by James Deegan
Unsure of his next move, he drove around a roundabout three times and then headed back out, following signs to the A120.
Maybe he’d be better off in a little B&B somewhere in the sticks?
Another roundabout, a left and then a right, and he found himself travelling along another country lane, towards a village called Hatfield Broad Oak.
On the left as he drove in was a farmhouse with a small sign which said ‘Bed and Breakfast’.
He slowed down and stopped, considering the pros and cons.
On the down side, the people who ran the place were more likely to remember him than the staff of an airport hotel with three hundred rooms.
On the up side, they were more likely to take cash, and he didn’t want to leave any sort of trail.
He started the engine back up and turned into the driveway.
57.
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT KEVIN Murphy was in his office the following morning, just signing off the latest inputs to the file on another old IRA murder, and thinking about organising a cab to the airport – he and Nigel Johnson were flying to London that afternoon, for their meeting with MI5 the following day – when there was a knock on his door, and a face appeared.
‘Ah,’ said Murphy. ‘The man himself.’
‘Can I have a word, boss?’ said Johnson.
‘Sure,’ said Murphy, shaking his head sadly. ‘I was just looking at this O’Hara nonsense. Fancy stoving in your own brother-in-law’s head with a lump of concrete over a minor slight on a night out. These meatheads.’
‘Aye,’ said Johnson. ‘Nutters, the lot of them. Anyway, listen. There’s been a bit of a development in the Gerard Casey thing.’
Murphy raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Ohhh, the hokey cokey,’ he said, sing-song style. ‘She’s decided she wants to talk again, has she?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Johnson, coming into the room and shutting the door behind him. ‘One of the two guys involved has been murdered on the mainland.’
Murphy’s mouth dropped open and he sat up straight. ‘One of the two ex-soldiers? Which one?’
‘Michael Parry. He was stabbed to death in St Helens the night before last. They found his body late yesterday.’
‘My goodness.’
‘That’s not all. Merseyside are looking for one of ours for it. I was just down in main CID and there was a couple of TIU lads in there gubbing off about it, so I had a wee listen-in.’
‘TIU’ was the Terrorism Investigation Unit, part of the force’s Serious Crime Branch.
‘Who’s in the frame?’
‘Dessie Callaghan. Big, hard bastard. Flat nose. We had him for the manslaughter of Joey Carlton – that off-duty RUC constable who got beaten to death outside the Duke of York. Must be fifteen years back, now. Dessie got six years for it. Poor Joey’s blood was all over his trainers and jeans.’
Murphy sat back in his chair, and took off his reading specs. ‘Aye, I know the fellow,’ he said. ‘How do they know it’s him?’
‘DNA. Looks like your man Parry got off a punch as he went down. The dickhead’s blood was splattered all over his fist.’
Murphy nodded. ‘Where is he now?’
‘On his toes.’
‘Have they put anything out over there?’
‘Press-wise? Not yet. As far as I could tell from earwigging, Downing Street’s involved. I suppose the political ramifications are pretty big. Sounds like the local peelers are presenting it as a random mugging that got out of hand. They haven’t named Dessie as a suspect, or put any pictures out, but obviously behind the scenes there’s a lot of work going on to find the daft fucker.’
‘Did you mention our interest?’
‘Not yet. Thought I’d tell you first.’
‘Someone’s been flapping their gums,’ said the senior detective. ‘It has to be linked.’
‘Any idea who?’
Murphy looked at him for a moment. ‘No,’ he said.
‘If it’s a leak, are we thinking the other soldier’s at risk?’
‘Aye, he could well be. Can you inform the Met and get them to go round?’
‘I will that.’
‘Obviously, we’ll need to give him our own warning as well.’ Murphy looked at his watch. ‘Can you type one up? We’re on the one o’clock flight. You and I can deliver it. I’ll speak to the boss.’
‘Okay.’
‘And can you make a list of everyone who knew, from Charlie Hope to the fellow who delivered the coffee at that meeting I had?’
‘Will do.’
‘Thanks Johnno.’
The detective sergeant left, and Murphy thought for a moment.
Then he turned to his computer, called up the summary file for the original investigation into the 1989 incident, and clicked from there to some intelligence documents.
58.
KEVIN MURPHY SAT at his desk, trying to work out what had just happened.
Logically, the hit must have been ordered by Patrick Casey.
Sean and Gerard had been killed in the incident involving Parry.
Who else was linked to them and had the standing to call it?
Fat chance of proving it.
Fat chance, even when Pat had just been a PIRA scrote.
But now he was a member of the Assembly…
Kevin Murphy opened Casey’s intelligence file.
Started reading.
First, the incident itself.
Casey had turned up at the scene, drunk, and had made threats to an RUC inspector on the cordon…
Reading that made Murphy smile.
Eddie Jessop, it had been, and he could just imagine how Eddie had dealt with Pat Casey.
But then he stopped smiling and made a quick note to contact Eddie, at his magnificent retirement hacienda up there in Castlerock, Co. Londonderry, and make him aware of these developments.
Maybe ask him how serious he thought Casey had been.
He read on.
‘CASEY also issued threats to the life of whoever was responsible for the deaths of his brothers,’ read Jessop’s log. ‘Quote: “Whoever did this is a dead man. As long as I live.”’
Whoever did this.
As long as I live.
Well, it was good enough for Murphy, if not for a court; certainly, it was good enough to speak to the boys in TIU and get them to send a couple of lads down to interview Casey, ask him his movements, put the frighteners on.
He laughed, a short, bitter laugh.
Put the frighteners on? Who was he kidding?
Casey was big enough and ugly enough and long enough in the tooth to know that they’d have nothing on him unless people spoke, and people wouldn’t speak.
Not even Dessie, if they found him.
But then, Casey certainly wouldn’t have made the initial call to Dessie himself.
So who had?
In ten minutes, he’d eliminated a dozen men and drawn up a list of three possibles.
Paulie McMahon. Long-time bodyguard and driver for Casey, still very loyal to his old boss.
Con McLaughlin. Belfast PIRA’s main day-to-day link to the South Armagh bhoys, by dint of marriage to the snaggletooth sister of one of that bunch of maniacs.
Brian ‘Freckles’ Keogh. The RA’s Belfast armourer from the late 1970s until the final ceasefire.
Murphy sat back.
Could be any of those three.
59.
KEVIN MURPHY SMILED at ACC Charles Hope’s secretary and said, ‘Okay to go in, Sally?’
‘Aye, Kevin, he’s expecting you,’ said Sally.
‘That’s grand.’
He knocked once on the door and opened it.
Hope was sitting at his desk reading a report. He pushed it away and sat back in his chair when he saw Murphy.
‘Morning, Kevin,’ he said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Morning, sir,’ said Murphy. ‘Have you heard about Dessie Callaghan?’
‘The moron who got into a fight on the
mainland yesterday evening? Yes, it was raised at the morning briefing. TIU are looking into it – apparently he’s got some sort of Republican connections.’
‘Did you hear the victim’s name, sir?’
Charles Hope looked at him blankly. ‘I suppose so. Probably. Why?’
‘It wasn’t a fight. It was a hit. The fellow who died was Michael Parry.’
‘Parry. Is that…?’
‘Aye, one of the two soldiers we were discussing the other day.’
Hope stood up, hands on his hips. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Are you sure? I mean, how do you know it’s a hit?’
‘Okay, I don’t know,’ said Murphy, ‘but Callaghan’s a long-time member of the RA and a confidante of three people I know who are close to Pat Casey. It just looks like too much of a coincidence otherwise.’
‘Shit. Pat Casey? We can’t start making allegations like that without some very good evidence indeed.’
‘No, I understand that sir. This is just me talking to you.’
‘Have you told TIU?’
No, I only heard about it myself twenty minutes ago. I thought I’d come to you first.’
‘Fuck. We must have a leak.’
‘You think?’
If Hope recognised the sarcasm, he ignored it. ‘What about the other soldier?’
‘I’m getting contact details for him. We’re asking the Met to go round and warn him.’
‘Good.’
‘We’ll need to deliver our own Osman, too,’ said Murphy. ‘I think the risk to his life is serious and clear, even if we’re only putting two and two together at this moment.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Me and Nige are on the one o’clock to Heathrow this afternoon for that meeting at Thames House tomorrow. I was thinking we’d do it as soon as we get there?’
Hope didn’t hesitate. ‘Do it,’ he said.
‘What about TIU? Do I tell them?’
‘No. leave that to me. This is too sensitive.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
‘Kevin? Thanks.’
60.
BACK IN HIS office, Kevin Murphy tidied his desk and stuffed a few last minute items into his overnight case.
Then he looked at the clock on the wall.
Probably in a lecture. But I might catch him.
He dialled a number.
A young man answered.
‘Hey, dad.’
His heart swelled, as it did whenever he heard Liam’s voice.
His wee boy always reminded him of Mary.
Not that you could call a strapping nineteen-year-old university rower a wee boy any more.
‘Hi, son,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘All good, dad. I got a first in that contract law essay I was telling you about, so my tutor was pleased with me.’
‘Never in doubt, Liam,’ said Murphy, smiling broadly to himself. ‘Never in doubt.’
‘Yourself?’
‘Grand, son. Listen, I can’t stay on long. I was just calling to say I’m away to England this afternoon on a wee bit of business. Back tomorrow night, but, just in case I forget, make sure you remember to call your granny tomorrow morning?’
‘Don’t worry dad, it’s in my phone, so it is.’
‘That’s great. Listen, I cannat raise Siobhan. I’ve sent her a text, but can you remind her, too?’
‘Aye, I know her head’s in the clouds. How old is granny, just so’s I don’t sound stupid?’
‘Eighty-two. I think. Might be eighty-three. Just say happy birthday.’
Liam Murphy chuckled down the phone line.
Just then, Nigel Johnson knocked and opened his door.
‘Listen, Liam, big Johnno’s here just now, so I’ll have to be off. But I love you, son.’
‘Love you too, dad. Safe flight.’
‘See you when I get back. Be good. Not too much drinking.’
Liam chuckled again. ‘Don’t worry, dad, I’m sensible.’
‘So you are, son, so you are. Right, I’m away.’
‘Have a safe flight, dad. See yous.’
Murphy clicked the phone and – just for a moment – a vision of his late wife was in his mind’s eye.
It had been tough these last few years, doing the work of two parents.
But it was worth it.
‘Nige,’ he said. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Aye,’ said the detective sergeant. ‘Got a bit more info on Dessie.’
‘Go on?’
‘The TIU are still at his flat but they’ve flashed something over about an address in England. The big daft bastard wrote it down in a notebook which they found by his bedside. He’d ripped that page out, but they’ve lifted it from the impression on the page underneath.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘It’s in Coventry. The local polis were round there an hour ago and the house was clean, but it’s owned by an Irish fella who rents it out to a couple of Kosovans.’
‘Kosovans, you say? Now, that’s interesting.’
Kosovo had long been a source of arms to Republican terrorists – originally via the country’s Sigurimi secret police, and then, in the post-Communist, wild west era, through the country’s vicious and rapacious mafia.
‘Isn’t it just. Landlord’s name is Mickey Delahunty. He’s clean, but he has family connections.’
‘Aye?’
‘Among others, he had a cousin, Richie Delahunty, who was part of Saor Éire. Richie was shot dead by the Garda in Monaghan in 1974.’
‘And Kosovans for tenants,’ said Murphy, with a wry smile. ‘I wonder, what would Dessie want with that address?’
‘A weapon?’
‘Certainly what I was thinking. Or some sort of safe house or operations base.’
Then a thought struck Murphy. ‘Wait one, Nige,’ he said. ‘I had a look at Pat’s known associates.’ He opened his notebook. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’
He read the three names to Johnson.
‘What do you think?’
‘The name that stands out to me is Keogh. He was an armourer, after all. If anyone was dealing with Kosovans it’d have been him.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Murphy. ‘Give me two minutes, then I’ll be ready.’
Johnson left, and Murphy called up Brian Keogh’s intelligence file and CRO.
‘Freckles,’ he said to himself, under his breath. ‘Have you been a naughty boy?’
He jotted down salient points as he read.
Mid-sixties. Reasonably brief criminal record. Minor stuff as a young man, and one serious offence of being caught with a weapon at a VCP in west Belfast. Fortunately for him, it had never been fired and thus couldn’t be tied in to any killings; still, he’d served seven years in an H Block at the Maze for it.
If you went by his record, he’d learned his lesson from that – he’d not been arrested since, never mind convicted. But in fact the lesson he had learned was simply to be more careful – he had an intelligence file as long as a gorilla’s arm.
His run as PIRA’s Belfast armourer had been highly successful. In particular, he’d been part of the negotiations with Gaddafi’s Mukhabarat el-Jamahiriya which had ended with the shipment of a hundred and fifty tonnes of Libyan weapons aboard four ships between September 1985 and October 1986. Semtex, air-to-air missiles, hand grenades, RPG launchers, flame-throwers, Dushkas, AK47s, a million rounds of ammunition… you name it, Freckles had helped to bring it in, along with several million dollars in cash. And when that source had dried up, he’d built up new relationships with gangsters in the Balkans who could supply more weaponry.
In 1996, with the Good Friday writing on the wall, sources said that he had moved caches of weapons to new locations, and had since allowed the Real IRA access to them on several occasions.
But he’d been extremely careful never to lay hands or even eyes on any of his contraband, and he lived an outwardly blameless life as a retired mechanic.
Murphy finished by making a quick note of Freckles’ know
n addresses, associates, and haunts, closed the computer down, and picked up his bag.
Said to his secretary, ‘That’s me and Nigel away to the airport, then.’
And with that he was gone.
61.
AS IT HAPPENED, John Carr was at that moment sitting in his living room, drinking a morning cup of tea and half-watching Sky News, wondering what Oleg Kovalev was doing with the name that had been extracted from the men at the country estate in Sussex.
Oleg had called round early on Tuesday evening to confirm that the van had been dealt with, and the two Russians were now back in the Motherland.
As for the Ukrainians…
Well, Carr didn’t want to know, but – hypothetically speaking – if Oleg happened to have an acquaintance who managed a crematorium, and who was comfortable in adding extra meat to the oven for a couple of hundred quid a pop, and if someone had turned up after hours, loaded a pair of body bags in through the back and straight onto the conveyor belt…
Carr had to agree that a long bake at 1,000 degrees Celsius would make it quite difficult for the authorities to recover any forensic evidence.
From Carr’s flat, Oleg had gone straight to the airport to catch a flight to Moscow, connecting to Krasnodar, for a meeting with Mr Vasiliev.
Whatever it was he was up to now, Carr wanted as little to do with it as possible. Better to let the mad bastard get on with it himself – he certainly didn’t need Carr’s help, he had plenty of local lunatics he could call on first.
He was just about to switch the TV off when the picture on the screen changed, to show a middle-aged man in a T-shirt and jeans, and a big red caption which read ST HELENS MURDER: WITNESSES SOUGHT.
And when he saw that John Carr forgot all about Oleg.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Scouse.’
62.
THE PHOTO OF MICK Parry had disappeared, to be replaced by a blonde reporter, standing in front of a police tape.
Several bouquets of flowers had been laid underneath it, against a stone wall.
‘That’s right, Kay,’ the reporter was saying. ‘Michael Parry had been out for a darts evening last night with friends at The Wheatsheaf pub in Mill Lane, just a few hundred yards from where I’m standing, and he was on his way home when someone – the police presume a man, or men – confronted him, and stabbed him twice. Why this happened the police have no idea, and they’re appealing for witnesses – anyone who saw Mr Parry in The Wheatsheaf, or saw him walking home and having this confrontation – to get in touch with them in confidence. They particularly want to talk to a man they describe as being of muscular build, about six feet two inches tall, in his forties, with very short, blond hair, and speaking with a Northern Irish accent, who they think may be able to assist them.’