Dead Men (33 page)

‘How long have I known you, darling?’ said Ellis. She raised her glass.

‘Too long,’ laughed Button. They clinked.

‘Are you happy at SOCA?’

‘Funnily enough, I am. They’re not as cerebral as Five, that’s for sure, but they get the job done.’

‘You won’t be there for ever, you know. You’re far too valuable to be playing cops and robbers.’

Button sipped her wine. ‘Nice to know I’m wanted.’

‘You are, very much so. At some point I’m moving up, and when that happens there’ll be a slot at the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre.’

‘I’ve only just got my feet under the table at SOCA.’

‘It’s a stepping-stone, Charlie. Don’t think of it as anything other than that.’

Button picked up the menu. ‘So, are we eating?’

Shepherd sipped his coffee as he looked out of the sitting-room window. His mobile rang. It was Button. ‘Good morning, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Are you in Belfast?’

‘I’m at home, actually,’ she said. ‘I’ve a couple of meetings and will probably be back in Belfast tonight.’

A black Vauxhall Vectra crawled up the hill towards Shepherd’s house.

‘But don’t worry, Amar’s listening in,’ said Button.

‘I feel like I’m in the
Big Brother
house,’ said Shepherd, ‘but without the chance of eviction.’ Two big men were in the car, peering at the house numbers. There were no markings on the vehicle but it was obviously police. Less than a year old, with a radio aerial on the back, no dealer stickers. Official transport. Shepherd realised it was the car he’d seen when he’d been in Elaine’s house, searching the attic.

‘The reason I’m calling is that someone’s just run a check on Jamie Pierce. Have you come across a Superintendent John Maplethorpe?’

‘He’s a friend of Elaine’s,’ said Shepherd, ‘Robbie’s best man at their wedding.’

‘Well, he ran a check on you through the Police National Computer.’

‘Probably just looking out for Elaine,’ said Shepherd. The car stopped outside her house and the two men climbed out. ‘She’s got visitors,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll call you back.’

He cut the connection and moved to the side of the window so that the two men couldn’t see him from the road. They walked towards the front door, their eyes watchful. They were well over six feet, one a little taller than the other, in their mid-forties and slightly overweight. They pressed the bell. Shepherd picked up the financial brochures Elaine had given him and hurried outside. As he went across the garden, she opened her front door and began to talk to the men.

‘Hi, Elaine, is everything okay?’ Shepherd asked.

‘Hi, Jamie. They’re police. At least, they say they are.’

‘Who are you?’ said the taller man. He had a strong Scottish accent.

‘I’m a neighbour,’ said Shepherd, and indicated his house.

‘We’d like to talk to Mrs Carter, if that’s okay with you,’ said the second. He was broad-shouldered with a hairline that had receded more than half-way across his skull. He also spoke with a Scottish accent, probably Glaswegian.

Shepherd looked at Elaine. ‘I can stay if you want,’ he said.

Elaine nodded. ‘Please.’

‘We don’t need an audience,’ said the second man, more aggressively this time.

‘Can I see your warrant cards, please?’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’

‘Your warrant cards. I want to see them.’

‘Are you a lawyer?’

‘No, I’m not a lawyer. But you two are claiming to be police officers and you sound Scottish to me. This is Belfast so it’s a fair enough request to ask you to identify yourselves.’

The two men looked at each other and the taller one nodded. They pulled out small black wallets and flipped them open. Shepherd peered at the two warrant cards. The taller man was Colin Staniford, a detective inspector. His companion was Sergeant Stevie Ferguson. Both warrant cards had been issued by the Strathclyde Police.

‘You see, we’ve got a problem right there,’ said Shepherd, pointing at the cards. ‘You don’t have jurisdiction here.’

‘You sure you’re not a lawyer?’ said Staniford.

‘I’m a website designer,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that you two are from Strathclyde. And this is Northern Ireland.’

‘We’re on secondment to the Police Service of Northern Ireland,’ said Staniford.

‘Do you have something to back that up?’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’

Shepherd gestured at the warrant card in Staniford’s hand. ‘That just says you’re a police officer. It doesn’t say you have the right to be in here asking questions.’

‘And you are?’ asked Staniford.

‘Pierce,’ said Shepherd. ‘Jamie Pierce.’

‘And you live next door?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s your date of birth, Mr Pierce?’

‘Are you planning to send me a birthday card?’

‘I’d just like to know your date of birth.’

‘That’s none of your business,’ he said.

‘You won’t tell me your date of birth?’

‘I won’t help you run a check on me, that’s for sure.’

Staniford nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. He pulled a wallet from his trouser pocket and handed Shepherd a business card. It bore his name and rank, the crest of the Police Service of Northern Ireland and the address of the Historical Enquiries Team in Lisburn, County Antrim.

‘I haven’t heard of the Historical Enquiries Team,’ said Shepherd.

‘We’re tasked with investigating deaths that occurred during the Troubles,’ said Staniford.

Shepherd held up the card. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Staniford. He looked at Elaine. ‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions now, Mrs Carter?’

‘Please, come in,’ she said. They followed her down the hall to the sitting room. Shepherd closed the door and went after them. Ferguson took off his overcoat, draped it over the arm of the sofa and sat down, Staniford next to him. The sergeant fished a notebook out of his overcoat pocket and rested it on his knee. Shepherd positioned himself in an armchair at an angle to the men. ‘Can I get you tea or coffee?’ asked Elaine. She stood by the fireplace, her arms crossed defensively. The picture of her with Robbie and Timmy was at her left shoulder. Shepherd wondered if she’d consciously chosen to stand next to it or if it was coincidence.

‘We’re fine,’ said Staniford. ‘Please, Mrs Carter, sit down. We’re just here for a chat.’

Elaine went to the chair where Shepherd was sitting and perched on the arm. ‘How can I help you?’ she said.

‘Did your husband have any diaries, Mrs Carter?’ asked Staniford.

Elaine’s brow furrowed. ‘Any what?’

‘Diaries. Work diaries. Or notebooks. We’re trying to pin down his movements during the five years before he died.’

‘Are you here about Robbie’s murder?’

Shepherd realised she hadn’t answered the detective’s question. She must know about the diaries in the trunk in the attic, which meant that she was deliberately evading it.

‘It’s the years prior to his death that we’re interested in, actually,’ said Staniford.

‘Why?’ asked Elaine.

‘Just part of our enquiries,’ said Staniford.

‘But Robbie’s death has been resolved,’ said Elaine. ‘The men were found guilty and sentenced. We know who did it. Why would you reopen the investigation?’

‘It’s part of an ongoing investigation, Mrs Carter,’ said Ferguson.

‘Investigation into what?’ asked Elaine.

‘I’m not at liberty to reveal that,’ said Ferguson.

‘You’re here to rubbish Robbie, aren’t you? You’re trying to prove that he did something wrong.’

‘Please calm down, Mrs Carter,’ said Staniford.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ snapped Elaine. ‘I don’t know you but I knew Robbie and what sort of cop he was. What do you think he did?’

‘We’re not saying he did anything,’ said Staniford. He glanced at Ferguson.

‘It’s an ongoing investigation, Mrs Carter, that’s all we can tell you,’ said Ferguson.

‘It sounds to me as if you’re investigating her husband, not his murder,’ said Shepherd.

Staniford put up a hand to silence him. ‘Mr Pierce, I’m okay with you being here, but I’m not prepared to have you impede our investigation.’

‘I’m not impeding anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you’re here in connection with Robbie Carter’s murder, that’s all well and good. But if you’ve another agenda, it might be that Mrs Carter needs her solicitor present during questioning.’

‘The more you talk, the more you sound like a lawyer, Mr Pierce,’ said Ferguson, clearly annoyed.

‘I’m just someone who knows his rights,’ said Shepherd. ‘Presumably you have Mr Carter’s work diaries.’

‘They’re missing,’ said Ferguson. ‘In fact, there’s a lot of paperwork gone missing from Special Branch. And several of the men who worked with Robbie Carter seem to have developed either amnesia or early Alzheimer’s.’

‘Have you spoken to John Maplethorpe?’ asked Elaine. ‘He was Robbie’s boss. He’s a superintendent now.’

‘I can’t reveal details of our investigation, I’m afraid,’ said Ferguson.

‘John can speak for Robbie,’ said Elaine. ‘They were tight. John was a rock after Robbie was killed.’

‘Again, who I am or am not talking to is not something I can discuss with you,’ said Ferguson.

‘Get them out of my house, Jamie,’ said Elaine. She lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

‘What specifically is it you want from Mrs Carter?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I already said. Any diaries or notebooks Inspector Carter brought home, especially during the late eighties. Or any office paperwork.’

‘Do you have anything like that?’ Shepherd asked her. She shook her head. Shepherd looked back at the two detectives. ‘That’s that, then. Unless you’ve anything else you want to ask.’

‘That about covers it for the moment,’ said Ferguson, his eyes boring into Shepherd’s.

Staniford pulled out his wallet and offered a business card to Elaine. ‘Just on the off-chance, Mrs Carter, if you do find anything, please give us a call.’

‘Stuff your card where the sun doesn’t shine,’ she spat.

Ferguson picked up his overcoat. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Carter.’ He nodded at Shepherd. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again some time, Mr Pierce.’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Shepherd.

Shepherd led the two detectives into the hallway and let them out. When he came back into the room Elaine offered him a cigarette. ‘Bastards,’ she said.

‘They’re just doing their job,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you’ve got to stand up to them or they’ll walk right over you.’

‘You sound like you know cops.’ She blew smoke at the ceiling.

‘I watch a lot of cop shows,’ he said, ‘but you were married to one, so you must understand where they’re coming from, right?’

She grimaced. ‘Those two aren’t concerned with policing,’ she said bitterly. ‘They’re political. They’re here to rubbish the work the RUC did during the years when they were all that stood between us and anarchy. Do you know how many members of the RUC were killed during the Troubles? Well, I do, Jamie. Three hundred and three. An average of one murder a month throughout the Troubles.’ She jerked a thumb at the door. ‘You think they know that? You think they care?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’ She gestured with her cigarette. ‘But them, they’re outsiders brought in by the British Government to shit on the work Robbie and the rest gave their lives for. They even changed the name of the force, Jamie. What the hell was wrong with “Royal Ulster Constabulary”? It was a name to be proud of, a name with a history that meant something. What is it now? The Police Service of Northern Ireland,’ she sneered, and took another drag on her cigarette. ‘Those bastards are here to prove that the RUC were the villains. Forget about the thousands the IRA murdered, forget about the bombings, the shootings and kneecappings. The IRA are the heroes because they put down their guns. And if they’re the heroes there have to be villains, and who do you think’s being lined up to play that role?’

She sagged on to the sofa, tears trickling down her cheeks.

‘I guess it’s part of the Peace Process,’ said Shepherd.

She shook her head vehemently. ‘It’s got fuck all to do with peace,’ she said. ‘I want peace, of course I do. We all do. No one wanted the killing except the psychopaths in the paramilitaries. But the way to do it was to draw a line and say, “We move on from there.” But that’s not what happened, Jamie. John Major and then Tony Blair just caved in and gave the IRA everything they wanted. The British want rid of Northern Ireland, and everything they’re doing is a step in that direction. Small steps, maybe, but the end result is that we’re slowly but surely being sold down the line. They open the prisons and release the murders and bombmakers. They castrate the RUC. McGuinness and Adams are invited around for tea at Number Ten.’ She stabbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘And what do I get? They want to dig up Robbie and piss on his corpse.’

She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. Shepherd sat next to her and put his arm round her. She rested her head on his shoulder. Shepherd knew that her tears weren’t for the political situation, but for her husband. It was Robbie she missed. He kissed the top of her head, and smelt her hair, hating himself for using her grief to get close to her but knowing that was exactly what he had to do. ‘It’s all right, love,’ he said softly.

‘It’s not fair,’ she sobbed.

‘I know,’ he said.

‘They killed him, Jamie. They shot him dead in front of me and there was nothing I could do.’

She shuddered, and Shepherd held her close, smoothing her hair with his right hand. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

She turned her face up to him, glistening with tears. ‘Jamie . . .’

Shepherd didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could tell her that would ease her pain.