“Matter of fact, I do. I was duty officer last night. Just a sec. I’m rotten at remembering names.”
If the major had to bet he’d put his money on Dunlop.
The staff officer frowned. “Bugger it. Gone completely. Tell you what. Finish your tot and we’ll head over to my office. I’ll look up the log.”
* * *
Sergeant Sam Dunlop waited for the light to change. He’d be heartily glad to be back in Dunmurry, a quiet lower-middle-class suburb on the way to Lisburn. Too quiet. Sam was a Catholic and most of his neighbours were Protestants. They were polite enough when they met him in the street or nodded over the fences while mowing their lawns, but there wasn’t much chat. He missed the easygoing friendships of his younger days, growing up near Leeson Street in a small Catholic enclave known as the Pound Loney. If this fucking traffic would just get a move on, he’d be home in half an hour.
* * *
The major waited while the staff officer rummaged through a pile of papers. Dunlop, Logan, or O’Byrne?
“Here we are. Friday. 2355. Call logged in from an E Branch fellow. He’d just had a tip about an arms cache. See?” The staff officer shoved the papers under the major’s nose.
Damnation. The name he was looking for wasn’t there. The call had come from Detective Superintendent Eric Gillespie. The major shook his head, trying to cover his disappointment. “Thanks very much. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother, old boy. None at all.”
* * *
Only five more minutes and Sam would be home. He hoped Mary would have a decent stew on, with dumplings. Sam Dunlop loved dumplings. And he loved Mary. Married ten years and he still got a tingling in his pants just thinking about her. Where a girl reared in a convent school had learned to be such a sexy woman he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Some of the things she did he’d only read about in a dog-eared copy of a Victorian sex manual called The Red Light that had done the rounds when he was a recruit.
He hoped she’d be in the mood tonight. He’d know as soon as he got home. She’d be wearing a skirt, high heels, and black stockings—not those awful tights. Sam fiddled with the front of his pants at the thought of running his hand up Mary’s thigh, over the silky fabric to the warm woman flesh above, and above further still.
He accelerated. It was her joke, her code to let him know how she felt before the kids went to bed. She’d let him get himself worked up into a right old lather before she would let him near her, once the girls were asleep.
* * *
The major walked slowly back to his quarters, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. Damnation. He’d been so sure the RUC man would have been one of his three suspects. But Gillespie? According to Sir Charles, Eric Gillespie was one of the RUC’s best men, even if he couldn’t be told everything because of RUC-army mistrust. So it probably was planted info from a tout. Eric had got it wrong for once, except … something was niggling. Something didn’t fit. Something to do with timing.
* * *
Sam Dunlop swung into Grange Park, reflexively noting that no strange cars were parked there. Policemen could never be too careful. He parked in his drive. Mary was waiting on the doorstep, one of their daughters holding onto her left hand. Sam switched off the ignition, threw the door open, slammed it, and stood looking at his wife and daughter, happy to be home and randy as a buck hare. He glanced down and grinned from ear to ear to see how her long, black, gift-wrapped legs glistened in the evening sunlight.
* * *
Mrs. Gordon’s eyes bulged. She tried to move, but the ropes tethering her in the chair were too tight. She could hardly breathe past the dishcloth stuffed into her mouth and bound in place with a tea towel. All she could see was the unrolled carpet on her front-room floor and the man’s back as he knelt motionless by the open window.
There was a loud noise like a car backfiring. Her nostrils were filled with the bitter smell of burnt powder. The man rose, turned, rolled his rifle in the rug, and said, “Don’t bother to see me out, missus. I’ll go out the back.”
* * *
The major strolled along a tarmac path. Something to do with the timing? Tout to Eric. Eric to Lisburn HQ. Headquarters agrees to mount a fastball. He stopped and moved a few chips of gravel with the toe of his shoe. They made the path’s black surface untidy.
It was something the staff officer had said. “Brave Irish.” He walked on. “Brave Irish?” The major stopped dead. That was it. The staff officer might speak disparagingly about the Provos’ courage, but they were not stupid. The bullet casings were clear evidence that someone had fired on the bombed car. A .223-calibre round was fired by an ArmaLite, the Provos’ favoured weapon. They wouldn’t go to the trouble of mounting an ambush unless they were sure that the patrol would appear on time. And who would know the timing? An informer could not have. All he would know was that he had passed information. He’d have no idea how the Security Forces would react. So it had to be someone who had known the timing. The duty officer who authorized the patrol’s dispatch would, and the members, obviously. They would hardly ask the Provos to attack. The only other person in the know was the RUC man who had asked for the mission in the first place. Eric Gillespie.
The major frowned. It couldn’t be true. Sir Charles had sworn by the man. He was one of the RUC’s best and had a track record as long as your arm. A brilliant track record. And yet. Why had that stupid crossword puzzle clue intruded? Ophidian summer? A summer was someone who added things up—an adder. Ophidian? Pertaining to snakes—an adder was also a kind of snake.
Christ Almighty. Was Eric the snake? Eric Gillespie—Detective Superintendent Eric Gillespie—as a senior RUC officer would have had access to the information about all the attacks that interested the major. Superintendents attended briefing meetings for their divisions every morning. And Gillespie knew all about Mike Roberts.
THIRTY
MONDAY, MARCH 25
Marcus and Siobhan left the bus near the city centre. A heavily armed RUC constable, bulky in his flak jacket, patted Marcus down at a gate in the security fence, then opened Siobhan’s handbag and shuffled through its contents. “Right.” He motioned them on.
Siobhan shuddered. “I’m glad we don’t have to go through that sort of thing in Toronto.”
“Or Calgary. Come on.” He hurried her along a poorly lit street. “It’s not far.”
Another search outside the restaurant, this time by a tall skinny private security woman, perfunctory, disinterested. Marcus watched as the guard ran her hands over Siobhan’s body. With a bit of luck he’d be doing the same later tonight.
“Upstairs,” he said, pointing up a narrow flight of wooden treads.
She went first. He followed, admiring the bright cascade of hair, the curve of her calves between red high heels and coat hem, the fluid sway of her slim hips.
She let him take her coat and sat waiting for him to join her at the table. He sat opposite and watched her look around the small room. A narrow bar stood at one side. Rows of bottles on shelves were reflected in a mirror mounted on the wall behind them. There were six tables, each with four chairs, white linen, silver place settings, a small candle, and, alone in a narrow Waterford cut-glass vase, a single red rose. The lighting was pleasantly dim. Three other tables were occupied. Men in suits, women in cocktail dresses. Marcus, who normally would not consider going to a place like this without a jacket and tie, felt underdressed in his Stampeders windcheater.
The waitress handed them menus. “Something from the bar, sir?”
He looked at Siobhan.
“Please. A small gin and tonic.”
“Sir?”
“Have you Guinness?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pint, please.”
Marcus could not stop looking at Siobhan. Her eyes, indigo tonight, were oval, slanting slightly. Her cheekbones had the planes and contours of a Slav. Above her right eyebrow, a tiny dark mole sat alone on pale, flawless skin. Her no
se was delicate, tip-tilted, her lips generous and smiling. Except for pink lip gloss, she wore no makeup. She didn’t need to. She radiated a deep stillness, calm and profound as a trout pool.
“You have interesting taste, Mike Roberts. Not what I’d expected of a lad from New Lodge.”
Nor was she what he had expected to find in that working-class district. “I’m from Bangor.”
“And Canada changes you, too.”
“It does. We head down to Calgary when we get leaves from the rigs. Me and some of the other lads go to a place called the Owl’s Nest. I thought you’d like something better than a pub.”
The drinks arrived. “I’ll give you a minute to look at the menu.” The waitress lit the candle and withdrew.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.” She sipped. A trace of lip gloss remained on her glass. She pushed her hair back with her left hand and picked up the menu.
“Looks lovely.”
“So do you.”
She did not blush, as he had hoped, but simply said, “Thank you, kind sir.”
A very self-possessed twenty-three, he thought. She might not be the pushover he’d been counting on. He scanned the list of starters and main courses. Nothing had changed since the last time he had visited the Causerie, here on Church Lane, the last Saturday night out of barracks before the bomb in the blue van had gone off. He knew he was taking some risk that the waitress, Peggy, might recognize him, but that risk added to the pleasure of being here with Siobhan. Certainly Peggy had not seemed to know who he really was. The long hair and the moustache hid a lot of his face.
“Well,” he said, “what do you fancy?”
“I’d like a shrimp cocktail and a steak.”
He waved to the waitress.
“Ready to order, sir?”
“Please. The lady would like a shrimp cocktail and I’ll have half a dozen oysters. Fillet steaks for two.” He looked at Siobhan. “Medium rare?”
“Please.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
Siobhan nodded.
He said, “I’m not very good at wines.” He looked up at the waitress. “What do you suggest?”
“The Pommard’s good with the steak, sir.”
“Fine.” He looked back at Siobhan. She was watching him, a suggestion of an upward tilt to the corner of her lips, little laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, the flame of the candle reflecting from deep within the blue. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I thought you were going to try to impress me. But you didn’t mind telling the waitress that you don’t know about wines.” She touched his hand. “I like that.” She tossed her hair. “Canadian men can be a bit—you know.”
He tingled to her touch and wanted her to put her hand back on his. He felt himself start to blush. Siobhan Ferguson. He may not have impressed her, but she sure as hell had turned the tables. He’d only known her for a few hours and already was basking in her presence.
* * *
She’d refused an after-dinner liqueur and had finished her coffee. Marcus had lost track of time. Perhaps his oysters had been tasty; he’d hardly noticed. Half of his steak had grown cold as he sat listening to the music in her voice, watching the play of candlelight on her face, her hair. He had paid no attention to the room filling up, the other diners.
He’d learned that she had emigrated to Canada, with her older brother Fergus, in 1970. Her mum and dad had wanted the children out of the line of fire. At first they had lived with her dad’s sister in Toronto. Siobhan had trained in Belfast as a secretary, but her auntie persuaded her to spend a year at Ryerson taking an executive secretarial course. She now worked for a firm of Bay Street financiers. She lived alone in a small apartment on Eglinton Avenue. Fergus had gone into car sales and was doing well somewhere in the Niagara Peninsula—Welland, she thought—but they had never been close and had not kept in touch.
He told her about growing up in Bangor. He was more circumspect when it came to providing details about his own doings in Canada. It would be too easy to slip up with someone who actually knew the country.
“So,” she said, “what brought you back?”
“I dunno, really. The winters were pretty tough…” He put both hands on the table and leaned forward, lowering his voice, “You may not like this, but I’ve always been a bit of a Republican. I wanted to see for myself what was going on in Belfast.”
“Mike, my dad was in the IRA.”
He said, “You know, I’d love to meet someone who is involved. Find out what’s really happening here before I go back to Alberta.”
“You surprise me.”
“Why?”
“How long have you been in Canada?”
“Years.”
“And you still think that the rubbish going on over here matters?” There was a tiny wrinkling of her brow.
“Well. I—”
Her frown deepened. “Ulstermen! Heads stuffed with romantic visions. If you’ve any sense, you’ll go back to Alberta and leave the Ulster Troubles to the men who haven’t enough sense to stop fighting a dead war.”
“Do you not think the Brits should get out?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is innocent people are being killed and mutilated every day. And for what?”
“Ireland,” he said, knowing that would be the response of Mike Roberts. It sounded odd, he thought, coming from a British officer.
“Ireland?” She shook her head. “Ireland?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather be in Canada. No one’s getting shot there.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
She put her hand on his, looked into his eyes, and said, “It’s only a three-hour flight from Calgary to Toronto.”
He saw her face, the smile lines back round her eyes, and heard the promise. He wanted to get to know this Siobhan Ferguson—and get to know her very well.
Something distracted him. At a table in the corner, a man in a blue blazer was staring at them. Marcus recognized him. Knox. Robby Knox. Captain, 2nd Para. Marcus hadn’t seen him come in. He looked away, avoiding the man’s gaze. Christ, if Robby came over, Mike’s cover would be blown. Good-bye mission, good-bye SAS, and probably good-bye Siobhan. She was not the sort of woman who would tolerate being deceived.
Marcus stole another quick glance. Robby was rising. Marcus stood. “Excuse me. Got to shed a tear.” He headed for the toilet. From the corner of his eye, he saw Robby following.
Marcus pulled his fringe down further, hunched his shoulders into his windcheater, took a deep breath, and unzipped. Christ, and the major had said to keep away from places like this. He felt a presence at his shoulder, heard the plashing and a puzzled voice say, “Marcus?”
He ignored the man.
“Marcus Richardson?”
He turned and thickened his Belfast accent to a slur. “You talking to me?” He looked Robby Knox directly in the eye. “My name’s Mike, so it is.”
“Dreadfully sorry.” Knox smiled weakly. “Mistook you for somebody I used to know. Chap was killed, actually. Thought I’d seen a ghost.”
“No problem. Guinness’ll do that to you.” Marcus hawked, spat into the porcelain, and zipped his fly. “Fellow the other night thought I was Elvis Presley. Take it easy, oul’ hand.” He turned and left without washing. His palms were sweating.
Siobhan smiled as he took his seat. “Better?”
“Oh aye.” Marcus looked up as the Para captain passed and nodded. He gave Knox a broad grin.
“Friend of yours?” she asked.
“Not at all. Some English chap. He thought I was someone else.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “It happens to me, too. A youngster in Toronto Airport wanted my autograph. He thought I was that girl in ABBA.”
“Silly boy.” Marcus took the rose from the vase and handed it to her. “You’re much more beautiful.”
This time she did blush.
She sat close to him on the bus ride home, hand in his
, head resting on his shoulder, her warmth and musk exciting him. He held on to her hand as they walked from the bus stop.
It was dim in the little concrete garden. She fumbled for her key, turned, and kissed him, softly, chaste eiderdown on his lips. He held her, feeling her breasts against his chest, her breath warm on the side of his neck.
“Thank you, Mike Roberts, for a lovely evening.”
He pulled her to him, lips on lips, soft, enticing. The tip of her tongue met his, and he trembled.
“Siobhan, I have to see you again.”
Her reply was a kiss, longer, deeper. She pulled away. “I really have to go.”
“How about the pictures tomorrow night?”
“I’d love to.” She pushed the door open, light from the hall spilling in a pool round her, dancing in her hair and on the crimson rose in her hand.
“Six?”
She blew him a kiss. “Six.”
He stood looking at the closed door, the light gone, and Siobhan gone.
Marcus Richardson walked slowly through the dimly lit streets back to his grubby bed-sit. He could still feel the softness of her, her warmth, could still taste her. Careful, boy, he thought, there could be more to this than you can handle. A lot more. Christ. That had been close with the Para captain. The major would not have been happy if Marcus’s cover had been blown because he had decided to take a girl into downtown Belfast.
He turned a corner, lost in his thoughts of her. In the distance, far away on the other side of Belfast Lough, he saw the undersides of the clouds lit by a garish glow, and moments later the slopes of the Cave Hill close behind him echoed a rumble like the clap of doom.
THIRTY-ONE