Caitlin came down a few minutes later, a timid wan-faced creature, small with painfully thin wrists and ankles. She patted nervously at her lank fair hair. With an uncertain smile she apologised for being dressed in the shellsuit with baby food stains, for the untidy state of the room and for the fact that she could only offer a jam roll with their tea.
Casey reassured her and launched into a major charm offensive which involved a convoluted family background in which she claimed that her fictitious stepfather’s grandfather or great grandfather, she wasn’t sure which — with the family name of Dougan
— had emigrated to America.
Caitlin sat, clearly bemused and stiffly polite, balancing one of the unmatching china cups and saucers on her knee. ‘I think some of the family did go to America, but I don’t know who. I’d have to ask my Uncle Tommy. He knows all about our family history.’
Like Harrison, Peter Moore had said little, just leaning back on the sofa, watching and listening with intelligent interest. He said: ‘There are a number of Dougans. How do you know Cait’s is the right family?’
This was going to be the tricky part, Harrison realised.
Casey said: ‘My stepfather has an aunt who seems to know about the family here.’
‘Oh,’ Caitlin said with renewed interest, ‘what’s her name?’
‘Er, Hetty, I think, but I’ve never met her.’ She added quickly:
‘America’s a big place, you know, and she lives over in Boston. That’s like the other side of Europe to you.’
Caitlin shook her head. ‘I don’t recall anyone having mentioned her.’
But Casey was steaming on regardless: ‘It appears she received a letter from someone over here saying how your poor father died last year. It must have been absolutely terrible for you.’
In an instant the atmosphere had changed. Harrison noticed Peter Moore’s knuckles tighten and the warmth drain from his eyes.
Caitlin said: ‘It’s always a shock to lose a parent.’
‘Were you close?’
‘Not as close as we should have been.’ There was an expression on her face that could have been guilt or resentment, it was hard to tell. ‘I wonder who wrote the letter to America. Perhaps it was Uncle Tommy, but he’s never mentioned it. And he doesn’t write much now. Arthritis.’
‘Is it right you have a sister?’
Caitlin’s eyes brightened. ‘Oh, yes, Clodagh. She’s my big sister.’
‘You sound fond of her.’
‘Oh, yes. Ten years older than me, so she is. Much brighter, too. She went to university and now she’s got a job in electronics. Always looked after me. Tried to protect me from things, you know, the troubles and that. For a while she belonged to the Cumainn na n Ban and didn’t want me to get involved.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The women’s branch of the Provies. Clodagh gave it up and steered me away. If she hadn’t, I’d probably never have met Peter. Or else he wouldn’t have wanted to know me.’
‘Mine’s a Protestant family,’ her husband offered. ‘Things are difficult enough as it is. All Cait and I want is to be left in peace and to have the best chance in life for the wee chap.’
‘Where’s Clodagh now, could I see her perhaps?’
Caitlin laughed lightly. ‘Not really, she’s in Canada.’
‘Never!’ Casey faked surprise. ‘Perhaps I might get to meet her. Do you have an address?’
‘Sure.’ The girl stood and collected two postcards with forest scenes from the Rocky Mountains. ‘Suite 200, Stanley Tower, Marine Drive, Vancouver.’
‘And a phone number?’
‘She’s not on the phone.’
‘Never mind.’ Casey glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness, is that the time?’
Caitlin showed them to the door. ‘It’s been lovely to have met you.’
Peter Moore shook hands with Harrison. ‘Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk, Tom.’
‘Chattering women, eh?’
‘Work here in Belfast, do you?’
‘No, just over for a few days with Casey.’
They stepped outside, Caitlin and her husband waiting and waving as their unexpected visitors climbed into their car.
‘That was a nice surprise,’ Caitlin said.
Peter Moore was uncertain. ‘I’d still like to know exactly how they got this address.’
Caitlin frowned. ‘Didn’t she say?’ ‘She said a hell of a lot, but not actually that.’ He grimaced. ‘And I wasn’t too sure about your man.’
‘Tom somebody.’
‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before somewhere. Somehow he looks familiar.’
‘The gentlemen are here, sir,’ the sergeant announced.
Colonel Tall LloydWilliams rose from behind his desk and looked across the office at Harrison. ‘I’m sticking my neck out for you, Tom. I just hope you’re right. There are no prizes for standing on the feet of MI5 or Group.’
‘I know that, sir, but this is also our domain. We’ve lost one ATO and two injured to AIDAN, plus Jock and Les in London. We need to know.’
John Nash entered first, his suit still crumpled after the early shuttle from London. Trenchard followed, as immaculately turned out as always, bespoke suit and cavalry tiepin; but his manner was less carefree than usual.
Nash stifled a yawn. ‘Hello, Tall, hello, Tom. This had better be good, I can hardly justify the time away from London now that Trafalgar House has gone public’
The colonel shook his hand. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to come, John, if I didn’t think it was important.’
Trenchard found himself standing next to Harrison. ‘What’s going on, Tom?’ he asked tersely. ‘Why the hell has Nash been dragged over?’
‘Just so the left knows what the right is doing, Don, that’s all.’
‘I’ll let Tom here kick off,’ the colonel said.
Harrison turned to Nash. ‘Presumably you’re aware that Billy Baker was arrested the night before last?’ He was aware of Trenchard’s eyes boring into him.
Nash nodded. ‘Of course I am, Tom. For murdering a Sinn Fein councillor known as Killy Tierney.’
‘Did you know Tierney was tortured before he died?’
An urbane eyebrow was raised. ‘I haven’t seen the report details, but I’m not surprised.’
Harrison took a deep breath. ‘And did you know that he was specifically tortured to make him identify the AID AN bombers?’
‘For God’s sake…’ Trenchard began.
But Harrison continued regardless. ‘And that Billy Baker claimed he was doing this at your request? That’s yours and Don’s here.’
It was Nash’s turn to glare at Trenchard. ‘Don, d’you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’
‘I think Tom is getting out of his depth,’ the intelligence officer replied snappily. ‘These are highly classified intelligence matters, nothing to do with the practicalities of bomb disposal.’
The colonel intervened. ‘Not quite true. To know the identity of a bomber is to know your enemy.’
Harrison snatched a dummy time-and-power unit from the cabinet and tossed it to Trenchard who caught it in midair. ‘Imagine that’s attached to a thousand pounds worth of explosive and you’ve got to destroy it. Who made it? Behan, MacEoin, the Midlander? The names probably mean little to you, but they can mean a lot to us. There’s the world of difference between a bomb made by Behan and Hughie Douganl Ask Jock Murray’s widow or Les Appleyard lying in hospital with his legs gone.’
‘Steady, Tom,’ LloydWilliams warned.
But Nash had caught the name. ‘Hughie Dougan died last year.’
‘Not according to Killy Tierney. While he was having his kneecap smashed, he was pleading to be believed. Dougan is still alive — his death was faked. And he’s working with his daughter Clodagh. Tierney also named the other members of the AID AN unit.’