Casey looked at Harrison; he shook his head. ‘Father, you’ve been most kind.’
He left them at the crucifix by the gate where the two women had been waiting.
As they walked back to the car, Casey said: ‘He nearly had me crying myself then. And I’m not sure I’ve learned anything at all.’
Harrison said: ‘Perhaps we have. Firstly, cars can explode in crashes, but it’s quite unusual — despite what you see in the movies.’ ‘Really?’ Not quite believing.
‘That Mercedes I told you about in the Blackwall Tunnel, for example. It didn’t explode. I’ve spent many happy hours shooting at car petrol tanks, trying to make them blow. You need tracer rounds at the very least. The other thing is, as the priest pointed out, why wasn’t the body taken back to Milltown?’
‘Is that important?’
‘It could be significant if we’re to believe the story Tierney told before he died. A death south of the border makes checking forensic identification of the remains — dental records, fingerprints — very difficult. Neither the Garda nor the Catholic Church in Ireland are very cooperative with the RUC. But if Dougan, a recently released terrorist, had died like that in the north, Special Branch would have certainly made checks. As it is, exhuming the body from here now will prove virtually impossible.’
Casey opened the car door thoughtfully. ‘I’ve just remembered, Tierney said that one of the daughters was involved, Clodagh.’
‘The one who’s supposed to be in Canada?’ Harrison remarked as he climbed in.
‘I wonder if it would be possible to find her sister, the one who brought the flowers?’
Harrison nodded. ‘If the priest is right and she’s still living in Belfast, then it shouldn’t be a problem.’
He started the engine, swung the car round in a circle and headed back towards the border. When he had started out that morning, he’d been cynical of Casey’s suspicions. But now, uncannily, everything was beginning to fit. His head began to spin with the implications. Just the possibility that he and the ATOs in Northern Ireland and the Section in London had been up against Hughie Dougan all the time… His old adversary, reaching out to get him from beyond the grave. At the very thought he felt his heart begin to pump and the adrenalin start to course.
Jock Murray, Les Appleyard… just one to go. Tom Harrison.
It was mid-afternoon when he dropped Casey back at her hotel then drove straight back down the Ml to Army Headquarters at Lisburn.
The office at 321 EOD Squadron was an unmarked Portakabin affair situated beside the main crescent-shaped brick building in the secure inner compound. He parked outside and then met the surprised stats sergeant on the steps.
‘Hallo, sir, didn’t expect you. Thought you was on R and R?’
Harrison smiled. ‘Just picking up a few things, Sergeant. Is the colonel around?’
‘He’s at GOC’s prayers, sir. Bit of a flap on with these talks going on at Trafalgar House. You know, anticipating trouble from one side or the other.’
Harrison was relieved that ‘Tall LloydWilliams was in conference, otherwise he’d have been obliged to explain his actions and he was certain his commanding officer would disapprove of his personal involvement. Had their situations been reversed, Harrison was sure he’d feel the same.
‘Not to worry,’ Harrison said, ‘you’re just the man I want.’
‘Sir?’
‘Can you run up a couple of names for me on Crucible?’
‘No problem,’ the sergeant replied, moving back towards the cramped Statistics Office Where the computer terminal was housed.
He took his seat before the screen. ‘What name is it?’
‘Caitlin Dougan. Is there an entry?’
The sergeant punched up the file. ‘Ah, daughter of the late Hughie, eh, sir? Snuffed it last year. She’s now married to Peter Moore, a part-time RIR man.’
‘Let me just take down that address.’
‘Anyway she’s clean. Just refers back to her old man’s file.’
‘Try Clodagh Dougan.’
‘Right you are.’ He waited for the file to swipe onto the screen. ‘Just a sec… oh, that’s odd.’
Harrison peered over his shoulder. ‘Access Restricted.’
The sergeant chuckled. ‘Looks like Clodagh Dougan’s been a naughty girl. Refers to 14 Int only.’
Shit! The sneaky-beaky mob playing silly buggers again. 14 Int, Special Branch and MI5 each jealously guarding their own little pile of dirt.
‘Want me to phone up for clearance, sir?’
Harrison shook his head. ‘I’ll leave it for now.’
He didn’t want anyone to start asking questions and it was likely that the clearance level would have to be CATO himself or even higher. It wouldn’t do to alert those who would resent his interference.
‘ ‘Ave a good leave, sir,’ the sergeant called as Harrison returned to his car and set off back towards Belfast.
Warm and dusty sunlight was settling over the estate of small newly built houses in Ballynafeigh as he and Casey drove into Caitlin Dougan’s road. Children played on many of the open fronted lawns, watched by parents who were washing cars, planting immature trees or weeding flowerbeds.
‘We can’t just wander in and start asking questions,’ Harrison had warned.
Casey had just laughed. ‘Leave it to me. Everyone loves Americans and everyone has relatives in the States.’
As they pulled up outside the box-like semi with its white plastic cladding, he hoped she was right. Heads turned at the sight of the unfamiliar car and neighbours watched warily as the two walked up the path to the glass-fronted door. It took several seconds for the chimes to be heard above the background burble of a television and the crying of a baby. Then the thin shape of a young man emerged in the hall, blurred through the fluted glass.
The door opened a cautious three inches, restrained by a security chain. ‘Yes?’ The hair was dark and cropped, the eyes anxious.
‘Mr Moore?’ Casey inquired with a smile.
‘Who’s asking?’
Her laugh was uneasy. ‘This is going to sound crazy, but I could be your wife’s long lost stepcousin from California!’
A blank expression stared back at her. Then, hesitantly: ‘What? Are you from the Jehovah’s Witnesses or something?’
‘No, I’m Casey, Casey Mullins. I’m American.’
‘I gather that.’ He sounded a little more relaxed.
‘And if I tell you my stepfather’s name was Dougan?’
The man nodded. ‘That’s my wife’s maiden name.’
Casey smiled in triumph. ‘Exactly! I’m over here on holiday this is my English friend Tom — and I thought I’d try and discover my roots. You know, work out the family tree.’ The man was still hesitating, clearly unsure. ‘Look, I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient just now, but I’m due to catch a flight home tomorrow. It’s taken ages to track you down and it would be such a shame to go home without…’
‘No, no,’ he interrupted, unbolting the chain. ‘Sorry to seem so cautious, but you can’t be too careful, you know, the troubles
— sure at least we can offer you some tea and cake.’
They were in. The front room was crammed with obviously secondhand furniture and a lobsterpot playpen taking up much of the space. There was a sickly sweet smell of milk and soiled nappies, Harrison noticed, as the man called up the stairs to his wife.