Gun Street Girl (31 page)

“Sir, there's no Connolly registered at the US consulate in Belfast. There's no Connolly registered with the entire United States diplomatic mission to the UK or to Ireland, come to that.”

“You checked Dublin too? That's good work, son.” Lawson was growing on me. He was a thinker and a go-getter. “Get Sergeant McCrabban back in here, would you?”

McCrabban's dour, worried face.

“He's not official, Crabbie. The Yanks can't kick up a stink if he's not an official part of the delegation.”

“I'm not so sure I'd agree with you there, Sean.”

“He's a potential witness— Hell, he's a potential
suspect
in a murder inquiry. We have to bring him in. It's our duty.”

“What about Special Branch?”

“I'll call Spencer after we've lifted him. Sign out a Land Rover for us, will ya?”

Back out along the seafront in a police Land Rover. Low tide. Shopping trolley sculpture art. Garbage. Raw sewage.

Sun coming up. Lens flare. Motorhead on the radio.

Gun the Rover up to 80.

“The ace of spades, the ace of spades . . .”

Through Belfast to what the locals unironically call the Gold Coast. Holywood, County Down. The “Surrey of Northern Ireland.” Leafy lanes, golf courses, yacht clubs. You wouldn't think there was a war on.

The consul's house on a rise overlooking the water.

Park the Rover, get out. Light snow on the ground.

Crabbie: “Still time to change our minds.”

“I'll take the heat, mate. It was my call, my fault.”

Crabbie doesn't know what I know. That this is probably going to be my last case and it would be nice to see something—anything—come of it.

Up the gravelly drive. Doorbell. The consul's . . . what would you call him? Factotum? House manager? Butler?

“Can I help you?”

“We'd like to see Mr. Connolly, who I believe is still one of your guests.”

“It's rather early, gentlemen, perhaps you could—”

“Perhaps nothing. We've come for Connolly,” I said, showing my warrant card.

“Mr. Connolly's gone for a jog.”

“Where?”

“Up Scrabo way, along Strangford Lough, I believe.”

“Thanks.”

Back in the Rover. The Lough Road. Woods to the right, the lough to the left. Morning so clear you could see all the way to the Mountains of Mourne.

“We'll never find him. He could be in Newtownards or Comber, God knows where,” Lawson said.

But we did find him. Ten miles out from Holywood along the Ballydrain Road. Connolly running in a grey jogging suit and a red headband. Listening to a Walkman. With him, two big men also in grey jogging suits.

“Those boys with Connolly look like goons,” I said to McCrabban. “I'll bet you they're packing heat.”

“Aye.”

“Look at the pace on Connolly. The way he runs. That haircut. He's military. There's no way he's State Department.”

“Here and back to Holywood is practically a full marathon. The man's fit.”

Flashing lights. Sirens.

I got out. Showed my warrant card.

“We'd like to bring you in for questioning, Mr. Connolly.”

“You've got the wrong guy, pal.”

“You're under arrest, Mr. Connolly.”

“What for?”

“Material witness in a murder inquiry. Your men are going to have to give me their guns,” I said.

“No they are not. These men are my personal protection. They are Secret Service agents and they have permission to carry weapons.”

“Permission from whom?”

“Permission from Scotland Yard.”

“You've been running for quite a while, lads, cos you're not in London any more. To carry weapons in Northern Ireland you'll need permission from the Chief Constable of the RUC,” I said.

Back to Carrickfergus in the Land Rover. A cell for each man. Let them sweat.

“Who do you think first?” Crabbie asked.

“I think the goons first. Let Connolly get himself worked up some more.”

The goons said that they were Secret Service agents. They gave badge numbers. IDs. Contact numbers. They were cool and professional and didn't raise their voices. This kind of thing had clearly happened before. They were trained for it.

They said that they had committed no crime. That under the United Kingdom's treaty, diplomatic, and courtesy arrangements, they were allowed to carry concealed weapons. It actually had the ring of truth but it would take a while to verify. I put the least competent officer in the station, a chubby young reservist called James Braithwaite, on the case. “It's up to you, Jim. If these men are legally allowed to carry firearms in Northern Ireland then we have no right to hold them. You must find out the true jurisprudential situation.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Their freedom or otherwise depends on you. Now get cracking.”

“But how?”

“You'll figure it out.”

We gave Connolly a cup of tea and some biscuits and brought him down to Interview Room 1.

“Detective Inspector Duffy, Detective Sergeant McCrabban interviewing Mr. John Connolly at 10:23 a.m., December 2, 1985 . . .” I said into the microphone.

“I want a lawyer from the consulate. You have no right to hold me. This is false imprisonment.”

“Mr. Connolly, where were you on the night of November 11, 1985?”

“You've asked me that before! Where was I? Switzerland. And I've got a dozen witnesses who can prove that.”

“Where were you on the night of November 19, 1985?”

“I exercise my Fifth Amendment rights.”

“Where were you on the night of November 19, 1985?” I repeated.

“I plead the Fifth.”

“You seem to have some trouble understanding the remit of the United States Constitution, Mr. Connolly. The Fifth Amendment does not apply here. And just to let you know, neither does
Miranda
v.
Arizona
. There is no right to silence in this country. You are obliged to answer my questions. Where were you on the night of November 19, 1985?”

“No comment.”

“I must warn you, Mr. Connolly, that a judge and jury may be entitled to take your silence on this matter as corroboration of wrongdoing.”

“I'm not answering any more questions, Duffy. I'm exercising my Fifth Amendment rights,” he said again.

“You don't have any Fifth Amendment rights.”

A knock at the door. It was Lawson.

“Yeah?”

“Talk in private,” Lawson whispered.

Outside into the corridor.

“What is it?”

“He doesn't exist.”

“Who?”

“Connolly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I ran his IDs all the way back to America. It's a fake name, fake passport.”

“He must have left a paper trail.”

“Oh yes. I've been on that with the British Airports Authority and Interpol.”

“What did you find out?”

“In the last few months this so-called Mr. John Connolly made a couple of dozen flights from Washington, DC, to Shannon to Dublin to Zurich, back to DC. Before that—nothing. No record of Mr. Connolly anywhere. I checked the birth and parish records and he simply does not exist. It's a genuine Irish passport for a completely made-up individual.”

I leaned my head against the cool, peach-painted, cinderblock corridor walls.

“What do you think this all means, Lawson?”

Lawson shrugged.

“The flights originated in DC, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Connolly's staying at the American consul general's house in Belfast.”

“Yes.”

I took out my packet of Marlboro and lit one. It didn't help me think but it stopped my hand from shaking. “Connolly was invented in DC, by someone in the US government,” I said.

“CIA?” Lawson suggested.

“Let's go ask him.”

We went back inside the interview room.

“Your IDs are fake, Mr. Connolly. There is no Mr. John Connolly. You have entered this country illegally under false documents,” I said.

“No comment.”

“What are you doing in Ireland, Mr. Connolly?” McCrabban said.

“No comment.”

“Who do you work for, Mr. Connolly?” I asked.

“No comment.”

“Where were you on the night of November 19, 1985?”

“Jesus, what's the matter with you guys? I told you, I'm not going to answer your questions.”

“Where were you on the night of November nineteenth?”

“No comment.”

“How do you know Nigel Vardon?”

“Who?”

“Nigel Vardon tried to call you at your residence at the consul general's house.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Nigel Vardon worked for Short Brothers. Nigel Vardon may have been working with one Michael Kelly on an arms deal for stolen missile systems. Have you heard of Michael Kelly?”

“No, I have not heard of Michael Kelly.”

“Michael Kelly, his parents, and his girlfriend were all murdered. And I want to know why,” I said.

Connolly shook his head. “What's this got to do with me?”

“Michael Kelly's friend, Nigel Vardon, tried to call you.”

“So?”

“Why would he try to call a person who doesn't exist? Who are you, Mr. Connolly?”

“No comment.”

“What's your real name, Mr. Connolly?”

“I'm exercising my right to silence.”

“And we've told you that there is no right to silence in UK law. Not anymore. I don't know if you appreciate the fact that we are detectives conducting a murder investigation. We're not interested in the stolen missiles. We're investigating the deaths of Michael Kelly, his parents, and Sylvie McNichol,” I said.

He looked at me and shook his head. “I don't know anything about that.”

“What's your connection to Nigel Vardon?”

“I've never heard of Nigel Vardon . . . Look, buddy, you're making a big mistake here. A career-ending mistake. Where's my fucking phone call? I have a right to a phone call, don't I?”

McCrabban bit his lip. Lawson looked at the floor. He had asked for his phone call and under the terms of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act (NI Order) we had to supply it to him.

“Get the man a telephone.”

A reservist brought a telephone and plugged it into the wall. We left Connolly alone in the room for five minutes. Watched him through the glass. Made sure he dialed only one number.

Phone out, us back in.

The grin wider now.

“The cavalry's on its way, is it?” I asked.

He nodded. “And for you, zipppp . . . Russian front,” he said in a comedic German accent.

“Well, we'd better be quick with our questions, then.”

“You'd better be like the Flash.”

But before I could begin again there was a knock on the interview room's glass window.

“I'll go see who that is. Keep at him, Sergeant McCrabban.”

Behind the glass was Chief Inspector McArthur. Not exactly livid but if he were on a heart ward alarms would be ringing.

“Why have you brought these Americans in, Duffy?”

“Because I believe they have evidence relating to the Michael Kelly case.”

“What evidence?”

“I don't know. That's what we're trying to find out.”

“Please tell me in the name of Christ that these men were not dragged out of the US consul's house.”

“They weren't dragged out of the US consul's house. We got them while they were out for a run along Strangford Lough.”

“At least that's something,” he said, still looking aghast.

“They've been well treated. We've followed procedure.”

“You really think they know something about the Kelly case?”

“One of the suspects in the Kelly case, Nigel Vardon, attempted to call Mr. Connolly here. He knows something about either Michael Kelly's murder or the stolen missiles from Shorts.”

“Jesus God, you'd better be right. Have you called Special Branch?”

“I was going to.”

“Do it now!”

I called Spencer and informed him that I had brought Mr. Connolly in for questioning. Silence on the other end of the phone.

“Do you want to come down to Carrick and ask him some questions?” I asked.

“Uhm, I think we'll stay out of this one, Duffy,” Spencer said. “But if you do get any information out of him, I'd appreciate it if you could pass it on.”

I hung up. Clearly Spencer thought I was committing career suicide.

Back into Interview Room 1.

The questions again. Where were you on the night of November eleventh? Where were you on the night of November nineteenth? What do you know about the death of Michael Kelly? How do you know Nigel Vardon? Who are you really, Mr. Connolly? Who do you work for?

No comment. Silence. Right to silence. Boyish face. Monkey grin. Jug ears.

Half an hour of this. Tea break.

“He won't tell us anything. He's been well schooled,” McCrabban said.

“We've been trained too, haven't we?” I said.

“If he's military he could go on like this for a long time,” Lawson contributed.

“In the old days . . .” McCrabban said.

“In the old days . . .” I agreed.

Lawson's eyebrows rose.

Connolly was the perfect metaphor. The representation of a thing by another thing or even by its opposite. I wanted information and he was an information vacuum. And I couldn't hurt him or scare him. He was American. Holy. Precious. Untouchable.

A phone ringing in my office. “Better take this, lads.

“Hello?”

“Inspector Duffy?”

“Yes.”

“Please hold for the Assistant Chief Constable.”

Oh shit
.

“Inspector Duffy?”

“Yes.”