chief Constable, in an ill-judged attempt at humour, responded with: ‘I don’t know, they’re all shadowy,’ which raised a laugh from the assembled press corps, but was then roundly condemned by the very same reporters when they went back to their offices and thought about it.

  Walter, sent home early with the rest of the Civil Servants, was on the train that got hijacked at Sydenham. Although he had no clear view of the Newtownards Road from where it was stopped, he could tell from the plumes of smoke hanging over that part of the city, that the trouble was more serious and widespread than it had been in years. He did not think it was necessarily a bad thing. Commercial property prices in the areas affected would probably come down, making it a good time to buy.

  In the city centre, Royal Avenue and the surrounding shopping areas took on the appearance of a ghost town. Margaret patrolled the eerily empty Primark aisles; Maeve, having accepted a one-week suspension from work without pay for being caught about to make love to Jack Finucane in the changing rooms, made her way to Irma La Deuce which, although located on the south side of the city, backed onto the rows of terraces around Windsor Park, the home of Linfield Football Club which, with its totally Protestant following, made it another potential flashpoint. Jack decided to close early. There were no customers anyway. He pulled down all the metal shutters with the exception of the one for the front door, and stood there, waiting anxiously for Maeve to arrive.

  Across the road, Emma Cochrane and Louise brought the Emma Cochrane shutters halfway down, but wouldn’t close them because May Li was due to arrive with the first of the dresses she had made up from Margaret’s designs. First she was ten minutes late, then twenty, then nearly an hour. When they called her mobile phone, some yob answered with an evil laugh and told them to go and f**k themselves when they asked about May Li. Eventually she arrived an hour and a half late, with a back window shattered and deep indentations on the driver’s door where rioters had kicked at it. Her handbag and one of her shoes had been stolen. But the clothes were safe. The shutters immediately came fully down.

  Billy Gilmore, sitting at home feeling sorry for himself and watching the coverage live on Sky, got a phone call. He answered morosely.

  ‘Cheer up, sunshine.’

  ‘Mr Harrison, is that you?’

  ‘No one else. And call me Pink, all my mates do. How’re you doing, Billy?’

  ‘I’m f-fine.’

  ‘I called your work - they said you’re no longer on staff.’

  ‘I got made redundant.’

  ‘You? I thought you were their top man.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Gee. Life just sucks, doesn’t it? Anyway, you watching the telly?’

  ‘Yeah. God, Pink, it’s mad out there.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘They’re looking for you.’

  ‘They seek him here, they seek him there. Actually, if they opened their frigging eyes, they’d see me sitting here in my own car outside Police Headquarters. I’m just about to walk in, but wanted to clear a few things up with you first.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, you know where the bodies are hid, don’t you?’

  ‘Bodies? Pink, I don’t know anything about any bodies.’

  ‘Ah, wind your neck in, Billy, it’s only an expression. I’m talking about the accounts, the paperwork.’

  ‘Oh - right, of course, Pink. Sorry, Pink. The accounts.’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure everything was safe and secure.’

  ‘Absolutely, Pink.’

  ‘Move them around as you need until I come out the other side of this.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Excellent. Thanks, Billy. I owe you.’

  ‘No problem, Pink.’

  ‘Just one more thing. Need a bit of a favour.’

  Billy felt his stomach go. He didn’t know what the favour was, but it probably wouldn’t be like shifting a heavy television or helping him put up shelves.

  ‘Yes, Pink?’

  ‘I need you to take a run over to the Supporters Club. I’ve left some money in the safe and I’d rather Inspector Plod didn’t get his hands on it.’

  ‘The uh, Supporters Club? Which one?’

  ‘Which one? Which one do you think! Just pop over, pick up the money and pay it into one of the accounts.’

  Billy took a deep breath. ‘But it’s murder out there. I mean—’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘But surely one of your guys, Bull or someone, could just as easily do it.’

  ‘Billy, I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. But I can trust you. You’re my accountant, my special accountant. All right?’

  Billy swallowed. Pink gave him the combination and told him to be quick. Billy asked about the rioters. Pink said not to worry about them, he’d know half of them anyway, and to say he was working for Pink if required because ‘that’ll put the fear of God into them’.

  When Billy put the phone down, he immediately slumped back into his chair and sighed. You’ll know the half of them. He somehow doubted that. He recalled now how he’d heard that Pink kept a retinue of accountants to handle his many and nefarious business interests, and how he’d wondered if most of the skinhead football supporters in the club were actually accountants, acting hard. He had a sudden and delightful image of rioting accountants on the streets of East Belfast. He made little jokes in his head about the police being called ‘to account’ and peace being in ‘the balance’, but it was a momentary respite. East Belfast was in flames, and that’s exactly where he was going. Billy groaned, fingered his tie, then forced himself up and out of his chair.

  101

  In the Pink

  Marsh was sitting in his office, watching the riot coverage on a small TV, when his phone rang and an embarrassed-sounding WPC said, ‘Sir, Councillor Harrison is in reception.’

  A grey police Land Rover was just bursting into flames on screen, so Marsh was only half-paying attention. His immediate thought was he didn’t need any bloody councillor whining to him about how badly the police were handling all the trouble.

  ‘Tell him I’m—’ And then he stopped. ‘Do you mean Pink Harrison is downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jimmy Mallow shook his head. Of course Pink Harrison was downstairs. On his own terms. There were never going to be any TV shots of Pink Harrison being hauled off in handcuffs.

  ‘Is he with anyone - a solicitor?’

  ‘No, sir, he’s by hi
mself.’

  ‘All right - show him to an interview room.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Should I have him searched?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Should I put someone in with him?’

  It was normal practice, and Pink was, after all, a murder suspect, but Marsh didn’t want anyone in there with him. Pink’s ability to charm, influence and corrupt, while doubtlessly wildly exaggerated, probably had some basis in truth, so the fewer people exposed to it the better. Police HQ was paranoid enough without allowing Rasputin in to weave his poison.

  ‘No, leave him be. Get him a cup of tea, but don’t talk to him more than you have to. There’ll be someone down shortly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow switched off the TV and called Gary. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s early days yet, boss. I’ve spoken to all six forensic teams in the last half-hour. Nothing to report besides the fact that two of them have been bricked, but no one hurt.’

  ‘No bloody handprints, no ghostly figure pointing us in the right direction?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Okay, Gary, why don’t you come back here? Pink Harrison just walked in.’

  ‘Under his own steam?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘And what does he have to say for himself?’

  ‘Not spoken to him yet. I’ll let him kick his heels for a couple of hours, but then I want you to have first crack at him.’

  ‘Me, sir? I thought …’

  ‘I just want to see him in action before I plough in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Marsh cut the line. He took one of the photos of Michael Caldwell out of his drawer and placed it face up on the desk. He switched the TV back on and watched more scenes of violence and destruction and wondered why a player like Pink Harrison was confident enough to walk into a police station without legal representation.

  She set the mug of tea down on the table, and put a couple of sachets of Canderel beside it. Pink Harrison smiled and asked what her name was.

  ‘WPC Winterson,’ said Claudia Winterson.

  ‘No, I mean your first name.’

  Claudia flushed a little, and shook her head. There was a Constable watching from the doorway.

  ‘You’re very pretty, do you know that?’

  ‘There’s your tea, Councillor Harrison. Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘A length of rope, maybe. I’m obviously in big trouble.’

  She gave him a thin smile, and quickly stepped out of the interview room. Constable Miller closed the door behind her. He turned to Claudia and said, ‘So that’s Pink Harrison. What do you think?’

  ‘Bit flash for me,’ said Claudia.

  ‘You see his watch? Rolex.’

  ‘Probably a knock-off.’

  ‘Looked real enough to me. And did you notice his shoes?’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’

  ‘Armani.’

  ‘I thought Armani was suits.’

  ‘It’s everything these days. But the shoes - did you see the soles?’

  ‘Can’t say I did. What about them?’

  ‘You know when you buy new shoes and the soles are absolutely perfect? But the moment you walk out of the shop, or the first time you put them on and go for a bit of a dander, they’re immediately all scoured and marked?’ Claudia nodded. ‘Well, his soles, when he crossed his legs when he sat down, his soles didn’t have a single mark on them. Like he’d just put them on outside the front door.’

  ‘You should be a detective, Colin,’ Claudia laughed, turning to walk back to the reception desk, ‘or get a job in a shoe shop.’

  Constable Miller smiled after her, then took up a position guarding the door to the interview room. He remained there for forty-five minutes. He looked through the glass panel half a dozen times. On the first three occasions Harrison was sitting quite normally at the desk, staring into space. On the second three, he was actually sitting on the desk in what appeared to be either a yoga position or one of meditation. His legs were crossed and his arms were held out in front of him. When the Constable turned his head closer to the door and listened, he could just about hear a humming sound.

  Constable Miller continued his vigil. There was no reason to inform anyone of Pink Harrison’s somewhat unusual behaviour. There was nothing in the manual that specifically related to the practice of either yoga or meditation while in police custody. So long as he wasn’t harming himself, or a danger to others, then he could do what he liked.

  When Gary McBride eventually appeared, he too peered through the glass panel. He said, ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir,’ said Constable Miller.

  Gary shook his head, then said, ‘Right, let’s go.’ He indicated for the Constable to follow him in.

  Pink Harrison, still sitting on the desk, had his eyes closed and did not react to the two police officers entering.

  Gary said, ‘Councillor Harrison, sir,’ then introduced himself and the Constable, and told him he wished to interview him in connection with a serious crime; he said he was obliged to record the interview. Gary began to fiddle with the recording equipment.

  Pink opened one eye, noted the Constable, then looked at Gary. ‘No,’ he said.

  Gary, still setting the equipment, said, ‘No, what?’

  ‘Before we begin, I’d like to speak to your boss.’

  ‘My boss?’

  ‘Superintendent James Mallow.’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘No.’

  Gary half-laughed. ‘Councillor Harrison, I’m afraid it’s not up to you.’ Pink had both eyes closed again. Gary pulled out a chair and sat down. Constable Miller took up a position against the back wall. ‘Councillor Harrison, for the record will you please give your name, date of birth, occupation and present address.’

  Silence.

  ‘Councillor Harrison?’

  Silence.

  ‘Councillor Harrison, for the record will you please give your name, date of birth, occupation and present address.’

  Pink remained silent.

  ‘Councillor Harrison?’

  One eye opened. ‘A private word with the Superintendent. Just me and him, no one else.’

  Gary glared at him, then pushed his chair back and signalled for Constable Miller to follow him out of the room. They closed the door behind them. Gary immediately hissed, ‘W***er.’ Then he went to the desk and phoned Marsh.

  Marsh said, ‘What’s your take on it?’

  ‘He’s so full of himself, only wants to talk to someone on his level.’

  ‘First time I’ve been described as being on his level.’

  ‘You know what I mean, boss. Look, I’ll tell him to go jump.’

  ‘No, don’t. He’ll just sit there for days saying nothing. And we haven’t turned up any forensics yet. If we don’t take a crack at him soon he’ll be able to walk.’

  ‘You’re going to come down?’

  ‘I’m going to shake the tree, see if anything falls out of the branches.’

  ‘Isn’t that just giving in to him?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is. Helps him maintain the illusion of being in control. But we know better, don’t we, Gary?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jimmy Mallow walked into the interview room alone, twenty minutes later. Pink was no longer sitting on the table, but was back in his seat. He stood as Marsh entered and extended his hand. Marsh shook it, their eyes met and held. Marsh introduced himself. ‘Now then, Councillor,’ he said. ‘What’s so important that you won’t talk to my people? I’m a busy man.’

  Pink, never taking his eyes off Marsh, reached into his jacket and took out his wallet. He removed a slip of paper and flattened it out on the table. ‘I want you to phone this number and identify yourself to whoever answers.’

  Marsh looked at the paper, and the numbers written on it. ‘And why would I want to do that, Councillor?’

  ‘Becau
se I feel it would be in both our interests.’

  ‘Really?’ It was heavy with sarcasm. Pink didn’t react at all. Just kept looking at Marsh, the man who’d been after him all these years, and Marsh kept looking at Pink, whom he’d been chasing for all that time. ‘Well,’ said Marsh, ‘let’s see, but if I do this, I want you to talk to my people, and get yourself a solicitor.’

  ‘Be happy to oblige,’ said Pink.

  Marsh walked back out of the interview room, leaving the door open, and crossed to the reception desk. He reached down and lifted a phone up onto the counter, then dialled the number from memory. It was answered almost immediately. A tired-sounding voice said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Superintendent James Mallow. I was asked to phone this number.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Superintendent. I was expecting your call.’

  ‘Who am I speaking to, first of all?’

  ‘Oh right, it’s Dan Starkey, Belfast Confidential.’

  Marsh glanced back to the interview room. Pink was now sitting on the desk, apparently meditating. Marsh’s brow furrowed, then he sighed. ‘Belfast Confidential, right. I’ve avoided talking to you lot since you crawled out of the sewer, so why should I change the habit of a lifetime now? I’ve nothing to say about this case, it’s way too early. In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr Starkey, Belfast is burning, I hardly think this is the right time for you lot to mount a campaign of support for Pink f***ing Harrison.’

  ‘Ah, Superintendent. I’m sorry, we seem to have our wires crossed a bit. This has nothing to do with Pink Harrison. This is to do with you.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, sir, a certain individual is trying to sell us financial records and tape recordings which show that you beat up a prostitute called Julie Mateer and then tried to buy her off. We really just wanted to get your side of the story.’

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow felt the colour drain from his face. His eyes flitted back to the interview room. Pink Harrison remained in his meditative position, and his eyes were closed, but even from this distance, Marsh could see the smirk on his face.