Twisted Agendas (27 page)

A three-inch thick cardboard box lay beside the tape recorder on the table. Tompkins drew it toward him. After opening it, he pushed it halfway across the desk. “Have you ever seen
these?”

The tip of Danny’s tongue was already pushed against the roof of his mouth in preparation to deny he had. When he looked inside the box, his tongue retracted and came to its natural
resting place against the back of his lower teeth again. The walls of the room started to close in.

“Well, have you?”

The handgun was easy to deny. He’d never seen that before. The compulsion to also deny he’d ever seen the sawn off shotgun was very strong, but the analytical side of his brain won
out.

“I think I recognise the shotgun.”

“Oh, I’d say. Your prints are all over it.”

“I can explain that.”

“I’m all ears.” The detective sat back in the chair. He placed his hands behind his head as if he were about to be entertained.

“It was in the wardrobe of the room I stayed in when I first came to London. When I first saw it, I thought it was a toy and took it out to look at it. That’s why my fingerprints are
on it. But then whoever owned it took it away and I never saw it again.”

“You sound nervous.”

“It’s the truth. I swear.”

The detective unclasped his hands, put them on the desk and began to interrogate Danny, asking the same questions repeatedly, demanding to know everything about the period he’d lived at
Piper’s, about Pat and Danny’s part in the bombing of Hammersmith Bridge and how he’d come across the shotgun. It was as if he were looking for the slightest inconsistency with
which to pounce and shred apart the truth. Without warning, he’d change the subject and pepper Danny with questions about his current residence, the fertiliser and the whereabouts of the main
arms dump. Every time the detective nodded or agreed with something Danny said and he believed he was getting somewhere, Tompkins would switch the subject back to Pat, the fertiliser or shotgun and
ask about his fingerprints being found on it.

“This isn’t good,” Detective Tompkins said. He’d been staring at him silently for a minute now. “You could be in serious trouble. You’re looking at five to
six years for the arm’s dump. Another five for possession of a sawn off shotgun.”

“You didn’t find that thing at
my
house.”

“Who says we didn’t? You?”

“You can’t prove it’s mine.” Danny rubbed the heavy stubble on his chin.

“Look at the facts. You lived in a house with a guy who’s a known IRA terrorist. We’ve got proof he was involved in the Hammersmith bombing, as well as the shooting of a police
officer two months ago. We’ve found bags of fertiliser in your home. You’ve got a dump somewhere. And mix was used to make the Hammersmith Bridge bomb. We’ve got your prints on a
shotgun. You’re going down, mate.”

A flash of hot sweat soaked Danny’s chest and back.

“I want a lawyer
now
.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

The detective rose, picked up the box of evidence and left the room. He realised the detective was right. Danny had no idea how he could prove his innocence. It was his word against the police
and his Irish nationality and accent would count against him in an English court. Danny sat rigid and stared at the two-way mirror across from him. No longer did he believe the detective was
arranging for a lawyer, but rather was on the other side of the mirror with a group of other policemen scrutinising his reactions. He summoned every remaining ounce of self-possession and stared
into the mirror to show he was neither afraid nor intimidated.

“A solicitor’s on his way,” Tompkins said, as he came in and took a seat. Danny turned away and focused on a part of the wall where the paint bubbled just beneath the ceiling.
“I can’t see how a lawyer’s going to be able to help you. Can you?”

“I’m not talking anymore until a lawyer comes.”

“Here’s the thing, Danny,” the detective said. He intertwined his thick fingers and leaned across toward him. “All my colleagues think you’re guilty. But I
don’t. My gut feeling is you’re innocent.” He fell silent until Danny looked at him. “You want to know why I think that?”

Danny shook his head.

“Because the IRA never cooperate. From the moment they enter an interview room, they say nothing even though the Terrorism Act doesn’t give them a right to silence.”

“Why can’t I leave then?”

“I’m working on it.”

“What’s to work out?”

Tompkins smiled in the same patronising way his father sometimes did. “Here’s what I think we can do to sort this mess out for you.”

Danny said nothing.

“You’re Irish and still fairly new to London and you’ve already… ” He laughed, but it sounded fake, “Let’s put it this way, you’ve had the
misfortune of falling in with an IRA man. The way I see it, this IRA breakaway faction’s stepping up its campaign over here and we need eyes and ears on the ground.” He paused.
“You hear what I’m trying to say, Danny?”

“No.”

“You’re smart.”

“I don’t.”

“You could go into pubs where IRA sympathisers and volunteers socialise and behave like you’re a patriotic Irishman who hates the English. After a while, these blokes would trust you
and you could do a bit of sniffing around for us. You know, things like where new cells are being organised and who at the telephone companies and driving license departments is providing them with
intelligence on the whereabouts of potential targets.”

“Be an informer?”

“A British agent.”

“Informers get a bullet in the head.”

“This is London, not Belfast. You’d be working with handlers whose job is to protect you. We’d never put you in danger.”

“I’ve never been interested in politics. They’d spot me as a fraud a mile away.”

“You’re a resourceful bloke. We’ll even pay you.”

“I’m not interested.”

“A lot of our best agents said that when we first talked to them. That’s why I’m not looking for an answer right now.”

“I mean it.’”

“I’m going to give you time to think about it. But while you’re thinking, it’d be smart to keep in mind what we’ve got on you.” He stopped talking and moments
later began to drum his fingers on the surface of the desk. “On the other hand, I can make this all go away, Danny. Everything.” The detective nodded toward the two-way mirror. “I
can let you walk out of here today without them arresting you.”

“I
am
under arrest.”

“This is detention, Danny. You haven’t been brought before a custody sergeant at a police station yet. Let me tell you, some of the blokes in there don’t want me to give you
this chance. They’re angry about what happened at Hammersmith and want you charged right away.” He shook his head and drove air trapped inside his mouth through the wide gaps in his
teeth. “Even when you make bail as often happens when the lawyers get involved, things can still be very difficult for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’d better make sure your car’s always in good nick for starters. The traffic police might stop you every time you drive around London. And we mustn’t forget the
parking and speeding tickets. I heard they had one bloke running to court every week they gave him so many tickets. The amount of fines he had to pay.” He tutted. “Then there’s
the regular coppers you meet on the street. You could find yourself stopped and searched so often, you might lose your temper and get booked for public order offenses. I’m not saying these
things
will
happen. But they could.”

His threats infuriated Danny. “Where’s the lawyer?”

“I don’t think you need him now.”

“I want to make a personal call.”

“Who do you want to ring?”

“My flatmate, Julia Ralston.”

“Give me her number. I’ll arrange it.”

“You’ve already got the number.”

“She got a mobile number in case she’s not at home?”

After he’d given it to him, the detective rose as if to leave but then sat again. “Do we have a deal?”

“You said I’ve time to think about it and I intend to do just that.”

The detective’s face tightened, “Fair enough. I’m going to talk to my boss right now. I’m going to stick my neck out for you and tell him we have to let you go because
you’re not involved in anything. It won’t be easy. He’s going to say we can keep you for another three days as well as sit in when you talk to your lawyer. That’s our
right.” His eyes widened. “But I’m going to look out for you. Okay, Danny?”

He knew it was just another attempt to soften him up. “Fine.”

“If this works, and it’s a big if, I’ll need to know if you’ll work with us in return. What do you say?”

“I’ll think it over.”

The detective didn’t speak for a long moment. “You’ve got a week.”

Was the end of the nightmare to be concluded so simply, so informally? Could it really be almost over? He could scarcely bring himself to believe this was possible. He’d expected to be
returned to his cell until he was ready to give Tompkins the answer he wanted. But he didn’t care because all he wanted right now was his freedom. His mind was already running ahead. He was
already visualising the sun or rain against his skin. He didn’t care which it was, just wanted to feel something natural.

“I want to speak to Julia now.”

“Absolutely.” The detective rose and walked to the door. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh? First, let me see if I can get you out of here without them arresting
you.”

He hadn’t expected to feel such disconnectedness. Danny was ecstatic to be free but felt like he were an extra in a movie watching the principal actors execute their
roles, the skinny, long-haired youth running across the street to meet a smiling young woman outside the supermarket, a middle-eastern man exiting a fast food takeaway that smelled of roast lamb
and aromatic spices, an old woman standing by the open doors of a bus asking the driver a question before she boarded. Even the ride home on the tube was otherworldly: the way the train rocked and
leaned inward as it turned corners, its brakes shrilly menacing as it decelerated pulling into the stations and sudden emergence of hate-filled graffiti and rude drawings etched into the windows
every time the train plunged into the dark tunnels.

Julia and Katie were in the living room when he got home. Julia embraced him tightly but Katie remained on the sofa, shocked by his unshaven face, body odour and utter dishevelment. When
he’d called Julia to tell her he was being set free, she’d offered to drive up to Paddington but he’d declined the offer. He’d needed time alone to steel himself back to
real life. The living room was restored to its natural untidiness; stacks of CDs lay scattered on the carpet beside the player, magazines and newspapers were splayed open on the tables. Even her
knickers were drying on the backs of the dining room chairs. When he sat, the armchair felt so soft he thought he’d drop right through the seat to the carpet beneath.

“What about some tea?” said Julia.

The ingenious English remedy for all happenings, good and terrible. He understood it now. “Make it strong.”

“Would you make it?” Julia asked Katie. She rose, came over to where he was sitting and gave him a hug.

Over tea and cake he told them everything, including the bizarre offer securing his release.

“Sounds like they know they haven’t a strong case if they press charges and took a chance they’d be able to recruit you as an agent,” Julia said.

“I hope so.”

“You’ll need a good lawyer. I’ll ask my boss’ boss if he knows anyone.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“You really need to get some sleep,” said Katie.

“I look
that
terrible, do I?”

“You look bloody awful,” Julia said. “Give your father a ring first, though.”

“He called?”

“Twice since yesterday morning.” She laughed. “Boy, I see now what you mean about how forceful he is. The last time, he demanded to know where you were and why your mobile was
switched off. I had to come up with something fast. He’d make a bloody good immigration officer, you know?”

“What’d you say?”

“That you were arrested yesterday due to some mix up about your car insurance because the policy was issued in Northern Ireland. I think he bought it because he told me to call this
afternoon with an update.”

“If you hadn’t got out today, I’d have had to tell him the truth because I was getting worried. I’ve been ringing every police station I could think of including Scotland
Yard and nobody had a record of your arrest. It was getting scary, actually.”

“I owe you, Julia.”

Not wishing to cause unnecessary distress to his parents, Danny confirmed Julia’s lie when he rang. His father was nonplussed, especially since an English company
underwrote his company’s fleet policy and one of his employees had been involved in a car accident in Manchester seven weeks ago and there’d been no problems then. He also told Danny
that his office manager was looking into the matter and refused to listen when Danny said it was resolved and thus unnecessary.

“You now have a police record,” his father said. “You’ll have to disclose you’ve been arrested when you fill out certain kinds of official forms and some countries
you want to travel to might not let you in.”

“It was a detention not an arrest, Dad.”

“If the police lock you up even for a couple of minutes, it’s an arrest plain and simple.” His sigh was audible. “Did they take your fingerprints?”

“I had no choice.”

“Those’ll be on file as well. They’ll be checking your prints every time a crime’s committed in London now. Rape. Murder. Burglary. What a bloody mess.”

Danny hadn’t considered that aspect. Could the authorities enter fingerprints into their central database even if the person wasn’t convicted of a crime? He didn’t think so. It
seemed too draconian. Did the Terrorism Act give the government a new legal authority to do it?

“What should I do?” he asked his father.

“Come home after that course ends like I told you.”

Even if he did want to return to Northern Ireland, he couldn’t. The police had him under surveillance. “I’ll ask the lawyer to get my record expunged.”