Gun Street Girl (35 page)

“And he won't blame you.”

“And he won't blame me. He'll think
he
fucked up. So I'll live.”

He eyed the pile of cash. I showed him the bag of pharma coke.

“That's all you've got—December seventh?”

“That's all I know.”

“Why did you call the consulate that time?”

“Panic. I thought Connolly might be able to help me with Moony. Mistake. If Moony found out I'd done that . . .”

“If you wear that wire and we get Moony for murder I can get you a new life in America or Australia.”

“I'm not doing that. That's a death warrant. They'll find me. They always find you.”

He took the money and the cocaine. “I'm leaving tonight,” he said.

“Where will you go?”

“I'm not telling you, Inspector.”

“Before you go, do me a favor and go to that payphone over there and say what you just told me to the Confidential Telephone and tell them it's a tip for DI Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC and for DI Spencer of Special Branch.”

He nodded and got to this feet. “I will. I'll see you, Duffy. Or rather I won't see you.”

“Take it easy, Nigel.”

I drove to the station and waited for the tip to come in from the Confidential Telephone.

It came to Spencer first.

He called me at the office. “You won't believe this, Duffy! We got a real break in the case! A tip has come in from the Confidential Telephone.”

“Yeah?”

“They say that our man Tommy Moony is moving the stolen Javelin missiles out of Northern Ireland on the night of December seventh! I'm telling you as a professional courtesy, Duffy. If he did steal the missiles, he might well be involved in the Michael Kelly murders.”

“Thanks very much, Spencer. Any way we can help you, just let us know.”

“We can include you on tailing duty if you want, Duffy. We're always short-staffed for that kind of thing.”

“We'd be happy to help.”

“Fine. But it's our bust. It's our score. You'll be under our direction. You'll have to do what we tell you, OK?”

“That's OK, Spencer. We'll just be happy to help in any way we can.”

Spencer was not used to cooperative colleagues in the CID and he didn't trust it. “You won't be tailing Moony or arresting him. That'll be us. Our score, Duffy. Our pictures in the paper.”

“Whatever you want, Spencer. We'll take reflected glory on this one. It'll make my boss very happy.”

I hung up and when the tip came into Carrick CID I told Crabbie and Lawson.

“Just got a tip from the Confidential Telephone and from DI Spencer at Special Branch. Tommy Moony is moving the missiles on December seventh.”

Crabbie was skeptical. “Anonymous tips are always rubbish.”

I shook my head. “I have a feeling about this one, Crabbie, I really do.”

27: OUR BUSINESS NOW IS NORTH

Midnight. Midnight and all the agents
 . . .

Yeah. That's right. An ironic echo.

December 7, 1985, Belfast.

A day of riots, roadblocks, burning buses, fires.

There had been a big Ulster Says No rally against the Anglo-Irish Agreement that afternoon. Three hundred thousand people had shown up at the City Hall to protest against Mrs. Thatcher's covert, pseudo-communist, anti-imperialist agenda. While most of them had gone home after a peaceful demonstration, several thousand had decided to stay in Belfast and demonstrate their moral seriousness by hijacking buses and throwing stones and petrol bombs at the police in West Belfast.

Over in East Belfast the Special Branch team were watching Tommy Moony's house. McCreen, Spencer and a dozen of their finest men watching the little, red-bricked terraced house off Larkfield Road.

As a bone to Carrick CID and inter-agency cooperation we'd be assigned the house of Barry (Mad Dog) Murphy on Yukon Street. Barry was a known associate of Moony, a player in the UFF, and also an employee of Short Brothers.

Several other RUC officers had been assigned to other Moony associates, but the real action was going to be over at Larkfield Avenue, where Moony was, at some point, going to take the Special Branch right to where the Javelin missiles had been hidden.

Or at least, that was the theory.

I looked at my watch and blew on to my hands.

“Midnight,” I said. “Could be here for a while yet, lads,” I said.

The lads were McCrabban and Lawson and a couple of Ulster Defence Regiment soldiers with us as backup in case we got caught in the riots. I didn't like working with soldiers as a rule, but the police were stretched so thin tonight that you took your help where you could find it.

We were sitting inside my BMW three doors down from Barry Murphy's house on Yukon Street. A Special Branch team was parked on Lewis Drive in case he snuck out the back way.

Crabbie next to me on the front seat took out his pipe.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Any objections, lads?” I asked the three men squeezed into the back seat.

The soldiers shook their heads and Lawson knew better than to complain.

Crabbie smoking his pipe. Me sipping coffee from a Thermos. Radio playing Brahms. Nothing moving on Yukon Street.

“My bad knee is killing me,” one of the soldiers said, adjusting himself so his rifle was poking into the front seat.

“Hey, watch the leather,” I said, moving the gun back.

At one o'clock it began to drizzle. Crabbie was dozing off.

Lawson and the soldiers were in mid-conversation about football.

A light came on in the downstairs window of Barry Murphy's house. I nudged Crabbie.

“Whassa?”

I pointed through the windshield. He rubbed his eyes.

“You're missing my point,” one of the soldiers was saying behind us. “If George Best had been fit in '82 we would have won the World Cup. Can you imagine George Best, Sammy McIlroy, Norman Whiteside, Gerry Armstrong, Pat Jennings, and Martin O'Neill all on the same team? All on rare form? Who would the opponents have marked? Two men on Best every time? That opens up the field for Whiteside and McIlroy. Even if he doesn't score he draws the heat. Do you see?”

“You're a dreamer, mate. George Best was ancient in 1982,” Lawson said.

“He wasn't ancient. He was only thirty-five. In fact he was a year younger than Pat Jennings.”

“Jesus, that's a different thing completely. A goalkeeper? You can't compare the two positions at all,” Lawson insisted.

Murphy's hall light came on. McCrabban tensed and put out his pipe. I picked up the police radio. I turned to the boys in the back seat.

“Shut up, all of you. Murphy's coming out.”

They shut their bakes. One of the UDR guys grabbed his rifle.

“Fingers away from triggers until you're out of my car,” I reminded him.

Murphy's front door opened and a man in a duffel coat got into a Ford Cortina. I picked up the police radio.

“Magpie has left the nest,” I said.

“Confirm,” Spencer said.

“Magpie has left the nest and is getting in his car.”

“Are you sure? Blackbird is still inside his house,” Spencer said.

“Am following Magpie, over and out.”

Murphy turned left on Mersey Street and drove down to a warehouse on Dee Street. The warehouse door opened and Murphy drove inside.

I picked up the radio again. “Magpie's at a warehouse,” I said.

“Blackbird still hasn't moved. There's going to be no play without him.”

“I think maybe you should get over here,” I said.

“No. Magpie's the diversion. Blackbird still hasn't come out.”

“I think you're wrong,” I said.

“Jesus, stay off the bloody radio until something changes!” Spencer snapped.

“Touchy lad, isn't he?” McCrabban said.

I turned to the boys behind in the back seat.

“You lot stay alert, OK?”

Lawson nodded, but the two young squaddies suddenly looked very young and very afraid. A skinny, blond one and a spotty, ginger-bap one. Both of them were certainly in their teens.

“Are you lads from Carrick UDR?” I asked them.

They both nodded.

“What are your names?”

The blond was called Peterson, the ginger-haired kid was called Boyd.

“Heard you talking about the World Cup, earlier. George Best, eh? Think on this: what if Northern Ireland had got Liam Brady to play for them? Eh? Height of his career, just after being named PFA player of the year. Brady and McIlory and O'Neill in midfield . . .”

“OK,” Peterson conceded. “But with Best and Whiteside up front.”

“They still wouldn't have won the World Cup,” Crabbie said dourly. “Not against that Brazil side.”

“That was some side,” I agreed.

“Aye. Zico, Socrates, Serginho, Junior—” and he might have named the entire squad had not the warehouse doors suddenly opened and a large black Mercedes van come speeding out.

I turned to McCrabban. “Shit! This is it, mate. Spencer and McCreen have to believe us now. Get them on the blower and tell them!”

I followed the van up toward the Sydenham bypass.

“Magpie's on the move, he's up on to the A2 in a big honking van,” Crabbie said into the radio.

Silence.

I grabbed the radio. “Did you hear what he said? Magpie's driving a van west on the A2.”

A pause and then Spencer came back on. “Follow him. Keep us abreast of developments.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We're still waiting for Blackbird.”

I turned to Crabbie. “They're still waiting for Moony!”

“He said Billy Graham saved him at Villa Park. Maybe he's changed his ways; maybe he's innocent,” Crabbie said.

“Innocent my arse. He's got out of the house somehow. He knew he was being watched and he's got out,” I said.

We followed the Mercedes van through Belfast. There were riots and paramilitary roadblocks on the Crumlin Road, but the local police had kept the A2 and the motorways clear of trouble.

The van made its way down the Westlink to the M2.

Five minutes later it was on the M5 heading north along the lough at a steady 70 mph.

We sped through Carrickfergus and continued north.

I picked up the radio again.

“Blackbird is either not involved in this operation or he's given you the slip. Magpie is in a black Mercedes van, registration SIA 8764, heading north on the A2! Request backup,” I said.

“All right, Duffy, I'll send a car after you. Where are you now?” Spencer said.

“We're on the A2 just outside Carrickfergus.
Everybody
should get up here. This is the move, I'm sure of it.”

“Maybe it is, Duffy, but my orders are to stick with Blackbird. I should have backup with you in about fifteen minutes unless they get caught up in the riots. Keep me appraised of your position, OK?”

“OK.”

We followed the van at a safe distance up the A2 until it turned off onto the Slaughterford Road and then up the Ballystrudder Road just outside Whitehead. Then it vanished.

“Jesus, they've killed the lights!”

I slowed to a crawl so we didn't run into them, but there were dozens of sidetracks and lanes, easements and throughways they could have slipped down.

“They must be heading for a port,” I said to McCrabban, trying to remain calm.

“Aye, a place far away from the army and the police. Somewhere a boat can get in and out. Brown's Bay, Portmuck, Millbay, any of those places.”

“Which one?” I said, desperately scanning the myriad of country roads for a trace of the van. “Which one, Crabbie?”

“If it were me I'd go for Portmuck. The wee quay there. Good harbor and it's quiet. Go straight on and turn left over the hill.”

I gunned the Beemer up to 75 and it roared up the hill. I turned it in a screaming third gear on to the Portmuck road.

I killed our lights and reduced speed as the sea loomed on the horizon and we approached Portmuck. Not a big place. Tiny little harbor, fewer than a dozen houses, and almost all of those seasonal summer rentals. Not that many spots to seek cover either. No trees. No big buildings. But on the plus side: no nosy civilians dandering around trying to get themselves topped. I parked the BMW on the hill outside the village, turned off the engine.

“Everyone out,” I ordered. “No talking, no ciggies.”

I fired up the radio. “We lost them on Islandmagee. We think they may be down at Portmuck; that's where we've gone,” I said, but there was no response.

“Out of radio range?” McCrabban asked.

I tried again but all I got was static.

I turned to the men.

“OK, lads, follow me; we'll go over the fields and get behind that wee cottage there on the edge of the village. No shooting, no talking, no cigarettes. All right? If they're not here we'll pull out, OK?”

“All right,” they agreed.

We climbed over a stone wall, made our way over a boggy field and stopped before a little cottage.

“Over the wall into the garden,” I whispered. “Quietly does it now.”

I edged my way over the wall and helped the others over too.

Cabbages, flower beds, and a rather sinister little line of red-hatted garden gnomes. I crawled to the wall facing the harbor. We were twenty yards from the Mercedes van that was sitting there in the harbor car park.

“It's them!” I hissed.

I remembered the lessons from the
Ship of Death
up in Derry.

“OK, lads, this is how it's going to go. No one is going to get hurt: not one of us, not one of them. We are going to use the presence of overwhelming force to make them surrender, OK?”

“OK,” they said together.

“What do we do now?” Peterson asked.

“Now we stay alert, try and stay warm, and wait.”

Five minutes.