The Enemy Inside Read online

  Moran unlocked the back door as the scrabbling intensified.

  ‘All right, all right.’ He swung the door open and Archie bounded into the kitchen, made a beeline for his food bowl. As the spaniel began his usual investigation of bowl and floor area, a muffled report from the direction of the lounge aligned the pieces of the puzzle neatly and shockingly in Moran’s mind, like a row of matching oranges rung up by some cerebral fruit machine.

  For a moment he was paralysed, rooted to the spot, but now he understood.

  Archie was at his feet, ears pricked up inquisitively.

  He absently patted the dog’s head, closed the back door, walked slowly across the hall and into the lounge.

  ‘You’d better sit down, Brendan.’ Samantha’s tone was businesslike, calm.

  Moran did as he was bidden, being careful to avoid Doherty’s splayed limbs. There was no sign of a second firearm; Doherty’s revolver lay where he had dropped it.

  He sat on the edge of the sofa. There was nothing about Samantha’s appearance or demeanour to suggest that she had just shot a man in cold blood, nor was there any indication of where the weapon might be concealed. A thigh holster? Perhaps, or an underarm. She was good. Very good.

  Moran watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as Samantha took out a mobile phone and made a brief call. She replaced the device in her handbag and sat down, crossing one shapely leg over the other.

  ‘I owe you an explanation,’ she said.

  Moran nodded. ‘I think I’ve got it now. Bit slow, but there’s only one story that fits the circumstances.’

  Samantha pursed her lips. ‘Of course, that’s what this is about. Why this was necessary.’ She inclined her head towards Doherty’s corpse.

  ‘How long have you been…’ Moran searched for the right word. ‘Observing me?’

  ‘Oh, quite a while.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry if I led you on, Brendan. One thing we couldn’t predict was how long it would be before Doherty broke cover – how long it would take him to come after you.’

  ‘So you bided your time?’

  ‘Yes. As did Doherty.’

  Moran digested this information, could think of nothing to say in response.

  Samantha went on. ‘You had the LaCroix case on your hands. He wanted to catch you in a slack period – when things were quieter. He didn’t want to be disturbed when he made his move. Your house is like Piccadilly Circus during an investigation, officers popping in and out like yo-yos.’

  ‘True. I don’t encourage it, but–’

  ‘They trust you, Brendan. They look to you not only for leadership and support, but also for friendship. They know you’re approachable.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know. You’ve obviously done your homework.’ Moran was keeping his cool, but only just. A confusion of emotions was raging through him. He felt betrayed, undermined. Shocked. Foolish.

  All of the above…

  But he may as well know the facts. Nothing could be changed now; not even the truth could turn the clock back. He folded his arms.

  ‘And Doherty? He was your loose cannon, I guess? That awkward consequence which wouldn’t go away, despite your best efforts to keep him under lock and key. Literally.’

  Another nod. ‘Yes. We had to step in on several occasions, when an appeal was due and so on.’

  Moran took a moment to digest this information. He shook his head slowly. ‘You kept the poor guy inside for years, when he could have been freed on appeal?’ Moran shook his head. He felt slightly sick. ‘And this is how you end it?’

  ‘Some context, Brendan. Then you’ll understand. I’m going to brief you and then you’re going to go for a walk. When you get back, all this will be gone.’ She indicated Doherty’s body. ‘Him. Me. The mess. You won’t hear from me again, and there’s no point trying to expose the truth to anyone outside this room. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  Samantha settled herself on the sofa, relaxed and in control. ‘You’re not really a political animal, are you, Brendan?’

  When he didn’t answer, she continued. ‘In my line of work, you have to take a wide view. You have to look at the big picture. In this case, the big picture was developing rapidly into something we’d been hoping for for a long time.’

  ‘In Irish terms, I take it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, let me guess. You could see the IRA were taking tentative steps away from violence and moving towards the concept of a stronger political presence. The Good Friday Agreement was still a long way off, but there was at least a glimmer of hope that political negotiation would bring an end to the Troubles.’

  ‘Very good. And I wonder, do you recall the Derry Five case?’

  Outside, the street was awakening. The noise of buses grinding past on the main road, the postman’s familiar whistle, the high, excited, voices of schoolchildren and cajoling mothers, came to Moran’s ears like sounds from another dimension, some alternative reality. He swallowed hard, trying to quell a rising feeling of panic.

  ‘I remember. It was all over the papers. The Derry Five – they were expected to receive heavy convictions for IRA activity, but were unexpectedly acquitted. The papers reported a month or so later that the same five – amongst others – were standing for the city council elections?’

  ‘You have a good memory, Brendan.’

  ‘But I don’t see–’

  ‘Not everyone was in favour of leniency, Brendan. There were certain senior figures who couldn’t be persuaded that political engagement was the way forward.’

  ‘Senior what exactly?’

  ‘The kind of men who wouldn’t have been averse to finding ways to … how shall I put this … influence a judge during the course of his deliberations, to achieve a favourable outcome. You know, to ensure that an example was made, that the law could not be mocked.’

  ‘The law? Senior police, then. They had the judge in their pockets? But what do they have to do with … oh, tell me another…’ He stared hard at her, lost for words.

  ‘Like I said, Brendan. The big picture.’

  ‘You allowed that ambush to take place? You knew about it and you did nothing to stop it?’ He held Samantha’s gaze, hoping for a denial, but her expression remained implacable.

  For a good thirty seconds he was speechless as the full implications took their final, terrible shape.

  ‘My God. You arranged it.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘An inside job. MI5. Working undercover, posing as IRA.’

  ‘Look at the final result, Brendan. It’s no use bleating at the half-time score.’

  ‘The final result? Three dead policemen, an innocent soldier killed, and this man’s life?’ He jabbed a finger towards Doherty’s crumpled remains. ‘Ruined, and now murdered in cold blood?’

  ‘Not murdered. Neutralised. And a political solution was achieved – a peaceful solution. Decommissioning happened, Brendan. This was the beginning of the process.’ She was ticking off the points on her fingers.

  ‘And what about him?’ Again he pointed to Doherty.

  ‘He came here to kill you, remember?’

  Moran dismissed the suggestion angrily. ‘Kill me? No. He wouldn’t have killed me. He was too screwed up, too wrecked.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

  Moran saw red. ‘I’m a policeman. I have a feel for this kind of stuff – it’s what I do. And the RUC victims? Butchered in an ambush which could have been prevented? That’s murder, pure and simple.’

  Samantha got up, smoothed her skirt. ‘There’s nothing pure, or simple, in our area of operations, Brendan. That’s just how it is.’

  ‘For the good of the whole?’ Moran too, was on his feet.

  ‘Yes, if you want to put it that way.’

  ‘I wonder what you told the PM?’

  ‘It’s a dirty business, Brendan. Whitehall is well aware that, on occasion, drastic action is unavoidable.’

  ‘You could ha
ve done this anytime.’ He pointed again to Doherty’s corpse. ‘Why wait for my involvement?’

  She pursed her lips, considered her response before replying. ‘In a word, Gallagher. Doherty was always going to seek you out. And when he did – well, you were always going to figure out what really happened. If not now, then certainly over time. We know what you’re like, Brendan. Your reputation precedes you.’

  Further light, a dusty, grimy light, was beginning to dawn. ‘You needed evidence, is that it? To prove that Joe Gallagher was working for the IRA? So you used Doherty’s obsession to bring the evidence to light?’ Moran felt a deep, righteous anger. He’d been played like an orchestra, a fool in the pit. ‘Tell me then, what’s Joe Gallagher to you? A little untidy, I imagine, that he slipped out of your grasp back in seventy-eight – I can understand that. But there must be something else about him, otherwise why go to all this trouble?’

  ‘Something else? Yes, indeed there is. You’ll be aware that your friend has enjoyed a successful political career?’

  ‘I’ve not been in touch for years. I recall seeing something about local government a while back.’

  ‘You are behind the times. Joseph Gallagher is earmarked to succeed the current incumbent as Minister for Foreign Affairs and Trade.’

  Joe. A government minister in waiting. It seemed a most unlikely destiny for his old sparring partner. ‘I see. But this wouldn’t suit your purposes?’

  ‘He’s maintained links. Not just to his old IRA buddies, but also to more … well let’s call them contemporary organisations that we’re rather interested in keeping an eye on.’

  Moran nodded. ‘And in the current political climate, you’d rather these contemporary organisations didn’t have friends in high places?’

  ‘Quite. You’ll be aware how sensitive the border question has become with the shadow of Brexit looming large, the backstop deliberations, the real possibility of renewed violence?’

  ‘You’re going to take him down?’

  ‘Of course. It would hardly be appropriate for a man in his position to harbour republican sympathies, however well he’s managed to disguise it over the years. And, as Liam was saying earlier, a happy byproduct of his downfall will be that those poor, bereaved families have the opportunity for closure. They’ll have a name, someone to blame.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Moran shook his head. ‘It’s not … not…’ He gave up. What was the point?

  ‘Not what? Fair? Oh, come on, Brendan, who said anything about fair? There are two sides here, as always: the winning side, and the guys that played fair. Which one would you choose?’

  Moran felt defeat nipping at his heels but the desire to go down fighting was hard to suppress. ‘So what now? How can you be sure I won’t blow this whole thing wide open?’

  They were facing each other, the air between them a hostile, crackling, no-mans land.

  ‘That wouldn’t be wise, Brendan.’

  ‘Right. They might find me floating in the Thames one morning. Poor old Brendan Moran, must have lost his footing.’

  Samantha looked at her watch. ‘I’d say it’s time to take Archie for his walk, wouldn’t you?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Moran walked fast, for once keeping up with Archie’s urgent, frenetic pace. His mind was a whirl of emotions. Betrayal, revulsion, frustration. Impotence. The worst of it was the fact that he couldn’t lift a finger to redress the balance, to make some kind of reparation for Doherty’s tragic life. Once again he was caught in the twilight world of espionage from which there was no easy or obvious egress.

  He turned the corner by the chemist, heading towards the railway bridge, a hundred or so metres from the stile which led to the water meadow. As he walked he noticed a parked car, a sleek, black Audi with tinted windows, on the far side of the mini-roundabout, tucked into the corner of the hotel car park. He’d seen it before – and recently.

  He held Archie on a short lead, memorised the plate as the Audi’s engine purred into life and the car eased itself slowly into the road, passing him at a snail’s pace but then quickly gathering speed as it headed in the direction from which he’d come.

  Moran continued walking, then stopped again. Why was the car significant? If it was owned by a local, then of course he might have seen it around. But it wasn’t that, he was sure.

  Call it in, Brendan.

  The phone box was just down the street, and unusually still live – most surviving red kiosks were being turned into paperback libraries. He made the call, awkwardly with the door half-open, half-shut and Archie impatiently straining on his lead outside.

  DC George McConnell’s voice came through the receiver. ‘What’s up, guv? Thought you were off today?’

  ‘Long story, George. Can you check out a registration for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He passed on the information and left George to it, backtracking to the high street. His house was two minutes away.

  Something was occurring – something worse than he’d been led to believe.

  There was a grey van parked outside his property. No movement in the street. No passers-by – wait, one elderly shopper, moving haltingly towards him. Nothing else out of the ordinary.

  Nothing visible, that is…

  He stopped outside Mrs Perkins’ house. On impulse, he went to her front door and knocked. The door opened after a few moments.

  ‘Hello darling.’ Mrs Perkins looked surprised but pleased. ‘Lovely morning. Might see a little more sunshine today, I think.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, Mrs P. I was wondering if you’d do me a big favour and look after Archie for a while? Sorry to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Nuisance? Not at all. That’s what neighbours are for, darling. That’s what I always say, anyway.’ She bent and ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Good boy. Coming to see aunty for a bit, are we? I’ve got some gorgeous doggy treats in the cupboard. We’ll go and see the ducks, shall we? Take some nice photographs?’

  ‘Thanks Mrs P. Oh, you didn’t see anyone going in or out of my place in the last ten minutes, did you?’

  ‘Well, I’m not what you’d call a nosy neighbour, Inspector Moran, as you know. But I did see a young man coming out just five minutes ago. I thought he must be a friend?’

  ‘Absolutely Mrs P, that’s it exactly. Nobody else?’

  ‘Not that I saw. The gentleman didn’t have the look of one of your usual visitors, at least I didn’t think so. But I’ve been in the garden, so I might have missed any other callers. It’s the postman you’ll be after, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Mrs P. Now, this might sound an odd request, but would you be able to bring Archie to the front door in say…’ Moran consulted his watch. ‘Ten minutes?’

  ‘Of course, darling. Whatever you’d like.’

  ‘Lovely. See you in a bit.’

  Moran smiled reassuringly, and crossed to his own front door.

  You can feel someone’s presence before you see them. So it had always been with Moran, right from the get go. Empty house or company, he could tell instantly.

  ‘Samantha?’

  He advanced cautiously.

  When you return, all this will be gone…

  He nudged the lounge door with his foot, hugely conscious of his vulnerability. He hung back as the door swung open.

  ‘It’s all right, Brendan. Come in, why don’t you?’

  That voice. Older, a little gruffer perhaps, but unmistakeable.

  Joe Gallagher was seated on the settee, one leg crossed over the other. His attitude was relaxed, almost languid. His hair was grey and his cheeks laced with a scattering of broken blood vessels, but on the whole he looked to have weathered well. He was wearing a dark overcoat, tooled leather shoes and a patient expression.

  The room was spotless. Of Doherty there was no sign, not a trace. Moran’s eyes automatically scanned the floor, carpet, curtains. Nothing. Clean as the proverbial, his old Sergeant, Rob Phelps, would have remark
ed.

  ‘It’s been a while, eh?’

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’

  Joe inclined his head in acknowledgment. ‘A fair question.’

  Outside, a car door clunked shut. Moran went to the window. A young guy in a dark jacket was in the driver’s seat of the grey van. As he watched, the Audi he’d spotted earlier slipped past on the other side of the road.

  ‘Pay no attention, Brendan. That’d be my advice.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Joe waggled his forefinger from side to side. ‘You don’t want to know, trust me.’

  ‘Where’s Samantha?’

  ‘Like I said, best you don’t know. Best you don’t go there.’

  Moran’s heart was thudding slowly in his chest. What had taken place during his short absence? He wanted to take Joe Gallagher and his smug expression by his lapels and eject him forcibly from the room.

  ‘You owe me an explanation,’ he managed, ‘for what happened here today, and a lot more besides.’

  ‘Have a seat.’ Joe tried a benign smile, a ‘for-old-time’s-sake’ grin which didn’t quite come off.

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks. This isn’t going to take long.’

  ‘As you please.’

  ‘So. Shall we start with Doherty?’ Moran’s tone was pure ice. ‘The man who wouldn’t let go.’

  Joe considered the question. ‘Or maybe your friends from Thames House – equally and irritatingly persistent.’

  ‘You slipped through the net back then. Theirs and mine.’

  A shrug. ‘It would have done no good if I’d told you, Brendan. To those who wanted you in, well … I said, no way.’ Another grin. ‘The boy’s too much of a law abider. His conscience’ll get in the way, you wait and see.’

  ‘They tried anyway.’

  Joe nodded. ‘They did, they did. But I was proved right, of course.’

  ‘It was you, in Belfast? Following me?’

  ‘On occasion. Not just me.’

  ‘But you took over. Delivered the van.’