The Tick Tock Man

18

‘I read somewhere that violence turns women on,’ Casey said.

, Harrison leaned on his elbow and looked down at her naked body stretched out languorously on the hotel bed beside him.

‘Did it affect you?’

She wrinkled her face in distaste, the memory of Killy Tierney’s torture and execution was still vivid in her mind. ‘It’s a horrible thought, but I think it must have in a sort of way, don’t you?’

‘Something certainly did. I thought it was me.’ He traced his finger over her nipple and watched with fascination as it puckered and hardened in response.

‘Oh, it is you, Tom, believe me.’ She sounded breathless. ‘I suppose it’s men of violence, rather than the violence itself. I mean, boxers for instance. Big ugly brutes most of them, but there’s never any shortage of pretty girls hanging around.’

His hand followed down across the flat plain of her belly, lingering in the gingery wisps between her legs. ‘You don’t think of me as a man of violence?’

She was beginning to stir again now, pressing up hard against his fingers, her face flushed and her words coming out in short gasps. ‘But — you deal in violence — in a way you deal with the most violent — thing imaginable…’ And she was away, her hands sliding over his shoulders, fingertips kneading the clenched muscles of his broad back, her knees opening to draw him in.

Somehow it was different. Now it was the lovemaking of two people who were certain of each other and committed. There was no shame between them, no obvious secrets. Only once Harrison thought fleetingly of Pippa, how it had never been like this with her. How, if it had, things might have turned out differently.

He had fallen asleep after that second bout of coupling, so long and unhurried. It was about three in the morning when he awoke again, instantly aware that Casey was missing from the bed. She was in her dressing gown, standing at the window and staring out into the night.

‘What’s the matter?’ he called.

She turned, the light from the car-park floodlights creating a halo behind her hair. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, I couldn’t sleep. Things just keep on going round and round in my head.’

He rubbed his eyes with his hands, swung his legs off the bed. ‘Hardly surprising. It was a pretty gruesome experience.’

‘I-know. But it isn’t that. It’s the confession that poor man made and the way Don dismissed it.’

Harrison shrugged. ‘I can see why, I’d dismiss it too. People just don’t go around faking their own deaths.’

‘Some do — to disappear or to get insurance payouts.’

‘True, but they don’t usually supply a corpse.’

She nodded her agreement, but clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘But it could be done, Tom, couldn’t it? It isn’t impossible?’

He thought for a moment. There was no denying that it wasn’t impossible. And hadn’t he been struck all along by a similarity in the workmanship of the AID AN devices with those of Hughie Dougan so many years before? He began to understand Casey’s concern that Trenchard had dismissed the allegation out of hand. He said: ‘Did you know it was my evidence that convicted Dougan the last time?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Really? Jeez, that’s uncanny.’ She looked at him long and hard, turning something over in her mind. ‘Tom, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps I should pay a visit south of the border.’

‘Where?’

‘Sligo. That’s where Dougan was supposed to have died.’

‘Don’t get involved, Casey. This is the IRA you’re talking about.’

She smiled at his concern. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be discreet. I’d ask Eddie to come, but he’ll be tied up with interviews.’

Hughie Dougan, Harrison was thinking, the trickiest bomb maker he’d ever known. The man who had tried to catch him out all those years before. Thirteen thousand pounds, that had been the price on Harrison’s head. Thirteen thousand pounds for a dead ATO. Was it just remotely possible that Tierney’s tortured confession was true?

He made his decision. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘What?’

‘To Sligo, I’ll come with you. I’m on leave, there’s nothing to stop me.’

‘Isn’t it against some army rules or something?’

‘Probably, but only if I get found out.’

‘Oh, Tom, that’s wonderful. We can go tomorrow, first thing.’

‘Then you’d better get some sleep.’

She giggled, reaching across the gap between them and running her hands tantalisingly over his thighs towards his groin. ‘Oh, I can’t sleep now. I’m too excited. I want to make love again.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy. Three times in one night — I’m not as young as I was.’

‘You’re the bomb man, Tom, and I feel like I’m about to blow up.’ She looked closely into his eyes, feeling his body harden in her hands. ‘Defuse me. A controlled explosion would be nice.’

‘It was the X-ray-sensitive switch that finally did it,’ Detective Superintendent Jim Maitland explained at the briefing of Anti Terrorist Branch officers.

Detective Sergeant Myers, who’d been assigned to the laborious chore of tracing down the source of component parts used in the AIDAN bombs, said: ‘Before they used that, the other leads were too vague. Hundreds of firms in dozens of countries make different microswitches, tilt switches and timers for use in everything from pinball tables to video recorders. Most companies willingly cooperate here, but abroad our requests for information are mostly ignored. We scoured the lists of Maplin’s and Radio Spares, the main mail-order suppliers of electronic parts, but no real pattern emerged. Just a lot of fruitless legwork in prospect.’

‘Until they used the X-ray switch,’ Maitland intervened. ‘These gizmos measure levels of radiation which cause the component to change its electrical characteristics — in layman’s language, it’s a current change that’s sufficient to trigger an audio or video signal, or in AIDAN’s case, a bomb.’

‘Who uses these things?’ someone asked.

‘Variants are used in body-scanners or for checking safety levels on VDU screens in offices. And Harwell sells detection guns to local councils for checking natural radon levels. You know, like in Cornwall and north-east Scotland.’

‘The point is,’ said Myers, slightly irked that the big chief should be stealing his moment of glory, ‘that it’s a very specialised area with only a few manufacturers and very limited uses. When we ran their customer lists through the computer and matched them with those of Maplin’s and Radio Spares — bingo! We’d isolated Solent Electronics Manufacturing. An address in the run-down Chapel area of Southampton…’

‘Our target for this morning,’ Maitland announced with triumph.

Local Special Branch officers had been keeping the ground floor office and storeroom under discreet surveillance overnight. On orders from London, no inquiries were made either directly or through neighbours or the landlord for fear of tipping off the terrorists.

Maitland’s team arrived before dawn with full armed backup from a specialist firearms unit. They were in position by first light and waited anxiously for the city to come alive.

At five past nine, a stocky man in jeans and T-shirt, with an aggressive-looking face and close-cropped hair, arrived to open up.

‘ALL UNITS GO!’ Maitland ordered into his radio mike.

Bystanders screamed in surprise as cars and unmarked vans opened up to disgorge armed men in flak jackets and SWAT-style baseball caps.

The man with his key in the door was frozen to the spot, paralysed with fear, as the policemen swooped.

Only afterwards, seeing the sign outside the rented office for Videomail Enterprises, did Maitland acknowledge that the bird had long flown. The previous renter of the premises — a Henry Roke of Solent Electronics Manufacturing — had left two months earlier. Not surprisingly, he’d left no forwarding address and no one was able to give a useful description of him.

But there was an upside. The office was filled with banks of wired video recorders and the owner of Videomail was arrested for trading in pirated tapes and pornography.

That, however, was of little consolation to Jim Maitland. Inquiries continued.

Casey looked drawn and tired as she packed, but was determinedly cheerful.

Harrison closed his suitcase. ‘You look like a woman who’s spent the whole night making love.’

A pink tongue poked in his direction. ‘Rubbish, I’m always a happy waker-upper. I just don’t get smart until about nine thirteen, that’s all. Then you have to catch me before nine forty-seven or it’s all over.’

Harrison telephoned Archie to postpone their camping trip. His son was clearly disappointed, the situation made worse when Pippa came on the line and threatened to deny him access to his son if he couldn’t keep his promises. It was a ridiculous and acrimonious conversation that left Harrison feeling depressed, not least because there would now be little time left to make it up to Archie before his imminent return to school.

The call over, Harrison joined Casey and Eddie Mercs downstairs for breakfast. A decidedly unhappy waker-upper that morning, the reporter was nursing a ferocious hangover. ‘I’d forgotten what stamina it takes to have a quiet night out over here,’ he complained.

On Harrison’s advice, Casey had made no mention of the previous night’s events, merely saying that King Billy’s contact failed to show up, but that Harrison had. ‘And you don’t mind if I take off for a day or two?’

‘I’ll be heartbroken.’ He grinned at Harrison over his cornflakes. ‘Just have to accept that the best man won.’

‘Idiot,’ Casey said. ‘I mean can you manage without me?’

‘You’re on holiday,’ Mercs reminded. ‘I’ll cope.’

‘Did you learn anything last night?’

Mercs shrugged. ‘Not much. Except one thing. That Irish bishop — what’s his name, McLaverty — who’s attending the Trafalgar House talks as an independent and token Republican.’

Harrison had heard news of the official admission about the talks on his car radio the previous afternoon. ‘Yes?’

‘My sources reckon he’s in bed with the IRA. Knows all the top men personally, even if he’s not a paid-up member.’

Harrison stared at him, his blood running cold. Jock Murray dead, Les Appleyard a cripple and the Provisional IRA at the conference table. He felt suddenly sick.

Mercs said, unaware of Harrison’s involvement: ‘They reckon it was the Blackwall Tunnel bomb that did it.’

Harrison said little more until he and Casey were on the road, cruising westward down the motorway towards the border crossing at Aughnacloy.

‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

His anger showed in his clenched fists on the wheel. ‘It makes it all such a bloody waste. For a second in that tunnel I thought I’d never see you again and Archie would be left without a father. I really believed that. It seems I hardly need have bothered.’

‘No, Tom. That mother and her baby. They’re only alive because of you. They wouldn’t agree.’

He pounded the wheel. ‘Christ, I hate politicians!’

It was lunch time when they turned into the narrow village street. The place had a forlorn air about it, just a couple of shabbily dressed locals and a stray dog on the pavement beside the peeling shop fronts.

They found the church on the outskirts, an ancient stone building, its walls and square tower mantled in Virginia creeper. The elderly priest stood by an elaborate and luridly painted carving of the Crucifixion, talking to two women.

Harrison parked and they walked back along the road bordered by a low stone wall.

The priest broke off his conversation as Casey approached him. ‘Hi, Father, I wonder if you could help me?’

His whiskery face brightened. ‘Of course, if I can. An American, yes?’ ‘Sure.’

‘May I welcome you to Ireland.’ The women made no attempt to leave, watching darkly, their distrust of strangers plain.

‘Thank you. I’m Casey Mullins and this is my English friend, Tom.’

The priest nodded his acknowledgment, but his eyes only left Casey for a moment. ‘Casey Mullins. That’s a very Irish name.’

‘On my father’s side. But the reason I’m here is to look for the grave of a distant relative.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘His name was Hugh Dougan. I believe he might be buried here?’

Wispy eyebrows raised aboye his pebble-lensed spectacles. ‘Indeed he is. He died just last year. Such a tragic case. All that time in prison, fighting for his beliefs and then to perish in a car accident.’ He interlaced his fingers in front of his smock. ‘But then thtfLord indeed moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps his death was meant to give strength to someone else. It works like that sometimes, you know. For instance, a widow may find her own inner resolve when she loses her husband. Although not in Mr Dougan’s case, of course. I do believe his wife had predeceased him by some years. Anyway, let me show you the grave.’

The women watched as the priest led the way through the unkempt churchyard, brambles and nettles growing unchecked beneath gnarled crabapple trees.

‘I was a little surprised,’ he was saying, ‘that the family didn’t want his remains taken north. It wouldn’t have cost that much and I am sure the movement would have paid.’

Casey feigned ignorance. ‘The movement?’

‘The Irish Republican Army.’ He used the old term. ‘Mr Dougan was a member in the proud old tradition.’

‘Perhaps his family preferred him to be buried here.’

‘Evidently, Miss Mullins. But the movement usually likes to honour its Belfast dead in Milltown Cemetery at the martyrs’ plot for the fallen.

‘How exactly did he die?’

‘A car crash — terrible business. There was talk that it was deliberate, but I doubt that. It happened on a notorious bend. And there was little doubt he’d had a drink.’

They rounded an overgrown shrub. ‘Ah, yes, here it is.’

It was a simple slab of black marble, the inscription carved in gold lettering.

‘Flowers,’ Harrison observed.

‘His daughter.’

Harrison frowned, trying to remember what he’d read on Dougan’s computer file. ‘I thought she was working in Canada.’

The priest looked at him. ‘Perhaps one is. There are two daughters. It is the youngest who comes, who came just a few days ago. Caitlin, that’s her name. Still lives in Belfast. My heart goes out to the dear child. It really brpke her up when she identified the body. Not that there was much to identify. The car had exploded after the crash, you see. But there were his rings, they survived intact. Young Caitlin had a wee babe with her the other day. It doesn’t take much to work out that she was carrying at the time of her father’s death.’ The thoughts of her suffering brought tears to the old man’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Tell me, is there anything else you’d like to know?’

Casey looked at Harrison; he shook his head. ‘Father, you’ve been most kind.’

He left them at the crucifix by the gate where the two women had been waiting.

As they walked back to the car, Casey said: ‘He nearly had me crying myself then. And I’m not sure I’ve learned anything at all.’

Harrison said: ‘Perhaps we have. Firstly, cars can explode in crashes, but it’s quite unusual — despite what you see in the movies.’ ‘Really?’ Not quite believing.

‘That Mercedes I told you about in the Blackwall Tunnel, for example. It didn’t explode. I’ve spent many happy hours shooting at car petrol tanks, trying to make them blow. You need tracer rounds at the very least. The other thing is, as the priest pointed out, why wasn’t the body taken back to Milltown?’

‘Is that important?’

‘It could be significant if we’re to believe the story Tierney told before he died. A death south of the border makes checking forensic identification of the remains — dental records, fingerprints — very difficult. Neither the Garda nor the Catholic Church in Ireland are very cooperative with the RUC. But if Dougan, a recently released terrorist, had died like that in the north, Special Branch would have certainly made checks. As it is, exhuming the body from here now will prove virtually impossible.’

Casey opened the car door thoughtfully. ‘I’ve just remembered, Tierney said that one of the daughters was involved, Clodagh.’

‘The one who’s supposed to be in Canada?’ Harrison remarked as he climbed in.

‘I wonder if it would be possible to find her sister, the one who brought the flowers?’

Harrison nodded. ‘If the priest is right and she’s still living in Belfast, then it shouldn’t be a problem.’

He started the engine, swung the car round in a circle and headed back towards the border. When he had started out that morning, he’d been cynical of Casey’s suspicions. But now, uncannily, everything was beginning to fit. His head began to spin with the implications. Just the possibility that he and the ATOs in Northern Ireland and the Section in London had been up against Hughie Dougan all the time… His old adversary, reaching out to get him from beyond the grave. At the very thought he felt his heart begin to pump and the adrenalin start to course.

Jock Murray, Les Appleyard… just one to go. Tom Harrison.

It was mid-afternoon when he dropped Casey back at her hotel then drove straight back down the Ml to Army Headquarters at Lisburn.

The office at 321 EOD Squadron was an unmarked Portakabin affair situated beside the main crescent-shaped brick building in the secure inner compound. He parked outside and then met the surprised stats sergeant on the steps.

‘Hallo, sir, didn’t expect you. Thought you was on R and R?’

Harrison smiled. ‘Just picking up a few things, Sergeant. Is the colonel around?’

‘He’s at GOC’s prayers, sir. Bit of a flap on with these talks going on at Trafalgar House. You know, anticipating trouble from one side or the other.’

Harrison was relieved that ‘Tall LloydWilliams was in conference, otherwise he’d have been obliged to explain his actions and he was certain his commanding officer would disapprove of his personal involvement. Had their situations been reversed, Harrison was sure he’d feel the same.

‘Not to worry,’ Harrison said, ‘you’re just the man I want.’

‘Sir?’

‘Can you run up a couple of names for me on Crucible?’

‘No problem,’ the sergeant replied, moving back towards the cramped Statistics Office Where the computer terminal was housed.

He took his seat before the screen. ‘What name is it?’

‘Caitlin Dougan. Is there an entry?’

The sergeant punched up the file. ‘Ah, daughter of the late Hughie, eh, sir? Snuffed it last year. She’s now married to Peter Moore, a part-time RIR man.’

‘Let me just take down that address.’

‘Anyway she’s clean. Just refers back to her old man’s file.’

‘Try Clodagh Dougan.’

‘Right you are.’ He waited for the file to swipe onto the screen. ‘Just a sec… oh, that’s odd.’

Harrison peered over his shoulder. ‘Access Restricted.’

The sergeant chuckled. ‘Looks like Clodagh Dougan’s been a naughty girl. Refers to 14 Int only.’

Shit! The sneaky-beaky mob playing silly buggers again. 14 Int, Special Branch and MI5 each jealously guarding their own little pile of dirt.

‘Want me to phone up for clearance, sir?’

Harrison shook his head. ‘I’ll leave it for now.’

He didn’t want anyone to start asking questions and it was likely that the clearance level would have to be CATO himself or even higher. It wouldn’t do to alert those who would resent his interference.

‘ ‘Ave a good leave, sir,’ the sergeant called as Harrison returned to his car and set off back towards Belfast.

Warm and dusty sunlight was settling over the estate of small newly built houses in Ballynafeigh as he and Casey drove into Caitlin Dougan’s road. Children played on many of the open fronted lawns, watched by parents who were washing cars, planting immature trees or weeding flowerbeds.

‘We can’t just wander in and start asking questions,’ Harrison had warned.

Casey had just laughed. ‘Leave it to me. Everyone loves Americans and everyone has relatives in the States.’

As they pulled up outside the box-like semi with its white plastic cladding, he hoped she was right. Heads turned at the sight of the unfamiliar car and neighbours watched warily as the two walked up the path to the glass-fronted door. It took several seconds for the chimes to be heard above the background burble of a television and the crying of a baby. Then the thin shape of a young man emerged in the hall, blurred through the fluted glass.

The door opened a cautious three inches, restrained by a security chain. ‘Yes?’ The hair was dark and cropped, the eyes anxious.

‘Mr Moore?’ Casey inquired with a smile.

‘Who’s asking?’

Her laugh was uneasy. ‘This is going to sound crazy, but I could be your wife’s long lost stepcousin from California!’

A blank expression stared back at her. Then, hesitantly: ‘What? Are you from the Jehovah’s Witnesses or something?’

‘No, I’m Casey, Casey Mullins. I’m American.’

‘I gather that.’ He sounded a little more relaxed.

‘And if I tell you my stepfather’s name was Dougan?’

The man nodded. ‘That’s my wife’s maiden name.’

Casey smiled in triumph. ‘Exactly! I’m over here on holiday this is my English friend Tom — and I thought I’d try and discover my roots. You know, work out the family tree.’ The man was still hesitating, clearly unsure. ‘Look, I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient just now, but I’m due to catch a flight home tomorrow. It’s taken ages to track you down and it would be such a shame to go home without…’

‘No, no,’ he interrupted, unbolting the chain. ‘Sorry to seem so cautious, but you can’t be too careful, you know, the troubles

— sure at least we can offer you some tea and cake.’

They were in. The front room was crammed with obviously secondhand furniture and a lobsterpot playpen taking up much of the space. There was a sickly sweet smell of milk and soiled nappies, Harrison noticed, as the man called up the stairs to his wife.

Caitlin came down a few minutes later, a timid wan-faced creature, small with painfully thin wrists and ankles. She patted nervously at her lank fair hair. With an uncertain smile she apologised for being dressed in the shellsuit with baby food stains, for the untidy state of the room and for the fact that she could only offer a jam roll with their tea.

Casey reassured her and launched into a major charm offensive which involved a convoluted family background in which she claimed that her fictitious stepfather’s grandfather or great grandfather, she wasn’t sure which — with the family name of Dougan

— had emigrated to America.

Caitlin sat, clearly bemused and stiffly polite, balancing one of the unmatching china cups and saucers on her knee. ‘I think some of the family did go to America, but I don’t know who. I’d have to ask my Uncle Tommy. He knows all about our family history.’

Like Harrison, Peter Moore had said little, just leaning back on the sofa, watching and listening with intelligent interest. He said: ‘There are a number of Dougans. How do you know Cait’s is the right family?’

This was going to be the tricky part, Harrison realised.

Casey said: ‘My stepfather has an aunt who seems to know about the family here.’

‘Oh,’ Caitlin said with renewed interest, ‘what’s her name?’

‘Er, Hetty, I think, but I’ve never met her.’ She added quickly:

‘America’s a big place, you know, and she lives over in Boston. That’s like the other side of Europe to you.’

Caitlin shook her head. ‘I don’t recall anyone having mentioned her.’

But Casey was steaming on regardless: ‘It appears she received a letter from someone over here saying how your poor father died last year. It must have been absolutely terrible for you.’

In an instant the atmosphere had changed. Harrison noticed Peter Moore’s knuckles tighten and the warmth drain from his eyes.

Caitlin said: ‘It’s always a shock to lose a parent.’

‘Were you close?’

‘Not as close as we should have been.’ There was an expression on her face that could have been guilt or resentment, it was hard to tell. ‘I wonder who wrote the letter to America. Perhaps it was Uncle Tommy, but he’s never mentioned it. And he doesn’t write much now. Arthritis.’

‘Is it right you have a sister?’

Caitlin’s eyes brightened. ‘Oh, yes, Clodagh. She’s my big sister.’

‘You sound fond of her.’

‘Oh, yes. Ten years older than me, so she is. Much brighter, too. She went to university and now she’s got a job in electronics. Always looked after me. Tried to protect me from things, you know, the troubles and that. For a while she belonged to the Cumainn na n Ban and didn’t want me to get involved.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The women’s branch of the Provies. Clodagh gave it up and steered me away. If she hadn’t, I’d probably never have met Peter. Or else he wouldn’t have wanted to know me.’

‘Mine’s a Protestant family,’ her husband offered. ‘Things are difficult enough as it is. All Cait and I want is to be left in peace and to have the best chance in life for the wee chap.’

‘Where’s Clodagh now, could I see her perhaps?’

Caitlin laughed lightly. ‘Not really, she’s in Canada.’

‘Never!’ Casey faked surprise. ‘Perhaps I might get to meet her. Do you have an address?’

‘Sure.’ The girl stood and collected two postcards with forest scenes from the Rocky Mountains. ‘Suite 200, Stanley Tower, Marine Drive, Vancouver.’

‘And a phone number?’

‘She’s not on the phone.’

‘Never mind.’ Casey glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness, is that the time?’

Caitlin showed them to the door. ‘It’s been lovely to have met you.’

Peter Moore shook hands with Harrison. ‘Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk, Tom.’

‘Chattering women, eh?’

‘Work here in Belfast, do you?’

‘No, just over for a few days with Casey.’

They stepped outside, Caitlin and her husband waiting and waving as their unexpected visitors climbed into their car.

‘That was a nice surprise,’ Caitlin said.

Peter Moore was uncertain. ‘I’d still like to know exactly how they got this address.’

Caitlin frowned. ‘Didn’t she say?’ ‘She said a hell of a lot, but not actually that.’ He grimaced. ‘And I wasn’t too sure about your man.’

‘Tom somebody.’

‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before somewhere. Somehow he looks familiar.’

‘The gentlemen are here, sir,’ the sergeant announced.

Colonel Tall LloydWilliams rose from behind his desk and looked across the office at Harrison. ‘I’m sticking my neck out for you, Tom. I just hope you’re right. There are no prizes for standing on the feet of MI5 or Group.’

‘I know that, sir, but this is also our domain. We’ve lost one ATO and two injured to AIDAN, plus Jock and Les in London. We need to know.’

John Nash entered first, his suit still crumpled after the early shuttle from London. Trenchard followed, as immaculately turned out as always, bespoke suit and cavalry tiepin; but his manner was less carefree than usual.

Nash stifled a yawn. ‘Hello, Tall, hello, Tom. This had better be good, I can hardly justify the time away from London now that Trafalgar House has gone public’

The colonel shook his hand. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to come, John, if I didn’t think it was important.’

Trenchard found himself standing next to Harrison. ‘What’s going on, Tom?’ he asked tersely. ‘Why the hell has Nash been dragged over?’

‘Just so the left knows what the right is doing, Don, that’s all.’

‘I’ll let Tom here kick off,’ the colonel said.

Harrison turned to Nash. ‘Presumably you’re aware that Billy Baker was arrested the night before last?’ He was aware of Trenchard’s eyes boring into him.

Nash nodded. ‘Of course I am, Tom. For murdering a Sinn Fein councillor known as Killy Tierney.’

‘Did you know Tierney was tortured before he died?’

An urbane eyebrow was raised. ‘I haven’t seen the report details, but I’m not surprised.’

Harrison took a deep breath. ‘And did you know that he was specifically tortured to make him identify the AID AN bombers?’

‘For God’s sake…’ Trenchard began.

But Harrison continued regardless. ‘And that Billy Baker claimed he was doing this at your request? That’s yours and Don’s here.’

It was Nash’s turn to glare at Trenchard. ‘Don, d’you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

‘I think Tom is getting out of his depth,’ the intelligence officer replied snappily. ‘These are highly classified intelligence matters, nothing to do with the practicalities of bomb disposal.’

The colonel intervened. ‘Not quite true. To know the identity of a bomber is to know your enemy.’

Harrison snatched a dummy time-and-power unit from the cabinet and tossed it to Trenchard who caught it in midair. ‘Imagine that’s attached to a thousand pounds worth of explosive and you’ve got to destroy it. Who made it? Behan, MacEoin, the Midlander? The names probably mean little to you, but they can mean a lot to us. There’s the world of difference between a bomb made by Behan and Hughie Douganl Ask Jock Murray’s widow or Les Appleyard lying in hospital with his legs gone.’

‘Steady, Tom,’ LloydWilliams warned.

But Nash had caught the name. ‘Hughie Dougan died last year.’

‘Not according to Killy Tierney. While he was having his kneecap smashed, he was pleading to be believed. Dougan is still alive — his death was faked. And he’s working with his daughter Clodagh. Tierney also named the other members of the AID AN unit.’

‘Tierney was talking crap to save his life,’ Trenchard replied testily. ‘I saw Dougan’s body and can confirm that the daughters identified it.’

‘If a car explodes, which is fairly unusual in itself,’ Harrison replied, ‘there’s precious little left to identify. Just possibly that was the idea. Was it by accident or design that the crash occurred in Eire? And why didn’t PIRA have the remains of a martyr and former hunger striker brought back to Milltown Cemetery?’

‘You seem to know an awful lot about this, Tom,’ Nash began to realise.

Harrison glanced at his colonel. ‘I realise what I’ve done is out of order, but I was on leave and asked a few questions in the village where Dougan supposedly died.’

Nash chewed on his lower lip. ‘And this business about Billy Baker and what Killy Tierney said? How d’you know about that?’

Harrison hesitated. He and Trenchard had been friends for a long time; mention of his own and Casey’s involvement, which he understood had not been reported, could land the man in deep trouble.

‘My fault,’ Trenchard intervened. ‘I told Tom about it in the mess, but then he is a senior officer and he’s been very much involved… The difference is that Tom thinks that Killy Tierney might have been telling the truth. I don’t.’

Harrison drew himself to his full height and addressed himself directly to Nash. ‘There’s one way to confirm this, John. I also visited Dougan’s youngest daughter yesterday and obtained

Clodagh Dougan’s supposed address in Vancouver. Maybe your people could check it out? If she’s there, obviously I’m wrong.’

Nash was irritated, with Harrison for delving into matters that weren’t his concern, and with Trenchard for sharing confidential information. ‘Anything else?’ he demanded sarcastically.

Harrison nodded. ‘Clodagh is close to her sister. Yet she said she had no telephone number — she didn’t even give one for her place of work.’ He paused. ‘I also learned that Clodagh is a highly paid electronics expert.’

It was the same full picture that had convinced CATO that there could be something in it.

Nash made his decision. ‘I’ll have the address checked out and we’ll take it from there.’

‘And you’ll let us know?’ LloydWilliams pressed.

‘Of course. Now if you’ll excuse us, I need to catch the next available shuttle.’

He motioned Trenchard to follow him and the two men walked out of the office to the waiting car.

Nash said: ‘I don’t believe you, Don. We set up a deal with King Billy and we weren’t too particular how he chose to achieve his side of the bargain. Yet when he had that information, you chose to ignore it.’

‘I haven’t ignored it, John, it’s in your report. I just chose not to act on it, because I think it’s a load of bunkum. I still do. I thought we had enough on our plate without a wild-goose chase.’

‘Well, you work for me now, not Group. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were taking advantage of your old contacts with 14 Int. Well, I want you out of the Province and back in London. Do you know which man actually pulled the trigger to kill Tierney?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wasn’t Baker himself?’

‘No.’

‘Thank God for small mercies. Then charge the murderer and get King Billy and the rest released on a technicality. I’ll square it with Knock and the DCI.’

‘So Billy will get his place at the talks?’

‘It’s not up to me, but I doubt it. He’ll be happy enough to be released. I gather they’ve enough problems at Trafalgar House without King Billy throwing in his ten penn’orth.’ Nash climbed into his car beside the driver and lowered the electric window. ‘But before you do that, check the Vancouver address. Report to me with the result in London — in person.’

From the window of CATO’s office, Harrison and LloydWilliams watched the car pull away.

‘I just hope that’s not my pension driving off, Tom.’

‘So do I, sir. Let’s just hope I’m right.’

LloydWilliams continued watching the disappearing car.

‘Don’t suppose you know much about Celtic legend, do you?’

‘Not much call for it outside Wales and Eire.’

‘I’m talking about AIDAN — derived from the name of the ancient Celtic god of sun and fire. I’ve been digging around in some old books. The English equivalent is Hugh.’

Harrison stared at him in disbelief. All the time Hughie Dougan had been enjoying a smug little joke with them.

‘Pack your bags, Tom,’ CATO said softly, ‘and go back to the mainland. I don’t want you setting foot in the Province again. That’s official.’