A voice shouted, ‘Armed police. Do not move. Do not struggle.’
Francis sat in the rear of the police car as it sped through Kilburn. Paddington Green was the inevitable destination for dangerous people like him. He wore a white coverall made of resilient paper, and blue plastic bootees, and was handcuffed to a similarly clad detective. Swabs and fingerprints had been taken from him at the scene. In the front of the car, next to the uniformed driver, sat another detective, senior to the silent, burly young man beside Francis. The radio chattered with life and the two men in the front murmured to each other about the route they were taking. Several other police vehicles were ahead and behind in the blurred cavalcade of blue lights and sirens. He felt surprisingly calm. It’s almost over, he thought.
The older detective turned in his seat and said, ‘We’re taking you to Paddington Green, sir.’
Sir? Had he actually said ‘sir’? Or was it ‘son’? No, definitely ‘sir’.
Francis neither replied nor met the eye of the policeman. He stared resolutely at the back of the seat in front of him.
‘You’ll have a chance to speak to your lawyer there. I understand someone is on their way. Meanwhile I’m unable to question you under caution. However, I am permitted to ask you in the interest of public safety whether there’s anything we need to know to prevent injury, loss of life or damage. Do you have anything to say?’
‘No comment,’ said Francis in a monotone.
‘The device in the cab. Our people on the scene believe it has not been primed and poses no present risk. Is that correct?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is the device booby-trapped in any way?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is there anything else you’d like to say at this point? It may not be admissible as evidence but I will make a record of it anyway.’
Francis considered for a moment.
‘Yes?’ said the policeman.
He thought further.
‘No comment.’
15
Bridget learned about it first from the late news. Five Irishmen arrested by the Anti-Terrorist Squad. Reports of a huge bomb made safe. Shaky images of a fleet of cars driving at speed into Paddington Green police station, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing. It was not so difficult to work out. It had happened at last and he was safe. At least she assumed so: the reports indicated that the arrests had taken place peacefully, with neither resistance nor injury.
He was safe, she kept repeating in her head. What had she done? He was safe: that was the important thing. He would be years in prison, he would emerge a broken old man. What had she done? And where did it leave her? Her hands shook.
Soon she would be far away. She had done it, betrayed him, and now she must leave. She’d made her choice. Sarah had told her to sit tight in those first few days. To try not to contact her unless it was an absolute emergency. No one would do anything in the immediate aftermath and it would be more dangerous for her to behave abnormally. But what, she’d asked, would count as normal? Sarah could not answer the question. If she perceived herself to be in clear danger she should go to the nearest RUC station and Sarah would sort it out from there. She wasn’t about to do that.
It would all run like clockwork, Sarah had said. Then it would be over.
She would walk out of this house. She would not look back and it would be all she could do not to break into a run. She had no idea what would come next. A darkened car, a private plane, a house in the country, a different country altogether? Until then she would not sleep. She would leap from her bed several times each night, expecting Joe and Kenny and the local boys to be waiting for her downstairs, silently bearing the news of her fate with bared teeth.
She put a tea bag in a cup and, waiting for the kettle to boil, went upstairs to fetch a cardigan. She felt so cold. When she returned to the kitchen she noticed she had not switched on the kettle. She now did so. She’d left the cardigan somewhere. Having climbed the stairs again, she realized she was wearing it. As she walked back down she heard a click and stopped still on the stairs. Had they detected her betrayal so soon?
There was no further noise. She edged downstairs and then it dawned on her. The familiar sound of the kettle clicking off. She went into the kitchen and made her tea, giggling irrationally and suddenly finding that the giggle had turned into an uncontrollable shiver. She went into the sitting room and switched on the television, hoping for more news.
About half an hour later she heard footsteps on the front footpath. A knock on the door. She stood quickly, then thought: be natural, whoever it is, whatever it is that happens next. They would take her like they took Liam. Sweet young Liam. If it’s to be, it’s to be, she told herself.
She took her untouched cup of tea into the kitchen and poured it down the sink, before opening the front door. There were Stevie and Anne-Marie. They looked serious.
‘I can see you’ve heard the news,’ said Stevie.
‘Yes.’
‘Well.’
‘Was he …? I mean, is he …?’
‘So I’m told.’
‘Is he safe?’
‘No one knows exactly what happened. But they don’t think he’s hurt.’
She did not say anything.
‘They said not to worry.’
She smiled thinly.
‘They said to stay calm. I’m to make sure you’ve everything you need. They’ll be in touch soon. Meanwhile you’ll be safe. If the peelers come, say you want a lawyer present. They’ll want to search the place no doubt. Say nothing.’
‘All right.’
‘Bridget,’ said Anne-Marie.
‘I know,’ she replied.
‘What can I say? We’ll look after you. You never know. He might …’
‘Yeah.’
‘The police’ll be here sometime,’ said Stevie.
‘I know.’
‘Come with us,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘Stay with us tonight. I’ll get the boys to double up and you can have Ryan’s room.’
‘No. I don’t want to drag you into this.’
‘We’re in this together. Shoulder to shoulder. Come with us.’
‘I won’t, thanks, Anne-Marie. I need to be here, where we live. To wait for him to come home.’
‘But …’
‘No. I don’t mean it like that. I just need to be here.’
‘I can stay with you.’
‘No. You’ve your kids to think of. It’s all right.’
‘Maybe you could come to ours in a couple of days. When it’s all sunk in.’
‘Maybe. Thanks a million. It’s not that I’m not grateful. I know you’ll look after me and the boys will.’
‘We understand, don’t we, Stevie? I’ll come around again tomorrow.’
‘Thanks. That’ll be grand. And give my love to Cathy and the others.’
‘I’m real sorry, Bridget,’ said Stevie. ‘If there’s anything we can do …’
And then they were gone. She went to the sitting room and watched their figures in the dark as they walked down the front path, heard the clank of the gate closing and the car doors opening and shutting. Stuck to the spot, blankness forced into her facial expression, she stood and watched as the car lights came on and they pulled away. Then the shuddering began again, in waves.
Harriet King was jollier than he had expected. He’d been schooled to talk to no one until Harriet arrived. Not afterwards either. He was to speak to his barrister only in the company of Harriet, and even then she would lead proceedings carefully. It was, so he’d been told, something the barristers resented but something they had to suffer if they wanted the high-profile cases. Harriet was the only one of those people who was trusted and if the golden-tongued egos were offended at having to defer to a mere solicitor, so be it.
Harriet King eschewed the trappings of celebrity, or notoriety, dressing in plain pleated skirts and sensible blouses, with flat shoes. Unfashionable steel-rimmed spectacles. No make-up. Her thin
straight brown hair was cut short. Would he have judged a male counterpart as readily by his appearance? For certain: he’d met his share of foppish, flamboyant little popinjays with their highlighted mullets, shoe lifts and double cuffs, paid a fortune to represent your interests, or that’s what they claimed to be doing. Even on the other side of the Irish Sea they were to be found in abundance in both the Six Counties and the Twenty-Six.
Severity did not seem to feature in Harriet’s repertoire. She was beamingly courteous with the custody officer and in the opening interview that she permitted before being able to consult privately with her client she joked pleasantly with the senior investigating officer, DCI Spence. Her amiability was not reciprocated. The interview lasted less than fifteen minutes. The cops, it seemed, were going through the motions, trying to confirm Francis’s identity, which resulted in a predictable no-comment interview. This, Francis presumed, was to be the pattern of the next few days. Finally Spence had said, ‘Cup of tea? And presumably you’d like the chance to confer with your client, Ms King.’
‘Thank you, Alan,’ she said. ‘Can you make mine Earl Grey, please? Lemon, no milk.’
Now they sat in a room on their own. Harriet sipped at her tea while Francis swigged from a can of Coke. Even his choice of drinks had been transmitted through the medium of his counsel.
‘You’ve said nothing to them so far?’
‘No,’ said Francis. ‘Apart from “no comment”.’
‘Let’s keep it that way. Inside the interview room, that is. Outside, restrict it to just practical stuff. Food, showers and so on.’
‘I know the drill.’
‘Good. Now you can – and must – discuss anything and everything with me. Anything that might be remotely relevant. And only me.’
‘Yeah, I know. When will they charge me?’
‘I’m hoping they won’t. Realistically, I think they’ll give it the full forty-eight hours, so they have maximum time to collect evidence with minimum constraints. My team and I will be going over the fine detail of everything they do. If there are any procedural irregularities we’ll jump on them.’
‘There won’t be, though.’
‘You never know.’
‘Are you representing all of us?’
‘My firm is. But I personally am representing you alone. That gives the two of us a higher level of assurance. And it may provide some wriggle room later on.’
‘What do you mean by wriggle room?’
‘Put it like this. I don’t want there to be any conflicts of interest as we move forward. Assuming they do charge you. I don’t want to have to exclude myself from defending you.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘If we found later on that one of the other defendants wasn’t entirely singing from the same song sheet as you.’
‘If there’s a tout, you mean?’
‘Your choice of words. We’re just keen to avoid any potential conflict of interest.’
‘We? Who’s this “we”?’
‘Formally, I’ve been instructed by you. But don’t imagine I’m here entirely by chance.’
Francis chuckled sourly. ‘There’s not much happens entirely by chance.’
‘Quite. We’ll be concentrating on the disclosure exercise.’
‘To find procedural mistakes?’
‘Yes, that. And what lies at the bottom of this.’
‘Who, you mean?’
‘Exactly. One of the first things I want you to do is to think hard about the events leading up to today. Was there anyone on the team who struck you as flaky?’
‘All of them.’
‘All right, but was there anything that happened that makes you think now: ah, that was why? I’ll be attacking on all fronts on disclosure but I need to know from you anything that you think particularly worth pursuing. If there is someone at the bottom of this –’
‘It’s possible there may not be?’
She considered for a moment.
‘Unlikely. It’s usually boringly predictable. The aim of the exercise from our point of view is to try to flush out the truth, to find out what is undisclosed to us.’
‘And that’ll get me off?’
‘It may do. Sometimes they drop cases if the pressure’s too great. But even if not …’
‘They’ll want to know back home.’
‘Yes. I’m sure you’d want to know too.’
‘Too right,’ said Francis with emphasis. ‘Do my family know I’ve been arrested?’
‘I’m reliably informed it’s all been sorted out. Your wife is being looked after. They’ll take care of her. Meanwhile think about how things panned out. Anything out of the ordinary. I need to know where to probe.’
She cleaned the house from top to bottom. Anything to stop thinking about it. Anything to forget the fear just for a moment. She emptied the wardrobes with a furious energy she hadn’t known she possessed, before taking a cloth into their darkest corners and climbing on the stepladder to reach the tops and wipe off all that accumulated dust. She dragged down the net curtains that hadn’t been washed in years. She exhausted herself by day, subsiding into a slump on the settee in the evenings. She ate little or nothing and still could not sleep.
People came to call, with sympathetic murmurings and casseroles. She ate none of the food and the strain of their presence and the effort required to play the bereft volunteer’s wife, still loyal to the Provos, stretched her even more taut. The dissembling threatened to break her altogether and to scatter her to the winds. And the fear. Was the priest come to soften her up for the boys waiting down the road? What did that glance of Cathy Murphy’s mean? Did her mother suspect the truth, and could she be relied upon if the RA came calling?
Kenny came down from Belfast.
‘Joe wanted me to make sure we’re looking after you all right, Mrs O’Neill. He sent me personal, like. You remember me?’
‘Thank you. Of course I remember you. You took me to the shops. How’re you keeping?’
‘I’m doing fine, Mrs O’Neill. Joe was awful sorry. He’d have come himself. He’s just so busy.’
‘I understand.’
‘He’d have written you a wee note. But …’
‘It doesn’t matter. I can see that he couldn’t.’
‘You’ll be getting your money weekly now, Mrs O’Neill. Stevie down the garage’ll bring it. And if there’s any problems, you’ll be getting in touch.’
‘Thank you, Kenny. And how should I be contacting you if I need to? Not that I think I will.’
‘Talk to Stevie. He’ll call me. Don’t phone him. I’d be wary about using your home phone.’
‘Aye, I will.’
‘The boys are doing their best to get Francis out. There’s a long haul ahead, though.’
‘Am I to visit him, then?’
‘You just tell Stevie when you’re ready and we’ll sort it all out for you. Tickets and all. Someone will go over with you to make sure you’re all right.’
‘And will that be you, Kenny?’
‘No, it won’t. It’ll be someone else probably. More, y’know …’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear you’ve decided not to go and stay with Stevie and Anne-Marie, or for her to stay with you.’
‘That’s right. I don’t want to put them to any trouble.’
‘It wouldn’t be any trouble, I’m sure. It’s up to you. But we’re always here to help. You need to give it some serious thought.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
‘We will find out how this happened, you know.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And if someone’s been talking out of turn –’ he engaged her with an earnest look – ‘we will find them and they’ll wish they’d never lived.’
She said nothing.
‘But that’s not your concern, Mrs O’Neill. Don’t you worry about it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Joe asked me to give you this.’ He handed her a thick envelope.
‘Joe said to tell you it’s in recognition of Francis’s …’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it. Please thank Mr Geraghty for me. Now will you have a cup of tea before you set off back?’
They met in the Downpatrick bungalow as usual. Sarah was more brisk; for Bridget’s own good, she said.
‘We have to get you back as soon as we can. No long unexplained absences. Not now. Now’s the time to make quick decisions.’
Bridget felt incapable of decisions, quick or slow.
‘You say they visited you.’
‘Kenny dropped by. Said Joe sent his regards. They’ll get me organized to go and see Francis.’
‘No questions?’
‘No. There will be, though, won’t there?’
‘If you stay there will. You could decide not to go back home at all. Leave from here, now.’
‘Was it just Francis you were after? Was that what it was all about? He’s not the big man. There are bigger fish than him.’
Her eyes were red from the crying, she had neglected herself and was a mess, and she had trouble holding the mug of tea without spilling it. She was a sight, Sarah’s concerned eyes told her that, but she knew it anyway. She’d not eaten for days and had taken to muttering to herself. She felt angry with them all, Francis, Joe Geraghty, Sarah, Kenny, Anne-Marie and the girls. They’d put her here. She didn’t know who she was most scared of: the RA, George Donnelly or Sarah’s people. She turned away towards the window.
‘They’ll want to talk to you again, you know,’ Sarah was saying. ‘Possibly Joe Geraghty himself. You need to be ready for that. Or you can come with me now. I’ve made preparations, if that’s what you want.’
Bridget continued to look out of the window, kneading her fingers.
‘There’ll be others too. The police will want to speak to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Francis’s whereabouts. What he was up to.’
A Traitor in the Family Page 20