by Dave Duggan
‘Fair play to you, Eddie. I’ll make sure there’s a wee star on the frothy milk of your cappuccino.’
I took a seat in a corner, with my back in the angle of the walls, facing the back door exit and the toilets. I was scanning messages in my phone when Richard Arbuckle skipped up the short staircase from the lower level of the café. I stood and extended my hand as he arrived.
‘Hello, Robert, is it? Very good to meet you. I’m ready, when you are. I’m on time too, which is great, so let’s keep it rolling, as they say in your game.’
‘Good, yes. Thank you. It’s, eh … Richard. Can I ask you to come to the front area for the …’
‘No. This will be safer, for all of us, if you don’t mind me saying. The front window area is a bit exposed, even in these calm days, I don’t need to tell a fellow police officer.’
He was unsure, but he left. Gino arrived with my cappuccino and jam doughnut.
‘There’s bit of handbags going on down there. You told them to move up here? Great. I didn’t fancy losing the front for two hours.’
‘You’ll be back in business straight away below there and we’ll be done here in half an hour.’
‘One take wonder. Thank you, sir. I could ask one of the staff to put a bit of makeup on you if you liked.’
‘I’m grand. The star looks great in the froth there. I don’t expect it to last. Don’t worry, I’ll still be plain old Edmund Slevin, even after all this media attention.’
Two technicians, a man and a woman, came with their camera, lights and sound equipment. They were quiet and easy-going. I was civil to them and we worked out the set-up just as Madeleine, cheery and brisk as a confetti shower, arrived.
‘Hello, I’m Madeleine. I’ll be doing the interview and directing the film. I have to say you may be underwhelming this opportunity by hiding in the corner, but Richard explained your security concerns.’
Good man, I thought. After some final adjustments to lighting and the camera set-up, we were ready to go. I had no idea what Madeleine intended to ask me.
‘We’re a bit restricted here, because Richard told us we couldn’t move you around, so we’ll just get this interview and edit your voice over cutaways from the city. We’re looking at an insert of about fifteen minutes spread across the piece, so we should be clear by six or so. It might take a bit longer. How’s that?’
I nodded and smiled. I doubted she’d get two hours out of me.
‘Let’s go way back, then. Rolling please. Did you want to be a policeman, when you were at school?’
‘I didn’t go to school much and I don’t think I gave much thought to the future. I liked kicking football and running about with mates.’
‘Then you got involved with paramilitary activity. Can you tell us about that?’
‘I got involved in rioting, small, local stuff, on the edge of gang activity, beside the river. Giving the police bother. I suppose that was my first encounter with the police. I got to know quite a few of them.’
‘But why did you start doing this?’
‘Obvious reasons, really. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t think the police should have been around our streets. I was a growing boy, a bit wild at that time. Game for a laugh. I think sometimes the police enjoyed it too.’
Richard Arbuckle scribbled in his notebook. He seemed about to point his pen at me or to put it it to his lips, in an attempt to shut me up.
‘Then you joined the paramilitaries. Why did you do that?’
‘I suppose I grew up. The laughing was over and a bitterness had set in. A man I admired was shot dead. Not even the police were enjoying things then. And it was always about more than just the police on our streets.’
‘You were involved in serious crime.’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you elaborate?’
‘No.’
‘Cut there. Thanks. Stop rolling. Thanks. Detective Slevin, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to give us more than, well, “yes” and “no” answers.’
Richard Arbuckle joined her in her exhortations.
‘And, if you wouldn’t mind,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you concentrated on yourself and what you did, rather than making general statements about the police, then or now.’
‘You see,’ said Madeleine, ‘I want to just use your voice and your image. Me and my questions won’t be in it, so please feel free to elaborate. I’ll edit what you say to suit the images. You know, to give us your story. That okay? Roll please. Thank you. Can you tell us the serious criminal activity you were involved in?’
‘I shot and killed a police constable, Edwin Norris. I was convicted of his murder and related charges. I served thirteen years of a life sentence and was released five years ago.’
Richard Arbuckle stopped writing in his notebook. The camerawoman pulled her eye back from the viewer and scrunched a knuckle there. The man working the sound mixer changed his footing. The oil spat in the fryer. I ate a mouthful of my jam doughnut and watched the jam ooze onto the plate when I laid it there. I drank the star from the foam of my cappuccino and used my handkerchief to wipe my lips.
‘Though it might be better termed “war activity”,’ I continued, ‘but I think you get what I mean.’
‘Do you regret it?’
‘At the basic, human level, yes. At the political and war level, no.’
‘Why, then, did you join the police?’
Richard Arbuckle, even though he scribbled in his notebook, seemed to be on the point of running away. I continued.
‘I joined the police because things changed. You could say the world took another growth spurt. An opportunity arose, courtesy of the foresight of Chief Constable Elaine Caldwell. I felt I might get answers to questions I still had, so I became a detective.’
‘And did you? Get the answers?’
‘No.’
There were two lamps shining at me, one from the side and the other upwards, towards the ceiling. I felt myself heat up and thought about taking off my jacket or asking for a break, but I didn’t need to because, just then, a spectacular, natural break occurred.
Dalzell came up the short staircase and stood beside Richard Arbuckle, who almost saluted him. Dalzell spoke into Arbuckle’s ear, tapped him on the shoulder, smirked at me, then went out the back door.
I pushed back the table, sending the jam doughnut sliding onto Madeleine’s lap. I strode out of my seat, yanked off the lapel mike and tossed it to the sound man. I ploughed into a lamp, crashing it against the chip shop counter and onto the floor. I was past Madeleine before she could stop me and I made it outside just as Dalzell reached the end of the lane where it joined Clarendon Street.
I ran after him and, grabbing his shoulder, I spun him round. He went for his pocket, but I grabbed his wrist and forced my arm across his throat, pinning him against the wall. His eyes bulged, then relaxed when he recognised me. I eased up on his throat, but not on his gun hand.
‘Have you cracked completely, Slevin?’
‘No. But you have, thinking you can swan around here like a fucking pasha, spewing shite into Hetherington’s ears and stirring muck wherever you go. Sticking a phone into that poor woman’s mouth to tie me into it. Who the fuck are you and who are you working for?’
‘You’re further gone than I thought, Slevin. I gave you my card. Do you want me to give it to you again?’
‘Which one is it this time? The one with Beresford on it? Keep giving them to me. I want the full set.’
I patted him down and lifted the pistol from his coat pocket. I knew that he let me do that because he felt he was in control. I was shaking, spittle-covered and swearing. He was calm, focused and alert. I stepped back pocketing his gun.
‘A handy wee Walther, eh. Personal protection weapon, is it? You wouldn’t happen to have your licence on you at the minute, would
you, sir?’
‘That’s good, Slevin. You’re getting your form back. Banter away with me, while the world goes to pot around you.’
‘Only when you’re in it. Everything else is good.’
‘That’s what you think. You’re swimming in the sump, Slevin. You’ll never reach the shore. You could have. I gave you a chance, in there, months ago, when you did your Paddy-go-backwards routine with the sugar down your front and the waitress playing the paparazzi for you. You spurned your chance at really getting inside. Naw, you prefer to be the renegade. You’re still fighting the war, Slevin. With the wrong side.’
‘And you’re not, you spook bastard.’
‘I told you. I’m a private investigator hired by the Anderson family to mop up after you.’
‘And Hetherington? Are you mopping up after him too?’
‘Hetherington’s a good lad and if he can hold his nerve he might do us some service.’
‘“Us”? Who the fuck is this “us”?’
‘Slevin, who did you think you were fighting? The cops on the beat? The loyal flag-wavers? The uniformed foot soldiers? Ask yourself who “us” is.’
I knew who he was talking about. I just wasn’t sure where he fitted in.
‘So, what have you actually got on this Anderson thing, then?’ he asked.
‘Fuck all that I’m going to tell you.’
‘Or Hetherington. He says you’re hot about a gun, an old Magnum. Nothing as sophisticated as my shiny little PK. He tells me he’s going to find that old gun and, with it, he’s going to blow you away. If you only knew how much sweat I’ve expended, keeping him clear of it.’
‘Now you’re telling me you’re protecting me.’
‘I don’t give a hoot about you, Slevin, an unreconstructed militant. In this case, you’re collateral benefit. I may protect you and if you benefit, then lucky for you. My business is stability, in the midst of turmoil. I manage change, often using disruption and distraction, so things can stay the same.’
I pointed his gun at him.
‘Would you be distracted if I shot you now?’
‘You can’t shoot me. You’re one of the good guys. Like me.’
The anger that drove me from my seat began to drain away, just as Richard Arbuckle appeared at the back door of the café. When he saw me pointing the gun at Dalzell, he immediately went back inside.
‘Listen, Slevin, you spurned me once. I understand that. Just don’t do it again.’
‘I want nothing to do with you or anyone or anything you touch. You’re a poison.’
‘You’re right. In a way. But think of us as an inoculation. A kind of vaccine. A dose of us every now and then keeps the body politic in rude good health.’
‘I’m thinking of arresting you, so …’
‘You won’t arrest me. You’ve already got plenty of jam doughnut all down your front and you don’t want more. Your partner has gone sour on you; your boss is checking the winds and your angel-in-heaven, she’s feeling the draughts too. Your old college mate, Tony White, when you’re next talking to him, ask him about his plans.’
‘None of my business. Or yours.’
‘Have it your way. You just get on with your job, detective and, well, make sure that whatever happens, the good guys always win. If you want to join us, your call. It’s not like you’re not a “joiner”. You’ve been sworn in more times than a dodgy witness.’
‘Fuck off, Dalzell.’
There was an overflowing skip, full of builder’s rubble and polystyrene sections behind me. I tossed his handgun into it. It bounced on one of the broken insulation panels and nestled there as if on a presentation platter. He stared at me, then walked round me, pulling his phone out of his pocket and sent a brief message. He reached into the skip, pushed aside the shattered window frames layered across the top of the rubble and retrieved his Walther. He wiped it down with a handkerchief and pointed it at me.
‘This is how it ends, eh, Slevin? You’re smart enough to know that there’s more to the Anderson case than the killing of a footballer. But you’re not smart enough to know what that is. Now you’ve pushed me away a second time, I know you’re still not one of the good guys. You, Dessie Crossan and all the rest, all over this dump and dumps like it across the world.’
‘You won’t shoot me.’
‘Don’t bet on it. Now or ever.’
A black saloon, with an orange taxi sign on the roof, pulled up at the end of the lane. The driver buzzed down the window, then got out and stood by his door, his right hand in his pocket. He was as much a taxi driver as I was a dodgy witness, confirming the dead end I hit when I tried to trace the taxi Dalzell got into the first time I met him.
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘The folder on the train?’
‘Part of the grand plan of the gods and, well, the gods move in mysterious ways.’
‘If you plan to go near my Auntie Maisie again or my sister Ruby, you’d better shoot me now, because I’ll kill you if you do.’
‘Fair enough. Let’s add Ms Lavery to that list of the precious, shall we?’
Then he turned and walked to the taxi. Just as he reached it, he turned back to me.
‘Oh, by the way. I hope it’s not too draughty in your place.’
He smirked again and the boiling sensation I’d felt before rose up in me again.
‘I can’t help with windows, Slevin,’ he called. ‘You’re on your own there. But I can help with other things. I’m a patient man and I like to keep everything on an even keel. So if I offer to help you again, or your Auntie Maisie, your sister Ruby or your darling forensics queen, let’s agree it’s the last time.’
If disdain could froth from his mouth his lower face would be covered, with more of it down his front. I hadn’t been on the receiving end of such disregard since the early days inside. It took me years of daily punch-ups, book-learning and change outside to soften the sneers on the screws’ faces. It might take a bullet to quench Dalzell’s disdain and wipe the smirk off his face.
‘I won’t be taking anything you offer, Dalzell. Except an invitation to your funeral.’
Dalzell threw his head back and laughed out loud, as two police Land Rovers pulled up. Uniformed officers got out, weapons in hand. Whatever way things went, I had no plans to die in a farce, so I raised my hands from my sides and stood like a crucified man. Dalzell’s dry laugh warmed into a smile. All the guns were pointed at me. None at him.
His driver opened the rear door. Dalzell saluted me, nodded at the uniforms and got in. By a sharp, three-point turn, the driver nosed out onto the road and Dalzell vanished up Clarendon Street, just as I’d seen him do before.
‘It’s okay. It’s okay,’ said Richard Arbuckle, arriving breathless behind me. ‘Detective Slevin, please.’
He called to the uniforms.
‘That’s it, officers. Thank you. Everything’s settled here.’
‘Back to the interview then?’ I asked, wearing a thinner version of Dalzell’s smile. My phone sounded and Karen’s name appeared on the screen.
‘I need to take this, then I’ll be with you.’
I stepped away from him, towards the skip where I’d tossed Dalzell’s Walther. I should have held on to it, though I knew he’d never have let me. He could do anything he wanted with me, even with my arm across his throat and his pistol in my hand. He was playing with me, lecturing me about purposes well above my pay grade. I was calm by then, but an image of Dalzell standing over me, with a gun in his hand, persisted in my mind.
My voice sounded falsely upbeat. I had no doubt Karen heard this.
‘I have your fiver spent already,’ she said. ‘Scratch cards. Seeing as me luck’s in. Stick with me and all the power plays in your work will be revealed.’
‘That’s some promise. I’ll hold you to it.’
I should have sa
id what I really felt – ‘I just want to hold you’.
‘Listen, this fire thing’s bogged down. We’ve no ID on the three dead. One thing, though. I saw a list on your Todd Anderson wall, with an image of a skeleton sitting on a stone. Is that something you’re looking into?’
‘Yes and no. I’m not sure what it means.’
‘One of our eggheads said it’s a talisman of some kind, a badge of honour or a reward. You know, like a tattoo, only more honorific.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘It was part of a melted amulet on one of the dead. Haynes alloy 263, an American mix of nickel, cobalt and molybdenum. Very rare and expensive. Our egghead says it would survive a thermo-nuclear blast.’
‘Could be just the job for my windows.’
I heard her laugh and the strain inside me eased.
‘How about …’, I continued, but she cut across me.
‘Anyway, I’ve been told to hand off what I’ve got on the three dead. A forensic squad from the arson side is dealing with it now. And I’m off to Paris for four days of a conference, so I have to finish the paper I’m presenting, so …’
‘Take me with you.’
‘Jesus, Eddie, are you alright? I know, well, you had your windows shot out, but …’
‘Okay, maybe not this time, but let’s you and me go to Paris.’
‘They won’t let you.’
‘They might. With you.’
‘Aha, I’m your minder now. Keep giving me the easy fivers and we’ll see. When I get back from Paris this time, you can show me your windows and things, right?’
‘I have to go now, Karen. There’s a boy staring at me and at his watch at the same time.’
‘Hammy?’
‘Not exactly, but I’d better go. Enjoy Paris and all its delights. Talk when you get back.’
A uniformed officer approached me. I recognised her.
‘Detective Slevin, we need a word now,’ the constable said.
‘Bon voyage,’ I said, closing down my phone.
‘You certainly seem to be busy. And adventurous,’ said the constable. ‘Major traffic incident. Festival walkabout. And now you’re up a back lane, acting like a gunslinger. Allegedly.’