Gun Street Girl (24 page)

I was seething at the pair of them. Bursting in here, screaming at us, saying the word “Fenian,” poking me . . . and doing all this in front of Lawson. Who did they think they were?

I pushed Billy violently backward. He tripped over himself and went down on to the incident room floor. “Touch me again and I'll put you in the fucking hospital,” I snarled.

I turned my attention to McCreen.

“And you. Call me a Fenian again. I fucking dare you. I fucking dare you!”

McCreen saw that I was right on the verge of knocking seven bells out of him. He took a step away from me.

Crabbie put his hand on my shoulder.

“Easy, Sean, easy does it.”

“Tell them to take it fucking easy.”

“I think an apology is in order, gents,” McCrabban rumbled.

McCreen nodded and attempted a smile. “No offense meant, I'm sure,” he said.

He offered me his hand.

I looked at Crabbie.
Come on, Sean
, his eyes were pleading.

I breathed out, nodded at him, took the proffered hand.

“Why don't we discuss this at the pub? Was that a pub next door I saw? Special Branch will be buying,” McCreen said.

“Pub. Yeah. OK,” I agreed.

McCrabban pulled Spencer off the floor. “No hard feelings,” he said.

Half an hour and a couple of pints later things were better. We weren't exactly all pals now, but if I carried a vendetta against every bastard who had called me a Fenian in Northern Ireland there would be a lot of gits out there who were looking a hiding . . .

McCreen and Spencer explained the whole missile situation to us.

Short Brothers were the last engineering film left in Belfast, which had once been the greatest shipbuilding and heavy engineering city in the British Empire. The Troubles and a lack of government support had put paid to the shipbuilding, but Shorts had managed to survive various crises by building nippy little cargo planes and diversifying into missile manufacture.

Shorts was now virtually the only employer left in East Belfast, and although they were subsidized by the British government, they were so good at what they did they very nearly turned a profit, something of a minor miracle in the Northern Ireland of 1985.

“All the current problems occurred in the Missile Division. Half a dozen completed Blowpipe replacement missile systems—known as the Javelin Mark 1—had disappeared from the factory's inventory,” McCreen said.

“But not necessarily stolen?”

“Shorts aren't sure whether it's an inventory failure and the missiles have in fact been legitimately shipped out to various customers, or whether the missiles are in a different part of the factory complex, or whether the missile systems have in fact been stolen.”

“Quite the world-class cock up. Heads had to roll, I suppose?”

“One of the first to go was Nigel Vardon, who had been the manager in charge of site security. I think the head of inventory also got sacked, and the vice-president of the Missile Division has been put on unpaid leave.”

“And they called in you guys.”

“Not just us. Internal inquiry and an MoD Procurement Office inquiry,” McCreen said.

He was a lot calmer than I'd be if I thought that the IRA might just have got its greedy paws on a half-dozen anti-tank or anti-aircraft missiles. Police and army Land Rovers got hit by petrol bombs all the time without much effect, but rocket-propelled grenades could do serious damage, and a Javelin missile? That would just about kill everyone inside, wouldn't it?

I said as much to him over another pint of Guinness and a double whiskey chaser.

“Well, if they have, in fact, been stolen, they've been stolen by Loyalist paramilitaries. Shorts is in hard-core Loyalist territory in East Belfast,” Spencer said.

“And the Loyalists won't sell them to the IRA?”

“No chance. If the IRA took down an army helicopter with a missile they got from the Loyalists there would be holy hell to pay. A bloody internal Loyalist feud to say the least. And the Loyalists can't use them against a Republican target cos even they know it would be disproportionate force and would set off a war with the IRA. Despite all the killings there's an uneasy truce between the IRA and the Loyalist paramilitaries. As you probably know only too well, Inspector, Belfast is divided up between IRA and Loyalist zones of control for the dis­tribution of drugs and for so-called protection rackets,” McCreen said.

“So what can they do with the missiles?” McCrabban asked. “Sounds like it's a bloody stupid thing to steal. High risk. Low reward.”

Spencer finished his whiskey and asked the barman to bring us another round. Lawson was looking green so I put him on shandy Bass.

Spencer lowered his voice to a gravelly burr. “See, just between us, we've got some intelligence that international buyers have been looking to get their hands on Javelin missile technology.”

“What international buyers?”

“Well, it's only speculation but as you may be aware the South African government is in the midst of a struggle against Cuban forces in Angola . . .”

“Cubans? Angola? What?”

“The details aren't important. The upshot is that the South African government may be looking to acquire foreign weapons systems so that they can reverse-engineer them. We've also heard rumors about the Iranians and the Libyans too,” Spencer said. “If indeed the missiles really did get nicked and this whole thing isn't the usual Northern Ireland bullshit.”

“Who was that bloke Vardon was blaming? Moony?”

“Tommy Moony? He mentioned him?” Spencer asked, becoming a little more interested.

“He said that everyone blamed him and was questioning him but nobody was blaming Tommy Moony. Tommy Moony didn't get the sack.”

Spencer looked at McCreen. McCreen shrugged so Spencer continued.

“Moony's definitely one of our suspects. He's a player, or at least he was in the seventies. Ulster Freedom Fighters, we think. Rare birds, whole family immigrated here from Birmingham in the sixties to work in the yards. But they certainly bought into the local culture. His brother, Davy, is doing twenty to life for murder. His uncle, Jack Moony, is a UFF commander in South Belfast. Tommy's never been so much as arrested for anything but got a rep as a killer in the late seventies. An iceman, the guy you went to for big hits, not random sectarian bullshit.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said. “Michael Kelly's parents were probably murdered by a pro.”

“He's retired from all that now, though, it seems. He's a shop steward at Shorts. Big guy in the Shorts Transport Workers' Union. That's enough power for anyone. In theory nothing goes in and out of the Shorts factory without either him or his men knowing about it.”

“So why didn't he get fired in the internal review?” Crabbie asked.

“You fire Moony and the whole plant goes out on strike. Production stops, orders are missed, Shorts loses millions of pounds a week and pretty soon Thatcher says fuck the lot of them—like she did to the miners—withdraws the government contracts and the place goes out of business,” Spencer said, sipping his beer and beginning to look as green as Lawson—
bit of a lightweight, this one
, I thought, filing away the info for later use.

“Six thousand men out of work, just like that!” McCreen added, and clicked his fingers. “Belfast's last major employer gone forever.”

“So you see, Inspector, they can sack our boy Vardon, but no one's going to fuck with the Transport Workers' Union or the UFF or Tommy Moony,” Spencer said.

“It sounds like Moony could be the one who pulled all this off,” I thought out loud. “Management guys aren't going to be hauling missiles out of boxes and shipping them through the gate. That's hands-on stuff. You'll need the blue-collar workers for that.”

“Don't worry, Inspector, we're on top of this. We've got our eye on the key players. If either Moony or Vardon is involved in any of this, we'll find out, eventually,” McCreen said.

“We wouldn't be doing our due diligence on the Michael Kelly murders if we didn't at least interview this Moony character, if only to eliminate Vardon and him from our inquiry. If that's OK?” I said. I gave him a friendly smile and not only got another round in but four packets of Tayto cheese and onion crisps.

When I got back with the drinks and the crisps, McCreen nodded. “I'll let you do that, Duffy, but we'll have to go with you. This is a Special Branch case.”

“That's OK with me. Crabbie?” I asked, remembering that technically he was still lead detective.

“Fine with me, Sean.”

“When do you want to go?” McCreen asked.

“No time like the present.”

“Fuck it, aye, let's go!” McCreen said.

We signed out a Land Rover and drove to the massive, sprawling Short Brothers plant over the river in East Belfast.

In through the factory gates, past an impressive display of parked aircraft including an enormous WW2-era Shorts Sunderland flying boat.

McCreen drove us straight to the Transport Union headquarters, which was a green Portakabin next to one of the aircraft hangars. McCreen and Spencer led us past a secretary straight into Moony's cramped little office. They entered without knocking or being announced, which, I supposed, was how you did things in Special Branch, but something you couldn't get away with in the regular RUC.

Moony was behind a desk stacked with paperwork and books. The office had one little dirty window that barely let in any light, and on the plywood Portakabin walls there was a Short Brothers calendar, a Harland and Wolff calendar, and a big red Union flag.

Moony was on the phone when we came in. He had a Brummie accent that had been softened a little by Ulster.

“Hard hats are compulsory everywhere on the worksite, if they ask you to take them off that is a breach of . . . oh shit, it's the fuzz.”

He slammed down the phone and stood up. He was a tall, skinny, lupine character with a shaved head and deep-set, brown eyes. He was wearing a grey boilersuit that accentuated his leanness. He had big, hairy hands with a fading UFF tattoo on three fingers of his right hand. He had indeed been a player at some point . . .

Both Moony and Vardon looked a little bit like Deirdre's artists-impression pic but only a little. Moony was older than the man in the pic and Nigel had softer features.

He stared at McCrabban, Lawson, and myself, and then at McCreen and Spencer.

“This is harassment. That's what this is. Police harassment. You were warned, Inspector McCreen. You'll be hearing from my solicitor this afternoon!” he said.

“This isn't harassment. I'm not here to ask you any questions, Tommy. I was just showing Inspector Duffy where your office is. He's conducting an entirely separate investigation. A murder inquiry. I won't be asking you anything today. So you can tell that to your solicitor,” McCreen said.

“I will, don't worry,” Moony said, and turned his attention to me. “Now what do you want?”

“I'm Inspector Sean Duffy from Carrick RUC. We're conducting a murder investigation into the deaths of Michael Kelly, his parents, and his girlfriend Sylvie McNichol.”

He nodded. “I read about that. Some bloke kills his mum and dad and jumps off a cliff . . . Don't know the woman. Never heard of her,” Moony said.

I explained the circumstances surrounding Sylvie's death.

Moony nodded impatiently. “Any road, all very interesting, I'm sure, but what's this got to do with me?”

“Did you ever meet Michael Kelly?” I asked.

“No.”

“Did you ever meet Sylvie McNichol or Michael's parents?”

“I doubt it. Never been to Whitehead in my life and I've been saved by the Lord Jesus Christ, so I wouldn't go into any of those Kelly's Bookie Shops either.”

“But you do know Nigel Vardon.”

“Of course.”

“What was your relationship to him?”

“He was a manager here but they got rid of him after the whole missing missile bollocks. What's he got to do with anything?”

“Nigel was one of Michael's good friends. We think Michael was becoming a bit of a mover and shaker in the arms dealing business,” I explained.

Moony nodded. “Oh, I get it. Vardon steals the missiles, Michael is the conduit for some sort of international arms deal. It goes wrong and Vardon kills Michael. Is that it?”

“Well, that's one possibility,” I admitted.

“Have you met that Vardon guy? That plonker's not killing anyone. Why do you think he has them dogs? He's frightened of his own shadow. Him a killer? No chance.”

“How do you know about his dogs?” I asked.

“Pictures of them in his office.”

“So you
were
in his office, then.”

“Of course I was. And he was in mine. That's how a factory works. Ever had a real job, Inspector?” Moony said, rolling his eyes. “And besides, your whole theory rests on the fact that somebody did indeed steal a bunch of missiles from under our noses, which I can assure you, Inspector Duffy, they did not.”

“How do you know? If the inventory is as messed up as everyone says—”

“As I have very patiently been trying to explain to Chief Inspector McCreen here, nothing goes in or out of this plant without me or the union knowing about it. I don't care what the inventory says or doesn't say; if none of our boys moved it, it didn't leave here. And none of our boys moved any missile systems out of here without a work order. If there's one thing I school into my men it's never do anything without a work order. If you're injured on the job, we go straight to the work order to see who the foreman was, who the manager was, how many men were supposed to be on the job, who the safety inspector was . . . But if they do a job without a work order it's chaos. No, no, no. No work order, no job. And there was no work order for those missiles. Ergo, Inspector, they're still here. Somewhere.”