‘Our target for this morning,’ Maitland announced with triumph.
Local Special Branch officers had been keeping the ground floor office and storeroom under discreet surveillance overnight. On orders from London, no inquiries were made either directly or through neighbours or the landlord for fear of tipping off the terrorists.
Maitland’s team arrived before dawn with full armed backup from a specialist firearms unit. They were in position by first light and waited anxiously for the city to come alive.
At five past nine, a stocky man in jeans and T-shirt, with an aggressive-looking face and close-cropped hair, arrived to open up.
‘ALL UNITS GO!’ Maitland ordered into his radio mike.
Bystanders screamed in surprise as cars and unmarked vans opened up to disgorge armed men in flak jackets and SWAT-style baseball caps.
The man with his key in the door was frozen to the spot, paralysed with fear, as the policemen swooped.
Only afterwards, seeing the sign outside the rented office for Videomail Enterprises, did Maitland acknowledge that the bird had long flown. The previous renter of the premises — a Henry Roke of Solent Electronics Manufacturing — had left two months earlier. Not surprisingly, he’d left no forwarding address and no one was able to give a useful description of him.
But there was an upside. The office was filled with banks of wired video recorders and the owner of Videomail was arrested for trading in pirated tapes and pornography.
That, however, was of little consolation to Jim Maitland. Inquiries continued.
Casey looked drawn and tired as she packed, but was determinedly cheerful.
Harrison closed his suitcase. ‘You look like a woman who’s spent the whole night making love.’
A pink tongue poked in his direction. ‘Rubbish, I’m always a happy waker-upper. I just don’t get smart until about nine thirteen, that’s all. Then you have to catch me before nine forty-seven or it’s all over.’
Harrison telephoned Archie to postpone their camping trip. His son was clearly disappointed, the situation made worse when Pippa came on the line and threatened to deny him access to his son if he couldn’t keep his promises. It was a ridiculous and acrimonious conversation that left Harrison feeling depressed, not least because there would now be little time left to make it up to Archie before his imminent return to school.
The call over, Harrison joined Casey and Eddie Mercs downstairs for breakfast. A decidedly unhappy waker-upper that morning, the reporter was nursing a ferocious hangover. ‘I’d forgotten what stamina it takes to have a quiet night out over here,’ he complained.
On Harrison’s advice, Casey had made no mention of the previous night’s events, merely saying that King Billy’s contact failed to show up, but that Harrison had. ‘And you don’t mind if I take off for a day or two?’
‘I’ll be heartbroken.’ He grinned at Harrison over his cornflakes. ‘Just have to accept that the best man won.’
‘Idiot,’ Casey said. ‘I mean can you manage without me?’
‘You’re on holiday,’ Mercs reminded. ‘I’ll cope.’
‘Did you learn anything last night?’
Mercs shrugged. ‘Not much. Except one thing. That Irish bishop — what’s his name, McLaverty — who’s attending the Trafalgar House talks as an independent and token Republican.’
Harrison had heard news of the official admission about the talks on his car radio the previous afternoon. ‘Yes?’
‘My sources reckon he’s in bed with the IRA. Knows all the top men personally, even if he’s not a paid-up member.’
Harrison stared at him, his blood running cold. Jock Murray dead, Les Appleyard a cripple and the Provisional IRA at the conference table. He felt suddenly sick.
Mercs said, unaware of Harrison’s involvement: ‘They reckon it was the Blackwall Tunnel bomb that did it.’
Harrison said little more until he and Casey were on the road, cruising westward down the motorway towards the border crossing at Aughnacloy.
‘I’m sorry, Tom.’
His anger showed in his clenched fists on the wheel. ‘It makes it all such a bloody waste. For a second in that tunnel I thought I’d never see you again and Archie would be left without a father. I really believed that. It seems I hardly need have bothered.’
‘No, Tom. That mother and her baby. They’re only alive because of you. They wouldn’t agree.’
He pounded the wheel. ‘Christ, I hate politicians!’
It was lunch time when they turned into the narrow village street. The place had a forlorn air about it, just a couple of shabbily dressed locals and a stray dog on the pavement beside the peeling shop fronts.
They found the church on the outskirts, an ancient stone building, its walls and square tower mantled in Virginia creeper. The elderly priest stood by an elaborate and luridly painted carving of the Crucifixion, talking to two women.
Harrison parked and they walked back along the road bordered by a low stone wall.
The priest broke off his conversation as Casey approached him. ‘Hi, Father, I wonder if you could help me?’
His whiskery face brightened. ‘Of course, if I can. An American, yes?’ ‘Sure.’
‘May I welcome you to Ireland.’ The women made no attempt to leave, watching darkly, their distrust of strangers plain.
‘Thank you. I’m Casey Mullins and this is my English friend, Tom.’
The priest nodded his acknowledgment, but his eyes only left Casey for a moment. ‘Casey Mullins. That’s a very Irish name.’
‘On my father’s side. But the reason I’m here is to look for the grave of a distant relative.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘His name was Hugh Dougan. I believe he might be buried here?’
Wispy eyebrows raised aboye his pebble-lensed spectacles. ‘Indeed he is. He died just last year. Such a tragic case. All that time in prison, fighting for his beliefs and then to perish in a car accident.’ He interlaced his fingers in front of his smock. ‘But then thtfLord indeed moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps his death was meant to give strength to someone else. It works like that sometimes, you know. For instance, a widow may find her own inner resolve when she loses her husband. Although not in Mr Dougan’s case, of course. I do believe his wife had predeceased him by some years. Anyway, let me show you the grave.’
The women watched as the priest led the way through the unkempt churchyard, brambles and nettles growing unchecked beneath gnarled crabapple trees.
‘I was a little surprised,’ he was saying, ‘that the family didn’t want his remains taken north. It wouldn’t have cost that much and I am sure the movement would have paid.’
Casey feigned ignorance. ‘The movement?’
‘The Irish Republican Army.’ He used the old term. ‘Mr Dougan was a member in the proud old tradition.’
‘Perhaps his family preferred him to be buried here.’
‘Evidently, Miss Mullins. But the movement usually likes to honour its Belfast dead in Milltown Cemetery at the martyrs’ plot for the fallen.
‘How exactly did he die?’
‘A car crash — terrible business. There was talk that it was deliberate, but I doubt that. It happened on a notorious bend. And there was little doubt he’d had a drink.’
They rounded an overgrown shrub. ‘Ah, yes, here it is.’
It was a simple slab of black marble, the inscription carved in gold lettering.
‘Flowers,’ Harrison observed.
‘His daughter.’
Harrison frowned, trying to remember what he’d read on Dougan’s computer file. ‘I thought she was working in Canada.’
The priest looked at him. ‘Perhaps one is. There are two daughters. It is the youngest who comes, who came just a few days ago. Caitlin, that’s her name. Still lives in Belfast. My heart goes out to the dear child. It really brpke her up when she identified the body. Not that there was much to identify. The car had exploded after the crash, you see. But there were his rings, they survived intact. Young Caitlin had a wee babe with her the other day. It doesn’t take much to work out that she was carrying at the time of her father’s death.’ The thoughts of her suffering brought tears to the old man’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Tell me, is there anything else you’d like to know?’