One door was open on the landing and they entered a small windowless room. It was empty except for a wooden table, a chair and a tattered doctor’s screen. Her fear returned, her stomach beginning to churn.
Spike jerked the screen open, dividing the room in two. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to strip off and be searched before we go in.’ He spoke without emotion, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘Take one side each.’
Casey’s fear turned to sheer terror, but she did her best to hide it. ‘Can’t you just frisk us?’ she asked in a shaky voice.
‘We’re not looking for weapons.’
‘And if I refuse, does it mean I can’t see Mr Baker?’
‘Yes, lady, you can see him. But you’re journalists, right? So if you want him to talk about what we expect you want to talk about, you’re searched first.’ He waited for her to make her decision, adding: ‘If we’d more warning we’d have got a woman in to do this. Don’t worry, you’re safe enough.’ It was the nearest he came to apologising.
She glanced at Mercs. He’d made no attempt to undress and looked very uncomfortable.
Somehow, she wasn’t sure why, she trusted the man called Spike. In a very small voice she said: ‘All right.’
The young man indicated the table. ‘Take your things off and put them on there.’
Christ, this was terrifying! This was the sort of place you heard about in Ulster. A quiet backroom, the kangaroo court, tortured for information with a black hood over your head, then knee capped or murdered with a bullet in the back of the skull.
Her fingers were trembling so much she could scarcely undo the buttons of her blouse. Spike was already going through her handbag carefully, one of his companions checking Eddie Mercs’s jacket and wallet. At least they did not appear to be watching her.
Standing in her brassiere and American pantyhose, with tights and lacy black briefs combined, she clutched her hands to her chest and darted quickly forward, dumping her skirt, blouse and jacket on the desk.
Spike glanced up. ‘Everything please.’
He looked down again at what he was doing.
Taking a deep breath, she stripped naked, standing and feeling foolish with one hand at her crotch and the other inadequately attempting to hide her breasts.
Spike had finished checking the seams of her underwear and suddenly looked straight at her. She expected there to be a lascivious smirk on his face, a leer. But the face was almost frighteningly impassive. ‘Hands down and turn, slowly.’
Her eyes shut and she obeyed, experiencing the worst sense of fear and humiliation she had ever known.
Then it was over.
As disinterested as before, Spike moved her clothes back across the table top. ‘Get dressed.’
Dammit, she thought, he’s talking like a bloody doctor. It was unnerving. She dressed more quickly than she had ever done in her life, getting in a muddle in her desperation to pull on her pantyhose, snagging the nylon until it laddered the full length of one leg. Hot and uncomfortable, she finally felt a semblance of dignity return.
Mercs appeared from behind the screen, tucking his shirt into his waistband, and Spike was knocking on the door at the far side of the room. A gruff voice barked in response and the young minder turned the handle. ‘Your guests are here, Billy.’
They were shown in.
King Billy held court behind a huge battered desk in a dark room illuminated only by a green-shaded editor’s lamp. It lit up his huge frame, giving the impression that he was the only person there. Like a buddha, she thought, floating in the darkness. Only later, as her eyes adjusted, did she notice other things. There were two acolytes standing in the shadows behind him, hard-faced men in leather jackets. Over their heads on the wall were the colours of the local linfield Football Club. In a far corner of the room she noticed an array of banners, all neatly furled in a rack, and a monstrously large Lambeg drum.
‘Miss Mullins, Mr Mercs.’ The big man struggled to his feet, his belly straining against the desk edge as he reached across to shake their hands. His face was broad and blunt, the flattish nose curiously kinked where it had once been broken; his white hair was cropped and neat, his eyes the palest powder blue that Casey had ever seen. ‘Sit, sit, please.’
As he resumed his own seat, she saw he was wearing a loudly patterned kipper tie and a shirt with short sleeves from which his massive pink arms protruded like legs of ham.
Casey smiled uneasily. ‘I’m not sure whether to call you Your Highness or what?’
His laugh was like a volcano threatening eruption, a low rumbling roar from deep within the mountain of flesh, bubbling up to a wheezy chuckle in his throat. The sound was curious coming from such a pretty rosebud mouth. ‘Very good, Miss Mullins. But no, no, King Billy is just a nickname. The boys like to have their fun. Billy like William of Orange, see? Appropriate that, bit of a joke. Just call me Billy.’ He leaned back, grinning, the mirth subsiding. Then he appeared to notice her obvious nervousness. ‘Oh, sorry about that outside. It’s become routine nowadays, but we’re not used to ladies visiting. I trust the boys conducted themselves properly?’
‘Exemplarily,’ she said, wondering if he noticed her sarcasm. ‘But I don’t understand the reason.’
For a moment he looked embarrassed. ‘A few years ago that wouldn’t have been necessary, but we can no longer trust the British. Nowadays they’re always trying to get evidence against us Loyalist groups. There was one case, a woman — she was undercover for Special Branch — came to a meeting, the UVF I think, and recorded everything. Later they learned she’d had a highly sensitive microphone concealed — er,’ now his face was the colour of rare steak,’- between her legs, shall we say? Sorry. It was connected to an aerial wire fitted in her bra with a small battery. The conversation was recorded by an unmarked radio, van parked outside. Five good men were convicted.’
‘I see.’ It was just bizarre enough to be true. ‘But you know we’re friends of Gerard Keefe?’
Another throaty chuckle. ‘So is half of Belfast. And if you were a spy, Miss Mullins, you would hardly tell him, would you?’ He placed his hands in front of him, stretched out the plump fingers. ‘Now what is it you’d like to know?’
Suddenly it seemed a fatuous question to ask. Nevertheless that was her reason for being here. Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘Eddie here and I work for the Evening Standard. As you’re no doubt aware there has been a terrible bombing campaign run by the IRA in London. I’d like to know the identity of those bombers.’
His eyes were focused on her, unblinking. ‘Would you now?’
In the silence that followed, under King Billy’s skin-stripping stare, she felt foolish. Wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Then, suddenly, she thought of little Shirley and Gwen. Of Jock’s funeral and Les Appleyard lying in the Cambridge. She said with a defiance that surprised herself: ‘I should like to name the bombers in the press.’
The silence continued for a few more moments as the big man weighed something in his mind. Slowly he said: ‘It’s strange how Ulster can be bombed and blasted for over twenty years and no one on the mainland hardly notices. Then a few bangs in the precious capital and everyone sits up. Do you know why the taigs are bombing London?’
For the first time Eddie Mercs spoke. ‘It’s these talks Abe Powers has been having.’
King Billy nodded. ‘All the taigs ever want to do is destroy, Eddie, do you know that? Destroy the Ulster people, destroy democracy, destroy the Dublin Government if they could — and destroy the Abe Powers’ talks. Or, I don’t doubt, get a place at the table and hijack any agreement.’
‘I’m sure they won’t succeed,’ Casey said. ‘The British Government won’t give into terrorism.’