Close Call

Chapter 5

Liz had been in MI5 just eighteen months. She had applied on the spur of the moment, in her last year at Bristol University. She had been thinking vaguely and without much enthusiasm that she might stay on at the university to do research when the chance remark of a visiting lecturer had coincided with an intriguing newspaper advertisement for logical, level-headed and decisive people to do important work in the national interest. She had sent in her cv, such as it was, without much hope of any response, and had been amazed to be called for an interview. After that the recruitment process had ground slowly on until, at the end of it all, she’d found herself a member of MI5, Britain’s Security Service.

Although she was still on probation and in the training period, Liz felt settled and comfortable in the Service. Each morning when she left the flat in Holloway that she shared with four other Bristol graduates to take the underground to Thames House, she looked forward to the day.

Even though she’d been at university in a city, she wasn’t really a city girl. She had grown up in the Wiltshire countryside where her father had been the land agent for a large estate. He was dead now and the estate had been broken up after the death of the last owner without an heir, but her mother still lived in the octagonal Gatehouse where Liz had been brought up. Susan Carlyle managed the flourishing garden centre that now occupied the old kitchen gardens of the estate.

Liz was enjoying living in London and felt guilty that she didn’t go down to Wiltshire more often, as she knew her mother was lonely. Susan Carlyle didn’t disguise the fact that she would like Liz to abandon what she thought of as a ‘dangerous job’ and marry a nice young man, a solicitor or a doctor or something safe. Liz couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less.

Between them Liz and her flatmates had a fairly wide circle of friends. There was a faint shadow over Liz’s social life in that she couldn’t join in enthusiastically when everyone else was talking about their work, but she had taken those she lived with into her confidence and told them that she worked for one of the intelligence agencies, so they protected her and didn’t question it when they heard her telling casual acquaintances that she worked for a PR agency.

The secondment to Merseyside police came as a considerable jolt. Liz knew that at some stage, as part of the training programme, she would be sent off on attachment to learn how a provincial police force and its Special Branch worked, but she wasn’t expecting it so soon. And Liverpool was alien territory to her – she had never been further north than Nottingham.

It was the period before the Peace Process had taken hold in Northern Ireland and she was one of a team collating intelligence on the threat from the Provisional IRA. Liverpool had an established community of Irish expats, many with nationalist sympathies and a few with actual links with the Provos. The Special Branch had some sources that from time to time provided useful intelligence, so she’d already had some dealings with Merseyside Special Branch officers and she had not much liked them. As she’d travelled up on the train to Liverpool that gloomy, showery day she was feeling nervous.

As it turned out she had good reason to be, but not because of the IRA. In the police headquarters’ rectangular red office block near the docks, a gloomy middle-aged sergeant with a pencil behind his ear had sent her upstairs with a grunt and a jerk of his thumb. One floor up she found a large open-plan room with a dozen or so desks in untidy rows, about half of them occupied by men, some young, some middle-aged, some in shirtsleeves, some in leather jackets, some typing, some talking on the phone. Cigarette smoke hung in the air in a blue uncirculating haze.

Every man looked up as Liz came into the room. She asked where Detective Inspector Avery could be found, and one of them pointed to the back of the room where a small office had been partitioned off with opaque glass. As Liz walked through the rows of desks, someone gave a low wolf whistle. Liz tried not to react, but she felt herself blush.

She knocked on the door, and a gruff voice said, Come in. Opening the door, she found a wide-shouldered man in shirtsleeves, with a tie pulled down an inch or two from his collar. He looked close to retirement age, and had greying hair cut very short, though he had let his sideboards grow in some misguided youthful impulse.

Avery looked annoyed by her interruption. ‘What can I do for you, miss?’

‘DI Avery?’ The man nodded. ‘I’m here from Box 500,’ said Liz, using the acronym by which the police referred to MI5. ‘My name’s Liz Carlyle.’

He stared at her. ‘You’re Carlyle?’ He sounded astonished. ‘I was expecting a George Carlyle, or a John Carlyle, or even a Seamus Carlyle. But nobody said anything about a Liz Carlyle.’ He was looking at her with distaste; Liz didn’t know what to say. Avery suddenly added, ‘I suppose you’re a graduate.’

‘Yes.’ Never had she felt less proud of it.

‘Good. You’ll be used to reading then.’ He pointed to three stacks of papers on a side table. ‘You can start with them. I’ve got more important things to do than read bumf from the Home Office all day. Come back in the morning and you can tell me what’s in it.’

After this welcome, Liz reckoned things would have to get better. She was wrong. By her third day she had acquired a nickname – Mata Hari – but not much else in the form of contact with her new workmates, whose initial curiosity was swiftly followed by the hazing rituals of an American college fraternity. The first morning when Liz went to the desk she had been allocated, she found a large cigar lying on the desk top. An hour later when she came back with a cup of muddy coffee from the vending machine in the hall, she found that someone had moved the cigar suggestively to the seat of her chair. While the men around her watched surreptitiously she broke the cigar in half and threw it in the wastepaper basket.

The next morning another cigar was in place. Again Liz threw it away, and this time she said loudly, without looking around, ‘I hope you boys can put cigars on expenses. If this goes on, it’s going to cost you a fortune.’

All week she ate lunch alone and saw no one after work. The only other woman in the office, the typist for DI Avery, was a middle-aged woman called Nellie who came in at exactly nine in the morning and left at precisely five at night. She had clearly never read Germaine Greer or heard of sister-solidarity; she made a point of ignoring Liz.

Not all the men joined in the harassment. Some just ignored her and one in particular was quite polite – McManus, a tall, sharp-featured detective sergeant who dressed better than the others.

The work itself was dull, a relentless progress through mind-bogglingly dense papers from the Home Office. Liz was desperate to get her teeth into something real; otherwise she would finish her secondment without knowing any more about how a police force ran than she had when she came. She resented Avery’s using her as an intellectual dogsbody, covering his back in case some civil servant expected a response to one of the documents sent seemingly by the truckload from Whitehall and Scotland Yard.

The harassment persisted, though not any longer with cigars. Purvis, a tall man with a dimple in his chin, seemed particularly intent on making Liz feel unwelcome. ‘Ask our new graduate colleague,’ he would say when someone had a question at the weekly briefing meeting.

Liz ignored this as best she could, but it made for stressful working hours, and she wasn’t sure how long she could put up with it in silence. Part of her was determined not to let these bastards get to her; another part wanted to run back to London. Then one morning she arrived to find a bundle of dirty shirts on her desk, with a note pinned to them. Washed, ironed and folded by Thursday please. She felt the eyes of the room upon her as she stood by her desk. Suddenly furious, she picked up the shirts, walked over to the open window and dumped them out into the alley below.

And then things changed – whether because she’d shown she’d had enough or because some of the men had begun to feel embarrassed, she never knew. As her third week in Liverpool was drawing to a close, she was sitting looking at what seemed an undiminished stack of typescript pages when McManus stopped beside her desk. ‘That looks interesting,’ he said, pointing at a Home Office circular on top of the pile.

She looked up at him warily. ‘It’s absolutely entrancing,’ she said dryly. ‘I’d be happy to tell you all about it.’

‘No, thanks.’ McManus paused for a moment, and she watched him as he seemed to be making up his mind about what to say next. He was a good-looking man – and he seemed to know it. Not my type, Liz told herself; her last boyfriend had been a gentle guitar player at Bristol. Besides, McManus must have been fifteen years older than she was. There was no way she was interested in him.

‘Fancy joining us on a little mission?’ he said lightly. ‘Or are you chained to your desk?’

‘I’m just following orders,’ she said, nodding towards Avery’s office.

‘Boss is in Manchester today, so why don’t you come along?’

She hesitated, but anything was better than reading any more bumf. ‘OK. What is it?’

‘I’ll explain in the car.’

Outside they joined two detective constables, Cardew and Purvis, who looked surprised when McManus explained Liz would be joining them. He added, ‘You boys go ahead. We’ll see you there.’

Cardew, who Liz suspected had been the wolf whistler on her first appearance in the office, rolled his eyes. McManus gave him a look and he and Purvis stomped off to their car.

McManus drove her in his black Range Rover away from the Docks and towards the eastern suburbs of the city. It was unseasonably warm and Liz put her window down as the evening turned from dusk to dark. The smoky yellow of sodium lights lined the streets in glowing dots. They climbed a bit and were going past a series of large institutional-looking buildings, a few modern but mostly Victorian. ‘Where are we?’ asked Liz.

‘The university,’ said McManus. After a pause, he added, ‘I was there.’

‘Really? What did you read?’

‘Business studies. It seemed the practical thing to do. I’m a local lad – my dad was first-generation Paddy, and worked on the docks till they closed. I didn’t know what I wanted to do; I just wanted to get out from his way of life.’

‘Why did you join the police then?’

‘Because I was bored by business.’ He turned his head and gave a wry smile. ‘If I’d stuck with it I’d have gone mad before I was thirty.’

Liz laughed, and McManus said, ‘Where’d you grow up?’

She explained, and he said, ‘Sounds very posh. Your dad a grandee?’

‘No, he just worked for one.’ This time McManus laughed. They were in the suburbs now, tree-lined streets with large detached houses. ‘This is what I was aiming for,’ he said, gesturing around them.

‘Aren’t you still?’

He shook his head. Liz said, ‘What’s changed?’

‘It’s called maintenance,’ he said with a trace of bitterness. But then his tone changed and he was all business. ‘I’m meeting an informant. He’s just over from Belfast; the RUC’s passed him on to us.’

‘You sound doubtful.’

McManus nodded. ‘I am. He’s a tricky little sod.’

‘How so?’

‘His RUC handler said they were never sure how reliable his information was. They had doubts about his real allegiances – nothing they could put their finger on. He seemed to provide just enough to keep them interested but not enough to be really useful. They were pretty sure he could have given more if he’d wanted to. They’ve sent him over here to see what we make of him. He’s supposed to be getting alongside the Provo sympathisers here.’

He pulled the car over and parked at the top of a rise. Down the street a little below them was a small precinct of shops. At the corner there was one still open; it had a retro neon sign Liz could just make out – it said Café Noir. McManus pointed at it. ‘That wine bar’s where we’re going to meet. I’m going to stand by the door smoking and chummy will come past me and go in. I’ll have a look round to check he’s clean then join him – there’s a little room in the back where we can talk. Purvis and Cardew are parked further along that street, watching my back from there. You can watch it as well from up here. I’m not expecting any bother. I’ll leave the keys in case you need to move the car, but whatever you do, don’t drive down the hill.’

‘I thought—’ Liz began to say, but McManus had already opened the door and was halfway out of the car.

He said, ‘Won’t be long.’ And he slammed the door and began striding quickly down the hill towards the wine bar.

Liz sat there, fuming. The paper work in the office was bad enough, but having the promise of something real to do, only to have it snatched away, was worse. Why had McManus brought her here if it was only to leave her in the car while he met this informant? He already had two detectives watching his back – though it seemed a bit unprofessional to have them both in the same place – so he didn’t need her as well. And what if she did see anything? She had no way of contacting him to warn him. Maybe he’d brought her along to find out more about her so that he could pass it on to the others. Yet he didn’t seem that kind of man. So what exactly was he doing?

McManus had almost reached the wine bar now, and he stopped and casually lit a cigarette. He lounged by the entrance, studying the menu in the window. There was no sign of his contact, or anyone else – the street was deserted.

Then she heard footsteps on the pavement behind the car. Two sets. She grabbed her bag and rummaged through it, keeping her head down in case she was noticed sitting alone in a parked car and someone got the wrong idea. The footsteps had reached the car now, but thankfully they didn’t slow down, just went on past. Slowly she lifted her head and saw two men wearing short leather jackets, jeans and trainers. They looked young and fit. She wondered if they were plainclothes policemen – but these two weren’t Purvis and Cardew, and McManus hadn’t mentioned any other backup.

A car came up towards her from down the hill, and as its headlights swept across the pavement she saw the two men suddenly stop and tuck themselves into some bushes growing at the front of someone’s garden. The car went past and the two men continued down the hill. They didn’t want to be seen; Liz wondered why. Unless they weren’t police at all.

The two men stopped again and exchanged a few words. They were still only about forty yards ahead of Liz, and she watched as one of them crossed the street. The other one waited for a moment; he was out of the direct light of the street lamp but she could see him clearly enough. He had his hand behind his back and as he brought it round something glinted momentarily, and she caught on: it was a handgun. He held it for a moment then tucked it away under his jacket.

She hesitated. Was it a gun? Could they be plain-clothes police? If it was and they weren’t, there was no time to waste. The two men were now halfway between her and McManus, still outside the wine bar. They would reach him in a couple of minutes.

Liz slid over behind the wheel and turned the keys in the ignition. The engine responded right away. She turned on the side lights and pulled out into the street, coasting down the hill. As she passed the two men, one on each side of the street, she tensed, half expecting them to fire at her. They were striding quickly now and the one on the right-hand pavement had pulled his gun and was carrying it in his hand openly.

As she passed them she suddenly switched on the headlights full beam, blinding a van coming up the other way, and as she picked up speed she began hitting the horn so it sounded loudly in short warning beeps.

When she reached the wine bar she braked hard, coming to a sudden halt just in front of the entrance. She reckoned she was seventy or eighty yards in front of the men. McManus was looking startled. She pushed the button and the window on the passenger side came down. She yelled, ‘Get in quick.’

‘What the hell—?’ he said.

‘There’s a couple of gunmen just behind me. For God’s sake, get in.’

McManus looked over the top of the car back up the hill. The two men had stopped; they must have been uncertain what was happening. By now Purvis and Cardew had seen the commotion and came roaring up from the other direction.

‘What’s going on, Guv?’

McManus was shouting into the car radio, calling out an armed team. He broke off to yell at the two men, ‘Up the hill. Two of them. Get up there now. See if you can follow them but hang back – one of them’s got a gun, possibly both. Armed response is on the way. Keep in touch.’

‘Park up there,’ he said to Liz, pointing to a space in front of the line of shops.

‘Shouldn’t we help go after them?’

He shook his head. ‘No. A gun fight’s no place for you. Anyway, odds are they’ll be gone. I need to wait here in case chummy shows. Though that seems a bit unlikely now.’

‘You think he set you up?’

He nodded. ‘Must have. Unless he’s blown and they were after him. If he doesn’t turn up we’ll know which it is. Either way, he’s not going to be any more use. I’d give you odds he’s safely back in Ireland by now, thinking he’s helped assassinate a Special Branch officer.’

They sat in silence then, too shaken to talk, McManus keeping his eyes on the street ahead, while Liz kept a lookout behind through the rear-view mirror. It must have been ten minutes before a car pulled up in front, and Cardew and Purvis got out.

Cardew came over and spoke through the open window of the passenger seat. ‘No trace. The boys are out combing the streets but it looks as if they’ve got clean away. We don’t know the car and we’ve got no description so there’s not much chance. Jesus, Guv, we were wondering what the hell Mata Hari was doing, driving down like that.’

McManus stared at him. ‘She was saving my life, Officer, while you were sitting picking your toes. And don’t call her Mata Hari. Her name is Liz.’