by David Hough
“You think we’ve drawn lucky this morning?” Will asked as they raced closer to the holding centre.
“I’d lay money on Fitzpain being the killer, Will. Apart from that, I feel like a bit of exercise.”
“Is that what this is all about? Is that the real reason why you wanted this interview?”
“It might just the sort of distraction I need to get me into a better mood.”
“Do you need that, boss? Do you need something to improve your mood?”
McIlroy choked loudly and then spoke in a tremulous voice. “She left me, Will. After all these years, she left me two days ago. She packed a few cases and she walked out, and she took our daughter with her.” He stared straight ahead as if unable to face his junior.
“You mean…? Your wife and…”
“Boyle.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The tension that had been tainting the air at North Castle Street suddenly became markedly clearer. Will had never met his boss’s wife but he knew she was ten years younger than Tom. Was that the problem? A younger woman who wasn’t averse to spreading her favours around? A superintendent who was easily taken in?
Curiosity made him ask, “What’s she like, boss. Your missus?”
A loud snort preceded McIlroy’s reply. “What’s she like? I’ll tell you what she’s like, Will. She has this T-shirt with big red writing across her breast. It says Down below is even better. She flaunts it in front of other men because she knows it gets up my nose. An obscene T-shirt! I ask you. That’s what she’s like. Mind you, she always was that way inclined, even before we were married.”
“So why did you marry her?”
“Because there was a time when down below really was even better.” He let out a long sigh. “Let’s leave it at that for the moment. I may decide to relieve my feelings on that bastard of an IRA murderer.”
“Better you take it out on him rather than the Super. Boyle could have you disciplined.”
“And risk the whole thing going public? Have the Chief Constable learn that Boyle is shagging my wife? I don’t think he’d want that. But you’re right. Better I take it out on Fitzpain.”
Will felt a sudden burst of resentment. This wasn’t the way to handle things. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You know you’ll get nothing out of Fitzpain, nothing at all, but you need to take out your anger on someone.”
“Of course I’ll get nothing out of him, and I’ll have to let him go, but at least let me enjoy the experience of putting the wind up the bastard.”
“Is that fair?”
“Shut up, Will. Fitzpain can take what’s coming to him. He’s no innocent.”
Will knew exactly what he meant. McIlroy was well-built, six foot four, a judo black belt and a keen heavyweight boxer. He would know how to hold his own if an interview got rough. Interviews often got rough at Castlereagh. Both Republican and Loyalist suspects sometimes had to be taken to the Mater Hospital.
“Looks like Jimmy Fish might have come good on both counts this morning,” Will said, suddenly anxious to change the subject and moderate the anger.
He called to mind their office where McIlroy had a series of black and white photographs pinned to the wall. The top one showed Seamus Twomey, the bookie’s runner who was the Provisional IRA’s Belfast Brigade Commander. It was a good quality photo taken at a Sinn Fein conference by an undercover agent. He was shown wearing a grim expression that could have been interpreted as determination. Looking at the picture, Will could see why they called him Thumper because of his short temper and his habit of thumping his fist on the table in any argument. Farther down the wall came the middlemen, the links between the Provisional IRA’s hierarchy and the ground troops; hard men like Brian Fitzpain. McIlroy had long complained about how much he wanted to pin something conclusive on Fitzpain.
“Is there anything personal in this?” Will asked as they drew close to the holding centre. “Not your argument with the Super. I mean your interest in Fitzpain.”
“You could say that.” McIlroy took a red light at speed, narrowly avoiding a bus. “One of my cousins was killed by an IRA bomb two years ago. Rumours say Fitzpain was involved.”
“Proof?” Will asked.
“Of course not. When do we ever get proof? You know as well as I do that rumour is all we ever have to go on until someone blows the whistle. Well, this time the whistle may have been blown by Jimmy Fish.”
“A hint of a whistle. I hope Jimmy’s right.”
“I’m counting on it.” McIlroy finally slowed the car as they came in sight of the holding centre. He pulled up outside the sangar where their identity cards were checked before the gate was opened. The RUC fortress was a large brick building enclosed in a wire mesh shield.
“This is where we either get lucky or we go home in tears,” McIlroy said as he switched off the engine.
Anticipation filled Will’s head as they passed through further security and hurried into the building. Would Jimmy Fish’s tip-off prove reliable?
“Your visitor’s down in the cells,” they were told by the custody sergeant when they reported at the front desk.
“Behaving like…?” McIlroy asked. It was always useful to get an idea of the suspect’s state of mind and behaviour before confronting him.
“Like he’s the king of the shitehouse,” the sergeant said. “He probably knows you’ll get nothing out of him.”
McIlroy grinned. “Oh, dear. What a pity to disappoint him.”
Will had been inside the holding centre only twice before, but he had never been actively engaged in an interrogation there. This could be his crunch moment. How would he react when faced with the man believed to have killed Johnny Dunlop? Would he be able to cope if things got rough? He knew well enough that the gloves came off often in here.
McIlroy took him to one side before they went any further. “This is not going to be an easy interview, Will. It’s almost certain I’ll need to use a bit of slap and tickle on this one, and none too gently. You’re a good man and you’re a Catholic, so I’m giving you the chance to stand aside now if you choose.”
“Because I’m a Catholic?”
“So is Fitzpain. In theory.”
“How rough will it get?” Will asked. Indecision filled his mind.
“I’ll use whatever’s needed to try to get the truth out of the bastard.”
“He’s unlikely to crack.”
“You’re right. He’s a ruthless killer, we both know that, and it looks almost certain he killed John Dunlop. And whatever I do he’ll deny everything and walk free. That’s a foregone conclusion. And then he’ll kill again. I don’t want that to happen, but it’s the likely outcome. So I’ll give him a bit of slap and tickle to ease my mind.” He paused. “It’s up to you, Will. Do you want to continue… or wait in the canteen?”
“I’ll stick with you.”
McIlroy nodded. “Remember that I gave you a choice.”
Will gritted his teeth. His reservations were strong, but he wanted to see Fitzpain put away, for John Dunlop’s sake as well as for the other policemen he was certain Fitzpain had killed. He readied himself mentally.
He had seen Provisional IRA killers brought in for questioning at North Castle Street; men and women. Some, the weaker ones, would literally shit their pants even before the interrogations began. They were easily disposed of. Others, the hardened criminals, tried to brazen it out with blatantly offensive behaviour. One man pulled out his dick and pissed across the interview table. Another, a twenty stone woman with the menacing stance of a Nazi concentration camp guard, spat in Will’s face before pulling up her skirt and masturbating herself. It was her way of saying, “You can’t fuck around with me!”
It was funny, Will thought, that the IRA brain didn’t seem to function quite like a human brain. It took him and McIlroy several days to wear down that woman with intense interrogation. Eventually, she admitted to planting a bomb in a Loyalist pub, killing six innocent people. But
this interrogation was going to outclass anything he had yet witnessed, and he knew that some physical force would be needed if Fitzpain was to be persuaded to talk.
They signed in, surrendered their weapons and were given name badges. Then they were taken by the custody sergeant down a long green corridor where an overhead fluorescent light flickered like a Morse signal light. Finally down the stairs to the basement where Fitzpain was held. A foul smell greeted them, emanating from the line of occupied cells. It indicated an unholy mixture of fear and defiance. The fearful prisoners would talk, and the defiant ones would not.
Fitzpain glared at them as they approached. He jabbed a finger at Will and hissed through the bars. “So, ’tis youse, Detective Evans! Ye’re a Welsh turncoat, a traitor, so youse are. I know where youse lives, an’ all. Know where youse goes to church, so I do. Youse’ll pay for this!”
“That’s a threat you might regret,” Will replied easily. But, behind the façade, he feared for his family. Yet again, he recalled Milly’s threat to leave and never come back to Belfast. Maybe she was right. The idea grew more powerful in his mind.
“Two nice little girls, youse got, Detective Evans. And yer missus has a nice pair o’ tits on ’er, so she has.” Fitzpain continued to show no fear. “Youse better tell yer wife and kids to watch their backs. They’ll be dead meat one day soon.”
Fitzpain’s eyes blazed with hatred.
“Enough of that!” The custody sergeant unlocked the cell door and gestured the prisoner out. “You’d better shut your foul mouth, Fitzpain. Threats like that will get you nowhere in here.”
But the threats continued as they escorted him upstairs to a windowless interview room.
“He’s all yours and good luck, sir,” the custody sergeant said. He walked away and a uniformed constable arrived to stand guard by the door while Fitzpain slumped down onto a hard chair in front of the solitary table.
His manner was pure defiance. “I want to see a solicitor.”
“Request refused.” McIlroy set down his heavy bulk directly opposite him. Will took a seat alongside the senior officer, ready to take notes.
Fitzpain remained adamant. “You can’t refuse me.”
McIlroy stared at him with an impassive expression. “I can and you know it. Prevention of Terrorism Act. You’re not in some prissy English country village police station now. This isn’t something out of a Miss Marple book. This is real life and you’re in Belfast in the middle of a civil war. The rules are different here. You’ll get exactly what we give you.”
“Which is?”
“My fist in your face if you give me one more ounce of trouble.”
“Damn youse to hell!” Fitzpain leaned across the table and stabbed a finger at McIlroy. “I know where youse lives Detective McIlroy. Youse’d better watch yer back in future. Especially yer missus.”
“Meaning?” McIlroy hissed through teeth tightly gritted.
“Fancy going to yer missus’s funeral, do youse? I can arrange it.”
McIlroy sighed long and deep. He turned to the constable. “Would you please go along to the canteen to get me a cup of tea?”
The constable nodded and left. He would know the score well enough. No witnesses for what happened next.
When the door slammed shut behind the constable, McIlroy stretched his left arm across the table and grabbed at Fitzpain’s hand. Without a word he suddenly dragged the IRA man towards him. The detective’s eyes blazed for a moment and then his right arm swung between the two men with such speed that Will was taken by surprise.
Fitzpain shrieked loudly when McIlroy’s fist smashed into him. He jerked himself free and slid backwards, clasping both hands to his face.
“Bastard!” Blood trickled from his nose and his lips.
Will shrank back in alarm. His vision suddenly blurred, and he wobbled in his seat. The sounds within the room became muted, as if he was hearing through a blanket. He grabbed at the table to steady himself. Damn! The knock-on-the-head trouble again.
“You all right?” McIlroy’s voice broke through the muffling.
“Yeah. Of course.” He tried to sound sure of himself. He wiped at his eyes. The scene swam back into focus. The sounds sharpened.
“Right.” McIlroy drew himself upright in his seat and scowled at Fitzpain. “Now let’s get down to business. Where were you between nine o’clock and midnight last night?”
“Piss off.” Fitzpain ran one hand across his blooded lips, testing the damage.
“Oh dear. The message hasn’t sunk in, has it?” McIlroy turned towards Will. “Shall I knock his teeth out, or will you?”
Will shivered, wondering if he should have taken the offer to back out from this interrogation. He told himself he could not show any compassion towards the IRA man. Any sign of weakness would only give Fitzpain the upper hand. He understood that well enough, but the desire to be somewhere else now held a firm place inside his head.
“You’re doing well enough without any help from me,” he said and hoped he sounded assured in his assessment.
“I think I can do even better,” his boss said. He leaned forward grabbed again at Fitzpain’s wrist and pulled sharply until the terrorist was sprawled across the table. Then he delivered a karate ‘leopard blow’ to the soft area of the man’s inner arm.
Fitzpain squealed in pain. “Bastard!”
McIlroy kept hold of his wrist, squeezing it tightly. “Want me to do that again, do you? Tell me how you killed Constable Dunlop last night.”
“’Twasn’t me, damn youse! I didn’t kill the bastard.”
“We’ve an informant who says you did.”
“He’s lying!”
“So, who did it?” McIlroy squeezed tighter. “Tell me before I break your bones.”
“Piss off!”
McIlroy gritted his teeth. “Detective Constable Dunlop was stabbed in the chest and you’re quite adept with a knife, aren’t you? You know how to kill with a blade, don’t you?”
“But I didn’t kill ’im. I didn’t kill the peeler.”
“So, who did it? You’d better stop lying because I’m giving you just one last chance, Fitzpain. Then there’s gonna be one helluva loud snap as I break your arm.”
“I don’t know who knifed him! I told youse I wasn’t there when he was killed. And that’s the truth!”
Will studied the Provo man’s face. “If you’re lying...”
“I’m not lying. A knife youse says? I’d gladly shake the hand of whoever did that.”
“Whose hand would you shake? Give me a name.”
“Father Christmas.”
“Try again, Fitzpain.”
“Mrs Christmas. I’d shake her hand ‘cos she knows I done nothing’.”
“You did nothing.”
“See, even you agree.”
“All right. That’s enough for now.”
The door opened and the constable entered with a cup of tea which he placed in on the table. McIlroy picked up the cup, sipped at it and then gestured to the officer. “Tell the custody sergeant to take this man back to the cell. Let him stew for a while.”
It all seemed so inconclusive, no admission of guilt and no clues about who might have been involved in the murder. Will felt cheated, but he said nothing until they left the building.
“What now, Boss?” They stood beside McIlroy’s car.
McIlroy pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up. “We let him stew for a while, like I said. So, what did you learn from that?” He offered the pack to Will.
Will thought deeply as he lit a cigarette. He let out a long stream of smoke before he replied. “Nothing positive. He wasn’t going to confess.”
McIlroy looked pensive. “Of course he wasn’t going to confess… never was going to… and we’d have to find more evidence before we could charge him.” He gave a sudden cold laugh. “But I enjoyed putting a bit of fear into him.”
“Jimmy Fish suggested he did it,” Will said as they finally got into the
car.
His cigarette had a good few puffs left in it, but McIlroy threw it away through the open car window and started the engine. “Maybe Jimmy’s mistaken, or maybe he’s been lying to us. But Fitzpain is giving nothing away and we’ll not pin this one on him without more evidence. And we’re not going to find that evidence while we’re sitting in the room talking to him, are we? We’ll let him cool down a bit and think about his evil life. Then I’ll have to let him go.”
“With the agreement of the Oldpark guys.”
“They’ll agree. They know the score.”
The car was now racing back through the city.
“There’s no other way of dealing with Fitzpain?” It was the first time Will had seen McIlroy give up so quickly in a line of investigation. What was wrong with him? Was the trouble with his wife affecting his judgement?
McIlroy shrugged. “I told you before we started that letting him go was on the cards. Dammit! We don’t have the evidence, Will!”
“He must have done it!” Will sensed a moment of pure exasperation. Intuition told him Fitzpain was the killer and his intuition rarely let him down.
“Don’t argue with me.” The stern look on McIlroy’s face said more than his words.
“But we can charge him with something, surely. How about being a member of the IRA?”
“On what evidence? If it went to court, Sinn Fein would provide him with a tame lawyer who’d prove beyond doubt that Brian Fitzpain is more saintly than the Pope himself. Keeping him locked up is a waste of time, effort and money.”
“It keeps him off the streets.”
“And it also inspires his thugs to carry out more killings in protest. It’s counter-productive.”
Will searched desperately for an answer, even though he instinctively knew his boss was right. Actual guilt didn’t come into it, conclusive proof did.