Gun Street Girl (26 page)

Maybe now wasn't the time.

“Maybe now's not the time,” I said to Spencer.

He nodded. “Give him a day or two.”

We walked over to the burning house and warmed our hands against the flames. A few local kids were dancing about happily in silhouette.

“Nothing like a fire,” I said to McCrabban.

“Nope,” he agreed.

“What do you make of the dead dogs, Lawson?” I asked our young recruit.

“The dogs went for the fire starters and they shot them?”

“What else does it tell you?”

“Uhm . . .”

“Think, lad.”

“They must have known he had dogs, cos otherwise why come here with a crossbow. So they scouted the place or they knew him.”

“Or they saw the photographs in his office. What does it tell you about numbers, Lawson?”

“I'd guess that there were at least two men, possibly three. They probably had a driver, parked on the B road on the other side of the field.”

“And three men implies?”

“Organization? Paramilitary involvement?”

I gave McCrabban a nudge. “He's good, isn't he? But still, we'd better go question Farmer Lawrence just to be on the safe side, eh?”

Lawrence was awake looking at the fire with his wife and kids. He was about fifty-five but very fit and strong. We told him about the Alsatians.

“I can't say that I'm sorry. Those dogs got out half a dozen times and ran wild. Worried my sheep, Mr. Finnegan's sheep, and frightened the weans too.”

“You wouldn't have killed the dogs and set fire to Mr. Vardon's house, would you?” Spencer asked.

“I would not. I've already got a suit against him in small claims court. As if I'm stupid enough to sue him and then go after his dogs.”

I let McCrabban and Lawson continue the questioning while I walked back to Vardon's with Spencer.

“So what do you reckon this was all about, then?” I asked.

“I reckon it's you, Duffy. You went to Moony yesterday and mentioned Vardon to him and Moony sent some lads out here to warn Vardon to keep his fucking mouth shut.”

“Why not just kill Vardon?”

“Well, murder brings a lot of heat, doesn't it? And if they have stolen the missiles and are trying to get rid of them . . .”

“I thought you boys were of the school of thought that possibly the missiles hadn't been stolen at all. Open mind and all that?”

Spencer shook his head. “There's things I can't tell you, Duffy, OK? It's surely obvious to you that you've spooked somebody. A certain somebody that used to be a player.”

“So you're not buying the God-bothering, then, are you?”

Spencer laughed. “In his younger days he was supposed to be one of the best Loyalist icemen in Belfast. Not street stuff. Political hits. Assassinations. Clever stuff, you know? Tommy was a rare breed. Smart and ruthless. Him getting convinced by Cliff bloody Richard to turn over a new leaf? I don't buy it.”

“And crossbowing a couple of dogs would be pretty easy for someone of that ilk,” I said.

Spencer groaned. “It would be, except that this little episode wasn't Tommy Moony. Our team has got him under close surveillance and he didn't leave his house last night.”

“And another one of your teams had Vardon under surveillance too,” I said.

I could feel Spencer bristling in the grey mist.

“Listen, Duffy, I know the quality of policemen that you're used to dealing with in fucking Carrick and Larne, but we're the cream of the crop in Special Branch. University educated. Young. Smart. Good morale. So just watch your lip, OK?”

“Take it easy, Spencer. I'm just saying you'd better keep a good watch on both of them,” I said.

“We do,” he growled.

“And
we'll
need to talk to Vardon again. Presumably you'll kick up a stink if we come back here alone?”

“I'll come with you. When do you want to do it?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is.”

The next day Spencer met us at the station. I'd been on the late shift and I'd had a horrible night's sleep. It was a frosty morning that was threatening snow so I took the Beemer, which didn't sway around as much as the Land Rovers on the country roads.

We drove up the Tongue Loanen to chez Vardon. A caravan was parked in front of the place where his house used to stand. The building was a twisted abstract of blackened beams, embers, and scorched stone walls. The roof had fallen in, crushing the furniture. In a study at the back of the house tropical fish had been boiled in their tank.

“Monsters, killing his dogs and his fish,” McCrabban said, shaking his head.

We knocked on the caravan door.

“Who is it?”

“Carrickfergus RUC.”

“And Special Branch.”

“Oh, fer fucksake. I've told you peelers I've got nothing to say. I don't know who started the fire.”

“Or what happened to Michael Kelly?”

“Or who stole the missiles?” Spencer said.

Nigel opened the caravan door. He was wearing a dirty black hoodie, flared jeans, and he was holding a fluffy white cat.

“How stupid are you guys? I've told you: I don't know shit about missiles! I was wrongfully terminated.”

“We're trying to help you here, Mr. Vardon,” Spencer said.

“If you want to help me why don't you go arrest that guy, Lawrence,” Vardon snarled.

“Mr. Lawrence didn't burn you out. You know who burned you out,” I said.

“Who?”

“The Ulster Freedom Fighters.”

“Oh yeah, why's that?”

“A wee reminder from Tommy Moony to keep your gob shut,” I said.

“About what?” Vardon asked.

“Why don't you tell us what this is all about? We can protect you, Mr. Vardon, we can get you into protective custody over the water. We could get you a new life over the water.”

Vardon shook his head.

“I've done nothing wrong. I've got nothing to say to the police. I don't know anything about any stolen missiles or what happened to Michael Kelly, OK?”

Snow began to fall. The now unworried sheep in the field next door began to bleat. Nice up here in the countryside, surrounded by farms and woods with the Irish Sea a hazy, blue-grey line at the eastern horizon.

“Could you leave, please, I've had a very stressful couple of days,” Nigel said sniffing and rubbing his nose.

“Was your house insured?” I asked.

“Yes. Of course it was. And before your evil peeler brain kicks into gear, no I didn't shoot my own dogs and burn my own house down.”

“They'll come back, you know,” I said.

“Who will?” Nigel asked.

“I know how they think. They'll be saying to themselves: ‘OK, lads, no worries, we've put the fear of God in Vardon, he'll not say anything.' But then a week or two will go by and they'll be out drinking and one of them will say, ‘Maybe we should have finished the job. I mean, why scare him when we can just top him? Dead men tell no tales, right? We were too lenient with that big useless fuck.' They'll be back, Nigel. Sooner or later. You know they will. But we can protect you. We can get you over the water. England. Australia. Wherever . . .”

“In exchange for what?”

“For what you know about the stolen missiles, for what you know about Michael Kelly's murder.”

“I don't know anything about any stolen missiles. And I don't know anything about Michael's death . . . and, even if I did know something, I still wouldn't fucking tell youse. I trust the RUC as far as I could bloody throw ya, and that isn't far,” he said, stepped back inside, and slammed shut the caravan door.

“Any ideas, Spencer?”

He shook his head.

“Lawson, McCrabban?”

Nope, nothing from them either.

“Back to the station, then,” I said.

“Or a wee country pub,” Spencer said. “For breakfast, like.”

We found a bar in Ballycarry that was open and had Irish coffees and Ulster fries.

The whiskey in the coffee was loosening Spencer up so I got him another with a double in it.

“You're not a bad sort, Duffy,” Spencer said.

“You're not a bad sort, yourself, Spencey, me old mucker. Oi, Sergeant McCrabban, a round of whiskies, eh?” I said and gave Crabbie the minutest of head shakes, which meant a double for Spencer, brown lemonade in a whiskey glass for the rest of us.

A few more rounds like that.

“Don't see why we can't just cooperate, you know? Youse and us. We're all on the same side,” Spencer said, red eyed, starting to go.

“That we are. That we are, Spencey, old son. Is there something you're not telling us, mate? Something McCreen doesn't want us cut in on?”

“McCreen? What does he know? You know where he went to school?”

“Lemme guess. Inst?”

Spencer laughed. “You're spot on! You are spot on, Duffy. The Royal Belfast Academical Institution. The bloody establishment.”

“Another round, mate?”

“Why not?”

Another double whiskey for Spencer, double brown lemonade for the rest of us.

“So what is it that McCreen doesn't want us to know?” I asked after drawing him out a little more.

“What?” Spencer said sleepily.

“What did Vardon do that McCreen doesn't want us to know about?” I asked.

“Oh aye, that? You really want to know?”

“We really want to know.”

“All right. We're all on the same side, eh? We're all going in one direction.”

“It's us against the world, mate.”

“It is . . . So after the fire . . . After we've all gone, like, Vardon goes to the payphone here in Ballycarry. A payphone that I told McCreen to tap.
Me
. My initiative, not his. He would never have thought of it.”

“Who does he call, Spencer?”

“He only calls the private line for the guest house at the US consul's home. Not the Consulate General in Queen Street, mind you, the US consul's private residence out near Holywood,” Spencer said.

“That's strange,” I said. “Any idea what he talked about?”

“He didn't get through to anyone. The phone just rang and rang.”

“Did he call again?”

“No, I think he rumbled it. One of our boys was watching him. Got a little too close.”

“Any idea who is staying at this guest house in the US consul's home?”

“Nope. DCI McCreen did ask if we could interview the consul general but we were warned away by the Northern Ireland Office.”

“So you just left it there?” I asked.

“Had to. But if he calls again and we get an actual lead the NIO will have to let us proceed. It's all very touchy stuff, you know, Duffy. Diplomatic immunity. Intergovernmental cooperation. You wouldn't want to upset the Americans.”

“No, of course not,” I agreed. “We wouldn't want to upset the Americans.”

21: THE QUIET AMERICAN

We drove Spencer home and I went back to Coronation Road for a nap.

Paraffin heater. Bed. Sleep of the just.

Sara's smell on the pillow, but no Sara. High times for her, busy days. Mustn't come over all heavy with her, give her space, don't appear desperate, Duffy, ya hear me lad?

Downstairs to the kitchen. Coffee. Starlings at the milk bottles. A nasty-looking crow staring at me from the drooping curve of the telegraph wire. A dusting of snow in the garden. A dusting of snow up my left nostril.

I stuck on the lunchtime news. More riots. Tedious now. Depress­­ing. You ever read Thucydides? I'll boil him down for you into one easy moral:
intergenerational civil war is a very bad thing
.

I dressed in my jeans, black DM's, Che T-shirt, black polo-neck sweater, leather jacket. Checked under the Beemer. No bombs today, chum. Drove to the police station, where I encountered a protest by a score of DUP councilors, UVF proxy councilors, and other assorted riff-raff.

A man called Jimmy Harlan, an “Independent Unionist” councilor from Sunnylands, got in front of the car. “Police scum! You're all Lundies! You're all traitors! You're all in it together!” he yelled, and for good measure smacked his ULSTER SAYS NO placard off my windscreen.

I put the Beemer in neutral and got out, grabbed the placard from his hand, and broke it over my knee. “You'd better not touch my fucking car again. Any of you!” I said.

“Aye, the car you got with blood money, traitor's gold. You're all in on it,” Harlan persisted.

“You're in on it too, Jimmy, don't deny it,” I said, and turned to address the mob. “You think
they
would let Councilor Harlan speak freely, if
they
hadn't already sanctioned it? He's part of it and he fucking knows it. He's only here to give you the illusion of freedom and dissent. He's the worst of the fucking lot of us!”

It was Marcusian pearls before swine, but it made me feel better. Maybe give them food for thought. I got in the Beemer and drove into the station. When I got out of my space I saw that someone had thrown eggs at the back window.

I went up to Chief Inspector McArthur's office seething.

“Listen, mate, you can't have a protest right in front of the station like this. It's bad for morale.”

“What can I do?” McArthur said.

“Disperse them.”

“There's councilors out there.”

“So?”

“What about free speech?”

“Fuck free speech. Get those eejits away from the station entrance. That's your fucking job, pal.”

“I'll have to consult with my superiors,” he said.

“Yeah, do that and do it now. You're making us all look bad, McArthur.”

I went into CID. Crabbie was already there. He let me blow off steam about the protests and McArthur. When Lawson arrived I told him to sign out a Land Rover.

“Where are we going?” Crabbie asked.