She looked up at me through tear-stained eyes.
“Your brother was either duped into doing what he did, or else he was a full part of what happened. Either way, we know the bomb was the work of a dissident IRA group, so I need to know who your brother’s been hanging around with.”
She took a deep breath and sniffed loudly, then blew her nose. She remained silent.
“Two bombs have gone off in the past two days and we’ve been lucky so far, only one casualty.” I almost slipped and said own goal but checked myself. “But we need to stop these people before others experience what your family’s going through.” I jutted my chin towards where her parents were grieving. “You want other families to go through this?”
This registered with her. She wiped her eyes and breathed deeply, composing herself.
“What do you wanna know?” she finally said, drying her eyes.
“I wanna know who your brother’s friends are,” I stated firmly, “the ones you just referred to. I wanna know who he’s been hanging around with in the past six months to a year. Bombings like this have to be planned, they don’t just happen.” I produced my notebook. “Right, gimme some names.” I wasn’t asking.
She did. She gave me six names and I wrote them all down, one of them being Drake Mahoney’s. After checking I’d heard the names correctly, I called in five of them on my police radio, listing them as suspects potentially involved in the two recent car bombings, and asked for them to be brought in for questioning. I left out Drake Mahoney, though. He was mine.
“Did you know what Seamus was doing? Did you know he was involved with people who make bombs?”
She was breathing through gritted teeth and trying to be calm. She nodded. “I knew he was in with some bad people.”
“Bad in what way?”
She cried a little more. I waited, then repeated the question.
“Always talking about Ireland and how betrayed they felt. Always talking about politics, about how the Brits had effectively neutered the nationalists and let the feckin’ Prots always get things their own way. One of them kept saying it’s about time the fightback began, and fuck the peace process.” The expletive sounded nasty and ugly coming from her mouth.
“How d’you know all this?”
“I went out with him for a drink one time. He was cute, but he just kept talking politics all the time. I got bored after a while.”
“And it was him talking about bombs and bombings,” I stated.
“Yes,” she said. “He even once said he’d welcome seeing bombs on the streets of London again.”
“Oh, really? Okay, Theresa, which one of these sweethearts said this?” I nodded at the names in my notebook.
“Ada.”
“Ada. Is that this one, Adrian Pinkney?” I pointed to a name.
“Yeah, it is. I asked Seamus why he hung around with the likes of this Ada character. He said Ada was committed to the cause and part of the team.” She scoffed and made quotation marks with her index fingers. “Ada worried me because I just knew Seamus’d get into trouble with this eejit. Seamus is so easily led.” She sounded sorrowful. She was still sobbing.
“These people here.” I held up the notebook. “Would you say one of them was a kind of dominant figure in their little sewing circle? You know, the gang boss, the one they’d listen to and act on if he said something?”
She smiled when I said sewing circle. A moment of light relief. She thought for a moment.
“It’d be Johnnie if it was anyone.”
There was a John Spencer’s name listed.
“Are you going to talk to them?” She sounded worried.
“Someone certainly will,” I emphasised. “Either the anti-terrorist squad or the Branch’ll most definitely be talking to these jokers. Any associates of a bomber are of interest to us.”
“My brother’s not a bomber,” she said through sobs.
This wasn’t the moment to disagree with her, so I said nothing.
“Are you going to say you got their names from me?” She looked directly at me.
“No, I’m not,” I reassured her. “Your name won’t come up. They’re all known associates of your brother, and he’s been identified as the bomber.”
“Thanks.” She sniffed loudly again.
I returned to the main room. The mother was still sobbing on her husband’s shoulder. I sat on his other side.
“Sorry to be indelicate at this time,” I said, “but I have to ask. Can you think of anything you can tell me about what Seamus’s been doing recently that’ll help us get in front of this before anyone else dies?”
“Not really,” he said slowly, taking deep breaths. His eyes suggested he was still in shock. “He didn’t talk much about what he was doing. He just went to work, then went out with his friends. I don’t know where he went.”
“Did you know any of Seamus’ friends?”
“No.” He shook his head. “His sister Theresa probably knows a few, though.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“I think so. He mentioned someone, but we never met her.”
There was little else to be gained from talking to the family whilst they were still in a state of shock. I thanked them for their time, which barely registered with the parents. Seamus Drew’s mother was still crying bitter tears as I left.
A list of addresses had been forwarded to me for the names given by Seamus Drew’s sister, and I was informed either anti-terrorist or Special Branch officers were speeding across London on their way to pick up the five names I’d given. Drake Mahoney’s name was top of the list. He had an address in Camden Town. I drove away from what was now a flat saturated with melancholy.
I briefly wondered, wherever Seamus Drew now was in the universal scheme of things, whether the bastard had any idea how much pain he’d just caused his mother.
It was now almost eleven and Camden High Street was coming to life, with joggers, early shoppers and dog walkers everywhere, plus the de rigueur drunks outside the tube station, despite the early hour, trying to grasp the reality that Saturday night had now become Sunday morning without their noticing. Crowds of the young and the hedonistic were heading for Camden Market.
Mahoney lived in a ground-floor flat in Pratt Street. I parked nearby and rang the doorbell next to Mahoney’s name, and he answered the door within four seconds.
His feathers had been ruffled and he didn’t appear too happy at being disturbed. He looked a mess. I’d seen homeless beggars in London looking cleaner. His clothes, a discoloured sweatshirt and torn jeans, were filthy, and I was prepared to bet his greasy clumps of shoulder-length hair hadn’t seen shampoo since Santa Claus had last done his rounds. Either he had a personal protection issue or he’d not showered for a few days, as the scent of body odour assaulted my nose. He fixed me with a stare even the blind could see was hostile. He’d adopted an aggressive stance and he leaned forward, staring at me through bloodshot eyes.
“Why you ringing my bell? Who the fuck are you?” He snarled his lips as he spoke, exuding all the charm of a rabid dog. Certainly, his teeth were the same colour.
“I represent the Camden branch of the church of Scientology. Would you like to be part of our congregation?” I asked in a jovial tone of voice.
“Fuck off,” he said loudly, and began to close the door.
My tone quickly changed. I pushed my ID almost into his face, and he had to back up two paces or be hit on the chin with it.
“Special Branch, pal. You and I are gonna talk.”
“Fuck you,” he said dismissively. “I got nothing to say to you people.”
He attempted to slam the door shut, but as he swung it towards me, I swivelled to my right and jabbed hard at the door with the heel of my left training shoe. He’d not been expecting this, and the door flew out of his grasp and crashed against the wall, echoing along the long corridor. Just as well there was no glass in the door. For a second he looked stunned, but he quickly regained his surly c
omposure. He took a slight backwards step. As he shuffled I could see what he was planning to do.
“Look, I ain’t done nothing. Why you people always hassling me?”
“What’s not to wanna hassle?” I stepped inside the hallway. “You’re under arrest. I’d read you your rights, but you’re probably too stupid to understand them.” I produced a pair of hand restraints. “Put your hands behind your back.”
“And if I don’t?” He sneered, taking a step backwards and adopting a threatening pose. I’d seen puppy dogs look more threatening waiting for a treat.
It was clear from his demeanour he was acting out a prescribed role. In his world, you didn’t come quietly. It just wasn’t done. He was carrying out his part of the unwritten code: demonstrating you were a tough guy and giving police a hard time. I’d met his like before, but one look at his bloodshot eyes was all it took for me to realise this clown was just a loudmouth.
“Then we do it the hard way,” I said, smiling calmly as I put the restraints back in my pocket and began flexing my arm muscles, “and not only will you get hurt, you’ll also get an assault charge added just for good measure. You think you got what it takes to get past me?”
He was thinking about it, and telegraphing every move he was about to make. He looked down slightly to try catching me off balance, then, a second later, charged at me. It was such an amateur move it was almost laughable, but I was ready. I was perfectly positioned and as he leapt at me, stepping to my left slightly, I chopped him across the throat with the edge of my right hand. Hard. He let out a noise which sounded like arrgghhh and dropped to one knee, both hands at his throat and bending forward, coughing and spluttering, trying to breathe. I grabbed his left arm, bent it back and slipped on a hand restraint, then repeated it with the right arm, hauled him roughly to his feet and ensured the restraints were very tight. He was grimacing in discomfort as I put him in the back of my car, which pleased me.
*
We were sitting in an interrogation room at Paddington Green police station. Like all such rooms in every station, it was spartan and extremely utilitarian, with every effort having been made to ensure the room was as uninviting as possible. The walls were a monotonous shade of grey, livened up by some scribbled graffiti, and the only concession to comfort was the presence of a wooden table and two chairs, all bolted to the floor. The dull overhead lights in a windowless room added nothing to the ambience.
I had Mahoney’s file in front of me. He was twenty-six and a petty criminal, with three convictions for minor offences such as handling stolen goods and traffic offences, plus one for criminal damage when he’d been sixteen, and an acquittal in the manslaughter of Kevin O’Hanlon. He was known to operate on the fringes of the Chackarti family, who were probably the biggest and most infamous crime family you’ve never heard of. The main worry for police and the security services was, increasingly, the crossover between their criminal activities and their occasional linkages with radical politics.
I knew Mahoney’d been with Diarmuid Carty when Kevin O’Hanlon had been killed, but he’d claimed not to be in the room when the murder happened, and Carty had agreed. Both men were with the Chackartis. Carty was also known to have been associated with IRA sympathisers, so it was a safe bet Mahoney was as well, particularly as Seamus Drew’s sister had named him as one of her brother’s friends. He also knew Charles Doyle.
Mahoney sat motionless and stared at the wall whilst I scanned his file. He had a vacuous expression on his face, like a wet Saturday night whilst on holiday. If a thought ever entered his head, it’d probably die of loneliness before it could be acted upon. He looked like he couldn’t outwit a tin of beans, but he was well versed enough in IRA folklore to know suspects were only brought to Paddington Green if what they were suspected of being involved in was very serious. He realised we were playing for keeps.
I began by explaining why he was in custody and that, if he was uncooperative, he’d be held incommunicado for up to fourteen days on suspicion of involvement in terrorism. But, if he answered a few questions, things would be easier for him; it was his choice. He sighed and reluctantly nodded his approval. He rubbed his sore throat a couple of times.
“I’m not gonna waste time asking whether you know Seamus Drew because we both know you do,” I stated formally. “Okay?”
“Yeah, I know Seamus,” he agreed. “What about him?” His voice had all the seasoned timbre of a heavy smoker.
“When’d you last see him?” I hoped the question wasn’t too hard for him.
“Probably a week or so back, in a pub around the market. Why’s that?”
It was time to rattle the bars of his cage a little. “Do you know where Seamus is now?”
I must have radiated a serious look because Mahoney’s expression changed. He suddenly looked very concerned.
“No, I don’t.” He shook his head slowly.
“He’s in a body bag somewhere, or at least those parts of him the emergency services could find are.” I was trying not to sound too flippant but wasn’t sure if I was succeeding.
“Huh? What you on about?”
“Seamus is dead, pal.” I stared straight into his bloodshot eyes as I spoke. “He was driving the car which exploded yesterday, down on the South Bank. They’re still scraping pieces of him off the wall at Waterloo station.”
A look of disbelief spread across his face.
“What? Someone died in that explosion?” His voice had a tremble.
“Yup, and it was Seamus,” I said, “and, trust me, he wasn’t a pretty sight when they gathered up what was left of him. You ever seen a body burnt to a crisp, completely burnt beyond all possible human recognition? That’s how your friend Seamus finished up yesterday morning.”
He bowed his head, swallowed loudly, took a deep breath and made the sign of the cross, which surprised me. I hadn’t pegged him as the religious type. I gave him a few seconds to absorb the news.
“Did you know he was involved in bomb making?”
His head was still bowed. “No.”
“Well, someone did,” I said, “and I wanna know who put him up to what he was about to do. It’s just blind luck for us it went off where it did, otherwise we’d be talking a lot more casualties. So I wanna know who he’s been seeing and where he’s been hanging out. You’re his friend; what do you know about this?”
“I don’t know anything about any bombings.” His voice didn’t sound quite so certain any longer.
“Well, I’ve a source who can put you in the company of known IRA sympathisers. We also know you helped Diarmuid Carty kill Kevin O’Halloran, and he’s IRA, so either you talk to me or I’m gonna write you up as being involved in the bombings over the last two days.”
I sat back and waited. Experience had taught me, give a suspect a few moments to think whilst scared and it often produces positive results. The tendency is to say anything if it mitigates any culpability for involvement in terrorism.
“Can you account for your whereabouts over the last few days?”
“Yeah, I can.”
He told me he’d either been at work or out with friends. He gave his place of employ and told me a few names, two of which were on Seamus Drew’s sister’s list. I called the officer outside and told him what I wanted. He went off.
“Look,” Mahoney finally said, “we talk about it, but that’s it. None of us are into bomb making or would plant bombs. We’re all from Irish families, and my father used to raise funds for the IRA; you probably know that already. That’s why you came round rousing me this morning. All of us have had family involved in the struggles at some point down these many years; we’ve all either lost relatives or got relatives in prison. You know what I’m saying?”
“Someone obviously forgot to tell Seamus, then, didn’t they? As I just told you, he died driving a car packed with explosives which exploded prematurely, and I rather suspect he wasn’t taking them to a fireworks display,” I said, flippantly. “So I’ll put it another
way. Who does Seamus know who’d be capable of putting together something like this?”
“I’ve no idea.” He looked down at the table.
“You sure?”
He repeated he was sure he didn’t know anyone. I left him to stew and went for a coffee and a glass of water. I returned a few minutes later. He was staring at the dull-coloured walls and lightly tapping his fingers on the table. I sat down and sipped my coffee and gave Mahoney the water. He drained it in one gulp.
“Okay, a few more questions. Did Seamus have any friends he talked about and saw but whom you didn’t know and never met?”
He looked deep in thought for a moment. I suspected this was an unusual activity for him.
“Yeah, I think there was. He used to talk about someone called Johnnie a lot.”
“Johnnie. You mean John Spencer?” This was a name on the list given by Seamus Drew’s sister.
“No, not him. Everyone knows John Spencer.” Of course they did. “This one was Johnnie someone. I’ve never met him, none of us ever did, I think.”
“He have a surname?”
“Quite likely, but I don’t know it.”
“Any idea where this joker lives or what he does? You know anything at all about him?”
“No.” He paused. “But I’ve heard Seamus talk very fondly about him. Told me what a great guy he was and how, one day, he’s gonna make his name.”
“As what?”
“Never said.”
The door then opened and the desk sergeant stuck his head in. “He’s clean. Nothing in his flat,” he said, looking at Mahoney, “and his alibi checks out.”
“Nothing at all?” I was disappointed.
“Nope.” He shook his head.
“What’s that mean?” Mahoney asked as the door closed.
“Means the moment I brought you here, your flat was turned over by Special Branch and nothing linking you to the two bombings has been found. I called it in, so a few detectives and uniforms went through your place. It might be a bit untidy when you get back.” I grinned evilly. “They’re not always careful about putting things away afterwards.”
The tossing of a suspect home when that person’s taken into custody on suspicion of terrorism was standard operating procedure. Sadly for the good guys, though, Mahoney had been telling the truth about his not being involved with bombings.
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