Gun Street Girl (32 page)

“This is Assistant Chief Constable Nutt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it true that you've arrested an American consular official? A man called Connolly?”

“That's not strictly true, sir. ‘Mr. Connolly' has traveled to the United Kingdom under a false Irish passport. We don't actually know who ‘Mr. Connolly' is at this stage.”

“He was in the consulate, though, wasn't he?”

“No. When we arrested him he was on the road jogging just outside of Newtownards.”

“Thank fuck for that . . . What's this about, Duffy?”

“It's about a murder inquiry, sir.”

“Details, fast.”

“We're investigating the death of one Michael Kelly and his family. We strongly suspect that this Michael Kelly was an arms dealer, the arms dealer who may have helped to mastermind the theft of Javelin missile launchers from Shorts. We've informed Special Branch of our suspicions and they're looking into it.”

“That's all very well but how does the Connolly chap fit into all this?”

I told him about Nigel Vardon's phone call.

“So you've arrested him because of some dismissed Shorts employee's phone call?”

“A Shorts manager who was connected to Michael Kelly.”

“What else have you got on this case?”

“We do have a partial eyewitness sketch from Deirdre Ferris. She saw a man lurking outside her house the night Sylvie McNichol was murdered. It was pretty dark but if you allow me to hold Mr. Connolly for twenty-four hours I could have our eyewitness brought in from protective custody to see if she can identify him in person.”

“Presumably you've already shown her a picture of Mr. Connolly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“She couldn't tell if he was the man who was outside her house, sir.”

“Is this Connolly fellow an American citizen?” ACC Nutt asked.

“It looks that way, sir, but because of the false passport there's no way of knowing for sure. He has an American accent and he was jogging with American Secret Service agents, and I'm pretty sure he served in Vietnam with the United States Marine Corps, but Mr. Connolly has repeatedly refused to tell us his real name.”

“Are you in your office right now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait there. I'll call you back in five minutes.”

I sat on the edge of the desk. Snow fell out of the grey sky on to the Marine Highway and the choppy green lough. I lit a Marlboro. The phone rang. I picked it up.

“Duffy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are to release ‘Mr. Connolly' and his men immediately.”

“But, sir, they are—”

“Do you have problems with your hearing, Duffy?”

“No, sir. It's just that—”

“You are to release them and you are to offer the RUC's profoundest apologies. Do you understand my orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all, Duffy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone went dead. I put it back on its cradle. This job taught you humility if nothing else. Shit from the public. Shit from your superiors. Pulling in a Yank? What was I thinking? I was nothing more than a plodding peeler, stuck forever at a low rank in a mediocre station in an out-of-the-way town.

Thank God for Kate and MI5 offering me an exit strategy.

The lesson here: stay away from Americans in Ireland. This was their backyard, this was their playground.

Back down to the interview room.

“All right, Mr. Connolly, I'm sorry to have kept you here for so long; you are free to go.”

Connolly's grin stretched from monkey ear to monkey ear.

Lawson gave him back his documents.

“You think this is over for you, Duffy? Is that what you think? It isn't over. You've fucked with the wrong guy,” Connolly said.

“Is that a threat, sir?” I asked.

“A promise,” he replied.

I went to my office and pulled down the blinds and closed the door.

I brought out the Jura and called Kate.

“What can do I for you, Sean?”

“You won't like it.”

“I never do.”

“You really won't like it.”

“Go on.”

“I need you to use those informers of yours. I need you to use your Whitehall contacts.”

“Is this still that Michael Kelly case you were working on?”

“It's got more complicated.”

“Oh dear.”

I told her everything. Michael Kelly. Nigel Vardon. Tommy Moony. John Connolly. Special Branch. The Secret Service. The Assistant Chief Constable. I asked her to dig into it. Informers. MI5. MI6. Friends of hers.

“This sounds like very bad news, Sean,” she said.

“Will you help me or not?”

She called me back later that evening. She sounded breathy. Freaked.

“Sean, I'm afraid you've got yourself into some very deep waters.”

“I'm listening.”

“I haven't actually got much to tell you, which in itself is quite interesting. If MI5 are being kept in the dark then this is very bad.”

“Did you find out who John Connolly is?”

“He's American. But he's not CIA. CIA would be fine. CIA would be manageable.”

“Who
is
he working for?”

“He's working directly for the White House. He's working for the president's National Security team. Connolly must be a big wheel because the order to keep away from him has come not from MI5 or MI6, not the Home Office, not even the Foreign Office, but directly from Number Ten itself. Sean, Mr. Connolly is involved in something so secret that only Number Ten and the White House know about it.”

“Sounds serious.”

“This is serious's older, wiser, much more serious brother. These are deep, deep waters, Sean. Not waters any of us want you to be swimming in. I know you want to finish your RUC career on a high but this is not the case to do it on.”

“A murder is a murder. We've got to follow the leads wherever they go.”

“Solve your case but stay away from Connolly. The minefield around Connolly is coming from Number Ten and the White House. I don't know what they're doing, but I know it's not something that I want you to be involved with.”

“Thanks for your concern, Kate, I'll take it under advisement,” I said.

I poured myself a medicinal dose of Jura and went home.

Tomato soup for dinner. Terry Wogan on TV.

Doorbell.

Mrs. Campbell in a tight black jumper, black miniskirt, high heels, red lipstick. Curly red hair cascading down her back. She looked a knockout.

“Mr. Duffy, me and Ted are away to the pictures. You wouldn't take Tricksie for a walk if she starts howling, would you? I know she likes you.”

“Who's Ted?”

“You know Ted. The pastor at the Church of the Nazarene. He has that bread van too. Very ambitious, so he is.”

“What? What about your husband?”

She blushed. “Ach, Mr. Duffy, you must have heard that we've separated. He's away over the water with his fancy woman.”

“Fancy woman?”

“She's colored, if you can believe it. Jamaican. And him voting for the National Front all them years. Saul to Paul, eh?”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I had no idea.”

“You're right not to listen to the gossip. Sure it's wrong half the time. Will you walk Tricksie if she starts howling?”

Mrs. Campbell left with Ted, a long-nosed, meek little man who wasn't in the same league as a spitfire like Mrs. C.

Tricksie began to howl as soon as the front door closed.

I took her along the lough shore. Border collie but with none of the breed's reputation for intelligence.

An agitated sea. Surf folding over the granite levee on to the frost-bitten beach. The idiot dog barking at the seaweed.

“Come on, girl!”

Granite rocks. War of attrition. Sea on land.

A car following me. Biding its time. Waiting until I was away from prying eyes.

Wet dog. Happy dog. Dog back on the leash. Up through Shaftesbury Park. Behind the leisure center. On to Kennedy Drive.

A black Mercedes screeched to a halt next to me. Men in balaclavas got out. Men with guns. I turned to run. Nowhere to run.

I reached for my sidearm but my Glock was back in the house.

Shit. Sort of thing that gets you killed.

“Get in the car, Duffy,” a man with an American accent said.

They know my name?

“What is this?”

Two revolvers pointing at my head.

“Get in the car!”

I got in the car. Zip ties behind my back.

“What about the dog?” I asked.

“What about the dog?”

“You can't just leave it there. It'll get run over. It's my next-door neighbor's dog.”

“We'll see the dog gets home.”

Animal lovers. Can't be all bad. Along the coast. Past Kilroot. No hood for my head.

We drove up into the boglands. The high country. The forest. Miles from anywhere. It was wild up here. You could do anything to anybody.

The car stopped. I was kicked out.

More kicks.

A baseball bat to the shins and ribs.

No guns now. So they weren't actually going to kill me. Not the paramilitaries, then.

“Remember this, Duffy, you're nothing. You have no friends. No influence. To kill you would be to kill a cockroach. You don't even have sons or brothers who would come after us, if they could ever find us, which, we assure you, they never would,” the American said.

“Who are you?” I groaned.

“You can fuck with people, Duffy, but you can't fuck with institutions.”

“Jesus, pal, who writes your fucking dialogue for you?”

“Lippy bastard. Hit him some more.”

Blows.

Kicks.

Kicks.

Blows.

Painful, yes, but all in the extremities: legs, arms, back. If they wanted to do real damage they'd be hitting me in the head.

“He's had enough . . . Can you hear me, Duffy?”

“I can hear you.”

“Stay out of other people's business or else, OK?”

“I'm a difficult man to kill,” I said.

“All men think that and all men die.”

“Including you.”

“The bastard's not fucking listening. Go get the boss.”

Silence.

Footsteps.

A man bending down next to me.

Cigar breath. Brandy. Cologne.

“Can you hear my voice, Inspector Duffy?”

Another American accent. Southern. An older man.

“I can hear you.”

“Look at me.”

I opened my eyes and blinked through the blood. He wasn't wearing a balaclava. He didn't give a shit if he was ID'd. He was an old geezer. A tough old pro with grey hair and a face like a smashed crab.

“You've got to understand, boy. We're giving you a gift here tonight. We're giving you back your future. Your days and your nights. Your warm bed. And in return for this gift all you have to do is keep your nose out of other people's business. Do you get me?”

I spat the blood out of my mouth from where I'd bitten my tongue. “Are you always this much of a cunt or are you just making a special effort today?”

“I told you he was a lippy one, sir.”

“Give him another taste of it.”

More kicks and a punch right in the nose.

More punches.

And eventually, of course . . .

Nothing.

Nothing for a long time.

Snow on my face.

Pain.

Up on to my knees.

Head splitting. Blood in my mouth. Zip ties gone. Legs not broken. Nothing broken. Wait . . . maybe a rib. Still, a good job. Professionals.

Up on to my feet.

I staggered along a single-lane road next to a pine forest.

Up a hill. Lights on the next hill. A cottage.

One foot in front of another. Take a break. Kneel down. Up again.

No, not a cottage, a gospel hall.

Singing.

A couple of cars parked outside. A tractor.

Light in the window.

Singing over.

A man's voice: “He is slaughtered and cast out among the heathen, annihilated among his kin. And the years that curve in heaven. And the years that are warped by time are nothing to Him. He will come! He will come again! Praise the Lord!”

Door open. Light flooding in. Half a dozen heads turned to look at me.

“I'm so sorry to interrupt your service, but I find that I am in need of some assistance.”

25: CONVINCING NIGEL VARDON

A night in Coleraine District Hospital. My rib was cracked, but nothing else. Bruises, sprains, but none of your actual broken bones. Yeah, they were pros. They probably thought I wouldn't report them because they took it easy on me, because they didn't kill me. Because we understood each other.

But fuck that.

The next morning I went into Coleraine RUC and told them the whole story. Gave them a photofit of the old geezer and everything. Didn't care if he was American. Didn't care if he was connected. If they found him I was bringing charges.

Not that they would ever find him.

I phoned work and told McCrabban I was taking a couple of “personal days.”

He didn't mind. He and Lawson wanted to go on riot duty anyway (double time and overtime and danger money) and he knew I didn't approve of CID detectives pulling that kind of duty, especially after what had happened to Fletcher.

Coleraine CID drove me back to Carrick in a Land Rover.

I called Sara. “Hey, Girl Friday, pictures tonight?” I asked. “It'll go better than last time, I promise.”

“What's playing?”

“
Back to the Future
.”

“I don't like the sound of that.”

“Come on, let's do something. I'll pick you up. I'll drive you up the coast.”

“Why?”

“For something to do.”

“I don't think so, Sean. Another night maybe.”