The Tick Tock Man

5

The morning news conference at the London Evening Standard was its usual low-key affair.

At the head of the long mahogany table sat the editor. Resplendent in bright blue braces and tie to match, he listened as the news editor went through the day’s running order. Only occasionally he interrupted the steady monologue with a query or a topical wisecrack. Sometimes the deputy news editor, or one of the other editors or department heads, would expand on the ideas behind proposed items.

‘So what are we splashing with, Steve?’ the editor asked.

‘It’s got to be the aftermath of the Seven Dials bombs.’

‘Just the front page?’

‘Plus one and two,’ the news editor replied. ‘We’ve got more of Hal’s pics we didn’t use yesterday, plus a lot of good eyewitness accounts.’

The editor’s thick eyebrows rose behind his heavy black spectacles. ‘We’re not in danger of giving this too much coverage? The oxygen of publicity to the terrorists, and all that.’

‘I don’t think so. It’s more than justified seeing as it’s the biggest single attack since the City bombs. Or the seventies if you consider the casualties caused. And the first time they’ve used car bombs for about ten years. Besides, I think there could be more behind this latest campaign. I took the bombers’ warning call yesterday and they mentioned secret talks between the British and Irish Governments. They’re demanding a seat at the table. Now, as we’ve been told nothing about this, I’ve asked Eddie Mercs to do a little digging.’

The editor said: ‘I know. I had a telephone call this morning from the secretary of the Defence Advisory Committee,’ the editor explained. ‘Charming chap. He pointed out — rather unnecessarily, I thought — that we were legally prevented from repeating the bombers’ demands. He also said it had been brought to his attention that Eddie was asking questions of the Northern Ireland Office and Dublin about rumours of secret talks. Said he hoped we weren’t going into print on the subject as it would almost certainly be contravening an unsung new subparagraph to Code Six that slipped quietly into being last year.’

The news editor’s nostrils flared with the scent of a good story. Someone somewhere was manipulating the good old DNotice system to suit his own purpose. ‘So there is something in it. And we’re being muzzled.’

‘Possibly, Steve, but anyway I’m not sure this is for us. People are sick of hearing about peace talks recently — this is just one more.’

‘Even when their bombs are devastating our city?’ came the rather tart reply.

But the editor was unmoved. ‘I’m not certain revelations by us about any secret peace talks or whatever are going to help the situation. Rather the reverse, I’d have thought.’

‘You’re asking me to drop it?’

There was a shake of the head. ‘Just be a bit discreet. Put it on the back burner so we don’t get left behind if the story breaks. But for the time being if there’s going to be a first move, leave it to the nationals.’

The news editor drew a large dagger through the doodled sketch on his pad.

‘By the way, the decision” to lead with the Mullins girl’s piece on Seven Dials yesterday was a masterstroke,’ the editor said in an effort to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Wonderful spot of firsthand feature reporting. Not a dry eye in the house.’

It was the turn of Billy Billingham, the jocular and flamboyant features editor, to bask in some reflected glory. He was never more pleased than when scoring points off the news desk. ‘My pleasure to oblige. Just remember us next time you need some real talent, Steve.’

The news editor ignored the barb. ‘I was wondering whether we ought to get some coverage of the bomb-disposal man’s funeral. After Casey’s story he’s being treated as something of a national hero. Television and this morning’s papers are going overboard.’

The editor grimaced. ‘We must be the only nation in the world that celebrates failure more than success — Dunkirk, Arnhem, Bravo Two Zero — Was he a Londoner?’

‘No, Scottish. He lived near Dorking. I imagine that’s where the funeral will be.’

‘Well, about time we had a hero, failed or not. It’ll be a nice tribute, but no doorstepping the widow or telephoto pictures of weeping kids ‘

‘Of course not.’ And get bollocked if another paper gets better shots, he thought.

‘Tell you what, Steve, why not let the Mullins girl cover it.’

Billy Billingham grinned.

The news editor sighed. ‘She’s features.’

The editor said decisively. ‘But she was personally involved. Nice touch that.’ He placed both hands firmly on the table in front of him, a sure sign that the meeting was concluded. ‘Anyway, give it some thought.’

The news editor shoved back his chair in a fit of pique, more certain now than ever that Eddie Mercs had an unlikely rival for the affections of Casey Mullins in the editor. It really would not do at all, he decided.

As he left the conference room he found himself passing Mercs in the corridor and updated him on the editorial decisions.

‘Sorry about the funeral, Eddie. I had you earmarked for that.’

Mercs shrugged. ‘Not bothered, old son. I’m sure Casey can handle it. It’s this business about the talks that peeves me. Defence Advisory Committee, I ask you. There’s something big in the air and it’s not going to go away.’

‘What do you mean?’

Mercs drew to a halt. ‘Look, there’s been a sudden rash of London bombings over the past three weeks. This is the first time we’ve been on the inside track and heard about secret talks. Even if this is the first time the Provisional have mentioned it, then no doubt other papers have been called.’

‘And presumably have also had deputations from the Defence Advisory Committee.’

‘But people will talk, Steve, especially if the bombing campaign continues and they know it’s connected with these mystery talks. They won’t be able to keep the lid on if it’s that important. If it doesn’t break here, it’ll appear in one of the European papers for sure. It’s the best potential scoop since I’ve joined you and now I’m told I can’t run with it.’

‘Perhaps you should have joined one of the rags, Eddie.’

The reporter grimaced. ‘You were the only one who’d have me.’

‘Yeah, I prefer spotting talent on the way up, not pissheads on the way down. Anyway, don’t back off completely. Keep digging, but gently. If the story does blow, then we might not be first, but at least we could be the best informed.’

That was of little consolation to Mercs. He wandered off towards the coffee machine to drown his sorrows in caffeine and sugar.

Meanwhile Billy Billingham was breaking the good news to Casey Mullins. ‘Looks like your star’s in the ascendant, my little Yankeedoodle.’

Casey cringed at the excruciating nickname he insisted on giving her and glanced up from the article on Herbal Remedies for Hayfever she was tapping into her terminal. ‘Pardon me, BB?’

The permanent grin was wide on his freckled face. With his unruly mop of red hair, he always reminded her of a sort of bloated carrot. ‘The editor was much impressed with your feature yesterday.’ ‘Really?’ She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or irritated. Under the tragic circumstances, it seemed like a hollow victory.

‘So much so he wants you to cover that poor bomb man’s funeral.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Her eyes flickered with uncertainty. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that…’

‘It’s quite an accolade,’ BB assured. ‘Not often the big white chief interferes with editorial decisions at this lowly level. You should grab it with both hands.’

‘You think so?’

‘Your second byline in a week.’

That was a thought. Establishing her byline with a big story had always seemed so important, yet she’d forgotten the significance of it in the trauma of the past twenty-four hours. ‘Do you know when and where the funeral’s being held?’

‘No, but then you always told me you wanted to be an investigative journalist ‘

Casey beat him to it. ‘So investigate!’ As he turned to go, she said: ‘By the way, BB, I wonder if I could take the rest of the afternoon off. I’d like to visit a friend of mine injured in yesterday’s bombing. And I’m anxious not to leave my daughter alone too long, she’s still very upset.’

‘Of course, I take it you’re clear on anything urgent?’

She nodded towards the calendar. ‘Unless you’d like me to write something on the Fourth of July?’

He looked momentarily bewildered.

With a smile she said: ‘But then you folk don’t seem to celebrate that holiday, do you?’

‘A signal from London,’ CATO said. ‘The Home Office is requesting assistance from us over the new bombing campaign that’s started there. I thought you were the best man for the job.’

Tom Harrison stared at the GO AWAY! sign pinned to the front of Colonel Gareth LloydWilliams’s desk. Perversely its message of bluff humour made ‘Top Cat’ all the more approachable to his staff. Harrison’s own relationship with ‘Tall Lloyd Williams was excellent, each man willingly standing in for the other as situations demanded. It was a mutual trust and respect as well as friendship. ‘That’s a bit unusual, Colonel. What’s the Met’s Explosives Section going to say about it?’

The Chief ATO allowed himself a sly smile. ‘The initial request came from Al Pritchard, if you can believe that.’

‘I can’t.’ *

‘Under pressure from on high, I imagine, after the Seven Dials fiasco.’

‘Ah,’ Harrison said, ‘that’s more like it.’

‘Have you heard the latest from London?’

‘I haven’t been into the office yet.’

The Welshman linked his fingers over the desk top. ‘The Seven Dials bombings appear to be the handiwork of our old friends AID AN.’

It was like a douche of cold water; suddenly Harrison felt wide awake. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Wish I was, Tom. It was confirmed in the warnings. Seems like our bomber is putting himself about a bit. That’s why they want someone over there who’s had some experience of how AID AN works. See into his mind, so to speak.’

‘I’m not sure I can do that, and I’m not sure I’d want to, the evil bastard.’ He almost spat the words, giving vent to his rising anger. So it had been the same AIDAN cell who’d killed Jock Murray and had come within a whisker of catching himself at the Europa the previous night. ‘I mean we still don’t know if the AIDAN codeword signifies a particular active service unit, a new strategy or an individual bomb maker. I don’t suppose “Whiz” has been able to shed any light on the matter?’

The colonel shook his head; the Weapons Intelligence Section had been working overtime to get a lead on the bomb maker’s identity or some common pattern that might give them a clue. ‘What we can guess, Tom, is that the situation on the mainland can only get worse. The warnings have made it quite clear that the campaign is a protest by the Provisionals at being left out of the latest peace process.’

‘I’m sorry?’ he said, recalling what Trenchard had said to him outside the Europa.

‘It must be the world’s worst kept secret. Protracted talks between Dublin, London and the major political parties in Ulster. They started last autumn and the prevailing wisdom is they’re likely to continue throughout this summer. Politicians on both sides are determined to get a result. Quite far-reaching and controversial proposals apparently. But, the official line is strictly no comment and no knowledge of any such talks. I imagine the Defence Advisory Committee and any Irish equivalent have got their hands full keeping it out of the media.’ He held Harrison in a steady gaze. ‘So you can see that PIRA thinks it’s got nothing to lose. My guess is that’s why they’ve let AIDAN — whoever or whatever that is — loose on the mainland. To bomb its way to the conference table. So, can I confirm you’ll be giving London a hand?’

London in summer. The warm dusty streets, the leafy parks, the pubs, restaurants and theatres^ pavement cafes — what humble squaddie in his cramped billet wouldn’t willingly give up a month’s pay for such a comfortable posting?

Was he really the only soldier in Belfast who would prefer to stay where he was? But, despite his misgivings, he knew he couldn’t let CATO down. ‘If that’s what you want, Colonel, of course I’ll go.’

He read the relief in the colonel’s gentle smile; although he had the authority to order such things, he was a man who liked to rule by consent. ‘I thought I’d pull in Meredith from the mainland to replace you. Meanwhile, of course, you’ll be walking on eggshells. You’ll need to be the model of diplomacy not to upset Al Pritchard’s wounded pride.’

‘I know Al well — we used to work together some years back when he was still with us. I think I can handle it.’

‘Not the easiest of men to get on with.’

Harrison thought for a moment. ‘I was wondering if I’d be able to get over. At least it’ll give me a chance to visit Jock’s wife and pay my respects.’

‘Jock was best man at your wedding, wasn’t he?’

‘We were good friends.’

CATO nodded sympathetically. ‘Then I expect Pippa must be pretty upset too.’

The sudden use of his wife’s name had a profound effect. It hadn’t even occurred to him to telephone her and break the sad news. Hadn’t occurred to him? Did he really mean that? Or was it the sure knowledge that he’d just be handing her a stick to beat him with? Although Pippa came from an army family herself, she’d always hated the Work he did in bomb disposal. Pippa had never been able to accept it any more than he could bring himself to think of any other life. Perhaps it had been more convenient to drown his own personal sorrow in the mess last night before the Europa bomb. After all, it wouldn’t have taken much to have picked up the telephone.

He realised too late that he’d allowed his concentration to lapse and that CATO was watching him carefully, waiting for the reply. Harrison tried to sound casual. ‘Yes, I’m sure she’ll be shocked. We’ve both known Jock a long time.’

‘You haven’t spoken to her yet?’ Mild surprise registered in his tone. The colonel took a particularly keen interest in the social wellbeing of his men and their families on the basis that a happy ship was an efficient ship, with no unnecessary mental distractions from the dangerous job they did. Usually Harrison welcomed Top Cat’s concern, but not at the moment. Not until he’d sorted out things in his own way.

‘She was away on business when I called yesterday,’ he lied.

CATO nodded in his usual understanding way. The way he did when he didn’t believe a word of what he was being told. ‘Still doing well is she? What’s her father’s business? Publishing?’

‘Public relations,’ Harrison corrected. ‘And she’s enjoying it, keeping busy anyway.’

‘So still no chance she might come and join you over here?’

Harrison had to laugh at that. ‘She feels she’s had to wait long enough since Archie was born to resume her career. She hated life over here behind the wire and I can’t say I blame her for that.’

‘So you’re both happy with the arrangement?’

‘That’s the bonus with not seeing much of each other, we have some great reunions!’ Harrison laughed as he said it, but even to his own ears the words had a hollow ring to them. And he was sure the point wasn’t lost on CATO.

But then they were interrupted by the commander’s aide, informing him that the party of Members of Parliament from London had arrived for a briefing by him.

As the door closed he raised his eyebrows in an expression of absolute despair. ‘That’s the trouble with this job, Tom. Seem to spend all my time wet-nursing politicians and journalists.’

Harrison sympathised. He said: ‘I think I’d prefer to defuse a bomb any day.’ But he wasn’t sure he really meant it.

CATO stood up. ‘By all accounts the politicians are getting pretty anxious in London. Meredith will be over here on Wednesday morning so, allowing for a handover session, you could take the shuttle out that evening and report to Al Pritchard on Thursday. In fact, you’ll probably see him at Jock Murray’s funeral in the morning.’

Funeral. That single word was so cold and final. Clods of earth clumping onto a coffin roof. Dead and buried. Gone for ever, but not forgotten. Memories of laughter shared in the mess, Jock’s wicked sense of humour, their celebration in Cyprus when he heard that Brenda had given birth to their first.

Harrison felt the emotion rising in his chest, the choking claw at his throat. CATO may have sensed it, for he indicated for his 2IC to leave with an understanding smile.

He was outside the door before the moisture came to his eyes and dampened the skin of his cheeks. Roughly he rubbed it aside with the back of his hand.

Jock, you old bastard, stop taking the piss.