I stared at the grass. Blinked slowly, drifted off to sleep for half a minute or so …
I opened my eyes again.
‘That’s odd,’ I said and went to examine a slight indentation in the sod. There appeared to be a footprint there, belonging to someone else’s foot. I bent down to look at it. Yes. A footprint and another one. Someone had come in over the hedge at some point in the last twenty-four hours. I measured my own shoe against it and this foot was smaller than mine by a full size. I threw away the joint and followed the footprints. The person had come in over the hedge, walked to my back door and found it locked. Upon discovering that, they’d retreated back over the fence again.
‘Ha,’ I said. ‘Everything’s going to hell. Even burglars have no persistence these days.’
I – foolishly as it turned out – dismissed the incident, went to bed, slept a solid eight, breakfasted, dressed, checked under the Beemer and drove to the station.
Sergeant Mulvenny saw me at the coffee machine, making a coffee-choc.
‘Heard you met Jimmy Savile?’
‘Aye, I did.’
‘Quite a week for you. Ali and Savile. Brilliant. What’s Savile like when he’s off the telly?’
‘He’s like an eclipse.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Shady as fuck.’
I carried the coffee-choc to my office. Good line. And definitely shady, yeah, but not, apparently, criminal.
Mabel was looking for me. ‘Inspector Duffy? Inspector Duffy?’
I came up behind her. ‘I’m here. What are your other two wishes?’
She laughed and then lowered her voice. ‘Chief Inspector’s looking for you.’
‘You haven’t seen me,’ I said.
But it was no good. He caught me as I was slipping into my office.
‘Duffy, I’ve got a job for you,’ he said.
‘A job? I’m sort of on a case, actually, sir. Bigelow: one more lead to follow up and then we can definitively call it.’
‘The reporter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you already had called it.’
‘Just one more lead to follow up and then I’ll wash my hands and let the DPP run it.’
‘Where’s this lead?’
‘You don’t want to know, sir.’
He looked at me intently. ‘Where’s the lead, Duffy? Not England again?’
‘The Eagle’s Nest. Mrs Dunwoody’s establishm–’
The Chief Inspector put up his hand. ‘You were right, Duffy. I don’t want to know.’
‘I’ll keep it discreet, sir.’
The Chief Inspector nodded, sighed. ‘They’ll never be back, of course, whole thing was a waste of time,’ he continued.
‘Sir?’
‘The phone factory. They won’t be coming here. Did you read the Irish Times this morning?’
‘Missed it.’
‘You have to keep abreast of current events. In this day and age it is vital for the modern police officer to keep abreast of current events.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make sure you pass that on to young Lawson.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anyway, it was in the paper this morning. Business section. Lennätin are building their factory in the Republic. Five hundred jobs in the first phase.’
‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘It was inevitable after everything that happened here. You know who’ll be on the blower later today?’
‘No, sir.’
‘If I’m lucky it’ll only be the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.’
‘And if you’re unlucky?’
‘Mrs bloody Thatcher … Gimme one of your cancer sticks.’
‘I’m attempting to give up, sir. I don’t have a pack on me.’
‘Some detective you are, Duffy. You stink of tobacco.’
‘Well, I might have a pack in my office.’
We retired to my office and the Chief Inspector sat in my chair.
‘Anyway about this job, Duffy. They shot a peeler up in Belfast this morning. Constable Pratt. Someone has to tell his ex-wife.’
‘Not me. I hate notifications.’
‘You, Duffy.’
A dreary, depressing notification, as all notifications were. Pratt had been shot with a partner while on foot patrol in the centre of Belfast. The two gunmen had shot both coppers simultaneously from behind and run off into the side streets. Headshots, close range, whole thing over in ten seconds. A neat job. The IRA were getting better at killing peelers and we were getting worse at catching killers.
We drove up to Sunnylands Estate, wading through the rubbish, gangs of feral children, donkeys and horses tied to car bumpers.
Mrs Pratt took it OK: a few tears, only a quarter-box of Kleenex.
‘Have youse told Dorothy yet?’ she asked bitterly.
‘Dorothy is the new wife?’ I guessed.
‘Aye. The fucking bitch. He met her at the Gospel Hall, if you can believe it.’
‘I can believe it.’
‘She was leading the Bible-study class. Bible study my foot! What about the Second Commandment, eh?’
‘Thou shalt not make a graven image?’ Crabbie said.
‘The adultery one!’
‘That’s the seventh,’ Crabbie explained.
‘I’ll bet she doesn’t even phone me, the wee hoor. Well I’m not phoning her, so I’m not,’ Mrs Pratt went on.
Notification over, McCrabban and I drove up the North Road towards the Eagle’s Nest. ‘At least she took it better than Mrs McBain. Did you see her at the funeral? Very upset,’ Crabbie said.
‘I missed Jo at the funeral. I must have been outside having a smoke.’
‘Helen was talking to her for a long time. They knew each other from church. Helen advised her to go back to work. Work is the cure, sometimes. She loves her job. Mrs McBain that is, not Helen.’
‘I saw her the night of the bombing. Holding up remarkably well, I thought. Better than when her dog went missing.’
‘Oh yeah, the dog, I remember that. People get very attached to their dogs. City people. People who’ve never had to shoot a dog.’
‘What was Jo McBain’s work? I don’t think I ever asked her,’ I said, to change the subject.
‘University lecturer. And she raised four children. Mostly by herself, what with Ed’s schedule. All of them successful. Working over the water.’
‘And McBain was no slouch either, except that one slip. Didn’t check under his car. Strange that, eh? Course that’s the one slip that always gets you, isn’t it? Ahh, here we are,’ I said, turning on to the semi-concealed private road that led up to the Eagle’s Nest, County Antrim’s most exclusive brothel. Prostitution was illegal everywhere on the island of Ireland, of course, but the Eagle’s Nest had been described as ‘paying off at a height so elevated you’d need Sherpas to come after them’. Mrs Dunwoody’s clientele included judges, politicians, senior civil servants and police officers of all ranks. Ahem.
‘Been here before, Crabbie?’ I asked, pulling up in front of the main house.
‘Of course not!’ Crabbie said, shocked.
‘Mrs Dunwoody is the lady running things. Don’t bully her. Hobnobs with the great and the good. You’d be surprised.’
‘Have you been out here before?’ Crabbie asked, deadpan.
‘On a case, for the Chief Inspector,’ I explained. ‘Bit of a hush-hush affair.’
‘I imagine so.’
Inside. A liveried butler, who showed us to an anteroom. Mrs Dunwoody recognising me immediately, but with masterful discretion showing no visible sign of it at all. I formally introduced ourselves and told her why we were here.
She ushered us into her office, which was a plain little room with a rather nice view up the lane to the woods at the foot of Knockagh Mountain.
‘Yes I read about that young lady reporter’s death. I heard you’ve arrested someone. A Scotsman.’
‘
Yes. We have. We’re pursuing a different aspect of the inquiry. Miss Bigelow seems to have come to the conclusion that the Finnish delegation visiting Carrickfergus may have been involved in some illegality.’
‘What sort of illegality?’
‘We’re investigating a possible paedophile link.’
Mrs Dunwoody rose to her feet simmering with rage. The red wig on her head seemed to be ablaze and all the goodwill from my last visit here had evidently evaporated. ‘I hope you’re not implying that anything like that goes on in my house! All my employees are over the age of 18 and can prove it.’
‘Mrs Dunwoody I’m implying no such thing. I merely would like you to tell me what the Finnish delegation got up to when it visited your establishment and if anyone happened to notice whether Lily Bigelow had followed them here.’
Mrs Dunwoody sat down again. ‘Miss Bigelow was never here! As if I would allow a reporter in my establishment!’
‘Could she have followed the delegation down the driveway and –’
‘That is quite impossible! Although we do not have a gate across our driveway entrance, we do have a gate lodge and it is manned twenty-four hours a day. Each car passing by the lodge is noted and the security attendant radios ahead so that we can prepare a welcome for our guests.’
‘And the Finns came alone?’
‘No, they were accompanied by another gentleman who used to be employed by the RUC.’
‘Yes, we know about Tony. Apart from the Finns and Mr McIlroy, was there anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Do you want to check your files or –’
‘I have a good memory, Inspector Duffy,’ she said, giving me a very significant look.
A young woman came in with tea and cake served on a silver tray. Mrs Dunwoody was ‘mother’ and poured us our tea. The cake was lemony and delicious and the tea wasn’t bad either.
‘So the Finnish delegation and Mr McIlroy?’ I said.
‘Mr McIlroy chose to wait in his car,’ Mrs Dunwoody said.
‘Yes that’s what he told us.’
‘There were two younger gentlemen, Nicolas and … let me think … Stefan … who went off with two of our young ladies. Everyone got along famously and they were well satisfied.’
‘And Mr Ek and Mr Laakso?’
‘Mr Laakso was introduced to all of our young ladies and our young men, but although charmed by what we had on offer, he did not feel inclined to partake.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He was an elderly gentleman and I assume he was rather tired by the burden of official engagements.’
‘And Ek?’ Crabbie asked, finally overcoming his embarrassment at being here in the first place.
‘I took it that Mr Ek was there as a minder for Mr Laakso and the two young gentlemen. He did not share in the custom of the house, either.’
‘So what did they do?’
‘Mr Laakso, Mr Ek, Sandra and myself played cards while we waited for Nicolas and Stefan. Mr Ek taught Sandra and myself a card game called Paskahousu.’
‘Paskahousu? Never heard of it,’ I said.
‘It is a Finnish game. Rather an amusing one. It means “shit pants” in Finnish. It is a little like Spit, or Dummy or Jack Changes. The object is to lose all one’s cards.’
‘So you played the game and talked?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Would it be indiscreet to ask what you talked about?’
‘Not at all. Mostly about the war, actually. You may not believe it, Inspector, but I remember the war vividly.’
‘Surely you were far too young, Mrs Dunwoody!’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I was a young girl when the American GIs came. I remember Hershey Bars and chewing gum and the big camp they had at Sunnylands. General Eisenhower came to visit once. Mr Ek’s experience was quite different.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Siege of Leningrad.’
‘It must have been awful. Starvation, constant shelling, the cold.’
Mrs Dunwoody looked at me as if I were an imbecile. ‘Mr Ek was one of the besiegers. He was on the German side.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, Ed McBain told me that,’ I said, the history of the Second World War not exactly my strong suit.
‘Mr Ek told stories that could turn your hair white. Well, not mine, obviously,’ she said, laughing and adjusting her wig.
‘What sort of stories?’ Crabbie asked.
‘Mr Ek said he was in a commando unit in the war. They would hunt the Russian soldiers at night. Skin them. Behead them. Quite the tales, he told. I think he made most of them up. Poor Sandra had nightmares.’
‘And when Stefan and Nicolas finished upstairs, everyone did what, exactly?’
‘They paid their bill and went home.’
‘Just as Mr McIlroy said,’ McCrabban pointed out.
‘No trouble with them at all?’
‘No.’
‘And no sign of a reporter?’
‘Absolutely not!’
I looked at Crabbie. He said nothing. I stood up.
‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Dunwoody. This was obviously something of a wild goose chase,’ I said.
‘Any time, Inspector Duffy,’ she said, somewhat mollified by our courtesy. I gave her my card. ‘If you can think of anything else relating to the visit by the Finns, or anything that might be pertinent to Lily Bigelow’s death, please give me a call.’
‘I’ll see you anon, Inspector,’ Mrs Dunwoody said, with a little squeeze of my hand.
Another well-dressed butler type showed us back to the car park.
It was lashing down, but the butler type had brought a massive black umbrella that kept us dry.
BMW back to Carrick.
Heavy rain.
Floods on the top road. Slow movement from the 7th on the radio.
‘What’s it all about, Crabbie?’
He stared at me with alarm. ‘What? Life you mean?’
‘Aye.’
‘Endeavour to discover the will of God,’ he said firmly.
‘And if there is no God?’
‘If there is no God, well, I don’t know, Sean. I just don’t know.’
I looked at him. As stolid a Ballymena Presbyterian as you could ask for. He’d do the right thing even if you could prove to him that there was no God. While the rest of us gave in to the inevitable, he’d be the last good peeler attempting to impose a little bit of local order in a universe of chaos.
Rain. Wind. The afternoon withering like a piece of fruit in an Ulster pantry. I made a sorry excuse for dinner, put on Joan Armatrading, made a vodka gimlet and went to bed with a book.
Phone ringing. Downstairs in my dressing gown, Che T-shirt, Liverpool FC pyjamas. ‘Hello?’
‘That one slip you were talking about, Sean,’ Crabbie said.
‘One slip?’
‘With McBain. He didn’t check under his car and that’s what killed him.’
‘So what?’
‘They put the bomb under the back wheel behind the driver’s side, where no peeler ever looks. It was a bigger bomb with more Semtex, so they could get him from back there. They placed it where no policeman would look, certainly not a policeman in a hurry.’
‘What have you found out, Crabbie?’
‘You got me thinking, Sean. About Ed and that night. Not like him at all. So I asked Helen about it. What she and Jo had talked about …’
A chill spread over my neck.
‘What did Jo tell Helen?’
‘She said that the Chief Super was agitated all night after his talk with some journalist. And then, I quote, “got that phone call first thing in the morning and immediately headed out of the door”. Without apparently checking under the rear wheel of his car.’
‘He was agitated after his talk with some journalist?’
‘He was agitated after his talk with some journalist.’
‘Doesn’t necessarily have to be our journalist.’
; ‘Not necessarily, no.’
‘We’re going to have to talk to Jo McBain, aren’t we?
‘We are, Sean.’
‘Bloody hell, Crabman, this additional little file I’m crafting for the DPP’s going to need two volumes and an index.’
‘The DPP won’t mind. He’s an officer of the court.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘His duty is to ascertain the truth, not to get convictions.’
‘Ah, Crabbie, if only that were as true in practice as it is in theory, what a world that would be.’
17: ED MCBAIN’S NOTEBOOK
Doorbell. It was early and my eyes weren’t focused yet and Mrs Campbell was a ginger blur, talking a mile a minute. She handed me a box. It felt too heavy for a cake and not heavy enough to be her ex-husband’s head.
She sashayed down the path in a cerulean, satin dress. Sashayed being the correct word here. She was a melody. A melody from, say, Duke Ellington, if such an exotic metaphor could be permitted in Northern Ireland or indeed in any country which had a sectarian civil war and men with guns flying about in helicopters.
‘Bye,’ I said and opened the box. It was a cake. I licked chocolate icing off my finger, closed the box and lit a cig as it began to rain. There’s a Ray Bradbury story somewhere about a planet where it rains so much it has driven everyone mad. Bradbury wrote it after spending a year living with John Huston in the west of Ireland, trying to write a screenplay for Moby Dick. Madness, rain, Ireland – it all fits.
Jet the cat appeared at my legs, whining. I finished the fag, tossed it into the palm pot next door, got the milk, went back inside and made some tea for me and got Whiskas for the cat. He’d shat in the litter box and I transferred the shit to the rubbish bin.
‘Beth was a cat person, you know that? I’m more of a dog man,’ I said stroking its back while it ate the Whiskas with evident pleasure.
I checked under the Beemer, picked up Crabbie and Lawson from the station and drove to Belfast.
QUB.
The geology dept.
A secretary. ‘Dr McBain is in a lecture. I don’t know if she’s going straight home after. It’s been a terrible time for her and no one expects her to keep her office-hours.’
‘A lecture?’
‘In Prentice Hall. It’s a big space. You can slip in the back and wait for her without making any fuss.’
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