“So what went wrong? Why’d you kill her?”
“Well, the baby’s born. I give the midwife a thousand quid, tell her to keep her mouth shut, everything’s fine. Wee baby girl. We keep it for a couple of days, but then it’s time to give the little bairn away, isn’t it? That’s part two of the plan. Lucy comes back from Dublin, moves in with her parents for a bit, all is forgiven … But nobody can know she was ever pregnant. Too many questions. So I take the bairn and leave it in a stolen car in the Royal Victoria Hospital car park. I call them up and I watch them come out, look in the window and take the poor wee thing away. I suppose we were lucky they didn’t think it was a bomb and blow the car up!”
He started laughing at that.
“So they took your daughter away,” I said loudly to stop his cackling.
“Aye, ok, my daughter, big deal. Maybe if it had been a wee boy … but that’s another story, isn’t it?”
“Did you tell MI5 about Lucy?”
“Why would I do a thing like that? They’d go crazy.”
“It’s quite the game you’re playing, isn’t it, Freddie? Deceiving your handlers, deceiving Sinn Fein … I’m amazed that you could keep it all together.”
“A lesser man would have cracked.”
“So what happened next, Freddie? After you gave the baby away?”
“So then I get back from the RVH and she’s acting very strange. This is the climax of the hunger strikes, you understand. Bobby Sands is in the ground just a couple of days before and it’s my busy time. We’re all running round like mad things, driving people places, doing interviews with American TV. I’m protecting the top guys, doing this, doing that, getting orders from Tommy Little as well as my regular press job. Running myself ragged from morning till night and every time I get home it’s yap yap yap, where’s my girl? Boo fucking hoo. And then she starts with the yelling and the screaming, ‘You’re this and you’re that’ and I give her a wee slap or two just to get that noise out of my head. And then she’s really bawling. It does your head in that stuff. I’m going for a drive, says I, you better get your fucking act together.”
“Something happened then, didn’t it? After you hit her and left the house.”
“Something happened all right.”
“You go for a drive and she … what? She starts rummaging in your stuff looking for a gun to shoot you with when you come back. But instead of finding a gun she finds … something more interesting.”
“Oh, you’re good, Duffy.”
“She finds checks from MI5? A book of contacts?”
“Very good. It was receipts. Those incompetent fools make me get receipts for everything. I had an envelope full of receipts and I had them all itemised for my handlers. And she finds them and she doesn’t really know what it all means. But she knows it’s not good.”
“She finds the receipts and she knows you’re an informer.”
“She’s gotta turn me in, but I suppose she’s worried that we’ll both go down for it. Both of us dead in some border sheugh with a bullet in the brain. So she calls up Tommy Little. She tells him to meet her at my house and she gets Tommy to promise not to tell a soul about it until he talks to her.”
“And Tommy is surprised to hear from her cos he thinks she’s in Dublin or dead or whatever, so of course he comes,” I said. “So what happened when you got back from your drive?”
“Tommy parked his car in a layby a little further down from the house, so I waltzed into the kitchen expecting Lucy to have made me a cake as a way of apologizing and there’s Tommy Little, my bloody boss at the FRU, standing there with her. He must have just got there a couple of minutes before me. ‘How do you explain all this?’ he asks holding up the receipts. ‘Like this,’ says I and I pull out my Glock and shoot him in the chest. Jesus! What an eejit. I mean, what is he doing standing there in my kitchen like that? He must have heard the car. If it was me I’d have been out the back door and into the woods. Instead he had to be a hero, had to confront me!”
“What about Lucy?”
“Lucy. Jesus. She’s another eejit. She’s screaming her head off and I put my hand over her mouth to shut her the fuck up and she’s fighting me and I’m covering her mouth and she’s still screaming. Christ! The lungs on her. ‘Who else did you tell?’ I ask her and she says only Tommy and I give her the old one two in the gut and she’s screaming again. So I can’t take it no more. ‘Give my head peace!’ says I and I locked her in my elbow and choked her to death.”
He was exhausted by this little speech and he reached over for his bottle of Peroni. I shook my head. No beer bottles. Nothing he could throw.
“What did you do next?”
“You’re me, what would you do?” Freddie asked.
“You tell me.”
“Well, you have two options. The first is that you pull the plug. You call the boys in County Down and they come and-”
“The boys in County Down?”
“MI5!”
“Oh, I see.”
“They come and you tell them what’s happened and they parachute you out. And I’m fucking living in some godawful Sydney suburb for the next forty years getting skin cancer and trying to acquire an interest in rugby league. I’m a low priority agent so there’s no secret knighthood or a million a year retirement salary for me.”
“Couldn’t they just clean it up for you? Fix everything.”
He shook his head and smiled condescendingly. “You’re a bit simple, aren’t you, Duffy? At that stage I was only a cog in the machine. A cog that’s just killed Tommy Little and a hunger striker’s wife! Tommy they might give me at a squeeze but not Lucy and certainly not both of them. Saluta Jesus da parte mia! as they say in these parts. Thank you for your services, Freddie, now here’s your ticket for Australia, don’t call us, we’ll call you. And, hell, maybe they’ll even chuck me in prison. Who knows? Perfidious Albion and all that!”
“So what was the second option?”
“Get rid of the bodies. Make like I never saw them. Rub out all connection with them. Just go on with my life, oblivious. Pity about Lucy but them’s the bloody breaks.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Yeah. And I’ve done it before. You saw off the hands, saw off the head, bury the torso in a bog, dissolve the head and hands in HCL. Piss easy.”
“What went wrong?”
“Well, I’m literally just done killing Lucy. Like, not even time to make a cup of tea and I get a call from Ruari McFanagh. He’s the chief of northern command. Number Two in the Army Council. (That’s just between us, by the way.) So he asks me if Tommy came by. Tommy was a cautious cove, he stopped at a call box and told Ruari he had business at Billy White’s and then he was on his way over to see me. And I said, ‘Tommy didn’t come over here, did he say what it was about, Ruari?’ And Ruari says no and nobody can reach him. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I have no idea where he is, I’m just in myself.’ So he says ok and he hangs up the phone and literally a minute later it rings again and it’s Lee Caldwell. Lee is the IRA Quartermaster for Down and Armagh and he asks me if I could come to see him tomorrow morning about shipping a new lot of AK-47s up from Newry. So I say ok, no problem. But I know, I know. Tomorrow morning while I’m down at Lee’s place Ruari is going to have a couple of boys over, going through my house from top to bloody bottom.”
I understood. I understood it at all now. The necessity of doing everything quickly. Why he had to get rid of Tommy immediately. Why he had to get rid of Lucy as fast as he could. “Go on,” I said.
“So now what do I do? I’m fucked. They’re sending a couple of boys over to my place to suss me out. I’ve got seven or eight hours at the most. And the streets are full of rioters and army and peelers are everywhere and there’s checkpoints and roadblocks. So again I’m thinking: parachute your way out. Escape. Run.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. Because I am the alpha wolf. I am fucking Finn McCool.”
“You knew you could
outwit them?”
He was grinning at the memory of it. He was impressed by himself. “I had to think quickly. Nobody would buy an argument between me and Tommy or something crazy like an accidental discharge of my weapon. No way. They wouldn’t buy Tommy getting killed by the army, the cops, or the loyalists. Tommy’s a protected man and nobody’s killing him without starting World War Three.”
“So you thought outside the box.”
“The IRA high command is ultra-conservative. Tommy was a queer, everybody knew it and they didn’t like it. Tommy was only tolerated because he was very good at his job. Tommy was the best of us. But he was vulnerable because he was a poofter. I mean, who knows what they get up to?”
“So you killed him to make it look like that?”
“The queer angle was my lifeline. He had to be meeting someone before he met me and that someone was a queer pal and that queer pal killed him. That was the story I was going to go with. No, sorry lads, never heard from Tommy, don’t know where he is. And then Tommy’s body shows up. Some sicko’s killed him. Shock, horror!”
“You had to make it weird.”
“Something to get the lace curtains twitching. Something to get you coppers all in a tizzy. And then I thought why not a serial killer? Tommy is just the first in a series of victims. The IRA Army Council is not even going to want to think about that. A serial killer going around shooting queers? How dare he take publicity away from the hunger strikers? How dare Tommy get himself mixed up in this disgusting business?”
“So you realized you were going to have to kill Andrew Young too?”
He sighed. “Andrew Young was the only other queer I knew. I’d seen him at the record shop and at the Carrick festival. Nice enough fella but a bender and so he had to die, poor sod. I had eight hours. The clock was ticking. I mean, first things first. I carried Lucy deep into Woodburn Forest. I hung her from a tree and I left her ID at her feet so everybody would know who she was. I wasn’t worried about her at all. Her husband’s on hunger strike, she’s run away from home, she’s feeling guilty, your pathologist is going to find out that she gave birth, more guilt, guilt, guilt. That’s the Irish condition. So that’s an easy one.”
“And you’re not worried because there’s no link to you.”
“Right. Nobody knew about us! Nobody. We were so careful. Only the midwife and I already told you about her. Anyway I hung Lucy, went back to the house, removed all traces of her from the place and burned all her clothes in the incinerator out the back. Even hosed down the ashes and scooped them out.”
“And then you cut off Tommy’s hand and put the note up in his rectum?”
“Did you like that? I had to link him to Young. Make you peelers think this was a sex crime. More importantly, make the IRA and FRU think it was a sex crime.”
“Why not cut his dick off?”
“I considered cutting his dick off and swapping his dick with Andrew’s dick, but then I wondered if your patho would spot that, you know? One dick looks pretty much like another. And hands have fingerprints, so I settled for his hand. I cut his hand off and shot him in the head. I took the hand, got in the car and drove to Young’s house in Boneybefore.”
“How did you know his address?”
“He was in the phone book like you. Anyway, I park the car. Knock on his door, check there’s no one around. Knock, knock, knock. Finally he opens the door. I ask him if he’s alone. He says yes, I shoot him in the forehead with my silenced Glock and push him into the hall. Then it’s out with the old hacksaw. I leave Tommy’s hand with him and I take his. I knew you boys would eat up the stuff about the music so I left another wee note. I’m in and out of Young’s house in two minutes flat. He could have had the Vienna Boys Choir upstairs and I wouldn’t have known about it.”
I nodded. “It was easy after that. You drove Tommy’s body to Barn Field where it would be discovered fairly soon. Then you went down to your meeting with the quartermaster in Newry while the FRU boys searched your house and found nothing.”
“That’s right. Easy. I burned and buried everything: receipts, women’s clothes, the whole shebang. Drove Tommy’s car deep into the woods, torched that. They searched the house and they found nothing. I was as clean as a whistle. So they told me afterwards when I became their boss.”
“What about me? Carrick CID?”
“I needed to get that serial-killer angle running as quickly as possible so I found out your name from your switchboard and the address was easy.”
“The stuff you wrote on the postcard was just meaningless? Right? Like the list?”
“Of course. Just random shit off the top of my head.”
“I spent days looking at that bloody thing.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Then what?”
“And then I went and took care of Martha.”
“Martha?”
“The midwife!”
“You killed her?”
“Of course. I had to. She knew everything.”
“And then I just waited for twenty-four hours cos I knew that when it all came out I would be in the clear. Tommy got mixed up with some queer nutcase, poor old Tommy.”
“What about the others? The bar in Larne?”
“Hell, yeah. I knew I had to do maybe one or two more attacks just to establish the pattern. You boys love your patterns.”
“After you typed that hit list you got rid of the Imperial 55?”
“Nice work tracing the typewriter. I knew you would, though, so, aye, of course I got rid of it. Thought about planting it in your man Seawright’s office, but that was only a passing fancy.”
I sighed. “You got us excited, Freddie. We finally thought we had an ordinary, decent killer on our hands.”
Freddie laughed. “Yeah. I got you jumping. Patterns. Codes. Once I had the time I read up on the Yorkshire Ripper and the Zodiac killer and I …”
I stopped listening.
Of course there were more questions: the phone calls, the hoaxes, was it all part of the smoke trail or did he just enjoy messing with us? But none of that mattered.
It all seemed so distant now.
It was like events that had happened long ago in another age.
He talked and I pretended to listen and finally his mouth stopped moving.
He was looking at me. He had asked me a question.
“Sorry?” I said.
“Did MI5 contact you after the hospital?” he wondered.
“Yes, just a few days ago,” I replied.
“Aye, that’s when they pulled me in for questioning. I told them everything of course. By then I knew it was ok. It didn’t matter how close you got. I had been appointed head of FRU. I knew I was safe. They needed me. I am the head of IRA’s internal security. Can you imagine it? The head of IRA internal security is a British agent! The guy who’s in charge of investigating every informer, double agent, and piece of intel. What a joke!”
He leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. He was smiling again. It was a confident, infectious smile that I could not bring myself to hate. Even after all he had done.
“Why did you pick those particular pieces of music? Puccini and Orpheus?”
He shrugged. “I liked them. I played them on the piano.”
“And of course che gelida manina. Another joke, right?”
“I thought that was hilarious! Even with all the shit going down, that cracked me up. Of course I had the score for the piano and I hoped that you’d find out the words … I considered writing them in but I just didn’t have the bloody time. I knew a detective with time on his hands would really burrow into that. Go off on some fucking tangent, really think it was a devious psycho nutcase.”
“That I did.”
Freddie laughed. “That’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
“They weren’t clues? To Lucy? In La Boheme Mimi’s real name is Lucia.”
He seemed shocked. “God no! Lucy? The last thing I wanted was anybody thinking
about Lucy.”
I nodded. They were tells. Maybe I’d exaggerated them but they’d been tells none the less. If he hadn’t been rushed maybe he would have seen that.
“You were lucky, Freddie,” I said.
That ticked him off a little and his expression clouded. “No, you were lucky! Your government was lucky to get someone as sharp as me. Look at me! The head of FRU! Everything the IRA does for the next twenty years will be known about by me. And hence by your government. In advance. You were lucky!”
I reached in my pocket and took out the box of Italian cigarettes.
I lit one and blew smoke towards the ceiling,
I let the ash fall on the carpet.
Yes, we were lucky to have Freddie Scavanni on our side.
He had killed five people to protect his sorry ass.
He had killed dozens in a sordid career.
As head of FRU he would undoubtedly kill and torture dozens more.
He was a monster. He was a serial killer by any definition of the word. It didn’t matter if it was for politics or to protect his own skin. He was a sociopath.
He looked at me, and seemed a little worried. “What are you doing here, Duffy? They told me that they put the fear of God into you. They told me that the Sean Duffy problem was finished.”
“It’s not finished.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think so. I knew different. I knew that your sort can never see the big picture.”
“What’s the big picture, Tommy? The hunger strikes?”
“Of course. It’s a big victory. For both sides. Mrs Thatcher hasn’t publicly conceded anything to the IRA prisoners and her reputation as the Iron Lady has only become enhanced among the electorate. The martyrdom of ten IRA and INLA prisoners who starved themselves to death has been a recruiting poster for both organizations. They were desperate to find volunteers in the late ’70s and now they’re turning away men by the score. And there’s the political angle: Sinn Fein has shifted from being a minor political party of extremists into a major electoral force in Northern Ireland politics. The whole match has changed.”
“And you’re at the centre of it.”
“Damn right!”
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