I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘Okay, look, to tell you the truth, I was bored to distraction, I was just looking for something to do, so I thought I’d make some notes about what I’d like to do with Office Twelve, but I didn’t have a pen, so I went to Steven’s desk and opened the drawer and I saw the gun but I didn’t do anything with it, and I didn’t tell anyone. I just shut the drawer and went and sat down again.’ Mark took a deep breath. ‘Did I do the right thing?’

  Marsh said, ‘Yes, you did the right thing. Tell me, Mark, why do you think there’s a gun in the Department of Education?’

  ‘To protect ourselves?’

  ‘Against whom?’

  ‘Our enemies.’

  ‘What sort of enemies, Mark?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Insurgents.’

  ‘In the Department of Education?’

  ‘Likely here as anywhere.’

  ‘But it was in Steven’s drawer?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Steven - what surname is he, ahm, currently operating under?’

  ‘Bradley. Steven Bradley.’

  ‘Bradley. Right. Good. And is he in charge at the moment?’

  ‘Well, he would be, if he was here. Is he on some sort of a … you know, special assignment? No - sorry, I shouldn’t ask that.’

  ‘All right, Mark, now just relax. But tell me, how would you describe Office Twelve to a complete stranger?’

  Mark caught that straight away. ‘I wouldn’t describe it to a complete stranger.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Marsh. He paused again. He could hear Mark breathing heavily. ‘Now, how would you describe it to, say, a young colleague, starting his first day in Office Twelve.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘I am that young colleague, and it is - was - my first day.’

  ‘So how was it described to you, By …’

  ‘Steve. Well, Steven described it as the Office of Misinformation.’

  ‘Misinformation?’

  ‘Black propaganda, a specialist unit - that’s what he said.’

  ‘What kind of black propaganda?’

  ‘Just generally putting a spanner in the works.’

  ‘In the Department of Education?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘Well, we’re fighting the Republicans, obviously, and then the DUP, I suppose. We support the establishment. The Unionists.’

  ‘The Unionist Party, of which you’re a member.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You spoke to one of my colleagues the day we raided Councillor Harrison’s house.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And you signed for the receipt of monies collected by Councillor Harrison for Party funds.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Funds which have subsequently gone missing.’

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘Yes, they have. Are they making their way to Office Twelve?’

  ‘No, of course not. We’re entirely funded by the Department of Education.’

  ‘You’re funded by the Department of Education, and your sole purpose is to disrupt the Department of Education.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it was our sole purpose. I get the impression we’ll disrupt anything.’

  There was another silence. Mark eventually said, ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘You’re doing fine, Mark.’

  ‘Have you any idea when Steven will be back?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Of course, I understand. I just want to do the job properly, that’s all.’

  ‘Very commendable. But Mark, I need you to do something else for me. You see the gun? If Steven’s not there, we don’t want to leave it lying around, do we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘So I want you to take it out of the drawer, put it in an envelope, and when you’re leaving work tonight, I want you to bring it with you, and I’ll take it off you.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Mark. I think it’s the right thing to do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. But what if Steven comes back?’

  I’ll return it to him in due course. Now listen carefully. When you’re putting it in the envelope, try not to touch it directly. Let’s not get your fingerprints on it, eh?’

  ‘No, of course not, that’s wise,’ said Mark. ‘I finish at five - I’ll bring it with me. And I suppose I’ll recognise you, as you’re always on the telly.’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ said Marsh.

  When Mark put the phone down, Walter turned from the window overlooking the dual carriageway to Newtownards. Even hearing just one side of it, he knew it had been a very disturbing conversation. Mark sat rather forlornly at his old desk, staring at the phone.

  ‘Well?’ said Walter.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Office Twelve business?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So all hush-hush.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You know, you don’t have to work in there. You could come back here any time. I don’t think they’ve even noticed you’ve gone.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ said Mark. ‘I don’t think Steven even knows I’ve arrived.’ He sighed. ‘It’s only my first couple of days - things will improve.’

  Walter nodded. ‘Yes, they will. You will soon be a man of power and influence. I sold a fruit shop and made some money, but you will decide the fate of nations.’

  They both nodded solemnly.

  Then Walter said, ‘Polo?’ Mark declined. Walter said, ‘Anyway, now that you’re a man of influence, I was just wondering …’

  124

  Trading Standards

  Margaret did what she could with her hair before going into work the next morning, but there was no denying it looked like a dog’s dinner. Maeve was straight to the point. ‘You know when you’re in the Chinky and they ask you whether you want rice or chips and you can’t decide, and so you go for half and half. That’s what you’ve got, half and half. Long on one side, short on the other.’

  ‘It’s a disaster,’ Margaret said bluntly.

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s original. It could take off, you know, like the Rachel cut from Friends or the Purdy cut from The New Avengers. Remember her? Joanna Lumley.’

  ‘This is not going to take off anywhere. I’m going to have to shave my head and start again. If he wasn’t such an arrogant, up his own a**e sod I’d go in there and demand that he finish the job properly.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you?’

  ‘Because I’m the one stormed out. I’m the one called him a baldy f***er.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Margaret nodded. ‘God, you’ve some balls on you. What came over you?’

  Margaret shrugged. She didn’t want to get into the whole Trading Standards thing with Maeve. She had an appointment to see them in the early afternoon. It was more time off work. Mr Kawolski said she was bringing a new meaning to flexi-time. It also meant changing out of her uniform. She was doing it so often these days she was starting to feel like Mr Benn.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Maeve, ‘if Walter was paying for it, and no money actually exchanged hands, then he can still pay for you to go somewhere different, can’t he?’

  Margaret sighed. ‘I gave the money back and I haven’t the nerve to ask him for it again.’

  ‘You’ve the nerve to call the most famous hairdresser in Ireland a baldy f***er and you haven’t the nerve to ask your boyfriend for money he’s already promised you?’

  Boyfriend? She hadn’t even thought about Walter being her boyfriend. They were just … together.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I just feel funny about it.’

  ‘Well, I think you should. And anyway, you’re going to have to get it sorted soon, ’cause you never know what might pop through your door one of these mornings.’ Maeve raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Maeve? You’re not.’

  ‘I am. We are. We just thought, what’s the point in waiting.’

  ‘But you …�
�

  ‘… hardly know each other. Yadda, yadda. Heard it all before. I know what I want, Margaret, and I want him.’

  ‘As far as I can see, you’ve got him already. But it’s still a big step.’

  ‘I know. That’s why we’re taking it. We love each other. It’s next Wednesday.’

  ‘Next Wednesday!’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I thought we’d have to wait months, but they had a cancellation. It’s a bit like doing your driving test - you get your official date, which is months away, and then you ring up looking for a cancellation. Only it seems more people cancel their wedding than they do their driving tests, so they’re not that hard to come by. I popped down after work yesterday and organised it all. Burst into tears like an eejit as well.’

  ‘Well, it’s an emotional thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘It wasn’t that. To get the go-ahead I had to show them Redmond’s death certificate and I only had this battered fax thing they sent from the British Embassy in Bogotá and they ummed and aahed over whether it was acceptable.’

  ‘That would be upsetting.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that either, since in the end it was no problem. But then they got onto this really trivial thing about what background music to play, you know, while everyone comes in, and I said, “What do you have?” So they played me some examples, and one of them was called “Pan Pipe Melodies”, and it reminded me of Redmond in the jungle and I just couldn’t help myself, I was blubbing away.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Margaret.

  ‘I know. It was just a build-up, really. It was good to get it out of my system. I want you to be one of my witnesses.’

  ‘Me? Seriously?’

  ‘Absolutely. As long as you get your hair fixed. I don’t want to be upstaged by the trendiest haircut in town. Or the worst.’

  ‘Maeve, I’m really touched. But are you sure? Are there no closer relatives or friends?’

  ‘Yes, of course there are. But they all want to have me tarred and feathered. It’s going to be a very small wedding.’

  ‘I like small weddings,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Good thing,’ said Maeve.

  Margaret was kept sitting in reception at Trading Standards for half an hour, flicking through a Which? survey of fridges and aware all the time of the bored girl behind the desk staring at her hair. Eventually an overweight man in a too-tight shirt and tie puffed over and introduced himself as Kenneth Buchanan. By way of chit-chat he said, ‘You’re not at all as I imagined.’

  Margaret touched her hair defensively but didn’t otherwise respond. He led her into a small, barely furnished office. Margaret thought it was like a police interview room, or at least what she imagined one to be like.

  ‘So,’ Buchanan said, settling in behind the desk, ‘I imagine you’re pretty peeved about this.’

  ‘No, actually,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m quite flattered.’

  ‘Really? You’re potentially losing hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of sales. It’s not just the Belfast store, you know, that’s selling these cheap copies. It’s all of their stores.’

  ‘I’m extremely flattered, then.’

  ‘It’s a blatant infringement of copyright, as far as I’m concerned.’

  This is where it gets risky.

  Margaret had considered getting legal representation, telling the truth to Emma, or following Walter’s advice of hiring a hit man, but had decided in the end just to brazen it out.

  ‘Have you considered the possibility that it might be the other way round?’ she asked. ‘That I might have ripped off the Primark dresses and passed them off as my own?’

  ‘You mean copied their designs?’

  ‘No, I mean just taken the dresses and stitched my labels into them.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  Margaret shrugged. ‘To expose the fickle nature of the fashion business. That one man’s burger is another man’s steak. To show that none of these clothes are actually worth one figure or the other. That beauty and price are in the eye of the beholder.’

  Buchanan cleared his throat. ‘Well, this is all very interesting, but hypothetical, and I’ve a very busy schedule, so perhaps if we get back onto the beaten track? The fact is that a customer has lodged a complaint against Primark selling dresses at £18.99 which are exact copies of a dress she bought for nearly a thousand pounds in Emma Cochrane. As the designer of the dress, I take it you have your original sketches?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And is there anyway of dating those sketches?’

  ‘No, but I can write the date on them.’

  ‘That’s not really what I … Would you have receipts for the purchase of the original material, evidence of where the dresses were made?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry - there was a fire.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He lifted a pen and chewed on it. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Primark?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘No, not yet. I like to go in with all guns blazing when it comes to dealing with the big fellas. You see, Margaret, usually I’m dealing with paramilitaries and their bootleg operations. You wouldn’t believe the counterfeit goods they control. So, from my point of view, it’s good to have a case where there’s no risk whatsoever of me getting beaten up or shot at. Do you understand?’

  Margaret nodded. ‘And this girl that complained. What does she want out of it?’

  ‘Justice,’ said Kenneth Buchanan.

  125

  Lemon Grass

  Marsh was too old in the tooth to get excited about things, there were too many unsolved cases out there to prove the folly of that; however, he couldn’t help but feel a certain frisson as Mark Beck came towards him with a bulky envelope. Perhaps it was because for the first time in thirty years he was out on his own. He had the moral support of at least some of his former colleagues, but actual physical aid had thus far been confined to the supply of documents and the few hours Gary McBride had been able to spare. Perhaps it was also because he knew this would be his last case. The job was gone now, and he was about to be exposed as the woman-beating corruption of everything he had stood for. And if it appeared as if he was clutching at straws, well, sometimes you had to. The gun might be nothing, or it might prove to be the only link between Michael Caldwell, George Green, Pink Harrison and Office 12.

  It wasn’t to be. The envelope, handed by Mark through the window of Marsh’s car, was far too light to contain a real, proper gun. Marsh opened it up and slipped the weapon out. It was a replica, and not a very good one. You could hold a Post Office up with it, but you couldn’t shoot anyone. Even hitting someone over the head with it wouldn’t elicit much of a bruise. Marsh immediately slipped it back into the envelope and returned it.

  ‘Put it back where you found it, Mark.’

  ‘No use?’

  ‘No use.’

  ‘God, you know your guns.’

  ‘That I do.’

  Mark stood slightly bent into Marsh’s car, the late-afternoon gloom darkening his features as he looked for guidance. ‘So what should I do now? Just hang about for Steven to return?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Marsh. ‘And keep this under your hat. If I need anything else, I’ll give you a call.’

  Mark nodded. ‘We should have signals or something. You know, codewords, or funny handshakes to show who’s in Office Twelve.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Marsh, then rolled up his window.

  He drove back to Belfast. He had a date with Linda Wray later in the evening, and was already dressed for it. He didn’t fancy going back home, though - he’d left Billy sleeping on a sofa. He wasn’t sure what further use the accountant could be to him, but he was reluctant to let him go in case he disappeared abroad and refused to return. He’d left him a pile of papers to go through, and Billy seemed pleased to have a purpose.

  Now, with time to kill, and still wary about being seen in public, because he had enemies everywhere, Marsh
found a largely deserted car park and made some calls. He was intrigued by this Office 12. Northern Ireland was rife with all manner of secretive organisations, but they were generally paramilitary in nature or had been around for hundreds of years, like the Orange Order or the Masons or Hibernians. It was unusual to find one so deeply ensconced in a Government Department. He did not doubt that dirty tricks and black propaganda went on. In fact, it had been hard to escape being involved in it himself during the 1970s and 1980s, and he wasn’t naive enough to believe that it might have totally disappeared with the Peace Process - but discovering it was one thing, getting such easy access to it was something else. That concerned him. And also the fact that Pink Harrison had tipped him off to it. What if he was being sucked into a trap? Or perhaps Pink had his own reasons; maybe he’d had a run-in with Office 12 himself and wanted to get his revenge by alerting Marsh to its existence while at the same time taking the heat off himself.

  Marsh was tuned into Radio 2, listening to Franz Ferdinand and thinking how much like a 1960s band they sounded, when Gary phoned him back. ‘I’ve an address for Steven Bradley. You do realise who he is, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Well, the name fits, and the address corresponds. So your Steven Bradley would be the son of Richard Bradley, the Head of the Civil Service.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Marsh.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is still Pink you’re working on, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what has the son of the Head of the Civil Service got to do with Pink Harrison?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ And Marsh meant it.

  ‘But obviously, you will share it, as soon as you do.’

  ‘Goes without saying.’

  They both laughed. Marsh took a note of the address, then checked his watch. At this time of night, with the rush-hour traffic beginning to ease off, he could be out at Hillsborough in twenty minutes. But his date with Linda was less than an hour away. It didn’t really leave enough time. And he couldn’t risk letting her down again. Not with someone who’d so recently almost thrown herself off a tall building. But at the same time he didn’t want to appear distracted during the meal. That’s what his wife used to accuse him of - with reason - on the few occasions they did get out. Always thinking about work. ‘Even Superman takes time off,’ she used to say, which led to another crazy argument because he didn’t think that Superman actually did take time off. He may not always have worn the uniform, but he was always alert to the world being put in danger, and it usually happened precisely when he wasn’t actually wearing it, thus causing him always to be on the look-out for a handy telephone box or revolving door to get changed in, and to therefore appear distracted.