I Remember You

Chapter Nine

‘So you have no thoughts about who may be behind this incident, who may have been responsible for placing the device under your vehicle?’ asked Detective Inspector Sladdin.

Were members of the Special Branch trained, Harry wondered, in the art of neutral phrasing? Or was Sladdin’s borrowing of a bureaucrat’s bland vocabulary simply his way of combating the horrors he met through his job? If a bomb became a mere ‘device’ and a brush with death no more than an ‘incident’, did that make it easier to choke off all emotion and concentrate on the job in hand?

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Finbar. He sat with his hands in his lap, a picture of bewilderment.

Sladdin raised his eyebrows, leaving Harry and Finbar in no doubt that he judged the picture a fake. But all he said was, ‘I see.’

The detective was, Harry estimated, in his mid-thirties, but his hair had turned prematurely grey and his worn features might have belonged to a man old enough to be his father. Perhaps those were occupational hazards, like nights broken by telephone calls bringing bad news and files closing with justice still undone.

During the last hour, here in the police station, he had done little more than test Finbar’s defences. He spoke softly and, if he carried a big stick, he was keeping it hidden for the present. Although he must be feeling under pressure to come up with a strong line of inquiry, he had the knack of remaining polite, detached, without concealing his scepticism.

And there was plenty to be sceptical about. Finbar was a victim who had enjoyed a narrow escape from annihilation rather than a suspect, but with a frown here and a puzzled query there, Sladdin conveyed the clear message that while all victims are innocent, some are distinctly less innocent than others. He could be excused a measure of mistrust, given Finbar’s insistence that Harry be allowed to sit in while he explained who and what he was and described the events leading up to the explosion.

‘A solicitor, sir?’ Sladdin had asked. ‘Do you think you’re in need of legal counsel?’

‘Harry’s a pal, Inspector, he’s been a tower of strength. I’d like him to stay, if you don’t mind.’

Finbar’s initial reluctance to make the short journey to the police station had also led to some shadow boxing.

‘Reg Sharma has very kindly offered to put his private rooms at your disposal, Inspector. And I’m sure you’ll understand, after such a dreadful shock I’d feel more comfortable there, however well you’d look after me.’

He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he added.

Harry held his breath, wondering what dreadful secret was about to be revealed. But Finbar was not that naive. He did no more than state the obvious and dress it up as a heartfelt admission.

‘Truth is, I’m rather embarrassed by the circumstances which brought me to the hotel. You’re a man of the world, Inspector, I’m sure you’ll understand. I’m going through a difficult divorce at the present time and Harry here is advising me on how not to put another foot wrong.’

Sladdin maintained weary courtesy whilst making it plain that the interview must take place on his own territory rather than in the Blue Moon. Harry nodded, signalling Finbar not to push his luck. The detective would want the questions and answers recorded on tape and, if irked, could make sure he had his way. Finbar was Irish and a bomb had gone off: easy to make out a case for detaining him under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.

Once they had arrived at the station, the interrogation had been shrewd rather than hostile. Harry recognised techniques he often employed in court when cross-examining a witness whose devotion to the truth was uncertain. Cautious probing was called for at first, with direct attack an option all the more effective for being held in reserve.

In his search for a motive for the bombing, Sladdin inevitably touched on Finbar’s Irish antecedents and allowed himself a doubting smile when Finbar protested ignorance of anyone from his native land who might wish him dead. ‘Thank you, Mr Rogan,’ he said, for the benefit of the tape recorder operating silently on the table between them, and motioned to the constable accompanying him to switch off the machine. The gesture was obviously intended to encourage Finbar to greater frankness.

‘Now, then. The tape has stopped, as you see, so let’s talk man to man for a minute. We don’t know yet whether the bomb was meant to kill you, and went off too early, or was simply meant to scare you rigid. Either way, it’s clear that someone is seriously displeased with you. So I need you to be frank. Exactly how much contact do you have with the Republican movement?’

Harry had seen the question coming. He had seldom heard Finbar talk about the Irish troubles, but the inference to be drawn from the bomb attack could have been drawn by a Lestrade. Anyone could start a fire, even one sufficiently fierce to destroy a building. Car bombers were a rarer breed.

Finbar rubbed his nose. He was no fool; he too must have foreseen this line of enquiry.

‘I won’t deny I knew a few people who were that way inclined.’ He might have been speaking about bashful gays. ‘Same as anyone living in Liverpool might know a bloke who earns a crust selling dodgy cars. But that’s as far as it went — I was never mixed up in any sectarian shenanigans. Live and let live, that’s my motto.’

Harry could see his client calculate pros and cons before deciding to name names. Those he mentioned mostly sounded small-time: people who might have done a bit of fund-raising for the cause. The only one which meant anything to Harry was the last.

‘And of course,’ said Finbar, ‘there was Pearse Cato.’

For a moment it seemed to Harry as if Sladdin had been struck by lightning. The careworn features would never betray shock, but a flickering of the eyelids was akin to a squeal of amazement from someone less self-contained. Finbar glanced at the detective uncertainly. If, by adopting a casual tone, he’d hoped to lessen the impact of his reference to Cato, he had failed. Even Harry, no student of current affairs, had heard the name in a hundred news bulletins.

‘Pearse Cato?’ asked Sladdin, careful not to sound too eager. ‘Tell me how you happened to know him.’

‘Not much to tell, really,’ said Finbar. He bit his lip and Harry could see he already regretted mentioning Cato. But Sladdin would not let it go now. You couldn’t claim acquaintance with Lucifer and then dismiss him as a bit of a nonentity.

‘His family lived across the road from ours in Dublin,’ said Finbar unhappily. ‘He was maybe five years younger than me. We were never close.’

‘But you were aware of his — connections?’

‘From when he was a kid, he was committed to the armed struggle. His uncle had been shot in a tit-for-tat killing. All the Catos were bred to battle, but Pearse was special. No one messed him around.’ Finbar shook his head. ‘Everyone kowtowed to Pearse, me included. He had a mad streak. Nothing was surer than that one day he would wind up dead.’

As indeed he had. His assassination had made headline news, Harry recalled: mown down in a bar a couple of summers ago by a gang of Kalashnikov-wielding paramilitaries who called themselves loyalists. They had fired as many bullets as were necessary to destroy the face seen on so many Wanted posters. In England, the tabloid press had celebrated the killing of the man they dubbed Europe’s most wanted terrorist; for Pearse Cato was notorious, an outcast from the Provos who had formed the Irish Freedom Fighters with a handful of others more concerned with murder for murder’s sake than with political progress. According to rumour, he had been responsible for upwards of a dozen murders on either side of the Irish Sea: a retired brigadier in Virginia Water; a backbench MP in Great Yarmouth; a judge in Magherafelt and a motley assortment of British soldiers and suspected Army informers.

‘Might someone,’ suggested Sladdin, ‘think you were on better terms with Cato than you describe? Perhaps now they’re gunning for you.’

Finbar gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I promise you, Inspector, my religion is the same as my politics. I’m a card-carrying member of the self-preservation society. Violence frightens me. It hurts people! Believe me, the closest I got to Pearse Cato was when I tattooed him.’

Sladdin pursed his lips. ‘Tattooed him? With what?’

‘A mailed fist flourishing the Irish Tricolour,’ said Finbar, a mite shame-faced. ‘It covered his chest. Not one of my more elegant creations, but Pearse liked body pictures, for his women as well as for himself. He didn’t know much about the finer aspects of tattooing but he knew what he liked.’

‘So you were neighbours and had a fleeting business relationship, that’s all?’

‘Not very businesslike,’ said Finbar. ‘The sod didn’t pay for any of the work he told me to do. And with Pearse, you didn’t ask. He hated putting his hand in his pocket, unless maybe it was to impress a girl. If he’d lived till fifty, he’d have died a millionaire.’

‘I see.’ Sladdin returned to a topic he’d worried at earlier. ‘And are you quite sure no one could have known you were coming here with Miss — er, Wilkins?’

‘I didn’t know myself until this lunchtime.’

‘But you’d left the car parked outside the hotel earlier in the day,’ Sladdin pointed out, ‘so someone following you from home, say, might have had the opportunity to fix the bomb while you were in the city centre with Miss Wilkins.’

‘I didn’t see anyone following me.’

‘Were you expecting to be followed?’

‘Well, no…’

Work it out for yourself, then, Sladdin’s expression insinuated. Aloud, he said, ‘As I explained, we’ll need to speak to Miss Wilkins.’

Harry knew why. The police needed to eliminate the possibility, however unlikely, that Finbar himself had activated the bomb by radio control.

‘She’ll not be able to tell you anything else,’ said Finbar.

Sladdin gave a sceptical grunt.

‘Look, Sophie was awful upset when she left, as Harry here will testify,’ Finbar continued. ‘Can’t blame her, it’s a nasty feeling for anyone — that someone has tried to blow you to smithereens.’

‘Yes,’ said Sladdin. ‘And that’s why, if you can think of anything further that might assist us…’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve got the message.’

‘Is that all, Inspector?’ asked Harry. He was anxious to go. If this interview did not end soon, he would be too late for hospital visiting hours and a chance to check on Jim Crusoe’s progress. And at any moment Finbar might say something rash.

So far Sladdin had given no indication that he intended to detain the Irishman; by now he must have received confirmation via New Scotland Yard that Finbar had no known links with terrorists. But the temporary legal powers that had been in force for a generation entitled the police to hold someone on the flimsiest of grounds for forty-eight hours, sometimes more. All Harry could offer in return for Sladdin releasing Finbar was the usual blather about his client being willing to surrender his passport and report to a police station whenever he blew his nose.

The detective considered Harry somebrely. In the end he said, ‘Yes, Mr Devlin, at least for the time being.’

‘So I’m free to go?’ asked Finbar, jumping to his feet in his eagerness to be away.

A poor choice of words for a client with a clear conscience. Harry barely stifled a groan, although Sladdin remained impassive.

‘Free, Mr Rogan? Why, of course. You’ve had a traumatic afternoon. I’m only sorry it has been necessary to keep you for so long. You will understand how anxious we are to identify the culprit as soon as possible — this is hardly a typical case of Liverpudlian car vandalism. And then there is the continuing need to preserve your own safety.’

The warning was as unambiguous as if lettered in blood on Finbar’s front door. He would remain at risk until his unknown antagonist was caught.

‘Have you really no idea who might have planted the bomb?’ asked Harry when they got outside.

‘Didn’t I say so in there?’

‘What you say and what you mean don’t always coincide.’

‘Ah well. Maybe I deserved that.’

‘Too right. Look, I’ve been thinking — you implied yesterday you were involved in some way with the death of this girl Eileen. Have you…’

‘You do too much thinking,’ said Finbar. There was no mistaking his unease. ‘Don’t play the detective with me, Harry. This can’t be anything to do with Eileen McCray. Remember, you’re my brief and my pal; that’s enough of a burden for any man to bear.’

‘Fair enough. Let’s drop the subject for now. What are you going to tell Melissa?’

Finbar relaxed into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Y’know, I’ve been wondering the very same thing. If all else fails, I may have to fall back on the truth.’

‘You must be worried.’

‘Hey, whose side are you on? If I have to come clean, I’ll make it clear Sophie was nothing more than a passing fancy. Going by the fuss she made earlier on, I’ve queered my pitch there good and proper.’

‘Win a few, lose a few, eh?’

Finbar clapped him on the back. ‘You took the words off the tip of my tongue. Tell you what, we’ll nip round to the Dock Brief and have a quick pint. You can help me summon up the courage to face the music.’

‘Sorry, I must go and see how Jim is. Besides, you go home smelling like a brewery and the music will make Wagner sound like The Cuckoo Waltz.’

‘All right, all right. For once I’ll take your advice. Jases, I pay enough for it! Give my best to Jim.’

Harry was halfway to the hospital before he remembered that the last couple of bills he had sent to Finbar were still outstanding. The last time he’d given the Irishman a reminder, he’d been fobbed off with a promise to put a cheque in the post. Credit control wasn’t Harry’s strong point; it was a wonder he’d never been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

A Nurse Ratchet clone whose glare was sufficient to inspire any patient into an instant recovery gave Harry terse directions to Jim’s ward. In the maze of white-walled corridors he soon got hopelessly lost and might have found himself attending a birth had he not been rescued by a dreadlocked porter who sent him to the other end of the building.

Harry was shocked by the sight of his partner. Jim was wired to a drip and resembled a character from a Christmas television campaign warning about danger and death on the road. He and Heather were having one of those jerky conversations about nothing in particular which seem so common at hospital bedsides. Harry noticed that Heather kept snatching glances at her husband’s battered face, then looking hurriedly away with thinly veiled dismay.

‘Not as bad as it looks, old son.’ The voice was croaky but audible.

‘It couldn’t be, really, could it?’ asked his wife.

‘I suppose you’ll be skiving off tomorrow as well, then?’ said Harry.

Jim made a ghastly attempt at a grin. ‘Give you a chance to do a bit of proper work for a change!’

‘Conveyancing and probate? Piece of cake. In fact, if all your clients are as lovely as Mrs. Graham-Brown, I’ll be putting in for a permanent transfer.’

‘Oh yes? And who is Mrs. Graham-Brown?’ asked Heather.

‘A lady who fancies leaving Liverpool for the south of Spain,’ said Jim with an effort. ‘Strange, you may think, but it takes all sorts. And Crusoe and Devlin certainly has all sorts of clients.’

‘Including victims of terrorist outrages,’ said Harry. ‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been until now.’

He told them about the afternoon’s excitement. Jim absorbed himself in the story, his craggy features darkening as Harry described Finbar’s infidelity and apparent unwillingness to tell all he knew.

‘The Irish connection, you suppose?’

‘What else? Finbar may have upset a few husbands in his time, but the time-honoured remedy is a fight behind a pub. Same goes for discarded mistresses. I can see someone slashing his tyres; even, maybe, torching his studio. But car bombs are something else.’

‘Did you know he had links with terrorists?’

‘I don’t even know it now. He disclaims all knowledge, except for this old acquaintance he tattooed in days gone by who was killed by the other side a couple of years back. But there must be some terrorist connection. After all…’

His voice trailed away as a thought struck him.

‘Watch him,’ said Jim Crusoe to Heather in a stage whisper. ‘When Harry gets that inspired look, everyone around ought to dive for cover. Solved the mystery, then?’

Harry said nothing, but his mind was working frantically. He had realised that the mysterious Eileen’s surname was the same as that of a man in a tough business traditionally associated with the republican movement: a man who might have access to bomb-making equipment.

Dermot McCray. The Irish builder and ‘old acquaintance’ whom Finbar, at Fenwick Court, had been so anxious to avoid.