Gun Street Girl (30 page)

“Do you know a man called John Connolly?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Did Michael Kelly know John Connolly?”

“No idea.”

“The number you called at the US consulate was the number for the guest house where Mr. Connolly is staying.”

“Like I said, that was a wrong number.”

Two hours of this. The guy was jumpy, upper lip sweat, dilated pupils. Aye, the guy was a user too. Big time. Try to crack him.

Three hours.

Four.

But it was no good.

The incident room. Coffee and biscuits. “He knows something, but he is more afraid of them than he is of us,” I said.

“Afraid of whom?” Lawson wanted to know.

“Afraid of the Loyalists. Afraid of the men who killed Kelly and his family,” Spencer said.

“Is that who killed Kelly and his family?” Lawson said.

Spencer shrugged.

“So what now?” Crabbie asked.

“Anybody know any jokes?” Spencer asked.

“A barman says, ‘We don't serve time travelers in here.' A little later a time traveler walks into a bar,” Lawson said.

“I don't get it,” Spencer muttered.

“Lawson, go in there and tell Vardon he's free to go.”

Days. Nights. Rain. Bomb scares. Bombs. Riots.

December. Christmas lights in Carrick. Season of Good Will. Black Santa. Cops taking regular hits from both sides now. Assassination attempts from the Republicans. Death threats and drive-bys from the Prods. Bricks through policemen's windows. Kids to other kids at school: “Your dad's a peeler!”

Sleepless nights. Bad news. Exhausted men at the morning briefings.

A theft case took me and McCrabban into Belfast. Driving up in the Land Rover to arrest a man called Kevin Banville who'd been the wheelman on a post office robbery. Of course, he'd been tipped off and was long gone. To Manchester, everyone said. Normally neighbors didn't tell you stuff like that but Kevin was a hated wife-beater. We passed on the tip.

Time to spare in Belfast.

“You fancy a run out to East Belfast?”

“Who lives there?”

“Moony.”

Crabbie's jaundiced eye.

“Don't worry, I'll fix it with the specials.”

A run over the Lagan to Larkfield Avenue. A red-bricked terrace in solid Prod working-class territory. Curbstones painted red, white, and blue; pictures of King Billy on gable walls.

Knock on Moony's door.

Mrs. Moony standing there large as life and twice as scary. Younger than Tommy by a decade and a half. Five foot two, rollers in hair, gunmetal-grey face tempered by violet eyes à la Liz Taylor.

“Lord have mercy, I think that it's the cops,” she said, quoting Van Morrison at us.

“Mrs. Moony, could we have a word with your—”

“Tommy, love, it's the peelers for ya!”

Tommy's living room. Crockery in a cupboard. Piano bedecked with pictures of the shipyard and dour men in flat caps. Transport and General Workers' Union regalia. Another red flag. A picture of Che. Jesus, Tommy knew how to get on my good side: lefty, working-class, union guy, Brummie accent . . . if only he hadn't done all those murders. If only this family that had immigrated to Belfast to work in the shipyards hadn't been radicalized by the violence of the early seventies . . .

If only . . .

Mrs. Moony bringing tea and biscuits.

Tommy not well pleased by our presence. “What is the meaning of this? My solicitor has warned you lot before!”

I waited until the wife had gone before beginning the unpleasantness.

“Listen, Tommy, we know you did it. Michael Kelly, his parents. Killed that wee girl in cold blood. Had to be you. Only
you
had the organization. Only you could have sent men to Scotland after Deirdre Ferris.”

Not a flinch. Not an eye-twitch out of place. Just a sad, silent shake of the head. He took a sip of his tea. “I have been born again in the blood of Christ, Inspector Duffy, something you as a Roman Catholic would never understand.”

“I wonder how Christ feels about the man who murdered little Sylvie McNichol,” McCrabban said.

“I wouldn't know anything about that.”

“Tell you something you didn't know. Sylvie's dad was an alleged police informer. They killed him when she was a wean. Her family got the message.
She
got the message. She would
never
have talked. She would never have told us anything. Her death was completely unnecessary,” I added.

“Are you going to ask me any actual questions, or are you just going to hurl accusations at me, gentlemen?”

“No one else has to die, Tommy, if the missiles just show up. A tip to the Confidential Telephone, that's all it would take,” I suggested.

“I don't know anything about any bloody missiles!”

“I'm not asking for a confession, a tip to the Confidential Telephone, that's all, OK?”

“I've had enough of this. You two must be a couple of Bennies. Now could you please get out of my home?”

Back outside the house.

Rain on Larkfield Avenue.

We got in the BMW.

“Where to now?” McCrabban asked.

“Falls Road.”

“I don't like the sound of that.”

“Due diligence, mate. If I'm warning one side I've got to warn the other.”

We drove to the Sinn Fein advice center on the Falls Road. I parked outside and immediately showed my warrant card to the half-dozen concerned security people who were rightly fearful of assassination attempts on the IRA leadership.

We went inside and I asked to see Gerry Adams.

“Are you one of his constituents?” a secretary asked.

“No, but we've met a couple of times before. He might remember me,” I said, showing her my police ID.

Half an hour later Crabbie and I got shown into a crammed little upstairs office stuffed with papers and books overlooking the Falls Road and West Belfast. There were many framed photographs on the wall: Adams meeting Ted Kennedy, Adams meeting Rosa Parks, Adams with Winnie Mandela, Adams with Arafat. You got the message . . .

Adams came in through a side door dressed in a tweedy jacket and brown cords.

“Yes, I do remember you, Inspector Duffy,” he said.

“And this is my coll—” I began, but I saw McCrabban giving me a panicky
no names
look.

“And this is my colleague from Carrickfergus CID. We're investigating the murder of Michael Kelly and his parents in Whitehead. And the subsequent murder of Sylvie McNichol,” I said.

“What can I do for you?” Adams asked, sitting down behind his desk.

“I want to warn you about a man called Connolly. An American. He's here to conduct some kind of arms deal. He's got a lot of money, but he doesn't know what he's doing. He's trouble. He is not someone with whom you want to do business.”

“Me?” Adams said, surprised.

“Your friends in the IRA. I think they've already made the call that Mr. Connolly is a clown, but just to be on the safe side I thought I'd pass on the message. Special Branch are all over him. He's bad news.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Adams said.

“I've been to see Tommy Moony and told him too. If you or your friends know anything about any stolen missiles from Shorts they should contact the Confidential Telephone. Four people have been murdered already. No one else has to die because of this.”

Adams gave the slightest of nods before adding, “I don't know anything about the IRA or any stolen missiles.”

I got to my feet. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Adams,” I said.

“I think we do, Inspector Duffy.”

Back outside to the Beemer.

Rain on the Falls Road. Men with guns watching us from many angles.

“Home?” Crabbie asked nervously.

“Do you mind if I just pop into the
Belfast Telegraph
offices first?”

“What for?” Crabbie asked.

“See a friend of mine.”

“Is this your, er, your . . .”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know.”

“I'll wait for you at the Crown Bar.”

The
Belfast Telegraph
offices were in a prime location on Royal Avenue that got a lot of foot traffic. In the ground-floor office windows they often displayed provocative headlines and photographs. The first edition went to press at one in the afternoon, and if the headlines caught your interest there were newspaper boys outside selling the papers right off the pavement. In other parts of the city the newsies attracted customers by shouting “Teleyo!” and yelling the headline that seemed the most dramatic. The Troubles had been a boon for journalists in what was really a rather dull, provincial city well outside the mainstream of British and Irish culture.

The
Belfast Telegraph
offices were buzzing.

I showed my warrant card to the old-stager security guard at the front desk and asked him where Sara Prentice might be.

“First floor. News,” he said, looking her up in the directory.

I went up the steps and saw her immediately, poring over a layout at a huge work desk. She was wearing jeans and gutties with a white blouse. She looked good. Couple of hacks with her. One older, curly hair, beard, checked shirt, brown cloth tie, round glasses—passing resemblance to Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. The other was her age, skinny, black hair, pale, handsome if you liked thin and Byronic, and these days who didn't?

She saw me out of the corner of her eye.

“Hello, stranger,” she said.

“Gonna introduce me?”

“Martin—Sean, Sean—Martin,” she said, introducing me to the older man. He had a bold handshake and he looked me in the eye.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Likewise.”

“And this is Justin. Justin—Sean, Sean—Justin.”

Justin didn't look at me and his handshake was limp, but also kinda condescending and dickish. “Are you in the press?” Justin asked.

“I'm Sara's spiritual coach,” I said.

“What's a spiritual coach?” Justin asked.

“It's sort of like a guru,” I explained.

“He's only joking. He's a policeman.”

“A policeman? We love policemen around here,” Martin said. “They've always got the most interesting stories.”

“I don't have any stories.”

“Everyone's got a story,” Martin insisted.

“Except me. Nothing ever happens to me,” I said, and taking Sara gently by the arm, I added: “Can we talk for a sec?”

“Of course we can.”

Her office. Little more than a news division cupboard but it smelled of paint and was freshly moved into. She was going up in the world.

“So, what's happening? Are we done?” I asked.

“What? No. We're not done.”

“I haven't seen you in ages.”

“Sean, the whole city's going mad. Riots. Bombs. They're out every night making copy for us. This is our busy time.”

“Ours too.”

Silence. Fifteen seconds of it. Hostility creeping in. Tension. I'd blown this again somehow. Maybe it was my face. Jealousy. That dude Justin giving me the limp finger-shake.
Who do you think you are, peeler, compared to us movers and shakers of the fourth estate
?

I cleared my throat. “Hey, listen, I'd better go. Work to do. I'll be in the Dobbins tonight about eight, if you want to join me.”

A momentary pause. “Tonight?”

“Tonight not good?”

Look at those eyes. Eyes so green they hurt.

“I'd love to, Sean, but it's my deadline night. You know how it is.”

“Of course, I forgot. Some other time, then.”

“Absolutely. Some other time.”

Downstairs. A pack of Marlboros from a cigarette machine. I found McCrabban nursing a pint of the black stuff at the Crown Bar.

“Come on, mate, time to head.”

“How did it go with, uh . . .”

“Swimmingly. Let's go.”

On the way back to Carrick we popped into an off-license and I got a bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label.

I went to the Dobbins at eight. Sara didn't show. I ordered a bowl of Irish stew, and when Martin brought it he lit the pile of turf logs in the big sixteenth-century stone fireplace. In this all too brief world of tears you have to take your pleasures where you can find them, and a bowl of mutton stew, a pint of plain, and a pack of Marlboros were rare comfort for the soul.

I finished my meal and walked home via the Albert Road, where there was a riot going on. Two dozen kids with scarves over their faces throwing milk bottles, snowballs, and ripped-up cobblestones at a dozen RUC officers in body armor.

I walked behind the peeler lines, where I found Sergeant Jackie Gillespie in charge. “Hello, Jackie.”

“Hello, Sean.”

“What's going on?”

“It's just kids blowing off steam. You on duty?”

“Just sightseeing.”

A milk bottle filled with piss arced through the air and smashed six feet in front of us.

“You wanna get yourself a riot shield?”

“No thanks. I'll leave you to it, mate.”

“Yeah, see you, Sean.”

I walked home through the snow, lit the paraffin heater and rummaged in my singles collection for Ella Fitzgerald's recording of “Baby It's Cold Outside.” I drank half the Smirnoff Blue Label through the vector of a series of increasingly diluted vodka gimlets and fell asleep on the sofa while Ella sang like an angel.

24: THE MYSTERIOUS MR. CONNOLLY

Another early morning. Another crisp day. Another idea. “Fuck it, Crabbie. Let's bring Connolly in. If he's here let's bring him in.”

“He's protected.”

“Is he? Does he actually have diplomatic immunity? Are we sure about that?”

Crabbie's pale eyes grew paler. “I'll have Lawson check.”

Lawson in my office two minutes later.