by Fee Derek
Palace Barracks occupies the site of a palatial house known as "Ardtullagh", the home of the Bishop of Down and Connor. The barracks is situated on the outskirts of Holywood and covers an area of four square-kilometres. Wilson arrived at the main gate at ten minutes to three o’clock giving him ten minutes to locate Crookshank before the appointed time. The guard at the gate examined his credentials and rang ahead before removing a substantial barrier. Wilson then drove through a chicane of large concrete blocks before making his way to a car park on the right hand side of the site. Inside, the barracks was like a small town with tree-lined roads with living accommodation on either side and Wilson was suddenly aware that this was a place where families lived. He parked in an empty bay and made his way to the administration building, which was a two storey red-bricked building directly behind the car park. In the reception, he was directed to an office on the first floor. He knocked on the door and a clipped accent bade him to enter.
Major Alfred Crookshank stood as Wilson entered. He was dressed in an open-necked khaki shirt displaying on his epaulettes a single crown signifying his rank. He walked from behind his steel desk and extended his hand towards Wilson. ’Welcome to Palace Barracks.’ Crookshank had an educated Scottish accent.
Wilson took his hand. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’
‘Please sit down.’ Crookshank indicated a chair in front of his desk and returned to his seat.
Crookshank looked to be in his mid-thirties and was lean and fit and a head of prematurely grey hair topped his thin face. He had the type of body that was associated with a runner. His upper lip had a thin military-style moustache and he sat ramrod stiff in his office chair. He looked like every other British Army officer that Wilson had ever met. When demobbed, he would be known as the ‘Major’ in whatever Lowland village he decided to settle in.
‘What can I do for you?’ Crookshank asked when they were settled.
Wilson explained that he was examining the murder of two young men in Belfast in 1974, and he had reached a point in his investigation that indicated that the young men had been victims of a British Army shooting which led back to Palace Barracks.
‘I hardly think so,’ Crookshank said. ‘Of course, I wasn’t here at the time but I don’t think we went around shooting innocent people at random. So you’re from the Historical Investigations Division?’
‘Not exactly,’ Wilson answered. ‘I’m in a special unit reinvestigating the crime.’
‘At forty-two years remove?’ Crookshank couldn’t hide his amazement.
‘Not easy, but like you, I do what I’m told. I understand that a unit called the Military Reaction Force made up of cowboy squaddies operated out of this very barracks.’ Wilson removed a copy of the photograph of the MRF from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Recognise the background?’
Crookshank pulled the photograph towards him and examined it. The photograph showed what he recognised as a cordoned-off area at the rear of the barracks. It was currently being used as a storage area. He’d never seen the photograph before and he could scarcely believe the sight of British soldiers in civilian clothes cradling weapons like a group of 1920s Chicago mobsters. He looked up at Wilson. ‘I don’t understand.’ He pushed the photograph away. He’d received instructions from the office of the General Officer Commanding Northern Ireland to deal with Wilson and answer any of his questions politely but firmly. ‘I wasn’t here when the events you describe happened. I wasn’t even in the army. If you want information on the events in the 1970s, I suggest that you contact someone who might actually be helpful.’
Wilson could appreciate Crookshank’s position. He knew that he was being a bit of an asshole asking to see him. In effect, the request for a meeting had been a feint. He had simply been pulling Sinclair’s chain, and pulling the British Army’s chain at the same time. That was a high-risk strategy. The British Army was the sleeping giant in the Northern Ireland scene. Poking it with a stick risked a reaction. He didn’t need confirmation that Sean Lafferty and Cormac Mallon were murdered by a covert group of British soldiers. He wanted to know who they were. And why the RUC had covered-up the murders? He had no doubt he wouldn’t find the answer by looking closely at the MRF. Nobody had ever looked into the activities of the MRF and nobody ever would. He had no doubt what might happen to him if he became the first. ‘I’m sorry I should have been more explicit about my enquiries.’ He picked up the photograph and replaced it in his pocket. ‘Maybe we can take a look at the staging area that was in use in the early 1970s.’
‘I don’t see the utility, but I’ve been asked to facilitate you.’ Crookshank put his jacket on and started for the door.
They walked through the barracks to the rear right hand side. Wilson could see that every effort had been made to give the soldiers living on the base the feeling of an English village. The recreation areas were tree-lined and the whole feeling was one of gentle peacefulness, probably in direct contrast to the tension and activity that would have been present when the MRF was in residence. They arrived at a large set of steel doors. Crookshank nodded at the soldier on guard who opened the doors for them. The enclosed area was about half the size of a soccer pitch. There was a slightly rundown red brick building along the left-hand side that had obviously been a barracks. The area in front of the barracks was tarmacked and was currently covered with miscellaneous stores. Towards the right of the open site was the area where the transport had been located and where the photo had been taken.
Crookshank watched Wilson as he moved around the area. He wondered what the man could possibly gain from looking at the piles of stores.
Wilson walked to the barracks and looked in through the windows. The rooms were empty but had once housed the quarters of men who had gone hunting the IRA on the streets of Belfast. They fought the kind of guerrilla war they had learned in Malaya and Kenya. He turned and rejoined Crookshank at the gate. He had poked the beast enough. Someone in the office of the Officer Commanding would know that he was focusing his attention on the army and he was sure that there would be a reaction. He just wasn’t sure what it was going to be. He held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.’
Crookshank took his hand with a certain amount of relief. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be much help.’
‘I think I got what I came for. Thank you again.’
Wilson walked back to the car park. He was aware that he had gained nothing of direct benefit to his investigation. He would have to wait and see how the beast would react.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It was almost six o’clock in the evening when Wilson pushed in the door of the Crown. He had spent the afternoon sitting on the bench at the Esplanade where he had taken his lunch. He was beginning to believe that he had taken the investigation as far as he could. The British Army was a closed box. The action in Northern Ireland had been the quintessential dirty war. Army officers and bureaucrats who had gained their experience of guerrilla warfare in countries of the Empire far removed from the mother island had directed it. That wasn’t the case with Northern Ireland. The dirty war necessitated the establishment of groups like the Military Reaction Force. These units fought the IRA with tools that were far outside the realm of an official security response, and which bore no relation to the Geneva Convention. Breaking the silence that existed around the activities of these units would be well nigh impossible. He had taken the investigation as far as he could and for once in his life he was going to have to admit defeat. That didn’t sit well with someone who had been brought up to fight to the very end. For Lafferty and Mallon the “fat lady” was already warming up her voice. The hours had sped by at the Esplanade while he mulled over how he could tell the dying Michael Lafferty that British Army soldiers who would never pay for their crime had murdered his son. When he finally rose from the bench, he was sure that the investigation had finally hit the skids. He drove back to Queen’s Quay and left his car in the garage.
Then he made his way to the Crown. The after-work crowd were already ensconced but he had phoned on his way and reserved his usual snug. McDevitt would eventually turn up and they could tie one on together. Drink was becoming his antidote despite his resolve to not let it. He pushed open the door to the ‘J’ snug and was taken aback to see a man already sitting facing the door. He was about to close the door when he realised that he had seen the man before. The man sitting before him was small with a round, bland face and receding grey hair. His face had the pallor associated with someone who spends the minimum amount of time in the fresh air. He was wearing a pair of thick spectacles, which gave his face an owlish look. It took Wilson a few moments to remember where and when.
‘Come in and close the door,’ the man said.
‘Anorak man,’ Wilson smiled and closed the door behind him. The last time he had seen this man was in the office of the Chief Constable of the PSNI after the Dungrey orphanage business. At that time, he hadn’t been introduced by name. He had been simply somebody representing the Home Office.
‘What?’
‘Since I didn’t get your name in the Chief Constable’s office, I remember that you were wearing an anorak. Hence the name.’
The man pushed the bell to summon that barman. ‘Your tipple is a pint of Guinness I understand.’ The accent was pure Oxbridge. ‘I don’t much like the name ‘anorak man’, so you can call me Boag.’
The barman appeared and Boag ordered Wilson’s drink.
‘OK, Boag it is,’ Wilson said taking a seat. ‘I don’t suppose that your real name is anything like Boag.’
The small man smiled but didn’t answer.
‘So, Boag,’ Wilson said. ‘Who do you work for? I didn’t find out when we last met. You’re from the Home Office but I assume that’s a euphemism for MI5, MI6 or Military Intelligence. Which do you represent?’
‘Take your pick.’
‘I don’t mean to be nasty, but you don’t have a military bearing so I suppose Military Intelligence is out of the question. My guess is MI5 and from the way the Chief Constable kowtowed to you, you’re not the common spook. You’re the chief spook dealing with Northern Ireland. You probably know more about us than we know about ourselves. You’ve examined us the same way a biologist examines a new type of animal except you don’t dissect our bodies. You dissect our minds.’
‘You’re quite the detective.’
‘It’s a living. And this is just a friendly drink?’
‘Not quite.’
The hatch opened and the barman passed a pint of Guinness to Wilson.
‘You’ve been keeping tabs on me since the Dungrey business,’ Wilson said. ‘Afraid I’m going to blab?’
‘The answer to the first part is, no we haven’t been keeping tabs on you. Our Islamic friends are top of the agenda for the moment. As to your question, I have no doubt that you’re not about to blab, and not only because of the legal consequences. You won’t blab because you’re an honourable man.’ Boag raised his whiskey and toasted Wilson.
Wilson returned the toast and drank a large slug of Guinness. It was probably going to be the first of many. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said replacing his drink on the table.
‘It’s what I can do for you,’ Boag said. ‘You’re beginning to appear on my radar again, and that’s not good. You have a rather nasty habit of unearthing things that we have considered well and truly buried. And subtlety is not one of your attributes. You’re more bull in a china shop.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Honourable, unsubtle and bull in a china shop, so many positive character traits. Flattery will get you everywhere. I have a heavy night’s drinking ahead. I’d appreciate it if you could get to the point.’
There was a knock on the snug door, it opened and McDevitt’s head appeared.
Wilson turned quickly. ‘Later,’ he said as soon as he saw McDevitt.
McDevitt stared at Boag and then closed the door. There was silence in the snug.
‘Your journalist friend,’ Boag said.
‘A drinking companion.’
‘We’re aware of the investigation you are currently undertaking,’ Boag said.
Wilson noticed that there was never a change in the cadence of his voice. Every statement was delivered in the same monotone. ‘And you don’t like the way it’s going?’
‘On the contrary, there’s a new mood in Westminster. We’re all about apologising for our past actions. We’re even bringing squaddies to book for Bloody Sunday. However, there are limits. We have certain problem with someone opening up the can of worms that was the Military Reaction Force. Our political masters are not ready for that.’
‘So, no new Stevens’ enquiry?’ The evidence collected by the Stevens’ enquiry had been incinerated in an office fire.
Boag smiled. ‘The powers that be back then didn’t want to put the faintly immoral stuff in front of the public. The IRA were the demons and we had to fight them in any way we could. Guerrilla war isn’t fought according to the Geneva Convention. The rules of engagement were more flexible.’
‘Flexible enough to include the killing of innocent civilians?’
‘We have to recognise that some officers went a little overboard. I’m here to give you some assistance.’
‘Ever hear of”beware of Greeks bearing gifts?” ‘I suppose I’m not about to be stitched up.’
A smile played across Boag’s thin lips. ‘Such cynicism, we genuinely want to assist your investigation.’
‘And why do you want to help?’
‘The truth is we don’t want you breaking any more china than necessary.’
‘OK, I’ll buy this bullshit. You’re not about to give me the truth anyway. What have you got for me?’
Boag put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. He put it flat on the table and pushed it across to Wilson.
Wilson looked at the paper for a few moments before lifting the fold. Written on the paper was a name address and phone number. ‘Who is it?’
Boag finished his whiskey and stood up. ‘It’s one of the men who was in the car who fired the shots at Lafferty and Mallon. I would act pretty quickly if I were you. These kinds of people tend to move around a lot. And my assistance is a one- time only event.’ He went to the door of the snug. ‘Good luck, I really hope we don’t have an occasion to meet again.’
Wilson stood. He had the inclination to offer his hand but looking into Boag’s face he felt a handshake wasn’t required or appropriate. Without looking back Boag exited the snug but left the door open. What the hell was that about? Wilson wondered. People like Boag didn’t do anything for altruistic reasons. He picked up the paper from the table and looked at the name, address and telephone number. He half expected the letters to disappear.
‘Who’s your pal?’ said McDevitt carrying a pint glass in his hand. He pushed past Wilson and took the seat that Boag had just vacated.
‘Called himself Boag.’ Wilson retook his seat.
‘Looked like a slimy little prick,’ said McDevitt laying his glass on the table. ‘I’ve seen blokes like him around Belfast before. Some kind of spook, I suppose. What’s he up to?’
‘Damned if I know.’ He held up the sheet of paper Boag had given him. ‘Supposed to be the name and address of one of the guys in the car at the Lafferty and Mallon murder.’
‘I’d take that with a pinch of salt,’ said McDevitt taking a drink from his glass. ‘Probably a plant.’
That thought had also passed through Wilson’s mind. What if they were trying to feed him false information? What the hell interest had MI5 in screwing up the investigation? Or better still what interest did they have in helping him with his investigation?