Live to Tell (42 page)

Later in the day Ben was in the office alone. Kevin was at a strategic planning meeting when the caller rang again. There was a sharp intake of breath. As if, Ben thought, he were about to launch himself off a cliff. “Look, said Ben, “if you can’t tell me any more detail, I can’t help you. Even though I want to,” he added as an afterthought.

“Detail? You want more detail? He’s gonna kill her. What more do you want? You’ve got to stop him. I can’t. McCaffery was the only one could control Skin.”

“If some sort of crime is going to be committed, wouldn’t you be better speaking to the police?”

“The police? I’d be a dead man.” The phone was slammed down and Ben winced.

On his pad he made a hand-written log of the call. He knew all the office calls were recorded centrally, but for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he didn’t want to draw attention to them by requesting the tape. It was the reference to a woman that unsettled him. The man had definitely said “her” and “she”.

Reluctantly, Ben picked up the phone again. Military Intelligence and the Metropolitan Police were supposed to co-operate with each other, but in reality it was a perpetual game of one-upmanship. His opposite number at Police Headquarters in New Scotland Yard was a man named Angus Henderson, a jovial red haired Scot whom Ben liked. I’d better talk to Gus about this, he thought.

“Henderson.” The sound exploded down the line.

After the usual pleasantries Ben said, “Gus, I’d like to run a name past you. Ever heard of a McCaffery or McCaverty?”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to wake up to this one. I’ll e-mail the file across.”

There was something unsettling about Henderson’s immediate willingness to respond.

“No,” said Ben. “Can I send someone to pick it up?”

“Well, if you think you should, laddie.” Henderson sounded surprised and Ben didn’t want to tell him why he wanted to keep the matter below the radar. In fact, he wasn’t totally sure himself. It was just a gut feeling he should keep things low key at least for the time being. And despite the universal adoption of automatic data retrieval, he still preferred to read the facts he needed on paper. Sometimes it spoke to you in a way an electronic screen never could.

Dennis, a civilian colleague in the room next door, told Ben the human brain preferred to read things in a downward direction rather than on a vertical screen. Ben wasn’t sure. If that were the case, why did he find it so natural to read his newspaper upright, standing on packed London underground trains? Force of habit, I suppose, he thought.

“As long as it’s that pretty girl Heather you keep locked away,” the policeman said.

I wish, thought Ben. “Heather it is,” he said and replaced the phone.

Ben felt worried and sat for a while deep in thought. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He liked to employ a technique of mind clearance. It wasn’t working well today. Nothing was working well today.

“Are you alright, Sir?” Heather appeared silently at his shoulder and was peering into his face.

“Don’t worry about him, Cpl Davis. Any tea going,” said Kevin, striding back into the room behind her. He sat down opposite Ben. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost old man. Anything wrong?”

“I don’t know, Kevin, but I think it is. Yeah, unfortunately I think it is.”

Ben was not in the office the next morning when Heather fetched the “McCaffery” file. His work shift changed from days to nights. He and his colleagues took turns to do the night duty. That evening he found the file in the safe where Heather stored things she knew he needed. In silence he opened the folder and spread the contents on his desk.

A body was discovered in a water-filled ditch in Essex, nearly a year ago but at first the police did not realise they were dealing with the death of a member of PIRA, the provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army (a “provo” as they were known to Ben and his colleagues). The earlier enclosures were all to do with scene-of-crime and forensic matters. As the investigation conducted by the police unfolded before him, one thing struck him. There was a total lack of any female involvement. But a character called “Skin” was definitely present. Thieves falling out, he wondered. Odd they neither mutilated the body to hide identification nor advertised the death, the more common practice.

In the light of the phone calls from the hesitant informant, Ben now knew he had to re-review the case. Perhaps I’m just tired, he thought, but it doesn’t seem to fit a known pattern. And Essex? What’s that all about? He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back, gazing into space while he pondered the facts.

The only rather tenuous connection that came to mind was the garrison at Colchester several miles away, but come on! Still, they did mount an attack on that unlikely target Lichfield. That was God knows, years ago, in the days when they were emboldened, a force to be reckoned with. Ben didn’t like puzzles and loose ends. God knows I get enough of them in this line of work, he thought. Wouldn’t it be sweet to get something nice and tidy for once?

His thoughts returned to the corpse. Perhaps in 2000 the man became a personal embarrassment to them in some way? It
was
a delicate time. Or perhaps—yes more likely—he was involved in an internal feud with the Irish National Liberation Amy, another player? Perhaps they killed him? Despite ‘The Peace Accord’ and other promising moves like ‘The Joint Initiative’—not to mention numerous cease-fires, Ben was ever alert to a possible IRA resurgence. Tension within the remaining factions and fresh rogue elements, waiting in the wings were distinct possibilities. Just let them try, he thought. This time they’ll have me to contend with! He didn’t want to believe IRA sleeper cells were still active. He knew many of the people who carried out atrocities and claimed a political agenda were, in fact, psychopaths and run-of-the-mill criminals. They sheltered behind a claimed ideology. That did not make them any less dangerous—probably more.

Through the night he worked on, reading witness statements and details of an arrest warrant. What he discovered alarmed him. I must pay Henderson a visit. This needs sorting out. Wonder if I should get some shut-eye first? By now it was nearly eight a.m. and he had already worked a thirteen hour shift.

God, I’m hungry, he thought. Could certainly do with something to eat. Since the ‘security state’ in the building was raised a month earlier, the canteen was operating a twenty-four hour service. Although this was convenient, Ben preferred to walk the extra hundred yards or so for a take-away coffee from an Italian deli round the corner and doughnuts from the bakery next door. He pushed back his chair, stretched, and went in search of food.

Taking care not to spill the scalding coffee in the plastic mug he clutched in his left hand, he kicked open the door to his office. In his right hand, he balanced a large bag of doughnuts.

Once the mug was empty, he tossed it across his desk to join a festering heap that was growing in the left-hand corner, then bit into a doughnut. Looking out of his window, he munched on the jam-filled bun and stared at the commuters scurrying across the road below. Despite the comfort food and coffee, he still felt angry at the contents of the file. A brisk walk through St James’s Park to New Scotland Yard will do me good, he thought; help me get my head together. Better take my tie. I mustn’t let the side down, even if I have been up all night. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the electric razor he always kept there. At nearly thirty-six, he felt he was getting too old for night shifts but knew they were an essential part of the job. At least with a shave, I’ll look a bit brighter, he thought, even if I don’t feel it.

On his way out, he put his head around the door of the outer office. Jane, the female sergeant, was already on duty.

“I’m going over to see Supt. Henderson. I’ll probably be a couple of hours. Then I’m going home for a few hours sleep. If the boss wants me, I’m reachable by phone. Oh, and don’t forget Colonel Terry said he might come in this afternoon.”

From the pack he removed another bun to eat in the park and held out the remainder. “Oh, and here are some fresh doughnuts for the girls. See ya.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be gone before you get back tonight, so I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Half-a-mile away, across St James’ Park at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters in New Scotland Yard, Ben was ushered into Henderson’s office. He waited till the door closed behind them then threw the file onto the other man’s desk. “What the fuck’s going on? Why didn’t you tell us about this case earlier and why are you so quick to pass it across
now
?”

“Calm down, laddie. You sound like you got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

“I haven’t been to bed. I’ve been working all night.”

“Well, I guess that explains it then. Will a cup of police coffee set you up? This may take some time to explain.”

There was a protocol that crimes with an IRA connection were automatically referred to Ben’s department. It was obvious to Ben, this one had been ignored.

“I know what you’re going to say but the reason this wasn’t passed to you was because we got someone for the murder straight away and decided it wasn’t a ‘political’ crime as such. Well, at least we thought we had. He’s been on remand in Belmarsh prison ever since, awaiting trial. Being in a terrorist cell is a young man’s game, but there are always a few sabre rattling old timers feeding the flames. This is one of them. We imposed a D-Notice to keep it out of the press. It’s still a delicate time in the peace process you know. Unfortunately, it now appears we were wrong. We had to let him go. He didn’t do it.”

Ben raised his eyebrows but kept silent.

“The man we were holding is called Michael Fenton, for many years associated with the victim. They had a fight, a rather public fight a week before the body turned up. Fenton’s a nasty piece of work. Aye, beating someone to death is right up his street and the alibi he came up with was uncorroborated. It collapsed on investigation. So, there we were—motive, method, and opportunity. Neat and fast. We were probably too fast—jumped to the obvious conclusion. Didn’t look any further.”

Henderson paused and looked at Ben. “I suppose it would be good if I could tell you our super sleuthing eventually eliminated him but it wasn’t like that. It would appear that while McCaffery was having his head bashed in and his body dumped, matey was in Holland raping and torturing a young Dutch prostitute. It must have really pissed him off to think he’d got away with that one only to be arrested for murder here.”

“So what happened,” asked Ben.

“That wonderful discovery DNA happened. Initially the evidence collected by the Dutch police revealed several markers, mostly unknowns. But, since we started sharing databases, they ran the tests again and threw up Fenton. Coupled with the young man’s verbal evidence… And yes, it was a male prostitute. We had to let him go. And now the victim’s gone to ground. Even if Fenton didn’t commit the Dutch crime—and I’d bet anything he did—the DNA definitely puts him in Holland, not in the UK. Can’t be in two places at once, can he? We let him go twenty-five days ago.”