The Cold Cold Ground

20: WHO KILLED LUCY MOORE?

Dreams. Dreams of labyrinths. A labyrinth is not a maze. There are no dead ends. All paths lead inexorably to the centre. All paths lead from the outside in. From the inside out. Daedalus was no genius. Only a joiner. Only a chippie in the yard.

Labyrinths are shaped like nooses.

Lucy Moore’s finger was in the noose. She wished to see the baby again. She wished to live. The man wished death upon her. Motherless child, you have no protector. I am your voice. I am your avenger.

The darkness.

Falling, tumbling, into that black pit.

The falling will never stop. The numbers will go on counting until the end of time. The integers are infinite. The spaces between the integers are infinite. Let me tell you about the trees, Lucy. We climbed out of the trees. We walked away from the trees. Trees are a step backwards.

Everyone calls me Mimi, I don’t know why because my name is Lucia.

Straid.

The woods. Woodburn Forest.

The letter S.

The labyrinth.

He killed her.

He was the man.

I opened my eyes wide. Rain had flooded the gutters. Liquid skitter clinging to the windows like a beaten wife clinging to a bad marriage.

I bolted out of bed.

Laura looked frightened.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Where did you say you were moving to?”

“Straid.”

“What did you say about the forest?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said something about your grandmother’s house backing onto the forest!” I said, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“You’re scaring me, Sean.”

I let her go. “You said something about the house backing onto the forest.”

“Oh … yes. I said that her house was nice because it backs onto Woodburn Forest.”

I grabbed my jeans and fell over trying to put them on. My wrist had swollen to the size of a marrow.

“Help me get dressed!”

“What’s going on?”

“Please!” I yelled at her.

“All right, all right, keep your hair on.”

She pulled up my jeans and buttoned them and I grabbed a black sweater.

I went out onto the landing and down the stairs.

I looked at the kitchen clock. 8.45. I waited until 9 and called up the Sinn Fein press annex in Bradbury House.

“Hi, this is Mike Smith from the New York Times, I’d like to speak to Freddie Scavanni, please,” I said.

“Just one moment,” his secretary replied.

“Hello?” Freddie said.

Freddie was at work. Good for him. I hung up. I called Jack Pougher in Special Branch. “Hi, this is Duffy from Carrickfergus RUC. You couldn’t do me a favour and find out Freddie Scavanni’s home address, could you? It’s never been in our files but I assume you boys must know, cos you boys know everything.”

Jack didn’t see through the compliment and after a minute he came back on: “This is a weird file, Sean. Lots of blank pages and I’m not supposed to give out Scavanni’s home address to anyone beneath the rank of Superintendent.”

“That’s all right, Jack, I’ll get it from a mate of mine in army intelligence. Those boys are always a wee bit better at giving you stuff.”

Of course I had no mate in army intelligence and even if I had they’d give me shit. Jack didn’t know that though. “Hold your horses, Sean. You’ll owe me a favour, all right?”

“I’ll owe you a favour.”

“All right then. 19 Siskin Road, Straid and you didn’t hear it from me.”

I hung up, opened the drawer under the phone, grabbed the ordnance survey map of East Antrim and looked for the village of Straid. I found it and then I looked for Siskin Road. It ran parallel to Woodburn Forest

I got my raincoat and checked that the.38 was in the pocket.

I pulled on my Converse Hi-Tops and looked for my car keys.

“Oh, no, you’re not driving anywhere with that wrist,” Laura said, snatching the keys out of my hand.

“Gimme the keys!”

“No way. You’re not driving. Doctor’s orders,” she said. Her eyes were firm.

“I need the car,” I said in a quieter tone.

“Get one of your constables to drive you.”

“Impossible. I can’t involve them in this. I’m not supposed to be looking at these cases any more. They’d be up the shite sheugh with me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Siskin Road, Straid, near Woodburn Forest.”

“What’s there?”

“Answers, goddamit!”

“Calm down, Sean.”

Calm? We should be out in the street screaming: Death is coming. For ever and ever. And there’s nothing we can do.

Nothing we can do, but bring down his disciples.

“Sean, what-”

“He killed Lucy Moore, I don’t know why, but he did and I’m going to take him in for it.”

“Who?”

“Freddie Scavanni.”

“What?”

I grabbed my car keys from her.

“Where are you going?”

“His house near Woodburn Forest.”

She had performed the autopsy. She had never been completely happy with her report.

“I’ll drive you,” she said.

“No way!”

“I’ll drive you or you don’t go. Let me tie up your laces while you think about it.”

She tied my laces while I thought about it.

“You’ll do as I say, if it looks dodgy, you’ll wait in the friggin car.”

“You’re so butch! I like it,” she said, mocking me.

We got in the Beemer and we drove down Coronation Road as far as Taylor’s Avenue when I screamed, “Hit the brakes!”

The BMW screeched to a halt.

I got out and looked underneath for a mercury tilt bomb but didn’t find one.

“Ok, let’s head on.”

We drove up the Prospect Road to the New Line and along Councillors’ Road to the Siskin Road. For the last half mile of our journey the forest ran alongside the road. That familiar dense, exterior pine forest and the older deciduous wood behind.

“Where’s Straid from here?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s another few miles on up the road.”

“I’d heard of the village of Straid but I had no idea at all that it was so close to Carrickfergus, so close to Woodburn Forest.”

We passed a sign on a gate that said #19 Siskin Road.

“Here!” I said.

She pulled the BMW over and I got out and examined the gate. It had an electronic-locking mechanism that opened by remote control. Freddie could open it without leaving his car, which was the sort of thing you wanted if you were a high-ranking IRA man. A subject getting out of his car, fumbling with his keys in the early morning or the late evening was the ambushers’ dream.

The gate was made of thick, shipyard steel and ran on a roller across the entranceway. A stout high stone wall went all the way around the property and the wall was topped by rotating iron spikes.

Nasty.

“You’re breaking into this guy’s house? Don’t you need a warrant or something?” Laura said.

“Nah, we’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be fine he says. And how are you going to get in there?”

“Easy enough for a resourceful chap like me,” I said.

I took out my lock-picking kit and unscrewed the cover from the remote control box. I fused the exposed wires in the control box and the gate slid open.

“Quick, back in the car before the thing closes again,” I said.

Laura had a disapproving frown. “I’m not sure about this. If he comes back and finds us …”

“When he comes back we’ll be waiting here with half the RUC to arrest him.”

We drove along a short tree-lined gravel drive until we came to Freddie’s house.

It was a large four- or five-bedroom tower house — one of those fortified farmhouses that had been built in the seventeenth century during the Irish and English civil wars. It had thick, white-washed stone walls and one of the sides rose up into a three-storey round tower.

I saw now that the thick exterior wall was a bawn, a badhun — this whole place had been a cattle stronghold in the time of the Plantation. A good place for a player to have as his sanctuary.

The roof was thick slate and there were cast-iron grilles on the windows. The front door was a massive oak affair with an iron lock. I knew from my history that badhuns had large basements for storing food and grain and many of them were built over their own well or spring. You could easily survive a machine-gun or RPG attack and you’d do pretty well in the face of a zombie invasion, comet strike or the apocalypse.

It was the kind of place that cost money. Of course he had his press officer’s salary but what other readies could he be pulling in? Kick-backs from the rackets? Drugs?

“How are you going to get inside? That’s six inches of Irish oak,” she said, examining the front door.

“I’ll just have to pick the lock.”

Laura smiled at me. Her nostrils were flaring and her cheeks were flushed. She was enjoying this. Getting off on it.

I better get us inside then. Old locks were tricky, old seventeenth-century locks might be impossible, but we’d see.

I probed the mechanism with a pick. It was ok. A tension wrench was unnecessary, all I had to do was insert the pick into the bottom part of the keyhole and make sure it slid under the lock bar to act as the bottom of a key. I inserted my next hook pick above the first pick and slid it under the lock bar. I tapped around until I felt resistance, which came in the shape of a series of hanging pins at the back of the pick. I pushed up on the hanging pins to reproduce the top of the key turning.

The door unlocked.

I put on latex gloves and lifted the latch.

“What exactly are we looking for?”

“ I’m looking for. From now on you’re waiting in the car.”

“No fear, not after all this fun and games.”

I knew she wouldn’t listen to reason and she might even be able to help. I gave her another pair of latex gloves. “All right. We’re looking for evidence that Lucy Moore was staying here. Anything. Women’s clothes, baby clothes, any kind of ID. Anything like that! And a manual typewriter. Imperial 55. If you move anything put it back exactly the way it was. He’ll never know anyone was here,” I said.

“Hey, if there are three bowls of porridge can I have the one for baby bear?” she said.

We went inside.

Timber frame. Interior white-washed stone walls. Small windows. Not much light but an undeniable rustic charm. There were watercolours on the wall and when I examined one of them it was a tiny but valuable Jack B Yeats.

A huge living room that contained a piano, two sofas, a big TV.

I went to the piano. There were no books of sheet music, which was a little strange. If you played you always had one or two sheet books lying around, didn’t you? I checked the bookshelf but there were no sheet books there either, and nothing interesting. A lot of Leon Uris.

I went upstairs and searched the bedrooms. They weren’t fancy. Simple, Irish, even minimalist. Wood furniture, whitewashed walls.

Clean. No women’s clothes, no baby’s clothes.

There was a study with a locked roller desk. I picked it open and rummaged through a dull assortment of bills and financial statements. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I went down into the basement but all I found were a few bottles of wine. Probably expensive, but who knew? No old typewriters.

My last port of call was the record collection in the living room.

He was a connoisseur.

After me own heart.

A thousand albums. Easy. Maybe three hundred classical records arranged alphabetically.

“Look at this! Puccini!” I said taking out the 1956 Sir Thomas Beecham recording of La Boheme.

“What does that prove?” Laura asked.

“I don’t know,” I said putting the record back on its bulging shelf. “What have you found?”

“Nothing.”

I was depressed. “It’s a fucking boy scout’s house.”

“Maybe’s he’s innocent.”

“He can’t be. It’s too big a coincidence. Lucy Moore’s body was found in Woodburn Forest. She died the same night as Tommy Little. That piece of music. Your tiny hand is frozen. My name is Lucia but everybody calls me Mimi! It’s a tell. He was rushed. He didn’t know he was doing it. And Eurydice, remember? Eurydice doesn’t make it back! Lucy didn’t make it back! Apollo taught Orpheus to play the lyre. Apollo is the lord of light. Lucia means light. Don’t you see? Ariadne’s thread. The labyrinth leads us right back here!”

Laura folded her arms and sighed, “Jesus, is this how you do your police work? You wouldn’t get away with this in pathology.”

I was babbling and I fucking knew it. And she was right: this wasn’t police work, this was intuition, guesswork. It was feeble.

I went back upstairs, hunted under beds, in the back of cupboards, in the bathroom …

When I came back down, Laura was sitting on the sofa.

“Shall we go?”

She was disappointed. She wasn’t impressed with my detecting skills. Join the club, sister.

“He killed her. He’s the ‘S’ that was seeing Lucy,” I insisted.

I sat next to her on the leather sofa.

“Where’s the evidence that Lucy was here?”

“He got rid of it all.”

“Why would he kill her? What possible motive could there be?”

“She was a hunger striker’s wife. He knocked up a hunger striker’s wife.”

“Ex-wife. And so what?”

“It would look bad. It would hurt his career.”

“Come on. Murder hurts it even more.”

“Maybe they had a fight.”

She squeezed my hand. “There’s nothing here, Sean. He lives near Woodburn Forest? His name begins with ‘S’?”

“And Tommy Little was coming to see him. And he listens to Puccini.”

“Let’s go before he comes back. You’ll lose your job, Sean.”

“No. It’s all about Tommy! It has to be. Tommy Little did come to see him. Tommy Little was here in this room.”

“He killed Lucy and he killed Tommy?”

“Yes! They’re linked. They’ve always been linked!”

“Maybe you can pin all the unsolved murders in Northern Ireland on Freddie Scavanni,” she said sensibly enough, but I barely heard her.

“It’s him. It has to be,” I said, with a touch of panic now.

“Why does it have to be? So you can solve the case and be the hero? Come on, Sean, let’s go.”

“Five more minutes. We’ll find something.”

“Yesterday you were saying that it was Shane Davidson. That he had an affair with Tommy Little and killed him to cover it up. That he was the one who made the false trail …”

“I was wrong about that! They had nothing to do with killing him. Shane is Billy White’s boy and Shane was having an affair with Tommy Little but he didn’t kill him.”

“I’m sure Shane will be relieved to hear that.”

The grandfather clock ticked.

Crows cawed from the woods.

Laura got to her feet and pulled me up with two hands.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered.

I stood there for another minute, thinking, desperately… but finally I had to admit defeat.

“I was so sure,” I said.

“I know,” she replied and kissed me on the cheek.

“Everyone wants a chance at redemption.”

We went back outside and I closed the door behind me.

“Come on. Let’s go get lunch somewhere,” Laura said.

I hesitated. “Let me look in the woods for two minutes and then we’ll head.”

She was much happier now that we were out of the house. She took my hand.

“Let’s say he topped both of them. He’s got to get rid of Tommy’s body well away from here. And her. He can carry her over his shoulders and hang her in the woods,” I said.

“Why doesn’t he just bury both of them?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Time is a factor. He’s got a couple of hours at the most before Tommy going missing rings all the alarm bells. A couple of hours to concoct a plan …”

“But why is he doing all this, Sean? Don’t you need a motive?”

We went to the badhun’s cast-iron back gate, lifted an interior latch and walked in the wood. It was damp and dark. Strange white mushrooms were pushing their way through the sodden earth. Giant ferns were growing from the shells of fallen trees. There was a dungy smell, the smell of rotting leaves, autumn, graveyards.

“Just a couple of steps and we’re in Woodburn Forest,” I said.

“But remember Lucy wasn’t found anywhere near here. It was all the way over that hill, wasn’t it?” Laura asked.

“Obviously he can’t hang her right next to his house.”

“How does he carry her?”

“Over his shoulder. Fireman’s lift. You could carry someone for a mile like that.”

She was sceptical.

“Let me show you.”

“Ok.”

Favouring my good wrist, I lifted her up onto my right shoulder and slapped her bum.

“Hey!” she yelped.

I walked for about fifty feet and stopped.

“See? You’re out of breath and-”

I put her down.

“Jesus! Look! There!” I said, pointing through the trees. About thirty yards from the road in a broad valley between two enormous chestnut trees there was a burnt-out Ford Granada.

I ran to it.

The glass had melted and buckled, the interior was a mess of black debris and blackened foam but there was no rust or erosion. This had been done recently. Within the last month. I opened a door and looked inside.

It had been doused with gasoline and burned but then someone had killed the fire with a foam extinguisher. The number plates had been stripped off and when I lifted the bonnet I saw that the serial numbers on the chassis had been blow-torched away by arc-welding gear.

“Mother of God!”

“What is it, Sean?”

“It’s Tommy’s car. Has to be.”

“He drove a Ford Granada?” she asked, but I wasn’t even listening.

“For some reason Tommy comes over and Freddie kills him. The girl’s a witness so he has to hang her. He cuts Tommy Little’s hand off and shoves a musical score in his rectum. He drives to the home of the only other poofter he knows. He shoots him. He cuts off his hand. He leaves Tommy’s hand there.”

“Are you sure this is Tommy Little’s car?”

“It’s Tommy’s car. Freddie can’t be caught driving it and he can’t have the IRA finding it at his house, so he gets it off the road and burns it out.”

“I don’t get it. He killed Tommy Little and drove him to Carrick?”

“He kills him. He puts Tommy in the boot of his car. He drives carefully through the police and army roadblocks. He gets far away to the Barn Field in Carrickfergus, he dumps Tommy’s body where he hopes it will be quickly found along with Andrew Young’s hand. He hurries back here. He drives Tommy’s car off into the woods and torches it. But he doesn’t leave the car burning all night in case it attracts attention. He waits until Tommy’s body is found and then he calls the police and finds out my name and writes a bunch of gibberish on a postcard and sends it off to me. He calls the Confidential Telephone and starts in with the threats and false clues. He calls the Sunday World. He leads every one of us on a merry dance through the labyrinth. His bosses in the IRA know that Tommy is coming to see him but he tells them Tommy never made it over. The IRA are suspicious, sceptical, but when they find out that Tommy is mixed up with a sordid homosexual serial killer the whole thing is brushed under the rug. The misdirection works.”

“But why, Sean? Why kill Lucy? Why kill Tommy?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll find out. I’ll arrest him and charge him with terrorist offences and question him and crack him. Come on! Let’s go back to his house and call Carrick RUC. I don’t care if I do get bloody suspended, I’m taking him down.”

“I still don’t see-” she began but was interrupted by a loud crack and bark flying from the chestnut tree behind her.

“What was tha-”

“Hit the deck!” I yelled at her. “And stay down!”

She dived into the thick layer of leaves on the forest floor. I took out my service revolver and turned to look behind me.

No one.

Another crack and this time the bullet missed my head by inches.

Where had it come from?

Somewhere up ahead in the direction of the house.

I ditched my raincoat, slithered through the undergrowth, got back into a crouch and ran through the trees in a big semicircle to my right.

I kept Laura and the car in view and looked for him.

He had anticipated my move and was waiting for me near a lightning-struck oak. I saw him out of the corner of my eye a split second before he fired. I dived to the ground and heard the crack of the 9mm three more times, I rolled behind the nearest tree, a slender Scots pine and then kept on rolling down a little embankment.

Back on my belly again, moving sideways, silently, deliberately, holding my breath.

“Where are you?” he yelled and I could see his profile ten yards to my right. He was still wearing his office suit, holding the gun in two hands and looking into the space where I had been.

This time I had successfully outflanked him.

I got to my feet.

One step in front of another, carefully, toe then heel in my Converse gutties. Gently down onto the leaves, onto the twigs, gently right up behind the fucker.

I placed the barrel of the.38 on his neck.

“Drop the gun and slowly put your hands on your head.”

He did as he was told.

I took a step backwards. “Laura! It’s all right now! I’ve got him.”

“Are you sure?” she called back.

“See if you can find my raincoat, it’s got my handcuffs in it.”

Scavanni turned and looked at me. He was grinning. I felt like pistol-whipping that smile off his fucking face.

Laura gave me the raincoat. Her face was flushed. Her chest heaving. For an insane second I wanted to blow his brains out and lay her down and fuck her into next week.

“Hold your hands out!” I said to Scavanni. “Laura, reach into the pocket, take out my handcuffs and cuff him.”

She seemed reluctant.

“Don’t worry, if he so much as twitches, I’ll put one in his left ear.”

“It’s not that. How do these things work?” she asked.

“Put his hands in and close them tight,” I explained.

“Oh, I see.”

She cuffed him.

“What now, Sergeant Duffy?” Scavanni said.

“Now, Mr Scavanni, we go back to the house, I call Detective Chief Inspector Todd and he shows up with a bunch of men anxious to have a wee chat with you. You get lifted, I get a fucking medal and maybe a promotion and you get life in prison. Probably in solitary cos I think they’ll be out to make an example of you, won’t they?”

Scavanni did not seem ruffled or concerned in any way.

“There’s a phone in my living room,” he said.

“All right, let’s go.”

We went back inside the garden walls. His car was in the driveway and the front door was open. The phone call to his office had obviously spooked him and he had driven home to see what, if anything, was up. Better for me.

“Why did you kill her?” Laura asked him.

“My dear, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Scavanni said.

“Dr Laura Cathcart. Pathologist.”

“Charmed. Freddie Scavanni, Sinn Fein Press Officer,” Freddie said.

“Why did you kill her?” she asked again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”

“Who were you shooting at in the woods?”

“I thought it was that dreadful fox again. He causes havoc in my bird feeder. I suppose I should have gotten the shotgun.”

“Fox my arse. You saw us near the car. You knew the game was up. There’s no point running your bullshit any more, Freddie.”

We reached the living room and I put Freddie in the beanbag chair. Laura sat in the sofa and I sat in the chair next to the phone.

“Before you call Carrick RUC, would you indulge me in my one phone call?” Freddie asked.

“No fucking way.”

“I think you’ll find that it explains everything.”

“Yeah, it goes right to an IRA hit squad who’ll speed down here and try and save you before the coppers come.”

“Oh no,” Freddie said. “Nothing like that. It’s a London number. 01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, tell them it’s Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”

“Pardon?”

“01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, you tell them Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”

“What are you playing at, Scavanni?”

“Dial the number. You’ll see. If you don’t, your entire career will go down the shitter.”

“Don’t threaten me, my lad!”

“That’s not a threat, believe me. Call the number. And if at any stage you are not completely happy, immediately hang up and call Carrick RUC. What have you got to lose?”

“Well, I’m slightly curious,” Laura said, still flushed and excited by it all.

“All right, I’ll indulge you. Consider this your phone call. And if I don’t like it I’m hanging up.”

“It’s a deal.”

I dialled 01 793 9000.

“Hello? Who’s calling, please?” a young female, English voice said.

“Stakeknife.”

“What is your four-digit reference number, Stakeknife?”

“1146.”

“Thank you, Stakeknife, I’m putting you through to Mr Allen.”

There was a pause and then a man came on. An older Englishman.

“What is it, Stakeknife?”

“Who is this?”

“Who’s this? How did you get this number?” Allen demanded.

“My name is Detective Sergeant Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC,” I said.

“Where’s Stakeknife?”

“He’s nice and safe. He’s under arrest.”

“Where? At the police station?” Allen barked.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.

“Let me speak to Stakeknife. How do we know he’s still alive? Who are you?”

“I’ve told you, I’m a policeman and-”

“What’s your warrant card number?”

“Let me speak to him,” Freddie said.

“I think I can cut through this dismal swamp of mistrust.” “Is that Stakeknife?” Allen asked.

I looked at Scavanni. “I’m getting fed up with this. I’m going to hang up.”

Freddie shook his head. “No, no, let me speak to them for a second or two.”

I glanced at Laura. She shrugged.

“All right. You got two seconds. Anything I don’t like and you’re toast.”

I carried the phone over and held it in such a way that we could both listen.

“Oh hello, Mr Allen, this is Stakeknife. I’m afraid I’ve been arrested by a member of the Carrickfergus police. He wants to bring me to his local station. We’re still at my house.”

“Has he told anyone else?”

“He’s brought a lady friend with him. A pathologist.”

“Shit.”

“Mr Allen, he’s very sceptical. I’m concerned that he’s not going to take your word for it. You’ll have to get the Minister.”

“Tell him to hold on,” Allen said. “And give him the phone back.”

“He wants you to hold on,” Freddie said.

“I heard him.”

“Can you hold the line please, Sergeant Duffy?” Allen asked.

“Yes.”

I sat back down on the sofa. I found that I was trembling.

A minute went by. A minute and a half.

A voice on the phone said: “Hello.”

“Yes?” I replied.

“Hello, Sergeant Duffy, do you recognize my voice?”

It was William Whitelaw, the Home Secretary, Margaret Thatcher’s Deputy Prime Minister.

“Yes, sir, I recognize your voice.”

“Sergeant Duffy, would you mind awfully waiting at your present location for a few minutes? We’re sending out a couple of chaps who will explain things to you much better than I can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Duffy. There’s a good chap.”

I hung up the phone. I looked at Laura.

“What is it?” she asked.

“He’s MI5. He’s an MI5 undercover agent in the IRA. He’s a fucking spook.”

Half an hour later, two men pulled up in a silver Jaguar.

I sent Laura upstairs and kept Freddie handcuffed and the gun pointed at his head until I saw their IDs.

They were both in their forties. Ex-military. Old-school agent handlers. After they uncuffed Freddie, I had a stab of panic.

The easiest way out of this would be to immediately kill me.

Kill me.

Kill Laura.

Make us go away.

But they didn’t kill us. They put us in the back of the Jag and drove us to Thiepval Army Barracks in Lisburn. HQ of the British Army in Northern Ireland. They took us to a fenced-off, high-security area and then to an even tighter security installation within that.

They took us to separate rooms and debriefed us.

I told them about the evidence I had against Scavanni.

They told me that it sounded pretty flimsy to them. They told me that Stakeknife was a valuable asset. A very valuable asset. He was now the head of the IRA’s internal security branch, the Force Research Unit, and thus a very important person indeed.

“He might be the key figure in ending the hunger strikes. He might be the key figure to ending the Troubles.”

I listened. I understood. I was made to sign a document that I was not allowed to read. I was made to sign The Official Secrets Act. A new team came in and it was all explained to me again.

I signed more documents. A third team came in. It went on until ten o’clock at night. Finally they were satisfied. I would not talk. I would not prosecute Freddie. I would return to my bicycle theft case and never speak of this again.

They asked me if I understood the big picture. I told them I understood the big picture. A middle-aged woman in a grey skirt and white blouse appeared.

“In that case,” she said as if resuming a conversation, “we can let you go, Sergeant Duffy.”

I stood up and looked into her brown eyes. “There’s a condition,” I said.

Her mouth opened and closed like a Lough Neagh roach wondering if you’re going to throw him back or not. “You’re not in a position to-”

“You tell Freddie that the killing has to stop. He’s done enough to leave his trail. The killing has to stop!”

“I’ll tell him.”

They dropped Laura and me in the harbour car park in Carrickfergus next to my BMW which was already there.

She was shivering. “Cold?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Did they make you sign all those forms?” she asked.

I nodded. “What will happen to us if we talk?”

“I don’t know.”

“What will we do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s get a drink,” she suggested.

We made it to the Dobbins for last orders. I got two triple whiskeys and two double gin and tonics. We sat by the fire. The rain came on outside. “What’s going to happen to Scavanni?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She gulped her gin and tonic.

“Drink up, folks!” Derek boomed.

“I’ll walk you home,” I said.

She shook her head. “Let’s go to your house. I want to be with you tonight.”

I didn’t feel sober enough to drive the car so I left it in the car park.

“So that’s that, he’ll never be punished for any of that?” she wondered.

“It’s best not to think about it any more,” I said and my voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.

We walked up Taylor’s Avenue, Barn Road, Coronation Road. We went inside #113. I lit the paraffin heater. We went upstairs and hugged under the blankets and closed our eyes and maybe even slept until the men in balaclavas came down the path and sledgehammered the front door and stormed violently into the house.