by Scott Hunter
Side door, Brendan, I think.
Tradesman’s entrance. Well, not quite, but close.
Moran moved away from the imposing row of main doors beneath the front arch and walked along the side of the building, where he soon came to a smaller, self-evidently bomb-proof alternative, which in turn led into a tiny security room, lined ceiling to floor with thick ballistic glass.
A security team scrutinised him suspiciously from the other side of the barrier. One beckoned him to the intercom. Moran cleared his throat and introduced himself.
Ten minutes later, after a rigorous set of security checks, he was shown into a nondescript room with two chairs and a table and told to wait. Presently a severe-looking middle-aged woman in a dark purple jacket and trousers put her head around the door and told him to follow.
They walked along corridor after corridor, past closed doors marked with bewildering combinations of letters and numbers. Moran wondered what was happening behind them. Probably best not to know. Eventually his guide paused before one, marked simply 22Ac, and knocked. A muffled ‘Come in’; his guide opened the door and indicated that he should enter. The door closed behind him and Moran found himself standing before a leather-topped bureau, behind which an avuncular looking man in his early fifties was busy cleaning out an elegant meerschaum pipe. Two chairs of the sturdy, functional type had been placed before the desk.
‘Ah.’ He looked up at Moran and gestured to his pipe. ‘Can’t smoke the damn things in here, but at least I’m able to conduct a little maintenance work, eh? Have a seat.’
Moran chose a seat, sat down and crossed one leg over the other. It cramped almost immediately and he was obliged to uncross and stretch the offending limb.
‘Leg still a problem? Bad business, that Charnford case. Irish again, if I remember correctly?’
‘Yes, it is – and yes. But not in a paramilitary sense on that occasion,’ Moran replied. He wasn’t surprised that this elegant stranger knew of his near-fatal episode at Charnford Abbey. He was inside the place of information, after all – the house of secrets.
The man looked across the desk at him – not analytically, but with, Moran felt, some small degree of scrutiny. ‘Quite so,’ his host said at last, tapping the bowl of his pipe gently against a pewter ash tray. A few remaining shards of tobacco fluttered into the ash tray and the man grunted with satisfaction. ‘That’ll do for the time being, I think.’ He rested the pipe carefully against the ash tray. ‘Now then, good journey?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘My name’s not important,’ the man went on, ‘but we wanted to be sure of a few things before we allow you to return to active duty, Inspector.’
Not before you return, Moran noted, but before we allow you… And there was the plural, too. ‘We?’
‘Indeed.’ The man pressed a button on his desk. ‘Send Caitlin in, would you please.’
Caitlin Hannigan was, in many ways, a taller, younger version of Aine. The hair was shoulder-length, the same shade of auburn and red, the mouth full and eased up at the corners. Sure, her mother’s traits were clearly discernible. But the brightness of her eyes, the easy, confident movements, the way she carried herself – they were pure O’Shea.
Caitlin sat down, turning her chair in towards Moran. A guest of the man behind the desk, but a co-inquisitor nevertheless…
‘You’re sure Black’s dead?’
No messing around, just like her ma.
‘As sure as I’m sitting here.’
‘What happened? I want to know everything.’
Moran told them.
The man behind the desk nodded occasionally, toyed with his pipe. Caitlin listened, stopping him if she wanted more detail, waving him on impatiently when he was giving too much. Although he took care to tone down the details of Aine’s confession and suicide, Moran could see that his narrative was taking its toll; the colour had begun to drain slowly from Caitlin’s face and her hands were involuntarily clasping and unclasping as she struggled to keep herself under control. Moran’s words dried up. ‘I’m sorry. This must be hard for you to hear.’
She waved him on again. ‘I’m all right.’ She bit down hard on her bottom lip, stuck her chin out. A single, rebellious, tear slid down her cheek, which she flicked away with an angry gesture. Moran offered his handkerchief, which was declined. Pipe-man affected not to notice any of this, the maintenance of his smoking machinery apparently the primary focus of his universe. Moran started up again. By the time he’d described the arrival of the rescue helicopter Caitlin’s eyes had regained their icy clarity, her voice its steady confidence. ‘So,’ she said. ‘O’Shea wasn’t involved?’
Moran shrugged. ‘As I said, only in the sense that he was helping me. He wanted his brother stopped.’
Caitlin and the man exchanged glances.
‘What about the explosives and weapons?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Well, I can’t say whether or not O’Shea was planning to do anything with them. I was under the impression they might have been, how shall I put this? Old stock.’
‘And the mortar?’
Moran paused, remembering the sound the shells had made as they dropped from the sky. He’d had one or two nightmares since his unlikely survival. Hardly surprising. If they reoccurred, he supposed he ought to see somebody; that was what people did nowadays, wasn’t it? PTS wasn’t something that would go away on its own, not without trying to bring the trauma to some kind of philosophical full stop. But he’d managed all right in the past, after Charnford … so what was different? Maybe it was an age thing?
He realised that Caitlin and the man were looking at him, waiting. He cleared his throat. ‘The mortar, yes. My guess is he was saving that for official visits – you know, the eviction order kind. I wouldn’t put it past him to fire a few warning shots. As for the other boxes,’ Moran went on, ‘for all I know he was using the explosives for quarrying. He’s a resourceful guy. He told me he just wants to be left alone. I believe him. I’d be more concerned about Buchanan and O’Mahoney.’
Caitlin waved her arm dismissively. ‘That’s already sorted. They won’t cause any further problems.’
Moran had a few questions of his own. ‘Why didn’t you tell DI Pepper that you were working deep cover? You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble.’
‘Simple. I didn’t know who could be trusted. The golden rule, DCI Moran, is never to voluntarily blow your cover. With anyone, even investigating police officers.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Moran said. ‘You contrived a set of political views guaranteed to make Black believe that you would agree to help; he took the bait, if you like.’
‘That’s right. With my mother’s background in mind, he kept an eye on me as I was growing up. He was like that. Always on the lookout.’
‘But he wasn’t looking carefully enough to notice that you’d joined MI5.’
‘It’s not something we tend to advertise.’ The man smiled benignly. ‘It’s all done very discreetly.’
‘Black just believed you to be a communications and wireless expert, trained through the usual channels?’
‘Exactly,’ Caitlin said.
Moran’s mental list scrolled on. ‘So why did you pretend you’d got cold feet? That’s why Black went for Aine, wasn’t it? To get you back on board?’
‘For strategic reasons.’
’What kind of strategic? You must have known it was a gamble.’
Caitlin’s composure faltered once again, but only momentarily this time. She paused, took a breath. ‘It’s all a gamble, Chief Inspector. I pretended to withdraw to encourage our mole to step up to the plate and take responsibility for the bomb. JC hates royalty, the upper classes. Toffs, he calls them.’ Caitlin wrinkled her nose and Moran saw Aine in the gesture, clear as day.
‘And I mean really hates them,’ Caitlin went on, ‘just like Black. We needed JC to nail his colours to the mast, find a way of catching him out. And lo and behold, he took the bait; h
e stepped up. Which left me free to return to the fold in suitably penitent mode, but in a supporting role.’ She leaned forward. ‘My decision, Chief Inspector. I knew the risks. But you’re right, of course, I didn’t expect Black to do anything quite so overt as to threaten my mother. Nor did I expect Niall Briggs to lose it in such spectacular fashion.’
‘The basement gunman?’
‘Yes.’
Moran sat forward in his chair. ‘You shot him, didn’t you? And my guess is you did it on Black’s orders. My doctor friend in pathology described the bullet and Ballistics confirmed our suspicions. Unusual. Government issue, I believe? Not something a paramilitary group would be likely to obtain. Ergo, it was your gun.’ He sat back, flushed, realising that he’d raised his voice, was close to losing his cool altogether.
‘Briggs was out of control,’ Caitlin said. ‘Black gave him orders to encourage me to keep on with the job in hand, not come after me with a shotgun. He was going to wreck the whole operation. He had to be taken out. He was always trouble. That’s just how it was.’
‘Probably not a helpful line of enquiry, in any case, DCI Moran,’ the man interrupted smoothly. ‘You must understand that certain, um, unpleasant actions are sometimes necessary. We won’t be troubling the CPS on this particular account.’
‘No. I suppose not.’ Moran shifted in his chair. This was a different world, and not an altogether comfortable one. Nevertheless, his curiosity spurred him on. ‘It was a risky strategy, surely? Relying on a wireless jamming device to stop the bomb being detonated? What if it had failed?’
‘We test our devices thoroughly,’ the man said. ‘If your enthusiastic DI had backed off as we’d suggested and DC Odunsi had not been present, all would have gone to plan.’
‘And had DC Tess Martin not been in situ, it might have been a very different story,’ Moran countered.
‘Ifs, buts and maybes, DCI Moran,’ said the man. ‘No point dwelling on those. How is DC Martin, incidentally?’
‘She’ll recover. She’s a damn good officer.’
‘Good, good. Delighted to hear that.’ The man tamped at the meerschaum bowl’s phantom contents.
‘What will you do with JC?’ Moran had to ask.
‘You don’t really want to know,’ the man said.
And actually, he realised, he didn’t. So Moran let it go. His imagination, if he allowed it, would fill in the blanks.
Caitlin had stood up. ‘Will that be all, Sir?’
‘Indeed so. Thank you, Ms Hannigan.’
Moran stood too. The audience was clearly at an end, but Caitlin had paused at the door.
‘How is my father?’
‘He’ll mend. He’s at home now. Padraig will be looking after him. I have no worries on that score.’
‘I didn’t mean Donal.’
‘Ah.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence. The man was busy with a fresh pipe-cleaner. Caitlin helped Moran out. ‘I work for British Intelligence, Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s my job to know the facts.’
‘Of course. Well, I probably wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for him,’ Moran said. ‘Whatever he’s done in the past, I wouldn’t hold it against him. To answer your question, he’s fit and well. As I said before, all he wants is to be left alone.’
Caitlin considered this for a moment, then gave a small nod of acquiescence. ‘Thank you, DCI Moran.’
‘Nice to meet you, Chief Inspector,’ Meerschaum Man said. He didn’t offer to shake hands, so Moran didn’t either. ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping outside, I’ve a few calls to make. Someone’ll be along to collect you shortly.’
Half-way across Lambeth Bridge Moran stopped, leaned on the balustrade by one of the latticed lamp stands, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It would have been just about at this spot that Caitlin had had her photograph taken. Perhaps Aine had taken it herself, on some weekend break to visit her daughter.
Her daughter, the spook.
Light years away from her mother’s background, a juxtaposition of loyalties if ever there was one.
Moran blew out his cheeks, took in the view. To his left the spires of Westminster; to his right the slowly revolving London Eye. Beneath him, passing to and fro on the murky waters of the Thames, a constant procession of pleasure boats, barges and tugs. He watched them awhile, enjoying the movement of the water, the wash breaking over rusty prows, the smells, sounds and general hubbub of London’s river. Compared to the stifling atmosphere of Thames House it made him feel free and unencumbered. Moran felt the wind on his face, filled his lungs, and continued walking, towards the familiar sounds of a city in homeward mode; offices disgorging weary white-collars, construction workers filing from building site turnstiles, pub pavements teeming with early drinkers, impatient taxi drivers honking at weaving cyclists and despatch riders. He reached the Tube entrance at Lambeth North and paused briefly, reluctant to let the feeling go. It was only after rain began to spatter his coat, just a few droplets at first, and then more persistently, that he turned on his heel and vanished into the depths.
Glossary
SECTU
South East Counter Terrorism Unit
ONH
ONH is one of three republican dissident terror groups still active in Northern Ireland alongside the New IRA and Continuity IRA factions
RBH
Royal Berkshire Hospital
IR
Incident Room
The DCI Brendan Moran Crime Series
Black December
Creatures of Dust
Death Walks Behind You
The Irish Detective (Omnibus)
A Crime for all Seasons (Short Stories)
Silent as the Dead
Standalone novels
The Trespass
The Serpent & the Slave
The Ley Lines of Lushbury
Musical autobiog.
Rattle & Drum
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