The Enemy Inside Page 6

  Moran walked on. The sky darkened and the sun vanished. Heavy raindrops peppered the paving stones.

  He slowed his pace. He was nearly there.

  Malone Street.

  And there, just a few metres to the right, a side road, a cul-de-sac.

  He halted by a postbox, checked up and down the road. What was he looking for? Windowless vans. A car that didn’t look right. Anything out of the ordinary. The possibility of a set-up had occurred to Moran – but why would he be set up? He’d been recruited, his usefulness noted. You don’t recruit someone only to set them up.

  The rain began to ease, the clouds blowing over. Patches of blue appeared in the grey. Puddles glistened in the penetrating sunlight. Still Moran waited.

  He thought about Janice, busy with her studies, her thesis. A bright one, destined for greatness, he was sure. What she saw in him he couldn’t understand, yet he thanked the powers above every day for whatever quality that might be. What did she see? A sense of humour, sure. He could acknowledge that. An easy manner. Yep, that’s what folk said, and it wasn’t hard to fathom – he’d inherited that from the old man. Easy company, his da. Always had been. So, what else, what other qualities might Janice find attractive?

  And the small voice spoke clearly from dead centre, right between his eyes.

  A sense of right and wrong, Brendan.

  He took a deep breath. A car emerged from the cul-de-sac, an Allegro. Blue, one male driver, aged around fifty-five. No threat. He watched the small vehicle pootle off down the road, its exhaust coughing like a pensioner with mild pneumonia.

  He relaxed.

  What else, Brendan? What else does Janice like about you?

  Integrity, the small voice said immediately.

  He played with the envelope in his pocket, scrunching it into a ball until it was almost reduced to the size of its contents.

  A bus went by, sent up a sheet of water. He stepped back, just avoided a soaking.

  A wee job…

  A van – with dodgy plates, no doubt – to be delivered to an address on the other side of town. Occupants of said house, unknown. Purpose of van, unknown.

  But guessable.

  Moran took out the envelope, ripped it open, removed the key, examined it briefly and slipped it onto his own keyring. He gave the cul-de-sac one last look before turning around and retracing his steps to the car park where he’d left the Cortina half an hour earlier. His heart was fluttering wildly, but now it had a lightness about it, a lightness which had been absent since the first time he’d set eyes on the man with the unruly hair.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Moran took out his keyring and dangled it.

  ‘Yes, the key.’ Doherty was getting exasperated. ‘Not any key. The key to the garage.’

  Moran selected a key, detached it from the ring, handed it to Doherty. ‘This one?’

  ‘What? You’re admitting it?… You bastard.’ Doherty had sprung to his feet. His face was flushed, the revolver pointing directly at Moran. He turned to Samantha. ‘You’re my witness. You heard him. He has the key. He’s as good as confessed.’

  Samantha was pale, but still holding herself together. ‘I have no idea what key you’re referring to. Can I suggest you calm down and let DCI Moran explain?’

  Moran’s hand was up. ‘The point is, Doherty, I never used it.’

  ‘What? It had to be you. They always said the Gardaí were involved. You’re a bloody liar.’ Doherty paced the room, tapping the key against the barrel of the revolver as he spoke. Moran watched guardedly. Doherty had convinced himself that he, Moran, was guilty. Two and two made five – and over years of agonised introspection, turning the skewed calculation around and around in his mind, certainty had grown into obsession.

  ‘So how come you have this, if you’re innocent?’ He waved the key in Moran’s face.

  ‘To remind me how close I came to compromise,’ Moran said patiently. ‘I did go to the garage, but I turned back. I knew the risks, and I’ve lived with the consequences for years, Doherty, just as you have.’

  Samantha’s hand went to her mouth, recognising something in Moran’s expression. She’d put two and two together as well, but she’d got her sums right. ‘Oh God, Brendan. They killed your fiancée.’

  Moran studied the carpet’s swirling patterns. What could he say? What could he add? He’d replayed the ‘what if’ scenarios a thousand times and more over the years. The man with the unruly hair had threatened reprisals for non-compliance. What had he thought? That they’d cut him some slack? That they’d been bluffing? That he would be the one to pay the penalty for his disobedience?

  It had almost been so. It was his car they’d targeted. Sure, they’d have known that he lent the car to Janice from time to time, so maybe it had been all the same to them, to ‘Mr D’, to Rory Dalton as he now knew. Someone would die in the car; it was just a matter of fate, an alignment of domestic circumstance as to which of them would be in the driving seat on that particular day.

  Because of the rain, that was all.

  It had been raining, and he’d said, ‘Take my car…’

  And Aine – a good friend’s wife, for God’s sake – had turned out to be the final piece of the jigsaw he had only recently slotted into place, the planter of the fatal bomb…

  ‘Oh yeah, I heard about that.’ Doherty interrupted his thoughts as if reading them. ‘The bomb. But Dalton and Sean Black were a pair of loose cannons, weren’t they, Brendan? Even to their own. I’m not surprised they had a go at you. I guess they got wound up at all the ‘Gardaí, Gardaí’ stuff in the papers. Maybe they wanted to take you out, just to prove they could. But you got away with it, didn’t you? Took yourself off to England and left us to clear up the mess.’

  ‘I got away with nothing,’ Moran said. ‘You lost someone dear to you. You know what that means. Have you any idea how many times I’ve wished I’d gone through with it? That I’d delivered the van and walked away?’ Moran felt his enforced restraint slipping, tried to calm himself.

  ‘That’s what you say, Brendan. But here’s the thing.’ Doherty sat down again, held up the key. ‘See, I don’t believe you. You did it, all right. You were part of it. You collected the van, delivered it to those bastards who drove it all the way to the border. To the checkpoint.’

  ‘I had no idea the van was going to turn up at the checkpoint. How could I? I walked away. I never laid eyes on it until the checkpoint.’

  Doherty tapped his temple. ‘You knew it was one and the same van.’

  ‘They gave me the registration. Of course I knew.’

  ‘Then how did it get delivered to the boyos?’

  ‘Someone else must have done it.’

  ‘Oh, right, very convenient. Plan B.’

  ‘Of course,’ Moran said. ‘There was always going to be a contingency plan. That’s how they worked.’

  Doherty squatted down in front of Moran. His breath was sour. ‘Well then, tell me. Who was your backup?’

  Moran sighed. ‘I wasn’t given names.’

  Doherty’s finger curled around the trigger. ‘I should just blow your brains out right now. I don’t even know why I’m listening to your pathetic lies.’

  ‘Wait. You’re right.’ Moran was forcing himself to think. Backup. That was right, of course. Someone must have been watching him closely, the same someone who seamlessly took over when he’d turned his back on the mission. ‘What else did you find in the car? Tell me.’

  Doherty’s lip curled. ‘You’re playing for time.’

  ‘So you can shoot me later – what’s the hurry?’

  Archie’s whimpers had been escalating in volume during the heated exchange. Now they were morphing into barks.

  ‘I’ll go and sort him out,’ Samantha said. ‘He needs comfort. And food, I expect, which we could all do with.’

  Doherty thought about this for a moment. ‘All right. Make some food. And don’t try anything clever. I’ll be watching.’

  �
�May I see the envelope?’ Moran prompted.

  Doherty took the creased paper from his pocket again. ‘If it matches the shape of your key you’re a dead man. That means it’s your envelope. You can’t deny it.’

  ‘But that’s the point,’ Moran said. ‘I threw my envelope away in Belfast, five minutes after I left Malone Avenue. I binned it. In which case…’ He trailed off.

  All these years, and he’d never thought, never once considered…

  ‘What’s up, Brendan? Cat got your tongue?’ Doherty leered. ‘Don’t give me any more bullshit. You’re a conniving Republican sympathiser, that’s what you are. And you’re finally going to get what’s coming to you.’

  But Moran had closed his ears to Doherty’s accusations. The sound of clinking crockery, interspersed with Samantha’s soothing tones as she calmed the stressed Cocker, were the only sounds he was aware of. All he could think of was how? How had he missed it? How had he not made the connection?

  Doherty leaned forward, poked Moran in the shoulder with the revolver’s snub nose. ‘I’m talking to you, Moran.’

  Moran was jogged back to the present. ‘That’s not my envelope,’ he told Doherty. ‘It’s my friend’s – Joe Gallagher’s, the guy I took to Belfast for an interview. The guy who was shot.’

  Doherty was silent for a moment. ‘Well, you’ve no-one else to blame,’ he said eventually. ‘So what else are you going to do? Nice try, Brendan.’

  ‘Think about it.’ Moran jabbed his index finger into his temple by way of illustration. ‘How come there was a second envelope in the car? I didn’t know anything about it. It must have been in Joe’s pocket; it must have fallen out when the shooting started.’ Moran’s mind was overloading, laying out the puzzle’s pieces on a mental tabletop, trying to recall exactly what had happened in the hours minutes and seconds leading up to the checkpoint incident – Joe’s comments and observations, his actions…

  ‘Why would they shoot their own? Eh? Answer me that.’

  Moran waved the objection aside. ‘Once the shooting started it was every man for himself. You were there. You know how it was. There wasn’t much discernment being exercised. Joe got in the way of a bullet; no one was targeting him, specifically. It could have been me, or anyone.’

  In the hall, Moran’s grandfather clock struck the hour. Time seemed to have been standing still since Doherty’s forced entry, yet half the night had gone…

  Samantha appeared carrying a tray. Beans on toast, mugs of tea. Moran would have smiled, under different circumstances.

  ‘I let him out. He was desperate.’

  ‘You let the dog out?’ Doherty turned on Samantha.

  She stood her ground. ‘He’s an animal. He has to do what he has to do.’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Moran kept his tone calm. ‘He’ll be back.’

  Samantha set the tray down. ‘Isn’t it time someone told me what this is all about?’

  Moran pointed to his bureau. ‘May I?’

  ‘Go on,’ Doherty growled.

  Moran opened the bureau and reached into a drawer.

  ‘Careful.’ Doherty levelled the revolver.

  Moran brought his hand out slowly, held it up to reveal a discoloured newspaper cutting, preserved in a plastic wallet. He handed it to Samantha.

  She took it, and began to read with a deepening frown. Doherty watched her, sawed at his toast with one hand while keeping the revolver directed at Moran. A minute or so later he had hacked off enough to fold it over the remainder. He picked up the makeshift sandwich, again one-handed, dripping beans, and took a bite.

  ‘My God.’ Samantha put the cutting down. ‘Three senior policemen, shot in cold blood. And a soldier, killed in the crossfire.’ She looked up. ‘A woman.’

  Doherty wiped his mouth. ‘Yes, a woman. The best girl a man could ask for.’

  ‘Oh… she was, I mean…’ Samantha shook her head. ‘I see. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what they all said. All the ‘official’ responses to the incident. The Gardaí express their deepest condolences.’ Doherty waved dismissively. ‘All bullshit. They had a man in there, someone who led these men to their deaths.’ The blue eyes swam momentarily. ‘And my girl, too.’

  ‘Joe Gallagher.’ Moran was shaking his head. ‘We were kids together…’

  ‘You blaming your buddy, Brendan? Like you say, he was just a kid. A student-to-be.’

  Moran nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Until now. I hope I’m wrong, but…’

  Doherty narrowed his eyes. ‘OK, so you say he’s the insider. Well, prove it, then, Brendan. Go on, prove it.’

  ‘Why? You’ve already made your mind up.’

  ‘I’ll make you a deal. Prove to me your mate is responsible, and I’ll let you live. How’s that?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Doherty smiled, a malevolent, confident smile, and tapped the revolver with his forefinger. ‘What do you think?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘This is ridiculous. How do you expect DCI Moran to prove anything?’ Samantha Grant’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘We’ve had no sleep, hardly anything to eat, and you want proof?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Moran said quietly.

  ‘There must have been an enquiry,’ Samantha insisted. ‘Three senior RUC officers? I’ll bet it caused an absolute furore at the time. They must have gone through the evidence with a fine-tooth comb, surely?’

  Doherty laughed bitterly. ‘Evidence? Nah, no one could prove a thing.’

  ‘But why not?’

  Doherty exhaled wearily. ‘The van was torched. Someone broke into the barracks garage and set it on fire. Persons unknown.’ He gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘Oh, I see. So the murderers are still out there? No one came to trial?’ Samantha looked aghast. ‘They got away with it?’

  ‘Yes. Until now.’ Doherty’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and I intend to see it through. This guy–’ Doherty waved his gun in Moran’s direction, ‘–or his mate, whoever. They have the answers.’

  Moran spoke up. ‘Listen, Doherty. I get it. I understand the need for closure. But if you want the truth, we’re going to have to work at it together. I want you to tell me about the vehicles. All of them. Mine, the ambushed car, the van. Did you get a chance to check them out? You found an envelope in my Cortina. Anything else?’

  ‘A camera.’

  ‘That was Joe’s. You developed the film?’

  ‘Two rolls,’ Doherty replied.

  ‘And?’

  Doherty shrugged. ‘Just a bunch of scenic views of Belfast. One of yourself, on the first roll.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  Doherty hesitated.

  ‘You want the truth?’ Moran raised his eyebrows. ‘Then give me what I need. What else have you got?’

  Doherty sprang to his feet again. Samantha shot Moran a warning look. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Brendan,’ Doherty spat. ‘I’ve looked till I’m blue in the face. They don’t tell me anything.’

  Moran opened his mouth to reply but Samantha beat him to it.

  ‘What about your girl? she asked him. ‘What was she like?’

  Doherty’s mouth opened and closed. For a split second Moran thought he was going to lash out, but Samantha’s question had quite the opposite effect. The ex-soldier’s posture relaxed, as if all the fight had suddenly been siphoned out of him. His shoulders slumped, and his arms fell to his sides.

  ‘Alice? She was a gem. One of those rare ones. Hard to find, know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ Samantha said sweetly. ‘And you have those memories, so cherish them.’

  ‘Yeah. I have those.’ Doherty sat down again, dropped the revolver into his lap. ‘It’s the only thing that’s kept me going.’ He looked directly at Moran and the blue eyes reignited. ‘That and the knowledge that, one day, I’d get to the truth.’

  ‘So you’ve been patient.’ Samantha nodded approvingly. ‘In which case anoth
er hour or so won’t hurt, will it?’

  Moran silently admired the skilful manner in which Samantha had defused the situation. She’d make some counsellor, for sure.

  Doherty reached into his bag and withdrew two small folders. ‘The photos.’ He handed them to Moran.

  Moran took them, opened the first and slid the yellowed snaps from their pouch. The negatives were in there too, narrow strips of darker film. In these days of iPhones and Photoshop it was like opening a door to the past.

  The first print caught his attention immediately. Last in, first out; it was the shot Joe had taken outside the bar, minutes before the checkpoint massacre. His own youthful face gazed back at him across the years. He remembered how he’d been feeling, the uneasiness, the sense that something was wrong.

  In the background, another table where two men were sitting, untouched pints of stout on the table in front of them. Moran could just see their car, parked a few yards up the road. He peered at the faces, examined each in turn. He squinted at the tabletop. Was that an empty crisp packet? Yes, he recognised the manufacturers logo. Minutes later, he and Joe would walk past the men on their way to the Cortina. Joe had spoken to one in passing, exchanged some pleasantry. Or was his memory playing tricks? No, Moran distinctly remembered some exchange taking place.

  Then he had it. The cigarettes. Joe had handed the man a pack of cigarettes. Moran examined the photo afresh. The interesting thing was what was absent, rather than what was present. The man had asked for cigarettes, but there was no ash tray on the table, no empty cigarette packet. Nor were there lighters or matches in evidence. Beers untouched. No smoking going on.

  ‘Did you get to check out the van before it was destroyed, or just the Cortina?’ Moran was betting the ex-soldier wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to have a sniff around the perpetrators’ vehicle.