Gun Street Girl (29 page)

“You wanna go to the flicks tonight?”

“You finally caught me on a slow day! What'll we see?”

“How about
When Father Was Away on Business
at the QFT?”

“What's that about?”

“It's about a kid growing up in Yugoslavia after the war.”

“Yikes! What about
Out of Africa
? It's an early screener. Tickets are going round the office; they're like Gold dust.”

“Sure. Yeah. Heard good things. Read the book. She's an interesting character. Starved herself to death. Like Bobby Sands.”

“What? I don't think it's about that. It's about Africa. Robert Redford's in it.”

“I'll pick you up at six.”

I shaved, showered, dressed in a suit, checked under the Beemer, and drove to the office. I sat in my office, typed a report on our Ayr adventure, emphasizing the “excellent inter-force cooperation with the Strathclyde Police.”

After lunch I got back in the Beemer and drove to the Shorts factory in East Belfast.

I flashed the warrant card and got passed through a couple of low-level flunkies before a very senior manager agreed to see me. I could tell he was a very senior manager because he was from Ballymena and he was wearing a wig. No junior manager could have survived both of those handicaps.

We shook hands and sat in an empty conference room overlooking the Harbor Airport.

“So you're here about the missiles? Are you with Special Branch?” Mr. Williams asked me.

I explained where I was from and my interest in the case.

“Has there been any progress in finding out what exactly happened?” I asked.

“I'm afraid not. We still don't know who stole them.”

“But you know that they were stolen? That's a development, surely?” I said.

“We've known that all along. The inventory thing was a cover story the government made us put out for national security reasons.”

I was surprised. “Do Special Branch know that?”

“Oh yes.”

“They never told us! They were always humming and hawing about it.”

“I assume it was on a need-to-know basis only.”

I flipped open my notebook. “So what exactly got nicked?”

“Six Javelin Mark 1 missile systems.”

“What's a missile
system
?”

“The missile and the launching mechanism and the radar control.”

“Bulky?”

“In its original box, yes. But it could be broken down.”

“Do a lot of damage with six Javelin missiles?”

“Yes. But the tech is even more valuable.”

“How so?”

“If you got access to the technology you could reverse-engineer it. And with six different rockets to play with you really could get to the guts of the system pretty quickly.”

“Who'd want to do a thing like that?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. The South Africans? The Russians? The Iranians?”

“Would the Americans be involved by any chance?” I asked.

“The Americans? Irish Americans? Terrorists, you mean? IRA?”

“No. The government.”

“Oh no, I don't think so. The Americans have their own missile systems that are as good as the Javelin, superior in many ways. There are no intellectual property or proprietary patents that they'd be interested in that I can see.”

“Special Branch seem to be focusing their attention on Nigel Vardon and Tommy Moony.”

“That's who I'd look at.”

“Why?”

“Nigel was the manager in charge of security and Moony runs the Transport Union. Nothing moves in here without Moony's say-so.”

“Nigel got the sack but Moony's still in his job.”

“We can't sack Moony. The whole plant would come out on strike. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“He's paramilitary, isn't he?”

“So they say. Have you heard of a man called John Connolly?”

“No. The name doesn't ring a bell.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Could terrorists in Northern Ireland use these missiles?”

“I'm sure they could. But that would mean a transaction between the Loyalists and the IRA.”

“Because it was an inside job?”

“Exactly! The missiles were almost certainly stolen by workers in this factory who, I'm sorry to say, are overwhelmingly from East Belfast and therefore . . .”

“Overwhelmingly Protestant and if thus connected to a terrorist group it would have to be a Loyalist one.”

“Indeed.”

“Ever seen this guy?” I asked, and handed him the artist's impression.

“No, and I wouldn't want to.”

“Thank you, Mr. Williams, you've been very helpful. You don't need to tell Special Branch that we had this little chat. They're ridiculously overprotective about their turf.”

I drove back to Belfast and called in at the American consulate. I showed my warrant card and asked whether I could possibly see a Mr. John Connolly.

An extremely pretty red-headed secretary told me to wait.

She made a phone call, smiled, wrote something on a pad and hung up.

“I'm afraid Mr. Connolly is unavailable today,” she said in a pleasant Southern accent.

“Unavailable today? So he's still in Belfast, then?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know when he might be available?” I asked.

“No. Can I take a message?”

“No message, thank you. You've been very helpful. Love your accent. Where in the States are you from?”

“Little Rock.”

On principle I like to be as chatty to secretaries and assistants as I can possibly be, but the only thing that came to mind when she said Little Rock was an image of some fat redneck sheriff beating some black kids, so I said nothing, exited the consulate, and took the short walk to the
Telegraph
offices.

I was puzzled.

John Connolly was still “in country.” He hadn't flown the coop. He was still here. We'd clearly blown him, which meant that he was either sloppy or desperate . . .

Sara was pleased to see me.

“You're a man,” she said.

“I am,” I agreed.

“Can I ask you one of the survey questions for the women's page? It'll only take a minute.”

“OK, fire away.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

“Boxers or briefs?”

“Marks and Spencer whips.”

“I'll write briefs. Panties or knickers?”

“What's the difference?”

“There is no difference. It's about the word. Which word sounds sexier?”

“Knickers sounds like something you'd wear in a 1950s' Carry On film.”

The survey continued in similar vein.

We went out to dinner at an adequate Italian place. We saw
Out of Africa
. It was nothing like the book but Sara loved it. Crying at the end and I knew I was well in. I drove her back to Coronation Road.

Gin and tonics and in tribute to Philip Larkin: Bix Beiderbecke.

“That was so sad,” she said.

“Wasn't it, though?”

“It was so sad when he died. She'll never find love. That was her one true love, wasn't it?”

“Redford?”

“Yes.”

“In real life he was English.”

“And did she have VD in real life?”

“Syphilis. Funny that he didn't even try to do an English accent. Probably couldn't do it. Knew Streep would act him off the screen.”

Sara paused in mid-drink and looked at me. “You're always nit-picking. Have you ever noticed that?”

Dodgy situation this. Agree with her. “Yeah, you're right. It's not important.”

“You didn't even like it, did you?”

“No. It was good. Beautifully shot and the music was great and she was terrific, and the guy who was the villain in that Bond film was pretty good.”

Sara had put her glass on the coffee table.

She wiped the tears from her face.

“Tell the truth. Did you even like it?”

“Yes.”

“You're lying to me.”

“What's the big deal? It's
Out of
fucking
Africa
.”

“You didn't like it.”

“It was fine.”

“Can you take me home, please?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I'd like to go home. Will you take me or shall I walk?”

“Wait here while I go and check under the car for bombs.”

“Very dramatic.”

“Very necessary.”

“I'm sure.”

I went outside, checked under the Beemer.

“OK,” I said.

I drove her home. We didn't speak. Outside her house I tried to make up. “Look, Sara, I'm really sorry if I—”

“Oh, Sean,” she said. “It's not really . . . This isn't about . . . My life is just so complicated right now.”

She gave me a kiss on the cheek and got out of the car.

“Do you want me to walk you to your door?” I asked.

“No. Thank you . . . Bye.”

“Bye.”

I drove down to the castle car park and rolled a joint. I walked to the radar station at the end of the harbor pier to smoke in peace.

There were no stars. Or wind. Light snow was falling into the calm black sea à la Basho.

The joint was too loosely rolled and kept going out. I finally tossed it.

I walked back to the car along the steep-sided harbor wall.

When I got home Bix Beiderbecke was still playing. Poor sod. Died at twenty-eight of overwork and the booze. Jazz's “number 1 saint,” Benny Green sarcastically called him. He was good, though, you couldn't deny that. Good on horn and piano.

I played “Davenport Blues” three times in a row. Tommy Dorsey on trombone, Don Murray on clarinet.

Sublime. Fucking sublime. And there was no one else on this street, or in this town, or in this fucking country to share it with.

“Fuck it,” I said, took the record off and went to bed.

23: STASIS

Case conference. No dice with forensics. No dice with eyewitnesses. No dice with tips from the Confidential Telephone or on our artist's-impression pic or anything else relating to the case.

This was how all murder cases in Ulster died. No one knew anything. No one would tell you anything. And if forensics couldn't deliver a hat trick then the only way to bring in your suspect was to fit him up or beat him up.

But those were the old ways of the RUC. The seventies ways. This was the mid-1980s. This was the brave new world.

Crabbie was stumped. I was stumped. Even bright young Lawson was stumped. We asked Glasgow CID to show Deirdre Ferris pictures of Nigel Vardon, Alan Osbourne, John Connolly, and Tommy Moony again, but she still insisted that she couldn't tell whether any of them was the man she
claimed
to have seen outside her house the night Sylvie was
allegedly
murdered.

I called Inspector Spencer at Special Branch, asked about the latest updates. Fanny Adams on the missiles, Shorts still conducting an internal review, SB pursuing every lead but no one was talking and the lines were cold.

No leads forthcoming there. No leads forthcoming anywhere.

The three of us sat in the CID incident room looking at one another.

“Either of you think of anything to do?”

Lawson shrugged.

“There's good money to be made if we volunteer for riot duty,” Crabbie said.

He was right. The Prods were rioting every night and the cops were getting stretched very thin. It wasn't just about the Anglo-Irish Agreement now. It was about the future. The Prods could read the demography. The Prods could see the writing on the wall. In November 1985 it was a benign, toothless document called the Anglo-Irish Agreement, but if population trends continued the Prods would become a minority in the six counties and the whole
raison d'être
for Northern Ireland would cease to exist. Northern Ireland was becoming Algeria, and everyone was worried that Mrs. Thatcher was becoming De Gaulle.

But riot duty? Not for me. I didn't need the money or the aggravation.

Case conference over. Back to my office. Whiskey in the coffee, staring at the lough. Black, sleekit, greasy water; grubby, little boats. The world was mean and damp. The music was Peggy Lee's
Greatest Hits
. Leiber and Stoller's existential classic “Is That All There Is?” on a loop.

Revolver sitting on desk. Well oiled. Six .38 slugs. Was it ennui that killed all those RUC men who blew their brains out every year? As Peggy Lee warned in the song, death was sure to be just another in a series of great disappointments.

Knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The Crabman. “What if we brought Nigel Vardon in for a formal interview, here at the station. We haven't done that yet.”

“We'll have to clear it with Special Branch.”

“Aye.”

I nodded. “All right, let's go get the arson-surviving, missile-stealing, long-haired fuck.”

Interview room 2.

Crabbie and me and the missile-stealing, long-haired fuck. Lawson and DI Spencer observing through the glass. A notebook, a wee jug of water, the tape recorder running precisely as required by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act (Northern Ireland Order).

“Mr. Vardon, where were you on the night of November 11, 1985?”

“I was at home watching TV.”

“Where were you on the evening of November 12, 1985?”

“Home watching TV.”

“Where were you on the night of November 19, 1985?”

“Ditto.”

“Who do you think burned your house down, Mr. Vardon?”

“I don't know.”

“Who do you think killed your dogs?”

“I don't know.”

“Who killed Michael Kelly?”

“I heard he topped himself.”

“Why have you been calling the US consulate?”

“I got the wrong number. I was trying to call my solicitor.”