Vengeance

by Price, Roger A

  ‘Ok, but I’m going to be busy until tonight, give me a ring then and we can meet up.’

  ‘Will do,’ Vinnie said, before ending the call and driving through the entrance.

  ‘Christine Jones?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve not told her about Reedly, but have arranged to see her later.’

  ‘Tell her the truth, Vinnie, but make sure she understands that she is the only one to know who is on the outside. I take it you trust her fully?’

  Vinnie said that he did, and as he needed her to get to Bury, he needed to trade something with her. And he reminded Harry that they had total editorial control at the end of it over anything Christine would seek to broadcast. She’d not let them down last time over the Moxley affair, and in any event, she wasn’t covering the murders now.

  ‘Ok,’ Harry replied, before directing Vinnie where to drive.

  It was the first time that Vinnie had been to the barracks, and he was amazed at how big the place was, even though it was the Army’s command place for the whole of the north west of England. He drove into the grounds proper and around a massive parade square before Harry passed on the gate guard’s instructions to take the third left and pull over by the building with the red painted door. He’d also put a yellow car pass in the windscreen. As soon as they had parked up a red-capped soldier appeared through the red door to greet them. They followed him into a reception area where both their warrant cards were taken from them and replaced with signed visitor passes. The red-capped soldier then led them up a flight of stone steps and on to the far corner of the first floor in what clearly was a Victorian era building. In fact, all the buildings Vinnie had seen so far looked to have originated from the late 1800s.

  The door at the end had Major Crompton’s name on it, and one knock later, their escort led them in before disappearing back down the corridor. The room was massive, with a huge mahogany table facing the door with a large sash window behind it. Sunshine streamed in through partly open blinds. In front of the desk were a number of easy chairs around a light oak-effect table that looked modern, budget, and out of place.

  Behind the desk was a small man in his thirties with short black hair, but with a considerably longer cut than their escort had had. He looked friendly enough as he stepped from behind the mahogany desk with his hand outstretched. Major Crompton introduced himself and gestured towards the light oak-effect table where a tray sat with a steaming teapot and cups.

  ‘Tea ok, chaps?’ the Major asked, and Vinnie and Harry both said that it would be very welcome, and introduced themselves.

  Tea poured, the Major spoke first. ‘I’ve good news and bad news.’

  ‘Bad first, please,’ Harry said.

  ‘The bad is that we’ve identified the nominal you know only as Jason.’

  ‘Isn’t that the good news?’ Harry asked.

  ‘For you perhaps, but not for us, you see he used to be one of ours.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And your good news?’ Harry asked.

  ‘We’ve no intel on the nominal you call Jack Quintel. And he definitely has never been one of ours. Even with a fake name our facial recognition software would have ID-ed his photo you emailed me. Incidentally, I put a call into some desk-jockeys I know in Whitehall and your man Quintel doesn’t seem to exist.’

  Vinnie already knew that there was no trace on any databases of Quintel, he’d never had a national insurance number, paid tax or drawn benefits. It had been one of Charlie Parker’s objectives to obtain Quintel’s DNA or a print if possible, but the poor man’s murder and the subsequent fire not so very far from where they were now had put paid to that. But at least they’d got a breakthrough on Jason.

  ‘Since I spoke to your officer at Preston this morning the phone’s been red hot,’ Major Crompton said, adding, ‘well, ever since yesterday really when we were told about the grenade attack at the cemetery, awful business. It certainly appears that the anti-personal device used came from us or from the manufacturer. In fact, I’ve sent a sergeant over there this morning to check their inventories, but I know it’s academic.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Because you wouldn’t believe how much stuff we misplace or have stolen from us annually. It’s been a bit of a hot ammo casing for us politically, and something we’ve been working on for the last six months. We’ve locked up ten serving and twenty-two retired servicemen and women, but that stays between us gents.’

  Vinnie and Harry nodded and stayed silent, letting the Major continue.

  Jason was Jason Moriarty, who had served six years in the Signals Corps before being discharged to an address in Preston, his home town. He was single and in his thirties.

  Vinnie was starting to feel excited as he asked, ‘Do you have a discharge address?’

  ‘I do Inspector, but don’t get a hard-on just yet. He was discharged six years ago and the address he gave then is now part of the new flyover they are building across the River Ribble at Ashton.’

  Vinnie groaned, and Harry rubbed his head.

  ‘Whole swathes of terraced streets were knocked down about two years ago when work first began.’

  ‘What about pension payments?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Typical ex-signals man I’m afraid. His bank account is an on-line one and his link-address is a post office box, but I’m guessing you could do some obs on it, not that he’ll visit it much, I suspect, if at all. We’ve had a peek into his on-line account, and the only transactions are his pension being withdrawn every month in several cash point withdrawals from all over the country. I’ll give you a copy of all I have before you leave.’

  Vinnie was impressed with what the major had achieved in only a couple of hours, but disappointed about Jason’s address; but at least they now knew who he was. The major went on to explain that they were also very interested in helping them locate ex-Lance Corporal Jason Moriarty so they could find out where he and his mate were getting their hardware from. The Major said he understood that their investigation took primacy, but as he put it, “we want a go with him when you boys have finished your stuff”.

  They just had to find him first.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Christine Jones put the phone down from speaking to Vinnie and tried to understand what he’d meant by “it’s not what you think”? Her inquisitive mind was racing, and as desperate as she was to ring him back, or give Harry a call, she resisted the temptation. On the plus side, he’d also said that he needed to see her later, and the thought pleased her. She was enjoying Vinnie’s company more and more, and she was fairly sure he felt the same. Whether it was more than a platonic extension to their professional roles or not, she wasn’t too sure, but she planned to find out. It had been a while for her and that aside, she was genuinely fond of Vinnie. But she didn’t want to spoil things by getting it wrong. That said, she’d seen the look of concern in his eyes when she had told him of her scare at The Blarney Stone. It had seemed deeper than a friend’s apprehension, much deeper. She’d have to wait a while longer.

  She shook off the thoughts as she turned her mind back to the job in hand; her editor, June, had asked her to start pulling together her work on Northern Ireland since the peace process, into some sort of order, so they could start planning a schedule. It was an onerous task, especially as things were still live and very fluid, but she was sure that the programme’s producers would be in turn putting some pressure on June. Probably Sally Ainsworth who’d been at their last meeting.

  She laboured on and by two o’clock she was fairly happy that she had the opening nailed - it had pretty much written itself to be fair, outlining the history of the 1999 power-sharing agreement, its aims, an up-to-date summary of where things appeared to be now, publically anyway, and the programme’s objectives. She stopped to eat a sandwich at her desk and her phone rang, it was Paul Bury.

  ‘I just wanted to apologise for what happened the other night at the Blarney Stone,’ he said.

  ‘I was pro
bably overreacting, but thanks. More importantly, have you any idea what actually happened?’

  ‘I have, but could do with a face to face with you. How are you fixed this afternoon?’

  Christine looked at the pile of work she had done that morning and decided it was time to get some air, plus she was happy she’d done enough to allow June to feed her lions, she’d email it to her before she left. ‘Ok, what about the same place, in say, thirty minutes? Oh wait, I could do with running an errand on the way, is an hour and a half ok?’

  ‘Perfect, the sun’s out, so I’ll see you in the rear beer garden again.’

  That agreed, Christine ended the call and headed to the Ladies to freshen up and check her teeth for stray bits of salad.

  Five minutes later she was off towards the stairs when Vinnie called.

  ‘Sorry for being so brief before, but I’ll explain when I see you, but suffice to say, we now know exactly who Jason is.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, look it’s my turn to be brief now. I’m just off to see Paul, so perhaps we can meet up this evening, and chat proper then?’

  ‘Excellent. Look I might need to ask a favour, as in do you think Paul would agree to meet me?’

  Christine was taken aback slightly, then said, ‘Not sure, probably depends on why?’

  ‘Nothing to do with what you’ve got going on with him,’ Vinnie said, before adding, ‘It’s just the suggested motive that Reedly’s advocated. I thought with Bury’s service in Northern Ireland he might have some historical knowledge, or even just an overview which might help, but I don’t want to cock-up your relationship with him.’

  ‘I’ll ask him, but on two conditions.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘If he agrees, I can be present?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Vinnie replied.

  ‘And what’s the story with Reedly?’

  ‘Later I promise, I just can’t talk now.’

  Christine could hear a lot of loud office chatter in the background to Vinnie’s call, so believed him and said her goodbyes. She’d have to wait, but the suspense was eating into her.

  *

  ‘Don’t lose the fucker again,’ Quintel said, as Jason accelerated away from the kerb into the Manchester traffic.

  ‘I’m sorry about before, but we are only one car, Boss,’ Jason said.

  ‘I know the traffic in this city is a nightmare, but if we pull this little stocking-filler off, we can probably start naming our own fees when the whole job is over.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah I get that.’

  ‘So stop being so professionally over-fucking-sensitive and don’t lose the twat.’

  Jason didn’t answer and Quintel concentrated on keeping his eyes on the motor. It was three-up ahead of them slowing towards a line of traffic held by red traffic signals at a major crossroads.

  ‘The sun is bright and more importantly, behind us, so as long we keep heading east they’ll see rock all in their mirrors,’ Jason said.

  Quintel didn’t reply; Jason was just trying to show off, or make up for earlier.

  *

  Five minutes after setting off, Christine jumped out of the black hackney carriage and asked if he could return in an hour. She had a quick house-call to make. The driver said he’d be back in exactly an hour for five minutes, but only if he was free. She paid him with a healthy tip hoping that would help, and rushed across the road towards a modern town house.

  An hour later the black cab was there as promised, and fifteen minutes after that she was outside the pub with the bay window. She entered and checked the front snug, just in case, on her way past. It was empty. Even the main bar only had a few in it. They all had city suits on and looked like dinnertime drinkers who had decided not to bother returning to the office. She was surprised to see that she had beaten Paul to the pub on finding the beer garden/back yard empty too, apart from one suited-smoker just finishing a cigarette. Having popped her head out the rear door she about-turned and headed towards the bar as the smoker followed her back inside. For a second she smelt his nicotine breath as he followed on close behind her through the doorway. It had been seven years since her last cigarette, and the man’s second-hand breath smelled lovely. But the brief pang went as soon as it had arrived. It was the best thing they could have done when they banned smoking from inside offices and other buildings, like pubs, or she would still be on thirty a day.

  Christine bought a white wine for herself and a pint of lager for Paul and then headed back outside before sitting at the same table they had used last time. She left the seat empty with its back to the wall; no doubt Paul would want to take up his usual watchful position. Several sips of wine and a few minutes passed before Paul appeared in the yard. He joined her and took a quick slurp from his pint, before he thanked her and apologised for being late.

  ‘The traffic is mental today,’ he said, adding, ‘had to drive like an idiot; reminded me of the good old days; still got it.’

  ‘Wasn’t too much better for me, I was just lucky to grab a cab as soon as I left the office, and the way some of them drive you’d think they were all ex your old mob.’

  They both smirked and then she added, ‘Anyway, I get the idea you’ve got something to share?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. Last night McConachy thought he was going to meet a group of likeminded Republicans.’

  ‘As in, we are all for power-sharing with the Protestants, but really want to kick them all out of Northern Ireland?’

  ‘There the ones. But according to my source it was either hardliners, or even Protestants who were waiting for him.’

  ‘I’m confused,’ Christine said, and she was.

  Paul went on to elaborate that publically McConachy was seen as a moderate. An ex-Republican who had now got into bed with the Brits and the Unionists and was enjoying the trappings of power. She got that. ‘I guess being First Minister of the Northern Ireland regional assembly was as near to being Prime Minister of the Province as one could get. And power is a seductive mistress,’ Christine said.

  ‘Absolutely, but when the armed struggle ended, there were extremists on both sides who would never, ever agree to anything involving a compromise.’

  ‘Understood,’ she said. Then Paul added that if Christine was right, then McConachy wasn’t the all-round appeaser that many, including the Westminster government, thought he was. That he is suspected of slowly but stealthily ensuring that senior positions are taken by Catholics. Catholics who still long for the Republican dream of a united Ireland.

  Christine was really buzzing now. If what Paul was saying was true, the reverse discrimination theme of her proposed documentary went far deeper than the Police Service of Northern Ireland and a few local councillors. ‘I don’t suppose there is any chance of speaking to your source of information?’ she asked.

  ‘If you knew where I was getting this from, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s not from some old Protestant tout who is upset at the slow but pervasive power shift, as I witnessed before I retired.’

  ‘I didn’t really think about it, but that would have made sense,’ she said.

  ‘It’s from someone firmly on the extreme side of the Republicans.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Precisely because they feel that McConachy is selling them out, and they want him out.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting they would kill him?’

  ‘No, they’d not go that far. They know if they did that the Unionists would get the blame, and the more moderate in the IRA would kick off, and so then would the ex-Unionist terrorists in response, and all hell would break loose. They just want McConachy replacing.’

  ‘If McConachy is, as we suspect he is, then why doesn’t he simply let his ex-IRA hardliners know that he is really on their side?’

  ‘Good question, perhaps, he doesn’t trust them to keep his secret? Perhaps he wants to achieve his aims while appearing to be all things to all men, which will ensure he clings onto power. It’s a political m
inefield.’

  ‘So what do you think went wrong the other night?’

  ‘I don’t think my source has the control of things he claims to have. I think he set up the meeting, hoping McConachy would see it as an opportunity to meet some good old boys on the QT, but the good old boys had other ideas and someone then warned him off. I think the source was hoping I’d witness the meeting and then publically embarrass McConachy, but it got out of hand.’

  ‘Are you sure your source, or tout, or whatever you call him, is trustworthy? No offence, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your old job.’

  ‘None taken, but yes I do think he is becoming unreliable, but they all do in time. Especially the best ones.’

  Christine finished her wine as they chatted more, but she was unsure exactly where this left her. Potentially, her scoop was getting much larger, but how to prove it? As much as she hated documentaries that asked the unanswered questions, she could see her project heading that way. Sally Ainsworth would no doubt think it too much to ignore. Christine could keep the programme to the police and at the local level that she’d originally imagined, statistics alone would almost prove the point – the numbers of Protestants replaced by Catholics in the police was obviously disproportionate. But to leave out a suggestion that the First Minister himself had an agenda aimed at slowly ousting and replacing all Protestants in key positions, it would be too much to omit.

  However, she could do with something to back it up, at least enough to defend any lawsuit. As she mused about this she realised she’d forgotten Vinnie’s favour, so quickly asked Paul.

  ‘So you’ve told him about me?’ Paul said.

  She sensed his disquiet and spent the next few minutes reassuring him of Vinnie’s credentials and trustworthiness.

  ‘Aye you are. I suppose I’ll have to meet your man now, if only to satisfy myself he’s all you say he is. But what does he want?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with what we are doing. In fact, he’s no idea of what we are up to,’ Christine lied.