Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  It was still early, and there were precious few shoppers around, but it wasn’t like he had any fucking choice.

  The place was empty apart from two people – a little Asian man in a white coat, who was fiddling with some display material, and a young bird who was replenishing various dispensary shelves with drugs.

  Drugs.

  The little Asian fella – the manager, Dessie assumed – stopped what he was doing and turned toward the Ulsterman.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

  ‘I want some painkillers,’ said Dessie, gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his face. ‘Something strong.’

  ‘And do you have a prescription?’ said the manager, blinking at him.

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ spat Dessie.

  He walked forward and chinned the manager with a perfectly-executed uppercut. The man dropped like a stone, hitting himself on the counter on the way down.

  ‘You,’ said Dessie, turning to look at the girl. ‘I want some painkillers. Strong stuff. Don’t fuck me about.’

  ‘What?’ said the girl, losing his accent in her panic. ‘I…’

  ‘Don’t fuck me about!’ yelled Dessie. ‘Painkillers! Now!’

  ‘But I don’t understand you!’ yelled back the girl.

  He was about to punch her, too, when a woman in her sixties, wearing a green mac, entered the shop behind him.

  Dessie span round at the tinkle of the bell and shouted, ‘Fuck off!’

  She about-turned and fucked off.

  And then, suddenly, the assistant put two-and-two together.

  ‘Do you mean painkillers?’ she said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Dessie, almost gratefully. ‘Painkillers. Please.’

  ‘What do you want? Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?’

  ‘Stronger.’

  ‘Wait there, please.’

  ‘Quick!’ shouted Dessie.

  Working as though her life depended on it, the girl scrabbled along the shelves behind her, and turned round a few seconds later with two boxes of Tramadol.

  ‘These are oral,’ she said. ‘They’re extremely strong opiates, so make sure you only take…’

  But Dessie cut her off, jabbing his forefinger into her face and cramming the pills into his pocket.

  ‘No police,’ he said.

  Then he was gone.

  As he left the shop, the girl collapsed, sobbing, to her knees.

  Outside, the woman in the green mac was standing talking to a pair of security guards on the other side of the precinct.

  Dessie heard her say, ‘That’s him!’, and saw the guards start in his direction.

  ‘Sir,’ called one of them. ‘Can you wait there, please? We want a word.’

  Dessie ignored them, and walked away.

  ‘You!’ shouted the guard. ‘Stop!’

  They started running, and when Dessie heard their feet get near he turned around, calmly drew the Glock, and showed it to them.

  His sheer nonchalance was bizarrely intimidating, and both men stopped dead in their tracks, turned, and sprinted back the way they’d come.

  Dessie grinned and rounded the corner, out of sight, on the way to the Mondeo.

  Armed police were at the scene in a matter of minutes, but by then he was long gone.

  To London, everyone presumed.

  68.

  KEVIN MURPHY WALKED through into Heathrow Arrivals at a shade before 3pm and grinned broadly at John Carr.

  The two men shook hands warmly, and Murphy gestured to the man by his side.

  ‘This is Nigel Johnson,’ he said. ‘One of my guys. You can speak freely in front of him. I’d trust him with my life.’

  Carr sized Johnson up: a big man with a square jaw, he looked like he’d been built at Harland and Wolff. They made cops tough in Belfast; they had to.

  ‘Alright, mate,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘Good to meet you.’

  ‘John and I go way back,’ said Murphy, to Johnson. ‘I’d trust him with my life, as well. Have done, more than once. Remember Frankie Boyd, John? God rest his soul.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Carr.

  They walked from the building, and once they were outside Murphy said to Johnson, ‘Frank was my partner when I was first in the Branch. He got wind that a player called Kieran Devine was in a lot of trouble on the horses. Owed thirty thousand pounds to various people, and Frank thought it might be possible to turn him. So we called in John and his pals for protection, and arranged a meet. First meet went well, and Devine says he wants a second meeting, only we’ve to hand over ten grand to show goodwill on the part of the RUC. I drew the cash and we set off, but it was a trap. Soon as we turn into the car park to plot up, Devine and his pal Cian O’Hanlon open up on us.’

  ‘Plan being to kill Kev and Frank and steal the money,’ said Carr.

  ‘One of the rounds hits poor old Frank in the head,’ said Murphy. ‘I stick it into reverse and pull out my weapon and empty it back at them. Pure fluke, I managed to hit O’Hanlon, but as I’m reversing I put the car up on a little concrete bollard. I’m sitting there, unable to move, wheels spinning, and Kieran Devine is running over with his AK47. I swear I thought I was a dead man. And Mary about to give birth to Siobhan.’ He looked at Carr. ‘And then this fella drives into the car park and rams Devine at 50mph.’

  ‘That would do it,’ said Nigel Johnson.

  ‘Paralysed him from the waist down,’ said Murphy. ‘He was eventually strangled in his wheelchair in Long Kesh by his own pals. The story was they thought he was a tout, but I reckon it was mostly that they were angry that he’d not got clearance for the whole thing from the hierarchy.’

  ‘We had some good results together over the years,’ said Carr.

  ‘Aye,’ said Murphy. ‘Tales I could tell.’ He smiled. ‘He’s Siobhan’s godfather, too, Nigel, though he’s an awful godless man, and he doesn’t see her as often as he should.’

  Carr grinned, apologetically. ‘How long’s it been? I saw you last Christmas, didn’t I?’

  ‘Christmas before,’ said Murphy. ‘Time flies.’

  ‘I’ll get over in the next few months,’ said Carr. ‘That’s a promise.’ He looked at Murphy. ‘So anyway, why the secret squirrel text messages? I thought it was some bird I’d got up the duff.’

  Murphy laughed. ‘Sorry about that. At that stage I just wanted to warn you about the witness coming forward, and I didn’t think it would be very good for either of us if I used my own phone. All our call records are open, and Professional Standards would love to find a way to get rid of an old boy like me without paying me the pension.’

  ‘Burner?’ said Carr.

  ‘Nothing so sophisticated,’ said Murphy. ‘Nigel, cover your ears. I pinched one from the property store.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Nigel Johnson.

  ‘So what brings you over?’ said Carr.

  ‘We’ve a meeting with the boys at Thames House tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thames House?’

  ‘Aye. MI5 have some old phone intercepts relating to a murder in the seventies. Every now and then we go through the charade of asking them to let us have the intercepts, and they go through the charade of pretending to consider our request.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘Nothing changes.’

  ‘So where you staying?’ said Carr, as they walked into the car park.

  ‘They’ve booked us into a Premier Inn out Edgware way,’ said Murphy. ‘Miles from anywhere, but it’s cheap. Budgets are tighter than our Siobhan’s blooming jeans.’

  ‘Cancel it. You can both kip at mine. I’ve got plenty of room. Save the PSNI a few quid.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Murphy. ‘Not without our sidearms. And you’d be better off in a hotel yourself, just now. This guy who killed your man Mick Parry yesterday? There’s a good chance he’s here for you, too.’

  He fished into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘In fact, I need to give you this, formally.’


  They’d arrived at Carr’s new black Cayenne.

  Nigel Johnson whistled appreciatively. ‘Is this the Turbo S, is it?’ he said.

  Murphy chuckled. ‘You’re doing alright for yourself,’ he said, with a grin. ‘Unlike Nige, I’m not much of a car man, but I know a nice motor when I see one. What’s this set you back?’

  ‘About a year of your and my wages put together,’ said Nigel Johnson.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Carr. ‘Gift from my boss.’

  ‘Gift?’ said Murphy, his mouth dropping open.

  ‘Performance-related bonus,’ said Carr.

  ‘My goodness. You’re on a winner there, son.’

  Carr pressed the button to open the tailgate and threw Murphy’s bag inside, and then the three of them climbed into the vehicle.

  Carr looked at the envelope Murphy had handed him. ‘Osman Warning?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Murphy. ‘Speaking of which, have the Met been round?’

  ‘I had a couple of uniforms knock on my door this morning. They stuck a card through asking me to call them. I guess that was probably it.’ He stuffed the letter into his pocket. ‘I’ve had more people try to kill me than you’ve had hot dinners, Kev,’ he said, with a grin. ‘And, by the looks of you, you’ve had more than a few of them.’

  ‘Too many bacon butties at my desk,’ said Murphy, ruefully. ‘But I’d take it seriously, John.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Fella called Dessie Callaghan,’ said Nigel Johnson, leaning forward in the back seat.

  ‘Should I remember him?’

  ‘Fringe player in your day,’ said Murphy. ‘He moved up later on. You’ll definitely have seen the rascal here and about, but I doubt you’d ever have been tasked onto him.’

  ‘Got a picture?’

  Murphy turned his head. ‘Have you got the file, Nige?’

  Johnson opened his bag and handed a thin folder through to Kevin Murphy.

  Murphy opened it, pulled out a large photograph, and handed it to Carr.

  ‘Stands about six foot two, and weighs around ninety kilos,’ he said. ‘Your age.’

  Carr propped the mugshot on the steering wheel and studied it, as he’d studied hundreds, probably thousands, before. His mind drifted back over the years he’d spent undercover in Belfast and elsewhere in the Province, first with the 3 Para COP, and then with the SAS and the Det. Like all operators, he’d spent long hours poring over photographs of key players, and had made it his business to memorise a couple of new names and faces every time he went out the door. By default, he’d developed an excellent memory for them, though there were so many that they tended to blend into one another.

  But this one – nasty-looking as he was – didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘Nah,’ he said, eventually. ‘I don’t recognise him. Looks handy enough.’

  ‘He’s a proper hard nut,’ said Nigel Johnson. ‘No doubt about that. Works the door at McKill’s and the Vollie, and one or two other places.’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘Usual juvenile record. He was trying to make a go of it as a boxer, but he’s just a big brawler so he kept walking onto punches. When that didn’t work out, he fell in with Paddy Kilty and Johnny O’Gara… Big players in the nineties. You’d know them from your time?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Carr. ‘Yes, I know those bastards, right enough.’

  ‘He only really got started three or four years before the Good Friday Agreement, but he’s killed three, that we know of.’

  ‘Convicted?’

  ‘He served time for the manslaughter of an off-duty constable who was kicked and punched to death outside the Duke of York,’ said Kevin Murphy. ‘The others… Well, they’re still riddled with touts, like they always were, but no-one would come over, so we got nowhere.’

  Carr nodded. ‘So why’s he come after Mick and me now?’

  ‘We think it’s to do with the deaths of Sean and Gerard Casey and that lunatic Ciaran O’Brien.’

  Carr looked at him. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s years ago.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Murphy. He quickly ran through Marie Hughes’ statement – and then her retraction – and then said, ‘So that whole can of worms got opened up, and we reckon your names found their way to Pat Casey.’

  ‘Dessie Callaghan’s a fringe member of Casey’s circle,’ said Nigel Johnson. ‘And his old man was a close pal of O’Brien’s. So it all adds up.’

  ‘It’s too random for it not to be linked,’ said Murphy.

  John Carr committed the face of Dessie Callaghan to his memory, handed back the photo and turned the ignition key.

  ‘So you think I should be worried?’ he said, easing the Porsche out of the car park.

  ‘We have reason to believe he could be armed, and he’s a vicious bastard. He won’t hesitate, and he won’t come at you from the front.’

  Carr nodded. ‘What have you told the investigating officers?

  ‘I left that to my boss. He was going to have a word with the TIU.’

  ‘TIU?’

  ‘Terrorist Investigations Unit. Part of Serious Crime. I know they’re liaising over here with MI5 and the local police. The focus for now is on finding him. They’ll worry later about why he did it.’

  ‘You must have a leak,’ said Carr, nudging the Cayenne forward in the stop-start traffic.

  ‘Aye,’ said Murphy. ‘You know as well as I do the PSNI isn’t the old RUC. The walls have ears, my friend.’

  ‘So who knew our ID?’

  ‘Me, obviously. Plus Nigel and one or two other members of our team. But I hand-picked them all myself and there’s no way. Then you’ve the people who were at the meeting we had to discuss it. That’s Gary Baxter from the Public Prosecution Service, Charlie Hope, the Assistant Chief, and Conor Maguire, who’s head of force PR.’

  ‘Any of them?’

  ‘I’d put my house on Baxter being straight,’ said Murphy. ‘And Hope is just a mainland copper who’s biding his time till he can get a big job over here. Maguire, he’d be my guess, out of the three. Strong Republican ties going way back, and he doesn’t even bother to hide his sympathies, either.’

  Carr looked at him.

  ‘Seriously,’ said Murphy. ‘We take anyone in these days. But all that said, I can’t see him being so daft. Beyond that, who knows?’

  ‘How about your end?’ said Nigel Johnson, leaning forward.

  ‘Everyone in battalion knew who’d shot them,’ said Carr. ‘I left for Selection a few weeks later, but I remember Scouse saying he never bought a drink till the end of the tour. Outside 3 Para it would have been restricted to a few SIB and senior ranks, and most of them are either dead or pissed in a bar somewhere. It’ll be a big job, getting to the bottom of it.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘Pat Casey was somebody back then, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he 2IC the Belfast Brigade?’

  ‘He was, aye,’ said Johnson. ‘And de facto leader after Fergus lost his marbles.’

  ‘Fergus lost his marbles, did he?’

  ‘Alzheimer’s,’ said Murphy. ‘They kept it quiet for a bit, but the game was up when he was caught sticking a bomb on his neighbour’s car. He started out as a bomb-maker, of course, back in the early seventies.’

  ‘Well, they do say that people with dementia live in the past,’ said Carr.

  ‘Aye,’ said Johnson, stifling a giggle. ‘They were having a row over a leylandii which was blocking out Fergus’s Sky Sports signal. The ATO who disarmed it said it was perfectly constructed, mercury tilt switch and all, except for one small thing – he’d used his wee grandson’s Play-Doh instead of C4.’

  The three men erupted in laughter.

  Eventually, Johnson said, ‘Anyway, that was the end o’ Fergus. But by then the second ceasefire was in force, so Pat never got the top job. He’d gone political, anyway. He’s a member of the Assembly now, but he’s not changed his spots. I’d think he was involved in the decision, for sure.’

&nb
sp; ‘He wouldnae made the call to the shooter himself, though,’ said Carr. ‘He’d want some distance.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Murphy. ‘It’s a guessing game, and I’m just putting pieces together, but do you remember Freckles?’

  Carr looked at him. ‘Freckles? I know the name but I cannae call him to mind.’

  ‘Ginger-haired fellow.’

  ‘About two thirds of them had ginger hair.’

  ‘Real name Brian Keogh. Married Róisín Cafferty.’

  ‘Róisín the Machine?’ said Carr, looking sideways. ‘Diarmuid Cafferty’s sister?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Yeah, I know Freckles, then,’ said Carr. ‘Armourer?’

  ‘Aye. Responsible for scores of deaths, if he’s responsible for one. Semi-retired now, of course, but still dabbling. He’s a clever so-and-so, mind, so we’ve only pinched him the once, years back.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s him?’

  Kevin Murphy swivelled in the leather seat to look at Nigel Johnson. ‘Very close pals with Pat, for one thing,’ he said. ‘The rest is circumstantial, but strong. Have you that Coventry info, Nige?’

  ‘It’s in thon file,’ said Johnson, nodding at the folder on Murphy’s lap.

  ‘Aye,’ said Murphy, with a rueful shake of his head. ‘Getting old.’

  Murphy fished his reading specs from an inside pocket, opened the file and started reading.

  When he’d finished, Carr said, ‘Yes, that makes sense. An armourer like Freckles would have spent years dealing with the Kosovans, and this Delahunty guy must be a middleman. You reckon Freckles teed up Dessie and then gave him the address in Coventry?’

  ‘I reckon so. Presumably so’s he could go there to pick up a weapon. Heaven knows why he used a knife on Michael Parry. Maybe he…’

  But then his mobile rang.

  He looked at the screen.

  Said, ‘I’d better take this.’

  Then, ‘Kevin Murphy, hello?’

  Carr heard a tinny voice on the other end.

  ‘No, I’m in London for a couple of meetings,’ said Murphy. He paused for a moment, and then said, ‘Really? Tell me.’

  He listened for a few moments, and then said, ‘Okay, thanks for letting me know.’

  He ended the call, and turned to look at Nigel Johnson.