Exactly a week later a huge crowd estimated to be a hundred thousand strong packed the streets around Belfast City Hall to hear their political leaders, united as they had never been, attack the great betrayal. Loudest of all was the Reverend Ian Paisley, seen by thousands of Loyalists as the prophet whose words had come true. He summed up the anger and emotion felt by all of us with three simple words: ‘Never, Never, Never.’ I have never been a Paisley fan. He rants and raves and he shouts and screams, but he never takes action. Paisley never goes beyond opening his big gob. The UDA dubbed him the ‘Grand Old Duke of York’ – he marches his men to the top of the hill and then marches them back down again. Paisley has never had the guts to go over the top.
I was now working as a self-employed builder and it provided the perfect cover for my paramilitary activities. I remember Leigh-Ann thinking I was working too hard and not spending enough time with her. She described me as the most boring man she had ever met. What she didn’t know was that I was chasing Republicans all over Northern Ireland. I avoided all contact with paramilitaries except John McMichael and a handful of other trusted freelancers and associates living throughout the province. I dubbed myself the ‘minimalist soldier’ and kept a low profile. Loyalism was still recovering from the ‘supergrass’ trials that took place between 1981 and 1986. In these, ‘converted’ terrorists, such as the Loyalist Budgie Allen and the Republican Christopher Black, would bring accusations against fellow terrorists, who would in turn be arrested and tried. I avoided unnecessary contact with unnecessary people. This way, if more supergrasses were to emerge, I couldn’t be implicated in anything because nobody knew me.
9
TAKING THE RAP
AS A RESULT OF MY ARREST ON 16 MARCH 1988, I WAS CHARGED, TRIED AND SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR THE MURDERS OF SIX MEN. But two of them I didn’t kill. I can hear the chorus of ‘He would say that’, but I confessed to the murder of Kevin McPolin to protect the unit who carried out the operation. I wanted to divert suspicion away from them. I said I killed Dermot Hackett to try to help a teenager wrongly charged with Hackett’s murder.
Kevin McPolin was a twenty-six-year-old Catholic carpenter who was killed in November 1985. He died after being ambushed as he sat in his car on a housing executive estate in Lisburn. John McMichael’s South Belfast unit of the UFF shot McPolin as he waited to start work renovating pensioners’ bungalows on the Old Warren estate. The victim was shot at close range through the windscreen with a shotgun. Stumbling from his car, he collapsed and died in the arms of a school patrolman as horrified children looked on.
After my arrest I was questioned not just about Milltown but about a total of twenty-eight murders, including the death of Kevin McPolin. My RUC interrogators put it to me that his death had all the signs of my modus operandi, including a shotgun used at close quarters and the target ambushed at work. My answer to their question was simple: ‘I killed him. He was a legitimate target.’ The truth is, I knew nothing about this young man. I had never seen an intelligence file on him and knew absolutely nothing about him or his background. I didn’t even know his name until it was put to me under questioning at Musgrave Park Hospital, and I can’t even recall the news bulletins about his death. I confessed to McPolin’s murder in order to protect the South Belfast brigade, as they were a new unit beginning to find their feet. I knew my confession would allow them to carry on their work free from suspicion. I was going down for life. The charges relating to Milltown alone ensured I would spend at least thirty years behind bars, so another murder on my charge sheet wasn’t going to make a difference to the overall outcome. It was a classic illustration of the old paramilitary saying ‘in for one or 101’. With murder carrying a life sentence in Northern Ireland, a convicted murderer would get the same sentence no matter how many people he had killed.
My confession also gave the McPolin family closure. They saw the man who ‘murdered’ their loved one confessing, going to court and going to prison for his death. I am sure this helped them as they grieved for their son and brother and I am sorry that now, eighteen years later, their pain is going to come flooding back and hit them like a giant tidal wave.
In custody, the police had to talk me through every detail about McPolin’s murder. They had to hold my hand like I was a five-year-old. My interrogators were forced to drop clues and leave hints and give me just enough information to weave into a credible version of events. The RUC knew I didn’t kill McPolin and they even laughed at some of my answers to their questions, but I was grabbing in the dark trying to picture myself there. The police questioned and probed, trying to get me to slip up and make mistakes saying, ‘Are you sure about this?’ and ‘Was it not like that?’ One detective couldn’t continue and left the room shouting, ‘We are telling him everything. The fucker didn’t do it.’ I managed to convince the police I did do it and the murder of Kevin McPolin was added to my charge sheet.
In prison I spoke to the man who pulled the trigger. He told me he had read McPolin’s file and killed him because he was a Republican. He also thanked me for taking the rap, and confirmed that his unit was able to continue operating suspicion-free after McPolin’s death.
Dermot Hackett died in May 1987 after being ambushed by the North Belfast brigade of the UFF. He perished in a hail of gunfire on a lonely road outside Omagh, County Tyrone. I first heard of Dermot Hackett early that same year. He was a family man with a young daughter of nine. He was a Mother’s Pride bread deliveryman and lived in Castlederg, a tiny village in County Tyrone. I believe he was involved in charity work and gave much of his free time to the St Vincent de Paul organisation. But Hackett had a secret. He used his bread run to transport guns for the IRA. I had seen his intelligence file. It was the usual collection of photographs and information. It showed he used his delivery van to move weapons around the lonely roads of South Tyrone.
At the time of Hackett’s death, Bishop Edward Daly accused the security forces of harassing Hackett whenever he left home. Bishop Daly said the constant pressure brought the young father to the attention of Loyalist paramilitaries, who used the opportunity to execute him. His cousin, a member of the SDLP, had protested to the RUC about the attention Hackett received every time he left his home and a prominent member of the same party, Denis Haughey, had also made representations on his behalf. Hackett travelled the lonely network of roads for his work and was often pulled over and searched by the security forces. They constantly stopped him because they wanted to catch him red-handed with guns and bullets hidden among the loaves and cakes. The security forces knew he was active and it was for the same reason he was targeted by the UFF. After his death the Hackett family denied that he was involved or active in the Republican movement, but the intelligence I saw on him proved otherwise. I agreed to assassinate Dermot Hackett and was given his file. I burnt it after memorising the details it contained.
I took a lift to the area, based myself in a safe house and did a dry run. Two young volunteers were made available for the sanction and both were to be blooded on the hit. They told me they had stolen a car, an Opel Manta, and garaged it until the day of the operation. A Sterling Mk 5 sub-machine gun and another weapon would be made available on the day. I pulled out of the operation. In my eyes, Hackett wasn’t a big enough target.
There is another more important reason why I pulled out of the assassination of Dermot Hackett. Everything was in place. I had seen his file, had weapons and transport organised and was ready to go. I even did a dry run and sat in the lonely lay-by chosen as the place.
Seven days before the operation was scheduled to go ahead, the mid-Ulster brigadier had a strange and interesting conversation with me. I can still recall every word of it. ‘We will have no problems with this operation. I can guarantee it.’
‘Why?’
‘I have contacts in the security forces and they have assured me there will be no activity in that area on Saturday morning. They know about the operation and they will let your team get in and out safely
. They will be in the area and, if any stray units chance upon the scene or off-duty members of the force are out and about, they’ll block off the road.’
I told him that it had taken three weeks to set up the operation and, as a result of his relationship with local security forces, my security was compromised. I told him I wouldn’t do it.
A week later Hackett was dead.
The two young volunteers assigned to the operation had a friend called Peter Deary. He was seventeen years old, collected money for Loyalist Prisoners’ Aid and wasn’t involved in active service. The Manta stolen for the operation had an expensive radio. The two volunteers ripped it out and give it to their friend Deary, who had a clapped-out old banger with no radio. A few weeks after Hackett’s death, Deary was stopped by the RUC for having no road tax and insurance. They noticed an expensive radio system in his car and knew it didn’t belong in the banger. It was checked and the owner of the Manta confirmed it was his. Deary was hauled in for questioning and broke down under interrogation, was arrested and charged with the murder of Dermot Hackett. The police threw the book at him because he knew about an old arms hide and about other stolen items.
Northern Ireland has a bizarre law called Thompson’s Law. This means it is irrelevant whether you pull the trigger or are standing nearby, whether you are the back-up man or the getaway driver. Murder is murder and you do life for it. Young Deary was remanded in custody to await his trial. I knew he wasn’t involved in the Hackett murder. I told the RUC I killed Dermot Hackett to try to get Deary off, but it didn’t work.
I confessed to the murder in Musgrave Park Hospital and, unlike the murder of Kevin McPolin, I knew I could convince the police that I was the gunman. I had seen Hackett’s file and had even done a dry run. I could name the weapons and give the police explicit detail only someone close to the operation could provide, but there was a problem with my fake confession: the Opel Manta. During questioning the police asked me if I’d used a car and I deliberately threw swerves to confuse them. First I told them I was a passenger on a motorbike. They were puzzled and asked me how I managed to strike the cab of the bread van, which was substantially higher than a bike. I told my interrogators that I got the driver to overtake the van, I aimed at the driver’s side of the vehicle with the sub-machine gun in an out and upwards motion and then opened fire. I said the Manta was a cover. One detective wasn’t convinced. He kept shaking his head and asked whether I shot out and upwards. I confirmed this was correct, saying, ‘I leant out of the window, pointed up and fired at the cab.’ The police were puzzled. They told me my story didn’t add up. They said they understood everything else, the weapons and the route, but they couldn’t work out the car. I thought they were playing games with me. The fake confession was eventually accepted by the RUC and Dermot Hackett’s name was added to my charge sheet.
It was a year later before I understood the RUC’s confusion. The answer to the puzzle was contained in my depositions. The police scene-of-crime photographs clearly showed the Manta – complete with sunroof. The UFF volunteer who had shot Hackett had stood up through the sunroof, aiming straight at the cab of the delivery van. The sub-machine gun wasn’t aimed out and up like I said it was, but parallel with the cab. Forensic evidence showed that the trajectory of the bullets, which penetrated Hackett’s body and even his feet, could only have gone one way: out and straight across on the same level as the cab of the van. Deary signed for the car after admitting his link to the getaway car through the radio and was jailed for murder in 1988. He faced the Secretary of State’s Pleasure for something he had no hand in and even though I tried I couldn’t save his skin. Paramilitary godfathers shouldn’t use kids.
I remember when I was in prison there was a television programme about the murder of Dermot Hackett. His widow spoke about her husband and she was very gracious in her grief. I realised that her husband lived on in his wife and daughter. She spoke softly and lovingly about her husband and said she wanted to invite me into her home and ask why I murdered her husband. In 2000, the year of my release from prison, Hackett’s daughter said she was leaving Northern Ireland for a new life in America because she couldn’t bear to be in the same country as me, the man who killed her father. I was sad about that and sad for her that she felt she couldn’t stay at home because I was walking the streets of Northern Ireland a free man.
10
MARTIN McGUINNESS
MARTIN MCGUINNESS. THE HEAD OF THE REPUBLICAN SNAKE AND ENEMY NUMBER ONE. I personally held him responsible for atrocities like Enniskillen and Kingsmills and I wanted him wiped off the face of the earth. I asked my intelligence officers to get me his file and they duly presented it. It was an archive stretching back twenty years. It contained hundreds of photographs showing McGuinness in a variety of different looks over the years. In some he was wearing the trademark tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, in others he was just a teenager with long hair or a man in his twenties with dyed hair and a moustache. The file also included official photographs. I knew he drove a burnt-orange Volkswagen Jetta. I had his house number in Londonderry’s Brandywell estate. I knew about his wife and kids.
The file contained detail on his every movement. I knew he collected his newspapers from a small shop in Bishopgate Street and he never paid cash, always put it on account. I knew he signed on every second Thursday afternoon with his brother Frank and DHSS officials allowed him a three-hour flexibility slot because he was a security risk. I knew that he bulk-shopped with his wife in Curley’s supermarket after his dole cheque came through. I knew he walked his daughter Grainne to school and I knew he was a football fan and followed his favourite team, Derry City FC, going to every home match. Martin McGuinness had several routines and I intended to exploit every opportunity until I succeeded. The entire file was handed back to UFF intelligence officers. I wasn’t allowed to destroy it.
I spent six months stalking McGuinness. I wanted him dead before Sinn Fein’s Ard Fheis, its annual general meeting, and I had another plan in mind at the same time: to spark an internal row among the Republican movement. I wanted to use a Republican weapon and decided on an AR15 Armalite. I knew the UFF had one in their possession and John McMichael swapped four revolvers for it. The rifle ended up in the hands of Loyalists via Loyalist hoods, who got it from Republican hoods, who stole it from the Provos. The security forces had been watching the arms hide with instructions to arrest or shoot on sight whoever came to pick it up. Republicans heard the hide was being watched and left the gun. Republican hoods waited for a while, moved in and passed it on to Loyalist hoods. The rifle had been used in a number of sniper attacks and I knew ballistic tests would show it to be an IRA weapon. I wanted the Republican movement to wonder what the hell was happening if a high-ranking official was shot with one of their own weapons. I wanted to spark an internal feud. I also chose a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.
McMichael put me in touch with a UDA commander in Londonderry. At our first meeting he said it had been eleven years since the UFF had attacked Republicans in Londonderry, although the IRA had been active. He then added, ‘If you kill him [McGuinness], I am a dead man.’ I told him that was war and he said he understood why I was in Londonderry and what I must do. He said he would help me. This man was willing to take the risk and put his life on the line for Loyalism. He supplied my safe houses and accompanied me on all dry runs. He helped fine-tune options for the assassination and even went into the Brandywell with me to do a recce of McGuinness’s house. We bought Derry City FC scarves and wrapped them around our necks. We bought a football and kicked it around the streets outside McGuinness’s home. Our pretend football game allowed us to assess the house and evaluate our options. I was an angry man. If McGuinness walked out of his house, I was going to pump him full of lead. It wouldn’t matter who saw me or who witnessed the shooting. The job would be done.
Standing facing his home, it was obvious to me that McGuinness had installed extra security. The windows had the telltale blue-green t
int of reinforced glass. I could see his bathroom and had a clear line of fire from the street below. I decided against the window shot because I could not be totally sure the figure silhouetted against the window was McGuinness himself, his wife, his child or a visitor to his home. McGuinness was my target, not his family.
As a final check I went back to the Brandywell after dark. I took a small folding ladder and climbed into the football pitch which bordered the side of his house. I walked around the grounds looking for possible vantage points to strike the house, but none presented themselves. The football pitched was overlooked by a British Army sangar. I ruled out assassinating McGuinness at his home.
Plan B was the newsagents in Bishopgate Street in the city centre. I wanted to strike as McGuinness left the shop with bundles of papers under his arm. New shops were being built directly across from the road and I knew the builders wouldn’t be around at the weekend. The hit had to take place on a Saturday or Sunday. I planned to hide among the builders’ equipment on a motorbike, kill McGuinness with the Armalite, drop it and drive off and meet my driver on the outskirts of Londonderry. The motorbike would be dumped just across the border in County Donegal.
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