Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger (11 page)

As it turned out, he had found that it was an exciting time to be in the police force, which made him even more pleased not to have hung up his boots. The new PSNI had swept away cobwebs that even the RUC’s staunchest defenders acknowledged were there; it had also recruited more Catholic policemen than many old RUC hands would have dreamed possible – or, in some cases, thought desirable.

Jimmy welcomed the changes: he had no time for those who longed for the old set-up. He thought it right that as the country changed the police service should change too, and be much more representative of the community it was serving. He particularly welcomed the transfer of the intelligence work from the old RUC Special Branch to MI5, since it meant policemen could focus on fighting good, honest crime – there was plenty of that going on.

But though he was optimistic about Northern Ireland’s future, he wasn’t naive. He knew that in this bit of the island of Ireland, above all, the past never really died. Its tentacles went on twitching and could suddenly reach out and make trouble. Despite his big-shouldered
bonhomie
, the old policeman had a sceptical view of human nature, and he knew that for all the leopards who’d changed their spots, there were plenty who hadn’t.

It was this knowledge, heightened by a well-honed instinct for self-preservation, that made him notice the laundry van the first time. It had been two weeks before, and the van was parked at the corner of the quiet side street where he and Moira had bought their house – a solid square brick residence with four bedrooms, ample space for visits by the children of their former marriages (now all grown up and with families of their own).

There had seemed nothing odd about the van’s presence – its driver, wearing white overalls, was sitting behind the wheel ticking things off on a clipboard. And when Jimmy saw it again the following week, with the same driver (same clipboard too) he had reckoned it must now be making regular pick-ups from one of the houses down the street. It was only as he unlocked his front door, calling out a cheery ‘I’m home,’ to Moira, that he wondered why in that case the van was parked in a different place – much further along the street. By the time he went outside to have a look, the van had disappeared.

This morning he emerged from his house earlier than usual; he was due at Stormont by eight to discuss the details of transferring old RUC files. It promised to be the kind of meeting he hated (long, and full of bureaucratic detail) but it wouldn’t do to be late.

He shouted goodbye to Moira and walked out of the front door, gripping a briefcase in one hand while he pushed up his hastily knotted tie with the other. His car, a reliable old Rover which he refused to trade in, was parked in his garage. No one in his profession ever left their car in the street or in their drive. There might be a ceasefire on, but too many colleagues had been killed or maimed by car bombs in the past to ignore that basic precaution. As he backed slowly down the gently sloping paved drive, thinking how pleasantly smooth it was since it had been re-laid, he saw over his shoulder that today the laundry van was parked right beside his gate. In fact it was partly blocking the road he was trying to back into. He was just starting to get out of the car and tell the driver to move out of the way, when he noticed that the driver was getting out. Then he saw there was another man getting out of the van as well.

Alarm bells were ringing loudly in his head. ‘Excuse me,’ the driver shouted out, walking towards Jimmy. He had a smile pasted on his face which the policeman distrusted at once.

‘Would you happen to know,’ the man began to ask, then he stopped, standing about fifteen feet away, and Jimmy saw that the other man, also dressed in white overalls, was coming into the drive. This man had his arms down by his sides, but Jimmy Fergus saw that he held something in one hand.

Reflexively, Jimmy reached for the Glock 9 mm pistol he always carried holstered under his jacket. As he grabbed its grip he saw that the man’s arm was now extended.
Gun
thought Jimmy, just as the man pulled the trigger.

The bullet caught Jimmy Fergus high in the chest on his right side, next to his gun arm. He lost his balance and began to fall, knowing that he mustn’t let go of his gun –
don’t drop it
, he told himself,
or you’ve had it
.

He hit the drive heavily, landing on his side, and tried immediately to roll behind the open car door for protection. But waves of pain were seizing him just below the shoulder, and his legs would not respond to his mental command to move. His fingers still gripped the Glock, but when he tried to lift the pistol and fire, his arm did not obey.

The man with the gun was coming around the rear of the car now, and the van driver stood back to give him space. He turned to face Fergus, who was still lying sprawled on the drive. His gun was a semi-automatic, and as he raised his arm to fire, Jimmy could only think
this is it
.

But nothing happened. The man stared at his weapon with disbelief. It must have jammed, thought Fergus. He tried to roll underneath the car but he couldn’t move, and he sensed his stay of execution would be short-lived.

Calmly clearing the jam, the man stepped forward, lowering the gun to shoot the policeman.

Suddenly a scream broke through the air, like the sound of shattering glass. Even through his pain, Jimmy Fergus realised it was Moira, coming out of the front door, still wearing the pink housecoat he had given her for Christmas.

The man with the gun jerked back, obviously startled.

‘Get back,’ Jimmy tried to shout. He saw the man turn to face Moira, who was running towards them down the path, still screaming. To his horror the man raised his weapon. And then Jimmy found his fingers could move after all, and he managed to lift the Glock an inch or two off the ground with his hand, and with more hope than expectation, pointed it and fired.

The gun kicked with enough force to fall from his hand. As its sharp crack echoed in the air, Jimmy heard a muffled shout – ‘
Agghh!
’

He saw his would-be executioner reaching down, to where a dark stain was seeping through one leg of his pristine white overalls.

In obvious agony, the man dropped his gun. The driver of the van ran forward and picked it up. Fergus prayed he would not finish the job. Instead the driver put a rough arm around his wounded accomplice, then half-ran with the hobbling, bleeding man to the cab of the laundry van. Seconds later the van’s engine started up. With a long squeal of tyres, it turned a sharp one-eighty degrees and shot off down the road.

Then a hand was gently stroking his hair, and as he slumped down he heard Moira sobbing.

‘Jimmy, Jimmy,’ she was saying through her tears. ‘Can you hear me? Are you all right? Oh God, please God, tell me he’s alive.’

‘Leave God out of it,’ gasped Jimmy, ‘and ring the ambulance.’ Then he passed out.

18

‘How is Mrs Ryan working out?’ asked Judith Spratt. She was sitting in Liz’s office, waiting for Dave to join them and review where they had got to in the Fraternal Holdings investigation.

‘I haven’t lived in such order since I left my mother’s house. I hardly ever see her though, and when I do she’s not exactly chatty. The strong, silent type, I’d say.’

In her first weeks working for Liz, Mrs Ryan had already reorganised almost everything in the flat, from the pan cupboard to Liz’s underwear drawer. Liz was enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of being able to find things.

Judith took a last swallow of her coffee and put her mug down. ‘Yes, I know. But thank goodness she and Daisy seem to get along OK. Daisy says she talks to her all the time; that’s her excuse for not doing her homework. It’s funny, because she never says much to me, either.’

‘Perhaps she just likes children more than adults,’ said Liz with a shrug.

Dave hurried into the office. It was clear from his face that something had happened. He looked at Liz grimly and didn’t sit down. ‘There’s been an incident. One of the PSNI officers has been shot. I don’t know who.’

‘Oh my God,’ exclaimed Liz. ‘When?’

‘An hour ago. The man’s in surgery and they don’t know if he’s going to make it.’

‘Does Michael Binding know?’ she asked.

‘He’s at Stormont in a meeting. I’m sure they’ll have heard.’

Liz exchanged a look with Dave. What had Brown Fox said? Had the threat been carried out, and so soon? She mentally shook herself. Until they knew more there was no point in jumping to conclusions.

‘Okay, we’d better get on with things here. Judith, are there results from the number plate enquiries?’

‘Yes,’ said Judith, taking her cue from Liz and passing folders round. ‘We’ve got an ID on the owner of the Astra that hung around outside the Fraternity offices.’

Liz looked at the first sheet in her folder, where she saw a photocopy of a driver’s license. The mug shot was of a now-familiar face, and when she turned to Dave he looked up from his folder and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s him.’

Liz said to Judith, ‘This is the walk-in Dave met yesterday, Brown Fox. What have you found out about him?’

Judith consulted her notes. ‘He’s Dermot O’Reilly, a long-time Provisional IRA volunteer. Interned in the Maze in the seventies, and believed to be the quartermaster for Belfast Brigade. After he was released he stayed involved, though he managed to escape prosecution for terrorist activity. But he’s got convictions for two criminal offences: a drunk and disorderly outside a pub – got a fine for that, and a charge of receiving stolen goods – suspended sentence.’

‘So what is he now, a crook or a terrorist?’ mused Dave.

‘It looks like a bit of both,’ said Judith. ‘He lives just off the Falls Road. When we checked his credit history it was terrible, not surprisingly – he’s had cars repossessed for non-payment of loans, mortgage arrears, credit card debt – though God knows how he got a card in the first place.

‘Here’s the interesting thing, though: starting two years ago his situation improved dramatically – suspiciously so, I’d say. He wiped out the credit card debt, paid off half his mortgage, and now has over ten grand in the bank.’

Liz said, ‘He said he’s been working for Fraternal Holdings. Given the pictures we have of him at their offices, that’s pretty clearly true. They must pay well.’

‘I’d like to know exactly what for,’ said Judith. ‘He’s certainly had a lot of cash for doing something in the last two years.’

‘Do we know anything more about this man Piggott who runs the show?’ asked Liz. ‘According to Brown Fox – O’Reilly – he’s the one we’ve got to worry about.’

‘Not much,’ said Judith, with a puzzled shake to her head. ‘He owns a flat here in Belfast, and that farmhouse in County Down. He’s got a local driver’s licence he applied for three years ago. The Audi we’ve seen him in on the camera at the National Trust gatehouse is registered to Fraternal Holdings. That’s it.’

‘O’Reilly said he’s a Yank, Boston Irish, a university type who designed missiles that didn’t work,’ Dave remarked. ‘Though all that may be just sour grapes. O’Reilly’s obviously got a big grudge against him.’

‘I’d better start looking there then. Did he have any other information?’

‘Not much. But it’s all in my contact note. Our Mr Big seems to be a bit of an enigma.’

‘I’ll speak to Thames House and get Peggy to work her magic. She can see what’s in the files and perhaps get onto the Americans. If all that stuff’s true – about designing missiles for the IRA – then there’s sure to be loads of stuff in the back files.’

Liz nodded. ‘If there’s anything to find, Peggy’ll find it.’

A shadow fell across the open door. Liz looked up and saw Michael Binding standing there, his face pale and strained. He was still wearing his long overcoat.

‘You’ve heard about the shooting?’ he said.

Liz nodded and asked, ‘Do we know who it was?’

‘Yeah. Some chap who was supposed to be at my meeting in Stormont. He’s an old RUC officer, semi-retired. His name’s Fergus – Jimmy Fergus.’

‘Oh no, not Jimmy,’ said Liz. ‘I know him. Dave and I went to see him last week – he’s helped me before.’

‘Do they know what happened?’ asked Dave.

‘He was just setting off for work, backing out of his gate when the gunmen attacked – two of them. A neighbour said they were in a laundry van. They must have had him under surveillance because the van’s been seen before in the street. Fergus managed to fire back: he hit one of them – well, we think he did. There was blood where the van had been parked.’

‘Is he very badly hurt?’ Liz could hear her voice shaking as she asked the question.

‘He took a bullet in the chest.’ Binding’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. ‘That’s all I know. I’ll keep you posted.’ He gave a little bow of the head and left.

‘I wonder why they chose Fergus, if he’s semi-retired?’ asked Judith. She sounded shaken too. ‘Do you think it’s someone settling an old score?’

Dave stood up and walked to the window. ‘God knows,’ he said.

There was silence in the room. Dave went on standing by the window, shifting from foot to foot, looking agitated. Judith was obviously stunned. Liz stayed sitting at her desk. She felt as if all her energy had suddenly gone.

She found herself remembering when her first boyfriend, Freddy Simmons, had been involved in a car crash, and the news had reached her at home. There had been several hours without even knowing how badly injured he was; there was nothing she could do to help, just sit and wait for news, all the time expecting the worst. As it turned out Freddy had been all right (a broken collarbone was the extent of the damage), but she remembered how her father had made her go out and help him with a bonfire in the garden to take her mind off it.

Judith broke the silence. ‘I’ll come back later, Liz, if you like.’ She stood up and started to gather up papers. The movement triggered something in Liz and she felt a great surge of anger.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave, Judith. We’re going to find out who’s behind this and what it’s all about. So let’s get on with what we were doing. This makes it all the more urgent.’