Gun Street Girl

by Adrian McKinty

  I stuck on the lunchtime news. More riots. Tedious now. Depress­­ing. You ever read Thucydides? I’ll boil him down for you into one easy moral: intergenerational civil war is a very bad thing.

  I dressed in my jeans, black DM’s, Che T-shirt, black polo-neck sweater, leather jacket. Checked under the Beemer. No bombs today, chum. Drove to the police station, where I encountered a protest by a score of DUP councilors, UVF proxy councilors, and other assorted riff-raff.

  A man called Jimmy Harlan, an “Independent Unionist” councilor from Sunnylands, got in front of the car. “Police scum! You’re all Lundies! You’re all traitors! You’re all in it together!” he yelled, and for good measure smacked his ULSTER SAYS NO placard off my windscreen.

  I put the Beemer in neutral and got out, grabbed the placard from his hand, and broke it over my knee. “You’d better not touch my fucking car again. Any of you!” I said.

  “Aye, the car you got with blood money, traitor’s gold. You’re all in on it,” Harlan persisted.

  “You’re in on it too, Jimmy, don’t deny it,” I said, and turned to address the mob. “You think they would let Councilor Harlan speak freely, if they hadn’t already sanctioned it? He’s part of it and he fucking knows it. He’s only here to give you the illusion of freedom and dissent. He’s the worst of the fucking lot of us!”

  It was Marcusian pearls before swine, but it made me feel better. Maybe give them food for thought. I got in the Beemer and drove into the station. When I got out of my space I saw that someone had thrown eggs at the back window.

  I went up to Chief Inspector McArthur’s office seething.

  “Listen, mate, you can’t have a protest right in front of the station like this. It’s bad for morale.”

  “What can I do?” McArthur said.

  “Disperse them.”

  “There’s councilors out there.”

  “So?”

  “What about free speech?”

  “Fuck free speech. Get those eejits away from the station entrance. That’s your fucking job, pal.”

  “I’ll have to consult with my superiors,” he said.

  “Yeah, do that and do it now. You’re making us all look bad, McArthur.”

  I went into CID. Crabbie was already there. He let me blow off steam about the protests and McArthur. When Lawson arrived I told him to sign out a Land Rover.

  “Where are we going?” Crabbie asked.

  “The US consul’s private residence, Holywood, County Down.”

  I drove past the demo avoiding the temptation to run them all over and I put the radio on Radio 3. Mercifully they were playing Toru Takemitsu’s “Rain Coming,” a hidden gem that almost nobody in the UK apart from myself and the Radio 3 music selector knew about. I could see that McCrabban and Lawson hated the fuck out of it, so I turned it up out of spite.

  Light snow. Heavy traffic on the A2.

  The US consul general lived in a cul de sac on the water in Holywood, County Down, which was known as Northern Ireland’s most exclusive community. It was a big old Edwardian house that originally had been built as one of the Belfast residences of the Marquess of Londonderry. Sturdy stone walls. Three storeys. Nicely kept lawns. Palm trees. Private beach.

  There were uniformed and armed US Marines outside the gates who checked our IDs thoroughly before letting us through.

  The guesthouse was on the same grounds as the main house. A small, two-story, neo-Georgian, manse-style structure almost right on the beach.

  The door was already open for us when I parked the Beemer in the gravel driveway and walked up the steps of the main house. At the top of the steps a bespectacled, tanned, nervous young American woman with a clipboard was waiting for us.

  “I’m very sorry, Officers, but there must be some misunderstanding; the consul is already at his office in Belfast—”

  “We’re not here to see the consul. We’re here to see the person staying in the guesthouse.”

  “Mr. Connolly?” she asked, very surprised indeed.

  “Yes, Mr. Connolly.”

  She looked at her clipboard and then at us. She swallowed, pushed her glasses up her nose. She was about Lawson’s age. A bit of a looker. “Do you, do you, uh, do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “We don’t need an appointment; we’re the police.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, uhm, look, I’ll ask him, but I don’t know if he’ll agree to talk to you. Mr. Connolly isn’t part of the official delegation. I don’t know if he’ll speak to you.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What’s Mr. ­Connolly’s first name again?”

  “John.”

  “That’s right. John Connolly. That’s who we’re here to see. May we wait for him inside?”

  It was, of course, extremely important to get permission implied or explicit to enter the residence as it was considered US territory and thus beyond the remit of our authority. Vampires and cops had to be invited in.

  “Oh yes, of course, uhm, follow me, can I get you gentlemen a cup of coffee?”

  She led us into a large, conference-style room with a long hardwood table and chairs, and portraits not only of American worthies but also originals of the Marquess of Londonderry’s diverse clan of wasters and ne’er-do-wells. Probably been hanging on these walls since the First World War.

  “Sorry, what’s your name, miss?” I asked the young woman.

  “Melanie Ford,” she said.

  “Miss Ford, mine’s black, two sugars, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “White, two sugars,” Crabbie said.

  “White, no sugar,” Lawson said.

  “And if you’ve got any biscuits that would be brilliant,” I added.

  She went off. The distant sound of a heated conversation. No coffee. No biscuits. A man came into the room. About forty, greying black hair, craggy, curiously simian ears. He was wearing a civilian black suit, but over the left breast he was sporting a series of medal ribbons. The full scrambled egg. I recognized two of them: one was a Purple Heart, the other was the flag of South Vietnam. He’d also been decorated with some kind of US military cross.

  “You were looking for me?” he asked in a boyish, middle-American accent with a slight Southern lilt.

  “You are Mr. John Connolly?”

  “That’s me.” He smiled and sat down at the table.

  I introduced myself, Crabbie, and Lawson, and explained that we were investigating the suspected murder of Sylvie McNichol, Michael Kelly, and Michael Kelly’s parents.

  Connolly cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know who those people are,” he said.

  “Michael Kelly’s best friend was one Nigel Vardon. Name ring a bell?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “There was an arson attack on Mr. Vardon’s home two nights ago, and very soon thereafter he called you at your residence here. Any idea why he would do a thing like that?”

  “None at all,” Connolly said cheerfully.

  “You can’t offer any explanation?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Could you have met Mr. Vardon in a social setting?”

  Connolly rubbed his all-American, clean-shaven, square jaw. “I doubt it. I haven’t done much socializing since coming here to Belfast.”

  “What are you doing here in Northern Ireland, Mr. Connolly?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Ah, now that I can’t tell you, Inspector. Classified government work.”

  “Can I ask which US government department you’re working for?”

  “You can ask, but I am not at liberty to tell you, Inspector Duffy.” He gave me what he must have thought of as a reassuring smile. “I will say that what we’re attempting to do will benefit citizens of both the government of the United States and that of the United Kingdom.”

  What the fuck did that mean?

  “Let me see if I understand you, Mr. Connolly. You’re working for the US government on a classified mission that will mutually benefit the governments of th
e US and the UK?”

  “You have it in a nutshell. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  He leaned back in the chair, thoroughly satisfied now. He grinned a gap-toothed, monkey grin and Miss Ford finally came in with the coffee and the cookies.

  “Mr. Vardon was sacked from his job at Short Brothers,” I said.

  “Was he? So?”

  “He worked in the Missile Division. Developing the new Javelin system. He was sacked after some of the missiles allegedly went missing. Could that possibly have something to do with why you are here in Northern Ireland?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, Inspector,” he replied.

  “The RUC has cooperated with the FBI on a number of occasions. Inter-agency cooperation is mutually beneficial, sir,” I said.

  Connolly frowned before he understood what I was suggesting.

  “Ah, no, Inspector Duffy, I am not with the FBI. That I can tell you.”

  “Which department of the United States government do you work for? Can you tell me that?”

  “No.”

  “You were a soldier, though, weren’t you?”

  He gave a half-shake of his head before saying: “I can’t confirm that information either, Inspector Duffy.”

  “Are you still a serving officer in the United States Army?”

  “I am not in the United States Army.”

  “Are you in the Navy? Or the Marine Corps?”

  “I am not at liberty to tell you my current position or job title within the administration. That’s classified information,” he said sharply.

  I stared at the dull eyes, the rock-hard posture, the curious, bland, thin, chimp-like face. He looked at his watch.

  “Gentlemen, I’m a very busy man, as I’m sure you are too. I’m sorry that I couldn’t have provided more assistance to you in this matter.”

  “We just have a few more questions,” I said.

  “Be that as it may, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We are really very busy around here.”

  He got to his feet. Lawson and McCrabban got up but I didn’t move. I took a sip of the rather good coffee.

  “Is it a special occasion for American service personnel today?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “So you wear those medal ribbons all the time on your civilian clothes?”

  He could see that I was fucking with him now and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “As I say, I’m a very busy man, Mr. Duffy, I’m sure you can see yourself out from here.”

  “One more question, Mr. Connolly: where were you on the night of November eleventh of this year?”

  “Where was I on November eleventh? I’d have to consult my datebook.”

  “Please do so.”

  “Oh, wait, I probably have it here in my diary,” he said, taking a little book from his inside pocket.

  “On November eleventh I was in Switzerland,” Connolly announced triumphantly.

  “Whereabouts in Switzerland?”

  “Zurich.”

  “What were you doing in Switzerland?”

  “United States government business. I was there from November eighth until November fifteenth. Then I flew back to Belfast, via London. What happened on November eleventh?”

  “That was the night Michael Kelly’s parents were killed and he was possibly abducted.”

  “I didn’t know the gentleman and, as I say, I was out of the country,” Connolly said.

  “Can you prove that you were out of Ireland from November eighth to November fifteenth?”

  “I’m sure that someone in my office can supply you with credit card receipts, hotel and airplane reservation information, that kind of thing.”

  “What hotel were you staying at in Zurich?”

  He looked in his diary. “The Dolder Grand, 65 Kurhausstrasse Street.”

  “Strasse means street,” Lawson said.

  “Excuse me?” Connolly said.

  “Constable Lawson was pointing out that Kurhausstrasse means Kurhaus Street; you don’t need to say the word street twice,” I said. I showed him the photocopy of the artist’s impression. “Ever seen this man?”

  “No. Now I really must be—”

  “Where were you on the evening of November nineteenth?”

  He flipped through his diary again. “November nineteenth?”

  “Yes.” The nineteenth was the night of Sylvia McNichol’s supposed suicide.

  “Ah, I’m afraid I can’t tell you where I was on the nineteenth,” Connolly said.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I know where I was but I am not prepared to give you an answer as to my movements on the nineteenth.”

  “You’d rather not say?” I asked incredulously.

  “I exercise my Fifth Amendment rights to refuse to answer that question.”

  “Your Fifth Amendment rights?”

  “Exactly. And I believe I can also exercise executive and diplomatic privilege.”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Connolly, I’m conducting a murder investigation and it seems to me that you’re withholding evidence that may be pertinent to our inquiries.”

  “Believe me, Duffy, I’ve got nothing to do with your little murder investigation. I’m working at a level far above your pay grade. And you might want to think twice before accusing a United States government official of being mixed up in some kind of local homicide. Now I think perhaps it’s time that you left . . . Steven!”

  A functionary saw us to the front door and ushered us outside. We walked across the gravel to the Land Rover in a reflective mood.

  “Thoughts?” I said.

  “Why did you ask him about his whereabouts? Surely he’s not a suspect in the Kelly murders?” McCrabban said.

  “You heard what he said. Government agency. Maybe he’s CIA? He was tall, wasn’t he? Didn’t Deirdre say the person outside her house was tall and thin?”

  “Tommy Moony is tall and thin. So’s Nigel Vardon come to that,” Crabbie said.

  “So’s Alan Osbourne . . . well, maybe not the thin part, but he is tall,” Lawson said.

  “All four of them aren’t that far off the artist’s-impression picture,” I said.

  “But this guy had an alibi for the night of the Kelly murders,” McCrabban said.

  “Yes. So he says. We’ll have to check it out.”

  “What were you asking him about the ribbons for?” McCrabban wondered.

  “You don’t normally wear medal ribbons on a civvy suit except on special occasions. He’s a vain man. But he did serve in Vietnam. He’s no coward.”

  We got back in the Land Rover and drove into Belfast.

  “So what happens now, sir?” Lawson asked.

  “We’ll formally ask the consul general’s office for information about John Connolly, but based on past experience of dealing with the Americans I think two things will happen. First, they won’t tell us anything. Second, we’ll never bloody see John Connolly again. If he’s a spook he knows he’s been blown. He’ll be spirited out of the country.”

  “What about Special Branch? They’re going to be livid,” McCrabban said.

  “I’ll call them when we get home. Better they hear from me than through channels. I’ll send them over a bottle of Islay as an apology. Maybe two bottles.”

  “Isn’t that why you got so angry at Oxford CID? A whiskey bribe to an Irishman?” Lawson said.

  “It worked, didn’t it? I didn’t throw the book at them.”

  We went back to Carrick RUC. Lawson checked the Swiss hotel and a Mr. Connolly had indeed stayed there on the nights in question under an Irish passport, which was very interesting. A lot of Americans had Irish passports. But American diplomats?

  The consulate told us nothing about Connolly, as I’d been expecting. They refused to confirm whether he was with the mission in Belfast and forwarded our inquiries to the embassy in London, who told us they would get back to us but never did. If that kept up I could always turn to my
good friend Kate Albright from MI5.

  Lawson found a flight from Zurich to Belfast that left at 9 p.m. on the night of November fifteenth. There was no John Connolly on that flight, but if the man was a spook with multiple passports . . .

  I poured myself a stiff drink and called Special Branch. They were indeed livid about our interview with Mr. Connolly, but when the two bottles of eighteen-year-old Islay arrived they soothed the savage breast as eighteen-year-old single-malt Islay whiskey is wont to do.

  22: DAVENPORT BLUES

  Sara had decided to come over. Hadn’t seen much of her. Her hair was shorter and blonder. She looked good. She was happy. She’d had four front-page stories since the Anglo-Irish Agreement riots had begun. It’s an ill wind . . .

  She was in the kitchen making a casserole, one of her “specialties,” she claimed. I was in the living room listening to more Toru Takemitsu. His early percussion work—all John Cage meets Japanese trad music meets Carl Orff’s post-Nazi stuff for kids. Acquired taste to say the least.

  I put down the Belfast Telegraph. Page two said that Philip Larkin was dead, aged sixty-three. I went to the book case upstairs and looked out the Selected Poems and his jazz criticism.

  The phone rang.

  “Duffy here.”

  “Sean, it’s me.”

  “What’s up, Crabbie?”

  “Are you OK, Sean. I didn’t bother you? I know it’s your night off.”

  “No, I’m fine. Just reading.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Philip Larkin’s jazz criticism. He wishes the world had stopped in 1950.”

  “Amen to that . . . Listen, Sean, Strathclyde Police have been on the blower. Two bits of bad news. One pretty serious, I’m afraid.”

  “Tell me,” I groaned.

  “Well, first of all, as instructed, they showed Deirdre Ferris pictures of Moony, Vardon, Osbourne, and Connolly, and she can’t say for certain if it was any of them outside her house that night.”

  “Is that the really bad news?”

  “No. The really bad news is that apparently Deirdre has blown the safe house. They want to move her now and they want us to pay for the move. I ran it by Sergeant Dalziel and he said it’ll have to come out of the CID budget, not the station budget.”