If anyone knew what was going on in Ulster’s murky world, Trenchard did. No doubt this conversation was strictly off the record. ‘I will, Don, and thanks for the tip-off.’
‘What tip-off? This phone call never happened. But anything for a buddy.’
As soon as Trenchard hung up, Harrison dialled Casey’s hotel.
Apparently she and Mercs had already left, leaving a message for any callers that they were unlikely to be back all day.
He made a snap decision, packed an overnight bag and left the apartment, hailing a taxi to take him to Heathrow.
He’d decided on an Aer Lingus shuttle to Dublin. If he passed through Aldergrove, his presence would undoubtedly be noticed. Questions would be asked. High-ranking officers were expected to be met by armed drivers. Anyway, where was he going and what was he doing?
The flight was quick and chaotic as the attendants attempted to distribute snacks and liberal amounts of alcohol before landing. He hired a small Ford Fiesta at the airport and immediately struck north, heading up the Nl towards the main border crossing with Ulster forty miles on. As he anticipated, there was no problem at the checkpoint. Because the car carried southern plates, he was questioned briefly by the soldier who examined his driver’s licence. ‘English, sir?’
‘Yes, over on business.’
‘And may I ask what that is?’
He thought of the only business he knew anything about outside his own; Pippa’s. ‘Public relations. I’m seeing clients. Setting up a new product launch.’
The trooper tried to look as though he understood. ‘Very well. Carry on, sir.’
Harrison glanced at his watch. It was seven thirty and Belfast was still the best part of an hour away.
As he drove towards Newry, Casey Mullins was luxuriating in the bath at her hotel, legs outstretched beneath the foam, Ji and a vodka and orange in her hand. It had been a long hard day, she and Mercs cramming in as many interviews as they could manage with those on the fringes of the leading political parties. There was a lot of talk, but precious little solid information was gleaned. As Gerard Keefe had predicted, only those who knew little were willing to talk; those who were on the inside track weren’t saying.
Then at three in the afternoon the news broke. It was announced simultaneously in London and at Stormont. The Trafalgar House talks were in progress — official. If the communique was to be believed, agreement was close and in view of this the famous Irish clergyman. Bishop Joseph McLaverty, renowned for his outspoken support of the Republican cause for over fifty years, had been invited to contribute in the closing final stages of the debate.
The rest of the afternoon disintegrated into chaos, Casey and Mercs having to race back to their hotel to file supporting stories for the late editions and follow-up, in-depth features for the next morning. Eddie Mercs had been in his element, talking excitedly down the telephone to the copy-takers with cigarette clamped, unlit between his teeth. Casey, however, had found the whole experience overwhelming.
When he set out that evening to unearth more background, she declined to join him.
Now she cursed as the telephone rang. The office or maybe Tom? Hurriedly wrapping a towel around her, she dripped a trail of water across the tiles and into the bedroom.
‘Casey Mullins.’
‘Miss Mullins,’ the voice low and harshly accented, ‘can you be ready to take a wee trip?’
She suddenly recognised the speaker and experienced a crawling sensation down her spine. ‘Is that Spike?’
‘No names please.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry.’ She glanced around the room, wondering what to say, what to do. ‘Look, Eddie’s out and I don’t know what time he’ll be back. Probably late.’
There was a hesitation. ‘No matter, you can come alone. Billy didn’t take too kindly to your friend anyway, didn’t like his attitude.’
She recalled her ordeal the previous night, remembering how she stood naked, hands down, for Spike’s disinterested inspection. ‘Listen, I’ll come, but not if I have to go through that business again. Know what I mean?’
‘Sure, lady, that’s no problem.’
‘I need to get ready.’
‘Half-an-hour enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then take a taxi to the Washington pub on Howard Street next to City Hall. Sit at the bar and order a drink. Try and keep one seat free next to you. You’ll be contacted.’
‘Where…?’ she began but the cut-off tone was already drilling in her ear.
Next she tried telephoning two places where she thought Mercs might be; he wasn’t. Resigning herself to going alone, she put on a plain black jersey dress and low-heeled pumps, then telephoned reception for a taxi. On the way out she left a note of where she was going with the duty manager.
As the taxi pulled out of the grounds into Holywood Road, she was unaware of the unmarked or ‘Q’ car leaving the parking lot, the driver talking into his concealed throat-mike.
The Washington was large, open-plan and busy, although it was too early to be crowded. She found two empty stools at the large semicircular bar and sat on one, placing her shoulder bag on the second. Wanting to keep a clear head, she ordered a sparkling mineral water and began studying her surroundings. Most of the customers were working men, although she spotted a few office girls talking to their male colleagues. Some were watching the television placed over the front door, others grouped conspiratorially in the dark wooden alcoves. No one paid her any obvious attention, yet she guessed someone was watching her closely, making sure she hadn’t been followed. It was an unnerving feeling.
While she waited anxiously, Tom Harrison was pulling up outside the Park Avenue Hotel.
‘I’m afraid you just missed her, sir. She left about twenty minutes ago.’
Another woman was just going off duty and overheard. ‘Miss Mullins left a message. In her cubby hole.’
She looked at the name on the paper. ‘It’s for Mr Mercs, another guest.’
Harrison wasn’t about to be deterred. Bad lot, Trenchard had said, and now the phrase was ringing in his ears. ‘Mr Mercs didn’t go with her?’
‘No, sir.’
‘May I see the message? It’s extremely important I find her.’
‘I really can’t do that, sir.’
‘I am her husband.’ His smile was the most charming he could muster given his rising anxiety.
‘Oh, I see.’ And as she hesitated he quickly eased the note from her grasp.
‘Thanks so much.’
He read quickly: Eddie — I’ve had a call from King Billy’s man, Spike. Wants me to meet at the Washington in Howard Street about 8.45. Please, please try and make it. I’ll stall for time if I can. Your intrepid reporter assistant. Casey.
Christ, Harrison thought, King Billy! Surely she hadn’t got involved with him? Harrison had never met the man, or even seen his photograph, but the name had cropped up from time to time at high-level intelligence briefings in Lisburn. He couldn’t recall which of the Protestant terror groups he was involved with, but that hardly mattered. Billy Baker was regarded as little more than a gangster and a thug by the security forces and was known to have been behind a number of sectarian ‘doorstepping’ campaigns, murdering Catholics who unthinkingly answered their doorbells after dark.
He looked at his watch. It was eight forty now. He’d never make it. Turning on his heel, he raced back to his hired car.
Yet it was ten minutes later before the stranger approached Casey in the Washington. She was beginning to think the meeting had been abandoned when he spoke and startled her, causing her to spill her drink.