by Chris Petit
He sat for a long time in the parked car. He wished he still had some cigarettes. The silence of the night was absolute, full of the stillness of the slaughtered animals. He felt scared in a way that he had not since childhood.
He got out slowly, his nerves taut. He didn’t know what he was looking for: traces of Berrigan, or through him some confrontation with himself, perhaps.
He had his torch but he didn’t want to use it or turn on the house lights because the twilight world he found himself in seemed clearer than an illuminated one. As he went through the rooms he thought of the various compartments of his own life: each drawer of Berrigan’s was like a container of his own memories, every door a reminder of different thresholds, first with his parents, then with Deidre, and the doors of his work, as the bearer of bad news.
He lay for a while on the mattress in the makeshift bedroom, trying without success to feel his way into the mind of the man who had once slept there.
Downstairs he found himself staring at a pair of wellington boots in the hall. He put them on. They were too big and he was struck by an absurd thought: had he ever read ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’ to Matthew or Fiona? He realized he had put on the boots to go to the barn.
He felt his way through the workshop, which was unnaturally dark after the semi-gloom of the house. He stumbled against an upturned chair and pitched headlong, barking his shins.
He found the door and pushed it open. While he tried to work out the direction of the barn, the moon appeared to reveal it, gaunt and forbidding. The peat sacks looked even eerier by moonlight.
He marched across the fields, head down, and entered the barn without hesitating. The stench had gone. There was nothing there, not even any lingering atmosphere of evil, just a smell of disinfectant. He stayed only a minute, hoping that unconnected details buried in the recesses of his mind might surface. But nothing happened.
The luminous dial of his watch glowed in the dark. It was three forty. He took the track back to the farm, covering the distance quickly. He looked again at the deep freeze and in the workshop, after propping both doors open so that he could see a little better. Even so he had to let his touch guide him. He worked his way across the surface of the bench, feeling various objects until he recognized them. Inside the cabinet full of tiny drawers that lay propped at the back of the bench he found more tacks, hooks, a few scraps of braid and old tins. He opened the tins to see what was inside: more of the same. He dropped a tin and the nails spilled on to the flagstones in a metallic shower. As he knelt to scoop them back up he was aware of something else. At first he thought it was just paper to line the tin. He picked it up and turned it over and could make out a darker side. He took it outside and saw that it was a photograph.
He used the map light in the car. His first reaction was disappointment. It was an ordinary family snapshot, its colours faded. There was a woman, and two children, boys of about five and six. To one side was a man, older than the woman. It was a bright summer day which made everyone screw up their eyes. Behind them was a kitchen window with washing-up liquid next to a spider plant.
He looked again at the man. He was good looking, middle aged, stocky and his hair was receding and turning white, which fitted with some of the local descriptions of Berrigan. He looked disappointingly unlike a killer. Cross remembered as a boy seeing a photograph of the Rillington Place murderer, Christie – so ordinary. Part of him had expected and still did, as silly as it was, to see the mark of Cain.
Then it went click click click, like the tumbling numbers of a one-armed bandit falling into place.
It was vagueness of the man in the photograph that alerted him. The way he’d deliberately positioned himself so that you looked at him last, then hardly at all. The whole case had been dominated by vagueness.
The van was where he’d made his mistake. Once it was linked to Berrigan, he’d jumped to the conclusion that Berrigan’s ownership meant that he’d driven it on the night of dumping the body. And that Berrigan was therefore the killer.
What Cross had overlooked in his haste was that the opposite could also be true – that it was Berrigan who’d been frozen in his own deep freeze and transported in the back of his own van. The man Cross was looking at in the photograph was Berrigan all right. But Berrigan the dead man rather than Berrigan the killer.
The woman was presumably his wife. Cross wondered where she was now and what age the boys were. Then, because he was aware of tripping up so badly over Berrigan, he asked himself the opposite: what if they weren’t anywhere? What if they were dead? Had he found the picture in a drawer he would have been less inclined to conclude that, but the way it had been carefully hidden – sealed away – left him with the distinct impression that they existed only as memories.
23
Belfast, June 1973
CANDLESTICK was told by Herron to wait outside the room and when he was asked in ten minutes later Herron looked grim.
‘We have a good arrangement here, don’t we?’ asked Herron. ‘I look after you well, don’t I?’
Candlestick nodded and looked at Breen, wondering what he had been passing on. Candlestick’s relationship with Breen had become quite informal with Breen’s move into loyalist areas and the expansion of Herron’s rackets into republican areas. He often found himself liaising with him and they’d struck up a friendship of sorts, occasionally drinking together. Candlestick even passed on scraps of information about the loyalists and Breen had confided that Herron had asked him to provide two gunmen to shoot his brother-in-law, whom he suspected of being an informer for the Provisionals. Candlestick wondered at the craziness of it all: Herron subcontracting an assassination to the enemy. Breen was amused as ever and willing to do the job because it would inconvenience a rival in the Provisionals.
As Herron continued to question him it became clear that he had been alerted by Breen to the fact that some of his men were being run by the British, and that Breen was unconcerned about being seen to be the source of this alarm. Candlestick realized that whatever loose alliance he might have with Breen it did not extend to trust.
‘I’d just like to clear up a couple of facts here,’ said Herron. ‘You came over here when?’
‘The July before last.’
‘What happened? I mean, why did you suddenly decide to come over? It’s not exactly Benidorm.’
‘I came to see a woman. You could ask her except she’s married and her husband doesn’t know.’
‘And you came over with Baker.’
‘I met him in a pub in Liverpool and it turned out we were coming over at the same time. He was with a gang of fellows.’
‘And did he say what he was doing coming here?’
‘Visiting relatives.’
‘What made you decide to stay on?’
‘Well, I was past the date of return to my regiment and Baker said stick around because there was money floating about.’
‘So you’re a deserter.’
‘You know all this.’
‘Then tell me why the fucking army hasn’t arrested you.’
‘Because they don’t know I’m here.’
‘And what about Baker? If he’s got relatives here wouldn’t it be the first place they’d ask?’
‘You’d have to ask Baker about that.’
‘It’s a sad day when you have to question the loyalty of your own men.’
Candlestick assured Herron that his allegiance was not in question. He had carried out his orders. He had no dealings with other parties. He had not lined his own pockets at the expense of the UDA. (This was not entirely true. Candlestick was in it for himself as much as the next man, and not above the odd ‘homer’.) He had been willing to shoot at soldiers during Herron’s war with the army. The last point seemed to persuade Herron.
‘Did you see Baker join in any of this?’
‘He may have.’
‘But you didn’t see him?’
Candlestick said he could not remember and Herron
and Breen exchanged significant looks.
When he next met Breen alone, Breen apologized for putting Candlestick on the spot. Candlestick shrugged and said that he had nothing to hide. Breen gave a sardonic smile.
‘Does Tommy know you’re seeing a Catholic girl?’
‘It’s none of his business.’
‘Then it’s true that you are?’
She was a student named Becky and her family had been republican for generations. He was annoyed with himself for being so easily tricked into admitting it.
‘Well, I’m damned if you are not blushing. What are you telling her if you’re not telling her you’re Tommy Herron’s bodyguard?’
‘I told her I was working for you.’
Breen threw back his head and laughed. ‘Attaboy! That’ll teach me to be nosy.’
‘What was all that about with Tommy the other day?’
‘Nothing, really. I heard some of you fellows were British assets. True or not, it’s always useful to me if Tommy conducts a witch hunt in his own ranks. We’re friends most of the time but I still have to be seen to be making the odd move.’
Two days later Candlestick arranged to meet a man in a bar off the Malone Road. He took a taxi to the Botanic Gardens and walked the rest of the way, making sure he was not followed. He had been meeting this man since his arrival in Belfast. It was to him that he was known as Candlestick. Their meetings were secret. No one else knew about them, not Baker or Herron or Breen or Bunty.
On that occasion he passed on what had occurred between himself and Herron and Breen and their suspicions about Baker working for the British.
‘Do they suspect you?’ asked the man.
‘I’m pretty sure they don’t.’
‘In that case I think you should tell Baker that he’s been rumbled. Stampede him and let’s see what happens.’
Baker’s flight was an erratic affair. He fled Belfast and returned to his regiment in England, where his claim that he had been on special duties in Northern Ireland was dismissed when he could produce no supporting evidence. The contact number for Bunty turned out to be a dead line and had been, according to the GPO, for several months. Baker’s story was rejected as fantasy and he was court martialled and dismissed from his regiment.
As far as Bunty was concerned, Baker next resurfaced when he was told by a Detective Sergeant Cummings – an RUC contact – that Baker had come to his attention after walking into a Wiltshire police station and announcing that he wished to speak to a police officer about crimes committed in Northern Ireland.
Bunty raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance, and asked what on earth Baker had been on about. Cummings knew that Bunty understood precisely what Baker was on about. Bunty was a great one for coded conversations.
‘He claimed that he had been ordered to kill IRA terrorists but had undergone a religious conversion and wanted the matter off his chest. At that point the Warminster police called us and we flew him back here.’
‘A religious conversion, you say?’
‘It’s his way of saying that he wants to do a deal.’
‘What do you think led to this conversion?’
Cummings said he thought Baker’s disappointment stemmed from the way his regiment had treated him. He had expected a hero’s welcome, once the real reason for his absence had been established.
‘Then panic set in,’ Cummings went on. ‘Baker has relatives here in Belfast and realized his running away might lead to reprisals if the loyalists suspected him of working for the Brits.’
‘So he’ll name names in exchange for leniency in court and protection for his family.’
‘Exactly. But the problem we have is that he is unreliable. Some of the names he’s coming up with we know and others we don’t know, and some of the ones we know appear – how shall I put it? – a little far fetched. We’d like a second opinion.’
They got down to horse trading, going through Baker’s list, so that Bunty could protect his own agents. Candlestick’s name was carefully crossed out by Cummings, who then asked about Tommy Herron. He noted that Bunty kept a straight face throughout the process.
‘Baker’s claiming that Herron authorized all these killings. What do you think?’ asked Cummings.
‘I’m not sure it’ll be relevant by the time you get to court. From what I hear, Herron’s days are numbered. I would have thought more of a worry for you is Baker’s allegation that the RUC was in on planning half these killings.’
‘I’m not sure Mr Baker’s conversion has left him with all his marbles.’
24
CROSS arrived back from Berrigan’s farm as day broke to find Deidre not at home. He was too tired to know what he felt about that and was sitting drinking coffee in the kitchen when she walked in. She seemed in a good mood.
‘It wasn’t what you think,’ she said.
‘What am I to think?’
She drifted past, kissing the top of his head. Her offhand affection ambushed him, and he reached out and encircled her with his arms and they stayed like that, his head pressed against her, as she started to talk.
‘I went to a film and then I ate alone in an empty restaurant, an escalope and a bottle of wine, and after that I sat in the Europa and watched the foreign correspondents getting drunk. One of them bought me a drink. He was very gentle and concerned that I should be drinking on my own. He wanted me to go upstairs with him.’
Cross felt a pang of jealousy.
‘I thought about it,’ she went on. ‘Quite seriously. But he was too nice and too drunk and it wouldn’t have worked and he would have got maudlin, when what I wanted was a plain, straightforward fuck. Can you understand that?’
‘Can’t you get that anyway?’ He felt petty as he said it.
‘I wanted a souvenir, something to remember myself by, so that whenever I passed the hotel I would be reminded of taking a stranger to bed for an hour or two, and having something outside the rest of my life, which would be like a marker, unlike all the other stuff which ends up forgotten in the swill.’
‘And?’
‘I didn’t. I took a room and even thought about phoning down to see if they could send someone up. Isn’t that what men do when they stay alone in hotels, ask the desk for a woman? Can you order a man? Well, I never found out but I got a grand night’s sleep.’
Cross stared at his coffee. The idea of Deidre having desires independent of him was something he was reluctant to acknowledge. While he criticized her for a certain hardening of attitude over the years, he was slow to accept a similar calcifying in himself. He saw now how much he took her for granted.
‘You should have called me,’ he said. ‘I would have come.’
It was the wrong thing to say. He had missed the point, whatever that was. She gave him a breezy smile.
‘You weren’t here,’ she said and walked out whistling.
Cross asked Westerby to track down Vinnie, telling her that he needed to talk to the boy but didn’t want him picked up officially. She said she would go round to his place when she was off duty. She was grateful to be asked. It seemed like a resumption of more normal relations.
Vinnie came to York Road station two evenings later, surly and mistrustful. Whatever confidences had once been shared no longer applied. Cross wondered why he had come. There was no detectable sign of anxiety beneath the taciturn exterior.
‘I’m fine,’ was all he said when Cross asked how he was. ‘Really fine.’
‘Last time you asked if I could help.’
‘I said I’m fine.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘To tell you I’m fine. OK?’
They went on without getting anywhere until Cross gave Vinnie a number at work where he could be reached if necessary. By doing this he felt absolved of any further responsibility. He was sure – hoped – Vinnie would not call.
Afterwards, he was aware of the sour taste of a bad conscience. He stalked the house grimly. Deidre sensed his mood and avoided him. The
y had learned to refine their behaviour to intrude on each other as little as possible. Cross felt a seething irritation at the absurdity of it all.
The phone rang late and Deidre hurried to answer it, leaving Cross to wonder how often her lover called her at home. He stood in the sitting room, just out of earshot, straining to hear.
‘It’s for you,’ she announced from the hall, and was gone when he got there.
It was Westerby. She apologized for phoning so late, but she had something on the Berrigan affair. Cross’s bad mood fell away at the excitement in her voice.
‘It’s the woman and children in the photograph. They were killed in 1982 when their car was blown up by a bomb. Her name was Bernadette Breen and the children were about the right age for the boys in the photograph. I don’t know what happened to Mr Breen but I have their old address.’
Westerby collected Cross the following morning and they drove to the Breens’ old neighbourhood, a moderately prosperous northern suburb, out towards the zoo. Cross lowered the window and breathed in the damp, warming air. After another night of rain, the morning was mild with a gentle blue sky and the promise of fair weather.
The Breens’ house was a white semi. Cross was struck by the contrast between the primitive state of the Donegal farm and the obsessive neatness of these suburbs with their orderly gardens and verges. The tree in front of the house was heavy with early blossom. The transition between the seasons was passing him by.
The woman who answered the door had been there only six months, knew nothing of the Breens and referred them to a neighbour opposite.
There was no answer when they rang the bell and were told by a passer-by that the woman was down at the shops and would be back shortly. It seemed a friendly neighbourhood in spite of its fussy air.
They waited in the car. Cross was uncomfortably aware of his earlier unpleasantness to Westerby.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I didn’t realize you did, sir.’