The Enemy Inside Read online

  ‘Furness?’

  ‘Ah, DCI Moran here. Just following up on the incident on the Oracle roof earlier.’

  ‘Liam Doherty?’

  ‘If you say so – he only gave his first name.’

  ‘Tested positive for banned substances, sir. Social Services didn’t want to know. He’s currently with us.’

  ‘In custody?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘In a cell?’

  Furness hesitated for a second. ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Tell me you haven’t put him in a triple-stitch?’

  ‘For his own safety, sir. Of course, it’s standar–’

  ‘I know it’s standard procedure.’ Moran tapped his tea mug. ‘But there’s not much that’s standard about our Liam.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Never mind. Look, Furness, just keep me up to date, would you?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Moran hung up, sipped his tea.

  Ireland. So long ago. The Gardai.

  He leaned back in the kitchen chair and closed his eyes.

  Mayobridge was a small hamlet – blink and you’d miss it. But there, in the centre, was the inevitable bar, sandwiched between a bakery and a grocer’s.

  Feargal’s.

  The few tables and chairs outside were occupied by a random turnout of early drinkers.

  Moran parked up and they made their way to the entrance, stretching and yawning as they walked. The sun was warm and the beers cold. They found a small table off to one side of the bar frontage and sat down. Joe dumped his duffel bag on the table along with the inevitable cigarettes and matches. A few locals nodded disinterestedly: Moran wasn’t in uniform, they were both dressed semi-casually in open-necked shirts and chinos.

  Joe squinted as the low sun caught his eyes, unhooked his shades from his shirt, put them on.

  ‘Sure, this is the life, eh? Young, carefree, the sun shining and a beer in hand.’ Joe gave Moran one of his wide grins and stretched out his legs.

  ‘If you say so.’ Moran sipped his beer, allowed his eyes to flick from drinker to drinker. They all looked pretty harmless, but Moran knew better than to assume. He hadn’t long been in the Gardaí, but long enough to realise that all was not necessarily as it seemed, especially in the border area. He’d had half a mind to ignore Joe’s suggestion, to keep his foot down until they’d put a wee bit more distance behind them – there was a checkpoint a couple of miles down the road, and Moran was anxious to be on the other side of it. It wasn’t that he was twitchy, just … alert. Yep, that was the right word. You had to be alert.

  ‘Penny for ’em, Brendan.’

  He became aware that Joe was looking at him quizzically. ‘Nothing,’ he told his friend. ‘Just thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘About the lovely Janice, no doubt.’ Joe made an exaggerated wink.

  ‘No, actually,’ Moran smiled. ‘For once.’

  ‘That’s what I love about you, Brendan. Your honesty. Sure, if we cut you open, we’d just find layer after layer of goodness. Not a bad seam anywhere to be found.’

  ‘I wish that were the case.’ Moran shook his head ruefully. ‘But I know myself too well.’

  ‘You’re a cut above, Brendan.’ Joe drew heavily on his cigarette and exhaled. ‘That’s what my ma always said about you. And she’s a damn good judge of character, I can tell you.’ He ground the cigarette out with his heel and stood up. ‘I’m off to acquaint wee Percy with the porcelain. Behave yourself while I’m gone, now.’

  Moran watched Joe disappear inside. A couple of locals finished their drinks, drifted away along the road, the first a little unsteadily. A car drew up outside the Post Office: the engine died and two men got out, ambled towards the bar. Nothing odd about that. Just two guys stopping off, like himself and Joe.

  But something had triggered Moran’s sensors. He watched the men approach, keeping them in his peripheral vision as they entered the bar.

  Relax, Brendan. You’re off duty.

  But there was, he knew, no such state. He was always on duty, that was the reality of it.

  Another minute passed and there was no sign of Joe. What the hell was he doing in there?

  The two men reappeared, both carrying glasses of dark stout. They selected the table the two locals had just vacated, nodded to Moran as they sat down.

  Not without a little irritation, Moran felt his automatic routine kick in.

  First guy – mid-thirties, hadn’t shaved today. Blue jumper. Wedding ring. Soft hands, not a manual labourer. Second guy – older, bearded. Casual shirt, jeans. Desert boots. Large, powerful hands. Their car – a VW Beetle. Incongruous, somehow. Something didn’t sit right.

  Joe reappeared with a plate of sandwiches.

  ‘Thought you’d appreciate a little sustenance.’ He placed the plate on the table with a flourish. ‘Chicken and mayo.’

  ‘Great,’ Moran nodded appreciatively. ‘Full marks for initiative.’

  They ate in silence for a while. The sandwiches were good; Moran hadn’t realised how hungry he was. Presently Joe took out his packet of Player’s Number Six and jammed a fresh cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Sure, those damn things’ll kill you before you even get to writing your thesis.’ Moran smiled.

  ‘Oh, listen to him, would you?’ Joe lit up and blew a stream of blue smoke across the table. ‘All holier than thou, and after I paid him a compliment, too.’

  ‘Your choice.’ Moran shrugged. ‘They’ll have banned the damn things before too long, you watch.’

  ‘So I may as well make the most of it while I can, right?’ Joe was fiddling with his fag packet. He had a habit of tearing the top tabs and folding them over, like a paper aeroplane’s wings.

  Moran shook his head in resignation.

  Joe rummaged in his duffel bag and produced a small camera. ‘Will you take a snap, Brendan? Somethin’ for the family archives?’ Joe handed him the Kodak.

  ‘Sure.’ Moran examined the small device and, when satisfied he’d correctly identified which button did what, squinted through the viewfinder, lined Joe’s beaming face up as best he could, and clicked the shutter.

  ‘Thanks a million. Ma loves her photo albums, so she does.’

  Moran smiled. ‘We should get going. I told Janice–’

  ‘–you’ll be home by nine? Take her out for a wee catch-up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I, eh? I can hear them weddin’ bells from here, sure I can.’

  They were interrupted by a low rumble, a revving from some muscular engine. Heads turned. The noise grew louder until an armoured car came into view. Two soldiers, weapons slung at the ready, were sitting in the rear, scanning the roadside as they went. As it approached the bar the vehicle slowed.

  ‘Ignore ’em, Brendan.’ Joe drained his beer. ‘They’re not for us. Now, if you’re anxious to be off, then let’s be off.’

  Moran scraped his chair back, got to his feet. As they passed the seated newcomers the younger man said something to Joe which, due to the noise of the armoured vehicle, Moran didn’t quite catch. Joe nodded, gave a one word reply, threw his cigarette pack onto their table.

  ‘Thanks. Appreciated,’ the man said, opening the pack. He offered it to his friend, who withdrew a cigarette and gave Moran a nod. ‘Take care, now.’

  The armoured car had moved on. By the time they reached the Cortina the sound of its engine had faded to a distant clattering. ‘Those guys – they look a bit dodgy, wouldn’t you say?’ Moran turned the car key in the lock.

  ‘God’s sake, Brendan. Come out of Gardai mode, would you? They just wanted to bum a smoke, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure.’ Moran fired the engine, eased the car into second. It still didn’t sound healthy, but they were moving.

  He glanced in the rearview before they turned the corner.

  The two full glasses of stout were still on the table.

  But the two chairs wer
e vacant.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The unease Moran had felt earlier was still there, nagging at the back of his mind. Even a riverside stroll had failed to lighten his mood – or maybe it was just that he’d spotted Samantha Grant further along the water meadow, walking his way. His spaniel, Archie, had given him a disdainful look as he’d clipped lead to collar, made a beeline for the stile and home.

  He’d met Samantha a few months back, during the LaCroix case. She’d figured him out quickly, nipped any possible romance in the bud. It still rankled. All right, hurt, Moran admitted. No two ways. It hurt.

  He’d avoided her since. Difficult, as they lived in the same road and were prone to taking the same walks. She waved occasionally, but he affected not to notice. Silly. He should be able to deal with this like a grown-up, be able to converse politely.

  Fact was, she’d nailed him, sussed out his emotional state. Even after all these years, the pain was still written over his face like a huge, neon sign: Warning: emotionally damaged. Do not embark upon a relationship with this person.

  Archie came in and dropped a tennis ball at his feet. Moran reached down, patted the little dog automatically. ‘I know, I know. We’ll go out again later, eh?’

  Archie followed Moran into the kitchen and sat hopefully by his basket as Moran busied himself with the washing up – not that there was much work involved. A couple of pans, a plate, knife and fork. Archie’s bowl. A swift surface wipe. Job done. Despite these efforts at distraction, however, his thoughts still strayed towards the rewind button, demanded the year be reset to 1978. The memories and images crowded his mind. He poured a beer, headed for the lounge. ‘All right then. Let’s have it’, he said aloud. Archie cocked his head, trying to interpret Moran’s meaning. The spaniel’s expression was so comical that Moran smiled, despite himself. ‘I know. Sure, you’re living with a crazy guy. But at least he still remembers to feed you, right?’

  The phone rang.

  He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock on a Sunday evening. Who?

  Curiosity got the better of him. He went into the hall, snatched the retro dial-up receiver from its cradle.

  ‘Moran.’

  ‘Oh, you’re in – I mean, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.’

  Moran recognised PC Furness’ voice. ‘What is it, PC Furness?’

  ‘Thought you should know, sir, we had to let Doherty go. He seemed all right – actually, by this morning he was positively cheerful. We got the medics to check him over. No reason to detain, they said – although, between you and me, sir, he’s borderline schizo.’

  ‘All right, thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  ‘Did he – say anything else, about yesterday morning?’

  ‘About you, sir? No, not a dickie.’

  Moran grunted. Sharp one, young Furness. He’d interpreted Moran’s question correctly. ‘I see. And nothing about a … checkpoint … was there?’

  ‘A checkpoint, sir?’

  Moran felt slightly foolish. ‘Yes, I thought I heard him shout something to that effect. Yesterday, at the car park.’

  A slight pause. ‘Not that I recall, sir,’ Furness said. ‘He’s ex-army, though. Served in Bosnia, and before that in Northern Ireland. Currently NFA. Has form – quite a bit of form, actually. Anyway, pretty sure he didn’t mention any checkpoint, sir.’

  Moran pressed on through his embarrassment. ‘And what about Social Services? Are they going to follow up?’

  ‘Really can’t say, sir. But he seemed all right. In fact he said he felt a great deal better. Even apologised for putting us to any trouble.’

  Moran raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he, indeed?’

  ‘Was there anything else, sir?’

  ‘No. That sounds fine. Thanks for letting me know.’ Moran signed off, went back into the lounge.

  So that was that.

  He sipped his beer, a dark stout just a little lighter than a Guinness.

  Served in Bosnia. And Northern Ireland.

  NFA. No Fixed Address…

  Moran’s beer swirled as he agitated the glass and, once again, the tape began to roll.

  Two full glasses. Still on the table. Moran took his eyes off the rearview and concentrated on negotiating the winding lane. Joe was unwrapping a fresh packet of cigarettes, fumbling with the cellophane.

  Moran looked right and left, rejoined the main road. ‘How many of those damn things do you get through every day, on average?’

  ‘Appreciate your concern, Mam,’ Joe replied. He jammed a fag into the corner of his mouth and started to rummage around in his duffel bag. ‘But I’m a big boy now, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ Moran tickled the accelerator as the engine coughed and suddenly recovered with a blast of blue exhaust. He swore under his breath. ‘We’ll get pulled over for driving an unfit vehicle if this carries on.’

  ‘By whom?’ Joe had his camera out now, was fiddling with a new roll of film. ‘You’re the Garda, remember? And please note my correct usage of the interrogative pronoun. Like I said, I’m a clear candidate for academia.’

  ‘Yes, I’m the Garda,’ Moran said, ignoring Joe’s playful expression. ‘That’s what worries me. It won’t look good, will it? If I’m pulled over?’

  ‘Relax. It’ll be fine. You worry way too much, Brendan.’ Joe slotted a new roll of film into place and clicked the camera compartment shut. Satisfied, he put his feet up on the dashboard.

  ‘Checkpoint coming up,’ Moran said. ‘Tell me you haven’t stashed any dope anywhere. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘As if.’ Joe grinned. ‘I’m not that kind of student.’

  ‘You’re no kind of student at all till term begins,’ Moran reminded him. ‘Anyway, here it is. Now put your legs down and try to look normal. And put that damn camera away. It looks suspicious.’

  There was a car ahead of them, a dark blue saloon. Expensive. Moran eased up behind it and waited. Two soldiers approached the driver’s door – one staying back a few paces, rifle at the ready. A brief conversation ensued, concluded in due course by the first soldier stepping back and waving the vehicle through. The barrier went up and the car steered its way carefully between the concrete bollards. It waited on the other side, engine idling, as two more soldiers moved around it, bending to search the car’s underbelly, checking for devices.

  Now it was their turn. Moran wound his window down in anticipation as the soldier sidled up alongside. He held up his warrant card for inspection.

  ‘Gardaí, is it?’ The soldier squinted at Moran’s details. ‘Who’s this?’ He nodded in the direction of the passenger seat. Joe was tapping impatiently on the dashboard, humming some pop tune.

  ‘A friend. I’ve taken him to Belfast for an interview.’

  ‘What kind of interview?’ The soldier stuck his head further into the car, took a sniff. His accent was South London, Moran guessed. A long way from home.

  ‘A bloody clever one,’ Joe replied. ‘And not the kind you’d be able to get your head around, I can tell you.’

  ‘He’s applying for a place at Queen’s.’ Moran broke in before the soldier could react. ‘Law and Politics.’

  ‘Brainbox, eh?’ the soldier said. ‘Or smartarse?’

  Moran held his breath. The soldier’s eyes remained fixed on Joe. They were, Moran noticed, a startling blue colour.

  ‘Out you come,’ the soldier said. ‘Hands on the roof, spread your legs.’

  ‘Oh, what? Are you serious?’ Joe’s tone was all outrage and annoyance.

  ‘Joe.’ Moran hissed. ‘Do as he says.’

  ‘Yes sir, Mr Garda Moran. Right away.’ Joe pulled the handle and shouldered the door open.

  Moran gripped the steering wheel like a sea-captain manning the wheel during an unexpected storm.

  The analogue clock on the dashboard read five fifty-seven.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Five fifty-seven. Now why would that be something which stu
ck in the mind? Not five forty-five, or even six o’clock. Five fifty-seven.

  He drained his glass. Bottled stout was never quite the same. Archie was asleep on the sofa, eyes closed, nose twitching occasionally as he dreamed of rabbits, or ducks and moorhens, or long woodland walks with his dog-walkers, Pat and Irene.

  Moran had lost touch with Joe years ago. Last he’d heard, his old friend had qualified with a law degree. Who’d have thought it? He’d always meant to get in touch, but somehow the time had slipped away. Another friend no doubt changed beyond recognition, the old carefree Joe superseded by some unsmiling, bewigged middle-aged barrister. It was an unappealing thought.

  There was a sea-mist creeping over the ocean of Moran’s memory. Something important – vital, perhaps – that he couldn’t quite place, a half-remembered word or phrase, was stubbornly refusing to resurface. Something to do with Joe? Moran wasn’t one to dwell on the past, not if he could help it. The dreams came and went, of course. These he simply lived with, tolerated – like an unwanted flatmate. There was nothing to be done; his slumbering brain, forever seeking closure after the tragic events that had prompted his eventual departure from Ireland, was simply taking every opportunity to rewind his subconscious in the hope of – well if not rewriting, then at least coming to terms with, the past.

  Moran went to the window, toyed with the idea of a refill. Not good, drinking alone. But then, what harm? It was only beer, after all. From where he was standing he could just see the ruins of the gutted service station, laid waste a few months back by a desperate man seeking to destroy the evidence of past misdemeanours. If only sin could be blotted out so easily…

  Rain spattered the pane and he drew the curtains, shutting out the miserable February evening. England had proved to be as damp and sodden as the Ireland he’d left behind, belying the forlorn hope that the sun would always shine on his adopted English home. It had soon become apparent that his ill-fortune hadn’t ended at the Rosslare ferry like some watery full stop; the Irish curse had simply followed him across the Irish Sea to the Thames Valley.