Marius

by Laurence Todd

  There were several heartfelt and sorrowful tributes paid by friends and neighbours of the McGreely family, commenting on what a tragic loss this was and what a warm, loving father and family man Cormac McGreely was. One of the persons quoted was none other than Charles Doyle, who was referred to as a long-time family friend.

  What was interesting, though, were the comments given by someone named Dick. He’d said he’d seen the crash on the A37 from the top of a hill about half a mile away, and it looked to him from where he was standing as though it’d been intentional, as the car heading north had swerved into the path of the one pulling the caravan. Marbutt hadn’t mentioned this person.

  I put in a call to the Dorset County Chronicle. I identified myself and asked for the editor. I mentioned the crash on the A37 fifteen years ago and my interest in it. He explained he knew which accident I was referring to, as he’d been the reporter on the paper who’d covered the story. He gave his name as Geoffrey Saddler, and said he’d provided much of the material used by the London Evening Standard, and his rundown was not too dissimilar. He then referred me to the paper’s archives for a more detailed analysis. I mentioned he didn’t sound like a Dorset lad, and he was happy hearing that, saying he was a displaced Londoner from Hammersmith.

  I asked about the Dick who’d been quoted in the article. He said Dick was at the time a nineteen-year-old man, out on an illicit date with a work colleague’s wife, and, from their vantage point, had seen the two cars on the road coming from opposite directions. He’d also said, though, that the car heading north, the McGreely family’s car, had pulled up in a layby and he’d seen the car door open. He’d said he wasn’t absolutely certain, but he thought someone’d got out the car, and didn’t get back in, before the car set off again.

  “Someone got out?” I exclaimed. I’d not been aware of this.

  “That’s what he said. There was a light on inside the car and he was adamant he saw someone getting out the car.”

  “What, an adult?”

  “He said he just saw the shape, but it was getting dark at that time and he couldn’t make out who it was.”

  “Did local police ever check out his story?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were there any other cars nearby?”

  “Didn’t hear of any.”

  “So, how did you find out about this Dick character?”

  “I’m a journalist, I asked questions,” he stated as though I should have known the answer. “Someone had to have reported it because the emergency services were on the scene pretty quickly: within a few minutes, I’d say. That’s how I found out about Dick.”

  I was intrigued. Had there originally been four people in the car? Police had only found evidence of three bodies. The report in the Evening Standard had quoted a neighbour of Cormac McGreely saying his friend had left for his holiday only with his wife and son.

  Marbutt had said the charred remains had been buried someplace and he could find out where. He was going to have to do so now.

  I thanked Geoffrey Saddler and immediately got in touch with Smitherman. I wanted to know how many people had been in the vehicles when the crash had occurred. I asked if we could have the bodies disinterred as I wanted to know exactly how many persons had been incinerated in that crash, and I explained why I wanted this done. He said he’d arrange for it to happen, and he’d play the national security angle to have it done as quickly as humanly possible. I also asked if someone from the Dorset police could locate this Dick character and get a more detailed explanation from him about the night in question. I wanted to know exactly what he’d seen just before the crash occurred.

  *

  How to look for something or someone you know exists, when you don’t know where to begin? This wasn’t a usual police problem. Terrorism was usually tangible. There were groups involved and usually police or the security services knew who they were, or who their suppliers were, and, even if they didn’t, at least had sources of information that could point them in the right direction. In this instance, though, all I had was Stimpson’s confident assertion there was an IRA sleeper unit which appeared to have been reactivated, plus the opinion of Major Allsopp that the two bombs were most certainly the work of someone associated with the IRA. Beyond this, police had absolutely no leads on who might be involved.

  One of my earliest cases after joining Special Branch involved intercepting and arresting a small group of fanatical National Socialists who’d been planning to blow up a synagogue in Golders Green, on a Friday afternoon when it would’ve been crowded with worshippers. We’d had a tip-off from an informant and we caught the conspirators in someone’s garage with enough explosives to take out St Paul’s Cathedral, never mind a small suburban synagogue. I’d interviewed the main player, one Peter Jessop, a virulent anti-Semite who adhered to the view that six million Jews didn’t really die in Nazi prison camps but, even if they had, so what? According to him, Jews were vermin and deserving of being eliminated from the face of the earth. I’d asked him why he felt like this.

  “You know the book, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion?”

  I’d replied I knew of the book but hadn’t read it.

  “You should. It gives the outline of the blueprint for the Jewish plan to take over the world. There’s a silent conspiracy amongst all the global big banks and finance houses, which incidentally are all run by Jews, to do just that. What they plan to do is gradually take over the world by controlling the press and the world’s money markets, and we’re simply sleepwalking along with their plans. The credit crunch was simply the Jews tightening their grip on world banking. Our organisation’s trying to wake people up to this.”

  I’d pointed out there was little evidence for what he’d said, to which he’d replied with a chilling statement: “Well, it just goes to show how good they are at covering up their real motives, then, doesn’t it? The fact you can’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

  I felt like that now. I couldn’t see this thing but, after two car bombs and one dead body, I knew it existed.

  I needed a place to start and, almost immediately, I had an idea. I spent the next few minutes trawling through the family details of someone I was about to pay a surprise visit to. Afterwards, I put my idea to Smitherman and he told me to follow it up, so long as the provisos he mentioned were stressed and accepted.

  *

  Charles Doyle was cleaning the downstairs windows of his house as I parked. He stopped cleaning and shook his head when he saw me. His expression suggested he wasn’t at all surprised but neither was he pleased at my return visit.

  “Again, Inspector?” He almost smiled.

  “Thanks for the promotion, but it’s just Detective Sergeant for the moment.”

  He put the bucket down and went into the house. I followed him into his kitchen and sat down by the breakfast bar without being invited to. He sat in his usual chair facing me. From his placid exterior, his soft Irish brogue and his almost sanguine expression, if you weren’t aware of who he was and what he believed in, he could have been your local bank manager waiting to talk about your request for extending your overdraft. I dispensed with any preliminaries and leapt in.

  “The two bombs I mentioned Saturday? We now know for certain they’re the work of some IRA sleeper cell which, for reasons we don’t yet know, has been reactivated now.”

  “You’re sure about this?” he asked calmly.

  “Very sure. Everything about the two bombs, right down to the components used, their design and the presence of Semtex, suggests this is the work of someone in, or attached to, some dissident offshoot of the Provos.” I said this slowly, emphasising the key points.

  Doyle sat impassively, taking in what was said.

  “Now,” I said, “in the current climate, with groups like Muearada and Red Heaven still capable of causing havoc, and with what London’s been through in recent times, public sympathy with anyone involved in terrorism, no matter how justified they t
hink their cause is, or whichever deity they believe they’re serving, or how many virgins they think await them at the golden gates, is not exactly plentiful on the ground at the moment. So, if the IRA has decided now’s the time to start planting bombs again, it hasn’t exactly chosen the most propitious time to do so.”

  He didn’t respond. He kept his counsel, pursing his lips and nodding whilst he listened.

  “You and I,” – I pointed between us – “neither of us is stupid, and we both know what the consequences’ll be, both here and in Northern Ireland, if any offshoot of the IRA reverts to planting bombs here on the mainland, don’t we? You may well not like the peace process, and hate the fact of power sharing, and you probably hate Adams and McGuinness because you think you’ve been sold down the river, but the majority of people in Northern Ireland won’t readily forgive you if the IRA drags the country back into a civil war situation. And let’s not even think about what the Unionists’ response will be to the IRA going to war again. Paisley may not be around any longer, but his ghost and his footsoldiers still are, and they still believe the same things as he did.”

  I paused for a moment to let my words sink in. Doyle was nodding sagely.

  “You should also consider the fact there’s a whole new younger generation in Northern Ireland, probably thirty-five and under, who’ve grown up knowing nothing but peace and coexistence. They’re still Catholics and Protestants but they largely get along with each other now, and do you really think they’re gonna welcome the Provos back with open arms? You really need to talk to your political strategists again if you believe that.”

  I paused to let my works penetrate his consciousness. He’d shown no response to anything I’d said, but I knew he’d heard everything. You didn’t become someone like Charles Doyle by ignoring what was said to you, even by someone you probably disliked.

  “Also, with the current legislation relating to terrorism,” I went on, “you’d be inside before you could even draw your next breath. Any new bombing campaign starting up now, every leading republican we know about’ll be hauled in, which includes you. You know how long we could hold you for, incommunicado, without telling anyone where you are, don’t you?”

  He was nodding slowly to himself. This meant he was thinking. I gave him a few more moments to think.

  “So, I’m offering you the chance to do yourself a favour.”

  He stared directly at me for several seconds. His expression was hard to read and I wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

  “And what favour might that be?” he finally said. Was that a smile?

  “I’m not gonna ask you directly what you know, because we both know you’d say nothing, but if you know anything at all about what occurred recently, anything whatsoever,” I emphasised, “and can give us even a hint as to where to begin looking, we’d look very favourably on you and your dwindling little band of brothers.”

  I looked him directly in the eye as I spoke. He held my stare. He knew I was serious about what I was asking.

  “Alternatively, you could ask a few questions amongst your republican friends. They’d certainly talk to you about it if they knew anything. We wanna know anything you can find, no matter how small, about this new wave of bombings. You get in our good graces, you’ll be doing yourself a massive favour.”

  He sat back in his chair and, from the expression in his eyes, appeared to be looking beyond me, staring into the far distance. During interrogations, I usually wondered what people saw when they did this, but, on this occasion, I didn’t care what he was seeing. It was time to play my ace and regroup his thoughts.

  “To show you how serious we are about this, I’ve got an incentive for you, something to think about alongside what I’ve just told you. I did a little digging before I came here and found out a few things. Your son Rory, he got nine years a year ago for causing death by dangerous driving, driving his taxi whilst he was rat-arsed drunk and crashing into that parked van, killing his two passengers. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “I can put in a good word, get him moved to a prison in London so you don’t have to travel up to Durham to visit him, as I know you’ve been doing since he went inside. Train travel on Virgin’s really expensive, isn’t it? And, like everything Virgin provides, it’s a crappy service, trains dirty, never on time and all that. Factor in one night in a Travelodge, and even with your senior citizen’s railcard, each visit’s gotta be costing you at least £120. You’ve been going twice a month. That’s quite a chunk out of your pension. So, think how much you’d save if he were down here in London, and only a tube ride away.”

  Doyle’s eyes lit up. I’d struck a chord with him.

  “Now, if you could get him released—” Doyle began to say.

  “Uh-uh, no chance,” I cut him off. “He killed two people being drunk in charge of a moving vehicle, he stays inside, but I can see about getting him relocated to London. That’s the only offer on the table.”

  He looked disappointed. I continued.

  “Also, your niece Shelia’s in Holloway, isn’t she? Fifteen months for defrauding social security out of several thousand pounds. She’s not a threat to society, and I can take steps to start the process of getting her released and for her to get custody of her kids again.”

  He looked surprised.

  “Yeah, I can put in good words for both people, but,” I stressed, “you gotta help us first. No help, no deal, and they both serve their full term where they are.”

  He looked thoughtful for a few moments, then stood up. I did the same.

  “Think about what I’ve just said.” He didn’t respond. “But don’t take too long. This offer has a very limited lifespan.”

  I followed him out the house and walked back to my car. He watched me drive away.

  I’d not been naïve enough to believe Charles Doyle was going to respond straight away. He’d had enough experience of police on both sides of the Irish Sea to say nothing when being directly questioned. I didn’t like him very much – in fact, I didn’t like him at all – but I knew he wasn’t stupid. He’d not survived as long as he had by being stupid. I also knew he’d think long and very carefully about what I’d just said to him. Officially, the IRA was still at peace with the world, so any resumption of a bombing campaign risked damaging that already fragile peace, not to mention alienating whatever support the IRA had in the international community. But I also knew Doyle loved his family. He’d been in court when his son had been sentenced, and he’d looked distraught. I’d given him much to consider.

  It could very well be that he didn’t know anything about the two bombs going off, and was as surprised as everyone else at being told of IRA bombs in London. His aging group of republicans were now mainly a talking shop, with little stomach for armed conflict at their ages. But he had contacts and sources in the republican community the security services would kill for. If anyone could find out anything at all which could help us, it’d be Doyle.

  Driving back, a message came through informing me the mysterious Dick had been located by Dorset police and had talked about what he’d seen on the night Cormac McGreely and his family had supposedly perished, and a transcript was waiting for me. I flicked the switch on the siren and increased my speed.

  *

  Dick was actually a nickname. His name was Lester Dickson and he was now in his mid-thirties, married with a small child. Police had found him living in Ilchester, near Yeovil, and he’d willingly agreed to make a statement about the events of the fateful night.

  His statement began with his saying why he’d been where he was that evening. He was seeing the wife of one of his work colleagues and they’d parked up where they had because, even in the advancing twilight, the view across the Dorset countryside was breathtaking, but primarily because they’d wanted to get it on. I didn’t care why he was there. I wanted his version of what he’d seen.

  He went on to say, as it was getting dark, he and hi
s female companion had parked off-road, up on top of a ridge. After a while they’d seen a car pulling up at a layby further back along the A37. This wasn’t unusual. It was a popular stopping-off point as there was a public convenience right alongside it. The car had remained stationary for several minutes, then its door had opened and someone had exited from the car. Asked from where in the car, he’d said it was the front passenger side. He couldn’t tell if it was an adult or not, being so far away. A short time later the car had resumed heading north on the A37, and he’d been convinced the person who’d exited from the car hadn’t got back in. He admitted he had wondered why anyone would get out of a car in the gathering darkness and not return to the vehicle, as there didn’t appear to be any other vehicles around.

  From where he and his lady had parked, they could see the red taillights of the car driving away in the dark heading north and, in the distance, the headlights of another car travelling south, which had just appeared over the top of a slope in the road. The car driving north up the slope picked up speed and was being driven erratically, swerving across the road. He said he remembered saying to Emma, the woman he’d been getting it on with, “That prat’s gonna have an accident if he keeps driving like that.”

  Several moments later – he estimated around twenty to thirty seconds – the car driving north began to pick up speed, and then put its fullbeams on, which would have dazzled the driver of the other vehicle. The driver’d then swerved across the road and driven straight towards the advancing vehicle, which had turned away as the other car approached. For those few seconds he admitted to being horrified as he knew a crash was certain to happen. He admitted shouting, “What the hell’s this bastard doing?”