Pray for Us Sinners (19 page)

He stood there, looking at a piece of paper. “Sorry to bother you, missus.”

She caught a glimpse of Mrs. Dunlop from across the street. Nice woman, for a Catholic. Her husband was a policeman, and her two little girls were very polite. Mrs. Gordon waved. The wave was returned. She turned to the man on her doorstep. “Can I help you?”

“Aye. I've the car parked one street over and I've walked miles. I'm looking for Fifteen Grange Crescent.”

“I don't think I know that street.”

“Here.” He offered her the piece of paper. “Have a wee look.”

“Oh dear. This is Grange Park. You want Grange Crescent. That's in Dundonald.”

“Dundonald's miles away. Ah, Jesus. Sorry, missus, I'll never get this there tonight.” He peeped over her shoulder. “Could I use your phone? Call the shop?”

She hesitated. The television was always telling people not to let anyone they didn't know into their houses.

“Please, missus? I could lose my job over this.”

She thought he looked a decent young man, and it would only be for a second or two. “Come in.”

*   *   *

The major decided to have a brandy after lunch. He went through to the anteroom, sat in a leather-upholstered armchair, gave his order to a white-coated mess steward and picked up the folded paper to scan the lead story. He shook his head. Another one early Saturday morning. Four dead. Mother, father, ten-year-old girl, and a babe in arms. The PIRA had already issued an apology. An apology, for God's sake. It seemed they'd been after an army patrol. He turned the paper over. The attack had been made on a deserted road in the Antrim Hills.

Someone coughed discreetly. The major looked up.

“Your brandy, sir.”

“Table.”

The steward placed the snifter on a low rosewood coffee table, slipped a mess chit beside the glass, and quietly withdrew.

The major signed the chit, lifted the glass, and sipped. The newspaper report was pretty sketchy, but he sensed that this was another of those PIRA jobs planned and executed on information received. He rose and carried his glass and the newspaper to where the two fellow officers, a staff colonel and a military police captain, stood.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Afternoon, Smith.” The staff officer, who had a chubby face and a florid moustache and looked like a pallid Sir John French, moved aside. “Join us?”

The major held up the paper. “Just wondered if either of you knew anything about this.”

“I didn't do it, guv. Honest.” The military police captain's pseudo-cockney accent was slurred. “It was me, bruvver.”

The major smiled at the weak humour. “Just curious.”

“Bloody good thing our lads weren't hurt.” The staff officer was taking the question more seriously. “Pity about the locals.”

“Indeed.” Smith hesitated. “What was the patrol after?”

“An ammo dump.”

“Ammo dump?”

“Mmm. Seems for once the RUC decided to let us in on something.”

The major halted his glass, halfway to his lips. “RUC?”

“Someone in their upper echelon got the word from one of his informers. Last night. Notified our HQ. Gave us the location of an arms dump. Asked for a fastball with a couple of Land Rovers.”

“Fastball?”

“You know. Immediate response to an emergency situation. No time to assemble the whole might of our troops. Just shove in what's handy.”

The MP officer chuckled. “Sounds as if it was a flexiplan to me. AKA no bloody plan at all.”

His companion coughed. “All a bit embarrassing. After the explosion, the Rovers were able to get turned around and race back. Of course, we send out Royal Engineers to look for explosives. Not really combat troops.”

The MP gave him a dirty look, clearly disliking any disparagement of soldiers who were not members of line regiments. The staff officer ignored the look. “They couldn't find anything but the civilians. Some signs there'd been an ambush, not just a random bomb. The grass was flattened behind a hedge. Spent .223 cases all over the place. No sign of the brave Irish.” His moustache bristled. “Just the poor devils in the burnt-out car.”

The MP added, “And when the RE squad went in to dig up the cache from under a potato clamp, they found potatoes. Nothing but spuds.”

“That is disappointing.” The major wanted to know more. “Were our blokes playing nursemaid to the coppers?”

The staff officer snorted. “No. On their own. Actually, I think the lieutenant in charge was rather pleased. Our lads get a bit pissed off looking after the RUC. They get paid twice as much as our troops.”

“That's why I joined the MPs. For the money.” The captain sank his drink and rolled his eyes.

The major ignored his colleague. He'd more important things to think about. He'd have to get the details of this attack. The RUC had set it up, and yet there was no munitions dump. Now, had a member of the constabulary deliberately planted the gen, or had he been fed duff info by a tout? It certainly had the smell of a decoy operation. The major badly needed to know which RUC officer had called for the strike. Dunlop, Logan, or O'Byrne? He turned to the staff officer. “I don't suppose you know who our RUC liaison was?”

“Matter of fact, I do. I was duty officer last night. Just a sec. I'm rotten at remembering names.”

If the major had to bet he'd put his money on Dunlop.

The staff officer frowned. “Bugger it. Gone completely. Tell you what. Finish your tot and we'll head over to my office. I'll look up the log.”

*   *   *

Sergeant Sam Dunlop waited for the light to change. He'd be heartily glad to be back in Dunmurry, a quiet lower-middle-class suburb on the way to Lisburn. Too quiet. Sam was a Catholic and most of his neighbours were Protestants. They were polite enough when they met him in the street or nodded over the fences while mowing their lawns, but there wasn't much chat. He missed the easygoing friendships of his younger days, growing up near Leeson Street in a small Catholic enclave known as the Pound Loney. If this fucking traffic would just get a move on, he'd be home in half an hour.

*   *   *

The major waited while the staff officer rummaged through a pile of papers. Dunlop, Logan, or O'Byrne?

“Here we are. Friday. 2355. Call logged in from an E Branch fellow. He'd just had a tip about an arms cache. See?” The staff officer shoved the papers under the major's nose.

Damnation. The name he was looking for wasn't there. The call had come from Detective Superintendent Eric Gillespie. The major shook his head, trying to cover his disappointment. “Thanks very much. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother, old boy. None at all.”

*   *   *

Only five more minutes and Sam would be home. He hoped Mary would have a decent stew on, with dumplings. Sam Dunlop loved dumplings. And he loved Mary. Married ten years and he still got a tingling in his pants just thinking about her. Where a girl reared in a convent school had learned to be such a sexy woman he didn't know. Didn't want to know. Some of the things she did he'd only read about in a dog-eared copy of a Victorian sex manual called
The Red Light
that had done the rounds when he was a recruit.

He hoped she'd be in the mood tonight. He'd know as soon as he got home. She'd be wearing a skirt, high heels, and black stockings—not those awful tights. Sam fiddled with the front of his pants at the thought of running his hand up Mary's thigh, over the silky fabric to the warm woman flesh above, and above further still.

He accelerated. It was her joke, her code to let him know how she felt before the kids went to bed. She'd let him get himself worked up into a right old lather before she would let him near her, once the girls were asleep.

*   *   *

The major walked slowly back to his quarters, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. Damnation. He'd been so sure the RUC man would have been one of his three suspects. But Gillespie? According to Sir Charles, Eric Gillespie was one of the RUC's best men, even if he couldn't be told everything because of RUC-army mistrust. So it probably was planted info from a tout. Eric had got it wrong for once, except … something was niggling. Something didn't fit. Something to do with timing.

*   *   *

Sam Dunlop swung into Grange Park, reflexively noting that no strange cars were parked there. Policemen could never be too careful. He parked in his drive. Mary was waiting on the doorstep, one of their daughters holding onto her left hand. Sam switched off the ignition, threw the door open, slammed it, and stood looking at his wife and daughter, happy to be home and randy as a buck hare. He glanced down and grinned from ear to ear to see how her long, black, gift-wrapped legs glistened in the evening sunlight.

*   *   *

Mrs. Gordon's eyes bulged. She tried to move, but the ropes tethering her in the chair were too tight. She could hardly breathe past the dishcloth stuffed into her mouth and bound in place with a tea towel. All she could see was the unrolled carpet on her front-room floor and the man's back as he knelt motionless by the open window.

There was a loud noise like a car backfiring. Her nostrils were filled with the bitter smell of burnt powder. The man rose, turned, rolled his rifle in the rug, and said, “Don't bother to see me out, missus. I'll go out the back.”

*   *   *

The major strolled along a tarmac path. Something to do with the timing? Tout to Eric. Eric to Lisburn HQ. Headquarters agrees to mount a fastball. He stopped and moved a few chips of gravel with the toe of his shoe. They made the path's black surface untidy.

It was something the staff officer had said. “Brave Irish.” He walked on. “Brave Irish?” The major stopped dead. That was it. The staff officer might speak disparagingly about the Provos' courage, but they were not stupid. The bullet casings were clear evidence that someone had fired on the bombed car. A .223-calibre round was fired by an ArmaLite, the Provos' favoured weapon. They wouldn't go to the trouble of mounting an ambush unless they were sure that the patrol would appear on time. And who would know the timing? An informer could not have. All he would know was that he had passed information. He'd have no idea how the Security Forces would react. So it had to be someone who had known the timing. The duty officer who authorized the patrol's dispatch would, and the members, obviously. They would hardly ask the Provos to attack. The only other person in the know was the RUC man who had asked for the mission in the first place. Eric Gillespie.

The major frowned. It couldn't be true. Sir Charles had sworn by the man. He was one of the RUC's best and had a track record as long as your arm. A brilliant track record. And yet. Why had that stupid crossword puzzle clue intruded? Ophidian summer? A summer was someone who added things up—an adder. Ophidian? Pertaining to snakes—an adder was also a kind of snake.

Christ Almighty. Was Eric the snake? Eric Gillespie—Detective Superintendent Eric Gillespie—as a senior RUC officer would have had access to the information about all the attacks that interested the major. Superintendents attended briefing meetings for their divisions every morning. And Gillespie knew all about Mike Roberts.

 

THIRTY

MONDAY, MARCH 25

Marcus and Siobhan left the bus near the city centre. A heavily armed RUC constable, bulky in his flak jacket, patted Marcus down at a gate in the security fence, then opened Siobhan's handbag and shuffled through its contents. “Right.” He motioned them on.

Siobhan shuddered. “I'm glad we don't have to go through that sort of thing in Toronto.”

“Or Calgary. Come on.” He hurried her along a poorly lit street. “It's not far.”

Another search outside the restaurant, this time by a tall skinny private security woman, perfunctory, disinterested. Marcus watched as the guard ran her hands over Siobhan's body. With a bit of luck he'd be doing the same later tonight.

“Upstairs,” he said, pointing up a narrow flight of wooden treads.

She went first. He followed, admiring the bright cascade of hair, the curve of her calves between red high heels and coat hem, the fluid sway of her slim hips.

She let him take her coat and sat waiting for him to join her at the table. He sat opposite and watched her look around the small room. A narrow bar stood at one side. Rows of bottles on shelves were reflected in a mirror mounted on the wall behind them. There were six tables, each with four chairs, white linen, silver place settings, a small candle, and, alone in a narrow Waterford cut-glass vase, a single red rose. The lighting was pleasantly dim. Three other tables were occupied. Men in suits, women in cocktail dresses. Marcus, who normally would not consider going to a place like this without a jacket and tie, felt underdressed in his Stampeders windcheater.

The waitress handed them menus. “Something from the bar, sir?”

He looked at Siobhan.

“Please. A small gin and tonic.”

“Sir?”

“Have you Guinness?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pint, please.”

Marcus could not stop looking at Siobhan. Her eyes, indigo tonight, were oval, slanting slightly. Her cheekbones had the planes and contours of a Slav. Above her right eyebrow, a tiny dark mole sat alone on pale, flawless skin. Her nose was delicate, tip-tilted, her lips generous and smiling. Except for pink lip gloss, she wore no makeup. She didn't need to. She radiated a deep stillness, calm and profound as a trout pool.

“You have interesting taste, Mike Roberts. Not what I'd expected of a lad from New Lodge.”

Nor was she what he had expected to find in that working-class district. “I'm from Bangor.”

“And Canada changes you, too.”

“It does. We head down to Calgary when we get leaves from the rigs. Me and some of the other lads go to a place called the Owl's Nest. I thought you'd like something better than a pub.”