	Author's Note
	.....


The background .to this fictional story includes part of
Northern Ireland's secret history that has never been previously
revealed.

It was written in response to the increasingly common policy
of betrayal and abandonment by government agencies of those
who have loyally served the Crown, sometimes at great personal
risk.

A raft of examples have come to light in recent years, ranging
from those involved in the murky clandestine war in Ulster to
company directors doing business with pariah regimes around
the world with the connivance and encouragement of intelligence
agencies.

Yet when such operations come unstuck, as inevitably some do, instead of being protected, co-opted civilian helpers have
been thrown to the wolves - left to carry the can whilst those
ultimately responsible remain answerable to no one. And it has
all been done with transparent deceit or with the breathtaking
pomposity and arrogance of government agencies and ministers
who consider themselves beyond the law.

Defence of the realm is one thing, but whose narrow realm of
self-interest are we talking about?

Despite recent window-dressing, the intelligence agencies
remain largely unaccountable. They would argue, probably
rightly, that they cannot operate effectively any other way. But
as every adult in the real world knows, the price demanded of
individuals in a free society is a sense of personal honour, self
discipline and responsibility. And the awesome freedom
afforded the security services demands those qualities in
equally awesome measure.

Issuing gagging orders and otherwise preventing innocent
parties from defending themselves in law hardly squares with
this. Society without honour and responsibility is anarchy. So

iii


what happens when such anarchy is allowed to run unchecked
by those who rule society?

In the interests of authenticity, the background and chronological
details of some characters in this book have been
inspired by real people. However, my creations are purely
fictional and their personalities and activities subject to wide
ranging artistic licence in the weaving of the tale. Therefore, it
would be totally incorrect to assume any reliable or meaningful
connection between my characters and real people or their
activities and actions, either in the past or in the future. Try to,
and you'd be wrong.

That said, it is primarily a story of action and legal drama to
be enjoyed. In the process, it may enlighten the reader to what
has been done in his or her name. Only you can decide whether
or not that meets with your approval.


Terence Strong
London 1997


Many friends, acquaintances and contacts in Northern Ireland have
made it possible to piece together the fascinating facts within this
story. Sadly, it would be unwise to name them here. But they know
who they are, and the debt of thanks I owe them.

Obviously the fictional organisations I have mentioned should not
be taken to imply any association whatsoever with genuine commercial
businesses of the same or similar names.

Less controversially, I must thank my personal "legal' team of
soliciwr Bill Webb of Sherwood Wheatley (Kingston), who now
packs a tablecloth in his briefcase, and barrister Christopher Sutton
Mattocks for so enthusiastically agreeing to 'take on my case' despite
their already heavy workloads. Any technical errors that remain are
down to me alone. No doubt, neither Bill nor Chris will thank PR
diva Beth Macdougall of M CA for having introduced me, so I will

do that with pleasure. Likewise senior clerk at chambers, Robin
Driscoll, for making me feel like one of the family.

Additionally, I am indebted to Michael Mansfield Q,C for his

vx


words of wisdom and the wealth of thought-provoking mat
within his book Presumed Guilty (Mandarin, 1994); G.
James, who has been through it all, and the stunnrtgl.y cre,
songwriting duo, Rozi and Rob Morris, for kindly llowing
borrow lyrics from one of their songs, "Colours; and use them
very different context. - .

Staffordshire owes as much gratitude as I do w niy dear friena
Hudson of GEC Alstrom for selling me on Cannock Chase. 1"5
Governor Richard Feeney helped immensely and took my des
tions on the chin with good burnout; Officer Dave Hoskins wct
cheerful and patient guide and Mark ('Better luck in the
mate'), Gary and Trey told me the other side of the coin.

Head Ranger of Cannock Chase, John Quigley, will never fro
me for being inaccurately immortalised within these pages, whil,
kind guide to this relatively little-known wildlife haven, Mick Pa
escapes unscathed. Meanwhile my manhunt and dragnet over
territory was kindly orchestrated by Chief Superintendent Ray
ridge (Retd) and Detective Superintendent Alec Salt.

Old friends Nell and John Carter came up trumps again with
contributions, as has my tireless typist Judy Coombes.

And a very personal note of thanks goes to two charming la.
one who lent her name and the other a celebrity actress who un
tingly inspired the character of Sam Browne.

i	Prologue
	. .


'So tell me,' she said. He
was standing at the window, holding the yellowing net
curtain to one side, staring out at the warm, wet night. It had
grown dark while they'd talked and now the soft August rain fell
like sparkling grains of amber around the sodium streetlight.

Just like that, he thought, tell me. As if it was that goddamn
easy. If it were that simple he'd have told them months ago.
Chosen any one of the tabloid hacks who were trying to track
him down, cheque-books out and pens poised. Name your
price, Roddy Littlechild, just name it.

Perhaps he should have done. Taken the money and run.
Let them splash their grotesque headlines between the bingo
promotion and a picture of some semi-naked model. Let them
run to a three-page spread, picking the juicy bits from his story,
making up the parts he had deliberately left out, barely bothering
to check the facts. Not that such facts were easily checked.
No one would ever admit to anything.

But he hadn't wanted that. If it was going to be told at all, he
wanted it at least to be accurate. The cold hard truth.

She spoke again, her voice now edged with impatience. 'It's
gone ten, Roddy. I've got to get home.'

'Sure,' he said, dropping the curtain and turning to face back
into the kitchenette of the seedy little flat.

Lisa Hardcastle. Well-named. Hard-nosed, hard bitch, he
thought. Pushy, thirtysomething director on the Fifth Amendment series for Channel Four. Working for Double Vision
Productions, freelance documentary makers who appreciated
her impeccable left-wing credentials. Journalistic teeth cut on the New Statesman and the Guardian, she was desperate for
recognition and a media award before plunging into belated
motherhood.

His face was in shadow so she couldn't see how he glared at

her, sitting there in her Levi jeans and jacket, her long marmalade
hair a frizzed mess. All carrot cake, non-fat yoghurts and
spritzers, he thought unkindly. She was not happy with the glass
of cheap Tesco plonk he'd poured her. He lit a cigarette and
could sense rather than see her recoil at the spiral of grey smoke
drifting in her direction.

Unfair, Littlechild chided himself. She was just doing her job
and he knew he wasn't making it any easier for her.

And she had good reason to be annoyed. He had dragged
her out here, to his temporary home in Southall, the dowdy
western suburb of London. His bolt hole, his sanctuary. To talk,
while his wife of two years worked the wine-bar shift, because
he didn't want Erie to witness this. Didn't want her to see his
act of betrayal. Because that was what it felt like.

He said: 'What do you want to know?' His Ulster accent had
long since been softened by art easy South African drawl that
wasn't unattractive to the ear.

Lisa sighed, tapping her pencil on the blank sheet of her
notepad. 'This is what - our third meeting? And for the past two
hours you've been chuntering on. Bits and pieces. Nothing
coherent.'

He drew himself up to his full height, several inches over six
feet. 'I can't give you details until we've agreed the money,' he
said.

Money. Christ, that sounded awful, not like him at all. But
that's how it was now, how it had to be, and they'd driven him
to it.

'Chicken and egg,' Lisa replied with quiet exasperation. 'I've
sold my producer on the general idea. He's taken soundings and
the reaction was positive. Panorama and World in Action want
you, not to mention several of the broadsheets. There's quite a
buzz in the office that this could be big. We might even kick off
the new series with you.'

Fifth Amendment - allowing the famous and infamous to give
their version of negatively reported events, to defend themselves
against unpopular public opinion on a platform free from
rival bias. The opportunity to put records straight.

'So how much?' he asked.

'Say a grand per big shock horror revelation,' she repl
allowing it to sound like an auction for scandal. She sin
tightly and her voice was low as she added: 'I'm .sr.ry To
but that's the bottom line. So tell me, when you were worl
for the South Africans in the late 1980s, did yol help sell

to Protestant Loyalists in Ulster?'
	".

'NO,' he replied emphatically. 'That's the whl point.'

She leaned back in her chair. 'So what is the point? What

the exclusive, earth-shattering revelations I can tell my bosse

expect?'

Littlechild lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the 2

Security lamps from the car-breaker's yard opposite sent el

gated shadows across the room, casting Lisa Hardcastle

darkness. He felt safer in the gloom, more secure. And

muted sound of traffic beyond the grimy glass of the win,

created a sense of forced, airless intimacy.

At last he said: 'You can tell your boss two things. Bu

details, not yet. Not until we've agreed figures and a contr:

been signed Okay?'

He was aware of her nodding, saw the glistening whites of

eyes, wide and intent in the deep shadow and thought how 1:

she knew. Even this supposedly tough and cynical journ:

was really just like the rest of them, taking everything at :

value.

But then he realised he couldn't blame her for not un,

standing. It had all begun so long ago, over twenty year..

generation. Lisa Hardcastle would have been in the fifth fc

all ponytail and navy schoolgirl knickers, into Pink Floyd

maybe just attended her first CND .rally.

Twenty years, he thought. How the time had flown, bec

to him it seemed like only yesterday.

Patiently he said: 'I doubt you remember 1969 and the C:

olic civil rights marches. Protesting against discriminatiol

jobs and housing. Against gerrymandering by the Union:

and the brutality of the old B Specials. It wasn't a record

Britain to be proud of, the politicians had ignored the prov!

for too long. Some people had a rough deal before the gow


3

ment sent in the troops to stop Protestant mobs firebombing
Catholics out of their homes.'

Lisa nodded. 'I've done my homework, Roddy, believe me.'
'Well, there's something your homework won't have told you.
At that time, the Dublin Government was seriously contemplating
a military incursion into the North.'

That stunned her; he heard her sharp intake of breath. 'Intervention?
You're not serious?'

'They certainly were.' He moved across to the cheap kitchen
cabinet and opened one of the sliding plastic doors, extracting
two tumblers and a half-empty bottle of Bushmills. Perhaps
she'd prefer this; he certainly felt the need of something
stronger. 'The plan was to seize key installations and protect the
Catholic enclaves. They'd gamble that the British Government
wouldn't want the embarrassment of a fight. Dublin would risk
an odd skirmish, knowing full well that the UN or the Americans
would step in to mediate and that Britain would be forced
out in the end. You have to remember the uncertainty of those
times. Nightly riots, burning barricades, entire fleets of buses
hijacked and torched, shootings and bombings. And all on the
streets of British towns. Imagine those things happening on
the mainland, in Glasgow or Cardiff- but with the additional
threat of intervention by an adjoining foreign country. Thousands
of Irish troops assembled on the border on the pretext of
setting up first-aid stations for Catholic refugees from Ulster.'

She accepted the offered glass, aware that her hand had
developed a slight tremor. 'Would you mind if we had the light
on? This is spooky enough as it is.' As he obliged, she asked: 'So
why didn't the Irish Army intervene?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. But anyway, wiser counsels prevailed,
probably when British troop reinforcements arrived
from the mainland. But that incursion option has never been
removed from the Dublin agenda. That threat has not gone
away.'

She pulled a face, clearly not believing.

Littlechild said: 'The Irish Army has a fully prepared battle
plan and they've rehearsed it regularly on at least two occasions
in the past ten years. Their last exercise was Operation Autumn


4

Gold and that was mounted just prior to the Downing Street
Declaration which triggered the current peace process.'

'But that was only - what? - two years ago.-..Ic.an hardly
believe it.'

'It was a way of putting extra pressure on the.Major Government
to co-operate. Dublin dressed the troop lovements up as
a hunt for Provo arms caches along the Irish 6rder, but that
didn't fool anyone in the know. You don't need armoured cars

and artillery for a weapons search.'
'Did they find any?'
'What?'
'Weapons.'

'What do you think?'

Lisa looked up at him, unblinking. 'Don't fuck with me,
Roddy. This is dangerous stuffyou're saying.'

'Don't I know it, lady. That's why we're talking.' He knew he
should have eaten something. The Bushraills had hit the mark
and his head was starting to swim. His pent-up anger began to
swell, filling his brain to bursting.

At that point the telephone rang. The sudden intrusive noise
made Lisa Hardcastle jump as it shattered the hushed and

secretive atmosphere of the kitchenette. He made no move.
'Aren't you going to... ?'

There was a click as the answerphone cut in, then the tape
began to whir. 'I always call back nowadays, in case it's someone
from the press. I'll see to it later.'

She gave a tightly sympathetic smile. For a moment she felt
guilty, sorry for him. Sorry she'd been one of those hounding
him, contributing to that haunted look in his eyes. 'What was
the other thing?' she asked, squintg down to read her notes.
'You said there were two things you'd tell me now.'

Littlechild swirled the remains of the whiskey round his glass
and studied it intently.

'After backing down from the incursion idea at the start of
the troubles, Dublin changed tactics. It went for the covert
approach. And in 1970 the Provisional IRA was born. The
splintering away of the Provos from the Stickies - sorry, that's


5

the old Official IRA - was actively encouraged by the member
of the Irish administration.'

'What exactly are you saying, Roddy?'

'I'm telling you it was Dublin that organised, then funded
and armed the Provos. They provided a black account and
secretly arranged with dealers in Belgium to provide arrrm
and plastic explosive.'

Lisa had recovered from her initial shock. 'This is true,
Roddy? You're not winding me up - or setting me up?'

'Oh, it's true all right, lady. How else do you suppose those
unemployed thickos on the Lower Falls so easily got hold of an
arsenal of weapons and became experts in making bombs
almost overnight? They were trained by Irish military intelli,
gence at Fortnaree in Donegal.'

'Can you actually prove any of this, Roddy?'

Now she could see his wry smile. 'Ah, proof is it you're after?
Well, I doubt such things were ever committed to paper.'

'These accusations have to implicate some important
political figures or civil servants of the time.' At least she
sounded as though she believed him.

'The problem is knowing who knew what was going on and
turned a blind eye.'

'Can anyone corroborate what you're saying?'

He was silent for a moment. 'There was some media coverage

at the time, but nothing that showed the true extent of what
went on. I've seen documents, though. Not from their side, of

course, from ours. Classified stuff. Intelligence reports.'

'You mean MIS?'

'MIS, yes, and MI6 - they ope(ate in the Irish Republic. A
foreign land, you see.'

She completely missed the subtle point he was making. That,

to him, Dublin represented a sovereign alien state. But Lisa's
mind was elsewhere, racing ahead to explore the possibilities
and problems of making her documentary. SYou don't have

copies of these reports?'

'Of course not.'

'Then it would just be your word.'

'Others have seen them too.'

'Who?'

He swallowed hard on the whiskey before answering. 'Several
people who've been connected with various Loyal!.t .paramilitaries.
And, of course, people in MI5 itself.'

'Retired, you mean?'

He nodded. 'No one currently serving wouldlk. Nor would
ex-members unless it was strictly non-attributabI.'

'Can you think of anyone who would talk on camera? You
know, back-lit? An anonymous silhouette?' Now she could
hardly keep the excitement from her voice.

'I don't know. Some of the paramilitaries might. Many feel
cheated by the concessions being made to the Provos in this so
called peace process. Some might be willing to confirm what
I've told you.' He knew she was testing him. 'All I know, Lisa, is
that both the Loyalists and the British Government were
fighting the PIRA terrorists by the only effective methods available
to them short of provoking all-out war with the Irish
Republic. It's been a messy, dirty battle, but at least it kept the
lid on the terrorists for over twenty years.'

'So what part did you play in this dirty war, Roddy?'

He took a deep breath. 'I've been working with MI5 since the
beginning.'

'You're an agent?'

'I think the term they use is an "alongsider". An agent of
sympathy, if you like. Not for money or any reward - just doing
my duty to the Crown and helping protect my homeland from

those set on destroying it.'

'Very noble.'

'I thought so,' he retorted quietly.

'How exactly did you help, Roddy'

He sensed he'd already said enough. 'That's for later. When
we've agreed a deal. You've enough there to go on.'

'And you never arranged arms shipments to the Loyalists
when you were in South Africa?' she pressed.

His anger flared. 'No, dammit. You'll get all that after we've a
deal, not before.'

She began gabbling then, clearly excited by what she'd.
learned. Talking enthusiastically about talking heads and

dramatic reconstructions. He smiled politely, but inside he fc
like Judas. To Lisa Hardcastle it was all a game. Shock horr
revelations to get the TV ratings up.

'I'll get back to you as soon as I can,' Lisa said, picking up hi
bag. On the dingy landing she hesitated and looked back at
big Ulsterman. 'Thank you for telling me, Roddy, it can't
been easy. What I don't understand is why you've decided
talk now?'

He leaned against the door jamb, feeling strangely relieve
the deed was done. 'Because I've got no choice. It's the onl
way I can clear my name.'

'You mean the rumours?'

He nodded, running a large hand through the thick mass of
curled brown hair in a gesture of exasperation. 'They've all but
ruined me. Just look at this place! I've no job and I'm forced
into hiding with my wife.'

Lisa was puzzled. 'So who do you think is behind these
rlJmotlrs?

He seemed surprised she didn't realise. 'MIS, of course.
Didn't you know?'

She shook her head. 'But you've just told me you've been
helping them for over twenty years?'

'Yes, well, that's true enough. But in the end they started
putting on me, and I refused to help. That's when they turned
nasty.'

'Just because you stopped helping?'

He nodded. 'In their eyes I could no longer be trusted. If I
wasn't with them, I must be against them. As far as they were
concerned I knew too much, could do too much damage. They
wouldn't have minded if I'd stayed abroad, tucked away safely
somewhere. But not back here in London in the middle of this
peace process.'

'MI5 told you that?'

' "Get out of the country or we'll drive you. out." ' He gave a
wry smile. 'I've even been head-hunted by a firm in Singapore.
A totally unsuitable job I know nothing about, but great pay. I
knew who was behind it.'

She was seeing him differently now, glimpsing what lay


8

behind the tense and haunted features. 'So why didn't you
take it?'

He stared at her as though she were mad. 'Because: .this is my
country, Lisa. I've come home. This is where I wantolive with
my wife and raise a family. And if the peace holds, I might
even persuade Evie to move to Belfast, maybe .o.n of the quiet
suburbs...'

Lisa Hardcastle smiled awkwardly. 'Sorry, Roddy. Stupid
question.'

When she was gone, he closed the door and returned to the
kitchenette. He realised his hands were trembling. Too late
now, old son, he told himself. You've done it. He stared at the
bottle of Bushmills. He knew it wasn't the answer, but poured
another one anyway.

What had he told Lisa Hardcastle before she'd left? All that
stuff about going back to Belfast. He drained half his glass in a
single gulp. If only. Dream on, old son.

The door opened then. It was Evie. She looked tired as she
slipped off her damp raincoat and hung it behind the door.
'Who was that woman I passed on the stairs?'

Littlechild sat down on the threadbare sofa and regarded his
wife over the rim of his glass. Thirty-three with pale good looks
and fetching in the plain black waitress dress despite the fourmonth
swell of her belly.

He hated lying, especially to Evie. 'That was Lisa Hardcastle.'

'The
Channel Four woman? But I thought you'd decided...'
'I changed my mind. We can't go on living like this. Look at
you, you're all in. It's no life for you and how are we going to
manage when the wee one arrives?'

Evie poured herself a small measure of the whiskey, sat down
by his side and eased offher shoes. 'You could have told me you
were going to see her.'

'It wasn't something I was proud of. I felt like a traitor.'

She gave a short laugh of derision. 'You, a traitor? Ha, that's a
good one. You don't owe those people anything. They owe you.
If there are any traitors around, it's them. You know how I feel.
about it. Shout from the rooftops.'


9

He looked again at his glass, studying it as though sora
answer lurked within the golden liquid. It was good to have Evi
on his side. But still-- 'Your brother wouldn't agree. He told m
it wasn't a good idea.' ' .

She touched his wrist and gently moved his hand so it reste
on the curve of her stomach; it was a comfort to her. 'Chris i
very sweet and very concerned about his kid sister. And you.
ever since you saved his life that time...'

Littlechild shook his head dismissively. 'It was nothing. I only
did what any other soldier would do for his oppo.'

'Perhaps. But where you and I are concerned, Chris is hardly
impartial. If someone else was in the trouble you're in, I'm sure
he'd say to hell with it and tell the media exactly what's been
going on.'

But Littlechild wasn't convinced. 'Chris has been in the SAS,
right? He's worked with these people - MI5 and the rest. He
knows what they're capable of.'

'Yes, darling, but he hasn't had to go through what we're
going through. It's not his decision to make. For what it's
worth, I think you've done the right thing.'

He grinned at her. She had the knack of always making him
believe that everything would be all right, like a mother's
healing kiss. That short ash-blonde hair and those baby-blue
eyes with their pale lashes that always lifted his spirits when he
felt the world crushing down on him. He was so thankful he'd
married her two years earlier and wondered why the hell he

hadn't asked her fifteen years earlier when they'd first met.

'I love you,' he said.

Her eyes glittered with mischief. 'Let's make love. Here.
Now.'

'Aren't you exhausted?'

'Yes.' She patted the large hand that rested on her stomach.
'But we ought to make the most of it while we can. And I think
we both need cheering up.' As she placed her glass on the
telephone table beside her, she noticed the red light blinking on
the answerphone. 'Did you know there was a message?'

'I'd clean forgotten. It rang when that journalist was here.'
Evie pressed the replay button and turned up the volume. A


10

metallic computerised voice said: 'Message One. Ten-ofivep.m.' A click, then a pause. 'Hello, Roddy. This is Donny Fitzpatrick.
Long time, no see. Did Billy Baker tell you I'd call?.No, look, it's
okay. No need to be alarmed, but I need to see you u/gendy. Please
ring me back as soon as you get in. It doesn't matter.what the time is.
Okay?' He gave his number and the tape clickedoff.

Littlechild felt his blood chill. He wasn't awire that his jaw
had dropped, wasn't aware that he was staring, unseeing, into
space. For a couple of seconds he was aware of nothing in the
room.

His head was filled with the image of the wet playground
in south-west Belfast. Finaghy Primary. Grey skies and black
tarmac. The shriek of children ringing in his ears. Grey flannel
shorts, threadbare blazer. Skinny white legs, knees scabbed and
grey woollen socks collapsed around his ankles. Conkers. His
oncer, soaked in vinegar until it was as hard as stone. Invincible.

Donny Fitzpatrick, the Taig boy from the next street beating
him. From the street that he and his Protestant pals never
ventured into even then. Smashing his oncer to smithereens.
Little Roddy, not feeling the pain where Fitzpatrick's conker
had ricocheted and taken the skin offhis knuckles. No pain, just
shock and crushed pride. To be beaten was bad enough, but to
be beaten by a Taig! That was something little Roddy would
never tell his father. The stern-faced Presbyterian had warned
him enough times not to play with them, not to mix with the
Papist scum for fear of his very soul. It was a defeat he would
have to suffer in silence.

'Who is he?' Erie asked. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.'
Her voice came through to him at last. 'What?'
'Donny Fitzpatrick. Who is he?'

Who indeed? Donny Fitzpatrick, the wee Taig boy who had
once smashed his prized oncer, had gone on to become Chief of
Staff of the Provisional IRA.

'Just someone I used to know. We were at the same school.'
Evie frowned. Since she'd known him she'd learned the
Ulster habit of analysing names, to establish whether they had
Catholic or Protestant roots. 'Is he connected? Is he IRA?'

'I think so,' he said; knew so, he meant. Couldn't be more


11

connected than being a former Chief of Staff, but he
want to worry Erie. And he never told her of the last tim
they'd met, when the British Government was making one ofit
spasmodic attempts to put out feelers for peace. His controll


had asked him to front the contact. He'd obliged as
did, flying back specially from South Africa. But in the end, the
talks had come to nothing.

It had been strange, though, seeing Fitzpatrick again. How he
had changed. As a grubby little schoolboy he'd always had a
cheeky grin on his face, but now he never smiled. The happy
child had grown into a hard and angry man. Yet, for a while
they had talked without rancour or bitterness, recalling shared
memories of better times, not discussing their differences but
remembering all they had in common. A childhood on the
streets of Belfast.

'Were you expecting him to call?' Evie asked.

He drained his drink. 'Not really. I had a telephone call from
someone I know the other day.'

'Was that the Billy Baker he mentioned?'

Littiechild nodded. 'King Billy. One of the Loyalist gang
leaders. Said that he knew Fitzpatrick wanted to contact me,
that it would be a good idea for me to meet him. He was

smoothing the way. Said there'd be no danger.'

'You didn't mention it.'

'There was no point. Billy was persistent, but I told him I
wasn't interested.'

'So Billy Baker's a Loyalist and Fitzpatrick is IRA. At least
they're talking to each other, not shooting. Why does he want to
meet you?'

He shrugged. 'I've no idea.'

'Did you give this Billy Baker our number here?'

'Certainly not.'

'Then how did he get it?'

'I don't know.' He did, of course. Baker had been playing
along with MI5 for some time now; they'd have given it to him.
But he didn't want to worry Evie on that score.

'Perhaps you should find out what Fitzpatrick wants.'


12

Maybe to kill me, Littlechild thought, despite Billy's reassurance.
But he didn't say that to his wife, just: 'Perhaps I should.'

'I mean, if Fitzpatrick's got our number he ..an. get our
address. It wouldn't be difficult. So it wouldn't hurt to find out

what he wants.'
	.,

	'You want me to?'
	"

She smiled tightly. 'If this Fitzpatrick's IRA,-then I'd rather
like to know he's not going to be calling round here on the off
chance.'

	Littlechild nodded. 'He sounded friendly enough.'

	'And there is a ceasefire going on,' she thought aloud.

He made his decision. Erie was right. There was a peace of
sorts and while he and Fitzpatrick had their political differences,
they'd never exactly been sworn enemies. Besides, he was
intrigued. He stood and walked to the telephone table and
dialled the number, realising for the first time that it was a
London exchange.

	Almost immediately the receiver was snatched up at the other

end. As though Fitzpatrick had been waiting for it to ring.
'Donny?'
'Yeah?'

	'Roddy Littlechild.'

'Thank God for that. How y'doing? I was afraid you'd decide
not to get back to me. But I'm really glad you have. I need to

speak with you.'

	'I'm here.'

	'Not over the phone. I need to talk face to face. It's very

urgent. And in our mutua! best interest.'

	'Look, I'm out of all that.'

Fitzpatrick sensed him slipping aay. 'Please, Roddy, I must
speak with you. There's no danger and this is no set up if that's
what you're thinking. As you can see, I'm in London.'

Littlechild hesitated. 'How about lunchtime tomorrow,
somewhere central?'

'I had more in mind now, tonight. As I said it's just a wee bit
urgent.'

	'It's gone ten,' he protested, taken aback.


13

'Look, if you grab a taxi you could be with me in
minutes. I'll pay. It won't take long.'

Littlechild looked at Erie as she attempted to follow the one
sided conversation. She shrugged, bemused. He said: 'Okay
Donny, where are you?'

Fitzpatrick told him.

'No,' Littlechild decided. 'If we're going to meet, make it
somewhere public.'

Fitzpatrick understood. 'There's a pub around the corner.
The Duke's Head, you can't miss it. Do a nice drop of Beamish.

If you hurry, we should get a couple in before they close.'
Littlechild hung up. 'This is crazy.'

Evie smiled. 'I can tell you're dying to see him. You're as: curious as I am.'

'You don't mind?'

She shook her head. 'Only that we were just about to make
mad passionate love, Rodney Littlechild. So you'd better
make it up to me tomorrow night. With accumulated
interested.'


The rain had eased up slightly which was probably why he'd
scarcely stepped onto the pavement when a black cab came
along with its hire light on.

He flagged it down and climbed aboard. For the entire
twenty-minute journey he stared out of the window, deep in
thought and not registering a thing he saw. His mind was elsewhere,
deeply engrossed in what Donny Fitzpatrick could
possibly want with him. Despite his and Erie's reassurance to
each other that he was in no danger, still he felt unnerved. The
war in Ulster might be over, temporarily at least, but there were
still plenty of people with old scores to settle. So it didn't do to
drop your guard.

'Here's the Duke's Head, chief,' the cabby said.

Littlechild leaned forward in his seat as the illuminated sign
approached on their offside. Up ahead he saw another pub, its
lighted windows reflecting on the rain-lacquered pavement.

'I've changed my mind,' he said. 'Drive on and drop me on
the corner, will you?'


14

'You're the boss.' The driver changed down and accelerated.
Littlechild noted the call box as they passed, then dug in his
pocket for his wallet before the taxi pulled up. He -.thou.st a note
through the glass hatch. 'Keep the change.'

Then he was out, moving back along the pa.yement in the
direction from which the taxi had just come, tfatil he reached
the call box. Through its rain-streaked glass, h ould see the
Duke's Head across the street. Dialling 192, he asked for
the pub's telephone number, memorised it and entered it into
the keypad as soon as the computerised voice had come to an
end.

The publican's voice was gruff and disinterested, obviously
irritated by the interruption.

'Sorry to trouble you,' Littlechild said, 'but a friend of mine's
drinking in your bar - we are due to meet and I can't make it. I
wonder if I could have a word.'

A grunt. 'that you think this is? Bloody lonely hearts?'

'I'm really sorry. His name's Fitzpatrick.'

The man didn't answer. For a moment the earpiece was filled
with the background noise of pub chatter and the thud of
jukebox music. Then Fitzpatrick was on the line. 'Roddy? ghat
is this?'

'A change of plan. Have you got a mobile phone?'

'What? Er- no, I haven't.'

'Good. Then leave immediately. Turn right and you'll find
there's a pub two hundred yards up the road. I'll meet you
there.'

Now Fitzpatrick understood; a last-minute switch of venue,
just in case Littlechild was being set up after all. 'I've a lovely
tankard of Beamish smiling at me.'

'Leave it, Donny. Exit this instant or it's off.'

Litflechild hung up and stared across the street. If Fitzpatrick
left within a few seconds, he'd keep the appointment. Any
longer delay and the man might have time to make a call, warn
others of the change of plan. It wasn't foolproof, of course, but
it was a wise precaution.

Suddenly, Litflechild realised that his heart was thumping,.
the blood pulsing in his temples. Then the door of the saloon


15

bar opposite opened and he saw the figure emerge.
died hard, he mused. Fitzpatrick was hunched against
drizzle, wearing Northern Ireland's unofficial uniform
civilians: a hooded waterproof top, blue jeans and trainers.
Walked swiftly, not looking up or around, hands thrust deep
his trouser pockets.

No one followed him. There were parked cars around, but

far as Littlechild could tell, none was occupied. He waited until
he saw his quarry disappear into the Mortar and Pestle, befor
he left the call box and went after him.

He found Fitzpatrick at the bar, waiting for the head of the
second Guinness to be topped up. The two men shook hand
briefly.

'Rotten night,' the Republican ventured.

A smile twitched on Littlechild's face. 'Home from home
Let's grab a seat.'

They sat at a table in the window alcove, away from the
boisterous chatter of the group of locals clustered around
the bar. Fitzpatrick had put on weight, Littlechild thought.
Probably because he was no longer living on the edge, his
nerves were beginning to heal after a year or more of peace. His
face was fuller and he was smiling more than when they'd last
met. Maybe he had more to smile about. But then maybe note

because his eyes remainedas dark and angry as ever.
'Where'd you get my telephone number, Donny?'
A shrug. 'Does it matter?'
'It matters.'

Fitzpatrick wiped the tideline of froth from his upper lip with
the back of his hand. 'We're gctting a lot of unofficial help

during these negotiations with the Brit Government.'

'g'hat sort of help?'

'Expert help. People who can show us the way around certain
obstacles to agreement.'

Littlechild was already fairly certain who had given his
number, for the simple reason that no one knew it. Not even friends and family. Evie hadn't even let her brother know when
they'd last moved home a few weeks earlier. They were determined
to cover their tracks.

16


	He said: 'This expert help - you mean security people?'

Fitzpatrick's face remained a mask. 'Probably. They don't

exactly say.'
	- .,

	'And they gave you my number?'
	" .

'A woman who calls herself White, Mrs Tabitha White.
Claims to be something in the Northern Irelandffice.'

Littlechild felt the muscles tighten in hi hck. Tabitha
White. He might have known. Of all the controllers and handlers
or whatever else they called themselves at MIS, he had good
reason to remember her. Fortyish, upright with twinset and
pearls and highlighted grey hair drawn severely back from her
forehead to form a perfect bun at the back. Peering over the top
of her spectacles like a headmistress, she had given it to him
straight. Get out of the UK or we'll drive you out. Not in those
precise words, but she didn't exactly dress it up either.

Fitzpatrick saw the recognition in his eyes. 'I can see you've
met the lady. Quite formidable, eh?' A dry chuckle. 'And not
unsympathetic to the Republican cause. She suggested you
could be the one to speak to.'

'Before we continue this conversation,' Littlechild said suddenly,
'I'm going to the gents. If you still want to talk, come with
me.'

For a second fear flickered in Fitzpatrick's eyes. Had the
tables been turned? Had Littlechild arranged for a hastily gathered
group of friends to be lurking in wait for him?

The bigger Ulsterman rose from the table and ambled
through the door marked b.y a brass plaque. Fitzpatrick followed
a few moments later.

No one stood at the chipped urinal bowls and a cursory check
confirmed that the stalls were empty. Littlechild turned to
Fitzpatrick. 'Sorry, Donny but if you've been dealing with that
woman, I've got to check you're not wired.'

The man raised his arms, a smile on his face. 'I can see she
really got to you, Roddy. Be my guest.'

He was clean and when they returned to the bar, the tension
had noticeably lessened.

A couple had come in while they'd been gone and had taken a.
nearby table. So when Fitzpatrick spoke he kept his voice low.


17

'I'll not beat about the bush, Roddy. These peace talks had
reached a stalemate. The Brits are saying no all-party confer
ence until we start talking about decommissioning of weapon
There's a fudge on offer by entering a twin-track process. Tlmt
is, we agree to talk hypothetically about handing over arms
how we'd do it in return for all-party talks. Maybe Adams wotki

	with that, probably McGuinnes too. The big bananas at

go

Sinn Fein just fancy themselves as feted politicians and
rest of us. But I'm against it as are the hardline boys down in Armagh and the South. We see it as capitulation and we haven"
fought all these years just to snatch defeat from the jaws
victory.'

Littlechild regarded the other man carefully. 'Forgive me if I
say I don't really give a stuff about the Provos' hand-wringing,
You said you wanted to talk in our mutual best interest.'

Fitzpatrick leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice low.
'Am I right in thinking you're against the way this whole business
is going? You believe the Brit Government is selling the
Unionists down the river?'

Instinctively Littlechild pulled back. 'I'm out of all that,
Dormy. I haven't lived there for over twenty years. I just hope
the peace gets established so my family can go back.'

'Peace at any price, eh?' Fitzpatrick was deliberately goading.

'No. But if the British Government sticks to its position on
IRA weapons, then it won't be a sellout.'

Fitzpatrick chuckled without mirth. 'Don't really think
they'll willingly risk a return to violence, do you? They'll play
the devolution card through the European Union, pass the
problem to Brussels. Then the Eurocrats'll bow to pressure
from the White House. You know that.'

Littlechild was very aware of the likelihood. He knew it was
exactly what most of his Loyalist friends in Ulster believed
would happen, sooner or later. Whitehall couldn't wait to wash
its hands of the province, everyone was sure of that. Noncommittally
he said: 'Only time will tell.'

The other man smiled gently. 'I don't believe you mean that,
and by then it would be too late. I think you're as opposed to
this peace process as my people are - but for different reasons.


18

You can't stop a boxing match before the twelfth round without
a knockout. It can't be done.'

'So what do you want from me?' ?4.

'We're under severe pressure - I mean severd -: to start
handing over weapons. Yet we know you know that.the Loyalists
have a vast secret armoury of weapons. Mayb -eq,.v.en more than
we have. Don't deny it,' he challenged.

Litflechild said nothing.

'I want you to confirm that fact,' Fitzpatrick said, 'swear an
affidavit just confirming the existence and true extent of the
Loyalist armoury. Something we can wave in the face of the Brit
Government and wipe the smug smile off the bastards' faces!
Loyalist arms along with our arms or none at all. The arms
they've always denied you have.'

'Was this Tabitha White's bright idea?'

Fitzpatrick took another swallow of his Guinness. 'It doesn't
matter. It makes good sense.'

'Not to me, it doesn't. I know nothing about Loyalist arms.'
'Maybe you do and maybe you don't, Roddy. The point is
everyone's seen that documentary and read the press reports.
True or not, you've got a reputation. If you speak up, the Brits
will have to listen. We'll have called their bluff, because they
already know it's true. Then the pressure's off and we keep our

guns and Semtex and no one sells you out.'

'You mean the war resumes?'

'Maybe and maybe not, but we keep the status quo. We've
clearly not beaten the British Government into submission yet,

and that's what it's going to take to get what we want.'

'The full twelve rounds?'

'Sure. Let's not stop it in the tenth. None of us likes it the way
k is now.'

The landlord called time. Littlechild emptied his glass and
rose to his feet. 'I'll think about it.'

'Not for too long, eh? You've got my number.' He extended
his hand. Littlechild hesitated before taking it. 'Maybe some
day, Roddy, our kids or maybe our grandchildren will play
conkers together, eh? Like in the good old days.'

Rodney Littlechild turned and walked out into the mild


19

damp night. He was thankful to be away from Fitzpatrick, away
from a world he thought he had finally left behind.

He walked for a while, mindlessly wandering along the
backstreets, his mind in turmoil. Just what game was
White - or whatever her real name was - playing
felt she had a sneaking sympathy for the Republicans' aima:i
although she'd never come out and said so to him. But would:
she really go this far off her own bat? Sabotage everything the
ceasefire had achieved so far? He couldn't believe that. Thexe
had to be another agenda, but for the life of him he couldn't
think what it could be.

After half an hour he found he'd hit a mental blank wall, his
brain refusing to function any more. He waved down a passing
taxi and gave his address.

Well, to hell with Donny Fitzpatrick. If he rang again, it
would be screened by the answerphone and his call just
wouldn't be returned. It had been a mistake ever to have agreed
to meet him.

When he climbed up the creaking stairs to their flat, he found
Evie fast asleep. He was thankful in a way; he really didn't relish
telling her what he had been asked to do. In the dark he stripped
to his boxer shorts and slid beneath the duvet beside her. Gently
he kissed the back of her neck before turning over and falling
into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He seemed to hear all the noises at once. The smash of
the hammerhead and the splintering of wood, the tinkling of
shattered glass and the thud of heavy boots. They intruded
rudely into the velvet nothingness of his sleep, a distant alarm
bell deep within him starting to ring out urgently. He ignored it,
rolled over, snuggling against the warmth of Erie's back. That
was over, his life as a soldier in the African bush all finished.
Even in the restless twilight between sleep and wakefulness, he
reminded himself that his days of perpetual danger were over.
Go back to sleep...

The bedroom door exploded under the impact.

'Christ!' He sat up in bed with a start, his heart thudding.
The pale dawn light .seemed blinding in its intensity, obscuring
the menacing dark shapes moving all around him.


20

'ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE!' The voice was
bellowing, deafening, filling his head. 'DO NOT MOVE!
ARMED POLICE!' .,.

His mouth dropped as he recognised the uniforms the flak
vests and blue NATO helmets of the firearms team as they
jostled for position. Tight, pale faces and internS, excited eyes
behind the lowered visors, arms extended and halt'a dozen guns
held in double-handed grips.

Someone grabbed the duvet, ripped it off the bed. Evie
screamed, suddenly awake, naked and exposed to the gazing
eyes of the intruders.

'Check the pillows!' a voice ordered.

Littlechild reached for Evie as she began to shake and cry
hysterically, waking from a dream into an inexplicable nightmare
of reality.

'Leave her!' another voice said. 'Keep your hands in sight at

all times - stretch out your arms, palms up!'
'What the hell?' he protested.
'Shut it!'

Bewildered, he obeyed as Erie was told to leave the bed. She
was given her dressing gown and told to face the wall. Handcuffs
were snapped around her wrists and she was led out to the
living room.

'Now you,' the officer said to Litdechild. 'Swing your legs
over the side. Stand - slow now - and step to the wall.'

Then he was ordered to kneel before he, too, was handcuffed.
He heard the voice in his ear, smelt the spearmint on the
breath. 'Rodney Albert L(ttlechild, I am Detective Chief
Inspector Millman of the Anti-Terrorist Branch. I am arresting
you on suspicion of being involved in the murder last night of
one Donal Fitzpatrick.' There was a short intake of breath. 'You
do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if
you do not mention, when questioned, something which you
later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in
evidence. Do you understand?'

Already reeling with shock, it took a moment for Littlechild
to register what was being said. Fitzpatrick - murdered - last.
night? He couldn't believe his ears. It was crazy.


21

The hands on Littlechild's arms and shoulders lifted him

his feet and two officers bundled him into the living room.

Evie was waiting, trembling in the half-hearted hug
reassurance from a plump WPC who looked almost
enough to be her daughter.

'This is ridiculous,' Littlechild protested. 'I only met

patrick for a drink...'

'Save all that for the interview,' Millman said. 'But

want you present while we conduct a search. Do '

lawfully held weapons or drugs on the premises?'

As soon as Evie's identity was confirmed, her handcuffs were
removed and the WPC took her to the kitchenette to make tea.
Meanwhile, all curtains were closed as the SO 19
began their thorough and methodical work in pairs.
looked at, into, under and over everything, one hunting while
the second nagged and reminded in case anything was overlooked.
Furniture was moved, cupboards emptied, drawer
taken out, carpets lifted, light-switch plates removed and plugs
dismantled. Whenever anything of remotest interest was found
Littlechild was asked what it was and if it was his? All questions
and answers were entered religiously in the search book.

When one search team finally began examining the answerphone,
a sudden thought occurred to Evie. 'Wait!' she shouted.
'I can prove Roddy didn't go out to kill anyone! That man
called Roddy, begging for a meeting. His message is on the
answerphone.'

Millman appeared irritated. He gestured impatiently to one
of the other detectives to play the tape.

Oh, bless you, Evie, Littlechild thought, relief flooding
through him. Why hadn't I thought of that?

'There's only one message,' Evie said breathlessly. 'The first
one.'

The officer pressed the replay button. Nothing. He looked
up. 'The tape's clear.'

Littlechild felt sick, like dropping in a lift in a shaft. He was
slipping into an abyss and could see no way out. This was all a
terrible, terrible mistake. He'd been caught up in some deadly
coincidence, seen the wrong man at the wrong time..


22

Then, inexplicably, a picture of Fitzpatrick's acned face was
floating before his eyes, laughing and mouthing the words: 'I

can see you've met the lady. Quite formidable, eh?' ....

Tabitha White.

Christi Perhaps this wasn't just coincidence and mistaken
identity after all. Was she somehow involved?--aad if she was,
then he was so deep in the shit he'd never crawl0iaf.

He struggled against the restraining officer. 'I must speak to a
solicitor.'

'All in good time,' Millman replied flatly and Littlechild felt
his only lifeline slip through his fingers.

The SO 19 team leader approached them. 'We're all finished
here now, sir.'

Millman turned to his prisoner. 'Right, let's get you out of
here.'

'Where are you taking him?' Evie demanded.
'To the station for questioning.'
'Which station?'
'You'llbe informed later.'

'No-o-o-o!' Evie squealed in anguish as two officers moved to
her husband's side.

Littlechild resisted, dug his heels into the carpet, forcing
against the muscle power of those trying to propel him forward.
Gasping for breath, he managed to half-turn his head until he

could just see his wife. She looked pale and shocked.

'Get a lawyer, Evie! Quickly!'

She couldn't think, didn't know any lawyers, didn't even have
a family solicitor.

Littlechild was losing his battle of strength, the carpet sliding
and rucklng beneath his feet. His. mind was spinning, panicking.
He'd need someone good, very good. Then an
inspiration. The solicitor who had defended his friend in Ulster
six years earlier. God, what was the name? A blank, nothing.

His resistance crumbled, his body sagging, its weight held by
the arresting officers and his feet dragging the carpet behind
him. The name, the name, the goddamn name? Something to
do with a uniform. That was it, an army uniform - that was it,
like the army belt.


23

'Sam Browne!' he yelled breathlessly. 'Browne with an e. In-!
Belfast!' Belfast was the last word she heard before he waa
bundled down the stairs, past the gawping faces of the other
residents gathered on the landing below.

It was dark and he was frightened. Really frightened.

And cold. Why hadn't he realised that the Iraqi desert would
be this cold at night? Even in the scrape hewn into the shale his
gopher hole - with thermals and fibre pile and feather
sleeping bag, he was still shivering.

Not Arctic cold, but a damp cold that gnawed into his bones.
Or perhaps it wasn't the cold at all. Maybe it was just the fear.
Fear despite the Armalite's reassuring feel in his fingers.

The fear and the dark and the noise. A slow irregular chime
of a goat's bell. Nearer, ever nearer. Knowing that where there is
a goat, there is a herdsman never far behind. And when the
herdsman passed his hide, one of two things would happen.
The herdsman would either not see him and pass by. Or he
would see him and still pass by, pretending that he hadn't.

And then the decision would have to be made - how to
respond? To accept that he had not been compromised and
pray that he was right. Or he would have to creep out after the
innocent old peasant or young boy and slit his throat. Quickly
and silently, so as not to alert the Iraqi mobile patrol that was
camped in the nearby wadi.

He peered out over the rim of the hole. It was pitch black- no
moon, no stars. He felt very alone, still finding it hard to accept
he'd become separated from the rest.of the team. But the chime
of the bell had receded now, and the immediate danger had
passed. He must preserve his energy, get some kip. So cold, so
tired.

The hand was on his shoulder, startling him. 'Get up!'

He tried to turn, to twist away and bring the Armalite into the
firing position, but his body was paralysed. He stared at
the blackness, heart tripping and the icy sweat drenching his
body. Still he could see nothing. It was so dark that he thought


25

he'd gone blind. Again he felt the goatherd's bon,

shoulder shaking him. Imagined the wizened face. '
'Dad, for goodness' sake get up!'

Lomax awoke with a jolt. He was lying, shirt unbuttoned

the sofa and a chill August breeze was jigging the curtains at l
open French windows.

'Come on, Dad, do you know what time it is?'
demanded. 'It's nearly eleven and the place is a tip.
of stale cigarette smoke. God, you'd never have got away
this if Mum was still living here. It's disgusting!'

God, his head hurt. The deep pulsing throb began at

of his head and spread across his skull until it ended in red rawl

pain behind his eyeballs. He tried to move. Christ!

'Do you want an Alka-Seltzer?' Impatient.

He moved his mouth to speak. It was as parched as the Iraqi
desert of his dream. 'I'd like - a little peace and quiet.' He
looked up at his nineteen-year-old daughter. Techno college
sweat shirt, blue jeans and a beguilingly pretty face had it not
been for the sternly disapproving eyes behind those awful steel
rimmed
Trotsky specs. 'And a ton of aspirin.'

'I'll get you some Codeine.'

Ah, she cares really, he thought, and watched her walk briskly
towards the kitchen. Her mother's walk, purposeful with a sort
of unselfconscious flick of the hips with each stride. Careful not
to jerk his head, he looked around the living room. Partypopper
streamers still hung from the light fittings and battalions
of dead men lined the drinks cabinet. CDs and old vinyl 45s
were strewn over the dining table, testament to their raucous
singalong down memory lane.

And there had been a lot of memories to recall, he thought,
and not a few ghosts to lay to rest. Friends and foes alike, but
thankfully more foes. For some at the party those foes had
been Communist terrorists in Malaya, Indonesian guerrillas in
Borneo and Yemeni infiltrators in Oman. For Chris Lomax it
had been Argentinians, Provo gunmen in Ulster, Bosnian Serb
militiamen and Iraqi conscripts. Not to mention a lonely goatherd
in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No, he decided savagely, definitely not to mention him.


26

And friends who hadn't made it, who had failed to 'beat the
clock' that stood in tribute to their memory at the Stifling
Lines barracks of 22 Special Air Service Regiment.'.m..Hereford.
Scottie, Jama, Mike Ash. Some Lomax had know/a personally,
some not. All gone. They'd toasted them all.

Was it really twelve years since he'd first passet selec/ion from
the Parachute Regiment already a 'mature' e/it/ant of thirtytwo
years? It seemed like only yesterday. No, it was only yesterday.
And here he was, unwanted, yet with still so much more
to give. Rejected. Compulsory retirement they called it, but
that wasn't how it felt. He felt as young today - well, perhaps
not today exactly - as the day he'd stormed across the windragged
spine of Pen-y-Fan to establish a record time for the
Regiment's 'fan dance' that was yet to be broken.

Manda returned with a glass of water the tablets already
dissolving. 'I'm cooking breakfast. D'you want some?'

He managed to hold down his bile at the very thought, and

gulped the disgusting bitter liquid. 'I'll pass, thanks.'

'You look dreadful. I'd hate to be your liver.'

'And I'd hate to be your sense of humour. Or your compassion
for that matter.'

'You've given me compassion fatigue, Dad. I'd feel sorry for
you, only you're so busy feeling sorry for yourself there's no
room left.'

A lop-sided grin cracked his face. 'Out of the mouths of
babes...'

She laughed, smiling for the first time. 'It's a good job I love
yola .'

'You have a funny way ofshowirtg it.'

'It's for your own good.'

He handed back the glass. 'Now, don't I remember your
mother using those self-same words?' He could focus more
clearly on her now. 'Has everyone gone?'

'Tig, Bill, Gypsy Pete and Toothbrush got a taxi back to
Hereford at seven. Most of the others went about half an hour
ago, including Jerry Tucker - he wanted to catch the midday
Belfast shuttle. But Ran's sleeping it off in the spare room - if
anything, he's in a worse state than you.'


27

He pounced on that. 'See? The youngsters haven't got

stamina of us old-timers.'

'No, Dad, but he had flown halfway round the world to be

your farewell bash. He was zonked with jet lag before he.

got here.'

'Mmm.' Grudging.

'Len Pope's running down to the newsagent's to get
paper...

Ah, not so good. Pope was his own age and had left th
Regiment a month earlier. And the newsagent's shop was three
miles away.

'And Joe's waiting for his breakfast.'

Well, 'Big Joe' Monk would be, wouldn't he? He'd retired on

the same day as Pope and had never been one to run when he
could walk. Or better still, hitch a lift.

'It was a good turnout,' he thought aloud. 'And your cake was

a great surprise. Thanks.'

Only a few crumbs remained of the shield-shaped rich fruit

mix with its sand-coloured icing and skilfully piped winged
danger and motto on a scroll.

'It's a pity most of it ended on the wall.'

'Ah.' His memory of that bit was foggy. 'Big Joe started that.
Threw it at that officer he never could stand. Said he'd always
wanted to frag him and this was his chance. Then everyone
seemed to take sides.'

Manda looked at the wallpaper. 'So I see. Still, you've plenty

of time now for redecorating, haven't you, Dad?'

He groaned as she returned to the kitchen.

Still, as he'd said to her, it had been a good turnout.

Shame Rob D'Arcy had to leave at midnight. Lucky the man
managed to make it at all really because he was a big fish now
out there in the civilian pond, running a multimillion-pound
security company. High-powered stuff with worldwide government
contracts. He might yet find himself beating a path to
D'Arcy's door like so many before him.

But a greater shame was the fact that Roddy hadn't been
there.

In fact, the big friendly Ulsterman wasn't anywhere, that was


28

the trouble. Lomax's sister and Roddy Littlechild had upped
and disappeared just four weeks earlier. And they'd left no
forwarding address. -..

Lomax wasn't unduly concerned. He knew the'reason why,
because Roddy had hinted heavily at what he might do the last

time they'd met.
	".

	Since his late teens, Roddy had spent all bu vo years out of

	twenty-three in Africa. He had first gone to Rhodesia where he

	served in the army, returning to Britain only after the collapse of

	the white Smith regime when the country's name was changed

	to Zimbabwe. "

	That was when he had joined the Parachute Regiment,

	meeting Lomax- and his little sister Evie, just eighteen- for the

	first time.

	After two years, during which both men had served together

	in the Falklands campaign, Roddy had gone back to the conti
	nent
with which he was besotted and joined the South African

	security police. Foreseeing black majority rule and the

	country's likely collapse into chaos, he'd returned to England

	again in late 1992.

	Within eighteen months he'd established himself in a job as

	senior vehicle mechanic, had bought a small house and had

	married Evie.

	Then the TV documentary had been shown, hinting that

	Roddy had been involved in smuggling arms to Loyalist terror
	ists
in Northern Ireland. Press stories followed.

	He was sacked from his job. Just when he thought he'd

	secured another one, the offer would be withdrawn at the elev
	enth
hour. In desperation, he'd set up his own small vehicle

	repair business, despite being badly undercapitalised. But the

	media stories of his Loyalist terrorist connections persisted and

	his customers deserted him. He and Evie were at their wits' end

	about what to do and were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

	During a long and sombre night's drinking with his old

	friend, he had confided to Lomax that he'd long been associated

	with Britain's Security Service, but now they had fallen out. It

	was they, he claimed, who were behind the smear campaign in

	an effort to drive him from the country.


29

In truth, Lomax wondered if his friend wasn't

a little paranoid. Nevertheless, it was hardly any wonder

Roddy and Evie had gone into hiding to escape the

newshounds and attempt to start a new life.

Lomax knew they'd contact him again when the dust

settled over their tracks. It was just a shame it hadn't

before last night. Because whatever Lomax owed his

the Regiment, past and present, he owed no one more than

old comrade in the Paras.

He owed Roddy Littlechild his life and you couldn't

more than that.

Easing himself from the sofa, he walked unsteadily to

mirror above the sideboard. A monster with bloodshot

eyes and tangled fair hair like a bird's nest stared back at

He hardly recognised himself- only the

chin and straight nose looked familiar.
	:

	Monk appeared at the door. 'Shit, Chris, you look awful.'

	Lomax looked over. The huge moustachioed man with

tombstone teeth was clutching a tumbler of gooey yellow liquid.

'You don't look so clever yourself. What's that?'
'Bombay oyster. Raw egg, brandy...'
'I know, I know.'
'Never fails.'

The thick smell of bacon and eggs was wafting from the
kitchen. 'Serving up!' Manda called.

'She's a dream, that girl,' Monk said. 'I should divorce
Marsha and marry her.'

'Don't even fantasise about it,' Lomax warned.

'Come and watch me eat.'

Monk amassed a mountain of sausages and mushrooms to go

with his egg and bacon, taking Len Pope's share on the basis he

was 'late for mess breakfast', a cardinal sin in army life.

'So how are you finding civvy street?' Lomax asked.

'Great, like being on permanent R and R,' Monk replied
through a mouthful of food. 'Nice lie-in till it's time to stroll
down to the boozer for a liquid lunch.'

Lomax knew his old friend well enough to read between the


30

lines: he was bored out of his skull. 'Don't think Manda would
let me get away with that.'

She dumped the toast rack on the table. 'You....e.em to be
making a good start, if you ask me.'

'I'm not asking you, sweet child.' He looked.back at Monk
and his true feelings, his suppressed anger,bubbled to the
surface. 'It's all such a bloody waste, Joe! I ask6u, forty-five,
that's all. Years of practical experience, all dumped because of
some edict from paper-pushers in Whitehall who've never seen
a shot fired in anger.'

Monk regarded his friend through the steam of the coffee
mug he nursed between his enormous hands. 'Was a time,
Chris, when you and me would have been running down to the
newsagent's with Len. When we reckoned a fifteen-klick run
was the only cure for a hangover. Maybe them pen-pushers
aren't so much green as cabbage-looking.'

Lomax grinned. Monk had a point, maybe they had slowed
up. A bit. 'What's on the job front?'

'Bugger all. But I bent Rob D'Arcy's ear last night. Plenty on
if I don't mind a divorce and ten months a year in Moscow or
Kazakhstan. Marsha won't put up with that, but I don't see I've
an option.' For a second, his cheerful expression appeared to
fade. 'And what about you? How's that book of yours coming
along?'

Chris Lomax's account of his harrowing exploits in the Gulf
War had been a major talking point and source of goodhumoured
ridicule in the Squadron for the past six months.
Jokes about how he'd be a millionaire if he followed in the
footsteps of Bravo Two Zero and The One That Got Away.

'I've spoken to a couple of publishers,' Lomax said, 'but they
both reckoned it would be a book too many on the subject. Said
the market's been saturated.'

At least its writing had been a sort of therapy. There'd been a
sense of relief in spilling out his fears and emotions on paper,
baring his soul about the mission that had damned near turned
him into a nervous wreck and had driven Fran out of his life
after twenty-one happy years of marriage. That must have taken
some doing, he realised now, and all because he couldn't face


31

up to the fact that his bottle had gone. Couldn't accept that he'ff
become a coward overnight, that he jumped every time he
heard a car backfire, and froze in action because all he could see
in his mind's eye was the enemy's rounds whistling directly
towards him. Only him. Each with his name clearly engraved on'
it. But at least now the bad dreams were less frequent.

Manda said: 'Maybe your appalling spelling and bad
grammar had something to do with it.'

Lomax frowned. 'That's unfair. It's not that bad.'

'What about a book on tracking and survival?' Monk asked:
'You're the best I've ever known.'

'A compliment from Joe Monk - I'll treasure this moment.'
They shared a laugh. 'Thanks anyway, but old Lofty got there
first.'

'You're better than he ever was!'

'Makes no difference, Joe, no one's interested.' His daughter
had removed her apron and joined them at the table. 'Manda

thinks I should set up a business of some sort.'
'What sort?'
'No idea.'

Manda said: 'Trouble is, Dad hasn't got a clue about the
commercial world.'

Lomax laughed: 'A vote of confidence from the Business
Student of the Year.'

The telephone rang in the hall.

His immediate thought was Hereford. The adiutant at Stirling
Lines, calling him in for an emergency. But then he
remembered and the thrill of anticipation died before he even
lifted the receiver. Probably a cold canvas call from a doubleglazing
firm.

'Lomax speaking.'

'Oh, Chris, thank God you're home!'

'Evie? How are you? Sorry you missed the party.'

'Chris, something awful's happened,' she gabbled. 'They've
taken Roddy away.'

He realised something was wrong, badly wrong. His sister
was almost hysterical and making no sense. 'What d'you mean,
sis? Calm down. Who's taken him away?'


32

'The police, this morning. They just smashed their way into
our bedroom. It scared the life out of me. It was awful.'

'Why, Evie?' This was madness, he thought, ashe tried to
sound reassuring. 'What did the police want?'

She was starting to sob now, her words almost incomprehensible.
'They arrested him, Chris. They aiused him of
murdering a man he met last night. It's not true- Chris, it's just NOT true!' She was almost screaming.

'Of course it's not, Evie,' he consoled, still bewildered.
Murder? God, had Evie really got this right? It was too improbable
for words. 'Where are you now?'

Tm calling from our new flat in Southall.'

'Have they taken him to the local nick?'

'I don't know where, they refused to say. Oh, Chris, it's awful!

The police seemed to think he was some kind of terrorist.'
'You're joking!'

'No. Maybe that's just because of the man they say he murdered.
Someone called Donny Fitzpatrick.'

The small hairs sprang up on the back of his neck. He really
wasn't hearing this. If it was the same man, Dormy Fitzpatrick
was a former Chief of Staffofthe Provisional IRA.

'He hasn't even got a lawyer. Chris, he must have a lawyer,

mustn't he? I mean this is a murder charge :

'Er- lawyer? Yes, yes, of course.'

'He told me to get this solicitor in Belfast. A man called Sam
Browne. With an e. I've tried Directory Enquiries, but they
haven't got a number for him and I've no idea which firm he
works for...'

'Look, don't worry, sis, I'm on my way. I'll sort it out. Don't
fret.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll be.with you around two. Give
me your address.'

She told him, his words of calm authority like a balm, and her
blubbering sobs reduced to an occasional sniff as she fought
back the tears.

He hung up and returned to the kitchen. Monk and Manda

were staring at him, sensing something was wrong.

'Vgnat is it, Dad?'

'Roddy's been arrested for murder.'


33

Monk's mouth dropped. 'Your mate, Roddy? Your

bloke?'

'And it gets worse. If I understand it right, he's supposed

have murdered someone in the Provos. In London last night.'

Manda looked stunned, the blood draining from her

'Roddy wouldn't?...'

Lomax shook his head. 'I don't know. But I can't stop

discuss it now. I've got to get down to London.' He turned t
daughter. 'A chance to put your business management training
to use - I want you to get onto the Law Society in London am
find the current whereabouts of a solicitor called Sam
Samuel Browne, with an e. Used to work for a practice in
Belfast. Roddy's in deep shit, so don't take no for an answer.
Call me on the mobile as soon as you've got a number for him.'

'Solicitor called Sam Browne,' Monk repeated thoughtfully.

'Rings a vague bell.'

Lomax nodded as he picked up his car keys from the rack by

the door. 'I think Browne was the name of the solicitor who
defended Peter Keegan in Belfast about six years back.'

'I remember Keegan. An agent the army was running in the

Ulster Defenders, that Loyalist paramilitary lot. Overstepped

the mark and got done for conspiracy to murder.'

Lomax said: 'I was backup to Keegan's army handler for a

while. Point is that Keegan and Roddy knew each other from
way back, went to the same school. I guess that's why Roddy
thought of this bloke Browne.'

Manda said: 'So this man Keegan was found guilty?'

'Yes,' Lomax replied. 'It was a stitch-up. He went down for

twenty years.'

'Then are you sure this solicitor Sam Browne is a good

choice?'

Lomax's and Monk's eyes met across the table. There was no

answer to that.


Rodney Littlechild stared up at the fluorescent tube that cast its
stark light around the bare walls of the interview room. There
was only a burly and untalkative uniformed officer by the door.

They were letting him stew, he knew. For maybe half an


34

hour now they'd gone to the canteen for a break. Millman had
promised him a cup of tea. It hadn't yet materialised.

Littlechild wasn't surprised. He'd sat in on e.nou.gh police
interviews in South Africa, when they'd had a susiaected ANC
terrorist in, to know all the tricks, all the wrkles. Some of
those Afrikaner slopeheads could get the P0.-e. to confess to
devil worship and they'd been none too fussed about how they
extracted their information. Resorting to physical force wasn't
unknown and mental torture quite common. Even his protests
when they went too far were unheeded. Not a few suspects had
hurled themselves to their deaths through windows rather than
face another bout of questions.

Thank God this was Britain, he thought, where things like
that didn't happen. And he was grateful now for the hours of
horrific anti-interrogation training he had endured both in
South Africa and in Rhodesia before that. In those days it
wasn't mild-mannered English cops they were expected to be
up against, but thumbscrews from Cuba backing up terrorist
guerrilla forces in Angola and Mozambique.

He glanced at his wrist. Just a pale strip of skin where the
strap had been. Bastards! No window in the airless room with
its closed-circuit TV cameras and wall-mounted pad mikes.
Nothing to tell him if it was night or day. Around noon, he
guessed, but in a few hours he'd start to lose all track of time.

Without warning the door opened. Detective Chief Inspector
Millman was back, big with broad shoulders encased in a
slightly crumpled charcoal suit, hair dark and wavy with flecks
of silver at the temple, and blunt unsmiling features that might
have been chiselled out of a lump of rock.

With him was the slim, ginger-haired DS Henwick whose
slight harelip gave him a quite sinister look when he smiled,
which he did a lot. Mostly he played 'soft man' to Millman's
'hard man', although already they'd swapped roles too often to
be convincing.

Millman gave a wintry smile. 'Sorry, Rodney, the tea
machine's out of order. Still, a service engineer's due in later.
Won't be long.'

'No problem,' Littlechild lied. His throat was parched and he

35


knew damned well you didn't run a nick the

Green without a constant flow of hot liquid. But he wasn't
going to let such a crude tactic get to him.

Millman seated himself on the opposite side of the interview
desk next to Henwick who reached for the twin-deck tape
recorder and snapped it on.

Millman said boredly: 'Interview with Rodney Albert Little
child resumed at 12.30 hours. Present: DCI Mlllman and DS
Henwick of the Anti-Terrorist Branch.'

'I demand a solicitor,' Littlechild said. 'You're not holding
me under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. This isn't fight.'

'Don't be obtuse, Rodney,' Millman replied in an even tone.
'The custody sergeant explained it to you and you said you
understood.'

'It's still not right.' Worth pushing it, he thought.

Millman sighed. 'You're being held under the Police and
Criminal Evidence Act 1984, Section 58, as authorised by
Detective Superintendent Dymock. That means that for a
serious arrestable offence I can refuse you permission to consult
a solicitor for up to thirty-six hours.'

'Look, Roddy, a little co-operation and we can all get some
rest,' Henwick added amiably. 'It's not nice being without representation and we don't like doing it, but it serves a purpose.
We know you've had accomplices in this murder and we want
them too. Someone must have tipped you off about when and
where Fitzpatrick would be. And someone else probably
supplied you with the murder weapon.'

'That's nonsense,' Littlechild replied.

'And we want those people too, Henwick persisted. 'You're
known to associate with members of Loyalist terror gangs - no
point denying it, Special Branch has confirmed as much - and
therefore witnesses to your crime could be in serious danger
from your associates.'

Littlechild shook his head. 'Even if it were true, what difference
would it make if I had proper legal advice?'

'Because a lawyer could deliberately or unwittingly tip offthe
rest of the gang,' Millman interjected. 'So to my mind, it justifies
the precaution in this case.'


36

'So tell us who else was involved,' Henwick said with that
well-intentioned smile of his.

Littlechild sighed. 'I had no accomplices for?.tl?e simple
reason I haven't murdered anyone!"

'You're not making things any easier for yourself, Roddy. So
okay, let's go over your version of events agairt, starting with
what you were doing yesterday evening. You"sy you had a
visitor at your flat. A television director-journalist called Lisa
Hardcastle, right? And you were discussing the making of a
programme that denies your alleged involvement with shipping
arms to Loyalist paramilitaries in Northern Ireland?'

'Correct.' He'd earlier considered hedging, but no doubt the
police would be interviewing her anyway. 'The phone rang
while we were talking, so I let the answerphone pick it up.'

'So when did Miss Hardcastle leave you?' Henwick asked.

'About ten fifteen. At the same time my wife came home. She
noticed the artswerphone light was on.'

'Ah, the mysterious vanishing message,' Millman said.

'It was Donny Fitzpatrick asking to meet me. Ask Erie, she
heard it.'

'Had your wife ever met Mr Fitzpatrick?' Millman asked.
'No.'

'So she'd never heard his voice?'

'No.'

'Therefore, this person could have been anyone impersonating
him?'

Litflechild shook his head. 'That's crazy. Who'd want to do
that?'

'An accomplice perhaps? If you or your wife hadn't accidentally
wiped the tape, it might're gi.ven some credence to your
story that Fitzpatrick asked to see you. I mean, we are aware
that your wife has no criminal record, is of good character and
has never even set foot in Northern Ireland. If she heard such a
message, she'd believe it and you. A jury might find her testimony
quite convincing.'

'I phoned him back. She heard that too.'

'But your wife only heard one side of the conversation, right?
Your side?'


37

	'So again, it could have been anyone.'

	'But it wasn't!' Littlechild protested.

	Millman persisted. 'It could have been your

again. Tipping you off where Fitzpatrick could be found

perhaps just confirming?'

	'It was Fitzpatrick who answered.'

	'Fine. We will check your telephone records.'

	Littlechild felt a sudden flood of relief. He',

that; the phone company's records would back his story.

	O


	'Fitzpatrick's address was written on the pad by y ur phone

Henwick pointed out mildly, 'yet

	'I wrote it down, then changed my mind.

a trap. I arranged to meet him at a pub.'
'The Duke's Head?'
Littlechild agreed.

	Millman said: 'You are seriously asking us to believe that you

who have friends in the Loyalist paramilitaries and have been
alleged to have supplied them with arms, went voluntarily and
unarmed to meet a former IRA ChiefofStaffalone?'

	It sounded lame, he knew, and he wished to hell herd never

even considered it. 'We were at school together as kids. There
was never any personal animosity between us. And he sounded
genuine on the phone, as if he needed my help. He said a
meeting would be to our mutual benefit.'

'Only such a meeting never took place, did it?' Millman
challenged. 'You see, we've traced the taxi driver who picked
you up outside your home and took you to the Duke's Head. He
says when you got there, you told him to drive on. You alighted
several hundred yards away. I suggest it was so that you could
watch and stalk Fitzpatrick back to his apartment where you

shot...'

	'NO!'

	'We've spoken to the landlord of the Duke's Head. He recognised
a photograph of Fitzpatrick. Says he was drinking alone,
having arrived about ten thirty. He remembers particularly
because Fitzpatrick received a call from someone to say he
couldn't make the meeting.'


38

'I know,' Littlechild hissed. 'That was me!'

Millman looked perplexed. 'But you'd just been dropped
across the road. If it was you, how come you could. 't make it?

Bunions playing you up?'

'I've already told you. I phoned from a call b0.x" to change the

venue. To the Mortar and Pestle just down the mad. I wanted to
see Fitzpatrick leave alone, to be sure there was n 6he with him.
To be sure it wasn't a trap.'

'So despite once being schoolboy chums, you didn't trust
him after all?'

Littlechild fell back in his chair, drained. Even in his
exhausted state he knew it sounded contradictory. But why
does anyone do anything? Not all actions and decisions are
based on sound logic or reason, we just do them.

'I can look at this one of two ways,' Millman continued.
'Either that call was made by the man Fitzpatrick was really
meeting there and who genuinely cancelled their rendezvous.
Or I can believe your story so far, except that you phoned to
cancel the meeting - to enable you to avoid being seen by
wimesses, having safely established his whereabouts so you
could stalk him to a place where it would be safe to murder
him .'

'For Christ's sake, I phoned him to change the venue, not
cancel the rendezvous.'

'That's not what you told the landlord. Why should you lie to
him?'

Littlechild felt his exasperation rising and fought to hold it in
check. 'I just wanted to speak to Donny. The landlord didn't
want my whole life history. Anyway, I did speak to Dormy and

we met at the Mortar and Pestle about ten minutes later.'
'What time?'

'I don't know. About ten to eleven. I think they'd already
called last orders. You can check it out, the barman will have
seen us and probably the crowd at the bar - I think they were
regulars. Oh, and a couple - a middle-aged man and a younger
woman - who came in just after us. Looked like a husband and
wife, didn't say much, just shared a packet of pork scratchings.' .

The wan smile on Millman's face looked curiously out of


39

place as he extracted a notebook from his inside pocket. 'While
I was on my break, I called the investigating officer who has
been to the Mortar and Pestle and I have to tell you informally
that the landlord does not recall seeing anyone resembling
either you or Donny just before closing time. Nor your
colourful description of the married couple. Maybe one of the
regulars will remember you. We haven't traced them all yet.'

Littlechild sat stony-faced. He remembered the group,
standing around laughing and joking, celebrating someone's
birthday, all eyes on some wag Who thought he was a comedian.
He wouldn't be surprised if none of them had noticed him or
Fitzpatrick.

Henwick spoke next. 'What did you do after this meeting you

allege you had with Fitzpatrick?'

'I went home.'

'How? By public transport or taxi?'
'Taxi.'
'Straightaway?'

'No, I walked for a bit.'

'How long?'

'I don't know, thirty minutes, maybe forty. I wanted to think.'

'Are you aware,' Millman added, 'that we are able to pinpoint

the time of death to eleven forty-five? Where were you then?'
'Walking.'

'I see. Well, unfortunately for you, Mr Littlechild, we know
otherwise. What you will not have been aware of is that, because
Mr Fitzpatrick was a leading IRA figure involved in the peace
negotiations, he was being kept under discreet surveillance. He
was watched entering the Duke's Head alone and leaving alone.
I understand he took a short stroll before returning to his flat.
Shortly afterwards a man was seen in the grounds and entering
the premises. Moments later one of the team realised where
they'd seen that face before. Your face, Mr Littlechild.'

The Olsterman gave a snort of derision, 'Your people
wouldn't know me from Adam!'

'My people - no, perhaps not. But this was an MI5 surveillance
team and one of them had seen your picture on file.


40

Apparently, you keep contact with some pretty unsavoury
friends in Belfast.'

Littlechild stared at the man opposite. Any doult he had
were dispelled. Now he knew and he felt the claminy hand of
fear run its fingers down his spine. .,.

'Sorry, Roddy,' Henwick said cheerfully, 'buttlgoks like you
walked straight into it., When the MI5 officer finally put a name
to the face, you were followed inside. It was an unfortunate

delay. Barely a minute later, Fitzpatrick was found dead.'
'How was he killed?'
'Why don't you tell us?'
'Because I don't frigging know!'

Millman said: 'Then let me remind you. A silenced .45
automatic. Six rounds, fired through the front door. Four hit
him. A nasty mess.'

Henwick couldn't bear to be 'Mr Nice Guy' any longer.
'Looks like you could be facing a life sentence, Roddy.'

The blood drained from Littlechild's face. This was no
coincidence, this was far, far more than just being in the wrong
place at the wrong time.

41


Barney winced as the enormous padded red glove thudded

the punchbag.

He really didn't fancy being on the receiving end of

Packed a hefty straight-armed jab. And a pretty mean

for a girl.

She was light on her feet, dancing all the time, the

shorts sighing as she moved on the balls of her feet,
the long tanned legs. Tall, but shoulders hunched now t
present a smaller target to the imaginary opponent. Just
eyes peering over the top of the gloves, hard and bright
sapphires, waiting for her chance. Fair hair pinned tight
from her face, drops of perspiration glistening on her high
cheekbones.

Thwack.t Lean muscles rippling along her arm. Thwack,
thwack!

God, she was so quick he almost missed it. Two low body
blows to the nonexistent torso, then a straight to the head as the
nonexistent arms dropped their defence.

'Good!' he called. 'Now keep your guard up!'

Had he said 'girl'? Well, he wished she had been because he
wouldn't have minded her in his ladies' team. But at forty
something, he'd never get her into a licensed bout. Shame that.

Beautifully preserved, he thought. More his sort than the
aggressive teenage butch types who came in'from the nearby
high-rise estate. She had maybe passed the first flush of youth,
but he noticed how blokes half her age slowed what they were
doing when she walked in. Funny how they all came to a natural
break in their sparring or finished their dumb-bell reps in
record time.

'Okay, sweetheart, take a break.' He grinned. 'Before I have

to invest in a new punchbag.'

THWACK!

42


'Christ!'

'One for luck,' she said.

'Who was that- your ex?'

She laughed huskily. 'No, I got him out of my system in my

first week here. That was the beak at Bow Street .,Magistrates.'
'Rather him than me.' "

He handed her a towel. She was out ofbreath he noticed, as
he tried not to let his eyes linger on the green cutaway vest and
the dark stain of sweat between her breasts. Not big, how he
liked them, but they had a nice way of moving beneath the
thin material. And he found the telltale button imprints quite
arousing

Her eyes met his and they both knew. He was annoyed with
himself because he didn't want her to think of him like that.
And he really didn't want to feel her fist in his face. But more
than that, after five years, he really didn't want her to stop
coming to Barney's Boxing Gym. She was a regular every
morning before work, or lunchtime like today, when she had an
early court appearance. It might be unrequited love, but Barney
was content with that. Really quite preferred it.

She thrust her gloved hands out to him and her expression,
with its slightly mocking half-smile, said she had forgiven him.

He unwrapped the velcro straps at her wrists. 'You still
smokin'?'

'Afraid so.'

'Thought so, you sound like a steam train.'

'Liar,' she replied. 'I'm down to twenty-five - on a good day.'
'And the booze?'

Her eyes were wide, provoking. 'Can't get enough of it.'

He cared. He said: 'I think you get plenty. No good running
three times a week and comin' here most days, then undoin' all
that with cigs and Scotch and microwave suppers.'

She leaned forward and kissed his whiskery leather cheek. 'I
do my best, Barney. But cigs go with the stress of the job and
microwave meals with the hours. I keep off the booze till ten
o'clock, but hell, when you're working to past midnight on a big
case for the next day...'

He frowned. 'And you're a workaholic?


43

She dumped the leather gloves in his upturned palms.

what my ex always said.'

'He should know.'

The mobile began its irritating little bleep from the

room. 'Oh, bugger,' she murmured. 'Excuse me, Barney.'

he watched her go, pink silk twitching to the sway of her hips.

She picked up the handset from her shoulder bag. 'Hello,.
Browne speaking.'

'Ernie.' Her senior partner Eisner announced

without preamble. 'Got a hot one for you, babe. Had a good
mind to turn it down out of hand - sounds like another big one
on miserable Legal Aid rates. At least it's not another of'
waifs and strays.'

Browne laughed. 'Justice has its price, Ernie.'

'I know, babe, I just think it's the client who should pay it, not

me. Or am I being old-fashioned?'

'Probably. What's this about?'

'Homicide rap apparently and our man's being denied representation.'
Eisner was a devotee of American crime fiction
anything from Chandler to Elmore Leonard, and peppered his
conversation with its slang, which sounded very odd from a
crusty old Jewish solicitor. 'Just had the guy's brother-in-law on
the phone. He and the man's wife are scorching their way here
even as we speak.'

Browne felt an involuntary thrill of expectation rush through

her. 'What did the brother-in-law tell you?'

'He sounded like an army type, retired major or something,
perhaps. Appears our prospective client is a Protestant from
Northern Ireland and used to be a friend of a certain Peter
Keegan...'

God! Now her heart really was pumping. Keegan. Probably

the biggest case she'd ever had and certainly the biggest one
she'd ever lost. Well, that wasn't strictly true, because Keegan
had ignored her advice to fight, but it had certainly felt like a
personal failure at the time.

She said: 'How long has our prospective been held?'

'About eight hours.'

Long enough, she thought. Long enough without n lawyer or


44

any other friendly face to put on the squeeze, to persuade the
unwary or unwitting to agree anything to end the pressure, to

	stop the questions.
	'--..

	'Has he been charged yet?'

	'We don't think so.'
	- That
was something. 'When will the brothet-in-law and wife
be here?'

'They spoke to me as they left the wife's home in Southall, so
I reckon another thirty minutes.'

'I'm on my way.' An afterthought: 'And thanks, Ernie, for not
turning them down.'

She just knew he was grinning, pleased to have made her day. 'Ciao; he said and hung up.

Bless you, Ernie, she thought as she half-walked and half
skipped to the shower cubicle and stripped off.

She and Ernie had developed an instant rapport the moment
she'd entered the shabby Balham offices to apply for the position
of junior partner in the hectic, but not unprofitable
practice. Other applicants had more money to invest and arguably
more years of experience, but the truth was Eisner was
bored and fired of conveyancing and divorce and defending
petty criminals from the local estate. He had romantic notions
of running a dynamic firm of 'attorneys', an Anglicised version
of/-A Law, with himself as a sort of Perry Mason figurehead.

Browne had come straight from Belfast, still licking her
wounds after what she regarded as the Keegan fiasco. After
five years of defending alleged criminals, IRA and Loyalist
terrorists, fighting in the front line of justice or injustice,
depending how you looked at it, she felt that the system had
finally beaten her.

Yet it wasn't long before she was up and running again in
south London.

And she looked far from beaten to Ernie Eisner. This was
what he had been looking for, a sort of female knight in shining
armour, a gladiator who saw the courtroom as an arena and was
not afraid to spill blood. Her own rare appearances before the
bench were impressive and Eisner half-wished she had opted to
become a barrister herself, but she was by nature a backroom


45

girl, a street fighter who knew how to bend the rules. And
she'd assessed and made a selection of the finest and most
barristers from the Inns of Court.

Eisner admired her as an unflagging champion of
underdog, especially where bureaucracy was concerned
she'd made her mark with a number of major criminal appeala;i I
steering her barristers to victory in overturning verdi�!
reckoned to be 'unsafe'. Her fellow parmers would sometimea
become exasperated at her ceaseless tilting at windmills and for
taking on seemingly hopeless cases. Yet there was also a:
grudging pride, because as often as not she won. :

The only problem was that many such cases proved to be
long and arduous and had to be fought within the parsimoniou
restrictions of the Legal Aid system. Often an immense amount
of additional work had to be undertaken to ensure even a
chance of success. That increased the workload of the other
partners and inevitably meant that more mundane, but more
lucrative commercial work didn't get the attention it deserved.
As a result, some long-term clients of Eisner, Pollock and
Browne had upped and walked.

Browne might have proved good for the firm's profile and
reputation, but not always for business. Nevertheless, old Ernie
would not have a word said against her. In his eyes she could do
no wrong; it was almost as though he regarded her as the
daughter he never had.

And that, she reflected as she lathered and rinsed, was probably
exactly what he did.

After a brisk rub down with a towel she dressed in a cream
blouse and pale coffee business suit, stuffed her tights into her
shoulder bag and headed for the door. Lighting a cigarette, she
waved to Barney as she left.

He watched and shook his head sadly. Incorrigible, a hope- "
less case. And he'd seen that look in her eyes before. Something
big was brewing.

More twenty-hour days, more cigs, more booze and more
microwave dinners. He had a feeling he wouldn't be seeing
much of her for a while.


46

Lomax slowed his C-reg Cavalier so that Evie could read the
numbers bove the ratty shop fronts. Electrical repairers, flyblown
cafes, second-hand furniture and a DIY sor.e, and an
open-all-hours corner grocer's shop. It was an unprepossessing
part of south London, no estate agents or building societies

here.

'Are you sure this is right?' she asked.

'You were navigating, sis, and the sign did say The
Broadway.'

'God, I do hope we're not making a mistake. I suppose it is
the same Sam Browne.'

'Manda seemed certain it was him.'

Evie wasn't sure. 'She's just a kid.'

'But a smart one. Business Student of the Year.'

'This isn't funny, Chris. If we've got the wrong Browne, we'll
have lost a whole day.'

Lomax pointed suddenly. 'Got it! Number thirty-five. Over
there. Above that Chinese takeaway.'

Evie groaned. Nightmare upon nightmare.

The bare wooden staircase up to Eisner, Pollock and
Browne's office was stacked on one side with obsolete legal
papers going back two decades. A stripped-pine door led to an
office with two large sashcord windows and another mountain
range of document bundles. Somewhere amid the precarious
paper pillars they'd managed to cram filing cabinets, a Xerox
copier and three desks, one of which doubled as reception.

A blowsy blonde in her early twenties looked up from her PC
and grinned cheerfully at them. "Allo, I'm Totty, 'ow may I 'elp
you?'

Lomax was taken aback; under other circumstances he might
have found it difficult not to smile. 'I've an appointment with
Mr Browne. My name's...'

Totty's grubby little fingernail, bitten to the quick, was
already on the appointments book. 'Mr Lomax. And this will be
Mrs Littlechild.' She was on her feet, extending her hand whilst
managing a sort of bobbing curtsy at the same time. 'So pleased
t'meet you. We'll go straight in because this is very urgent,.
innit?'

47


A young, acne=faced male clerk in shirtsleeves looked

from his desk by the window. 'You'd better warn them,
otherwise they'll think he's a TV.' The eyes were
behind the old-fashioned swot's spectacles.

'TV?' Evie asked. She was lost.
' 'E means transvestite,' Totty
'Never mind Wayne, Mrs Littlechild. Wayne the Pain we

call 'im, but he's okay really. Just won't grow up.'

Evie frowned. 'But what did he mean?'

Totty smiled. 'Mr Browne's a woman. A lot of people mal

that mistake. Sam for Samantha, see, not Samuel. Do follo

me.' "

'The gorgon awaits,' Wayne called after them. Then added:

'Don't worry, sir, the boss is onyour side.'

They followed the plump little figure in its white blouse,

dark tights and a puppy-fat rump squeezed optimistically into a
pencil skirt. She led the way into a long bare corridor lined with
more documents bound in pink legal ribbon.

'Unusual name,' Lomax commented conversationally.

Totty giggled. The real name's Samantha - like Miss Browne,

but she said we couldn't 'ave two in the same firm. So she gave

me a nickname. Sweet, innit?'

Lomax caught Erie's eye. At least someone had a sense of
humour.

'You must be gaspin' for a cuppa, I'll get one for you PDQ,'

she said and opened the end door without knocking. 'Mr
Lomax and Mrs Littlechild, boss.'

'Oh, shit,' Browne said, hitting the PC keyboard as they
entered. The screen went blank.

Evie looked uncertainly round the office. Obviously it had

once been someone's living room, but a long time ago because
the faded Regency paper was.peeling with damp in the corners.
Not that much of the decor could be seen behind the rows of
filing cabinets topped with leather-bound law books. It looked
similarly chaotic to the outer office except for a small expanse of
threadbare carpet and only one desk which was littered with
empty mineral water bottles and an overflowing ashtray.

The solicitor was taken by surprise, turning her back on the


48

PC and peering up over the top of her half-moon reading
glasses. 'Oh, I'm so sorry. What must you think?' She rose to
greet them. 'I'm Sam Browne.' ..

Lomax wasn't quite sure what he was expectitig. "-But after
driving through this squalid part of the city and being taken
aback by the mayhem of the outer office, hecrtainly wasn't
expecting anyone as smart and stunning as flie: woman who
stood before him now. And most definitely not the beautifully
articulated voice that spoke with a sort of soft and breathless
urgency. 'Mrs Littlechild, Mr Lomax, I'm so pleased you found
us quickly. You must be worried sick. Do take a seat, both of
you.' She waved a hand absently round the office. 'And please
don't judge by appearances. We are quite efficient really.
They've been trying to get decorators in since before I came
here five years ago, but it's never the right moment. It would be
such an upheaval and we're always so busy.'

But Lomax wasn't convinced, suddenly feeling it was a
mistake to be here. He said: 'Not we busy, I hope.'

Browne stopped what she was saying and for a second their
eyes locked. There was a brittle silence before she spoke, this
time in a very measured tone: 'I always have time for justice, Mr
Lomax. Why else would you have come to see me?'

Evie said: 'My husband asked me to find you. It was the last
thing he said before they dragged him off.'

'I think it was because of your work on the Keegan trial in
Belfast,' Lomax said. 'Roddy - that's Mr Litflechild - and he
were friends. Or at least acquaintances.'

'Yes, Ernie Eisner mentioned you'd said that,' Browne
replied. 'At least it explains why you're here. Now, in view of
the fact your husband's accused of murdering a member of the
IRA,' she addressed Evie, 'I'm making a-working assumption
he's being held at Paddington Green. That's the top-security
police station.'

Evie looked aghast. 'Isn't that where they take terrorists? Is
that why he's not being allowed a solicitor?'

'They won't be holding him under the Prevention of Terrorism
Act for murder,' Browne said. 'No point. They'll be.
using paragraphs 6 and 8 under a Section 58. That means

49


they're entitled to withhold legal access for up to
hours if they think there are accomplices to a serious crime

that witnesses could be placed in danger.'

'So what happens next?' Lomax asked.

'I'm trying to confirm that your husband is at Paddingtoa
Green, but I'm hitting a brick wall at the moment. No
admitting anything and they've promised someone will
to me - but I'm not holding my breath. Meanwhile, young Totty '
is chasing them up every fifteen minutes.' A tight reassuri
smile. 'She may not look it, but Totty can be very tenacious.
Now, I suppose you didn't catch the name of the arresting
officers?'

Evie said: 'I was so shocked and half-asleep I can hardly
remember anything.'

'I can imagine. It must have been awful for you.'

'There was an inspector, a big man. I think his name was Mill-something. Maybe it was Milton, or perhaps Millford.'

Browne scribbled it down. 'Well, that's something. I've also
been trying to call up my old files on the Keegan trial, just
in case there was some cross-reference to your husband.' She
grimaced and jabbed a thumb at the blank screen of her PC.
'Trouble is we've just installed Windows 95 and it seems to have
buggered everything up - excuse my French. So that'll have to
wait, I'm afraid,' She redirected her gaze at her new clients.
'Before we run through what happened, I'd like to call in Mr
Eisner; he's our senior partner. The thing is, on the face of it,
this could be a big case for a company of our size and we'll have

to give it everything we've got.'

'I understand,' Erie replied.

'If your husband is charged withmurder of a leading figure in
the IRA, then I'm going to have to be on it full time for weeks
with full backup, and we might have to hire in more staff for our
routine business...' She reached for the telephone, noticed
Erie staring at the overfull ashtray and emptied it into her bin
with an embarrassed smile before dialling the senior partner's
extension.

Ernie Eisner arrived a few minutes later and immediately put
his company's new clients at their ease with his warm hand50


shake and crinkled smiling eyes. Short and stocky with thinning
curly hair and a face like lumpy porridge, he for some reason
reminded Lomax of a theatrical agent. Perhap-4t was the
prominent, squashy and unmistakably Jewish ns6. Or the
American bootlace tie and fancy waistcoat .worn beneath
the conventional dark suit. " -

After Totty dispensed a tray of biscuits and tea in unmatching
cups and saucers, Browne patiently took Evie twice through
events of the previous night. She took down notes while
Lomax's sister spoke and occasionally she asked a question.
Eisner watched and listened, paddling his tea with a spoon but
leaving it otherwise untouched.
When Evie finished talking, an ominous silence hung over the
gathering until Browne finally spoke: 'Your husband wasn't
afraid to go alone to meet this IRA man, this Fitzpatrick?'

Evie hesitated, remembering how, stupidly, she'd encouraged
her husband and even now she didn't really know why she had.
'He was wary, I think, but not afraid. They'd known each other
since school, you see, and I thought with there having been
peace for over a year...' Tears began to well in her eyes.

Browne glanced at her notes: 'I've got to ask you what he was
going to tell this Lisa Hardcastle? That your current financial
predicament is as a direct result of pressure from - let's say -
MIS, to drive him out of the country?'

Evie dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief Lomax gave her.

'Yes. One of their people actually told him so.'

'Why should they want to do that?'

'Because Roddy knows a lot about what MI5 has been doing
in Northern Ireland over the years..They're afraid he might talk,
I suppose.'

'But,' Browne hesitated, selecting her words with care, 'if I
understand correctly, your husband has helped them - MIS,
the British Government if you like - for a number of years.'

A sniff, wiping her nose on the white linen. 'He says he always
did what he could. He loves Northern Ireland, always has -
until they asked him to do things and he refused.'

'What sort of things?'

51


'I don't know exactly. Roddy didn't tell me

that's when they turned against him.'

Ernie Eisner spole for the first time, his voice a soft

'How did your husband help MI5 during all this time,
Littlechild?'

She shook her head. 'I'm sorry. Roddy never discussed

details with me. But before we married he said there wa
thing I ought to know, that he had helped MI5 in its
against the IRA. I think it was just something he wanted to
offhis chest. He said it was better that he didn't go into detail
and I accepted that.'

'Of course,' Eisner said, understanding.

'And this answerphone tape?' Browne asked. 'How do you
explain why it was blank?'

Erie opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck in

throat, and the tears began again. 'I - I don't - know. I was sure
I hadn't touched the machine, but I must have wiped it without
thinking. I'd had a drink at the wine bar where I work and a - a
drop of Bushmills when I got home. I just don't know.'

Browne nodded. She recognised that late-nightone-drinktoo-many
amnesia all too well herself. 'There's one final question
I must ask. Please forgive me, because there's really no easy
way to put it. In your deepest heart of hearts, do you think your
husband could have killed this man?'

Erie's answer was instantaneous. 'NO!' she blurted. 'Roddy
would never hurt a fly! He's a big, lovely, gentle giant! I could
never marry someone who - who...' She broke down in a
racking sob, the dam finally bursting under an unremitting
flood of tears. 'I- I'm sorry,' she blubbed.

Eisner rose to his feet and put his arm round her shoulders.
'Perhaps you'd like some tesh air, honey. There's a small park
round the corner. We could go sit there for a while?'

Sam Browne smiled tightly. 'Good idea, Ernie, it's been a
traumatic time. Mrs Littlechild must be exhausted.' As Lomax
also started to rise, she said: 'Would you mind staying while
they're gone? Just a few questions, you know.'

Lomax shrugged. 'Sure.'


52

As Evie left with Eisner, Browne asked: 'How well do you
know your sister, Mr Lomax?'

That was a curious question. 'How well does ar.x .boy know
his kid sister? Same family but, like all women, frown a different
planet.'

It was the first time he noticed her mad eye�. Browne's right
eyebrow rose and the eye itself seemed to enlargb,:the pupil and
glittering sky-blue iris fixing him with a mesmeric power. He
would learn to read it as a warning signal as time went on.
'Different planet, Mr Lomax. Is that what you think?'

He shifted uncomfortably, thinking maybe this solicitor was
exactly that - from another planet. 'Just a joke. Can't live with

them, can't live without them, sort of thing,' he said lamely.
'Are you married, Mr Lomax?' she asked evenly.

God, why did she make him feel so awkward? 'Er - not
exactly, not any more. Why d'you ask?'

'I just wondered. It's a question we always ask on Planet
Zeus.'

He grinned, unsure whether she was annoyed or just having a
joke at his expense. He cleared his throat. 'In fact, Evie and I
have always got on rather well. Once we were over the age
difference. I was about eleven when she was borno'

'And all this stuffabout MI5, she could be - er, well, let's say,
letting her imagination run away with her?'

'I don't think so. Roddy told me the same thing himself.'

'And her view that her husband would be incapable of
murder?'

Lomax smiled. 'Well, Evie usually sees the best in people, I
must admit. Maybe she's a little bit gullible in that respect, but
she's sharp enough. If she says Roddy really wasn't keen to go
last night, I believe her.'

Browne didn't return his smile. 'You mean that intuition we
aliens tend to have?'

'Er- something like that.'

She leaned back in her chair. 'And how well doyou know your
brother-in-law?'

'Well enough. It was through me that the two of them first
met. Roddy came back from Rhodesia in 1980 and joined the


53

Paras. We served together in the Falklands.' He felt

to add: 'He saved my life.'

That mad eye again. 'Really? So you are very close.'
	i

He nodded.

'Yet he never told you any details about his involvement i

MIS? Either then or since?'

'No, but then he was a very private man. And I only

occasionally after '83 when he went to South Africa.

met it was always for a few bewies and to reminisce about

times. The first I heard any rumour that he'd been tied i

with anything dubious was that TV documentary and I

believe a word of it. An MI5 connection was mentioned in t

but it was obviously pure speculation.'

She placed her elbows on the arms of her chair and laced

fingers together across her chest. 'Do you think Roddy

capable of murder?'

He avoided her eyes; to his own ears this was going to

like a betrayal, but he felt it ought to be said. 'Roddy was a

soldier, just like me. We both fought in the Falklands, so I can't

deny he's capable of killing someone. Erie described him as a

gentle giant and that's fairly accurate. I met people far more

capable and likely to murder later when I served with the

Regiment.'

'Which regiment?' She looked perplexed. 'I'm sorry.'

'The SAS. In fact I did some minding work with Peter

Keegan and his army handlers. Followed his trial with some

interest.'

'Oh, really, you know Peter Keegan?' Browne seemed genu
inely
intrigued. 'How long were you with the SAS?'

'Twelve years. Until yesterday. I was recovering from the

party when I got Evie's call this morning.'

She tilted her head to one side. 'Goodness me. So should I

really be addressing you as - what? - Captain, or would it be

Major Lomax?'

He laughed. 'Staff Sergeant. Not a rank that carries into civvy

street. I specialised in escape and evasion, tracking, that sort of

thing. I ran a special training cadre.'


54

Browne was taken aback. 'But you sound.. ? She stopped
herself in time.

'Like an officer?' He was perversely pleased to..ee her look
embarrassed now. 'Just ten O-levels, I'm afraid - cbuidn't bear
the thought of university; I was too keen to see the world. Don't
worry; even SAS troopers are often mistaken for officers.'

She recovered quickly. 'I wasn't exactly ai561ogising, Mr
Lomax. I'm sure if I asked, you'd swear the army was run by

senior NC O s.'

'You said it.'

Again their eyes locked for a silent moment, the atmosphere
of mutual antagonism palpable in the small office. Christ,
Lomax thought, I bet that's it. Samantha Browne is an officer's
daughter. She's got it stamped right through her like a stick of
Brighton rock.

'So,' she said, 'your friend Roddy is innocent, you'd say from
what you know of his personality?'

Lomax forced his concentration back on track. 'Well, he
could get pretty heated on some subjects. Like what he was

fighting for in Rhodesia and South Africa.'

'And Northern Ireland? The IRA?'

A pause. 'I honesty don't know. But if this man Fitzpatrick
wanted to see him under a flag of truce, then I know Roddy

would have respected that. I'd stake my life on it.'

'Thank goodness you won't need to do that.'

Her telephone rang from beneath a pile of papers. Browne
located it and snatched up the handset. 'Hello, Totty. Yes. Who?
Custody sergeant? Okay, pu him through.'

She covered the mouthpiece. 'Paddington Green.' With her
free hand she shook out a cigarette .from the pack on her desk.
Lomax leaned forward and offered her a flame from his lighter.
She exhaled gratefully as the policeman came on the line. 'Ah,
hello, Custody Sergeant. I understand you are holding my
client, Mr Rodney Littlechild. I'm his solicitor, Sam Browne.'

Lomax watched fascinated as she listened and studied the
smoke coiling from her cigarette.. Her cheeks began to flush.

'Listen, Mr Custody Sergeant, I know you can't confirm such
matters to complete strangers over the phone. I'm not stupid.


55

I'm not asking you to confirm it, I know you're holding
client and I've been waiting nearly two hours for someone to
return my call. Now please get the senior arresting officer on the
line immediately. Inspector Millford.' Her eyes blazed. 'Yes
yes, Millman- whatever.'

Another icy silence as she listened.

Then her tone lightened perceptibly. 'Yes, I know he's
engaged. He's engaged in interrogating my client. How many
other murder inquiries has he got on today? At this moment he
is trying to squeeze a false confession out of my client who
not even been granted his rightful access to a solicitor. I expect
your DCI Millman is pulling out his fingernails even as we
speak.'

Lomax overheard the sound of male laughter from the
receiver.

'I'm glad you think it's funny. Ah, right. Thirty-six hours
under PACE. Well, thank you for confirming that to a complete
stranger. Now get Millman to call me back in five minutes or
I'm straight down there. And I'll scream and bloody scream
until I see DCI Millman. Gottit?' She listened and a slow
smile of satisfaction started to spread across her face. She gave
Lomax a thumbs-up sign. 'Right, Sergeant, you know where to
reach me and I expect a call. Now your name and number, if you
please? In the next ten minutes, right? This conversation has
been recorded. Thank you.' She replaced the receiver abruptly.
Then noticed the suction-pad cup of the tape deck's microphone
wire lying on top of her desk. 'Well, it would have been if
I'd remembered to plug it in.'

Lomax said: 'That was some performance.' He didn't bother
hiding his tone of disapproval.

She eyed him frostily. 'That wasn't a performance, Mr
Lomax, that was for real.'

She wasn't taking this seriously, Lomax was sure of that. To
her it was just a game. He said sternly: 'I'm not sure it's the way
to get results.'

Her mad eye widened a fraction. 'An expert are you? You'd
prefer the - what is it you SAS supermen call it - the winning
hearts-and-minds approach? If I'd tried that with the police,


56

your friend Mr Littlechild would have confessed tO being Mary
Poppins by the time I got to see him.'

He retreated grudgingly. 'I'm sure you know best2,

She leaned forward, stubbing out her cigarette end a's she did
so. 'I tell you what I do know. The thirty-six hour rule is real
sledgehammer stuff. Usually it's reserved f major drug
traffickers or big-time villains with bent solici-t6r who might
tip off others involved.' She gave a ierky little smile at that.
'Somebody's obviously given the police the idea that your
brother-in-law has Loyalist terrorist connections, maybe even
co-conspirators in Fitzpatrick's murder. Something that would

justify denying legal access,'

'Who'd have done that?'

'One guess, if it's true MI5 have been playing fast and loose
with the Litflechilds and making threats. So maybe I should

read more into the use of denial of access in this case.'

'Like what?'

'Like they're using it quite legally to get your brother-in-law
on his own without representatio.n for as long as possible. Let's
assume, as both you and Evie believe, that Roddy is innocent.
They'd be aware that it will take a lot of pressure and persuasion
to make him admit to it.'

Lomax frowned. 'You're suggesting the police know he's
innocent?'

She smiled uneasily. 'I hope to God our legal system isn't that
corrupt. No, I'm sure the arresting officers think they've got

their man. But maybe higher up...'

'MIS?'

'Nowadays the Security Service is working very closely with
the regular police, pushing for a new. role for themselves, even
though they're politically unaccountable - despite the public
window dressing. If they, or someone, know or knows that
Roddy is innocent, they'd obviously say the opposite to the
police who would have no reason to disbelieve confidential MI5
intelligence. They'd easily persuade the police quite legally to
deny access and let them innocently do their dirty work.'

It was a frightening proposition, Lomax thought, and one.
that left a nasty taste in his mouth. Over the years in the SA$ he


57

had rubbed shoulders with MI5 members and had brief
shot glimpses of some of their operations. He and others in
Regiment had rather to take it on trust that what they
doing was for the greater good. But sometimes, particularly
Northern Ireland, it had left him wanting to ask

Questions to which he knew he would be given no answer,
He'd witnessed some fairly dak deeds being done; there was noi
doubt in his mind of the extreme lengths to which the service,
unaccountable in its secret domain, was capable of going. And'
if Roddy was in its sights, he could be in deep, deep trouble.

'But why should they want to frame him?' Lomax asked
himself aloud. i

Browne sucked on the end of her pen for a moment. 'Perhaps
they were afraid 0fwhat he might reveal to Lisa Hardcasfle.'

The telephone rang again and he jumped. God, perhaps he
really should take something for his nerves.

'Yes? Right, put him on,' Browne said, co,ering the mouthpiece.
'They've obviously had a discussion and decided
speaking to me is a job for the big white chief. Stand by for
pomp and arrogance and intimidation of a humble suburban
solicitor by a higher authority.' She indicated another telephone
on a small table next to Lomax's chair. 'Do listen in on the
extension. You might learn something.'

He'd just picked up the handset when Superintendent Eric
Dymock came on the line, his voice deep, resonant and full of
gravitas. 'Is that Miss Browne? I don't believe we've had the
pleasure, but I've read your name in the papers. Your reputation
goes before you.'

And that's why I've been put On to handle you, Lomax read
between the lines.

Sam Browne's voice had dropped an octave and sounded
seductively husky with the hint of a laugh. 'You shouldn't
believe all you read, Superintendent, you know how the papers
exaggerate. Anyway, thank you for coming back to me so
promptly.' So silky, so genuine.

'My pleasure. So what can I do for you?' Playing games.
'You're holding my client, Mr Rodney Littlechild, on sus

58

picion of murder and he requires immediate access to legal
advice as, of course, you are well aware is his fight.'

'Oh dear, Miss Browne, I do believe someone at .fli.s end has
fallen down. You should have been advised that MLttlechild
is being quite legally denied access to a solicitor in accordance
with PACE. You understand what that means?' "i

'Fully,' Browne replied evenly. 'And it is totally-inappropriate
in this case. My client is neither a drug trafficker nor a master
criminal.'

An intake of breath, steeling himself. 'You may think what
you like, Miss Browne, but with due respect it is not up to you
to tell the police how to conduct their investigation. I personally
gave authority in writing for Mr Littlechild to be held without
legal access for up to the permitted thirty-six hours.'

'Then perhaps you'd be kind enough to indicate the strength
of evidence you have to entitle you to take this exceptional
step?'

'I am not prepared to discuss this over the phone.' Uncompromising.

'In
person. I'll be with you in thirty minutes.'

'Not possible, Miss Browne.'

'Then I'm afraid it's not good enough. You cannot hold
someone without access on a whim. You need strength of evidence,
you know that, or we'll have your case thrown out in
pretrial argument.'

A sigh. 'Very well. We are advised that Mr Littlechild has
Loyalist terrorist connections and most certainly had
accomplices who we also wisl to apprehend.'

'That's a nonsense, Detective Superintendent. My client is
not a terrorist.'

'Again with respect, Miss Browne. We do not know that.'

'Since when are terrorists regular agents of the Security
Service?'

He wasn't expecting that. 'Er - I wouldn't know what your
client claims to have been. It is anyway irrelevant. He is arrested
on suspicion of murder under common law. It's as simple as
that,'

'If it's that simple,' she retorted, 'then I should be granted


59

access. In one breath you assume him to be a terrorist improbable
as he's spent most of the past twenty years abroad
and in the next you dismiss as unimportant his claim to
been a loyal servant of MIS. You're being rather selective
your decisions about what might or might not be relevant
case, aren't you?'

Impatience crept into his voice. 'Miss Browne, I am

busy man. I cannot spend time arguing semantics with

Mr Littlechild will continue to be held without access on my
personal authority. What is more, I am informed that he
not yet been offered the opportunity to ask for legal advice,
Therefore, strictly speaking, you do not even represent him.'

Lomax saw the blood colouring Browne's cheeks, saw her mad eye widen a fraction and the sinews tighten in her neck.
'Wrong, Detective Superintendent. He made his request at the
point of arrest - a request for me personally - and it was witnessed
by his wife who will testify to such in court.
Furthermore, I am preparing a formal complaint of misuse of
police powers in this case.'

'Your privilege,' he responded blandly. He knew and knew
that she knew such a complaint would get nowhere. Now, irritation
was plain as he spoke. 'I have nothing further to say on
the matter. When your - when the senior interviewing officer
sees fit, legal access will be offered.'

Browne's eyes met Lomax's across the table and she gave an
almost imperceptible shake of her head. It wasn't looking good;
their only chance was slipping away.

Her voice softened. 'Are you aware that Mr Littlechild had a
meeting with a woman called Lisa Hardcastle yesterday
evening? She works for a TV documentary company.'

Dymock hesitated, obviously wondering where Browne's
question was leading. 'I believe so.'

'Do you know what Mr Littlechild was going to tell her?'

'Is that relevant?'

'Well, you seem to be making all the decisions in that department.
I suggest you ask your colleagues in the Security Service.'
'What do you mean?'

'Because I am about to arrange a press conference for Mr


60

IAttlechild's wife. She is going to tell the media exactly what
Mr Littlechild was going to tell Lisa Hardcastle. I suggest you
buy all the papers on the way in tomorrow. It'll be :m,a.king quite
a splash.'

Lomax stared at her. He just wasn't believing ,.this.

Dymock's voice was low and harsh. 'MissBrowne, this is
outrageous. Even overlooking the overtone of blakmail, I shall
remind you that this case is subjudice:

She grinned now, knowing she had him. 'I think the tabloids
may consider that borderline until my client is charged, don't
you, Detective Superintendent? And when he is, I'm entitled
to immediate access. Now, please excuse me, I have a lot to
organise!' The receiver slammed down. She reached for her
cigarettes. 'You know, Mr Lomax, I rather enjoyed that.'

He didn't understand. 'Evie doesn't know what Roddy was
going to tell that journalist - and you certainly don't.'

Browne smiled, allowing the smoke to escape past her even
white teeth. 'But Detective Super Dymock doesn't know that.
The police get paranoid about the press. My guess is he'll go
running straight to MI5 and they'll have apoplexy. We've called
their bluff.'

They talked about the case and her previous experience in
the Peter Keegan trial in Belfast for some ten minutes before the
call came through.

It wasn't Dyrnock this time, but Chief Inspector Millman.
'Miss Browne? I have officially to inform you that we are
holding a Mr Littlechild on.suspicion of murder. It looks likely
we'll have enough to charge him by tomorrow morning. He has
requested legal representation and I will then be prepared to
grant this. Say, nine o'clock? Do you know how to get to Paddington
Green?'

'Oh, yes, Chief Inspector, I do believe I can find my way.'
Slowly she replaced the receiver. 'Just enough of a compromise,
you see, Mr Lomax, to persuade me not to carry out our threat.
I just hope your brother-in-law can hold out. He has to be
allowed eight hours undisturbed overnight, so their interview
time is running out. But the fact is the police rarely need the full
thirty-six hours. Most prisoners break down within twenty61


four. And if he does sign a confession, then I'm afraid there'll
little I can realistically do for him.'

'I wish there was something I could do for him. He saved
life once, and now when he needs help...'

'There is one thing you can do.' She gave a tight little smile

and arched her eyebrow.
'What's that?'
'Pray.'


Detective Chief Inspector Millman drew himself up to his full
height. He was unshaven and looked as exhausted as the big
man who sat before him, shoulders hunched over the interview
table. They'd finished their questioning at ten o'clock the previous
night, and had begun again at six that morning. It had been a long verbal duel.

Henwick glanced pointedly at his wristwatch. A quarter to
nine. They were running out of time; this was their last chance.

Millman cleared his throat: 'Is there anything you'd like to
say?'

Littlechild glowered up at him. 'Like what? A confession?"

'Anything that would make your future easier for you. Anything
you may later want to rely on in court.'

The shaggy head of unkempt hair shook slowly. 'I've nothing
more to add.' Littlechild stared at his own hands stretched out
on the desk before him, but gave no indication that he was
listening. He'd cracked it, beaten them. But it hardly felt like a
victory.

The detective sighed. 'Right, let's get you charged. Your
solicitor's waiting outside.'

The prisoner looked up; it was the first he'd heard of it.
'Solicitor?'

'The one you asked for. Samantha Browne.' Millman's face
bore a strange expression. 'As if you didn't have enough
problems.'

Without further delay, Littlechild was escorted out of the
custody suite to the front desk where the custody sergeant was
laughing and sharing a joke with a tall and strikingly attractive
middle-aged blonde in an emerald-coloured business suit.


62

'Rodney Litdechild for charging,' Millman announced.

The smile died on the sergeant's face as he swallowed what he
was eating and threw a foil wrapper surreptitiou-sl-v into his
bin. 'Prisoner's brief's just arrived, sir. Miss Browne, he said,
quickly adopting a sombre tone.

Littlechild only knew her by name and-rEputation and
certainly hadn't anticipated the warm and dazzling smile.
'Hello, Roddy, nice to meet you.' Without waiting for his
tongue-tied reply, she added: 'You, too, Detective Chief
Inspector.'

Millman was immediately irked that he felt distracted by her
obvious charm and he tried to cover it with a moody and
noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement.

'Rodney Albert Littlechild,' the custody sergeant began
solemnly, 'you are charged that on the night of August 15 you
did murder Donal Padraig Fitzpatrick, which is against the
peace...'

When the formalities were complete, Browne followed
Millman, Henwick and the prisoner to the consultation room.

'I've brought a few home comforts,' she told Littlechild and
extracted a small blue gingham cloth from the large plastic bag
she carried and proceeded to spread it over the interview table.
Littlechild and the detectives watched bemused as she produced
hot bacon rolls and croissants wrapped in foil and two
plastic mugs containing sachets of Colombian coffee. And,
lastly, a small framed family snap of Evie.

'Your wife sends her love. She's thinking of you.'

Millman could stand it no more. 'Miss Browne, this is most
irregular...'

She gave him her most disarming smile. 'Yes, it's amazing
what a custody sergeant will allow in return for a bacon roll,
isn't it? Don't worry, he's already checked everything. No containers
to hide explosives and no files hidden in the fruitcake. It
may be irregular, but then he had to concede there are no rules
exactly forbidding it either. So let's humanise this process a
little, shall we?'

Browne knew how helpless and abandoned a newly arrested.
prisoner felt, especially after being broken down by hour after

63


hour of intense interrogation. Littlechild would be at a low,
feeling degraded and humiliated, and police canteen food
hardly likely to raise his spirits. She thrust the two
Millman with a wide smile. 'I suppose I couldn't ask you to
sweet and fill these with hot water?'

The inspector had taken them on reflex before he

what he was doing. He stared down at them with contempt.
'Only sachets of coffee,' she assured him, 'not coke.'

In disgust, he passed the mugs to DS Henwick. 'Get
filled,' he ordered and marched from the room
word.

'So you've been charged,' Browne said later as she watche�l
Littlechild tuck into the bacon roll like a starving man.
you haven't made any form of confession?'

He swallowed and washed the food down with the

black coffee. 'No way, although I came pretty close at time,

The anti-interrogation training helped.'

She nodded. 'South African Army?'

He looked surprised. 'You're well briefed.'

'I spent all yesterday afternoon and part of the evening with
your wife.'

'How is she?'

'Better now. Over the initial shock. Her brother's been

looking after her.'

'Chris is a pal.'

'You're wearing overalls, I see.'

'What? Oh, yeah, I think they took my entire wardrobe away
for tests.'

'Of course. But to be on the safe side we must verify exactly

what you were wearing the night before last.'

'Sure.'

'Look, Roddy, if you can bear it, I'd like you to go over the
background of events leading to the night of the murder. I'm
sorry to be a pain, but it really is necessary.'

Inwardly he groaned, but knew she was right. He ran briefly
through his life history, then explained the recent pressure he
had been placed under by MIS, and finally recounted what had
happened on the night he'd met with Fitzpatrick.


64

Browne listened intently without interruption, just sipping
her coffee and smoking to aid her concentration. She believed
that first impressions of a client always counted, and..h.e already
found herself admiring Littlechild's resilience.

He was a large-boned man, weighing maybe., sixteen stone
and standing several inches over six feet tall.-t-Iis large blunt
features prevented him from being exactly hanIsome, but his
rather serious eyes came alive when he spoke about subjects
close to his heart. Southern Africa, Northern Ireland, Evie. He
didn't smile much - he had little to smile about, she realised but
when he did, it was charming and quite infectious. A quiet
and thoughtful man, she decided, who probably needed a beer
or two to help him drop his guard and become the affable
and good-humoured companion that Lomax had described.
'Upright' and 'intensely loyal' were two terms that stuck in
Browne's mind and she made a mental note to write them down
after the interview.

His voice was low and his words carefully chosen. Holding
back, she knew, like they always did until she could coax them
into giving her their trust.

When he had finished, Browne said: 'The prosecution will be
looking for a motive, Roddy. My guess is they'll say: "Look, this
man has a staunch Protestant background with old childhood
friends who are in the paramilitaries. He's gained military
experience abroad with vilified racist regimes, He hates blacks
like he hates the Roman Catholic Church in general and the
IRA in particular. Like all hard-line Loyalists he thinks the
current peace process is a sellout to terrorism. What better
motive to kill Fitzpatrick and cause the cease-fire to collapse?"
What would you say to that?'

A ghost of a smile passed across Littlechild's lips. 'Well
Fitzpatrick's dead and the ceaseftre lives. He wouldn't have
been the one to kill anyway, because he was against it himself.
Besides, it would take more than the death of one man to bring
it down- there's quite a large clique who are holding sway in the
IRA at the moment.'

She considered that. 'The prosecution will say you're now.
being wise after the event. That you saw killing as the only


65

solution to stop a sellout, handing your beloved county

Dublin.'

Littlechild shook his head. 'Not as long as the

Government keeps its word - that the majority in Ulster
have the final say through the ballot box.' He leaned
and for the first time she saw those serious grey eyes
with the light of passion. 'I want to take Evie
kid there. I can't do that if we're plunged back into blood
carnage for another generation. No, while London keeps
word, then I personally would stay my hand.' ......

For a moment she was tempted to ask but if London

But somehow she thought she knew the answer to that.

Instead, she said: 'You didn't kill Fitzpatrick, Roddy, bm

someone did. Have you any idea who that might have been?'

He looked at her steadily and she saw the worry in his eyes.

'I've thought of nothing else - that's when I wasn't being questioned
by Millman and his sidekick. I haven't slept, couldn't,

just kept churning it over and over.'

'Any conclusions?'

He looked uncomfortable and glanced round the deserted

interview cell. Browne realised suddenly she'd seen this before,
the same fear, the same paranoia. Back in Belfast when she'd
been with Peter Keegan before his trial. At last he said, almost
casually: 'I don't know. Some shadowy force.' But the fierce
burning look in his eyes belied the throwaway phrase.

He meant MI5, Her Majesty's Security Service. They both

knew it.

She said: 'But why would they kill or have Fitzpatrick killed?'
'As I've already said, he was head of a faction of the Provos
that's dead opposed to the peace process. And they want to get
rid of anyone standing against progress.'

'These people,' she said, trying not to sound too sceptical, 'I

know they bend a lot of rules, fight dirty. I.know that from
defending Peter Keegan. But a murder like this is a bit hard to
believe.'

'For you maybe, but I know. Before they turned against me, I

had a visit from one of them. She wanted me to set.up an old


66

friend of mine - Stevie Gavin - because he too is resolutely

against the peace process as a complete sellout.'

'Who is this Stevie Gavin?'

'A leading Loyalist paramilitary. Known as Rattler, short
for Rattlesnake. He runs a hard-line splinter gr.oup called the
Ulster Defenders.' He indicated her cigarets. 'Would you
mind if I scrounged one of them, Miss Browne?"- "

She handed him the pack and then gave him a light. 'I think
you'd better call me Sam. More informal, because we're going

to be seeing a lot of each other over the next few months.'
'Sure.' His eyes softened. 'Sam.'

At last she sensed she was breaking through the barrier. 'So
tell me more about Stevie Gavin?'

He allowed a trail of smoke to escape his lips. 'Well, I've
known Stevie since school, like I had Fitzpatrick. As you've
probably gathered, Stevie Gavin is no angel. No, in fact, Stevie
Gavin is a murderin' little shite. He was always wild at school,
so he'd probably have become a gangster of some sort if the
Troubles hadn't come along when they did. But it was the
Troubles and the existence of the IRA that turned him into a
killer. He passionately believes that what he's done is right. He's
told me he'll happily stand and give an account of his actions
before God when his day comes. And he means it.'

Browne smiled awkwardly. 'He sounds charming.'

'Fact is, Sam, he is. In other circumstances you'd probably
call him a lovable rogue. Bet you've defended a few of them in
your time? He's got a bit hard now, mind. Hard and cynical,

beginning to realise how the Brits have used him.'

'How?'

'In the past, MI5 were content for Gavin to kill Provos on
their behalf. They'd give him a name, an address and he'd
always be happy to oblige. Then, when it suited them, they
wanted me to betray him.'

'They wanted you to help get him arrested?'

Littlechild gave a short, dry laugh without humour. 'No,
Sam, they wanted me to kill him?

67


Sam Browne spent most of her journey to Southall with he
mobile tucked under her chin and wreaking minor havoc in the
dense urban traffic as she juggled handset and A-Z atlas with
the steering wheel while changing gear.

After briefing Ernie Eisner on the urgent letters she wanted

sent to Paddington Green, she spoke to Totty to resolve any
problems that had arisen in her absence. Then she put a call
through to Tristram Meyrick QC's chambers in the Temple
and arranged a preliminary meeting for that evening.

Two more wrong turns and an altercation with a reversing
delivery lorry and she found herself in Evie Littlechild's street.
Immediately she felt sorry for the woman. It was a sadly
rundown neighbourhood with many of the houses boarded up,
rubbish-strewn pavements, and the crushing machine of a
nearby breaker's yard providing constant background noise.

The vertical row of bell-buttons confirmed that the once
proud Victorian residence had been divided up into flatlets.
There was no name beside the top button. Roddy and his wife
being ultracautious, she decided as she rang.

Lomax's voice came over the intercom, but it was another few
minutes before he descended the stairs to let her in. 'All a bit
primitive, I'm afraid,' he apologised. 'No automatic opening.'

She was taken aback to see that his trousers and sweater were
covered in dust and cobwebs, his face smudged with dirt. 'I see you've been doing some housework,' she said. 'A belated spring
clean?'

He smiled. 'Not quite. I've been up in the loft.'

The hallway tiles were chipped and a pram and a mountain

bike obstructed the passage to the bottom of the wooden staircase,
the air smelling of cooking cabbage.

'Hope you're feeling fit,' Lomax said. 'It's a long haul.'

He wasn't exaggerating. By the time they reached the top


68

floor, she was slightly out of breath, although Lomax seemed
totally unaffected. The low ceilings and sloping walls suggested
that this had once been the servants' quarters, s9these partitioned
flatlets would be the cheapest in the btiilding. Two
front doors stood side by side on the top landing and above
them a trapdoor hung open. 'A communal loft ae explained as
he closed the trap and folded the stepladder. 'IWaS checking if
that's how they did it.'

She didn't follow, still trying to regain her breath. 'Did what?'
'Bugged the place. A microphone in a ceiling-light rose.'
'Pardon me?'

Lomax extracted a thin strand of cobweb dangling from his
hair. 'If Roddy's telling the truth, and I'm sure he is, anyone
trying to set him up would have to get their timing right. That
means they'd have to know exactly what Roddy planned to do
and when. It follows.'

'Er - yes, I suppose it does.' She glanced up at the trapdoor.
'Did you find anything?'

'Nothing conclusive, but then there wouldn't be, would
there?'

'What do you mean?'

'They'd be professionals; Sector One of A Branch ff this is
official.'

'But there was nothing actually there?'

'Not now.' He pushed open the door to Evie's flat. 'Anyway,
come on in. I'll put a brew on.'

The place was a mess. All the furniture in the living room had
been stacked to one side and the carpet rolled back to reveal
bare boards. Drawers from the sideboard and wall units were
stacked separately and various ortaments lay on the dining
table with their bases removed. 'What's been happening?' she
asked.

'All part of the bug hunt,' he replied from the kitchen where
he was filling the kettle. 'Evie's getting some sleep, but she's due
up soon.'

'The wine-bar job? God, surely she's not up to that today?'
He returned to the living room. 'Desperate for the money,


69

I'm afraid. I'll take her in some tea in a minute. How
Roddy?'

'Well enough, but feeling pretty down.'

'I'm not surprised,' Lomax answered and rolled the c
back into position.

'You seem to know a lot about bugs,' she observed,
where to look for them.'

He gave a sheepish grin, rather boyish, she thought.
planted a few in my time. But mostly providing backup while,

Box did the dirty deed.'

'Box?'

'Sorry. Slang for the Security Service. MIS's postal address
used to be Box 500, Whitehall. Maybe it still is. Anyway, the
name stuck.' He began repositioning the furniture. 'I've gone
through all the favourite places, like behind drawers and hidden
in the base of ornaments and lamps or fixed to curtains. I've

removed all the plug sockets...'

'What about the telephone?'

'Clean, but then I thought it would be. Roddy was on his
guard and knew Box were making a nuisance of themselves. I've
no doubt he checked the phone himself. There's a communal
junction box downstairs, but no unexplained wires. Anyway,
they'd probably do that at one of the street boxes in the district
or at the main exchange. We'd never know.'

The thought made her feel quite uneasy. 'At least you didn't
actually find anything in the loft.'

He was now replacing the drawers. 'There is something else.'
Next to the sofa and telephone table a pair of small double
doors were set into a dormer. Lomax opened them, ducked his
head and stepped out onto the flat roof of an extension at the
back of the house.

Browne followed and found herself looking down onto the
leafy trees and back gardens of the neighbouring houses.

'There's an iron fire-escape ladder down to the garden,'
Lomax explained. 'It's easily accessible once you've scaled the
perimeter wall.'

'I see,' she said, and in her imagination could see a black-clad
figure climbing stealthily in the dark.


70

	Lomax turned back to the double doors and pointed to the

	rotting timber frame. 'D'you see this?' He jabbed his forefinger

	at the tiny hole. 'That's one very lonely woodworm..,, or else it

was made for some type of probe mike.'
	:

	'You're kidding?'

He demonstrated with a straight length of ft wire. It went
right through to the interior. Straightening hisb/ack, he said:
'It's a popular method if you don't want to access the property
and they'd have been aware that Roddy would know what to
look out for.' He rattled the handle. 'The paintwork's flaked
here and you can see very slight indentations in the wood.
Fresh, not weathered.'

	'Forced entry? But you said...'

'Maybe the night before last, ahead of the police raid.' He
indicated the scattering of paint scrapings underfoot.

'Very recent. And I found footprints in the garden, through
the shrub beds from the fence. Trainers, probably a common
pattern. It was a wet night and the intruder left earth deposits

on the rungs of the fire-escape ladder. Male, about ten stone.'
'You can tell that?'

	He nodded. 'From the footprints. It used to be my job.'

'Of course, tracking. I'd forgotten.' Suddenly she thought of
the answerphone tape wiped clean and shivered despite the
mild sunshine. 'Do you mind if we go back inside?'

Lomax poured the tea and took a mug in to Evie. She
emerged a few minutes later wearing a dressing gown, her face
waxy and drawn. 'God, I must look awful,' she said, running a
hand through her hair. It wa matted and stringy. 'I really ought
to wash it.'

	'Did you sleep?' Lomax asked.

	She nursed the mug in her hand. 'A bit. Not much.' She

looked at Browne. 'How's Roddy?'

	'Fine. He sends his love.'

She recounted her meeting at Paddington Green, deliberately
trying to sound more optimistic than she felt. 'Look, Evie,
the simple fact is that Roddy did not murder Fitzpatrick.
Therefore it's logical that any evidence cannot be more than
circumstantial. If we can expose that to a judge and jury, the


71

case may well collapse.' She turned to Lomax. 'I think it's
that we establish that Roddy was a loyal and
of the Crown, an MI5 agent. And that
and made very serious threats.'

'Won't they deny that?' Evie asked.

'I expect so. Although it's not our job to prove who did
Fitzpatrick, I think it'll be essential to open the judge and
minds to the likely possibilities - whatever they might be.'

Evie was listening to the solicitor carefully. 'How can we do
that?'

'I don't know yet. But we can start with Peter Keegan. As you
know, I defended him in Belfast in 1989. He and
each other. If anyone can confirm that
MIS, he can.'

'But he's serving twenty years' Lomax pointed out.

'Exactly,' Browne replied. 'He's doing time for multiple
murder conspiracies. But it doesn't prevent him appearing as a
defence witness and, in a way, a highly credible one who really
knows about that murky world.'

'Why should he agree to give evidence?' Evie asked.

'Because he was a friend of Roddy's and an ally. Keegan was
an army informer and your husband was run by MI5 - '
Browne hesitated, turning to Lomax. 'You said that you knew
Keegan, Chris?'

He nodded. 'Vaguely. We exchanged a few words when I took

him to meet his controller. A sort ofminder role.'

'Then he might appreciate a friendly face.'

Lomax wasn't so sure. 'He's as likely to think of me as the
enemy. I was working for the men who deserted him when
things got rough.'

'But he'll realise that was nothing to do with you, won't he?'
'We'll see.'

'Does that mean you'll come with me to see Keegan? I'd be
most grateful.'

He glanced at Erie, who shrugged. Why not, what harm
would it do? 'Okay, unless I've got a job interview.'

Browne blinked, forgetting this soldier was now unemployed.
'Oh, yes, of course. Anyway, I'll have to get permission from the


72

prison authorities and agreement from Peter Keegan himself.'
She glanced at her watch. 'My God, is that the time? I'm due to
see a barrister at six in central London. His nam.e,i.s Meyrick,
Tristram Meyrick. He's very good and I hope to lersuade him
to take the case. I suppose the two of you wouldn't like to join
me? You're more familiar with the details than'f am yet.'

Evie gave a plaintive smile. 'The wine bar, I'm afraid. I can't
afford the sack.'

Lomax said: 'I'd be happy to come.'

Browne smiled. 'That's good. Perhaps we can drop Evie on
the way.'


'Standard rates, I suppose?' Keith Billbury asked.

It was almost the first question asked by the senior clerk of
Tristram Meyrick QC's chambers at 10 Paper Buildings.

He had greeted Browne in his usual ebullient fashion, kissing
her cheek and tmashamedly addressing her as Cruella, the
wicked and aristocratic dog-snatcher from the Disney film.
Things were just winding down from the hectic rush as Billbury
and his team sorted all the briefs arriving from solicitors for the
next day's trials, criminal and civil, at courts the length and
breadth of the land.

It was Billbury's job to be mother hen to the forty barristers
of varying ages, experience and abilities, who worked from the
chambers of Sir Neville Grant-Montague QC. He had to keep
even the most junior - and sometimes useless - advocate as
gainfully employed as posible juggle fees and availability
amongst his solicitor clients and, with uncanny clairvoyance,
sort out the nightmare of trial calendars. But his most
important task of all was to make s{re they all got paid for their
work. For, despite the fact that much of solicitors' income
resulted from chasing bad debtors and defaulters, Billbury
knew from long experience that they themselves were always the
last ones to put their hands in their pockets. Or, sometimes,
even to buy a round of drinks.

Eisner, Pollock and Browne were no exception.

'I do believe our fees on Regina v. Willis are still outstanding.'


73

Browne gave one of her best pouty smiles. 'I'll speak to

about it. The cheque's as good as in the post.'

'I hope so,' Billbury said, 'cos we're obviously not goin' to get very fat and rich on this Littlechild thing. No question it's Legal
Aid?'

'No question, Keith. We signed up this morning.'
'From what you told me on the blower this afternoon,
get nothing but obstruction from the Board if the spooks are involved. Pity this killer of terrorists hasn't got loads
dosh to spend on his defence, cos that's what he's gonna need.'

Browne coughed. 'Sorry, I should have explained.

Lomax is Roddy Littlechild's brother-in-law.'

For a moment Billbury looked suitably abashed, but only for

a moment. 'Sorry, Mr Lomax spoke a bit out of turn there.'

Lomax fixed the man with a hard stare. 'My brother-in-law
isn't a killer of terrorists, as you put it. That's the whole point.'

Billbury grinned and shrugged, perching himself on the edge

of a cluttered desk beside an ashtray piled high with cigarette
ends. The Italian floral silk tie, which matched his braces, was open at the throat and he had a can of lager in his hand. Clearly
this was unwind time. It could have been an office at Hereford
after a hazardous but successful mission. 'If this Roddy Little
child had topped the bloke, though, they should be giving him a
bloody medal. That's what most people would think. Trouble is
Legal Aid's always a double-edged sword. Everyone gets paid
even if we have to wait a year- but the Board is very tightfisted
in what it allows.'

'Keith's right,' Browne agreed. 'The system works all right

for barristers, to a point, but it's hardly profitable for the
solicitor who has to do all the legwork.'

Lomax found himself thinking, barristers doing alright,
narrow margins for solicitors, what about the poor bloody
defendant? This was just a game to them. What's in it for me?
Who cares whether a man is innocent or guilty?.Billbury clearly
didn't give a toss whether Roddy had killed a man or not. Just pay us the money and we'll sing your tune.

Perhaps the senior clerk read it in Lomax's eyes. 'Sorry, all

this probably sounds a bit cynical. 'Tis, I suppose, bu we see it


74

every day. Every defendant reckons he's innocent, then we find
later he's the biggest villain under the sun. And anyway,
Britain's famous legal system is just about as fai.as a lottery.
Mostly we can tell if we'll win or lose a case straightway - just
from experience. But we have to go through the motions, play
the charade anyway. Because at the end of the day, we've got
mortgages to pay and wives and kids to feed.' I :

'Not a very rosy picture you're painting, Keith,' Browne
chided.

Billbury grinned, but he was unrepentant. 'If it's roses you
want, try a florist, not a lawyer. It's as well that everyone knows
the bottom line. We do what we do because we get paid for it.
And the better we are the more work we get. Lucky for your
brother-in-law, we just happen to be the best.'

Perversely Lomax found himself warming to the man. Proud
of his team, a pro. Worked hard, probably played hard too, and
no bullshit.

'We've no room for bleeding hearts,' the clerk added. 'Like
doctors and police, we can't allow ourselves to get emotionally
involved. Not when you see the tragedies, the heartbreak and
the bloody injustice of it all. Take that road and you'll end up
topping yourself every time you lose a case.'

'Hope you're not talking for me, dear heart.'

Lomax turned. Two barristers had appeared at the door
behind him; one was young and black with a set of grinning
white teeth and incongruously was plugged into a Sorry
Walkman which emitted a faint and irritating reggae beat.

The man who had spoken was tall, slim and pale-faced with a
prematurely balding crown. About my age, Lomax thought,
and with a certain presence despit.e his rather thin and regular
features. This man was no Rumpole, his face unmemorable
except for an intensity in the dark and intelligent eyes.

It was the voice, Lomax realised. The voice was everything.
Pitched fairly lightly now, it still carried natural authority. It
would not have sounded amiss on stage at the Royal Shakespeare
Company.

'Tristram,' Browne said, 'how lovely to see you.'

'And you, dear heart.' He turned to the smiling black

'75


barrister. 'This is young Rormie Rock. New generation,

help us, but he has just won his first major case!'

'Won?' Billbury echoed in disbelief. 'Those two were

than sin itself!'

'Rape case,' Tristram Meyrick explained. 'Not particularly

nasty. Ronnie here persuaded the jury it was high spirits that l

out of hand and the girl sending out the wrong signals.'

Ronnie Rock didn't like that bland interpretation. 'And that',,

what it was, Tristram. She was drunk, both blokes were former

lovers, they watched a blue movie together, got randy,

next day she regrets it...'

Meyrick raised his hand. 'Okay, okay. Far be it from me to

cast aspersions; young Ronald. God, I'm getting hoarse. Going

to lose my voice, I think. Now, Sam, dear heart, Keith's been

telling me about this tasty little case.'

Browne introduced Lomax. 'This is Chris, the defendant's

brother-in-law. Former SAS.'

Meyrick's eyebrows raised. 'Really? Good grief, a comrade

in-arms. I served in 21 back in the eighties. I know you real men

don't think we part-timers count, but - anyway, delighted to

meet you.'

Afterwards, Lomax considered how his impression of

Meyrick had changed at that moment. Suddenly the slightly

cynical and effete manner of the stereotypical thespian could be

seen in a different light, imagined as an officer, maybe captain,

who enjoyed sending himself up, playing the role. 21 SAS

might be one of the two part-time regiments, but they went

through the same arduous training with none of the iewards of

active service at the end of it. 'gell, none which were officially

admitted,

'Look,' Meyrick said, 'we've got to go and celebrate Ronnie's

victory. Join us for a pint. Somewhere quiet where we can have a

chat.'

The barrister was a good listener. While Rounie Rock and

Keith Billbury stood laughing and chatting at the bar with other

clerks and barristers, Meyrick had led the way to a corner table.

For the best part of an hour Browne and Lomax talked while

Meyrick sipped at his beer and gave them his full attention.


76

From time to time he jotted down points in his pocket
notebook.

'So there it is,' Browne said finally.

At length, Meyrick replied, addressing himself to Lomax.
'Listen, Chris, from what you've both just told,me, you are a
potential witness. That means I'm not allowed to discuss the
case with you. Certainly not the details.' He glaiaced around,
ensuring that no one was within earshot. 'But we're up against
people who will readily, bend the rules and therefore we may
have to do the same ourselves. You know more about this sort of
thing than I do, so I'd appreciate your views. However...'

Lomax saw it coming. 'This conversation isn't taking place,
right?'

'Exactly, it's just a social chat.' He then cut straight to the
heart of the issue. 'I'm sure you both realise the serious implications
of this case - fascinating as it is? There are only three
possibilities as I see it. One is that the defendant committed the
crime, which, of course, we know he did not. The second is that
our client was unfortunately in the vicinity when a person or
persons unknown murdered Mr Fitzpatrick. Not impossible,

given the victim's position in the IRA and likely enemies.'
'Another member of the Provos?' Lomax suggested.

That made sense to Browne. 'Roddy said Fitzpatrick was
opposed to the peace process. That would put him at loggerheads
with some of the IRA leadership.'

'I'm sure that wouldn't be allowed to happen,' Lomax
thought aloud. 'Not while he was under MI5 protection.'

Meyrick looked grim. 'Which brings me to the third possibility.
That the crime was done at the behest of MIS.'

'Roddy suggested something similar,' Browne confirmed,
'but I find that impossible to believe.'

Lomax agreed. 'It would never get sanctioned. For a start,
the timing. The process is at a critical stage and it wouldn't be in
the government's interest to blow it off course. And Fitzpatrick
was high profile, at least to people in the know. It would raise
suspicions.'

'Unless,' Meyrick said slowly, 'there was a ready-made.
culprit. If MI5 learned that Roddy Littlechild was going to

77


make shock horror revelations in a TV documentary,
would be a strong incentive to shut him up, and jail's a
place for that. Couple it to the fact that Fitzpatrick was dead set
against the peace process. It's rather convenient the wa,
are turning out. Fitzpatrick eliminated and his supposed killer,
another thorn in their side, shut away for life.'

That was a sobering thought that Lomax would have pre,
ferred not to hear.

'MI5 wouldn't kill someone just like that?' Browne's eyos
were wide and glistening.

Very beautiful, Lomax thought. He said: 'You know from the
evidence in the Keegan case that they can and do,
Although they'd virtually always use someone else, someone
unconnected. A deniable op. If they're involved
then harassment is more their style. Applying untraceable
pressure, pulling strings, like they've been doing with Roddy
and Evie.'

Meyrick agreed. 'There's no shortage of people willing to do

it. I came across enough hard cases down on their luck through
21. More than a couple would do a wet job if the money was
right and they thought it had unofficial MI5 approval.'

Lomax couldn't disagree there. 'It would still be unlikely to
get sanction from the top.'

Meyrick nodded. 'You're right. No government minister
would know, or rather would want to know about it. All nod and
a wink stuff. We're talking about a rogue element here, I'm sure
of it. But one that nevertheless has to be high up the command
chain to make such decisions. Below Director General in
maybe a deputy department head.

'And the political sanction?' Browne asked.

'I'm guessing,' Meyrick replied. 'Obviously below Home
Secretary, but probably someone in his office. Maybe others in
the Northern Ireland Office or the MOD.'

Browne felt a sensation like the palm of a cold hand on her
back. 'This is sick.'

'The point is, Sam, we should assume the worst. If we're
right, we'll be faced with obstruction at every turn, and we'll
be up against an omnipotent adversary, the secret state. It


78

also means that security must be paramount. Establish safe
communications and as little as possible committed to paper. Anything that is should be triplicated and not.e.pt in my
chambers or at your offices.'

Browne paled. 'You really think...?'

Lomax said: 'Tristram's right. I've seen tho guys at work.
They could steal the pyjamas offyou while you sl-ep.'

She whistled softly, then smiled in an attempt to lighten the
mood. 'Then it's just as well I don't wear any.'

Lomax and Meyrick exchanged glances. There really was no
answer to that.


The next morning, Rodney Littlechild appeared before
Belmarsh Magistrates Court and stood stone-faced and
ramrod-backed while he was remanded in custody. Only as he
turned did he smile thinly while he searched for and found
Erie's face amongst those in the public gallery. She had a
handkerchief pressed to her cheek, but lifted her hand to wave.
Lomax was by her side; at least she was in safe hands.

Sam Browne saw the prisoner briefly in the cell below the
courtroom where she gave him as much optimistic news as she
could. Tristram Meyrick QC had agreed to take the case, and
on the face of it thought his chances of acquittal were good,
and she'd written a letter to Peter Keegan requesting an interview.
And it wasn't raining. Not a lot really, and they both
knew it.

She stood and watched as he was taken off in handcuffs to
the underground passage which led directly to Belmarsh High
Security Prison. It was a place as bleak as it sounded, a soulless
and modern purpose-built fortress, on the desolate mud flats
beside the Thames estuary. And her heart .went out to him.


Three weeks later, Sam Browne still had received no response
to her written request to the Anti-Terrorist Branch to visit the
scene of crime or to have access to witness statements and
the forensic evidence. Millman .and Henwick were always out
of the office or engaged in interviews and failed to return her
calls while Detective Superintendent Dymock's office simply


79

referred her back to the arresting officers. Every

blocked.

The only bright note was from Peter Keegan.

advice she had bypassed the prison authorities and
written a letter direct to Keegan telling him that a
was in trouble and she would like to meet him as discreetly
possible. If Keegan agreed, he should formerly request
he see his former solicitor, Samantha Browne, to discuss n
application for early release. It was not something the authorities
could refuse.

A telephone call came through from HM Prison Stafford

not Ulster. Apparently Keegan had been transferred to
mainland to be closer to his elderly mother.

'I'll come at the usual visiting time,' she told the duty officer

'and no need for a closed visit.' No need to be private.

The man had laughed. 'It's more comfortable in the visitors'
lounge here, that's for sure. If you can stand the screaming kids.'

'That's what I thought,' she lied. Private interview rooms can

be more easily bugged, she thought.


Boots scraped outside Peter Keegan's segregation cell and the
key turned. 'Get your kit together. Back to your old cell. Five
minutes to smarten up, then the governor wants to see you.
Look sharp.'

Through the interminable steel doors and barred gates,
unlock and lock again, down passages and along gantries, up
steps and down, back to his cell. A nod from Hutch who shared
it with him, the screw waiting while Keegan sluiced his face and
ran a comb through his hair. Then more doors and gates, unlocked
and relocked, back to the governor's dark-panelled office.

A brisk knock, a command to enter. March in, almost like a
bloody soldier, Keegan standing by his escort while Rook finished
what he was writing before even looking up. A mournful face,
deeply lined and the sunless colour of putty, receding hair and
sober suit.

There was never any preamble with Rook. 'You're a fool,
Keegan.'

'Sir.'


80

'Hope your time in CC and four weeks' lost remission has
cooled your temper.'

'Yes, sir. It was a very stupid thing for me to have dg.ne.'
Rook's eyes were dark, fathomless; he'd have mad a good
poker player. 'Yes, very stupid. I wanted to help you, Keegan.

Wanted to move you to D Wing, give you an easiitime.'

'I know, sir. May I ask how Girton is, now? ....

The governor watched, cautious before answering. 'He's back
on the wing. Sutures in his forehead, his nose broken and nasty
bruising.'

'I'm glad he's recovering, sir,' Keegan said, but meant, then I
should have hit the bastard harder.

'I'm pleased to hear your remorse, Keegan,' Rook said, 'but
it's all too late. I can hardly allow your transfer to D after this, can

I?
	No soft option for you now. You know my rules.'

'No, sir. I suppose not, sir.'

The governor was unblinking. 'The question is, should I send
you back to F? Make you start all over again?'

Meaning back to the bottom of Rook's snakes-and-ladders
game, where everyone had to start. Pitched into overcrowded F
Wing with the tossers and losers who stayed there because they
didn't have the savvy to behave and acquiesce for the three weeks
it took to move on to B, C or G. For you to get four days'
'association' with the other cons, watch the telly, receive visitors
and use the phone.

Keegan didn't answer, held his law firm.

Rook regarded the prisoner in front of him. Not a big man,
maybe five-ten in his socks and around eleven stone, but with a
wiry strength. Black hair and sable-coloured eyes, almost gypsy
with a dark intensity that gave just a .hint of his inner resilience.
How many years under cover for Army Intelligence? Rook asked
himself. Six years, if he remembered correctly. Six years on the
edge and all he had to show for it was a twenty-year sentence, a
broken marriage and financial ruin.

The governor said: 'I've taken your obvious remorse into
consideration and the fact that bar Girton provoked you. I'm
fully aware of his little games and the powerbase he's built for
himself on G Wing. But I have a feeling he'll steer well clear of


81

you now. Therefore your presence may have a balancing
so I've decided to let you return to
sake, Keegan, but for the sake of harmony on G

	Yeah! Keegan thought, but struggled to keep the

face. Sill on G, still with a view of Crookedbridge Road.
with Gaza and Hutch, the team intact. All three ex-soldier
looked after their own. So everything still on track.

'Put one foot wrong, Keegan, and you'll serve out the rest
your time back in F,' Rookwas saying. 'Understood? Now
a gentleman here from the Home Office
you.'

	For the first time.
	" "

the leather sofa behind him, had missed the

as the escorting screw had wheeled him in, hard-right to fa
Rook's desk.

	'Mr Prendergast,' Rook added.

The man didn't rise from the sofa. Mid-forties, Keegan :
guessed, tall and thin with a sallow complexion and light brown
hair that had been carefully trimmed. His dark suit was expensively
tailored with hand-stitched lapels and the shine on the
Church's brogues would have done a guardsman proud.

'Really just a routine visit, Mr Keegan,' he said in a bored
sounding voice. 'The legal department is aware that you are being
considered as a material witness in a pending murder trial.'

Keegan raised an eyebrow. 'Just a request to explore the
possibilities.'

	'From your former solicitor, I notice.'

'Sure, Miss Browne defended my case in Belfast. I feel I at
least owe her the courtesy of listening to what she has to say.
Nothing wrong with that.'

Prendergast nodded, but he hardly looked satisfied with the
answer. 'You realise that to give evidence in someone else's trial
might not be in your own best interest?'

Keegan said: 'Is that free advice? Personally, I think it's a
matter between me and my brief.'

'Just being helpful,' Prendergast replied. 'Remember, Keegan,
when the Parole Board meets it takes into consideration a pris

82


oner's remorse for his crime. And his actions will be considered
more relevant than his words.'

'Meaning?' ..
'Meaning giving evidence for the defence at a forraer'Loyalist
gang member's trial may not be seen as the action of a remorseful
prisoner.' "

	'I'll remember that, sir.' Rook
coughed pointedly. ,If you've no more questions, Mr
Prendergast?' He looked at Keegan. 'Now, I'm afraid I've some
news for you- not good. Your mother's been taken into hospital,
pneumonia. She's not at all well.'

Keegan stared. It had happened, as he knew it would. His
widowed mother had suffered chronic bronchitis for years and
had been virtually bedridden for the past nine months. The
whole family had known it was just a matter of time. He'd been
banking on it, laying plans. Not wishing it, but also afraid that
when it finally came it would be too late. Dear old Mum, you've

never let me down. The timing's perfect.

	'Has she got long?' he asked.

	'A slow decline, they said. A week, ten days. She's in

Birmingham Royal Infirmary.'

	'Can I visit her?'

Rook consulted the file on his desk. 'I'm considering having
you sent to Winson Green for a month. It would be easier to
arrange visits from there.'
	'I'd be grateful.' Rook not quite the complete bastard after all.

	'I'll confirm it with Winson Green and arrange for you to go

tomorrow after breakfast. Okay?'

	'Thank you, sir.'

'Right, now visiting is in half an hour. and your Miss Browne is
listed. Remember what I said earlier and.don't let me down
again .'

Keegan straightened his back. 'Sir,' And the prison officer
marched him out.

Rook turned to Prendergast. 'If you still want to watch,
I suggest you go to the observation room before visiting
starts.'


83

Lomax hated prisons. He'd seen the insid
riot exercises when the SAS was expected to go in ahead oft warders to restore order, take out the most d

Just the thought of it brought on an uncommon sense
phobia. To be locked in every night with people you
didn't even like; the snoring and the farting; to see
for only an hour a day; the grinding, mind-numbing routine;
congealed and lukewarm institutionalised food and even i
subjected to other people's choice of television. Outsiders
no conception of what even an 'easy regime' was like.

HM Prison Stafford on Gaol Road had been rebuilt in

and modernised since. He and Sam Browne entered throu
towering granite face of the gate lodge and joined
ring mass of visitors: some men, but mostly wives and
with kids and babies in tow. Everyone was searched, clothing;
bags and even the nappies young mums brought in case a chang '
was needed. Drugs, Lomax knew, was what they
for, now a major problem in every prison.

The visitors' lounge was lushly carpeted, bright and airy
with a high-vaulted ceiling and canary-yellow walls. They were
allocated one of the groups of chairs, each gathered around a
low coffee table which made it impossible to pass contraband
beneath. Lomax and Browne took the blue padded chairs, the
single red one left vacant for the prisoner.

When everyone was settled, the cons started coming in one by
one. There was much hugging and kissing and tears, a lot of
children shrieking with delight as they recognised their fathers.

Keegan looked older than Lomax remembered, but then he
probably did too. People changed more than they realised in -
how many must it be? - eight years. But the man looked well,
pale but fit. Certainly better than when Lomax had last seen him
That haunted expression had gone, the nervous mannerisms of

the undercover agent replaced with a quiet confidence.
'Hello, Peter,' Browne said, extending her hand.
'Sam.' He ignored Lomax. 'You still look stunning.'

She blushed slightly. 'That's the make-up. It gets thicker every
year.'

'I don't believe that.'

84


'I think you know Mr Lomax.'

Keegan turned his head, eyes narrowing. 'Do I?'
'By sight,' Lomax said. 'You just knew me as Chr-i.' Recognition dawned. 'God, my minder. It's beel a long time.
Don't think I ever saw you properly.' A laugh at t-..e memory. 'We
were always creeping about in shadows.'

'How you doing, Peter?' - "

'As well as can be expected in this shit hole. You still with the
mob?'

'No, I'm out.'

Keegan turned to Browne. 'What's this all about, Sam?'
Browne told him.

He listened intently for twenty minutes without interruption.
When she'd finished he turned to Lomax. 'So you're Roddy's
brother-in-law? Small world.'

Lomax said: 'He needs your help.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Give evidence,' Browne replied. 'MI5 have made it clear
they're going to deny he was ever an agent of theirs.'

'All the main Loyalist players have worked for them at one time
or another,' Keegan said. He added: 'Wittingly or otherwise.'

'You can start by testifying to that,' Browne replied. 'Tell the
jury how it was, how it is. Everyone running their own shadow
show - the RUC, Army Intelligence and MI5. No one knows
better than you.'

'True enough,' Keegan conceded. 'At the time the army was
running me, MI5 was running Roddy. Neither of us knew. They
played us like pawns, expendable.'

'But you discovered that Roddy was an agent in the end?'

Keegan nodded. 'It was confirmed by my army controller. It

came as quite a shock, but it shouldn't have done.'

'Why?' Browne asked.

'Like I said, we'd all volunteered or been used at one time or
another. Trying to help them screw the Provos.'

'When you were undercover forArmy Intelligence in the Ulster
Defenders, before you were unearthed by the Penny Inquiry,
who else might have known that Roddy was on MIS's payroll in
South Africa?'

85


'Not the Defenders' leader Rattler, that's for sure. Stevie Gavin

was as surprised as I was - especially at being double-shafted blr
me and Roddy at the same time. Between them, the army and

MI5 had the Defenders well stitched up.'
'No one else knew?' Browne pressed.
'It's just a guess.'
'Who?'

'King Billy. That's what they call him. Billy Baker. Runs a
drinking club off the Shankill Road. Calls himself a Loyalist
paramilitary, but he's hardly that. Has a gang of thugs to manage
various criminal activities, then shoots the occasional Catholic
for good measure.'

'That's the name,' Browne murmured. 'The man Roddy said

called to tell him that Fitzpatrick was going to make contact,
Roddy said Baker could only have got his new number from
MIS.'

'That would make sense. King Billy always kept well in with

MIS. Suited them both, especially in the old days. It would have
been typical of Baker to have known Roddy was with MI5 and
keep quiet. Just enjoy the pleasure of seeing Stevie Gavin and the
Defenders fucked about. There was never any love lost between
them.'

'Perhaps I could get to see this Billy Baker,' Browne thought
aloud.

'He'd only see you if it was in his interest, and he won't be easy

to find.' Keegan's eyes became fierce slits. 'And I wouldn't try

too hard if I were you. He can't be trusted an inch.'

'Then it's down to you to help Roddy. Tell the jury what you've

just told me, but with all the details. If he knows you're on his
side, he'll know he has a chance, i,m sure later there'll be heavy
pressure put on Roddy to plead guilty. Inducements offered. You
know the form, Peter, you pleaded guilty in a plea bargain so
MI5 could keep its dirty linen locked away.'

Keegan gave a wry smile. 'Against your advice, Sam.'
'Against my advice,' Browne repeated. 'But Roddy might
accept it if he knows you'll back him. And if I can prove he was a
loyal and trusted MI5 agent I stand a better chance of prising
apart the prosecution case, creating doubt. There can be no


86

forensic evidence, and any eye-witness identification by MI5
would become highly suspect...'

'Get real, Sam. Don't you realise what you're up against?'
'Of course. I've been here before, remember?'
'They're already on to you.'
'What d'you mean? Who are?'

'The spooks, the government. I saw the govertiok half an hour
ago and there was someone from the Home Office, someone
called Prendergast, advising me not to co-operate with you. Said
I wouldn't be doing myself any favours.'

Browne's anger boiled. 'They've no right to say that. From the
Home Office, you say? What was his name again?'

'Prendergast. Does the name mean anything to you?' Keegan
asked.

'Not yet, but I intend to find out who he damn well is,' Browne
replied.

'They'll just give you some cock-and-bull story, but I know a Spock when I see one,' Keegan said. 'That's what you're up
against. You can't win and neither can Roddy or me. We're just

casualties amongst the foot soldiers of someone's turf war.'
'What d'you mean?'

'Have you asked yourself why? Why I was abandoned when
my undercover role was discovered? Why no one in government
pulled any strings to help me? Why Roddy's been set up by the
very people he's always served?'

'Roddy turned his back on them.'

Keegan was dismissive. 'That's no reason. An excuse perhaps,
but no reason. Once upon a time that would never have
happened.'

'So what do you think the reason is.?' Lomax pressed.

'I know what the reason is.' The prisoner made no attempt to
hide his bitterness, his disgust. 'The playing field has gradually
been changing over the past ten years, only I was too blind to see
it. But then I was an early victim. You can trace it back to the
Brighton bomb when the Provos damn near wiped out Maggie
Thatcher and the entire British Cabinet. That was the start of
the rot.'

'It concentrated a few minds,' Lomax agreed.


87

'And heralded a lot of changes, especially in the Security
Service and government departments. Quite a few new fac,
appeared, people with new ways of doing things. The old Cold
War warriors were on their way out, and when they went, old
loyalties went with them. Funny how quickly the Anglo-Irish
Agreement followed Brighton, opening the door for Dublin to
have a say in running Ulster.' He looked at Lomax. 'Your friend
in Army Intelligence were okay, but the relationship with
cooled with the Loyalists. Chilled, more like. Groups like our,
the UDA, UVF or the Ulster Defenders could always be relied
on to help them out. Claim responsibility for a body in a field
get them offthe hook.'

Browne glanced at Lomax for confirmation. 'Did that happen?'
Lomax nodded. 'Not with us, but we heard the stories. The
Regiment was on the inside track. There was definitely collusion
with some of the Loyalist factions, but not all. They were seen as
allies, but a bit crazy and unpredictable.'

Keegan said: 'This new generation of spooks and Whitehall
mandarins were quickly taking over as the old-timers were put
out to grass.'

'Different values?' Browne guessed.

'Some might say no values at all,' Keegan retorted. 'Pragmatists,
schemers, too clever by half. They could see no benefit
in prolonging the Irish Troubles by keeping Ulster within
the United Kingdom. And as the Communist bloc started to
collapse, the province began losing its strategic military importance.
Suddenly it was a new game, new rules. I couldn't believe
some of those redbrick graduate bastards in MIS. I met a few of
them when they pulled the rug out from under me. Full of self
righteous morality about the so-called dirty tactics their predecessors
had used. Conveniently forgot those guys had experience
from the last war and when the Berlin Wall went up, through
the terror wars in Kenya, Israel, Cyprus, Aden, Malaya...
Conveniently forgot those guys who' had stopped the Ulster
situation from exploding for nearly twenty years.'

'They hadn't stopped it, though,' Browne pointed out.

Keegan smiled. 'Now you sound just like them.'

Lomax said: 'It was the politicians who prevented.it. Left to

88


their own devices, the army and MI5 would have Sorted out the
Provos. Just like they had elsewhere.'

Keegan agreed. 'The politicians put them in a.sSraitjacket.
Because this was too close to home, our own soil. Arid .hey were
scared of American reaction. They've always beer.scared of that.'
He shrugged. 'So this new policy developed, to-get peace at any
price, to get Ulster united with Dublin in all but iafime. Looking
back, you can see it clearly now. And people like me and Roddy
are embarrassments to be got rid of, along with any evidence of
MIS's dubious behaviour in the past. In retrospect it's decided
those activities were politically incorrect.'

'Roddy would have done best to have stayed in South Africa,'
Lomax said.

'You're not wrong there,' Keegan replied. 'I wish to hell I'd
stayed.'

'You were in South Africa?'

'For a while. Back in 1985 for a couple of years. I'd been
working as an informer and then an agent for the army on and
offsince the mid-seventies and I was at the end of my tether. A
nervous wreck. I talked to Army Intelligence and then someone
in MI 5 suggested I went to South Africa with my family. MI 5 were
always keen for Loyalists to get some proper military training, and
that was the ideal place.'

'Why should MI5 want you to have military training?' This
was something Browne hadn't been told before. Not why he'd
chosen to go there.

'In case of intervention in Ulster by the Irish Army. It's always
been a serious concern since the late sixties. If it had happened,
there'd have been a popular uprising- but you can't hope to win
in guerrilla warfare without proper training.'

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if everyone knew. Repeating
exactly what the television journalist Lisa Hardcastle had said
Roddy Littlechild told her when Browne had interviewed her a
week earlier as a possible defence witness. At the time, she wasn't
sure Hardcastle had got it fight, it had sounded too fanciful, and
she'd yet to ask Littlechild himself about it. Now here was
confirmation.

Keegan noticed her reaction. 'So Roddy never told you?'


89

'Told me what?'

'The reason why he first went to Rhodesia. He was a

then, keen to do his bit in the fight against the Provos. He
just go to Rhodesia in search of excitement;"
he go.'

'By MI5?'

'Sure, their people. They pushed the idea hard, encouraged
lots of youngsters to go,
with the Rhodesian Army and provided money for the air
At the time, of course, no one knew these people were
were just naive wee kids then, but Roddy's learned since.'
fixed Browne's gaze. 'No one's going to risk that stff getting out
in open court - and certainly not in the middle of the pea

process. That's why you're up against it.'

'Does that mean you won't help?'

'I didn't say that, Sam. Just don't get your hopes up, or
Roddy's.' He sat back in his chair and looked up at the light fitting
high above his head. 'See that? There's a security camera up
there. They watch your every move. One of the screws let it slip
once, heard them ioking how they can zoom in up the wives' and
girlfriends' skirts if they've got the angle right.'

Instinctively Browne glanced up and closed her knees.
Keegan added: 'Those they're really interested in get put right
underneath the camera. That means they're interested in us. So
don't produce any paperwork or anything sensitive.'

Lomax leaned forward. 'Listen, Peter, I owe Roddy for the
time he saved my life at Goose Green. I don't know if you feel
you owe him anything, but you do owe me. That time, the
rendezvous on the Ballygowan Road, you'd have walked straight
into that stakeout...'

'Calling in the favours, Chris?'

'If you like.'

Keegan smiled. 'You don't have to.' He looked across at
Browne. 'You were right, Sam, back at my Diplock trial in Belfast.
I should have fought them then, recognised their betrayal for
what it was. But I was broken, a burnt-out case. I'm eleven and a
half stone now; then I was just over nine.'

'You'll give evidence?' she pressed.


90

'Sure.'

Browne looked relieved, but there was something about the
way he said it that made Lomax wonder. As if the man was just
saying it to please, to get them offhis back.


Prendergast looked at the VDU more closely are observation
room. 'Can you get a close-up of the man?' 'Sure,'
said the prison officer at the control, and the camera
zoomed in until the face almost filled the screen.

Clean-shaven, mid-forties. The features too craggy, too unfinished
to be handsome, just reprieved by a ready lazy smile. Some
silvery strands in the fair hair that was slightly too long to be neat.
And the eyes, grey and warm, humorous but alert. Once or twice
Prendergast saw the pupils dilate and the light die in them, saw
the other side of the man.

'Want a print-out?' the warder asked.
'Could you?'
'No problem.'

Another prison officer glanced at his list. 'Name's Lomax.
Christopher Lomax. Listed as solicitor's clerk.'

Naughty, Prendergast thought, but said nothing. So that was
Lomax. He recognised the name from Rodney Littlechild's file.
The man's friend and brother-in-law. Former SAS.

What he wouldn't have given to have listened to what they
were saying to Keegan, to have had a radio mike secreted in one
of the armchairs. But this was low-key, just covering bets. No
need to get tongues wagging.

Keegan was history, had been locked away with his secrets
and still another good five years to serve. Keegan had known
Littlechild and vice versa, so that wa.s the obvious connection. It
was tenuous stuff nevertheless. It told .him that Samantha
Browne was desperate. That she was just trawling, was on a
fishing expedition.

Nothing to worry about, just keep an eye on them.

Then all three had looked up, their faces staring at him through
the monitor.

Prendergast took an instinctive backward step, for a moment.
imagining they could see him. One of the warders noticed and


91

ginned. Stupid, an unspoken shared joke, but it left Prendergast
with an uneasy feeling.

After that he couldn't fully believe anything he saw on the
screen, couldn't take it at face value. They could be three actor.
on a TV screen. Any of the expressions, the gestures, could
have been for his benefit. Keegan had shaken his head, quite
vehemently, and then all three had shaken hands, Keegan kissing
the solicitor on the cheek before they went.

All the visitors left first, followed by the prisoners. Only then
did Prendergast leave the observation room with the prison
officer and wonder if maybe he should increase Keegan's
insurance premiums a little, just for safety's sake. When he
reached the chief warder's office, he asked to see the governor
again.

Rook wasn't pleased at another interruption. 'What is it, Mr
Prendergast?'

'I've been thinking about Keegan. In retrospect, I think you
were rather lenient with him.'

The governor pursed his lips, wondered what was coming
next.

'Might not look too good in my report. And I'd hate it to reflect
badly on you. Perhaps if the transfer to Winson Green were to be
cancelled...'

'I can't do that. There are genuine compassionate grounds
and Keegan has been a model prisoner until now.'

'Maybe that - was it Ginger Girton - could be persuaded to
press a charge of grievous bodily harm?'

Rook's patience was running thin. 'I doubt it. Cons don't work
like that. It's tantamount to grassing. He'd sort it his own way, or
more likely just respect Keegan in future.'

Prendergast shrugged. 'Then I'm sorry, Governor, I'll have to
file my report as it stands.'

Rook made a decision, and immediately regretted it. But the
words were already out. 'When he returns from Winson Green,
after his month's transfer, I could put him back in F for a spell.'
Break my word, he thought.

'That's more like it, Governor. I'm sure that'll seem more


92

appropriate to my superiors. There's a lot of public and political

pressure to be harder on the criminal fraternity nowadays.'
Don't I know it, Rook thought acidly. .

'One small favour, Governor. When you tell Mr Keegan of
your decision, drop my name into the conversation. Let him
know we're still interested in him.' '

93


Four


Hutch looked up as the key turned and Keegan re-entered l-tis

cell.

'How you doin', Pete? How was seg?'

The door slammed shut. 'Fine. Enjoyed the peace and quiet.'
Their joke. Ken Hutchinson, gabby Scouser, armed robber,
former child delinquent, former soldier with the Cheshires just like Keegan. Regimental ties, although
together.

Keegan moved away from the door and lowered his voice. 'I

saw Rook. I'm getting a transfer to Winson Green.'
Hutch's eyes widened. 'It's on?'
'Yes.'

'Why the transfer?'

'My mum's in the infirmary at Brum. They don't give her
long.'

'I'm sorry, mate.' Hutch handed him a roll-up.

'Don't be. It was on the cards. Truth is, I think she'll be

pleased when her time comes. Life's not been much fun.'
'When do you go?'
'Tomorrow. After breakfast.'
'Christ, that doesn't give you long.'

'Long enough - if we've planned it right.' And they should
have, he thought, because he'd spent hours on the card-phone
over the past six months. And recently hours at the window
overlooking Crookedbridge Road. If it wasn't right now, it
never would be.

As soon as the cell door was opened for the association period

that evening, Hutch went looking for Gaza on the floor below.
John Gascoigne, another former Cheshire, shared his friend's
excitement at the news. No time to drop their guard, they
decided. Watch Keegan's back for him, just in case Ginger
Girton hadn't learned his lesson and was planning his.revenge.


94

The two men went back to Keegan's cell and walked, one
each side of him, down to where the card-phones were in the
main hall between the gantries and the cells.

Keegan made the call. 'It's on. Tomorrow.'

Hutch and Gaza stayed by his side until light.s, out and they
were locked back in their cells. "

Then Keegan stood on a chair to reach the Iared window
and used a smuggled torch to give the recognition signal Over
the wall in Crookedbridge Road, the answering flash came
from the bedroom window of the rented bedsit.

The conversation in Morse went on for twenty minutes
before the bedsit curtains were closed and Keegan climbed off
the chair and sat on his bunk.

'You meant everything you said?' Hutch asked, still not quite
believing.

'Every word - if I can pull it off. You and Gaza have been
good mates and I won't let you down. I know what it is to be let
down.' He grinned at his friend; a nervous grin, because the
time had come. 'One favour. I'll write my mum a letter. See she
gets it.'

'No problem.'

Keegan knew he wouldn't sleep anyway and writing pages of
things he'd always wanted to say but never had, helped pass the
time. There were tears in his eyes when he wrote the final
words: Goodbye, Mum. Love Pete.

And the bastards were even stealing his last farewell. Because
of them he had to do what he had to do.


It was going to be another scorcher of. a day.

Nesbit leaned against the wheel of his artic's tractor unit in
his denim shorts and black Def Leppard T-shirt and drained the
last drops from the can of Lilt. Eight thirty.

He felt nervous and took out his aggression on the can,
crushing it in his huge palm and tossing it into the long grass
beside the lay-by. Felt stronger for that, tougher, ready for
the job. He swaggered rather than walked around the trailer,.
checking that he'd loosened enough knots and slipped sufficient


95

ropes from the brass eyelets of the tarpaulin for the slipstream to
do its job.

Satisfied, he hauled himself up into the cab and started the
diesel. The town of Stafford behind him and ahead Junction
13 onto the M6 motorway and the thirty plus-mile run to
Birmingham.

Anywhere will do, the caller had said last night, but sooner
rather than later, nearer Stafford than Birmingham

In truth Nesbit had been surprised to get the call from the
man he knew only as Tim. They'd first met two months eadier
Tim approaching him at his local pub. Said he was a friend of
Hutch and Nesbit knew Hutch from way back.

'Sometime soon, in the next few weeks or months, we'll
need to cause a traffic hold-up on the M6.' Meaning you're an
independent, run your own rig. 'Are you interested? A grand in
it for you and another to cover costs if you're fined.' Which they
both knew was unlikely. 'IJalf up front, half after.'

Nesbit was always interested in easy money. Hutch was in
Stafford nick and therefore maybe he was planning a heist from
the inside.

Tim had read his mind. 'Better for you not to know. There'll
be nothing to connect you. I'll ring you when it's about to
happen.'

And it had happened last night, a motorcycle courier
delivering the package to Nesbit's home an hour later. Five
hundred in used notes.

This morning Nesbit had put the alarm on for five and had
driven to the yard and spent an hour loading a suitable cargo.
Alloy tubing, he decided, because once the first ones went off
the tail, there'd be nothing to stop the rest. And alloy was
light, shouldn't cause any serious damage to the cars or drivers
behind him; he really wouldn't want that on his conscience.

Once they were stacked, he placed four cardboard boxes
across the rear end of the trailer. When the tubes began to roll,
they'd take the boxes with them. The boxes would split on
impact with the tarmac and spread their contents. The contents
were brittle plastic containers full of galvanised roofing tacks.

All set, everything covered.


96

Nesbit kept his speed down as he approached the sliproad to
the M6, watched the tarpaulin in his wing mirrors. Didn't
want the cops pulling him over for an unsafe load u95i! he was in
position, until he'd done the job.

He settled down at fifty, the tarpaulin begins.." g to flap, the
crosswind beginning to stir. One mile, two- The flapping getting wilder, a length of loose rope twitching, lengthening like
a snake. Nesbit's eye on the mirror, watching for the white
paintwork and flashing blue strobe of a patrol car.

A passing sales rep in a Peugeot flashed him a warning.

Eight miles, still flapping but still firm. Sod. He'd warned the
man called Tim this was no precise science. Nesbit stepped
on the gas, felt the load begin to rock slightly, the slipstream

combining with the crosswind.

Sixty, sixty-five.

A clear stretch behind him now. A good time for it to happen,
clear of vehicles. His foot went down again, the sun hot in the
cab, the sweat staining his T-shirt.

Seventy and pushing it. The tarpaulin like a mad thing now, a

giant blue plastic sail hauled aloft.

'C'mon, you bastard!'

Suddenly a coach, gaining fast. National Express, it had to
be. Those buggers always in a hurry.

He felt the load shift, sensing rather than hearing the clink
and clank of rolling alloy. Cardboard boxes exploding their
shrapnel in his wake, tubes spinning and bouncing across all
three lanes.

And suddenly the tarpaulin lifting free, like a paraglider
wrenched from its mountings by the slipstream, airborne, flying
like a kite.

'Oh, Christ!'

Nesbit watched in horror in his mirror as the tarpaulin
wrapped itself around the front of the overtaking coach.


The blue Sierra from Cannock Cabs pulled up inside the prison
yard and waited as the escort party approached.

Keegan wore uniform denims and was handcuffed betwee.n
two officers in short-sleeve order.


97

'Nice day,' said the driver as they climbed into the.
The officer called Mark was a sun freak; always the
summer and the UV lamp in winter. 'Another stinker, .
last.'

'Always a nice day to be getting out of this place,' the other:
officer said. Grumps, as he was nicknamed, was a York
shireman.

The Security PO peered through the window to check, th
two officers lifted their wrists to show the cuffs. Mark smiled h
acknowledgement; Grumps didn't.

As the driver turned left into Gaol Road, the gates swunl

closed. 'Have you heard about the smash on the M6?'

'No,' Mark replied.

'Came over the radio ten minutes ago. Sounds nasty. South.
bound lane closed. Thought I'd take the A34.'

Grumps grunted. 'All right.' It was the obvious choice.

'Take your time,' Mark said. 'No hurry.' And nice scenery, he
thought.

Fifty yards behind them a white Astra hatchback pulled out
of a side street and began to follow, keeping two cars between
itself and the vehicle in front. The driver wore a woollen hat and
spoke into a CB. 'Tango Alpha to Tango Oscar. Footballe
has left stadium. Also confirmed on scanner, taxi company ha,.
advised on diversion. Acknowledge. Over.'

The radio set wheezed with static. 'Roger, llpha. KeI
informed. Out.'

In the taxi it was becoming unbearably hot, the outside temperature
already in the seventies. The radio pumped out Classic
Rock's version of 'Paint It Black', Grumps staring straighl
ahead and Mark watching the pedestrians on the pavements.
lot of young mothers wearing skimpy shorts and tank tops,
pushing prams or with toddlers in tow. Lots of lovely brown
legs, he thought dreamily, as they began clearing the southeast
suburbs of Stafford.

The red Renault Safrane, stolen two months earlier,
resprayed, registration plates changed, and garaged ever since,
waited a few miles down the road. It was stationary in the
entrance to the car park beside the Chetwynd Arms public


98

house, just south of the Brocton Crossroads, the engine

running.

Like the driver of the Astra, the man behind the h.eel wore a

woollen hat and held a CB to his ear. The voice was saying:

'Footballer clearing Walton-on-the-Hill. Traffic steady at foray-five

mph. I've just overtaken. Am in position behind taxi. ETA two

minutes...'
	- "

The man in the Safrane felt the muscles clenching in his
stomach and reached across to the bolt-cutters on the passenger
seat.

Again the set crackled, the voice higher this time, excited.
'Passing Seven Stars pub NOW.t" Just over a mile to go. 'Looking
good, looking good! Over:

'Roger,' the Safrane's driver acknowledged. Nothing more to
say now. Just the job to do. 'Out.'

The taxi driver drummed a little tattoo on the steering wheel.
He was not an impatient man but the estate in front was dawdling,
no more than forty-five. He could see it was fully loaded:
Mum and Dad in the front and the kids making faces at him
over the baggage in the back. Sodding holiday-makers, they
assumed the whole friggin' world was on vacation just because
they were. That was the trouble living near a place like Cannock
Chase, which they were just coming up to now. What was the
posh name for it? An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
Ten thousand acres of wild heath and woodlands. And come
summer the tourists swarmed like bees round a honey pot,
rarely walking but always driving and clogging the roads for
miles. Locals could only call the place their own in the depths of
winter.

He caught sight of the white Asia in his mirror. That hadn't
been there a minute before. Hadn't seen it overtake. Still,
couldn't blame the man for wanting to get a move on.

His eyes shifted in the mirror, the younger prison officer with
his eyes closed, smiling, enjoying the warmth. The older man
asleep, mouth slack. And the poor sod in between looking
nervous, edgy. Wonder what he's doing time for?

Up ahead Brocton Crossroads. Bungalows on the left, a
splash of colour in the front gardens, a farmhouse coming up on

his right. The dawdler in front down to forty. Typical! Thumb in bum, mind in neutral.

The flash of the blue strobe caught his eye in the rearview
mirror. The white vehicle behind a police car, hadn't realised
that. An Astra, didn't know they used them. Must be getting
old, must sharpen up.

Crossroads passing and the vehicle alongside, squeezing by.
No police insignia and the strobe a single magnetic clamp-otl
type. That's why he hadn't spotted it. Must be going after the
estate. Book him for dawdling. That would be a turn-up for
the book, he thought gleefully. That would teach the bastardt
Spoil his friggin' holiday! :

Pulling in. HEY, WATCH IT! The police Astra carving in
front of him, their wings almost touching. The taximan
stamped on his brakes, felt the wheels lock on the road, the skid
starting. His reaction not quick enough, the shriek of metal
engaging as the sparks flew.

Now the Astra pulled ahead, edging in front. He could see
the nearside indicator blinking, signalling him to pull over.

God, I'm for it, he thought. Hitting a cop car. Can't argue
with them, the local magistrates always took their side.

He edged into the grass verge and stopped opposite a pub car
park, the Astra just inches from his bonnet and the officer
climbing out. In the back, Mark had his eyes open and Grumps
was coming to.

The cab driver couldn't believe his eyes. It wasn't a
policeman coming towards him. It was a man in black overalls
with a balaclava down over his face. Another man crossing the
road from a Safrane parked beside the pub opposite. Dressed
the same, bolt-cutters in his hands.

Wrenching open the taxi driver's door, the first man shoved
the muzzle of a gun against his cheek. The weapon seemed odd,
long and unbalanced. 'You, keep your hands on the wheel!
Don't anyone move!' He reached across the driver's lap and
tore the radio mike from its mountings.

Now the nearside rear door was opened by the second man.
'Out!' he ordered. Mark obeyed, struggling to untangle his
legs, the man pulling him, shouting 'C'MON! C'MON!' Still

lOO


awkward, one hand remaining attached to the prisoner who was
shuffling his way along the seat. Grumps now wide awake and
wishing he was still asleep, almost wondering if he still was.

Mark and the prisoner standing side by side, he prisoner
stooped because he was still handcuffed to the..second prison
officer.

'Who the hell are you?' Keegan demanded- :He sounded
scared.

'You know who the fuck we are! Fuckin' bastard!' Mark paled
as he recognised the harsh accent he'd heard a hundred times
on the television news. Northern Ireland. 'Now hold your
hands up!'

The jaws of the bolt-cutters snapped over the cuffs and they
fell to the ground.

'Stay where you are!' the man ordered Grumps. 'Keep your
hand still!' A second snap of the cutters, Grumps still crouched,
half in and half out of the car. 'Back inside, you two.'

Grumps slid back across the seat and Mark scrambled after
him, the door slamming behind.

Now the two men and their prize moved towards the Safrane.

Then one gunman turned, lifted up the weapon.

'Oh, Christ!' breathed the taxi driver.

It wasn't the loud report he'd expected as he shut his eyes,
anticipating the windscreen crystallising and the round slamming
into him.

Just a soft phut, phut sound and he felt the vehicle lurch
forward and down as the front tyres blew.

As the men in the taxi recovered their senses and breathed in
relief, Grumps said: 'Oh fuck, who's shit themselves?'

'Sorry,' the driver muttered, his head pressed against the
wheel. He was sobbing.

The Safrane shrieked out onto the A34 in a cloud of dust and
swung south in the direction the taxi had been travelling.

In the back, the first gunman was sitting beside Keegan. He
yanked off his balaclava, the fringe of blond hair sweat-slicked
to his forehead and his blue eyes on fire with excitement. 'Hi,
Da, we must stop meeting like this!'


	101

Keegan ginned. 'You're a right chip offthe old block and no
mistake.'

'Hello, Peter,' the driver of the Safrane said, not taking hi
eyes offthe road. His voice had an unmistakable South African
drawl. 'I never dreamed I'd see you again in such bizarre
circumstances.'

	'You

		remember Johan van Niekerk?' Keegan's son asked.

		friend?' He

	'How could I ever forget, old
		reached forward

and slapped the man on the shoulder. A gesture of thanks. 'And

I liked the Ulster accent. Very convincing.'

And they all laughed. It was the first time Keegan had felt
laughing in six long years.


Within minutes of the prison officer known as Grumps making
an emergency 999 call from the Chetwynd Arms on the A34,
the control room of Staffordshire Police Force headquarters
had swung into action.

The first patrol car diverted to the scene of the abduction had
set up an immediate incident post. Because the use of firearms
had been confirmed, the duty officer alerted the detective
superintendent as well as the inspector who would normally be
in overall command of the police reaction.

Barely five minutes after the alert being given, patrol cars
were forming a ring of roadblocks in a fifreen-mile radius
around the ambush point. An 'all-cars' had been issued to
adjoining constabularies in the search for the Renault Safrane
and the armed Tactical Support Unit was called up.

Of the twelve members initially available, one each was allocated
to the vehicle checkpoints, le. having four men in reserve.

It was almost certain that the - assumed - 'armed terrorists'
who had abducted the prisoner would be planning to swap
vehicles; the question was where? It might be logical for them to
attempt to clear the area and lose themselves in the dense urban
sprawls of Wolverhampton or Walsall.

On the other hand Cannock Chase offered numerous
secluded car parks in the area of Brindley Heath or the Country
Park that were perfect to make the switch. In which case it could
be hours before the police knew what car they were looking for,


102

by which time Peter Keegan could have been executed and his
killers have got clean away.

'We'll have to go public,' Detective Superint.en.dent Bill
Johnson told his inspector. 'Call up local radio, thn the BBC.
We'd better go national, on the assumption th.e.y're out of the
area already. On no account should anyoneapproach these

people.'
	- "

	'Consider it done, sir.'

A duty WPC on the control-room radio console swivelled in
her chair and interrupted: 'Sir, the missing Safrane has been
located. Barely a mile from the SOC, in woods beside the A34.
Looks like it crashed. No occupants, but there appears to have
been some sort of struggle. There's blood all over the place.
S O C O's going straight there.'

'Are there any signs of another vehicle having been present?'
The WPC relayed the question. 'No, sir. No sign of a switch.'
Bill Johnson groaned inwardly. The abductors were still
plainly on his patch. There went the round of golf he'd promised
himself later that afternoon. 'Thanks, Fiona. Tell them I'm
on my way.'


In fact, one of the earliest vehicles stopped at the A34 checkpoint
outside the Chetwynd Arms was an ancient dark green
camper van heading north towards Stafford.

An officer waved it down. 'Excuse me, sir, may I ask where
you've come from?'

'Cannock. I'm touring. Been to Warwick Castle. Now I'm on
my way to the Peak District.;

	'On your own? No passengers?'

	'That's right.'

	'Mind if I check?' The policeman peered in the windows and

seemed satisfied. 'What's that accent?'

	'South African.'

'Thought so. Expect you know why we've got the road
blocked?'

Clever question, van Niekerk thought. It was now thirty
minutes since the ambush and he guessed the police had
reacted fast to seal offthe area.


103

'Something about an escaped prisoner? That's what the
policeman said at the other roadblock.'

'That's right. We're looking for a red Renault Safrane, probably
being driven in a hurry. Three men.'

Van Niekerk shook his head. 'I wouldn't know a Safrane flit
jumped out and bit me. Sorry, Officer.'

'I'll just take your details and you can get on.'

His old passport and international driving licence under the
name of Steyn, courtesy of the former South African Directorate
of Covert Collection, genuine logbook and insurance.
No problem. He grinned as he handed them over. A piece of
piss.


Lomax had an appointment with an executive recruitment
agency in London which specialised in the security field. It was
while he was driving in that he heard on the car radio the news
of Keegan's abduction by masked gunmen.

Still shocked and distracted by it, he felt he made a complete
hash of the interview, barely able to wait for it to end. When it
did, he drove straight to the offices of Eisner, Pollock and
Browne.

In fact, Browne had just returned from spending the morning

in court and none of her colleagues had heard the news either.
She was stunned. 'God, this is terrible news for Roddy.'
'It's even worse for Keegan if the police are right.'
'That they were terrorists? Do you think it's the IRA?'
'God knows, Sam. I hope not, for his sake.'

She sounded glum. 'Still, I suppose there's a good chance
they'll be caught soon.'

'Let's hope it's before they get a chance to top Keegan.'

She winced. 'Don't even think that, Chris. I'll make sure the

prison lets me know the moment they have any news.'

'How are things going otherwise?' he asked.

'Not good,' she sighed, 'but then no worse than expected.
The trouble is the police tend to have tunnel vision once they
have a suspect. Try to make everything fit their theory of how a
crime was committed and who committed it. They won't even


104

dered Fitzpatrick. That's what we're really up against.'

'I'm not sure I follow.'

'They'll have interviewed dozens of people, bu- it; the end will only select witness statements that fit the.. preconceived
police view of what happened. Unused statements that may
support Roddy's story will only turn up in thei:e-committal
bundle months from now. In other words the prosecution will
be on the home straight while the defence is just leaving the
starting gate.'

'That doesn't sound very fair.'

'It isn't, but that's the way it works.' She looked weary. 'The
police don't see it as their job to help us build a defence against
them.'

Lomax considered for a moment. 'Understandable, I
suppose. But what can you do about it?'

'Well, I've requested a list of names and details of people
who've been interviewed, but I'm getting no response as yet.
Problem is I'm not supposed to interview prosecution witnesses
without approval from the Crown Prosecution Service. And
they'll insist on a police presence - probably DS Henwick who
interviewed them in the first place.'

'That could be a bit intimidating, couldn't it?'

'You said it, Chris.' She lit a cigarette to calm her anger.
'Rather runs in the face of the old principle of there being no property in a witness.' Then she offered him the pack. 'Sorry,
forgetting my manners.'

He declined. 'I'm giving up, again. Two days into cold
turkey.'

She gave a knowing little half-mile .at that. 'Poor you.
Anyway, I've no intention of waiting months before interviewing
witnesses for us. I'll keep pestering. It's the same with

my request to visit the scene of crime.'

'Surely you can do that?'

'I've never had a problem before. Trying to deny access must
be something of a precedent- and it's an outrageous one.'

'Is that what they've done? Why?'


105

'Dymock told me this morning that it's because Fitzpatrick
was killed in an MI5 safe house.'

Lomax gave a cynical smile. 'Not a good advertisement for
MIS.'

'The Crown Property Agency has refused permission, citing

interests of national security and all that.'

'You're not letting them get away...?'

Her eyes blazed. 'No, I am not. I've told Dymock we'r�
going to court to enforce our right. I'm hoping for a hearing

tomorrow. I'm just afraid it'll be too late.'

'Why should it be?'

'Because they must know we'll win right of access. Therefore

it's a delaying tactic, unless they're hoping I'll not pursue it. I
just can't really think why. That's the puzzle.'

Lomax said thoughtfully: 'It sounds to me that someone's

got something to hide. Something that could support Roddy'$
case.'

Browne sighed. 'I won't know that until I see the place. But in
general it's looking more and more as ifhe's being well and truly
stitched up.'

'Is there anything you can do about it?'

'I'm thinking of hiring a private investigator for backup. I'll
need written advice from Ronnie Rock to get approval from the
Legal Aid Board and they're not known for their generosity.
Totty and Wayne will have to put in most of the legwork. I'll be
lucky if the firm breaks even in the end.'

The thought flashed through Lomax's mind that he could
contribute his modest savings. Then he immediately envisaged
his daughter Manda lambasting him for doing so. He could
hear her pointing out he'd need every penny to survive undl he
landed a job or else get a business of his own up and running.

He said: 'All I can offer is time.' Again he was hearing his
daughter's words rather than his own, but then she was
Business Student of the Year, bless her.

'I beg your pardon?' Browne was confused.

'Sorry, thinking aloud. Could I help in any way? Do some of
the things that a private investigator might?'


106

There was a slightly dismissive look in her eyes. 'That's sweet
of you, Chris, but I don't think so.'

He felt affronted by that. 'Look, Sam, I've plento.f experience
in debriefing soldiers and civilians during" and after
hostage situations and the like, and I've plenty of.experience in
covert ops, surveillance and the like.' "

'I'm not sure that's the same. Good private iri;c6stigators are
usually former olicemen with plenty of personal contacts still
on the force.'

'Okay,' he countered with rising irritation, 'I'm not ideal, but
I'm available.'

She frowned, unsure. 'You wouldn't be paid much.'

'I'm not in this for the money, Sam.' He considered for a

moment. 'So what's your first priority? The safe house?'
She frowned. 'What are you thinking of doing?'
'Taking a look.'

'You're not breaking in,' she said, clearly horrified. 'You'd get
me struck off.'

He grinned at her. 'Nothing illegal, I promise. Just see what's
what. Have you got the address?'

Browne nodded. 'Bascombe Court. Number Thirty-two.'
'Then I'll go round.'
'What, now?'

'No time like the present. Want to come?'


The apartment block was stylish and fairly modern and set in
well-maintained grotmds.

Lomax parked beneath a discreetly placed estate agent's sign
that read: Luxury apartments for lease. He and Browne
approached the beige marble portico with its plate-glass
security doors and keypad entryphone. First he pressed Thirtytwo,
but there was no response. The bottom button was marked
Caretaker. 'Try that,' Browne suggested.

Moments later a middle-aged man appeared in the lobby,
hastily pulling a grey uniform blazer over his cardigan and
stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth.

'Sorry,' Lomax began as the caretaker opened the door. 'I.
didn't mean to disturb you.'


107

The man swallowed the last of his toast and gave

smile.' 'S what I'm paid for. How can I help?' :

'My wife and I are looking for a flat in this area. We were juat
passing and saw the sign.'

'Oh, that! Yes, well it's a permanent fixture really. There'8

always someone moving in or moving out.'

'Are there any for sale at the moment?'

He beckoned them in and over to the desk where he opened
his notebook. 'Three at the moment. Number Nine, Number
Forty-seven and Number Thirty-two.'

Lomax checked his smile. The MI5 safe house was compromised
and hardly safe any more. So sell it, was the
answer. 'Could we have a look at them?'

'Well, I've only got permission to show

without an appointment.'

'That's on the ground floor I suppose?' Browne said. 'I
wouldn't like that.'

The caretaker nodded his understanding. 'And it's northfacing,
a bit gloomy. Forty-seven faces north too, but it's
brighter.'

Lomax and Browne virtually said it in unison. 'We'd like
south-facing.'

'That would be Thirty-two. It's being redecorated and you'll.
have to go through the estate agents, an accompanied visit, the
owner insists.'

'Who's the owner?' Lomax asked.

'A Mrs White. Only seen her once or twice. She sublets it.'
'Look,' Browne said, 'I really like the look of this place, but
the two of us are frantically bus3. We'll go through the estate
agent tomorrow, if only I could have a teensy peep at Thirtytwo.
I really can't afford to waste the time if it's no good.' She
gave one of her most heart-melting smiles. 'Just a peek?'

'Well, I really don't know.' The man shifted uncomfortably.
Lomax produced his wallet and took out a twenty. 'It
wouldn't do any harm, would it? I mean it is for sale. In fact it'd
do the owner Mrs White a favour if we like it, because we're
cash buyers.'


108

	'Well, I suppose. But you mustn't let on you've already seen

it.'

	'I promise,' Browne said.

	'And be careful not to spoil your clothes, because the painters

are in.'

He led them to the elevator and they jettecPsmoothly to the
third floor. The corridor was lush grey carpet and lemon walls
with expensive concealed lighting and the apartment doors
were pale oak. That of Number Thirty-two was patched with a
sheet of plywood, presumably to cover the bullet holes.

'Bit of an accident,' the caretaker said. 'We're getting a
replacement, but it has to be specially made.' He inserted the
key and stepped aside to allow them in.
From the small square hallway they could see straight
through the open doorway to the lounge. The floor was covered
in white dust sheets and a paint-splattered ladder stood by
the bare whitewashed picture window. All the carpeting and
underlay had been removed leaving just the gripper rails nailed
into the concrete.

	'They're making a thorough job,' Lomax murmured.

They wandered around for five minutes, looking casually. It
had a large double bedroom where no doubt Donny Fitzpatrick
had slept, now devoid of all furniture like all the other rooms.
There was a second, snaller bedroom which would have been
for any MI5 minder, a combined bathroom and WE and an
elaborate fitted kitchen.

Browne took a genuine and wistful interest in this. While she
discussed it with the caretaker, Lomax strolled back into the
lounge. He gave the picture window a tap with his forefinger
and tried to peer out, but the lime.wash had been laid on too
thickly. Then on impulse he stooped and lifted the edge of
the dust sheet on the floor. Bare concrete fire-floor again. He
stooped and folded it back several feet. Then he saw the dark
brown smudge ingrained in the surface. His heart tripped for a
second. He pulled it back some more. The mark was nearly
three feet in diameter and looked old and faded. He ran his
fingers over the coarse surface, then glanced up at the walls to
his left and right. There, some two feet above the skirting board


109

were several patches of filler. The decorators had already
worked halfway around the room; by the end of the following
day the secrets of the wall would be hidden for good.

He dropped the dust sheet back as Browne and the caretaker

entered. 'Nice dimensions,' Lomax said. 'I'm impressed.'

'And I've always wanted a kitchen like this one.'

The caretaker seemed pleased with their enthusiasm. 'You'll.
like it here, I promise you.'

They followed him back out to the corridor, Lomax lingering
for a moment by the front door. From the inside the six bullet
holes were clearly visible. So were the tiny drill holes running all
the way around. He made a note of the make of the lock as the
caretaker shut the door. 'And please, not a word that I showed
you round."

Browne smiled. 'I think you can rely on us about that.' She
looked at Lomax, slightly differently, he thought. 'Don't you,
darling?'


Lomax had never experienced anger like it before. It enveloped
him like a black cloud, pressing in on his skull until it felt as
though it was about to burst. He took it out on his battered
Cavalier, accelerating hard, aware of but not properly noticing
other traffic.

'And you think I'm a bad driver,' Sam Browne said. 'What's
got into you?'

'Seeing that apartment, that's what's got into me!'

'I don't understand. Do you want to pull over and we can talk
about it?'

It made sense, before he killed them both. 'Good idea, let's grab a drink at the next greasy spoon.',

Minutes later they pulled in at a cafe. Lomax ordered a pot of
tea and a couple of disgusting jam doughnuts.

He said: 'I don't know what I thought before. I mean, I
believed Roddy, but I couldn't fully accept that Box would set
him up. Not like this. Box is government, when ali's said and
done. The buck stops at Number Ten. And this is the government
I've risked my bloody life for on more than one occasion.'

She drank some of the stewed tea and pulled a face. 'What's

110


got you in this mood? The apartment seemed ordinary enough
to me - apart from the bullet holes in the door.'

'The whole thing stinks,' Lomax said. 'I knew:..something
didn't add up before and now I know why.' Brown'ws fishing

in her bag for cigarettes. 'Could I have one of those?'

'I thought you were giving up.' -

He laughed bitterly. 'That was yesterday. Andifit's the same
government behind this that keeps telling me to quit them, then
I'll bloody well start again.'

'Fighting talk,' she quipped, giving him a light.

'Listen, Sam, if you put someone in a safe house, you don't
put a surveillance team outside. You put a minder in the apartment
with him, whether he likes it or not, and turn the place
into a fortress.'

'That didn't look like much of a fortress.'

'Not now, but it was. For a start, the windows are bullet-proof
glass and the front door had been reinforced with either steel or
a sheet of Kevlar armour.'

She frowned. 'It can't have been, Chris; you saw the bullet
holes. They went right through. Fitzpatrick was killed in the
hall.'

Lomax shook his head. 'No. The back of the front door had
screw holes all over it where the armoured sheet was fixed. It
was probably removed after the killing, along with extra security
bolts and chains. You could see the pattern of holes quite

clearly. Then someone pumped rounds through the door.'
'Why?'

'Because, if Roddy had stalked Fitzpatrick and got in to ring
his bell, neither Fitzpatrick nor his minder would have let him
in. They'd have been straight on the radio for backup. Fitzpatrick
was killed in the lounge by someone he knew, someone

who was already in there.'

'How can you be sure?'

'I looked under the dust sheet. There was a bloodstain.
Someone had bleached it and scoured it with a wire brush, but
getting stains out of concrete ain't easy.'

'Couldn't it have been from - I don't know- something else?'.
'I know bloodstains when I see them. If that wasn't where

111


Fitzpatrick was murdered, then someone had one hell of a
haemorrhage there once upon a time. He shoved away the plate
with the half-eaten doughnut. 'And there was no sign of any
blood on the floor by the front door.'

She stared at him. 'But we can't be certain, Chris, because
they've already taken away the carpets.'

'Exactly. The place has been sanitised. MIS's bin men have
been hard at work. That's why they're keeping you away. If a
replacement door hadn't had to be specially made, my guess is
that would have gone by now.'

Browne shivered. 'This is getting more sinister by the minute,
Chris. Any remaining evidence is going to have vanished.'

Lomax thought for a moment. 'Would photographs help?
'The police SOCO will have taken pictures.'
'But not necessarily of the things that count.'
'I suppose so. But how...?'

An idea was forming in his mind. 'Best you don't know.'

112


By the time he'd dropped Browne back at her offi, Lomax had
settled on a course of action. Deciding against phoning from
Erie's flat, he used a street corner call box to ring Joe Monk, the
former SAS colleague whom he'd last seen the day after his
farewell party.

'Glad I caught you in.'

Monk sounded morose. 'Easy enough to catch me in nowadays,
old son. My life revolves around the Job Centre, the pub
and the bookie's. Just one light on the horizon, I've been shortlisted
for a job as lavatory attendant in a shopping centre along

with five hundred others.'

'You're overqualified.'

'Tell me about it.' A heavy sniff of resignation. 'So what d'you
want, Chris?'

'I need a favour. A little job needs doing in London at
sparrow's fart tomorrow.'

Monk perked up immediately. 'Is it legal?'

'No, and it's unpaid too. But I'll cover your exes.'

His friend didn't hesitate. 'Well, it beats being bored for a
living.'

'Still got your locksmith's kit?' It was standard issue with
Regiment soldiers and Monk had always been one of the best at
using it.

'Oh, that sort of job! What are we up against?'

'With luck someone will let you in. But. anyway, it's nothing

exotic, a five-lever Chubb.'

'Piece ofiiss.'

'And can you make yourself look like a decorator?'

'I'll stick a paintbrush up my arse if it'll make you happy.'

'And call in at my place tonight. I'll get Manda to look out my
Leica and flash unit.'

'You want to take pictures of me, too?'


113

'Piss off', Joe.'

They arranged to rendezvous at six the next morning at the
Heston service station on the M4 into London, then Lomax
hung up and called Manda.

'Managing without me, sweetheart?'

'Are you ioking? For once the place is tidy, there's food in the
fridge and the house doesn't stink of tobacco.'

'Yes, I'm missing you too,' Lomax replied with a chuckle
before asking her to get his photographic case down from the
loft. 'Someone will call round for it.'

'Someone?' She was sharp all right, and he felt proud of her.

'Not on an open line. You'll recognise him when you see
him.'

'Dad? What are you up to?'

'Nothing, sweetheart, just indulge your old man, please.'

'Well, Dad, if you're doing nothing, you might be pleased to
hear the adiutant from Stifling Lines rang.'

Lomax raised an eyebrow. 'What did he want?'

'He's had Staffordshire Police on to him. They want to enlist

the help of an army tracker for some escaped prisoner.'

'Peter Keegan?'

'I think that was the name.'

'Are you winding me up?'

'No.' Indignant - obviously she was unaware of Keegan's
involvement with her uncle's predicament. 'He said their top
trackers are tied up on training cadres and a murder hunt in
Kenya right now. He suggested you. Says will you call. I've got
the policeman's number.'

Lomax had run out of change so waited until he returned to
Evie's before he rang the detective superintendent at Stafford.
Although it was gone eight, Bill Johnson was still in his office.
He sounded weary, but cheerful.

'I'm glad you called. This one's proving a bit tricky for our
boys. The Regiment recommended you said you were the best.
Hope you're interested. Between you and me you can virtually
name your price. A lot of flapping going on way above my head,
if you get my drift.'

After a moment's consideration, Lomax thought of a fee and


114

doubled it; Manda would have approved. Johnson didn't baulk,
just sounded relieved. 'And you can be here by lunchtime

	tomorrow?'
	.[..

	'Let's say two in the afternoon.'

	'Not a moment too soon,' Johnson replied.


The next day broke warm, moist and drizzling. Monk was
already parked in his ancient Escort at the Heston service
station when Lomax arrived.

Monk was dressed in a woollen hand-knitted hat and paint
stained overalls; he had a flask of coffee open and was demolishing a bacon wedge with those familiar tombstone teeth.

'This is about Roddy, isn't it?' he asked with his mouth full.

Lomax nodded. 'I want to get pictures of the apartment

where he's supposed to have killed Fitzpatrick.'

'Is that all?'

'It was an MI5 safe house, Joe, and the whole thing was a
stitch-up. Someone in Box is running their own agenda, but I
can't work out what it is.'

'So what's new?' Monk licked his fingers. 'I read the newspaper
report. Didn't sound like Roddy - and he wouldn't have
been daft enough to get caught.'

'The thing is, they've got decorators in.' Lomax explained
what he had seen the previous evening with Browne. 'I want a
record of it. Assuming the workmen will turn up at eight or half

past, I reckon you should go in at seven thirty.'

The? On my jack?'

'The caretaker's seen me. Don't worry, you can hack it
without me holding your hand.' He grinned. 'You get a big kiss
after.'

'Promises, promises.'

Monk followed in his car as Lomax drove south and across
the Thames to Bascombe Court. They parked and Lomax
watched Monk's overalled bulk saunter up to the portico, a can
of Dulux swinging from each huge fist. Moments later the
caretaker opened the door.

' Supplies for Thirty-two, squire.'

'You're early.'


115

'Got lucky with the traffic. If you have a key, I'll let myself in.'
As the apartment was empty, it was not a problem. Monk
entered, shut the door and took the Leica from the bellows
pocket in his overalls. Memorising the rough layout Lomax had
sketched for him, he photographed the front door and hallway,
the bloodstain and wall repairs in the lounge. Ten minutes later
he was done.

He met the caretaker again in the lobby. The man indicated

the two cans of Dulux Magnolia. 'Takin' them back?'

'Wrong colour, innit? Some cockup at the yard.'

Dulux Magnolia didn't come cheap, and Monk had promised
Marsha he'd repaint their lounge.

On the way out, he passed two men carrying in a replacement
front door and a glazier's van was now parked outside loaded
with sheets of standard units to replace the bullet-proof glass in
the apartment.

Lomax watched Monk enter'his Escort, then followed until

they arrived at a pub car park two miles away.
'I'll process 'em for you,' Monk offered.
'You're a pal.'

For once, Monk looked serious. 'You're right about what you
said, Chris. Seen it with my own eyes now. Our friend Roddy's

got himself in some pretty deep shit.'

'Don't I know it?'

'Yeah well, just don't get yourself dragged into it. Whatever's
going down, these people are seriously bad news.' He looked at
his friend closely. 'If you need any help, anything, you know
where I am.'

'Sure, scrubbing lavatories.'

Both men grinned.


'Joe will bring the photographs round personally,' Lomax told
Browne. He'd decided to visit her at her office before setting off
north to Stafford.

He wondered why he'd taken the trouble to call round and

not just telephoned. It was a mild shock to find her looking so
haggard, drawn and without make-up and her hair a mess.

'I wasn't expecting visitors, Chris.' She stubbed out her


116

cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. 'I've been working through
the night on Roddy's defence.'

He nodded towards the tumbler and empty whisky bottle in
the waste bin. 'Sure it wasn't a party?'

She gave a weary smile. 'I wish. That stuff elps keep the"
brain cells ticking in the wee small hours.'

'You'll kill yourself if you keep working like thi.

'My life, my choice,' she replied, her eyes hardening. Then
she forced a smile. 'Sorry, I'm a bit tetchy. But Roddy's case is a
big one for us to handle, and I can't let the other work slip.

Solicitors can go bust too, you know.'

'Better bust than dead.'

'I'll get an early night tonight. Skip the all-night rave.'

Lomax said suddenly, on impulse: 'I'd have liked to take you
out to dinner tonight. Make sure you relax properly.'

She leaned back in her chair and tapped her teeth with her
pen as she regarded him over the top of her reading spectacles.
'Is that a proposition, Mr Lomax?'

He wasn't sure whether she was offended or not. 'It might
have been, but it isn't. The Staffordshire police have been on to
me. They want my help in tracking down Keegan. They reckon

he and his abductors have gone to ground in Cannock Chase.'
Her mouth dropped in surprise. 'That's some coincidence!'
He shrugged. 'Not really, it's a small world and not many
trackers. At least in a roundabout way it'll be helping Roddy if I
can find Keegan.' He added pointedly: 'And I'm getting well
paid for it.'

'It does help, doesn't it,' she laughed. 'When do you start?'
'As soon as I can get there.'

'Then why are you standing here gossiping with me?'
There was a lop-sided grin on his face. 'I really don't know.'
But suddenly he did. Suddenly he knew perfectly well. And
so did Browne as she watched him move towards the door.
'That proposition,' she said, 'I hope it will keep.'

Then she abruptly turned back to the papers on her desk.


He made good time up the M40 to Birmingham. The early rain.
had surrendered to a clear sky and he had sunshine all the way.


117

Something had lifted his spirits. It may have been the weather, it
may have been the tape cassette of pastoral symphonies he was
playing, or it may have been his encounter with Sam Browne.

It was difficult to make her out. She had an awesome reputation and he didn't always approve of the way she dealt with
figures of authority. Surely it could be counterproductive? But
then, he realised, his job had always been to work alongside those people. People like the police and the intelligence
services. He was sure that his own hackles would have been up if
he'd ever encountered the redoubtable Sam Browne.

Yet her fearless disregard for conventional authority was
somehow stirring, as was her almost evangelical belief in justice
for anyone she considered innocent. And, thankfully, that
included his friend and brother-in-law.

He had the feeling there was currently no man in her life, yet
he didn't feel inclined to question her about it. Although her
sense ofhumour flared from time to time, she never encouraged
familiarity. So why had he made that clumsy suggestion? He'd.
half-expected her to savage him like a Rottweiler on the spot.
Perhaps she was just tired and he'd been lucky. Then he remembered
her last remark, and thought maybe not.

At least he was glad Roddy had Sam Browne on his side.

The mental picture flashed through his mind then. Roddy
incarcerated at Belmarsh. Just the name of the place created the
image of despair. The big Ulsterman, the man who had saved
his life at Goose Green, sitting slumped on the edge of his
prison cot. Head in his hands, seeing no way out. Seeing only
the mountain of evidence stacked against him and the shadow
cast over the rest of his life. His lifg and Evie's, and even thatof
their unborn child.

Suddenly Lomax felt guilty for enjoying the drive, the sunshine
and the music. Guilty for watching Sam Browne's legs
after she'd surrendered a night's sleep without complaint to
fight for his friend.

Around Birmingham the journey slowed. The bypassing
M42 was clogged with traffic and he'd lost time before he broke
clear again on the M6 to the north of the city.

Following Detective Superintendent Bill Johnson's direc


118

tions, he left the motorway at Junction 11 for the market town
of Cannock, then picked up the A34 running towards Stafford.

It was there that he encountered the police vehi'l.e checkpoint,
all traffic leaving and entering the area still bekxg stopped
and searched. A young constable directed Lomax to the site
where the abandoned Renault Safrane had beer[ found. A man
in a crumpled fawn raincoat noticed his arrival-ahd detached
himself from the group of police officers behind the tape
cordon.

'Mr Lomax, I presume.' His handshake was firm and dry and

the seen-it-all eyes had a disconcertingly penetrating gaze.

'At your service.'

'Bill Johnson. Pleased to have you aboard.' In his late forties,
Lomax decided, and a regular career copper. Straight and hardworking,
the once handsome face now lined and the dark gelled
hair beginning to thin. 'I've booked you in at the Hatherton
Country Hotel in Penkridge. A bit smart but we've got a special
rate.' Definitely a regular copper, Lomax thought, as the man
added: 'Would you like to check in and freshen up?'

'No, let's crack on. Plenty of time when the light fades.' He
could tell that pleased Johnson. 'So what have we got?'

The superintendent explained. Barely a mile to the north on
the same road, the taxi carrying the prisoner Peter Keegan and
two prison officers had been forced to pull over by the Safrane,
now abandoned. Two armed men in balaclavas had emerged,
talking with distinct Northern Ireland accents. Almost certainly
Provisional IRA. Keegan had been bundled into the Safrane
which had driven off at speed. Twenty minutes after the incident,
the Safrane had been found crashed in a grass track in
these roadside woods. There were signs of a scuffle and empty
cartridge cases had been found. Ominously, the seats of the car
were heavily bloodstained.

'What's your reading of what happened?' Lomax asked.
Johnson sucked on his teeth. 'Clearly they came here to
switch vehicles, there's no other explanation, although we've
found no sign of another car. It seems Keegan fought back and.
made a run for it. The blood on the seats isn't his. There were


119

9mm cartridge cases on the ground by the back door and we've
found two of the rounds embedded in trees to the west.'

'So that's the way Keegan started running presumably? Let's
take a look.'

The scene-of-crime officer had identified three sets of footprints
around the abandoned car and had isolated those
belonging to Keegan's prison-issue footwear; he produced
photographs and diagrams of the three different heel and sole
patterns.

'The only fingerprints we've found belong to Keegan. Obviously
the other two wore gloves.'

Lomax'spent an hour rummaging through the undergrowth
in the direction in which the 9mm rounds had been fired. But

the only footprints he found belonged to size ten police boots.
'Any luck?' Johnson asked.

Lomax shook his head. 'The earth's quite dry. Not good for
prints.'

'That's what the SOCO said. Any thoughts?'

'How sure are you the abductors were IRA? What exactly did
they say to the prison officers?'

Johnson consulted his notebook. 'As far as the officers recall,
when Keegan asked them who the hell they were, one answered:
"You know who we are!" then said, "Fucking bastard!" or

similar, seemingly addressed to Keegan.'

Lomax frowned. 'And that was all?'

'The accents, the guns, the balaclavas - it's a pretty sound
assumption.'

'Maybe,' Lomax said noncommittally and stood, looking
along the grassy firebreak to the track. 'Now, if Keegan ran
away into the trees, then these two wounded Provos will have
presumably hurried off to the switch vehicle.'

'Of which we've found no sign. So what's happened to the
gunmen? Did they get away or are they still around?'

'Any switch vehicle must have had access to the track in order
to reach the road. Shall we walk back?'

Together they strolled along the firebreak, where the grass
had been badly trampled by the police outside the immediate
cordon around the Safrane.

120


Johnson was saying: 'This is a major headache Chris. I've got
Keegan and possibly two armed IRA men on the loose in the
Chase. While we can seal it offwith armed police:.I'.m loath to
send in unarmed search teams. For the minute all'we can do is
contain the area and run armed perimeter..patrols. We're
watching from various vantage points and we,re got a chopper
up with a thermal imager. But all we can active] do is wait for
something or someone to show up. It's an absolute nightmare.
We're trying to let residents only through the checkpoints and
that's causing serious disruption and a lot of resentment from
locals. And you just try telling the English they can't take their
dogs for a walk! I'm terrified someone will stumble onto one of
these characters and then we'll have a murder on our hands.'

They had reached the track which led to the A34, and now
Lomax could see that the firebreak continued on the other side
through more woodland.

'Have your lads searched on the other side of the track?'

Johnson nodded. 'Just to make sure no one was hiding there,
but we've been concentrating on the area around the car.'

They crossed the track and proceeded along the firebreak.
Here, Lomax noticed, the grass was relatively untrampled. At
one point he stopped and knelt by a strip of bruised grass. He

ran his fingers over the earth beneath it.

'What is it?' Johnson asked.

'Have any police vehicles been down here?'

'No, we've kept everything back on the main road.'

'If you use a blowtorch to clear this patch, I think you'll find a
tyre print underneath. The earth still feels soft, so it's been
recently disturbed. It could be your missing switch vehicle.'

That pleased Johnson. He turned and.beckoned a constable
on the track to call the SOCO over pronto.

Lomax stood and squinted down the firebreak, following the
twin lines of bruised grass which was now recovering and
making it near impossible to detect with an untrained eye. He
studied the arc of the trail to the.place he thought it disappeared
into the treeline, then lifted his gaze. Now that he knew what he
was looking for, it was quite distinct. Bright yellow-white scars


121

against blackish bark where twigs and branches had been

snapped. To quite a height he noticed, much higher than a car.
'Over here,' he said, 'and please follow in my footsteps.'
Crossing to the edge of the wood, he peered in at the dense
foliage of a holly tree. At his feet the grass had given way to
earth. Tracks and footprints.

'Your thoughts?' Johnson pressed.

'It was a van or small truck, not a car. Wider than a car, see?
And deep, considering how dry it is. Therefore heavy.' He took
the SOCO's photographs from his pocket. 'And Keegan's footprints.
No doubt about it.'

Another hour passed before Lomax finished studying the
area around the holly tree, working alongside the SOCO
Finally he retraced his footsteps back to the track where Bill

Johnson waited and poured him coffee from his vacuum flask.
Lomax gulped it down with relish.

'Well?' the superintendent asked, unable to conceal his
impatience.

'Bill, I'm afraid you're going to have to do a rethink.'

'Yes?'

'Back at the car- when it crashed, presumably when Keegan
fought back and took his abductors by surprise - it wasn't
Keegan who was iniured, as we know from the blood samples.
In the aftermath, it wasn't them shooting at Keegan. It was
Keegan shooting at them. Somehow he managed to get a gun
offone of them.'

'How d'you figure that out?'

'Because these prints were obviously made after the crash
and they're coming from the direction of the abandoned car.'

Johnson couldn't quite follow. 'Run me through it again,
would you?'

'They pull over in the Safrane to make the switch. Probably
told Keegan what was happening, where the van was hidden as
they arrived. There's a struggle, Keegan gets a gun and the two
men are injured. They rush off into the woods and Keegan

shoots after them.'

'Then what?'

Lomax shrugged. 'My guess is, after the initial shock, he


122

realises the situation he's in. Hey, I'm free! He walks back to the
van to see if he can use it. But, of course, it's locked and he
hasn't got a key, and time is running out. He's awag'..e the police
are just up the road and will be looking for the Rer/ault Safrane.

So he makes a snap decision and heads offinto the wilds.'
'How can you be sure?'

'Because his footprint pattern crosses the firebreak and into
that fringe of trees beside the A34. I haven't checked it out yet,
but my guess is he crossed the main road and into Cannock
Chase. It offers him perfect country to go to ground and sort
himself out.'

'Are you really certain?' Johnson pressed. 'I mean the van has
gone now.'

'I'm certain, Bill. I should think the two Provos, if that's who
they were, circled round in the woods, came back to their
vehicle and scarpered. Two very nervous and embarrassed
bunnies. The only thing I can't explain is the presence of a
bicycle tyre mark. Heavy tread, probably a mountain bike.'

'That's still brilliant, Chris,' Johnson said, nodding in slow
agreement as he visualised the likely scenario. 'Well done! But,
if you're right in every detail, it means Keegan is now loose,
armed and desperate in the Chase.'

Lomax gave a half-smile. 'Better that than two IRA gunmen.
Keegan will evade and threaten if cornered, but he'd never
shoot to kill unless it was to save his own life. Just not the type.'

'The adjutant at Hereford said you'd had dealings with him
in the past, but he wasn't specific.'

'I worked with him in Northern Ireland for a bit, mostly on
protection duties.'

Johnson nodded his understandg. 'Quite a character, I see,
reading his file. Must have had nerves of steel working underr
cover all that time.'

'But not a natural born killer, at least in my judgment.'

'Had a few men sent to their deaths though, didn't he? That's
why he's serving time.'

Lomax nodded. 'I can't deny that. But some might say he had
to let some killings go ahead to preserve his own cover.'

'The judge didn't think that was an excuse.'


123

A grim smile passed over Lomax's lips. 'But then I doubt the
judge had ever been in deep cover inside a terrorist organisation.'
The policeman thought about that for a moment. 'So your
assessment would be I could send in search-and-sweep parties
without risk to life.'

'I believe so, as long as it's planned and methodical. Obviously
there has to be a risk ifhe's panicked. But if we close the
net slowly, I reckon he'll see sense and give himself up. He's a
staunch Loyalist. It would go against the grain to shoot English
policemen or members of the public. Keegan's biggest problem

has always been the buzz he got from the undercover game.'
Johnson shook his head, not understanding that at all.
Lomax smiled. 'There's nothing like it, believe me.' He
glanced up at the sky, the sun now hovering in the west. 'Not
much more I can do today, Bill. What say we adjourn to my
hotel. We could go over maps of the area and discuss the best
way to handle things tomorrow.'

'Splendid idea. I'll see if I can get the head ranger of Cannock
Chase to join us. Knows the area inside out.'


As the late summer twilight settled over the country, Lord
Moffat stepped unnoticed onto a hot and dusty Horse Guards
Parade in Whitehall.

Although a big man, over six feet tall with his corpulent belly
disguised by the artful cut of his suit, he had the knack of
anonymity. The florid and heavily jowled face was unremarkable.
His walk was purposeful, but never rushed. Newspaper
folded neatly beneath his left arm, his right swung the furled
umbrella at a steady rate. And he never raised his booming
baritone voice, even to hail a passing cab. He didn't draw attention
to himself, never had. In the environs of power, in
Whitehall and Westminster, he simply blended in.

'One of those grey men in grey suits the Guardian is always
prattling on about,' he would sometimes joke to his few close
friends, 'that's me. I ask you, do I really look that sinister?' And
he'd laugh and pour another port or another brandy.

In private, in his own tight clique, Lord Moffat was known for


124
his good company and ready wit. That rare commodity, a bon
vivant and raconteur who was also a good listener and who
could be trusted with your darkest secret. Lord M .of at knew a
lot of secrets, collecting and hoarding them as" odaers did
postage stamps or tins of food. Because you never knew when
secrets might be useful. But not his own; heikept them to
himself. Sometimes, he thought, even from himself.

He slipped quietly across the road to St James's Park. Not a
head would turn amongst the tourists and lovers lounging on
the lawns to enjoy the balmy evening as he walked the pathway
towards the Mall and London's gentlemen's clubland beyond.
Under other circumstances, he might have met Roger Pinfold at
the Morpeth Arms pub, the favourite watering hole of MI5
officers near their new Thames House headquarters beside the
river; after all, Moffat was as at. home with a pint of Young's
bitter as he was with a bottle of LeovilleBarton.

But he wanted his hastily requested meeting to be away from
prying eyes and alert ears of the intelligence community, so the
Reform Club and the Travellers were out. Instead, he'd opted for a light supper at the Ritz in Piccadilly.

It was a pleasant evening for the walk. Moffat enjoyed
walking, rarely using any form of transport in central London; it
was the only exercise he had. What he liked about it most was
that it enabled him to think, allowed his mind to wander as he
strode the familiar streets.

This evening, his thoughts naturally drifted back over the
years and he realised, not for the first time, that his whole life
had been pr6paring him for What lay ahead. The past ten years
had been momentous, but the best was yet to come.

An hereditary peer, Lord Anthony Patrick Moffat had been
born in 1932. His father had inherited a rundown family estate
in the Wirral and had married Mary Meagher, the eldest
daughter of a wealthy family of Irish aristocracy just in time
to save his stately home from financial ruin. A marriage of
convenience - at least that was what Moffat concluded with the
benefit of hindsight.

His parents had always squabbled. Mostly over his father's.
drinking and gambling debts, but also over the future of their


125

young son Anthony. Both were Catholic so there was no argument
as to their offspring's religious upbringing, but his
education was quite another affair. Never very impressed with
the English system, when war broke out in 1939, his mother
had the very excuse she wanted for her son to be educated in
Ireland.

Eventually, to everyone's surprise, not least his own, he'd
earned a place at University College, Dublin. At first he had
hated the changes to his life, the enforced independence. Had
felt desperately alone and almost suicidal.

Then he met Fergal. The moment the gregarious Fergal, a
fellow undergraduate a year older than himself arrived on the
scene, everything changed. For the first time in his life the
young Lord Moffat had found a true friend; more than that a
soul mate. They shared a love of jazz and folksongs, of history
and literature. And good food and drink. Seldom were they out
of each other's company.

It was to be a lifelong friendship, although they had lost touch
while Moffat embarked on his diplomatic career with lowly
appointments in far-flung places around the world until, in
1965, he was posted to Dublin as head of Chancery. And he
loved it. Aged just thirty-three, it was as if he had come home.
He enjoyed the company of the Irish, their love of music and the
arts, their carefree lifestyle and their sense of fun.

Then one evening Moffat had dropped in at his regular bar
on the way home, when who should he find standing next tO
him? Fergal hadn't changed. It was as though their ten-year
separation had never been and it seemed they picked up their
conversation almost exactly whe(e they'd left off. He learned
that Fergal worked for some obscure Irish Government department
and was resigned to plodding his way towards eventual
retirement and a handsome pension.

For the next four years they were to see each other regularly,
but with one difference from the. old days..Now they often
talked about politics, especially the worsening situation in
Ulster. They found they both had a strong empathy with the
Republican cause, for the reuniting of the Six Counties with
Eire.

126


Looking back now, he wondered why it had taken so long for
him to realise that Fergal worked for the foreign intelligence
arm of the Irish Special Branch. ...

For the next ten years, Moffat's career evolved ound senior
advisory postings to the United Nations in ..New York, the
British Embassy in Washington, the Foreign Office in London
and back again to Dublin. He never did make ambassador.

When the Thatcher Government swept to power in 1979, it
came as a complete surprise to him to be invited to become a
special adviser to the Northern Ireland Office, in recognition of
his knowledge of Irish affairs and his priceless contacts in both
Dublin and the pro-Irish lobby in American politics.

After the Brighton bombing, when the Provisional IRA had
come close to wiping out the Prime Minister and her entire
Cabinet, Lord Moffat had been invited to sit in as adviser on the
ultrasecret Cabinet Intelligence Unit.

He had never forgotten the moment when a very senior
permanent undersecretary had taken him to lunch at Whites.

Over a pudding of syrup sponge and custard, he had been
told: 'Look, Anthony, you ought to be aware that there is a
consensus of private opinion amongst senior civil servants
within the Cabinet Office, the Foreign Office and th.e Home
Office, that it is no longer in Britain's long-term best interests
for Northern Ireland to remain within the Union. No one will
tell you this outright, of course, and anyone who did would
deny it.'

'As you would deny it, Sir Charles?'

A wintry smile and another mouthful of sponge. 'Can't be in
our interests to have terrorists blgwing up our elected politicians,
can it? Ulster is a millstone round our necks. I mean it's
a financial liability. Costs us millions in security and compensation
and no one ever goes there. Given a referendum, the
great British public would have had our troops out years ago.
They don't understand the situation over there, and frankly
don't care.'

But Moffat knew there were other considerations. The Soviet
Union had a high diplomatic presence in Dublin and an active


127

interest in Eire. 'What about Ulster's strategic importance? The
North Atlantic anti-submarine screen, etc?'

'Yes, yes, you're right, of course. I'm talking medium to long
term here. There's every sign of a slow thaw in the Cold War.
If it continues, our strategic interest in Northern Ireland will
gradually diminish to the point of no return. Brussels already
regards Ulster as naturally part of Eire and has little time for

notions of national sovereignty.'

'So what are you saying?'

'In your new position you will be advising ministers over the

next few years. Some will have strong feelings about Ulster
remaining part of Britain, others will not. I'm not telling you
what to say, but you should be aware of the ultimate realpolitik of
the situation.'

And so there it was, even then. He had been shown the
inside track and given the bottom line. Ulster was surplus to
requirements, unwanted baggage on the journey into the
future, the new federal Europe and the next millennium.

He'd been made welcome by ministers and senior civil servants
in the Cabinet Intelligence Unit and they listened to his
views and advice with respect. He never pushed a particular
line, was never passionate or stubborn, just answered the questions
he was asked in polite and almost diplomatic language.

Within a year, the concept of the Anglo-Irish Agreement had

been formed and signed, permitting Dublin a modest say in the
way that Northern Ireland should be run. Yet it was the biggest
constitutional breakthrough since partition in 1921.

Of course, the following ten years had had ups and downs,
negotiations between Dublin, the Provisional IRA and the
Ulster Unionists never easy. But Lord Moffat's personal influence
had grown continuously as he was accepted into the
various inner circles of power. He became well known to all
the intelligence agencies and had a full-time seat on the CIU as
well as the Permanent Secretaries' Committee on the Intelligence
Services. In addition he served on other select and joint
committees, plus some highly confidential subcommittees
within the Cabinet Office.

Yet he was still mainly unknown to the world at large and the


128

media in particular. Most newspaper editors would have been
hard-pressed to expand much beyond the minimal seven-line
entry in Who's Who. And that was the way he liked it It was also
the way Fergal liked it.

Moffat was beginning to tire in the languid warmth of the city
evening and the cool of the Ritz lobby vs particularly
welcome. Roger Pinfold was already waiting for him in the
restaurant. Moffat joined him and ordered a Pimms. He didn't
particularly like the MI5 officer, but he was his man. Private
school and Sussex University, new wave and eager to get to
the top. If the political drift from the Cabinet Office and the
permanent undersecretaries was that they wanted to get rid of
the Ulster millstone, then Pinfold would comply in every way he
could.

'I gather the American's been on, sir?' Pinfold said.

Nowadays there was only one 'American' that featured in
their regular conversations.

In many ways, Curtis Manning was Moffat's opposite
number in Washington. Holding a high-powered position
within the upper echelons of the CIA, he was personal adviser
to the Oval Office on matters concerning Northern Ireland.
President Clinton was keen for the Ulster peace to hold so he
could claim it as a personal achievement on the world stage to
add to Palestine and the still shaky Bosnian ceasefire.

'Yes, he's keeping a close watching brief, Roger. He didn't
like the way we handled Fitzpatrick and Littlechild and now
someone's alerted him about Keegan's escape. It's unsettled
him.'

'What's wrong with the man?'

'He'd like Ulster to be fully sanitise.d.'

Pinfold sighed. 'You can't sanitise twenty-five years of urban
guerrilla warfare. Those sorts of stains don't ever come out.
Besides, he and his friends have thrown their share of shit into
the pot.'

'Eloquently put,' Moffat observed. 'But then I think Curtis
Manning is all too aware of that. Indeed, that's why he's
unsettled. Of course, he was quite happy to hear that Fitzpa-.
trick had met with an accident and would have been happier


129

still if Littlechild had met with the same fate. He has no conception
of the furore that would have caused over here.'

'So he doesn't appreciate the neat solution?' Pinfold was
choosing his words with care, not letting Moffat be told what
he knew the man would already have read between the lines.
'Doesn't appreciate the fortunate circumstances that have
placed Littlechild in the frame for murder.'

Moffat fiddled with his tie. 'Curtis is afraid Littlechild will

fight it in court and wash all our dirty linen in public.'

'You've assured him that won't happen?'

'Of course, but I don't think Curtis is too familiar with the
legal niceties of it all.'

Pinfold shook his head slowly. 'Whatever happens, the poor
bastard's going to go down for ten to fifteen years, and all he's
ever done is help us when we asked. Us and Curtis Manning.'

Lord Moffat studied the other man over the menu. Perhaps
he'd misjudged him slightly. There was just a little humanity in
him, just a hint of conscience. If, of course, you overlooked that
it was Pinfold himself who'd decided that the decks had to be
cleared, that Littlechild had to go. That the man knew too
much that could damage them and should be put out of harm's
way for a decade or so. And all because he was no longer cooperative.
Because he wouldn't co-operate in the assassination
of an old friend. In Pinfold's book, anyone who wasn't with you
was against you. So Littlechild was against him and Littlechild
was now a liability.

'What about Peter Keegan?' Moffat asked, changing tack.
'Have you been in touch with Staffordshire police?'

'One of my people has. They're onfident he's still in the area,
reckon they've got him confined to Cannock Chase.'

'What's all this about him being abducted by the IRA?'
Pinfold shrugged. 'It seemed a logical assumption. Anyway,
the latest is he got away from them, grabbed a gun and ran off.
The police reckon he'll be caught within the. next forty-eight
hours.'

'I do hope so. Maybe then Curtis Manning will get off my
back.'

Pinfold actually showed sympathy, or a hint of it.. 'Keegan's


130

on the run, what does the American think he's going to do? Be
interviewed on News at Ten?'

'Probably.' A shared but unsmiling joke. ?..

'Well, he won't get the chance. The police have got a top ex
SAS tracker on the job.'

'Ah, yes,' Moffat said and lifted the late editiorr f the London Evening Standard from the table and unfolded db front page.
'SAS Gulf Hero Tracks Escaped Terrorist,' he read and raised
one eyebrow. 'The same Lomax?'

'Yes, sir. Unfortunate that. But the police arranged it before
any of our people realised. There's nothing sinister in it. The
police asked Hereford for a tracker and Lomax's name came
up.'

'Rather a visible link between Keegan and Littlechild, don't
you think?'

'With respect, sir, only we know that. The press hasn't mentioned
he's Littlechild's brother-in-law or that the two are
friends. Trouble is it would look a bit odd if we had him kicked
off the case now. That really would get the tabloids asking

questions. Anyway, I've got people keeping an eye on Lomax.'
'And the Browne woman?'
'Of course.'

'I hope we haven't underestimated her. I'm not happy she
went to see Keegan. Smells to me she's planning for defence in
depth.'

Pinfold smiled at the military term coming from a man of
such unmilitary bearing. 'She's good, sir. You'd. expect her to
explore all avenues. But hopefully she's good enough to recognise
that her client just can't win. What we have on him is totally
conclusive. We'll keep them guessing for as long as possible,
unnerve them. Then let them see there's no way out. Then he'll
opt to take the offer, even if she doesn't want him to.'

'I'm sure you're right, Roger. Then I can tell Curtis Manning
to relax, that everything's under control?'

Pinfold gave one of his enigmatic little smiles. He didn't see
the need to mention that the previous evening he'd learned that

a

people answering to the description of Lomax and Browne.
managed to.gain access to 32 Bascombe Court. Lord


131

Moffat didn't need to be worried with that. Best anyway to keep
everything boxed and separate, that was the rule.

'Good,' Moffat said. 'Then we can relax and enjoy our meal.
I thought I'd start with the salmon mousse. Your tab, I believe?'

132


Lomax was up by five and nursing a thick head.- :

The previous evening had gone well, Bill Johnson and his
police team meeting at the hotel with the head ranger of
Cannock Chase. Armed with large-scale maps, he'd explained
that the area was a very rough and thick crescent shape. The
western half was mostly open heathland or deciduous woods,
comprising the Country Park to the north and Brindley Heath
to the south. An exception to this was the densely planted
conifer forest abutting the A34 road. It was into this that
Keegan was thought to have disappeared.

The inner, western half of the crescent was almost entirely
made up of evergreen plantation, crisscrossed by tracks and a
few public roads which were now sealed offby police VCPs.

'I could tell you the best places to disappear,' the head ranger
had offered, 'but then this bloke has always lived in Northern
Ireland, right? So he wouldn't know them anyway.'

Lomax had agreed. 'Better to arrange the best general
coverage rather than specific areas - unless we get a sighting.
He's had enough time to get to almost any part of the Chase by
now and we've got limited resources. If we can man observation
posts and mounted patrol9 during the day, then put up the
helicopter with the thermal imager for an hour or two each
night...' Johnson winced as he visualised the rising bill. 'Then
we'll soon get a lead,' Lomax concluded.

By late evening the plan had been finalised: All minor .roads
across the Chase would remain sealed, the exception being
the A460 which dissected the crescent, linking Rugeley with
Hednesford and Cannock; nevertheless there'd be a VCP at
each end and police vehicles would patrol that stretch of road
regularly. Warnings of an armed escaped prisoner at large
would continue on local radio and television and be reinforced
by posters put up all over the Chase.


133

Police control was to be set up at the ranger's Visitor Centre
which would provide basic comforts and endless cups of tea.
The Chase would be divided into seven distinct operational
areas, all of which would be subjected to regular patrols. These
would be run by police vehicles or one of the Ranger Service's
five Land-Rovers. By calling in other rangers from the north
and the Works Unit, the total strength would be boosted to
seventeen four-wheel-drive vehicles and personnel to man
them.

The southern loop of the Chase came under the Forestry
Commission who would provide two of their own rangers and
vehicles. All had walkie-talkie radio communications.

Where the terrain was suitable, observation posts would be
established at various vantage points, using fire-watch towers,
radio transmitter masts and water towers. For patrolling really
difficult ground, police officers on scrambler bikes would be
deployed or 'The Jockeys', members of the Mounted Branch
whose headquarters was a short distance away.

With their master plan finalised, the drinks had begun to flow
thick and fast from the hotel bar as police and rangers unwound
after the pressures of a long day.

Now Lomax was paying the price for an enjoyable three hours
and the nightcap malts at midnight. He downed three cups of
strong, sweet black coffee in his room, shaved, showered and
left without calling down for a breakfast tray. It was still dark as
he drove over the motorway bridge and into the Chase, heading
for the Visitor Centre.

There were already several police vehicles and Ranger
Service Land-Rovers in the car park when he arrived and
uniformed officers manning the radio caravan outside. The
head ranger called Ned, a jovial man with a ginger beard, was
distributing coffee, aspirin and whisky tots to anyone who had
the need or the stamina.

Superintendent Johnson arrived a few minutes later. To
Lomax's mild irritation he bustled in brightly, apparently none
the worse for the previous night's excesses. Without preamble
he accepted coffee from Ned and addressed his audience.
'Right now, we've had a few encouraging developments. Over134


night, our colleagues have been sifting through statements
taken from motorists at VCPs since the ambush. It appears one
driver saw a figure crossing the A34 on foot from.the woods
where the Safrane was found. Having checked h times, it
would appear to have been about twenty minutes after the
ambush.'

There was a low murmur of interest arord the room.
'Unfortunately,' Johnson added, 'he doesn't sound like our
man. The witness is sure he was wearing an anorak and camouflage
trousers, or similar, and was carrying a rucksack.'
'Probably a poacher,' someone quipped.

'More than likely,' Johnson agreed with good humour. 'We'll
know for certain when we've found him, because although
there's no way Keegan would have been dressed like that or had
a rucksack, this backpacker was in the vicinity at the same time
as our man. He could be an important witness and we're
putting out an appeal for him to come forward.

'Likewise a mountain biker was seen on the Chase at around
the same time. A family out for a walk thought it might have
been Keegan when they saw the TV news. Again, obviously it
wasn't our man, but we're putting out an appeal for the cyclist
to make himself known to us. Either of these two could provide
a vital lead.'

'Any news from the chopper, sir?' another policeman asked,
noticing the sheaf of prints Johnson was holding.

'I'm just coming to that.' He turned to Lomax. 'The helicopter
went up twice. The thermal imager picked up something
on its first flight around eleven fifteen last night. Looks

distinctly like a human form in the area around Anson's Bank.'
'Where's that?' Lomax asked, moving to the wall map.
'Here,' Ned replied, jabbing a ruler at a location in the southwest
of the Country Park. It was just over a mile in a direct line
from where the Safrane had been abandoned. 'Arguably a good
spot to hole up. It's covered with trenches used for training
during the First World War - used to be a couple of massive


army camps nearby. 'Course the trenches are well overgrown
which can make it pretty hazardous for the unwary.'


135

Lomax nodded thoughtfully and turned to Johnson. 'What
happened on the second flight?'

'That was between two and three this morning. Obviously,
the pilot concentrated on Anson's Bank again. But this time
there was no sign.'

Lomax accepted the photograph of the thermal image. The
hunched shape of the human form was unmistakable, white
against varying shades of grey and black representing the heavy
summer foliage of bracken, brush and trees. Different prints
showed the man's progress across a line of trenches. 'Presumably
we can pinpoint the spot?'

'We've got an exact location,' Johnson confirmed.

'How deep can one of these imagers penetrate underground?'
'Depends on the ambient temperature of the earth or rubble,
So at night in this country when it gets quite chill, down to
several feet. Why?'

'So if he was digging himself some sort of foxhole, he'd have
to go pretty deep.'

'And he doesn't have a spade,' Johnson reminded.

'Wouldn't need to here,' Ned said. 'He's got trenches already
dug. If he put some branches over the top and covered them in
leaves he'd be quite snug- until it rained.'

Lomax nodded. 'But he'd also show up on a thermal imager.'
'So he's definitely moved on,' Johnson thought aloud.

'About my poacher,' said the police officer who'd made the
earlier quip. 'Maybe it's him. What I mean is, it just might not
be Keegan.'

'Do you get poacher trouble?' Lomax asked Ned.

'Sure. We've got fallow deer on the Chase an' there's always
someone willing to take a pop at them. So it could be a poacher
you've picked up. Pretty daft one to try it with all the area sealed
offwith police.'

Johnson smiled. 'You'd be surprised. There are plenty of daft
villains - our prisons are full of them.'

Lomax intervened. 'I'd like to get'down there by first light
anyway. Tracking's best done while the sun's at a low angle.'

Johnson drained his coffee. 'Right then, let's go.'

136


By six thirty Ned's Land-Rover was pulling into the Anson's
Bank car park as the morning sun broke clear of the horizon.
Deciduous woodland of oak and beech and yo .manger birch.
Nevbrtheless, it was fairly open and didn't offer eslec]ally good
cover. Despite the network of hidden trenches, -Lo. max couldn't imagine a former soldier like Peter Keegan closing to go to
ground here.

He followed Ned and Johnson forward into the yellowing,
waist-high bracken; the only other man with them was an
armed escort from the Tactical Support Unit.

'Quite a popular area is this,' Ned was saying, pointing out
one of the trenches now completely concealed by the previous
season's layer of dried and brittle fern detritus. 'Step on that
and you'd drop up to three or four feet into a trench and
guarantee yourself a broken leg. Kids love to play here. Then
you get visitors from the Katyn Memorial, or the war cemeteries
at the lower end of the park, tending to wander up this way.'

'Not a place I'd choose,' Lomax said.

'/fyou knew the area,' Johnson reminded. He consulted his
marked map and handed it to Ned. 'Anyway, I think this is the
place the helicopter spotted our mystery man, whoever he is.'

The three men sat on a wayside log and opened a flask of
coffee, while Lomax quietly went about his business. After ten
minutes he found what he was looking for - a faint footprint in
the dusty earth beside a trench. Using a soft-focus torch to give
additional side light and a. magnifying glass, he was able to
verify it was Keegan's imprint.

He marked it with a lolly stick from the bundle he kept
wrapped in an elastic band in his windproof pocket and began
hunting for the next print. It took a long time to find it because
the grass was thick and only the edge of a heel had imprinted in
the earth underneath. Adding another lolly stick, he measured
the footprint length and then the stride with the markers on his
tracking stick before going in search of the next.

When he couldn't find a print he merely put the first marker
over the toe of the last impression and rotated the tracking stick,
He then knew the next missing heel print would be under the

137


point of the stick. It was an agonisingly slow business that
totally absorbed him. While the armed officer stayed nearby,
Johnson and Ned soon became bored. They returned to the
Land-Rover, promising to return later.

The sun strengthened on Lomax's back and the stillness
closed in around him until he felt utterly alone, slowly tuning in
to the sounds of nature and its secrets. Breeze rustling the
bracken, the movement of beetles and grasshoppers, and once,
the sudden slithering of a disturbed snake.

Patiently Lomax followed his trail of meagre clues. Bruised
grass, turned leaves and broken spider's webs, stones disturbed
to leave their darker undersides exposed, grains of sand scattered
onto pebbles from the soles of Keegan's boots.

At last Lomax stopped. In front of him the sandy track was
heavily disturbed where his quarry had left the track. To his
right the bracken stems had been snapped, oozing stringy sap.
He prodded with his stick, opening up a tunnel through the
ferns and the void of one of the old training trenches.

Silently he stood and beckoned over the armed officer. It
looked to Lomax as though Keegan had veered off the track,
most probably to find somewhere to sleep. The last thing he
wanted was to stumble in and wake the man in panic. It would
be a shame for such a pleasant morning to be spoiled with a
bullet between the eyes.

As the officer steadied himself and thumbed off the safety
catch of his Heckler and Koch, Lomax called out quietly: 'Hey,
Peter! It's Chris Lomax here! Remember me? I'm with armed
police! Don't worry, you're quite safe! Just come out slowly with
your hands up and without the gun. I repeat, I'm with armed
police.'

There was no response; they tried again.

'Okay,' Lomax told the policeman, 'I'm going in.'

He wriggled a few feet through the dense stalks of bracken
before he found the sandy edge of the trench. Then he smelt it,
a sooty charcoal odour. The beam of his torch played into the
four-foot trench where dead bracken had been drawn into a
mound to form a rough mattress. Beside it was a little mound of
charred twigs.

138


While Johnson was called up on the radio, Lomax completed
his search of the little subterranean den. The man had left only
one clue behind, the wrapper from an Opal Fru'., sweet. An
accumulation of black and brown chippings were c611cted on a flat shelf of stone; it took Lomax a moment to re-.alise what they
were. Insect legs and beetle shells. Keegan wa getting hungry and obviously hadn't forgotten his survival training.

'So what can you tell me?' Johnson asked, clearly pleased
with the result.

'Chummy obviously spent part of yesterday here, down in the
trench. And he's started to feel hungry, because he's been
eating insects.'

Johnson pulled a face.

Lomax grinned. 'They're not so bad when cooked. You
should try my worm omelette sometime.'

'I hope that's not a chat-up line you use on the girls.' Johnson
stared around at the wild bracken scrub that hid the network of
trenches. 'So what will he do next? Put down traps for birds or animals?'

'I doubt it. You need tools to build traps and it's a long-term
project. He probably tried the insects to stave offhis hunger and
see if he could do it. Having decided how foul they are, he'll try
stealing food.'

'There are plenty of houses around the Chase, on the outskirts,'
Johnson confirmed.

'Water's going to be an even bigger problem, Bill, especially if
the weather stays dry.'

'There are a couple of pools up near Brocton to the north.

'Bout a mile away. One ina quarry and one in a nature reserve.'
Lomax said: 'He'll want fresh running water if possible.'
'Plenty of streams,' Ned interrupted..'One across the way
there along Sherbrook Valley at the edge of the Country Park.
That's the nearest.'

'I expect he's resting up in the day, so it might be worth
putting an observation post over there tonight,' Lomax suggested.

Johnson liked that idea. 'I'll have a radio link established
between them and the helicopter.'


139

'Ideally we should get a fix on his whereabouts as near dawn

as possible.'

'Right,' the superintendent agreed. 'In the mantime, can
you pick up his trail from here?'

Lomax nodded. 'Yes, but it'll be a long process. Bear in mind
this is where he was seen at eleven fifteen last night. Given
he's had five hours on the move since then, I'll be a long way
behind.'

'I could bring in the dog teams. They'd be quicker.'

Lomax laughed gently. 'Being replaced by a computer, Bill, is
one thing but by a dog!'

'I'm under pressure to get Keegan back. I dread to think what
this operation's costing.'

'Trouble is that dogs and handlers tend to make a mess of the
trail and they can be easily duped by someone who knows what
he's doing.'

Johnson considered for a moment. 'Well, Keegan should
know what he's doing. I've checked with army records. When
he was with the Cheshires back in the sixties, he did a two-day
survival course. Nevertheless, dogs are still quicker.'

Lomax wasn't going to argue. Dogs worked on one sense while human beings worked on four, rarely using smell. But
human beings also had that mysterious sixth sense and could
think into the mind of a quarry. 'If it makes you feel happier,
Bill, fine. Then tomorrow I can start fresh on anything we pick
up tonight.'

'Good idea,' Johnson agreed, pleased that his tracker wasn't
going to sulk. 'That's settled. Meanwhile, this afternoon I'm
planning to visit Keegan's wife, Wondered if you might like to

come along.'

The?'

'Purely selfish reason. You knew Keegan and his world so you
might well pick up on something that I miss.'

'You think he might make contact with her?'

'Possible, although they're apparently separated. But you
know what some women are like. Too soft for their own good.
Women who love too much and all that stuff. Can't help them140


selves. Show them the hardest, meanest bastard in the world
and they see a little boy who needs mothering.'


Keegan's wife had reverted to her maiden name." Heather
Andrews now lived in Derby, Johnson explained as they sped
along in the white police Rover. ,

She had been born in Banbridge, Northern Ireland, and after
her husband had been sentenced, had moved to Derby when he
was transferred to the mainland so that she could continue to
visit him regularly. But the strain had been too much and the
marriage had crumbled. Now there was a For Sale sign outside
the modest maisonette.

Although she'd been expecting them, she clearly wasn't relishing
the visit. Her offer of tea and biscuits was polite ritual
rather than a gesture of welcome. She was in her mid-forties
with a thickening waist and heavy arms. Her face was pale as
though it had been drained of all emotion, as ff she was just
waiting for life's next blow to her happiness and self-esteem.
The eyes were dull, no longer caring about anyone or anything,
and her short hair as colourless as the skirt and jumper she
wore.

'I see you're selling up,' Johnson said, accepting the cheap
china cup and saucer. 'Just the one lump, please.'

Heather smiled mirthlessly. 'I've been selling up, as you put

it, for two years. No buyers, not unless you give it away.'
'Going back to Ulster?'

She nodded. 'There's nothing left for me here. Peter got
transferred here so his mother could visit - his parents moved
over here early in the Troubles. His family's always had connections
in this area, Stafford and Derby..'

'So you came too?'

That bitter sad smile again. 'Daft, aren't I? It seemed a good
idea at the time. Also safer. Some idiot in the Ulster Defenders
might think it was a good idea to have me targeted. You know
how warped some of their thinking can be. If they couldn't get
Pete for his betrayal, they'd as likely go for me.'

'But not now?'

"
Her eyes didn't reflect hurt, more an inner bruising. 'Now I


141

just don't care any more. Besides, this peace seems to
holding. Well, at least I'd thought...'

'Until your husband was snatched?' Lomax intervened.

Heather appeared to notice him properly for the first time.
'You're not police, are you? I didn't catch the name.'

'Lomax. Chris Lomax. At one time I worked with
husband.'

Her nostrils flared. 'Not one of those bloody spooks?'

'No, I was with the army. I've retired now.'

'Army Intelligence,' she said, her voice softer now. 'They
were all right. They stood by Pete, spoke up for him at his trial.
It was those other bastards. MI5 or Group or whatever they
called themselves.'

'I was Regiment,' Lomax said. 'Iwas backup to Peter on
occasions, bodyguard, minder, you know.'

She nodded, remembering. 'I used to warn him. Told him

you could never trust those slippery bastards. How one
they'd stab him in the back when it suited. When they
doned him after his arrest, he cried like a baby. It was like his
own parents had rejected him. He couldn't believe it.'

'I've been called in by the police to help track him down'
Lomax explained.

'I'm anxious to get to him before the IRA come back for
another try,' Johnson added. 'That's my real anxiety.'

Heather said: 'I don't know why he just doesn't give himself

up. I mean, he's already served over half his sentence. It doesn't
seem like him. I mean, he wasn't expecting to be - well, feed
like this, I suppose.'

'He might try to make contact with you,' Johnson said gently.

'I doubt it. We've been washed Up for a good three years, ever

since...' Her voice trailed offand she bit her tongue.

'Yes?' Johnson pressed.

She shrugged. What the hell. 'Ever since I found out he'd had
some slag. A lover, I suppose he'd call her. Some slag he'd been
knocking around with for years. She was something to do with
the Defenders, someone's sister. All that anguish, all that heartbreak
I went through. Wondering why he was later home than
he said. The missing nights, the missing weekends. Expecting


142

the RUC at the door to tell me he'd been found in some ditch
with a bullet in his head. And all the time he'd been - been with

her.'
	� ,.

	'Her?'
	"

'Ferguson.' She whispered the name as though..not wanting it
to pass her lips. 'Susie Ferguson.'

	'Where is she now?' - "

'I don't know.' Heather paused and stared at Johnson. 'And I
don't care.'

	'Where did she live when you last knew?'

	'Portadown.' She gave the address.

Johnson said: 'Will you let us know if Peter makes contact
with you?'

She shook her head. 'No. He's still my husband and I think
he's been betrayed enough, don't you?' She stared at the reproduction
print on the opposite wall. 'We got out of all this once,
you know? Pete started helping MI5 way back at the start of the
Troubles. Small things at first until he was so deep in they
wouldn't let him get out. Said he was too valuable. Pete liked
that, liked to feel wanted. And all the time our wee son was
growing up.'

	'That's Tim?' Johnson asked.

Heather nodded. 'Finally, in 1985, I persuaded Pete to give it
all up and change our life. His controllers didn't like it - even
threatened to expose him to the Loyalist gangs. But, anyway, we
went to live in Durban. For two glorious years. Tim was fourteen
then, and loved it.'

	But then you went back to Belfast, Lomax said.

'They appealed to Petes vanity. Army Intelligence or MI5,
whoever. Said they desperately needed him. The Loyalist terror
gangs were out of control, running riot. They needed him to
rein them in.' She gave a forlorn shake of her head, still not
quite believing. 'In truth, I think Pete was missing the buzz. So
we all traipsed back to wet and miserable Belfast.'

Johnson completed the story. 'And two years later he was
arrested.'

'And only one person spoke up for him. The rest, those who.
had pleaded with him to come back, never lifted a finger to help


143

him.' Her eyes seemed to refocus; she was back in the
her moment of self-pity over. 'So don't ask me to betray
No doubt you'll have this house watched and tap the
Fine, so long as you do your own dirty work.'

'And your son, Tim?' Johnson asked gently. 'Where is
now?'

'What d'you want with him?' Heather returned sharply.
'Same as you. In case your husband tries to make contact?'

Her laugh was harsh. 'He'll have a job. Tim joined the

Legion. The Foreign Legion.'

'When was that?'

'Three years ago, when Pete and I broke up. He blamed me.
He left the Parachute Regiment and went to France. I haven't

heard from him since.'

'I'm sorry.'

Lomax said: 'You mentioned Peter had family ties in this
area, relatives?'

'Well, his dad's dead now, of course. And you know his
mother's in hospital?'

Johnson said: 'Yes, that's the reason Peter was being transferred,
so he could visit.'

'Used to be an uncle and a couple of aunts. But the aunts
have passed over now and the uncle is senile. In some home at
Morecambe.'

'Did Peter ever spend time with them over here as a child?'

Heather nodded. 'The maiden aunt used to live in Cannock.
He'd spend holidays with her.'

Lomax frowned. 'Wasn't a keen walker by any chance, was
she?'

A look of surprise crossed Heather's face. 'How did you
know?'

'Just a hunch.'

'Aunt Betsy was a rambler and bird-watcher. In fact, I think
that's why she never married. Mad keen on natural history and
wildlife.'

'She knew the Chase then?'

'Knew it? She practically lived there.'

144


'Does that make a difference?' Johnson asked Lomax as they
headed back to the Chase in the squad car.

'It could mean Keegan would feel quite at hom.-xla.ere. Once
he's reorientated himself. Takes a while to familiakise yourself
again with old childhood haunts, even if they ha,.en't changed.'

Johnson stared out at the sunlit countrysifl.e .flashing past.
'He's got no money, no resources. Maybe he'd feel happier
there than moving back to civilisation. For that, he'd definitely
need outside help.'

'And who's going to help him?' Lomax asked. 'He's got no
friends outside immediate family. All his former Loyalist chums
regarded him as a traitor for spying on them and he'll know the
police will be expecting him to make contact with someone. No,
I think he might be quite content to stay in the Chase - wait

until the hue and cry dies down and we assume he's moved on.'
'At least until winter,' Johnson murmured.
'Until then,' Lomax agreed.

'It's imperative we locate his son and this Ferguson woman.
Of course, we're watching Heather's house and we've officers at

the hospital in case he tries to contact his mother.'

'How is she?'

'Latest wasn't good. It could be curtains any time.'

When they arrived back at the Visitor Centre, they discovered
that the dog teams had met with failure. They'd rapidly picked
up the scent from Keegan's hide at Anson's Bank and had
followed it across the Country Park to the stream in Sherbrook
Valley. Just as Ned had predicted. But there Keegan had obviously
waded up or downstream for some distance before
striking out again, and the animals failed to pick up the new
trail.

Silly really, he knew, but Lomax couldn't help feeling just a
little smug.


'A strong lead,' Johnson announced triumphantly at the Visitor
Centre briefing the next morning. 'Someone broke into a
caravan near Penkridge Bank. Stole fifty quid and enough food
to last someone a week.'


145

Lomax smiled; it was just what he'd predicted. 'How far i

that from the trenches at Anson's Bank?' ,
'Scarcely two miles.'

'Do you want me or the dogs?'

Johnson looked suitably abashed. 'I've learned my lesson.
Chris. You do your stuff. Call in the dogs if you want them.'

On the journey by car to the caravan site, Johnson brought
Lomax up to date with his investigation into Keegan's background.
'We traced Keegan's supposed mistress, Susie
Ferguson, through Social Security. She's been living in Manchester.
Local officers called to visit her bedsit last night - she

disappeared the day after Keegan's abduction.'

'Sure she's not on holiday?'

'Place was cleared out. The day before, she'd taken a neigh�
bour's kid to London. Came back and seemed perfectly
normal. The next morning she walked out with a suitcase and
hasn't been seen since. Maybe she'd informed on him to the
IRA. Maybe she knew about the transfer.'

Lomax made a counter-suggestion. 'Perhaps she was afraid
Keegan would come looking for her and didn't want to get
involved? That must be a dilemma for a loved one. Do you
harbour an escaped prisoner and risk jail yourself, or betray
him?'

Johnson shrugged. 'Whatever her reasons, she's gone to
ground. Mind you, she's on the dole, so hopefully we'll trace

her soon enough next time she claims benefit.'

'What about Keegan's son, Tim?'

'Noluck at all there. The French military are being very - er -
French. Code of silence in the Legion and all that bullshit.
They say they've no record of a Tim Keegan, but then they
pointed out he would have been allowed to enlist under any
name he chose.'

'You sound suspicious.'

'I would be, had Keegan not been abducted.by the IRA and
we know, roughly, where he is. If he'd been sprung under other
circumstances, I'd be mightily suspicious if his nearest and
dearest had vanished.' He shook his head slowly. 'Something
about all this isn't adding up. I just can't put my finger on it. If


146

Keegan decided he'd do better to break out of the Chase, we
wouldn't be able to stop him and I wouldn't have a clue where
to start looking. We've got nothing on his backgro.,nd, his old
friends or enemies in Ulster, ideas where he might go. I've never
seen such a thin file.'

'Sanitised by MIS?'

'By someone. I've made an application for at interview with
the Anti-Terrorist Branch to fill me in on some details.'

They arrived at the caravan park and drove towards the rear
where the scene-of-crime officer and his group had taped off
the area around a caravan.

Lomax climbed out and looked up at the clear September
sky. This certainly beat working for a living.


'It's an old Provo trick,' Susie Ferguson said, 'but it works.'

They were sitting in a quiet corner of the sea-front care in
Brighton, nursing mugs of tea and bacon and tomato sandwiches.

The
sun streamed in from a porcelain sky. Outside, the air
was full of salt and the screech of gulls; men were wearing baggy
shorts and the girls skimpy dresses. It was all a far, far cry from
G Block at Stafford. This was the first time since boarding the
125 at the Shugborough Tunnel that he had really believed he
was free. Even his fumbled, hurried lovemaking with Susie, for
the first time in six years, had been a misty dream, distorted
by the effects of the celebratory champagne. Alcohol was
something his body had forgotten how to handle after long
years of abstinence.

Now was his fourth day of freedom. This morning, when he
pinched himself, for the first time it hurt.

'Tim chose Brighton because there's .a high proportion of
pensioners,' Johan van Niekerk said in his distinctive South
African drawl. 'Tomorrow is Thursday, payout day. The money
arrives at the depot today by security van at five thirty, after the
post office closes.'

Keegan's son Tim was quiet and thoughtful, having ridden
through the night from Cannock Chase on his motorcycle:
Wearily, he said: 'It's a bit cruel on our victim, but he'll soon get


147

over a few hours of anxiety. His biggest problem afterwards will
be his embarrassment.'

'You've done a good job, son, I'm proud of you.' Keegan
placed his hand over Tim's in a gesture of affection. 'Have you
any idea what this might net?'

Tim shook his head. 'I've had no time to go into all that. A �
few hundred thousand if we're lucky.'

'It's a start,' van Niekerk said and pushed the photograph of awoman,
pram and young girl across the table. 'This is our man's
wife and kids. I took it with a telephoto lens. Wednesday is her
shopping day, which is doubly useful. She spends the afternoon
at the shops and doesn't usually get home until six. By which
time it'll all be over.'

'Her husband always goes to the same pub for lunch,' Tim
added. 'Creature of habit. Always visits the gents just before he
leaves. That's when we get him.'

Van Niekerk said: 'Remember, Tim, we must put the fear of
God into him. If he doesn't believe we mean it, everything could
all come horribly unstuck.'

Keegan was beginning to feel uncomfortable; they'd been at
the cafe for almost an hour and it was too long. 'Time to split'
he decided. 'Susie and I will go first.'

They had two cars, both stolen in the Midlands by van
Niekerk. Both were popular models, an Escort and an Astra;
the plates had been changed. Without the financial reserves to
hire lock-up garages, the cars had been legally street-parked in a
neighbouring town until last night.

Keegan took the wheel of the Escort and drove it out of the
multistorey. At eleven forty-five a parking bay across the street
from the post office became free. He pulled in, fed the meter
and settled in for a long wait.

At the same time, his son and Johan van Niekerk were
watching the semidetached suburban home of Frederick Bates.
Mild-mannered senior postal clerk, aged forty-six. Weeks
earlier Susie had telephoned their home and spoken to his wife.
A marketing survey, she'd said, answer a few simple questions
about shopping habits - just ten minutes - and a wonderful free
gift would be hers.


148

Within that ten minutes, Susie knew the family's ages and
Christian names, their make of car, television and PC, their
eating, drinking and smoking habits, that they h.ad, a fiftythousand
mortgage and couldn't afford holidays abroad.

From the Astra, the two men saw wife Jocelyn ..close the front
door and start to push the pram containing ba Henry, while
little Louise skipped happily behind. As soon as- they'd turned
the corner, van Niekerk opened the driver's door and stepped
out. Moments later, the telephone line to the house was cut.

He returned to the car and the two of them set off back to the
centre of Brighton.

Tim and van Niekerk were already waiting, sitting at different
tables, when Frederick Bates entered the pub at five minutes
past one. He ordered toad-in-the-hole and beans and his usual
half of best, found a corner seat and opened his newspaper.

There was an anxious moment for the watchers at ten to
two when another man walked across to the lavatory moments
before Bates went in. It seemed like an age that both men were
in there, yet it was only seconds. Tim began to sweat. Blow it
now and they'd have to wait another week to try again somewhere
else.

Tim and van Niekerk looked at each other across the bar
room. Tim nodded, they had to make their move. Both rising,
moving in from different directions towards the door. It opened
and the first man appeared.

Thank God. Tim brushed past. It was a matter of seconds,
touch and go.

Van Niekerk was behind him, closing the door. Cramped in
the short passage that separated the inner and outer doors
to the urinal. Balaclavas on. Barely time to. straighten them and
the inner door opened. Bates coming out.

The South African pushed forward, grabbed the man by the
throat and threw him back into the lavatory. Bates squealed as
the hand tightened round his neck, forcing him back past a row
of china stalls and slammed him against the wall of a cubicle
with crashing force.

'Shut up!' van Niekerk ordered, left hand pinioning Bates's


149

throat as his right brought up the automatic under the man's
nose. Bates's eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the muzzle.

Tim moved in behind and waved a photograph in front of
the hapless post-office clerk. 'Jocelyn, young Louise and baby
Henry!' he snapped. 'We've got them at your house. Cooperate
or they die. Just one word from us.' The harsh Ulster accen
unmistakable.

Van Niekerk squeezed his clawed hand into Bates's larynx to
emphasise the point. 'You listening, scum?'

The man's eyes were bulging out of his head and he

the South African relaxed his grip. 'Please,' he breathed.

Tim said: 'The security van delivers at five thirty. When
goes at five forty, leave the gate and back doors unlocked.
That's all you have to do. Our man stays with your family until
you've done it and gets the all-clear from us.'

'If we get a smell of police,' van Niekerk added, 'or they come
to your house, our man will take your kids out first. Got that?
You fuckin' got that?'

Bates nodded, trembling uncontrollably.

Tim jerked at van Niekerk's sleeve; it was time to go. 'Wait
here five minutes before you come out,' the South African
added. 'We'll be watching you, Bates.'

Both men moved back through the inner door. Someone was
trying to enter from the pub bar. Van Niekerk jammed his foot
against the outer door to give them time to pull off the balaclavas.
Then they pushed their way out, barging the male
customer aside and walking out into the street.

Twice during the afternoon Tim and van Niekerk went in
separately to buy stamps, the second time near to closing. On
both occasions, Bates could be seen at his desk.

At five thirty the main doors were closed and a few moments
later the Securicor van arrived, swung offthe road and nosed up
to the steel side gates. Bates appeared, looking nervous as he
proceeded to unlock them. The van went inside and disappeared.

Keegan and Susie Ferguson sat in the parked Escort and
watched. The minutes dragged by. Their hearts were racing
and it felt unbearably hot. The digital clock on the dash flick150


ered with tantalising slowness. Five forty-one, forty-two, fortythree.

Running
three minutes late. Was something ggg down?
Had Bates snapped, poured out his soul to his superior? Had he
been unable to resist the call home and got the dead line? And if
he had, had he broken down with hysterical tears? Decided to
call the police?

Keegan glanced in the side mirror. Looking for cops, uniformed
or plainclothes. Anyone loitering, a stakeout, a pounce

taking shape. He could see no one, nothing.

Susie nudged him. 'Here it is.'

Bates was back at the gate, the blunt nose of the Security van
behind him. Sunlight glinted 6n the keys. Keegan's hand tensed
on the steering wheel, knuckle bones showing white through
the skin, as the postal worker dragged back each barred gate in


A glance in his mirror told him that Tim and van Niekerk
were ready, exhaust trickling from the rear of the pulled-over
Astra.

The van rolled away and Bates began closing the depot gates,
going through the motions of turning the lock. At least Keegan
hoped. The not-knowing was getting to him, the tension shrivelling
his insides until it almost hurt. Sweat was seeping into his
eyes. He caught the movement in his mirror, the Astra cruising
past, van Niekerk and his son with collars up and cloth caps
pulled low over their foreheads.

If the police were waiting,.now would be the time. The Astra
reversed up to the gates, inching back to push them open.

Keegan breathed again as the Astra backed up and out of
sight inside the post-office yard. Then van Niekerk returned to
shut the gates before disappearing again. �

The next eight minutes were even worse. Waiting was
unbearable, an almost physical pain. Susie saw it in his eyes,
and reached across to grasp his hand. He was grateful for that;

in fact, grateful to her for so much.

'Nearly over,' she whispered.

No, he thought, it hasn't even begun.

Van Niekerk reappeared at the gates and held them open


151

while Tim drove out. The suspension of the Astra was noticeably
lower, a tarpaulin covering the load in the rear luggage
space. Despite his own frayed nerves, Keegan couldn't help
smiling as the South African sauntered back to close the gatea
and returned to his seat. So goddamn cool, the man was a gem.

The Astra signalled, waited patiently for a gap in the passing
traffic, and joined the flow heading west; Keegan followed.

They swapped the load at a remote woodland car park
outside town where Tim had left his motorcycle. He used it to
follow the Escort after the Astra was abandoned.

Van Niekerk's old camper van was in a New Forest caravan
park in a little woody alcove not overlooked by others. It was
dark when they arrived and backed the Escort up to the rear
door of the van. In the morning, the Escort would be driven
away and abandoned before they left the area. Keegan, Susie
and van Niekerk would seek to rent a house, which they could
now afford, in an isolated location, while Tim returned to
Cannock Chase.

'That's it,' van Niekerk said as the last neat bundle of used
notes was transferred into the camper and stacked.

'Takes up more space than I thought,' Keegan said.

Tim had been staring in silence at the growing wall of money

bricks. 'I'm not surprised.'

'What d'you mean?'

'I reckoned this haul might net a few hundred thousand if we

were lucky.'

'Well?'

'A rough guess, Da, but I think this is closer to two million.'

Keegan stared. He always knew it would take a lot of money
to launch a war.

152


The previous day Lomax had lost the trail a-Stony Brook.
He'd called the dogs in and run them east and west along the
embankment of the stream. At last light they'd picked up a new
scent.

Since just after dawn, Lomax had been following the trail. A
half-mile loop and at noon he found himself back at the stream.
Again the tracks and scent vanished. He could almost believe
Keegan was giving him a deliberate run-around.

Idly he circled the area. The trail was too cold, nearly two
days old now. There'd been nothing last night. No eyeball sightings
and nothing from the helicopter's thermal imager. With a
stocked larder of stolen food from the caravan, Keegan was
sitting tight.

Lomax stopped and looked down at the boggy ground by his
feet. A clear footprint in the mud, filled with brackish water. He
took the length of tube and rubber bulb from one of his bellows
pockets, then stooped, poking the end of the tube into the
water. He squeezed and released the bulb to suck the print dry.

It was a similar size, but it wasn't Keegan's print. A flat sole
and heel, slightly worn on the outer edge. Maybe a desert boot.

lie glanced back over his .shoulder. The stream was a mere
ten yards away at the point where Keegan's trail had abruptly
ended.

How old was this print? Impossible to tell. This ground probably
never dried out from one year to the riext. It was under firs
and virtually never saw the sun. lie used the pacing stick set
at Keegan's stride, rotated it and found another print. Then
another.

And then they vanished. Here the ground was hard and if the
grass had been crushed, it had now recovered. He called in a dog team, but they could pick up nothing.

The nagging thought wouldn't leave him. had Keegan


153

changed his shoes? How could he? He wasn't carrying a spare
pair when he was abducted from the taxi. It was a nonsense.
Something else too, but he couldn't put his finger on it. A small
voice told him he'd overlooked a glaringly obvious clue.

He was just dismissing the thought when he saw the Ranger'
Service Land-Rover approaching along the firebreak. It
stopped beside the dog team and Ned and Bill Johnson
alighted.

This was the first Lomax had seen of the detective superintendent
today; he'd had an early morning appointment in
London with the Anti-Terrorist Branch to try and glean some
	of
Keegan's history and previous contacts in Ulster.

thing

'How'd it go, Bill?' Lomax asked.

Johnson didn't smile. He walked straight past him with a
terse: 'Over here!'

The former SAS man was taken aback, shrugged and"followed
the policeman across the firebreak to where they couldn't
be overheard.

'What's wrong, Bill?'

Johnson's face was grim and stony. 'Don't "Bill" me, Lomax!

What the hell do you think you're playing at?'

'I don't understand.'

'I had a meeting with the ATB this morning.'

'I know.'

'They told me you're the brother-in-law of Rodney Little
child
- this Loyalist on the Fitzpatrick murder charge.'
Lomax saw no point in denying it. 'So?'
'why didn't you tell me?'

'You never asked, Bill. Anyway, it's irrelevant.'

Johnson's eyes narrowed fiercely. 'It can't be that irrelevant
considering you'd been to see Keegan the day before his abduction,
passing yourself off as his solicitor's clerk!'

'Oh, that!' That, he had to admit, was a littleembarrassing.

'How the hell do I know you're not something to do with
Keegan's abduction?'

Lomax couldn't prevent the smile. 'Don't be daft. Me with
the IRA? The Regiment put you in touch, remember?'


154

'They wouldn't even know, would they? The ATB think you
could be involved- at least they're not discounting it.'

	'Do you mean the ATB, Bill?'
	.

	'What?'


	'Was it just the ATB you saw?'

The policeman looked bemused 'Youkw it wasn't
They're my link to MIS. It's MI5 and Army Intelligence who've
got Keegan's file.'

	'And they want you to kick me offthis hunt, yes?'

'No, not like that.' He stared around the firebreak as though
seeking inspiration for the words 'They've advised that you be

quietly dropped in case you're compromising the search.'
'That's rubbish, Bill, and you know it.'
'I hope so.'

A thought occurred to Lomax. 'How many people were at
this meeting from MIS?'

	'Just the one. Keegan's former case officer I imagine.'

	'Was his name Prendergast by any chance?'

Johnson was taken off guard, and blinked. 'Er - Prendergast?
Yes, I do believe it was. But how...?'

'Just a lucky guess. Keegan said someone by that name was
taking an unusual interest in our legal visit before the abduction.
Said he was sure the man was some kind of Spock.'

The policeman looked uncertain. 'Well, he wasn't wrong
about that.'

'So it seems. Look, Bill, if anything, I want to find Keegan
even more than you do. He's the only person who can verify that
my brother-in-law was an acting agent for MIS.'

	'I don't know anything about the Littlechild case.'

Lomax held his gaze for a moment, 'Perhaps you should.' He
glanced at his watch. 'I can't do anything more here. Why don't
you join me for a pint and a bite to eat? I'll put you in the
picture.'

Johnson agreed with some reluctance and Lomax drove them
back over the M6 to a pub in Penkridge. Over a couple of
pints of bitter and prawn salads, Lomax told the policeman
everything he knew about Roddy Littlechild, his history and the.
alleged murder of the Provisional IRA's Dormy Fitzpatrick.


155

After listening without interruption, Johnson pushed aside ....

his plate, half the prawn salad untouched. Carefully he said: 'As
far as I am concerned, Chris, I never heard what you just told
me.'

'Why not? It's true.'

'How many times d'you think I've seen villains going down

still swearing blind that they're innocent?' Johnson's eyes were
hooded, his smile knowing. 'And every villain's wife and mother
believes him, despite the evidence. Unless his defence team can prove what you've just told me, then forgive me if I file it away in
the realms of fantasy. Call me a cynic, Chris, but I've been
in this game a long, long time.'

Lomax was disappointed at the reaction, but was not surprised.
'Well, we are trying to prove his innocence. That's why I
went to visit Keegan in prison, because he can at least verify
Roddy worked for MIS.'

'It won't prove he didn't kill Fitzpatrick.'

'But it's a start. Make a jury think that perhaps other things

aren't quite right about the whole business.'

'Like what?'

For a moment Lomax hesitated, not sure how much he
should say. Yet instinctively he trusted the stolid career
policeman with whom he'd just shared lunch. 'Fitzpatrick was
murdered at an MI5 safe house and yet they or the police had it
on outside surveillance. Why? And if so, how was Roddy
allowed to get inside?' He paused again. 'I've been to the scene
of crime, Bill. It's been redecorated, but I got inside before
they'd finished. The ATB say Fitzpatrick was shot through the
door, but I don't believe he was. I flaink he was shot by someone
inside and then the shots put through the door to fit the story.'

Johnson's eyes said he didn't believe a word of it. 'Can you
prove that?'

Lomax was reluctant. 'No, probably not.'

'Look, Chris, as a friend, let me give you a word of advice.
Don't go running round making these wild allegations. Do you
realise just how serious they are? That MIS, a government
agency, first tried to get your friend Roddy to murder someone
he knew in the Loyalist paramilitaries, then persecuted him


156

when he refused to co-operate. Then proceeded to arrange for
Fitzpatrick's murder themselves and put Roddy in the frame
for it. Think on, Chris, it's just not credible!' ..

Lomax finished his beer. 'You ever been to Northern Ireland,
Bill? On secondment or something?' .
		the man confirme'.d-.

	'Never set foot in the place,'
	"" .

'I thought not,' Lomax replied quietly. 'If you had, you'd
realise that anything is possible. There are a lot of secrets over

there that a lot of people don't want to be known.'

	'Yeah, I realise that,' Johnson conceded.

	Lomax said suddenly: 'You didn't get far with your questions

into Keegan's past, did you?'

	'Bugger all.'

'Despite the fact yours is a genuine investigation that might
help recapture Keegan. Despite that, Prendergast told you
nothing.'

'Nothing of value, no contact names.' Johnson shrugged.
'National security, I suppose.'

'Or people watching their own backs, Bill. Tell me, what are
you going to do now about Keegan's background?'

	'Nothing I can do really, I suppose.' He sounded depressed.

	'There is someone,' Lomax suggested. 'Someone who should

know all about Keegan's background and contacts.'

	'Your lawyer friend, this Browne woman?'

Lomax shook his head. 'No, Keegan would have told her
only the barest essentials because he opted to plead guilty to
conspiracy to murder. Therefore no details would have come
out in court.'

	'So who do you have in mind?'

Lomax didn't know why he hadn't thought of him before.
'The police chief from the mainland. He investigated the original
allegations of the security forces giving confidential
information to Loyalist terror groups. I think he was from the
West Weald. I expect he's Commissioner of Police or something
by now.'

Realisation dawned on Johnson's face. 'Ah, the Penny.
Inquiry. You mean Derek Penny. Yes, he was Assistant Chief


157

Constable of West Weald. But I'm sure I've read he's left the
force.'

'Anyway,' Lomax said. 'He was the one who'd have known
everything there was to know about Keegan's background.'

Johnson sounded suddenly more cheerful. 'That's a smart

idea, Chris. I owe you one.'

'You owe me a pint.'

The detective picked up the empty glasses. 'I still don't
believe a word of your brother-in-law's story, Chris, but I
don't like being told how to do my job by an oily bureaucrat like
Prendergast.'

'Meaning?'

'As far as I'm concerned, you're still on the case.'


'Is that an Australian accent, Mr Steyn?' the flying club secretary
asked as they walked out of the hut and onto the airfield.
'South African.'

'Really? I'm no good with accents.'

There were two parking areas, one filled with a range of fixed
wing aircraft, from Pipers, Cessnas and Beechcraft to Piaggios
and a restored Tiger Moth biplane. Some bore For Sale signs in
the cockpit windows. The helicopter area was smaller, containing
just three machines.

They approached the largest. 'The Agusta A109 is a good
choice for an air courier service,' the secretary thought aloud.
'Flexible internal layout and a lot of cargo space available.
Rugged, reliable. Bit expensive to run, of course, with the two
engines.'

'I intend to make it pay for itself.

'I'm sure. And where are you setting up?'

'The Irish Republic. I'll reregister the Agusta there.'

'Well, the owner will be pleased to sell. It's a slightly bigger
beast than most people want. I expect you'll get it for a good
price.'

The man called Steyn spent an hour going over it with an

- expert eye, prodding and poking around and then running up

the twin Allisons in preparation for the test flight.

It landed again half an hour later and the secretary emerged


158

quite white and visibly trembling. Never had he been flown so low and so fast before.

'I'll make the owner an offer,' the South Africarsaid. 'If he
accepts, I'll get the paperwork done and arrange the money
transfer by tomorrow, and I'll collect the day after-. Okay?'

The secretary swallowed, rediscovered his Vg.ce and said:
'Fine.' And watched as the tall stranger turned and walked away
with long and purposeful strides.

Not a man to cross, he decided. An ex-military flyer. Had to
be. And he imagined him swooping hard and fast over the
treetops during some faraway African bush war.

Bloody good, but bloody frightening. Wouldn't want another
trip like that one. Not ever.


For the next four days, Lomax's work fell into a predictable
routine

Every night would end with a clue to the whereabouts of
the elusive Peter Keegan. Usually the thermal imager on the
helicopter would pick up something, always in a different part
of the Chase. But come the dawn, when Lomax and the dog teams went in to pick up the trail, it soon became cold, usually
when the footprints disappeared into a stream or pond. Yet
tantalisingly he would find something to confirm that they were
on the right track. Mostly tins and wrappers from food that had
been stolen from the caravan.

One morning, the owner of a nearby smallholding reported
that eggs and a chicken had been snatched from the wire
mesh run. The next day's tracking led Lomax to the charred
aftermath of a fire, along with skeletal remains of legs, wings
and wishbone

When it was decided to do a night sweep, immediately following
a thermal image sighting, their quarry vanished into thin
air. Even while the helicopter remained hovering on station, the
image of Keegan below just melted away before their eyes. On
the ground the trail went cold after a hundred yards

Midweek, Browne had phoned Lomax just as he returned to
his hotel room.
She couldn't keep the excitement from her voice. 'Remember

159


you told me about your visit to Keegan's wife, about his son
going offin a huffto join the Foreign Legion? The other night I
spent hours on the office computer and found some of the
Keegan trial papers. I'd misfiled them in our changeover to
Windows 95?

'You discovered something?'

'On the family history notes, about Tim. Peter was very
proud of his son. Mentioned he'd no flair for languages, yet Tim
had got Spanish A-level. I must have scribbled it in my notebook
and it got typed up.'

'Is it relevant?'

'It wasn't then, but it may be now. I looked up Foreign
Legion in the encyclopaedia and found that there are two. The
French and the Spanish. La Legion de Extranjeros. I didn't know
they had one.'

'Not many people do.'

'Anyway, I made the obvious conclusion and phoned the
Spanish military attache's office in London. Laid on the charm
with a shovel. They phoned back five minutes ago. A Timothy
Keegan left the Legion almost a year ago!'

'Brilliant, Holmes,' he congratulated. 'But I'm not sure if it
helps us.'

'It could mean that Peter Keegan has somewhere to go,
someone to help him, couldn't it?'

He'd agreed that it could and had hung up in a thoughtful
mood, churning various possibilities over in his head.

The next morning he had mentioned it to Bill Johnson, who
was clearly impressed with the detective work. Nevertheless, as
Keegan was still clearly at large on the Chase, he wasn't sure
that the information was of any immediate use. But if their
quarry left the area, then it might well be to find his son.

Nothing more was mentioned until the Friday night at a
small impromptu celebration of Ned's birthday at the Visitor
Centre. The head ranger produced a couple of bottles of Scotch
and poured glasses for the police duty team and two rangers
who'd volunteered for a night shift.

Detective Superintendent Johnson was in no hurry to return
to Stafford HQ to face another pile of memos from his


160

superiors demanding a result, and Lomax had no desire to
return yet again to an empty hotel room.

It had been a long, firing and frustrating week:rE.very day
the weather had become progressively hotter and, with high
pressure wedged firmly over the British Isles, it promised more
of the same for the foreseeable future. And tempers were beginning
to fray. - "

'Our main hope is,' Ned declared with a light belch, 'that the
bleddy streams dry up, so our friend Keegan can't keep giving
us the run-around.'

Johnson moved his glass to follow the waving bottle as Ned
attempted to pour. 'His luck can't last for ever.'

'Dunno, Bill. If old superman tracker Chris 'ere can't trace
him, perhaps no one can.'

Run-around. Lomax had only been half-listening, his mind
wandering to the last time he'd spoken to Browne.

Run-around. Ned's word again, swimming about in his brain.

He turned to Johnson. 'Have you heard anything else about

those IRA men who snatched Keegan in the first place?'
'No, Chris, they've vanished into the ether. Why?'
'Just suppose they weren't IRA.'

Johnson hid his irritation; this was a party. 'That old chestnut
again. I know you've never completely swallowed that line, but
all the indications are...'

'That they were from Northern Ireland. Period.'

The policeman sighed. 'You think it was Loyalists out for
revenge on the man who bet(ayed them?'

Lomax shook his head. 'Not necessarily.'

'What are you driving at?'

'It's something Ned said. About Keegan giving us the runaround.
He's right. That's almost how it feels. As ifhe's laying a
trail and he knows where we are and what we're planning before
we know ourselves.'

Johnson looked pained. 'How could he do that, Chris?'
Lomax had to admit he wasn't sure. 'With some sort of
outside help? Maybe Keegan hasn't any friends left. But there's
still Susie Ferguson and his son, Tim. One of them could be
helping him.'


161

'C'mon, Chris. He's stolen food to survive; what else would
he need?'

'One thing's been bothering me,' Lomax replied. 'Keegan
himself told me he weighed around eleven stone, yet the depth
of his footprints suggests a much heavier build. Unless, of course, he is carrying a load. That load's hardly likely to be a
carrier bag, more likely some form of rucksack.'

'Where the hell would he have got that from?' Ned asked.

It was a question that had been nagging at Lomax for days,
'Say that, somehow, we've got it wrong. Whoever snatched
Keegan came from Ulster - agreed - but say they weren't
enemies but friends?'

'What about the spent bullets and fresh blood?' Johnson
interjected.

Lomax waved that aside. 'Just bear with me. Assume they
were friends. They could have fired the rounds and left blood
samples - probably their own - to throw us. We now know
Keegan's probably very familiar with the Chase, so what better
place to go to ground? They snatch him from the taxi, remove
his handcuffs and kit him out with whatever he needs to survive,

including a rucksack and several pairs of boots or shoes.'
'Shoes?' Ned queried.

'An idea I got the other day,' Lomax admitted. 'If he had a
change of clothes and shoes, that could help throw the dogs and
me off the trail whenever he chose. And let's face it, that's
what's been happening.'

It made sense to Ned, although in his current state of inebriation,
almost anything would. 'A run-around,' he repeated.

'I still don't buy it,' Johnson said2

Lomax raised his hand. 'Okay, okay, Bill. We can argue this
one until the cows come home. But let's change tack and get

proactive rather than reactive.'

'How d'you mean?'

'Well, as far as I'm concerned Keegan's laying trails for us,
then vanishing when it suits. It's as though he'd done far more
than a routine two-day survival course at some time, yet we
know from army records that he hasn't. So instead of chasing


162

after every sighting, let's look at what I would do if I were him
and follow that up instead.'

The drink was getting to Johnson now and h.e.w, as tired,
mellowing. 'Okay, Chris, what would you do?'

Lomax lit a cigarette and savoured his first one in several
days. 'Firstly, I'd like a main base. A hide I camnake comfortable
and relax in, knowing no one's likely to fir/d me. Then,
night by night, I'd strike out to a different area, lay a trail and
leave some clue. Then scurry back to my main hide and keep
my head down for the day.'

'Okay,' Johnson said, playing along, 'where?'

'For a start, nowhere the public goes.'

Ned walked over to the wall map. 'Then you can ignore Seven
Springs and Marquis Drive.' His finger kept jabbing. 'Brindley
Heath, Brocton, Milford Common, the White House or Penk
ridge Bank- all popular with dog walkers.'

Lomax regarded the ranger for a moment. 'So if Keegan
knows the area, Ned, where might he make his main base?'

The man scratched at his ginger beard and then pointed to
the north-east of the crescent. 'Wolseley Park is dense pine
and remote, but maybe a little further to the west. Around
Cherrytree Slade. More comfortable. Deciduous woodland but
dense undergrowth. Fallow deer lie up there during the day.'

'Always trust animals to know best,' Lomax said, joining Ned
at the wall map. 'And two running water supplies within a
mile either way, Sherbrook and the stream from Seven Springs.
Some three square miles ofrally dense cover.'

'So what do you want to do?' Johnson asked.

'Organise a sweep. On foot and with backup from mounted
units and scrambler bikes. Regardlgss of where Keegan leaves
clues tonight, we sweep Cherrytree Slade and move progressively
east through the Old Buffs and Abraham's Valley and then
Wolseley Park. Inch by inch.'

'It'll take a few days' Johnson said warming to the idea.
'That doesn't matter, Bill, as long as we hold the line at night
and put out patrols so he can't escape the dragnet.' He added:
'Maybe tonight we should get the chopper to concentrate solely
on this area.'

163


'Consider it done.' The policeman consulted his watch. 'I'm

all in. Want a lift back to your hotel in my car, Chris? Wouldn't
want you to get done for drink driving?'

They sat in the back while the police driver took the road
back to Penkridge.

'I'll get everything set up for a dawn start,' Johnson said.

'I just hope it's a good idea.'

'It'll make a change to take the initiative. This operation is
costing a bomb.'

Lomax stifled a yawn. 'It's all I can think of, Bill. If Keegan's
behaving like he was Hereford-trained, let's try to outthink
him.'

'But he wasn't, of course,' Johnson replied softly. 'That's the

only puzzle, except I've just been thinking about that.'

'Yes?'

'Keegan never went on a Hereford.course. But I had his son's
army file sent up from the MOD in London after your solicitor
friend found he'd left the Spanish Legion. Tim Keegan did a
full course with the SAS. Escape and evasion. Perhaps he gave
his old man some tips. I forgot to mention it earlier, and something
else that'll make you smile.'

'What's that?'

'You were his instructor.'


Of course, Lomax couldn't remember Tim Keegan, even the
next morning when Johnson brought the MOD file from his
office. The plumpish, grim-faced headbanger in the maroon
beret staring blankly out of the mug shot meant nothing to him.
He'd seen a thousand faces like that over the years - not only
failed and successful SAS recruits on Selection, but others from
the Army, Marines and Air Force sent on specialist courses,
often prior to deployment in a hot war zone.

At least this Saturday morning was different from all the
preceding days. The previous night there had been a brief ten
minute sighting on the helicopter's thermal imager at Rainbow
Valley, way to the south, followed by reports of a break-in at a
golf club. Food and money were taken. But today the.searchers


164

what had become a boring routine, lifted morale.

Something else had cheered him too. The previows aight he'd
spoken to Browne, told her that they'd discovered he'd .once
trained Tim Keegan and that the next day the searchers would

be changing tactics.

'Will it work?' she'd asked.

'Impossible to say, but I think so.' He grinned at her down the
phone line. 'It's a feeling we blokes on Planet Mars get. If
Keegan's using tactics I taught his son, then I think Peter will be

back behind bars before the weekend's out. Or soon after.'
'Really? I ought to be there for him. See what I can do.'

He'd seen his chance. 'Then come up and watch the fun. It's
Saturday tomorrow.'

'I've a mountain of work.'

'You always have.'

There was a thoughtful pause. 'You're right, Chris. Keegan
might need me and I need a break. Even twenty-four hours
would be nice.'

It was a misty start to the day as the army of volunteers
mustered with police officers who were more than happy for
the overtime. Soldiers from the Staffordshire Regiment and the
Military Police had been drafted in, swelling the strength of
the sweep teams to over two hundred personnel.

The new arrivals left their transport in the three car parks off
the A513 and congregated at the Punch Bowl rendezvous
where a constant shuttle of police Range Rovers and Ranger
Service Land-Rovers ferried them south to their various start
points.

By nine, the mist was breaking up under a strengthening sun
to herald another scorching day. Now the startline ran for
nearly two miles north to south at the edge of the dense Cherry
tree Slade woodland. As the line began its slow movement east,
it would sweep the entire top corner of the Chase's crescent
shape. Observation posts and mobile stop-groups with armed
backup were posted in the open fields on the far side of the
forest to the east, so cutting off the town of Rugeley, should
Keegan be successfully flushed out of hiding. Meanwhile,


165

ahead of the sweep, horse-mounted policemen and officers on
scrambler bikes would patrol the various trails and firebreaks
that crisscrossed the woodlands, hoping for a ,chance sighting
should Keegan break cover.

Overhead, the helicopter circled with its thermal imager. At
nine fifteen, whistles began blowing down the long line of searchers
and they started moving off like beaters at some vast
pheasant shoot. The area was so big that it was hardly a
fingertip search, each man having to cover a frontage of some
fifteen yards, but it would still be a daunting prospect for
anyone hoping to escape detection.

Lomax waited with the dog handlers next to Johnson's Range
Rover which served as a mobile incident control centre.

'Best we can do,' the policeman said. 'The budget just won't
run to any more.'

'It's an impressive turnout, Bill,' Lomax replied, and meant

it.

'It's an expensive turnout, that's all I'm being told. The
ACC's put his neck on the block by agreeing to this and keeps
reminding the area commander.' He looked anxious. 'I don't
know what we do if this doesn't turn up a result.'

'Try again in the next most likely area,' Lomax offered.

'I wouldn't like to have to sell that one. Still, cross that bridge
when we come to it, eh?' He glanced across at the nearest
sweepers now almost hidden in the undergrowth. 'Given any
thought to what we discussed last night?'

'Only that we might not be hunting Keegan at all. That it
could be his son.' Lomax gave a half-smile. 'Impossible to work
it out, Bill. If it is Tim we're hunting, we've got to ask why?'

'I got to wondering the same thing. Couldn't sleep last night,
tossed and turned, thinking it out. The wife's getting pretty
brassed offwith me.'

Seeing that Johnson was looking profoundly depressed, he
changed the subject. 'Any luck in finding the chap who headed
the inquiry in Ulster and caught Keegan?'

Johnson nodded. 'Funny you should mention that. There's a
note on my desk this morning. Records have finally come up
with a phone number for him; seems like someone had put a


166

block on his file, so I had to pull a few strings. Anyway, he's left
the force, like I thought - and the whole human race by all
accounts.' He raised his eyes heavenward in a gestu..e.o.f despair.
'Still, if we get lucky today, I won't need to contact tiim.'

Momentarily, Lomax thought of Roddy Little.child incarcerated
in Belmarsh, desperate for news of Keegarls recapture and
his own possible salvation. 'Let's hope.' - "


It was impressive, Tim Keegan had to admit, as he watched
through binoculars from his vantage point in the Sat.nail Hills
just north of the A513.

Below him he could see the car park full of police vehicles and
even a couple of armY lorries as a steady stream of people
headed into the Chase on the south side of the road. High above
he heard the distant whir of a helicopter.

A close-run thing, he decided, but the game was up. He had
to concede that now as he listened to the squawking of the radio
scanner and pieced together the scale of the operation.

Had his motorcycle not developed fuel-pump trouble, he
might well have been trapped in the dragnet set to sweep
through Cherrytree Slade, the Old Buffs and the Wolseley Park
plantation. He had been returning after laying a trail from the
break-in to the golf club, miles to the south in the lower quarter
of the Chase, when the engine began misfiring.

By the time he'd solved the problem it was almost dawn;
back on the A513, where he'd planned to park his bike before
retreating to his hide, he became aware of the vastly increased
police activity. Something was up, something big. He'd pulled
off the road into the Satnall Hills to the south of the Shug
borough estate and tuned into the police frequencies on his
scanner. He realised then that it was all over. Not bad though,
he thought with considerable satisfaction. The objective had
been to keep the manhunt tied down in the Chase for fourteen
days; time for his father to disappear without trace, mount the
post-office raid and complete the first phase. While everyone
was convinced they knew where Peter Keegan was, they
wouldn't be looking for him elsewhere. And he'd virtually
succeeded, just one day short.

167


Tim glanced at his watch. In just a few hours' time the last
element in the first phase would be executed. A fine achievement.
Especially when he'd been pitted against his old SAS
instructor in a battle of wits. Funny that, seeing the article on
Chris Lomax in the Sun. The man had been regarded as some
sort of legend on the course, his powers of tracking verging on
the paranormal. Invoking the spirits of the old Plains Indians
Lomax himself had once joked. Tim had been in absolute awe
as he watched the soldier follow a spoor that looked nonexistent
to the untrained eye; only Lomax, he was sure, had never really
noticed him. Just another face, but one that had been destined
to come back to haunt him.

Time to go. A pity he couldn't clear the hide as he had
planned, remove the evidence and perpetuate the mystery. He'd
have liked that.

Tim shoved the scanner back inside his leather jacket, stood
up and returned to his motorcycle. After putting on his helmets
he sat astride the machine and gunned it into life before negotiating
the earth track down to the road.


At eleven, Lomax returned to his hotel to pick up Sam Browne
who'd just driven up from London. He took her back to the
sweep area in his Cavalier and introduced her to Bill Johnson.
The policeman seemed uncharacteristically cool towards her,
congratulating her rather stiffly over her earlier detective work
on Tim Keegan's whereabouts.

Was there just a hint of professional rivalry, of the man's nose

put a little out of joint, Lomax wondered, or was it something
else?

Yet he was to notice with amusement that, after only a few
minutes in her company, Johnson's thinly disguised hostility
began to thaw. Lomax decided the man was clearly distracted
and not a little smitten by her.

Thirty minutes later, the detective superintendent was called

to the radio. 'Chris, we've got something!' he shouted across.
'Where?'

'Between Cherrytree and Haywood Slades.' He replaced the
receiver. 'Let's go.'


168

It took twenty minutes to cover the rough ground - dense
bracken surrounded by oaks and beeches. At last they came
across the cluster of police officers pleased at an ex..cuse to find
some shade and open cans of soft drinks. A roll of vhite tape

was being strung out between the trees to seal other area.
'Any sightings?' Johnson asked.

The sergeant in command of this sector hbok his head.
'Quiet as the grave, sir. Wouldn't have found this if one of our
blokes hadn't fallen into it.'

Lomax stepped forward. The hatchway to the hide was constructed
of two-foot lengths of branch lashed to form a frame,
then covered in chicken wire to support a layer of turf. It hadn't
been strong enough to take the full direct weight of a policeman
in boots and had partially collapsed.

Taking a torch from his fatigue trousers, Lomax ventured
down into the four-foot shaft. The hide itself went off at right
angles, a rough four-foot square cave dug out of the soft earth.
A light green tarpaulin had been pegged to the roof struts that
supported some two feet of sun-dried earth.

'What's that?' Johnson asked, dropping down behind him.
Lomax reached up and unpeeled the edge of the tarpaulin.
'To stop loose earth dropping on him.' He turned over the
surprisingly lightweight material. The upper side was bright

silver. A space blanket. 'Aha.'

'What?'

'It might also explain why the thermal imager never picked
him out in hiding,' Lomaxanswered. 'Or how he disappeared
from view whenever he chose. The foil blanket would hide his

body heat. Very professional.'

'Bloody cunning.'

Lomax edged forward. It was all very neat. A green Pertex
and fibrepile sleeping bag on a kip mat. Beside it was a pair of
boots, each covered in a thick polythene bag to act as a galosh

that would not leave a discernible footprint.

'No rucksack?' Johnson asked.

'Maybe he had it with him last night if it was him who raided
the golf club.'


169

'Perhaps he got wind of what was happening? Saw all this
activity and scarpered.'

'Perhaps.' Lomax scanned the water bladder hooked to a tree
root and the provisions, including some of the grocery items
reported stolen from the caravan, stacked tidily on a plastic
sheet. A neat Trangia meths stove, fuel flask and boil-inthe-bag
meals. There was enough for days; whoever lived in the hide
liardly needed to go out stealing food; he was well-prepared.
Other items had been stored in a carrier bag and Lomax tipped
them out onto the sleeping bag. A mess tin, eating utensils, a torch, spare batteries - and an assortment of paper in a polythene
envelope.

Lomax read the first item with interest and handed it to
Johnson. 'That's how chummy knew our every move, Bill. An
instruction leaflet for a radio scanner.'

The policeman looked at it in grim-faced disbelief. 'He's
been making right idiots of us.'

'He certainly has.' Lomax had found a series of rough sketch
maps of the Chase. Instantly he recognised the dotted lines
marking the trails his quarry had deliberately laid. There was
another folded sheet, a photocopy of an Ordnance Survey map
of the Chase. A red marker with the word Cyclist written
beneath it ran from Grenville's Wood, where the abandoned
Safrane had been found, along the tracks of the woods and
heathland to the Satnall Hills in the north. The marker came to
an abrupt end at the Shugborough railway tunnel.

It made no sense for a moment until something clicked in
Lomax's memory. 'Bill, did you say something about the
sighting of a mountain biker on the day of the ambush?'

'Yeah. A family reported seeing him in the area about the
time of the incident. They were trying to be helpful, but no
cyclist came forward, despite radio appeals. Like the bloke with
the rucksack seen crossing the A34 - our poacher. A negative
there, too.'

Lomax shook his head and waved a small handwritten receipt
from a film-processing shop in Stafford. The customer's name
was T. Keegan - a bit careless that- but no address. 'What's the
betting they were. reconnaissance photos?'


170

Johnson took the receipt. 'I'll check it out, but I'm not sure
we'll learn anything.'

'Well, we've learned something, Bill. This was T:.-im Keegan's
hide, not his father's. I think Tim could well be your mysterious
poacher. And the cyclist.' He handed over the map.

The other man stared, tilting the map to c-tc.h the shaft of
daylight from above. 'Peter Keegan was the Cyclist?'

'Could that have been a copy of the route he took?'

A frown creased Johnson's forehead. 'It stops by the railway
line. Is that right? No, he was probably picked up by car.'

'I thought you'd had the roads sealed by then. Must have
taken a while to cycle right across the Chase.'

'You're right, Chris, but maybe they got through the cordon?'
'I suppose...' Lomax pondered.
'What?'

'No, it's not possible.'

'What isn't?'

'To board a moving train.'


That evening the gathering at the Hatherton Country Hotel of
police officers and Ned's rangers, reminded Lomax of an end
of-ops party.

With Keegan still at large, it was hardly a victory celebration,
but at least the mystery had been solved and life within the
Staffordshire police force could return to normality. No trace of
the man's son had been found. But, as far as the police were
concerned, ex-Para Tim Keegan could run around Cannock
Chase living wild for as long as he liked. After the haemorrhage
of police costs, no one was going to waste more time and effort
playing his game. On the basis that he'd almost certainly left the
area for good, it was no longer their concern alone. No doubt
he'd get picked up eventually and be charged for his part in the
freeing of a prisoner.

Meanwhile Bill Johnson would remain in a nominal coordinating
role with a much reduced team and the job of liaising
with other police forces. At least an ill wind had blown Lomax a
little good with a useful proportion of the operational costs
ending up in his wallet. Or at least it would when he sent his bill.


171

Manda had already badgered him over the phone to write out

his invoice.

'She's right,' Sam Browne said. 'Bang it in as soon as you can.
Getting money out of the police is worse than getting it out of
solicitors.'

'Another drink?'

She shook her head. 'The car's exhaust box is about to drop
offand I've just discovered my road tax ran out last month. Any
more felonies and I'll find myself sitting alongside Roddy in
Belmarsh.'

'It's late for driving back to London tonight. Why don't you

stay over? It's Saturday night, so the hotel will have rooms
spare.'

'I was planning to work tomorrow.'

He thought how tired she looked. 'You need more time off.'
Irritation flashed in her eyes. 'What are you, my nanny?'

This time he wasn't going to bow to her blistering anger.

'Well, maybe somebody needs to be. You'll work yourself into

an early grave.'

'That's my problem.'

'Roddy's too. Where'd he be if you end up with a nervous
breakdown?'

That brought the flicker of a smile to her lips. She regarded

him with curiosity over the rim of her glass. 'I wasn't planning

to have one.'

'I didn't think nervous breakdowns were planned,' he said,

fixing her gaze. 'I thought it was like falling in love. It just
happens. And you can't do adamned thing about it.'

He saw her jawline stiffen, and the sudden narrowing of her
pupils. Immediately he regretted his choice of words. They
hadn't been intended as they sounded. Or had they? Suddenly
he wasn't sure. Their last meeting had ended when he'd felt a
compulsion to make a clumsy pass. He'd been lucky then, her
response had been kindly, almost flirtatious. But barely. Had he
read the signals wrongly? What was it with him? Was this the
start of the male menopause or something? He wasn't even sure
he liked her. And she certainly didn't encourage familiarity with
the opposite sex. In fact, she sometimes came acr6ss as the


172

original ice maiden. So what was it - the challenge? Or was
there some perverse joy in risking that he'd get his face slapped?

As these confused thoughts rushed through his ali.nd, it took
him a moment to realise he'd broken through tier defences.
There was a sad expression in her eyes as she. examined the
remains of the gin and tonic in her glass, her vtice so low it was
barely audible. 'I'm being ratty, Chris, sorry.- The truth is I
was so sure you were going to find Peter Keegan out there. Or
even his son - that might have given a lead. That man's evidence

is so important to your brother-in-law's trial.'

'I know.'

She sighed wearily. 'Now he seems more out of reach than
ever.'

'Cheer up!' a voice said suddenly from behind them.

Bill Johnson had elbowed his way through the clamour of offduty
policemen and rangers, protecting his pint of bitter from
flailing arms.

'What kept you?' Lomax asked.

'Following up your crazy notion.' He sipped at his beer.
'God, I needed that! Been on the phone to Railtrack, bullying
them to dig out details of all trains that ran to London on the

day of Keegan's escape.'

'And?'

'Driver's report, Chris. There was an incident on the eleven
thirty from Manchester. The train made an unscheduled stop at
Shugborough tunnel. Apparently a child pulled an emergency
lever before the adult with her could stop her. No charges were
brought. The child's guardian was one Susie Ferguson.'

Browne stared. 'Keegan's girlfriend? I don't believe it.'
Lomax was stunned too; Keegan had actually pulled it off.
'So it was all a put-up job. Peter cycled "across the Chase and
somehow boarded the train. Then left his son to lay a false trail.'

'Bloody clever,' Johnson admitted reluctantly. 'There's a
crew entry button on the outside of each door. That's how he
must have boarded.'

'But what was the point?' Browne asked. 'Or am I just being
dim?'

'The point, dear lady,' Johnson said, 'is that while we thought


173

we knew where Keegan was - here in the Chase - there'd be
no "all-cars" alert throughout the country, no roadblocks or
"Wanted" leaflets or TV newsflashes with every copper in the
land on the lookout for him. And no special watch on airports
or ferry terminals.'

Browne looked aghast. 'You mean he might have left the
country?'

'I'm afraid it's highly probable.'

'Back to Northern Ireland?'

'I doubt that, but anyway I've already contacted the RUC.'
'Maybe Spain,' Lomax suggested, 'or one of their former
colonies. His son might have made some useful contacts in the
Legion.'

'That's more likely,' Johnson agreed. 'But I might get a better

idea if I could get some decent background material. At least I
seem to have had a breakthrough with Derek Penny. Remember
the man you suggested, the ex-ACC of West Weald who unearthed
the Keegan case?'

'You've made contact?'

'He finally returned my call. I've had a helluva job reaching

him. I'd left half a dozen messages on his answering machine. I

hate those bloody things.'

'Has he agreed to see you?'

'Very reluctantly. I'd been warned he'd gone a bit reclusive

and paranoid. They weren't kidding. It was his wife who
phoned back first, playing the verbal bodyguard. Made it quite
clear I was lucky to get any response at all. Penny refuses to have
anything to do with the police. Even his old colleagues are

persona non grata. He just doesn't want to know.'

'So how did you persuade him?'

'Told him the truth. That I desperately needed background

to get a lead on Keegan and that I was getting no co-operation
from those who were in a position to tell me. He actually
laughed at that. Not the most cheerful of souls is Mr Penny. But
I think telling him my inquiry was unofficial helped persuade
him. He's suggested we meet tomorrow. That won't please the
wife, but-' He shrugged as though to say, but what can you do?

'Where does he live?'

174


'Retired to a little place outside Tunbridge Wells. Rose
Cottage. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? Wondered if you'd like to

come with me?'
	. .

	'Why?'

'Because you know Northern Ireland and you worked with
Keegan. Anything Derek Penny knows will mean more to you
than it does to me.'

	'Ask him what the fee is?' Browne suggested mischievously.

Johnson gave her a disapproving glance. 'Once a lawyer
always a lawyer.'

'Go on, ask him,' she pressed. It might have been Manda
talking.

'It's unofficial,' Johnson said. 'If you come it'll be as a favour
to me.'

Lomax relented. If it brought them closer to recapturing
Keegan, then it was worth it for Roddy's sake.

Emboldened by drink three cheery young police officers
who'd clearly taken a shine to Browne, began distracting her
with a distinctly ribald joke in a feeble attempt to chat her up.

Johnson took Lomax to one side and they quietly arranged to
meet the next day at the Clacket Lane service area on the
M25 in Kent at two in the afternoon. Then Johnson made his
apologies for being a party-pooper and left. After all, as he'd
explained, he did have his marriage to save.

Browne extricated herself from the unwanted attentions of
the increasingly drunk young policemen and returned to
Lomax's side. 'I'll check with reception about that room.'

'What's brought about this sudden change of heart?' he
asked.

'Does there have to be a reason?'.She smiled disarmingly. 'A
woman's privilege. It's the way we do things on our planet,
remember? Besides, I seem to recall you said you wanted to take
me for a meal the last time we met. Now would seem a good
time, before the drink goes to my head.'

'We could eat here,' he said. 'Or there's a Chinese restaurant
in the village.'

	'That sounds nice.'

	She handed him her glass and walked away. He found himself


175

grinning rather stupidly, watching the elegant sway of her hips
as she moved through the crowd, mesmerised momentarily
by the languid shift of the beige shantung trouser suit that
emphasised the contours of her long legs. And he noticed the
lingering glances of the police officers who parted to let her
through. There wag something about her, her slightly above
average height and the way she carried herself, a natural poise
that drew the eye.

Perhaps her mouth, the lips set in a naturally impudent pout,
was a little too wide to be perfect, her smile showing too much
pink gum against the startling whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes
just too big and intelligent, unnerving in their eagerness to learn
from what they saw. And the hint of slack skin at her jowl where
the years had begun their cruelty, trying but failing to flaw the
stunning beauty of her youth. For all that, Lomax knew that in a
room full of pretty women half her age, Sam Browne would be.
the first one you noticed.

Clearly he wasn't alone in his assessment. Ned, drunk and
swaying a little, sidled up to him. 'Your missus is a cracker all
right, Chris boy, if you don't mind me saying.'

Lomax smiled. 'She's no one's wife, Ned, she's Keegan's
solicitor.'

'Go on, the lucky beggar. Only women solicitors I've ever

seen are frumps in black suits with woollen tights.'

Lomax laughed. 'I expect she's got them too.'

'Yeah, but she'd look a million dollars in 'em. And not
married you say?'

'Don't think so.' He lifted his left hand. 'No ring.'
'And what about you?'
'Separating. Painful business.'

Ned nudged him and winked. 'Then go to it, old son, and see
if you can't fill your boots.'

176


Later, Lomax smiled as he recalled Ned's words while he and
Browne walked the short distance to the village. For an
irrational second he was tempted to recount the ranger's words,
thinking it might amuse her. But decided against it. Why was it
he felt he was handling nitroglycerine here? Unpredictable and
volatile.

Yet she seemed more relaxed than he had seen her before,
sauntering by his side, inhaling the country air and watching the
sweeping aerobatics of house martins overhead, their migration

delayed by the prolonged good weather.

'There's a storm brewing,' he said.

'Are you sure? The TV forecast didn't say.'

'A local thunderstorm. See how low the birds are flying.'

Her eyes were wide. 'You can tell by that? I don't believe you.'
He grinned at her expression of incredulity. 'Air pressure
forces the insects to fly lower, so the birds have to; There are

other signs too. Have you noticed the smell?'

'What smell?'

He stopped beside a cottage garden. 'Earth, vegetation.'

She sniffed tentatively; her eyes said she wondered if this was
a wind-up. 'Roses.'

Lomax laughed. 'Apart from roses. Background smells.'

Again she sniffed the air, closing her eyes. 'Maybe. Yes,
you re right. Earthy, leafy.

'Not what you usually get on a hot Septkmber night. It means

rain's on the way. Like the clarity of distant noise.'

'Really?'

He glanced at the distant rolling banks of cumulonimbus in
the westering sunset. 'Smell and sound. And in the fields

there'll be a lot of rabbit activity.'

'Doing what?'

He laughed. 'Doing what rabbits do.'


177

And she laughed too, realising what she'd said. 'Oh, you
mean eating!' she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. 'Why

does the threat of rain make them do that?'

'I've really absolutely no idea.'

It suddenly seemed ridiculously funny and neither really
knew why. Perhaps it was the end of the week's tension and
drama, the sudden change of pace and scene, the tranquillity of
the warm evening as it gathered in around them.

Somehow Lomax sensed that a barrier had broken, that some
invisible river had been crossed.
'I miss the countryside,' she confided as they sat in the restaurant
and scanned the menu. 'I'm a green wellie and jeans girl

at heart. Labrador and checked cloth cap.'

'The shootin' and fishin' type.'

'I'm not so sure about that. Not hunting defenceless animals.'
Lomax said, 'I know what you mean. I'd rather shoot people.'

She peered at him over the menu for a moment. 'I suppose
that was a joke. I mean, was it meant to impress me?'

'Not really. Hunting's more for officer types. It's the main

preoccupation of a lot of them. Talk about nothing else.'

'Is that a chip I see on your shoulder?'

He glanced down at his jacket and flipped the top of his
sleeve. 'I don't see anything.'

'It looks pretty large from where I'm sitting,' she goaded with

a smile.

He remembered his assessment of her when they'd first met.
She'd been surprised he wasn't an officer and he immediately
sensed she herself was an officer's daughter. 'If I'd gone to
university, Sam - and I could have done - I'd have been an
officer. But I chose not to go. I've enjoyed some hunting and
fishing in my time. But I like to do it for the pot, not for a
hobby.'

'And shooting people?'

'You were right. It was a bad joke. Not really a fun
experience.'

'But you've done it?' As soon as she asked she wished she
hadn't.

Lomax tried to pretend he hadn't heard; the questibn was too


178

intrusive, and the answer would take much too long 'Have you
tried Peking duck?'

'No. I'm not very au fair with Chinese cooking,, I'm more
used to Indian. I grew up on that.'

Bingo, Lomax thought. 'Don't tell me, your fa.ther was in the
Indian Army?' "

She smiled at his perception. 'Close. Royal AffForce. He was
stationed there during the war and stayed on after independence
on secondment to the Indian Air Force. My first nine

years were spent there.'

'Good?'

'Magical. I used to run around all day in just my knickers like
a female Gunga Din. A real tomboy, climbing trees, swimming,
even riding elephants.' She looked suddenly sad, her voice
trailing. 'But all good things come to an end.'

The waiter appeared and they vacillated over their choice
under the man's infinite patience which clearly paid off as they
ordered far too many dishes for two people.

Lomax poured the wine. 'I'm not normally a rose man, but I

always think it goes well with Chinese.'

'A connoisseur, are you?'

'Absolutely not. What the lads in the Regiment might call a
plonker. Any old plonk will do, it's just that some are better than
others.'

She was leaning closer across the table now, he realised with
mild surprise, her grin wide as she began to forget herself and
enjoy the repartee. His training instinctively noted her body
language, moving into his domain; he didn't feel inclined to pull
back. Her pupils were large and bright.

'My first husband was a wine bore,' she said With a slight
giggle and shrug of her shoulders. 'But he'd rather hoard the
stuff than drink it. I was twenty-five when I married - a silly
move.'

'Why?'

'Because I'd just passed all my law exams and the world was
at my feet.' There was candour in her eyes now, maybe the drink
was helping her to talk, to open up. 'But I was afraid of being
left on the shelf. It's different nowadays, of course. Girls have


179

their careers first and start families later. But then - he was
handsome, dashing and played polo. A former Guards officer,
I'm afraid, Mr NCO. Five years older than me. I let him whisk
me offto his country estate.'

'Your green wellies and Labrador period?'

She gave a bitter little laugh. 'Yes, and I hated it. No, not so
much life in the country as him. He was so boring, so precise.
We rarely went out unless it was to meet his cronies in the hunt
or the polo crowd. Roast beef every Sunday, the house always
spick and span, a place for everything and everything in its
place. He loved his home and never saw a good reason to leave

it. Even for a weekend away, let alone a holiday.'

'So it didn't last?'

'Three years of purgatory. Our sex life was nonexistent and I

felt incarcerated and marooned in deepest Somerset. What
I wanted, what I needed was to be working, preferably in
London. To smell the beeswax of the courtroom, the challenge
and excitement.'

'So what happened?'
'He came back late one night from one of his Masonic meetings
and found me drunk out of my skull Surrounded by empty
bottles from a crate of his prized Chateau de Tircgand! He
slung me out.' She added impishly: 'The brute.'

They were interrupted by the arrival of corn and crabmeat
soup.

'You said that was your first marriage,' Lomax coaxed.

She nodded. 'The second was seven years later. In the meantime
I'd returned to London and thrown myself into work.
Quite successfully, I suppose. I was actually featured in Cosmopolitan once. You know, professional women who've made it in a
man's world. A bank manager, a company director, a chef- and
me. Then in 19851 met Ian, a lawyer from Belfast. It was one of

those wild Christmas parties that barristers throw for solicitors.'
'Wild? I find that hard to believe.'

'Trust me, Chris. Wild is an understatement. Actually it was
Tristram's chambers who threw it. Anyway, it was love at first
sight with Ian and me. A sort of instant chemistry. It had never
happened to me before. Or since.'


180

Lomax felt mildly discouraged by that, but said nothing;
what had he expected?

'We married within a month,' she added. 'I va. en.t back to
Belfast with him and we joined an established practice, him on
the civil side and me on the criminal.'

'That's when you defended Keegan?'

'Yes, in '89. About the time the marriage started falling
apart.'

'I'm sorry.'

Her eyes were clear and bright as she looked at him. 'Don't
be, Chris. It was my own fault. I wanted kids before it was too
late, but I just couldn't conceive. I blamed Ian, but it wasn't his
fault - one of those things, I suppose. In my anger and frustration,
I threw myself into work with a vengeance. The Keegan
case came at just the right moment to distract me. I was working
every evening, every weekend. Then I discovered it. He was
having an affair.'

Outside there was a distant rumble of thunder. It had grown
prematurely dark.

She looked up as the waiter cleared the plates and laid out the

barbecue ribs. 'You were right about the storm.'
'Did you doubt me?'
'Mmm. Actually I did.'

After a few minutes of concentrating on the ribs, Lomax said:
'So no marriages since?'

'I think two is quite enough.'

'Plenty of boyfriends thotigh.'

This time she looked mildly hostile. 'No. I've never had much
luck with men.'

'I don't believe that.' He wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but
it was too late now. 'A beautiful girl like you.'

She regarded him slowly, pushing her plate away and
reaching for her wine glass. Would she go for a complete demolition
job, he wondered, or let him offwith a lacerating wound
to his pride? 'I've never thought of myself as beautiful. My
mouth's too big - my father said as a baby I looked like a
hammerhead shark. As a teenager, I was gawky and sometimes


181

I think I still am. I've got no tits to speak of and when I smile I'm
all gums. Without make-up I crack mirrors.'

His eyes fixed on hers and held them, daring her to break
contact. 'Then you manage to keep such profound ugliness well
hidden.'

'Max Factor is my best friend.'

'You're beautiful. Everyone says so.'

She raised one finely arched eyebrow as that curious mad
eye regarded him coolly. 'I know. I don't think I am, but I've
overheard enough people say it to know what they think.' Then
the fierceness ebbed from her voice and a certain vulnerability
softened her features. 'All I can tell you, Chris, is if this is being
beautiful, then being beautiful can be a very lonely business.'

Her eyes seemed to draw him in, mesmerise him, he was lost
for words.

'See what I mean?' she observed. 'Tongue-tied. Men are
scared by beautiful women. Or at least women they regard as
beautiful. They think beautiful women are unattainable, way
beyond their reach. Only ugly men get the truly beautiful

women - had you noticed that?'

'What?' He didn't follow.

'Ugly men know they don't stand a chance with beautiful
women, so they don't care. Most normal men stand back,
scared of rejection. But the ugly men just bowl in regardless

with no expectations.'
'And get the girl?'
'Sometimes.'

'I've asked you out,' he said pointedly.

She fenced with him. 'True, you're not particularly ugly. But
would you have asked me if business hadn't brought us together
first? If we'd seen each other in a bar, would you have just ,
walked up to me?'

'No,' he answered truthfully. 'Even a soldier's courage fails
him sometimes.'

Her smile was gentle. 'See! Being beautiful can be lonely.'

'And your husbands?' he teased.

'The two ugliest bastards you've ever seen in your life!'

They both laughed at that and toasted ugly men and


182

beautiful women, and then ugly women and beautiful men. It
was getting silly; the wine was going down. Outside fat droplets
of rain were splatting on the pavement and the tliimder rolled,

suddenly very loud and close.

Lomax winced.

'What is it?' she asked, alarmed

He smiled uncertainly. 'Sorry. I'd forgotten the storm. The

noise made me jump for a second.'

She looked perplexed.

'For one split second I was back in Bosnia,' he explained.
'Artillery, incoming.'

'My God,' she breathed, 'are you all right?'

'Finb. It was just a reflex, the drink's addled my brain. We
were guiding in an airstrike in Tuzla against the Chemiks when
we nearly copped it. A howitzer round landed just yards away,

buried us in our foxholes. I got shrapnel in my leg.'

'How awful.'

'Not so bad. One of my best mates lost an arm, so I can't
complain.'

A bit of a conversation stopper that, he thought and cursed
himself for flinching involuntarily at the sound. He was thankful
when the waiter brought the duck and they both watched fascinated
as the man shredded it with two forks before their eyes.

'What d'you do with these pancakes?' she asked. 'They're
almost as thin as rice paper.'

'Spread them with the pl)am sauce, add the sliced cucumber
and onion, then some duck and roll them.'

She tried and bit into the pancake, tasting it tentatively. 'God,
that's delicious.' A trickle of plum sauce escaped the corner of
her mouth.

'Allow me,' he said and reached his hand across to her face.
Her eyes were just inches from his. Greeny-blue, bluey
green, flecked with dancing light reflected from the candle
flame on the table. Hypnotic. Angry and warm. At the same
time? Deep limpid pools that he could not fathom, could not
read.

His index finger touched the soft down of her chin. Her skin

183


was cool and he felt her jaw stiffen as he caught the runaway
trickle.

She said stiffly: 'You are in my space, Mr Lomax.'

He blinked and withdrew his hand, wiping his finger on the
napkin. Damn her, he wasn't going to let her get away with this.
No wonder she was bloody lonely. He ignored her putdown,
made light of it. 'It's always a problem. Do you tell a guy his
zip's undone or let him get on with it and watch the fun?'

It did the trick because a half-smile returned to lighten her
face. Somehow he'd struck a chord. 'It's like leaving the loo
with your skirt caught in the back of your knickers. Every girl's
done it.'

'Not recently?'

Her eyes were deadpan. 'Not recently, no.'

She drew back into her chair. Things had gone far enough, he
could read her now, re-establishing some formality into their
relationship. She pushed aside her plate. 'I'm afraid I'm not
hungry. Do you mind if I smoke?'

He shook his head and accepted one of her cigarettes and lit
them both.

'And you, Chris, I don't get the feeling you're married?'
Despite the personal nature of the question, he could tell she
was deliberately making it sound like polite conversation.
Neutral.

'Nisi verging on absolute.' His smile was tight.

She blew a neat little ring of blue smoke. 'You still love her.'
He frowned. 'Is that a question or a statement?'
'An observation. Am I right?'
'Very astute.'

'Not when it's written all over your face. We aliens can do that

sort of thing. That's why we make good lawyers.' She tapped her
cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, creating a pause, not
wanting to rush him. 'How does she feel?'

'Relieved, I should think. Glad to be out of it. She's got
someone new now, a new life. I'm happy for her. I'd given her a
hard time.'

'I'm not sure I believe that.'

'I didn't believe it myself at the time; you don't always realise,


18lt

you know. I'd got pretty ratty, not much fun to live with. I
couldn't take it out at work, not on ops or with my mates. You
don't risk stupid upsets when your lives depend o.n. e.ach other.
So I took it out on Fran.'

'Sounds like you've analysed it.'

'Not me. My daughter Manda. After my wife left she sat me

down and told it to me straight. No messing.' - :

'She sounds very bright.'

'Just like her mother. As I've said, she was Business Student
of the Year. I just wish she'd told me earlier.'

The waiter came with more dishes, but Lomax sent them
back with apologies to the chef for their lack of appetite, then
called for coffee and brandy.

'What got you into that state?' Browne asked. 'If that's not a
personal question.'

'Well, it is, but I've learned to live with the answer. To be
honest, I think it was one tour too many in Belfast. That's when
it started, about the time I was minding Keegan.'

Her eyes were wide now, very intent. 'I don't really know
what sort of thing you did:'

He shrugged and stirred a spoon around in his cup. 'Mostly
sneaky-beaky, undercover stuff. Jeans and trainers, looking
scruffy. Going right into the heart of the Republican ghettos the
Bogside or the Falls, or some other stronghold. Merging
in. Keeping some Provo player under surveillance in his own
backyard. Or else acting on some intelligence tip-off that some
aggro or other was going .down. On other occasions it was
minding someone like Keegan. Not usually close protection
work, more mingling close by just in case.'

Memories of her time in Ulster were flooding back; he knew
that as her eyes misted. 'I can't imagine what that sort of work
must be like. I mean, it's not like a soldier's war where you know
the objectives, know the enemy.'

'You get used to it,' Lomax said, then realised that was a
nonsense in view of what happened. 'Or you think you do.
Maybe age has something to do with it. I was approaching forty
then, and that's some sort of milestone because you realise that
probably over half your life's gone. And it's going to be downhill


185

all the way.' There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes, an
understanding, but she said nothing, just sipped her brandy as
she watched him.

'I became convinced I wouldn't survive the tour. Just
couldn't get the idea out of my head. I thought, some bastard
out there is determined I'm not going to make it for Mandas
fourteenth birthday.'

'Why fourteenth? What was so special about that?'

He grinned at the painful stupidity of the memory. 'God
knows, you tell me. It was just a fixation. Then my unit was
pulled out and I transferred back to Escape and Evasion for a
while - that was always my speciality. Things calmed down a bit
at home then, but not for long.'

Her head tilted to one side, a comma of loose fair hair falling

over her forehead. 'The Gulf War.'

'That was fun,' he said drily.

'I read Bravo Two Zero; she said helpfully. 'It sounded like a
nightmare.'

'Well it was, but we had no cockups like theirs. It was still bad
enough. Mostly because I was still convinced some bullet had
my name on it. Probably made worse because I knew there were
only a few years left to retirement and just didn't think I was
going to make it.'

'I can understand that.'

'You start to realise why armies rely on youngsters for their
cannon fodder. They don't realise it can happen to them and
probably will. Unlike others, I knew it could happen to me,
because it already had at Goose Green. I should have got out
then, after the Iraqi surrender. But then life fell back into a
pattern, back to Escape and Evasion. I didn't want to admit I
couldn't hack it any more.'

'So you took it out on your wife?'

'There's only one thing worse than living with a coward, and

that's when the coward is yourself. And as they say, you always

hurt the one you love.'

'I can't believe anyone else thought you were a coward.. I

mean you obviously went to Bosnia after that.'

'I knew it, Sam, and that's all that mattered. Besides, Bosnia


186

really did my head in. The carnage and the senseless brutality of
it all. No one should witness sights like that.' He paused and
sipped his brandy. 'Funny thing was, when I was ospitalised
after that shelling, it sort of broke the spell. I th6uht shit,
that's the second time a round has had my nameon it. And I've
survived again.' ,

	'When did it happen?' " :

He smiled then and glanced at his watch. The hour hand
nudged past twelve. 'Funny, you're not going to believe this. A
year ago today.'

It was still raining when they left, the dark sky trembling in
awesome rage but the downpour restrained with lazy, heavy
drops. She started to run, he did not.

'C'mon, we'll get drenched!' she called back, her hair already
plastered wetly to her skull, her mascara melting down her
cheeks.

	Lightning crackled and fizzed, illuminating his face. He was

laughing. 'We're drenched already.'

	'Chris, for heaven's sake!'

He caught up with her. 'Enjoy it. You can't be wetter than you
are now.'

Glancing down at the sodden trouser suit, feeling the warm
water on the skin of her back, she couldn't say that he wasn't
right.

'Stroll through one ofnatnre's most spectacular shows. It's all
free.'

Another tremulous roar, the rain drilling faster now. More
lightning spat across the western sky, its brilliance reflected on
the bruised thunderheads.

	'You're crazy,' she challenged.

	'Maybe.'

'I'm scared,' she said, glancing up. 'We might get struck.'
He continued his ambling walk. 'Not likely in the village.'

'Just because you survived that shell with your name on it;
she said, half-ioking.

	'I'm your lucky mascot.'

She felt calmer now, slowing down, walking by his side. It
seemed ridiculous not to clutch his arm, but she felt mildly


187

annoyed when she glanced sideways and saw his grin. So
goddamn smug.

But he was right. Slowly her fear ebbed and, despite being
soaked until her clothes clung like a second,skin, she found
herself enthralled by the natural son et lumiere, the crashing
drums and dazzling swords of light tearing jagged scars across
the sky.

They stood in a puddle of their own making in the hotel
lobby. 'This is stupid,' she said, making a fist of her hair to
squeeze the water out.

Their rooms were adjacent, they found. 'Come in for coffee,'
he said, as they reached his door.

'That's not a good idea,' she replied quickly, then realised
she'd been harsh. Her smile was brief and apologetic. 'I've got

to get out of these things.'

'Yes.'

She looked at him, recognised the intensity in his eyes. Aware
of each pore on his rain-flecked face, the darkening stubble on

the angular chin. 'You don't mean it.'

'I do.'

'About the coffee. You don't mean coffee.'

'No.'

'Haven't you learned anything from tonight? I don't have

good luck with men and I don't go to bed with clients.'

'I'm not a client.'

'Or with colleagues, with anyone.' Suddenly she looked
embarrassed and smiled awkwardly. 'You'll have to get yourself

touched with an ugly stick.'

'A what?'

'An American expression, I flaink. Forget it, Chris, it
wouldn't work.'

His anger flared suddenly. Anger at her, at himself. Why did
he let her get to him? He found himself saying: 'This beauty and
the beast stuff, Sam. We've a saying in the Regiment. Your shit
smells as bad as mine.'

She blinked, shocked, but quickly smiled, uncertain. 'That's
the most endearing chat-up line I've ever heard!'

'And the truest you'll ever hear,' he snapped back. ;Just look


188

in the mirror.' He hated himself. Why the hell had he said that?
The drink? Maybe. Or the hurt pride?

She was still standing there, pale and stunned;.iipping on
the carpet.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'that was out of order.. A triumph of

misplaced hope over experience. Forgive me?' "..

She nodded numbly.

'Good night, Sam.' He closed the door.

For a moment she stared after him. Bastard. Bastard,
bastard, bastard. Then slowly she turned back towards her own
door. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the movement, her
own reflection in the hallway mirror above the half-moon table
and cut flowers.

She gasped for a moment, her hand flying to her cheek for
reassurance. She was a monster. A hideous apparition with wet
spiked hair and wild eyes without make-up. It had run in the
rain and smeared her face like the grey skin of a corpse. Her
mouth was a red gash where the lipstick bled and smudged.

And then she remembered. Out there in the storm. Or were
the drink and her memory playing tricks? Out there in the
storm, in one mad and crazy moment, he had kissed her.


Lomax awoke late. He had no hangover and the storm had
cleared the air. Sunlight streamed through the window as he
made himself a strong sweet black coffee and drank it as
he shaved.

He showered and dressed quickly, keen to make his peace
with Sam Browne over breakfast, and wondered if she'd surfaced
yet.

As he reached to turn off the radio he heard the local newsflash:
'Reports are coming in of a daringescape bid at Stafford
Prison in the last half-hour.' The announcer gave the impression
that this was the most exciting thing that had happened in his
sleepy town for years. 'An unmarked helicopter landed in the exercise
yard then took off again, heading east. Early reports suggest that
two prisoners are missing. We will bring more details as soon as we get
them:

Wondering if life could ever be the same again in this rural


189

backwater after armed abductions, manhunts and now a spectacular
aerial jailbreak, Lomax left the room. He knocked on
Sam Browne's door but drew no response. Downstairs his
disappointment mounted when he found she wasn't sitting at
one of the breakfast tables. Finally he went to reception only to
be told she'd checked out an hour earlier.

So he really had blown his chances. Hell, he thought, what
had been his chances anyway? So she'd lifted off back to the
planet Zeus. So what?

He put her from his mind and settled instead for the consolation
of a high-cholesterol fry-up of which nearly two weeks of
early starts had deprived him. Taking his time, he finally packed
and hit the road at eleven thirty. A steady ninety on the
motorway, he decided; the police rarely bothered unless you
went above that. And good lane discipline, tucking into the
nearside lane after overtaking so as not to draw attention. A
relaxed cruise in the sun and Pavarotti singing his big heart out
on the tape. He ate up the miles to London, relaxed and
enjoying the drive even when momentary thoughts of a sodden
Sam Browne flashed through his mind.

Afterwards he would find it hard to recall exactly when he
first thought that he was being followed. Certainly it wasn't on
the M40 to London; it was more probably at some point along
the M25 ringroad around London where the traffic slowed for
roadworks.

He wasn't immediately aware, it was a gradual thing.
Glimpsing a car overtake two behind in his rear-view mirror,
taking a bit of a chance; another a few minutes later. Even that
was innocent enough. Had it not been for his anti-surveillance
training and some sixth sense that came from sheer experience,
he might not have realised at all.

As it was, his skills were rusty. Five years since his tour in
Northern Ireland, with just a short refresher course before
Bosnia. Two cars, he decided. Always two cars, one of them just
in sight, though never close enough for him to be certain of the
model. One dark blue saloon, probably Sierra or Granada. The
other lower, sleeker, an orangey colour - a sporty number
which in itself was unusual for a surveillance car.

190


Several times he slowed and speeded up, but one or the other
of them seemed always to be there, rarely falling back and never
catching up. He wasn't especially perturbed, logic.el!ing him it
was just coincidence and an overactive imaginatibm Anyway,
there was nothing he could do about it on the m.otorway, short
of making a time-consuming detour and he had no intention of
doing that. The dash clock read one forty-five and he was in
good time for his rendezvous with Bill Johnson.

The blue sign for Clacket Lane services flashed past. One last
go, he decided, and pushed his foot down hard. His Cavalier
leapt forward, the needle creeping round the dial to one
hundred, one hundred and ten. In his mirror the following
cars fell back until they were indistinguishable specks. Then,
without signalling, he veered suddenly onto the slip road before
braking hard and changing rapidly down through the gears.

He circled the car park once; using his mirrors, he saw only a
red van and a Rolls-Royce come down the slip road after him.
He smiled at his own irrational imaginings and found a space
near the shops and restaurant. There was no sign of Johnson by
the entrance, but then he was ten minutes early.

Switching off, he climbed out and lit a cigarette, leaning
against his door and shutting his eyes to enjoy the warmth of the
sun on his face.

It was then that he heard it. The throaty crackle of a tractor
engine combined with a metallic clanking noise that sounded
remarkably like a tank.

He opened his eyes to se the battered Celica sports spluttering
into the car park. Heads turned at the racket just in time
to see the exhaust pipe finally detach itself amid a belching
cloud of fumes. It pulled into a space opposite and stopped.
He'd been right after all.

Sam Browne's long legs appeared first as she climbed out,
elegant in a pencil skirt and matching navy jacket with powerpadded
shoulders and white piping. And a wide-brimmed bluestraw
hat. For a moment she removed her sunglasses to stare
back at her car with disgust, then replaced them before crossing
the traffic lane to where Lomax watched in total astonishment.


191

She did not smile. 'You did ninety all the way.' It sounded like
an accusation.

'I didn't know we were travelling in convoy.' He indicated her hat. 'Are you going to a wedding?'

'No, I'm going with you and Detective Superintendent
Johnson to see Derek Penny. I know him. Penny's a very proper
sort of chap. Very formal.'

'Have you cleared this with Bill?'

She looked pointedly across at her Celica. 'I think she's had
it, don't you? A new exhaust would cost more than the car's
worth.'

'If you'd asked, I'd have given you a lift.'

'I was going to ask you last night,' her expression was

deadpan, almost aloof, 'but the moment never seemed right.'
'So you followed me?'
'Obviously.'

'So you haven't cleared it with Bill.'

Before she could answer, they heard Johnson's familiar voice
calling from the entrance steps. 'There you are!'

He trotted across, smiling. 'Am I late, Chris? Sorry.'

'No, I'm early.'

Johnson took a second to recognise Browne behind her disguise
of dark glasses and floppy hat. 'Oh, hello, what are you
doing here?'

She said quickly: 'Chris thought it would be a good idea if I
came too. I know Derek Penny from the time of Keegan's trial.
As I represent both Peter and Roddy Littlechild, there might be
something useful to learn for the defence.'

Lomax opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again.

The detective was clearly unhappy. 'Look, Penny took a lot of
persuading to see me. If I go in mob-handed he might change
his mind. Besides, this is an investigation connected with
Keegan's recapture. That's hardly a matter for you - and
Rodney Littlechild's defence case certainly isn'ta matter for me
as a police officer.'

'While Keegan's missing,' Browne replied smoothly, 'Rodney
Littlechild doesn't have a defence case. Yet he's totally
innocent.'

192


'So Chris here tells me; Johnson said tetchily.

'But Derek Penny might just know what Keegan knows - that
my client was a reputable agent helping MIS. If hea.n confirm
that, then my client still stands a chance.'

'I'm sorry.' Johnson was adamant. 'That's not my problem.
This investigation is strictly police business ari confidential. If
you want to speak to Penny you must niake your own
arrangements.'

Suddenly Lomax felt sorry for Browne. Such was her zeal to
snatch at any meagre straw to save his friend and brother-in-law
that he felt compelled to overlook her devious method. 'Hang
on, Bill. This meeting isn't official, you told me yourself. I don't
think your senior officer even knows you're here. I'm doing you
a favour, so do me one for the sake of a friend who once saved
my life. Just let Sam sit in on it, eh?'

Her face lightened at the words of support from an unexpected
quarter. 'I won't say a word, Bill, I promise.' She added:
'Trust me.'

Johnson heaved a sigh. 'Just a minute, Miss Browne.' He
beckoned Lomax to follow him out of her hearing. His voice
dropped to a whisper. 'Listen, Chris, your lawyer friend is a
known troublemaker, bad news. They told me at that meeting
with the Anti-Terrorist Branch. She's on the unofficial blacklist
for causing problems.'

Lomax regarded the detective closely. 'You mean for being
good at her job.'

'That's not how the pol!ce see it. She's caused upset and

mayhem in dozens of cases.'

'Which she's won.'

Johnson was losing patience. 'What is it with you, Chris?
Have you got the hots for her or something? She knows how to
switch on the charm when she wants to, but that woman isn't
doing you or your friend Littlechild any favours. She just gets
up people's noses.'

He couldn't resist a smile at that. 'I know what you mean. But
I still want her to come.'

The detective relented. 'Okay, under protest. But do your
friend a favour, eh? Tell him to fire her and get a lawyer who's


193

not on some evangelical crusade to take on the entire police
force and legal system single-handed.' He glared back at
Browne who stood decorously beside Lomax's car, smoking a
cigarette. 'I just hope I won't regret this.'

They walked back to Browne, and Johnson said: 'No point in
bringing your car, Chris, we may as well all go in mine. I'll drop
you both here on my way back.'

Neither Lomax nor Browne mentioned her car; she was more
than relieved to abandon it as, from the rear window of Johnson's
Toyota saloon, she saw a police patrolman taking an
interest in the rusted exhaust pipe lying on the tarmac. It would
be a matter of seconds before he discovered her vehicle licence
had expired.

'I'm very grateful, Bill,' she said brightly. 'You won't regret it.'
He glanced up into his mirror. 'I hope not. I've enough
problems for one day.' He looked sideways at Lomax. ' 'Course,
Chris, you probably won't have heard. There was a breakout at
Stafford nick earlier today.'

'There was something on the news. A helicopter?'

Johnson nodded a.s they swung back onto the M25, heading
east. 'Very audacious.'

'Will you be involved in the case?'

A shake of the head. 'Not really. Only to keep a watching
brief. You see, the two cons they spirited away were known

friends of Keegan's.'

'Surely not... ?'

Johnson laughed. 'I hardly think so. Those two had no connections
with Northern Ireland or any terrorist movement. Just
happened to have once served in the same regiment as Keegan.
So best to keep an open mind.'

'Haven't air-traffic control been able to trace the helicopter?'

'Not yet. It must have been hedge-hopping. Vanished into
thin air.'

They left the motorway at Junction 5 and took the A21 south
towards Tunbridge Wells.

Rose Cottage was at the end of the little row of roadside
dwellings that constituted the village. There was no shop or
post office, just a pub and a small MethOdist chapel, and fields


194

all around. Derek Penny's place was pure chocolate box: thatch,
crumbling red brick with cross-ties painted black and an ash
picket fence squaring off the neat front gardeff:-Not unexpectedly,
rows of standard roses provided a guard of honour to
the low timber door.

A woman in her late fifties stopped her pruning and watched
as Johnson parked on the grass verge and the three strangers
came through her gate. She wore an old-fashioned floral dress,
no make-up and had permed grey hair.

Her smile was thin-lipped, her eyes flinty. 'Detective Superintendent
Johnson, I presume.' The title tripped easily and
familiarly off her tongue. 'My husband's expecting you. I hope
you don't mind being inside. Poor dear's allergic to the sun,
brings him out in a rash.'

At that moment, the door swung open and Penny's tall, lean
frame filled the entrance, stooped to avoid the overhead beam.
Lomax's first impression was how gaunt he looked, the skin of
his skeletal face and balding crown having the waxy texture of a
potato.

Policeman's eyes, seen-itallbeforeandnotmuchliked-it,
darted down the row of visitors; he did not smile. 'A deputation?'

Johnson beamed, but it broke no ice. 'Sorry, sir. Didn't mean
to overwhelm you.'

'Not sir,' Penny said sharply, 'I've retired. So who are these
people? I thought it was just me and you.'

'Er - this is Chris Lomax. He was with the SAS in Keegan's

time and knew him. Backup, minder stuff, I gather.'

'We don't need him here.'

'Er - sorry, sir - Mr Penny. I asked him because I know little
about Northern Ireland and he can explfiin things I don't want
to trouble you with. I hoped he could sit in.'

Penny's eyes moved down the line. 'And the lady?'

'Miss Browne is a solicitor. She's working on a related case. If
you want I'll ask her to wait in the car.'

Penny shook his head, clearly deciding it wasn't worth the
fuss. 'No, no. Just come in and let's get it over with.' He called to
his wife. 'Meredith, bring us a pot of tea, will you?'


195

They followed him into the dim interior, Lomax noticing that
the man's grey flannel trousers hung like windless sails around a
ship's masts and that he wore a sleeveless pullover despite the
warm weather. Beneath the low ceiling, the furniture was inexpensive
and uninspiringly antique, a well-worn Persian carpet
covering the cold stone floor. The neatness of everything was
inescapable, from the shelves of books in descending order of
size and the perfectly symmetrical stack of Police Review on the
coffee table to the orderly row of family portrait snaps on
the mantelpiece. One wall displayed pen-and-ink drawings of
English cathedrals.

'Your garden's very nice,' Browne said, making conversation.
'Very pretty.'
'That's Meredith's doing, not mine.'

She removed her sunglasses. 'A lovely home.'

'All of you sit down,' he said. Derek Penny spoke as if he was
still AC C of West Weald Constabulary. He sat in a leather club
chair by the fireplace with its display of dried flowers. The
chief's seat. 'I can't give you long,' he said as his wife brought in
a tray of tea and digestive biscuits, 'because I'm taking choir
practice at four.'

'Then I'll get straight to it,' Johnson said. 'Firstly, I'd like to
emphasise this meeting is strictly off the record. As you know,
Peter Keegan has escaped from prison '

'I thought he was abducted?' Penny interjected immediately.
'We now know otherwise. He had accomplices and laid a false
trail to throw us off the scent. My job is to investigate his
background for any clues that may .lead to his recapture.' Penny
nodded his understanding. 'There's virtually nothing in his
file and when I spoke with the Anti-Terrorist Branch and the
Security Service, they made it clear I wouldn't learn anything
worthwhile from them.'

For the first time an expression that could have been a mirthless
smile appeared on Penny's face. 'That sounds familiar.'

'I'm not at all sure my senior officers would sanction this
meeting,' Johnson continued, 'but I see no other way forward.
Obviously it is imperative to recapture Keegan, if fo no other


196

reason than while he is out of our custody, his life could be at
risk from former Loyalist colleagues or the IRA.'

Penny steepled his fingers across his chest. Highly commendable,
Superintendent. It's good to see an officer who
refuses to be deflected from his task nowadays...Too many bow
to political expediency and financial pressure's. Better to have
faith in yourself knowing you are doing the Lord' work.'

Johnson gave a polite smile. 'Quite. Perhaps we should start
at the beginning. What do you know of Peter Keegan's history?'

The former police chief stretched out his hands on his knees
and contemplated the bony fingers. 'Let me see. Born in Porta
down in 1945. Bright although not especially academic. Came
to England when he was eighteen, trying to get a job as a cub
reporter. But he failed - insufficient qualifications.' He looked
up from his hands. 'On the rebound he walked into an army
recruitment office and signed up for the Cheshires. God knows
why. That would have been 1963. The life suited him and he
got on well. Of course the Ulster Troubles broke out in '69 and
he did at least one tour before he left the army in 1971. By then
he'd attained the rank of corporal, acting sergeant.

'He went back home to Belfast and by the next year had
joined the Ulster Defence Association. What happened over the
next ten years is a bit of a mystery. He worked as an insurance
agent, but his spare time was dedicated to the UDA paramilitaries.
He claims to have been an RUC informer, but they deny
that. God knows what the truth is.'

Sam Browne had been listening intently, her wide hat resting
on her lap. 'I think you'll find Peter joined the UDA in order to
fight the Provos. Then he found that elements of his own side
were behaving as badly or worse, damaging the Loyalist cause.
That's when he contacted the Royal Ulster Constabulary and
became an informer in order to rein in the wilder elements.'

Penny's eyes focused on her, his eyes narrowing. 'Who told
you that?'

'He did.'

'And your name again?'

' Sam Browne.'

The former police chief blinked slowly, reminding her of an


197

owl as recognition dawned. 'I knew you looked familiar. You

were Keegan's defence solicitor.' He said it as though he'd

just tasted something unpleasant. 'I recall prosecuting counsel

described you as fighting like a tomcat behind the scenes.'

'Meow,' she replied demurely. Penny glared. 'Obviously I

didn't fight hard enough or he wouldn't have gone down. If my

client had listened, we'd have contested all charges all the way.'

Penny said stiffly: 'He'd have gone down anyway. The man

was - is - a murderer.'

'But he'd have taken others down with him, Mr Penny. If he'd

fought and not plea-bargained, he'd have exposed his control
lers
and the whole dirty tricks mob who'd thrown him to the

wolves.'

'The wolves?' Penny repeated. 'Like Detective Super
intendent
Johnson here, I was just doing my job. In the public

interest.'

Browne nodded. 'And Keegan would have argued the same.

Just like you he was acting for and paid by the Crown.'

A film of ice seemed to glaze over Penny's eyes. 'The differ
ence
is, madam, that I never murdered anyone.'

'Now look let's not get into all this,' Johnson interrupted,

scowling at Browne. 'We're not here to discuss the morality of

everything, just to get the facts.'

Browne said: 'The fact is, Bill, Peter Keegan sacrificed his

entire life and eventually his freedom to helping the RUC, then

MI5 through Army Intelligence.'

'So he told you,' Penny observed sceptically.

'He had no reason to lie to me. He was fighting a life

sentence.'

'Then he had every reason to lieto you, to win you over.'

'I believed him,' Browne said flatly, 'and I still do. In 1983 he

managed to penetrate the Ulster Defenders - an extreme hard
line
faction - and that's when Army Intelligence took an interest

and took over running him from the RUC.'


'On that I agree,' Penny said. '$�'hat do you know about the

Defenders?'

Browne shook her head. 'I was only ever told the bare facts.'

'It draws its membership from all the various groups. The


198

UDA, the UVF, and others. At its head is a nasty piece of work
called Stevie Gavin. His nora de guerre is Rattlesnake, but he's
always been known as Rattler. Very appropriate. He .and Peter
Keegan knew each other from childhood. That's why Keegan
was so easily accepted. But by '85 Keegan had.had enough of
his undercover double life and the family errffgmted to South
Africa.'

'But not for long,' Browne recalled. 'According to Peter, MI5
was really missing his intelligence and begged him to go back
and work for them again.'

'That's true,' Penny agreed. 'You see, strange as it may seem,
Rattler - Stevie Gavin - had killed suspected IRA members on
information supplied by MIS, but he was really crafty about it.
In fact, he's survived to this day because of his natural cunning.
For a start he never fully trusted MI5 - very wisely. So if he was
given a target and a date for a kill, he'd use his own team to carry
out an independent assessment and surveillance operation.
Then he'd strike at a different location on a different date. That
way the army or MI5 could never sdtch him up, if it suited
them.' He sighed deeply. 'I do believe he has murdered well over
thirty people to date. But there has never, ever been evidence
for a conviction.'

'Forgive me,' Johnson said, 'but if Rattler was obligingly
killing IRA men for MI5 why also plant Keegan as an
informer?'

Penny gave an impatient sigh. 'Because Ratder has always
been a loose cannon. Alway ran his own agenda which didn't
always square with what MI5 wanted. Keegan's presence was a
check and counterbalance so they'd know what else he was up
to.'

'And none of this ever came out in court at Keegan's trial?'
Johnson asked.

'They made bloody sure it didn't,' Browne interrupted.

Johnson asked Penny: 'What happened when Keegan went
back to Belfast after his spell in South Africa?'

'He rejoined the Ulster Defenders. That was in 1987. Rattler
appointed him intelligence officer with the job of targeting
victims. This really suited MI5 who wanted to distance them199


selves from Rattler - Stevie Gavin could easily prove an
embarrassment. Now they could use Keegan as their conduit,
feeding him the targets while getting information back on
Rattler's other activities.'

'And that's when you became involved?' Johnson asked.
'Yes,' Penny said. 'Within a few months of Keegan rejoining,
there was a spate of sectarian killings. A lot of Catholics were
shot. One in particular Sinn Fein made a great fuss about,
claiming the man was totally unconnected with the IRA. An
innocent man shot at his front door, his blood and brains splattered
over his wife and three-year-old son. It got a lot of
sympathetic press coverage.

'This riled many of the Ulster Defenders' people. Rattler, of
course, ordered the usual omerta. Complete silence and no
comment. But one of their number felt he had to say something.
He contacted a highly respected Belfast journalist and arranged
a secret meeting. He showed the man a highly classified RUC
dossier on the murdered Catholic, exposing him as a major
player in the Provos. Within days it was splashed all over the
papers with pictures of the dossier. 'RUC Feeds IRA Target
Information to Loyalist Killers.' You can imagine the sort of
headlines. There was a tremendous stink, media coverage and
questions in the House.'

'I remember reading about it,' Johnson said.

'An internal police inquiry was set up and I was appointed to
head it. As you might expect, my arrival in Belfast wasn't
exactly welcomed. I was shunned in the RUC headquarters at
Knock. The top brass were polite enough, but made it quite
clear they thought the inquiry should never have been set up,
but now that it had, I shouldn't dig deep and should just do a
whitewash job. Papers and files mysteriously disappeared and
people's memories became conveniently short. Army Intelligence,
who were actually running Keegan, tried the same sorts
of tricks.'

Lomax said: 'Maybe the whole idea was that you shouldn't
have looked too hard.' There was an edge to his voice; he
remembered the terrible mental torment Keegan had been
through as an undercover agent.


200

'If that was the case,' Penny retorted, 'they chose the wrong
man. I made it plain from the start I'd leave no stone unturned
and I didn't. I found the link between the RUC-'and Army
Intelligence and MI5 - and Keegan. The whole sordid

business.'
	--

	'How did it work?' Johnson asked ....

'It was Keegan's job in the Ulster Defenders to come up with
target intelligence for Rattler or his hit squads. He was to pass
details of planned assassinations to his army handlers who
would take steps to ensure they failed. A convenient vehicle
checkpoint to intercept the hit squad by apparent good fortune
or cause them to abort. Or to flaod the target area with troop
activity, random house searches nearby - anything to disrupt
the plan.'

'But MI5 wasn't just out to save lives, was it?' Browne asked
pointedly.

Penny hesitated. 'No, I'm afraid it wasn't. As that very fast
newspaper scoop suggested, the killings that went ahead - many
of them, anyway- were a result of information passing the other
way. MI5 supplied RUC intelligence dossiers to Keegan via his
army handlers. Those names were added to the list Keegan gave
to Rattler for execution.'

	'Good God,' Johnson said.

Penny gave the detective a reproachful glare at his mild blasphemy
before adding: '/n the end none of this came out in full,
but you can see why my investigating team was unpopular.'

'Is there anyone who Keegan might be able to rely on from
that period?' Johnson asked. 'Anyone who might spring him
from prison?'

'Certainly not Rattier. Stevie Gavin regarded Keegan as a
traitor. Quite honesdy, I think Keegan alienated himself from
all his old friends when his work was discovered.'

Browne leaned forward. 'Did Rodney Littlechild's name crop
up during your inquiry?'

Johnson's eyes widened as the blood coloured the veins in his
cheeks. 'Miss Browne, we are not here to waste Mr Penny's time
discussing your cl!ent's case,'


201

'Oh, come on, Bill,' she said with her little-girl smile, 'there
may be a connection and I'm getting desperate.'

'Roddy Littlechild,' Penny interjected. 'The murder of that
IRA thug Fitzpatrick? Is that the related case you referred to
earlier?'

Johnson looked defensive. 'We're not actually sure it is
related.'

'I certainly believe it could be relevant,' Browne insisted.

'Mr Penny, I really must apologise...' Johnson began.

But the former police chief appeared not to hear, his attention
now solely on the solicitor. 'So now you are
Rodney Littlechild as well?'

'Yes, and by coincidence, Mr Lomax here happens to be his
brother-in-law.' After her earlier antagonism she decided that a
sweet smile might be appropriate. 'I was wondering if Rodney
Littlechild featured in your investigation?'

Penny nodded. 'Yes, his name cropped up. And I must admit
I was very surprised - maybe shocked is a better word - to read
about Littlechild's arrest for murder. It didn't seem to fit the
profile I had of him. He was a very trusted MI5 agent.'

Lomax found his eyes meeting Browne's eyes across the room
and saw the expression of relief in them.

'He was?' Johnson asked, clearly not persuaded.

'Oh, yes. I was shown a number of confidential personal
assessments from the Security Service. Keegan was regarded as
a bit of a wild card. That meant, as we now know, that he could
prove to be a liability. Rodney Littlechild on the other hand was
reliable and rock solid for some twenty years. I don't know
exactly what service he providedbefore my team investigated,
only that he made fairly frequent journeys back from Africa and
knew all the top Loyalist players who all trusted him completely.
They'd bring him up to date and he'd pass any
information he gleaned back to MI5.'

'Did Keegan know that Littlechild was ALSO an MI5 agent?'
Johnson asked.

'No, not until the trial,' Penny answered. 'But the two of
them did arrange an arms deal together in 1986. After the
Anglo-Irish Agreement, Ian Paisley set up the Ulster Resistance


202

Movement, although he soon lost interest in it. A lot of factions
got involved, including the Ulster Defenders. Stevie Gavin -
Rattler - decided a massive arms shipment was .go'.mg to be
needed for the concept to work in reality. He sere Keegan to
South Africa to organise it. Littlechild was serving in a special
police intelligence unit there and showed Kea.n a range of
weapons that could be made available and introduced him to
executives from Armscor.'

Browne said: 'Rodney's always denied he set up an arms
deal.'

Lomax heard the disappointment in her voice and he shared
her feeling of betrayal; if his brother-in-law had lied about this,
what else had he lied about?

'He would deny it,' Penny said easily, 'because he made sure it
never happened. Or tried to. Lirdechild informed his controller

at MI5 who decided to let the deal run.'

'Why?' Johnson asked.

'On the basis that while the Loyalists thought they were
certain of a deal, they wouldn't try elsewhere - other transactions
that MI5 weren't aware of. Not that there was much
chance of that because Keegan, not knowing Littlechild had
MI5 connections, was also informing his army handlers about
the shipment.'

'What happened to the arms shipment in the end?' Browne
asked.

'It was seized by the RUC in Belfast as planned,' Penny
replied. 'Well, actually, not quite as planned. In truth some of
the arms got through, unaccounted for. No one quite knows
how or why; it's always a risk when you let something run. It's
not certain where the arms ended up, although there's no sign
that they've ever been used as far as I know.' He glanced pointedly
at the Henri Jacot carriage clock on the mantelshelf.
'There was an arrest made at a Paris hotel - two members of the
Ulster Defenders and a South African business man.'

Lomax felt a weight lift from his shoulders. 'At least we now
know the foundation of all the media rumours. Roddy reckons
they were started by MI5 when he stopped co-operating with.
them.'

203


'I am not in the least surprised,' Penny said. 'The secret state

can be very vindictive as I have found out to my cost.'

'You have?' Johnson sounded surprised.

'Oh, indeed, Superintendent. Look at me here, in this
cottage. Do I look like the sort of man who wants to spend his
time kicking his heels at home, gardening and making jam with
Meredith? I took early retirement, but I didn't jump. I was
pushed. It's clear to me now, as you suggested, that I was
expected to go along with a cover-up over the Keegan affair. I
didn't and I've since paid the price. Afterwards, questions were
asked about my integrity, my personal relationship with a
businessman friend who was falsely accused and later cleared of
fraud charges. Doors closed to me and it was made clear there
was no prospect of promotion. People who knew me well
turned their backs on me and there was talk of my suspension
because of my links with my friend. I had no doubt what was
expected of me. So I fell on my sword and left the force.'

A silence fell over the room, accentuated by the heavy ticking
of the clock.

Browne said: 'Would you be prepared to repeat what you told
us today at Roddy's trial? Confirm that he was an MI5 agent.'

'Miss Browne!' Johnson protested. 'Do I have to tell you
again?'

But Derek Penny raised his hand. 'Please. Miss Browne, I
can do more than that. During my investigation several sensitive
documents passed across my desk, so to speak. Realising that
there could be repercussions for myself later, I took the precaution
of taking secret copies of the most sensitive material.
Some of it acknowledges Rodney Littlechild's role in the affair,
if that would help?'

'Oh, yes!' She was overjoyed.

At that moment the door edged open and his wife's head
peered round it. 'Would anyone care for more tea?'

'No, thank you, Meredith,' Penny said, rising to his feet. 'Our
friends are just leaving. But perhaps you'd get that package from
the bottom of the freezer. And something for them to carry it
in.'

204


'Freezer?' Browne asked as his wife disappeared. 'Did I hear
right?'

Penny smiled properly for the first time. 'It always .struck me
as a good place to hide something. In with the frozen peas and
sweetcorn.'

'I'm really grateful,' she said minutes laterNvhen Meredith
returned with the icy package in a Safeway carrier bag.

Penny looked at Johnson. 'I only wish I could have been of
more help to you. I fear Keegan has no friends left in the world.
I don't know where to suggest you start looking. Except that the
last place would be Northern Ireland. His old friends in
the Loyalist paramilitaries have put a price on his head.'


Harry Grisewold watched from the driver's seat of the dark blue
Ford Orion. The three of them and Meredith Penny seeing
them to the gate. No sign of her husband.

Nothing different. He lifted the handy Tasco 8 x 21 s to his
eyes. Wrong, something different. He flipped the focusing
wheel of the tiny binoculars. A Safeway bag. Carried by the

solicitor Samantha Browne. She hadn't had that on the way in.
He murmured: 'He's given them something.'

Margie Lewis sat beside him, black jeans and jumper, black
hair coiled into a bun. She was stuffing prawn-flavoured crisps
into her scarlet mouth; another day without a decent meal, she
thought, and swallowed. 'What?'

'Not groceries. But it's a Safeway bag. Browne's got it.'
'If Browne's got it, it's about Littlechild,' Margie decided.
'How d'you work that out?' Her powers of deduction and
intuition never ceased to amaze Harry Grisewold and he'd been
in the job for years. By comparison, she was a baby. A tough
one though. Brains and fuck-crazy, too. Sometimes he couldn't
believe his luck.

She said: 'Johnson's investigating Keegan, so if it was about
Keegan, he'd have it.'

He didn't take the binoculars from his eyes. 'She looks happy.
Nice smile, lots of ivory. Nice arse.'

Margie didn't comment, was well used to the man they all
called 'Dirty Harry'.


2O5

'Lomax looks pleased too,' Grisewold added. 'Johnson looks
like he's eaten something that doesn't agree with him.'

She put the last of the crisps in her mouth and scrunched up
the packet in her fist. 'That's conclusive then. Penny's given
them something on Littlechild. How d'you want to play this?'

They were running a four-car box. But on the long journey
down from Stafford, Grisewold thought he might have compromised
himself on the M25. He hadn't counted on the Browne
woman following Lomax in her clapped-out car. He hadn't
wanted to overtake her, but he didn't want to lose sight of the
former SAS man either if she couldn't keep up.

Grisewold made up his mind. 'They've got to go back to the
service station to pick up Lomax's car - I don't know what
they'll do about hers. You follow them up, then get Eddie and
Greg to take over. To his place or hers, I expect.' He lowered the
binoculars. 'Sod it, I've had enough of this. I'm indenting for a
tracer.'

'Pinfold won't like that.'

'Pinfold wants everything on the cheap. Just ge-t it done.

Lomax isn't your run-of-the-mill dummy. So do it, will you?'
'What about you?'
'I'm calling it a day.'

'Bastard. Filling your face again.'

'I'll pretend I didn't hear that. And if it makes you feel better,
I'll be reporting in to the weasel himself. Wanna swap?'

'No thanks, Harry. I'll leave that honour to you.' She reached
across and kissed his unshaven cheek. 'You deserve it.'

Then she was out. He watched her in his wing mirror as she
walked back to the red Peugeot parked behind his on the farm
track. Still looking good, he thought. Hard, compact body, fit.
But putting on a few pounds. Too much hanging around in cars
eating junk food. Needed more exercise. More shagging. They
hadn't had one for days.

She swung the Peugeot past him and with a wave turned right
to follow Johnson's car.

206


'This, dear heart, is absolutely bloody brilliant,' Tristram
Meyrick said.

The QC was seated at his leather-topped desk in 10 Paper
Buildings, a sheaf of documents spread out before him. Lomax
and Sam Browne sat opposite, both hanging expectantly on
the barrister's words. Rormie Rock, the junior counsel from
Jamaica, had perched himself on the desk edge and was
plucking out and studying samples at random.

'Bloody brilliant,' Meyrick repeated, running his right hand
over his bare crown. 'Seem like genuine Security Service documents.
File referencing and sequential numbers. Very useful,
makes it more difficult for anyone to deny their existence.'

'These are intelligence assessments of Loyalist paramilitaries,'
Rock said, examining the paper in his hand. 'Stevie Gavin,
Keegan - ah, and our client Rodney Littlechild. A complete
character reference, confirming his length of service. Oh, yes, I
love these words, man. Loyal! Trustworthy! Nonviolent nature!
We couldn't ask for more.'

Meyrick chuckled. 'Didn't write these yourself, did you,
Sam?'

She was feeling pleased with herself. 'I couldn't believe it
either. Was worth the time Chris and I spent defrosting them
and drying them out.'

'Defrosting?' The barrister was baffled.

'It's a long story, Tristram. The point is how important are
they?'

He arched his eyebrows. 'Well, short of actually saying our
client didn't murder Fitzpatrick, they're the very best you could
hope for. It's a pity they're photocopies, but I suppose originals
would be too much to hope for.'

'Of course, we'll call Derek Penny to verify they're genuine,'
that they came into his hands during the Keegan trial.'


207

'Man, that wouldn't be bad,' said a mirthful Ronnie Rock, 'a
former ACC as a defence witness.'

'Well, it's about time we had some luck,' Browne replied.
'The RUC still haven't come up with anything on the whereabouts
of Billy Baker who could yet be our key witness. And I'm
still getting no co-operation from the police. Still no witness list
or access to forensics.'

'That's nothin' new,' Rock observed unhelpfully.

'You said earlier that wasn't unusual,' Lomax said.

Browne nodded. 'The police like to do things their own sweet
way. Can't see why we don't just sit on our arses and wait for the
committal bundle. They've got stalling down to an art form.'

'Like solicitors who don't pay their bills,' chipped in the chief
clerk Keith Billbury who had just breezed in, carrying a pile of
pink-ribboned papers.

Browne ignored that. 'The longer they leave it, the shorter
the time for us to prepare a proper defence, examine statements,
etc.'

'It's just a game,' Billbury said lightly.

'But not a very funny one when your client's going down for
murder.'

'I thought I'd remind you,' Billbury added, 'that Litflechild's
got a remand hearing coming up next week at Woolwich.
Maybe we can put some pressure on then.'

'I certainly will,' Ronnie Rock promised. As junior counsel,
the task would fall to him.

'At remand hearings, solicitors can address the Bench,'
Billbury explained to Lomax. 'And Cruella here is dynamite.
Missed her vocation.'

'You'll be banging your head against a brick wall, young
Ronald,' Meyrick observed lightly.

'It's worth trying,' Browne insisted. 'I'm afraid it makes me
bloody angry. I'm not supposed to interview prosecution witnesses
without notifying the GPS. But as the police still haven't
told me who they are, how am I supposed to know who they
are?'

Lomax said: 'I thought you said your staffwere trying to find
witnesses.'

208


'Yes, Totty and Wayne have been down to the pubs and done
some spadework. They've got a few names. iF i tell the GPS it'll
alert the police to those we're interested in. Or .else, if they
decide someone may be a prosecution witness after all, that
person is hardly likely to revise his story to.. me with DS
Henwick standing over him.'

'You know I've offered to talk to them. I'm a third party.

Technically it would be my decision to do it, not yours.'
'I'm not sure that would be strictly ethical.'
'Bugger that, Sam.'

'It could easily backfire. There's a risk of a charge of perverting
the course of justice.'

'Just a risk?' He couldn't resist adding: 'Who dares wins.'

She smiled at his enthusiasm. 'The police will have told some
of these people not to speak to anyone about the case. You'll
have to be very persuasive.'

Lomax considered for a moment. 'I will be.' And as he said
the words it flashed unbidden to his mind. Goose Green. The
freezing night and his body sweating with adrenaline and fear.
Screaming silent terror as the Argentinians' Italian-made 105s
opened up, pouring in high-explosive and lung-searing white
phosphorus. Finding their range and turning Camilla Creek
into hell on earth. The distant thud from HMS Arrow as the
frigate opened up in support, like lightning flashes out over
the loch. The confusion, the pinned-down horror. And big
Roddy by his side, teeth grinning amid the cam cream. Both
scared, even petrified, bu somehow loving it. Invincible
together as they emptied their lungs and charged into the valley
of death. A lifetime ago, yet only yesterday. Then he was back in
the room with its rows of leather-bound law books and teetering
stacks of legal briefs. He said: 'And I'll do whatever it takes.'

'Look, Chris, I'll give the police another couple of weeks to
cough up a witness list. If nothing happens by then -' she took a
deep breath, her decision made, 'then you're on.'


Lomax decided to attend the remand hearing, and afterwards
wished he hadn't.

It was so depressing. More than bright autumn sunshine


209

would be needed to cheer the bleak estuary landscape; as it was,
the sky was filled with murky low cloud and a bitter wind blew
in off the water. Belmarsh Magistrates Court was part of the
daunting concrete-and-steel complex that made up the new
high-security Woolwich Crown Court. Lomax felt his spirits
sinking by the minute.

As such hearings were most usually the domain of junior
counsel, Browne and Rock were surprised to find the prosecution
team being led by Henry Halifax QC. He was solidly
built like a rugby prop forward with a broad florid face and iron
grey hair so crinkled it could have been permed. He greeted the
opposition jovially; one of those loud laughs of the friendly barroom
bore that rings with insincerity.

'And how is the delicious Miss Browne today?' he ventured
dangerously with a baritone chuckle.

'Pissed off, since you ask, Henry,' she responded flatly. 'And

what on earth are you doing here? Has the GPS really got that
much money to burn?'

He chortled loudly. 'Ah, they want the best on this one.
You've a reputation as one slippery little fish, Sam, and this is a
very high-profile case. They don't want any mistakes.'

Browne glowered. 'And who exactly is they, Henry?'

The barrister ducked that one and just said in a conspiratorial
whisper: 'I also hoped I might have a quiet word.'

Reluctantly she allowed him to take her arm and lead her out

of earshot. 'What are you up to, Henry?'

He indicated a tall man in an immaculate suit who stood
talking to the GPS solicitor Ian Spinks. 'A gentleman from the

Home Office legal department taking an interest.'

'The big guns, eh?' she observed sarcastically.

'This is off the record, Sam. But Mr Prendergast there has

the ear of the Attorney-General's office. If your client pleads
guilty, I'm given to understand there'll be a nod and a wink. He
could be out on licence in ten. With a new identity if he wants.'

Browne blinked; she couldn't believe she was hearing this.
'You're being a bit previous, aren't you, Henry? I wasn't
expecting this until after committal. If the police are to be
believed, they haven't seen all the evidence themselves.yet.'

210


Halifax gave a smugly sympathetic smile. 'They've seen
enough, m'dear, I'm afraid. It's cast iron.'

She ignored that. 'But why now?' .2,

He shrugged. 'Let's just say some people would |ik to know

which way the wind's blowing. Unofficially, you kn. ow.'

'So they can sleep easy in their beds at night?

'Quite possibly. But let your client know what's: on offer. I'm
sure he'll listen to you. A life sentence is indeterminate. Ten
years is better than for ever. Think about it.'

Her jaw tightened, but she bit her tongue. This was highstakes
poker. 'Okay, I'll think. And while I'm thinking, you tell
me when the hell am I going to get access to the forensic
evidence?'

His big eyes widened with mock sympathy, taking in her face
and dropping unguardedly to her breasts. 'My dearest little
piranha, I'm doing my best but it really is out of my hands. I've
badgered Spinks, your opposite number, but he says the police
just can't speed things up. The Met lab at Lambeth is swamped

by the current crime wave apparently.'

'We're talking murder here, Henry.'

'Ah, but you know these boffms, Sam. Everything in its turn
and nothing will shake them.' He leaned forward so that his
broad face was just inches from hers. 'What say you and I get
together and discuss a joint deputation to ask them to speed
things up? Over wine and a candlelit supper, perhaps?'

'In your dreams, Henry,' she replied tartly and turned away.
Not easily put off, Halifax. moved across the lobby and spoke
to Totty. 'And you're looking very - what shall I say? - voluptuous
today, young lady.' He was almost drooling as he said it.

She fluttered her eyelids. 'That's very kind of you, Mr
Halifax. Tell me, was you born to it or did you have to work at it
- to become what you are today?'

'It always takes hardwork to become a successful barrister.'

'No,' she said with a bright, chubby-cheeked smile, 'I meant
to become such a creep.'

This time his jowls reddened and the ready smile collapsed. 'I
can see the Ice Queen has created you in her own image. Pity
she hasn't taught you a little civility.'


211

As he strode away, she turned to Lomax. 'Pompous

She blushed, covering her mouth with her hand. 'Pardon me,
But it's still true 'E only does GPS work cos it's easy money.
Doesn't give a stuff about anyone, he doesn't.'

'Not quite true,' Browne interjected. 'He appears to give 21
quite a big stuffabout a certain Mr Prendergast.'

Lomax immediately picked up on the name. 'He's here?'
Browne nodded. 'He's talking with Halifax now.'

'I suppose it's the same man who visited Keegan and briefed
Bill Johnson?' He shifted position so he could see over Totty's
shoulder without making it too obvious he was taking an
interest.

Prendergast was laughing now with Halifax and the GPS
solicitor. But the humour did not reach his eyes, Lomax
noticed. Those eyes, so deep and blue. I know those eyes,
know that face. The cool bravado. I know this man. From
when? From where?

'From the Home Office legal department,' Browne was
saying. 'Wants us to know there's something on offer in return
for a guilty plea. All unofficial, of course.'

The eyes were the same, Lomax decided. But not the face.
The beard had been matted then, the hair long and greasy.
There had been no Savile Row suit and shiny brogues, just a
bomber jacket and dirty trainers.

Lomax said quietly: 'Prendergast isn't his name.'

Browne was taken aback. 'What?'

'And he's not Home Office, he's Box. MIS. Our paths
crossed a couple of times in the province. He was a field operator
then, undercover. His nam6's Pinfold, not Prendergast.
Roger Pinfold. Looks like he's come a long way since then.
Promoted. But I doubt to the Home Office legal department.'

The solicitor glanced at the man again. 'Do you think he's
recognised you?'

'I doubt it. I was one of a group and not the leader. He'd have
no reason to remember me.'

'We're being manipulated,' she said. 'And it's not a nice
feeling.'


212

Lomax nodded. 'At least now it's confirmed. We know exactly
what we're up against.'

Browne suddenly felt the need to loosen her collar..It was an
inexplicable sensation, like suffocation.

Then the usher called the case and the opposing legal teams
shuffled in. "

The courtroom was spartan, harsh white paintwork and
bland teak. Lomax sat beside Totty and Browne as though a
member of the team, with Ronnie Rock in the next front row,
resplendent in one of his elaborate fancy waistcoats.

Littlechild appeared in the dock, handcuffed to two prison
officers, apparently having made the journey from prison to
court via the 'rat run', the aptly named tunnel that connected
the two buildings and stank of seeping marsh water. No proper
daylight for his friend today, no view of the normal outside
world that was rightfully his. Just mean glimpses of an equally
mean patch of dull sky.

He looked awful, Lomax thought. Like a wild animal in
captivity, his strong broad-shouldered body hunched in submission,
his spirit clearly broken.

All rose as the magistrate entered and began by giving a
sickeningly obsequious acknowledgement to the unexpected
presence of such a renowned and revered silk as Henry Halifax.
Then the proceedings fell into a predictable routine with
Ronnie Rock making an impassioned but futile plea for bail.
The prosecution promptly objected and requested that the prisoner
continue to be held in custody. Which was granted, as they
all knew it would be.

'Sir, I regret I must again raise the question of defence access
to crucial forensic evidence being denied by the police.' .Rock
was on his feet again, addressing the Bench. 'And although it is
now nearly six weeks since my client was charged, neither have
the police given an indication of the witness evidence against
him .'

The magistrate nodded without concern. 'Counsel for the
defence will be aware that these things take a little time.'

'Indeed, sir, but six weeks is more than sufficient for the
police to question witnesses near the scene of crime and provide


213

a list. Possibly more important is the question of forensic evidence.
I understand that this is being examined by the
Metropolitan Police laboratory at Lambeth. Whilst I understand
there may be a backlog, there appears to be no valid
reason why the defence should not at the very least be granted
access to these forensic exhibits.' Rock was charm and reasonableness
itself. 'I should add that some forensic evidence may
degrade with time and we believe it may be crucial to the
defence case.'

The magistrate peered over his spectacles in the direction of
the prosecution team. 'Mr Halifax.'

'Sir, I should say firstly that I am informed that the police
investigation in this matter is continuing and may do so for
some time. I'm sure the officers concerned would say they
themselves do not yet know which wimesses they will call. But,
of course, a list of prosecution-witness statements will
be provided at the appropriate time. That is, with the precommittal
bundle.'

'When it's too bloody late,' Browne rasped beneath her
breath.

Halifax was continuing expansively: 'Moreover, I am at a loss
to understand why my learned friend is concerned about the
forensic evidence as the police themselves have not yet had
the results. When they do receive written results, a copy will be
forwarded to the defendant's solicitors in the usual manner.' He
sat down.

'There you are,' the magistrate said. 'Does that answer your
question?'

Rormie Rock rose again. 'May I ask my learned friend how
long Lambeth has had the forensic evidence?'

	Now

		Halifax was up. 'I understand for the past few days.'

Down.

Ronnie Rock up. 'Sir, I understand it to have been three
weeks already.'

Another jack-in-the-box. 'Sir, I can only report what I am
told .'

	Ronnie Rock back on his feet. 'May I ask my learned friend


214

when he believes the results w//l be available and access granted
to an independent expert for the defence?'

There was a discreetly smug smile on Halifax's fa.c a.s he shot
a glance at Rock. 'If the court pleases, this case canriot jump the
backlog at Lambeth. However, it is hoped to be dealt with in
the next two months.' "


'Two months!' Browne repeated as she feverishly lit a cigarette
in the corridor outside. 'The same old game. Dump it in our
laps just before committal.'

'And what exactly is committal?'

'It's held in a magistrate's court to determine whether there's
a case to answer,' Browne explained. 'So it's fundamental we
know the forensic findings. I can't see how there can be anything
that'll stand up. And if that's the case, we'll have very little time
to wade through the witness statements to discover the holes

and get the case dismissed. It'll be all so last minute.'
'It seems very unfair,' Lomax observed.
'It's the system, Chris.'

'It's also wishful thinking, Sam,' Rock said. 'It's too high
profile. No magistrate is going to stick his neck out unless the

police have made a complete balls. It'll go to trial.'

'We'll see.'

'Tilting at windmills again, Sam?' Rock chided.

'That's what I'm good at,' she replied testily. 'Anyway, it's too
unbearable for Roddy not knowing just how strong their case is.
If it's as flimsy as it must be, it'll be a comfort if I can assure him
the prosecution case will fall apart at the seams. And dammit,
I'm going to do something about it.' She turned to Totty.
'Which of the magistrates here has a oft spot for me?'

Her assistant averted her eyes. 'None that I've noticed.
Sorry.'

'Then I need one who doesn't know me at all.'

Rock said: 'Old Caskin likes a well-turned ankle.'

'Right then, Totty. Speak to that usher who's always chatting
you up. Find out when Caskin is next sitting.'

Rock looked suspicious. 'Just what are you up to, Sam?'


215

An impish smile hovered on her lips. 'I'm not going

this particular windmill, Ronnie, I intend to flatten it.' ....


In the week that followed, Lomax tried to keep up a
pretence for Evie; he was just
attending the remand hearing.

He reassured her that it had gone as expected and that her
husband had looked relaxed. It was doubtful he'd convinced'
her but, typical of Evie, she'd put on a brave face. She must have
known the truth about Roddy's depressed mental state from her
last visit, so perhaps they were both putting on an act for the
other's benefit.

It came as a relief when Browne finally telephoned with her
decision. As the police had still not provided a list of prosecution
witnesses, she wanted to take up his offer to try and
interview everyone who might be relevant, starting with the two
pub landlords.

Deciding that it might be wise to have someone with him who
could corroborate whatever he was told - not to mention give
moral support- he called Joe Monk.

His friend didn't hesitate, agreeing with almost indecent
eagerness. He arrived the next day and Lomax opened the door
to find Monk with a wide tombstone grin on his face and a large

kitbag grasped in each huge fist. 'Room for a little 'un?'

Lomax was taken aback. 'Travelling light, are we?'

"Nope, I'm here for the duration,' Monk replied, struggling

to manoeuvre his luggage through the doorway. 'I've split with
Marsha.'

'You're joking!'

'I was, she wasn't,' he answered and dumped his bags on the
sofa. 'She gave me the ultimatum yesterday. Get a nice civvy job
or she was off.'

'But you had a job.'

'Till this lavatory supervisor from the council came round to

tell me I wasn't doing it right. Me!' He glowered with indignation.
The who's dug latrines from Borneo to Bosnia.'

'What happened?'

'I poured the slops bucket over his head and told him to stuff


216

it.' He meant it. 'So I had this row with Marsha, then you
phoned. So I thought, right, that's it. Told her she could keep

the house, I'm off.' ?..
He flopped down on the sofa beside his luggage. "
'I am sorry,' Lomax began.

'Don't be, mate.' He was grinning again. 'r..aven't felt like
this in years. Free! After you phoned, I called up Rob D'Arcy's
outfit. He'll have a contract for me in Kazakhstan starting in
three months.'

'That's great news. But you can't stay here until then. It's too
small for two, let alone a big lump like you.'

Monk waved it aside. 'No problem. I'll rent a place and help
you out in the meantime.'

'Listen, Joe, I've already told you the money will be lousy.'

'I know, I know. But I can scrape by on my army pension, it's
bigger than yours. And Roddy's a mate of mine too.'

'You've only ever met him when you've been pissed. You two
would pass each other in the street.'

Monk looked suddenly serious. 'The two of us spent a night
together in the same bed.'

'I know. Both paralytic.'

'Exactly. You can't get closer than that.'

They left the flat half an hour later, picking up Totty from the
offices of Eisner, Pollock and Browne before continuing on to
the Duke's Head pub. It would be her job to point out customers
she had already identified as potential wimesses to
events on the night of the murder.

The manager of the Duke's Head was a big, surly man in his
fifties. A professional London publiqan with mean eyes that said
he'd seen it all and mostly hadn't liked what he saw. He was
reluctant to talk, but when he did, he confirmed Littlechild's
version of events. Fitzpatrick had been having a quiet drink
alone when the manager received a call for him. He then left.

Other customers confirmed that no one followed him.
Finally, the manager made it clear they were no longer welcome
on his premises.

'Some people shouldn't be in the pub trade,' Monk said


217

darkly as they left. 'Nowadays it seems the main qualification,

run a pub is to hate people.'
	:, :

	The atmosphere in the Mortar and Pestle was

different from the first pub; it was fuller and there was lively
chatter around the bar. Lomax went through the same routines
but had to wait half an hour before there was a lull in demands
for service and the landlord slipped from behind the counter for
a quick smoke.

His name was Sid Salmon. He was in his early thirtiesj
unmarried, and this was his first pub. Full of nervous energy
and nervous smiles, chatty and all too eager to please.

But as soon as Lomax explained why he was there, the shutters
came down. Salmon was a changed man.

� 'I told the police,' he said sharply, almost angrily, his eyes
darting towards the door as though expecting the boys in blues
or someone, to burst in at any moment. 'I didn't see no one
answering those descriptions in here.'

'Not two men coming in about ten forty?'

'No. I'd have remembered.'

'And a couple, man and woman, almost on the bell.'

'No.'

'What about your customers?'

He shook his head, seeking a way to terminate the conversation.
'The police have interviewed them. They were mostly
regulars. It was someone's work-leaving party that night and
they were all fairly rat-arsed. They wouldn't have noticed if the
ceiling had fallen in. That's it. Sorry.'

His relief was almost palpable when a customer banged his
glass on the counter, giving Salmon his excuse to go.

Monk watched him as he went. 'I could smell the fear on him.
One scared little bunny.'

Lomax lit a cigarette. 'Something certainly smells.'

'See no evil, hear no evil. Deny everything. Someone's got to
him. The cops?'

'Somehow I doubt it. My guess is they're being strung along
like everyone else.'

'I tell you what, Chris. If I wasn't convinced Roddy was
telling the truth, I sure as hell am now.'


218

For the rest of the evening they sat with Totty who identified
regulars as they drifted in. Their reaction to questions varied,
but mostly they were happy to talk while Lomax-qnd Monk
were buying the rounds. But Salmon was right, no one had
noticed Littlechild and Fitzpatrick on the night.of the murder,
or the couple who Roddy claimed had come in(ter them.

But of course, Lomax reasoned, they'd been having a party
and all were half-drunk. The one person who would have cause
to remember them, because he served them, was Salmon. And
Salmon was keeping his mouth firmly shut.

As the hands of the clock edged towards closing time, Lomax
was growing steadily more depressed and frustrated. He had to
do something. When Totty went out to the ladies', he said

to Monk: 'I'm thinking of having a private word with chummy.'
'Is that wise?'

'Probably not. Sam Browne would kill me.' He gave a short

laugh. 'Sometimes I think she's just looking for the excuse.'
'Well, that would certainly give it to her.'

'We've got to break down this brick wall and we both know
that bastard's lying through his teeth.'

Monk nodded his agreement. 'What? The bog dodge we used

in the pub in Lurgan?'

'Why not?'

When Totty returned, Lomax gave her money for her cab fare
home and sent the bemused girl on her way. Monk went to the
gents' lavatory first, when Salmon was busy serving. Picking his
moment, Lomax followed .a few minutes later. They took a
cubicle each and listened until the bell rang for time, then
waited for the twenty minutes' drinking-up time to pass.

Finally the steady succession of drinkers tramping to the
urinal ended and silence fell over the bar 6utside. A few minutes
after eleven thirty they heard the outer lavatory door open;
Salmon having a last look round. Monk left his cubicle and
moved swiftly to position himself behind the door, his back
jammed against a machine selling whisky-flavoured condoms,
he noticed from the corner of his eye. God Almighty, whatever
next?

The door swung open and Salmon stepped in, whistling as he


219

walked. Abruptly the sound stopped as his eyes registered
Lomax leaning back against the cubicle doorpost, his arms folded across his chest. He'd adopted a particularly mean

expression; under the circumstances it wasn't difficult.
Salmon's mouth dropped open. 'You!'

Monk slammed the door shut behind Salmon as the man
jumped in shock and spun round, the colour draining from his
face.

'W-What is this? A robbery?' he blubbered. 'I knew you two
were...'

'Bad news?' Monk suggested helpfully. 'You're right there.'

'Calm down, Mr Salmon,' Lomax said. 'This isn't a hold-up
and you won't get hurt if you simply tell us the truth.'

'If you know the meaning of the word,' Monk added menacingly.
'Otherwise you may find all your fingers getting broken.
One by one.'

Salmon's head was turning to and fro between the two men
like a demented tennis spectator. 'What's this all about?'

'We asked you questions earlier,' Lomax said. 'Now tell us
the truth.'

Salmon shook his head wretchedly. 'I can't.- I musm't speak
to anyone.'

'Who told you that?'

'People.'

'What people? The police?'

Tears were beginning to run down the man's face as he
looked round the cramped tiled room, searching for inspiration

salvation - praying for escape. 'I don't know.'
'Did they threaten you?'
'No.' A gulp. 'Yes.'
'With violence?'

His head was shaking.

'I'm threatening you with violence,' Lomax said. 'when did
these people speak to you?'

Salmon took a deep breath and attempted to compose
himself. 'The morning after the murder. Two blokes. They
came into the pub around midday.'

'And?'

22O


'They said I could expect a visit from the police. Said when
the coppers came, I should answer no to all their questions. Just

say I didn't remember to everything they asked.' ..

'Did you ask them who they were?'

He nodded. 'They said to never mind. That they were acting
on behalf of a friend of theirs. I don't know, I hrdn't even heard
about the murder then. Later I assumed they were villains
working for the murderer.'

'And you did what they told you?'

'I told the police I saw nothing. Not the bloke who got murdered
or the one they arrested, not the couple who followed
them in.'

'Why?' Lomax demanded.

Salmon stared at him as though he were mad. 'Because I was
fuckin' scared, damn it.'

Monk frowned. 'But you said they didn't threaten you with
violence.'

'Not with violence, no. But they had this paper.'
'Newspaper?'

'No, no. Some police indictment document.'

'Explain.'

His shoulders sagged; it was almost a relief to tell someone,
anyone. 'I've got a record. I did time, way back. Receiving
stolen goods. The brewery doesn't know about it. If they did I'd
be out on my ear. These people said they'd let the brewery know
if I didn't do what they said. I'd never work in the trade again.
They'd see to it.'

'And you believed them?'

'Oh, yes. And this is my first pub, my lucky break.'

'So you didsee the two men, Littlechild and Fitzpatrick?'
He nodded. 'Two pints of Guinness.'
'And a couple?'

'Not long after. Half of lager and an orange juice with
lemonade.'

'What did they look like?'

Salmon searched his memory. 'He was in his fifties. Sort of
ordinary looking. Except for a Small colourless mole on the


221

edge of his nose by his cheek. I remember that. And he was
unshaven.'

'And her?'

'Good-looker with black hair. Maybe early thirties. Nice
figure, but quite stocky, if you know what I mean.'

Monk said: 'Did they leave immediately after the two men?'
A shake of the head. 'They moved to the table the blokes had
used. Probably to get out of the draught, the door doesn't
always shut properly. Then they left, but not immediately.
Maybe about five minutes.'

'Do you remember an3thing else?' Lomax pushed.

Salmon seemed more relaxed now, out of immediate danger.
'Just one thing was odd. One of the two blokes nicked a Guinncss
glass. You know, with the little gold harp emblem on it.'
'You noticed that?' Monk was surprised.

'I was running low on them, so I was a bit brasscd offabout it.
People like Guinncss in a proper glass.'

Lomax considcrcd for a moment. 'I want a statement from
you, verifying what you've just told us.'

'Rio way. I'm telling you in private and if it gets out I'm
finished.'

Lomax's anger flared. 'You've just told me in front of a
witness. If you say anything different in court that'll be perjury.
A very serious offence.'

But Salmon wasn't backing down now; he sensed he was no
longer in physical danger. 'I'll take the risk. Those two thugs
who visited me just threatened to put me out of business. But if
they was friends of the killer, they could turn real nasty.
According to the papers we're talking Irish terrorists here, for
God's sake!'

'It'll still come out when the case gets to court,' Lomax
warned.

'I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.'

Monk made a move forward but Lomax reached out a
restraining hand. 'Leave it, Joc. I can see Mr Salmon's in
a difficult position. Let him chew it over. His problem isn't going to go away.'

Monk added darkly: 'And we're not going to go-away.' He


222

stepped aside and indicated for Salmon to go through into the
pub. He and Lomax followed, heading for the door. Their last
impression of the publican was of one very small and .frightened
man hurriedly bolting the door behind them.

'Curiouser and curiouser,' Lomax murmure4 as they began
the drive back to Erie's flat.

'Those heavies,' Monk said. 'They've got 0 be connected
with Box. The murder went down at midnight and by the
following midday they've got confidential info on Salmon to
ensure he sings to their tune. That's fast work. And the method
reeks of MIS.'

Lomax thumped his fist on the wheel. 'It makes me bloody
sick.'

But Monk's thoughts were elsewhere, trying to unwrap the
puzzle. 'And what's this business about the Guinness glass? Was
Salmon winding us Up, or what?'

'God knows. I don't see Roddy or Fitzpatrick as the sort to go
in for petty pilfering.'

Monk shrugged. 'Still, you never know.'

It was twelve thirty when they arrived back at Erie's flat and
were surprised to find her waiting for them on the landing.

'What the hell have you been up to, Chris?' She was still
dressed in her black barmaid's skirt and jumper and sounded
very angry. 'You've left the place in such a mess I can't even get
to the bedroom.'

Lomax jumped the last few stairs. 'What d'you mean, sis?'

She glared as he brushed past her. 'This fixation you've got
about bugging. You could have put things back!'

On the threshold he halted abruptly. The flat was a shambles.
Furniture had been moved and the carpet rolled back, blocking
Erie's bedroom door.

Monk peered over his shoulder. 'You've been burgled, mate.'

'Burgled?' Evie echoed. 'You mean you haven't... ? But
hang on, I don't think anything's been taken.'

Lomax quickly scanned the few items of value, all in their

wrong places. 'The portable TV.'
'Isn't it there?'
'I can't see it.'

223


'Burglars,' Monk repeated. 'Must have come in while

were at the wine bar.'

Lomax took a step forward, noticing the prised-up

boards for the first time. He knelt down beside the hole.
the television was just to make it look good. It was
burglary. They've taken my copy of Derek


The day began much the same as any other for Albie Nairn and
a few dozen other chosen individuals in the province of Ulster.

Yet it was going to be a day that would change the rest of their
lives, for good or ill. A day when they would hear the word they
had waited to hear for almost a quarter-century. So long ago
that most had almost forgotten, thinking perhaps now that it
would never come.

Nairn always walked Toby, his collie cross, before breakfast.
Out of his remote bungalow beside the narrow road in rural
Keady, South Armagh, over the stile and into fields or the
nearby copse. He enjoyed the early morning air, the freshness of
it, and the birdsong. Before traffic began rattling along the main
road, before this Indian summer sun became too warm. But he
also enjoyed it in winter, when snow or ice crackled underfoot
or, more usually, when the sky was cheerless and low, and the
air dank and chill. It was still his time of day. His and Toby's,
their own little carefree world.

His family had owned the adjoining land for generations, but
to old man Nairn's disgust, Albie was no farmer and when his
father died he'd begun renting out his fields to others. He'd
cleared the ramshackle outbuildings around the bungalow,
thrown out all the rusty farming .paraphernalia, and set up in
business doing what he loved best, restoring vintage cars. It
didn't earn a mint, but as his wife worked as an optician's
receptionist in town, it was enough.

A few years earlier, if he'd become bored walking his own
land with Toby, he'd simply have crossed the road and entered
the gate onto his neighbour's sprawling acres of grazing land.
Not now, though. Eric Gibson had been shot dead by the
Provos five years earlier. Then each of his two sons had been
targeted, the first murdered as he walked in the morning dark224


hess to the milking shed. A year later the youngest, a handsome
swapping lad of twenty, after another shooting had been left
with a steel plate in his skull and a mental age of-three. His
mother put the farm up for sale and moved out immediately.
There were no willing Protestant buyers for a place with such a
history and m such a notoriously dangerous area. .

Albie Nairn had desperately tried to raise enough money, but to bank would touch the deal. Then the Doyle family had
moved in from County Wick, low in the South. Local gossip
had it the Doyles had bought the farm on a two per cent interest
loan from the Catholic Church. It didn't surprise Nairn.
Creeping ethnic cleansing, he called it, using the popular catch
phrase from Bosnia. The process had been going on for twenty
years, although it had accelerated noticeably in the past decade.
First the Provos targeted Protestant farmers in the border
counties that already had Catholic maiorifies, then the farms
were sold, and were snapped up by immigrants from Eire. What
were the figures he'd heard recently? Seventy-eight per cent of
farms in the rural areas had been taken over by Catholics in the
past twenty years. They were not statistics you'd ever hear
the mainland politicians quoting; they kept it very quiet.

Short and stocky with a quiet voice and kindly face that was
older than his fifty-five years, Albie was not a violent man.
Indeed he had never even contemplated a personal act of
violence. Or even helped plan it against others.

But for years he had known in his own mind what would
eventually have to happen..Open civil war. It saddened him.
The unpalatable and unspoken truth that in the end the only
way to stop the violence would be to drive the Catholics out.
Lock, stock and barrel. Because until that happened, there
would never be peace. While the terrorists had a bedrock of
tacit support in their aims from such a large minority of the
population, then they would continue to thrive - like a virus for
which there was no cure.

Albie Nairn threw a stick for Toby and while the dog rooted
for it in a thick clump of dead undergrowth, he leaned against
the gate and stared up the road to his bungalow.

His home, he thought, his land. His country. His family's


225

country. Once he'd traced his ancestors back in the parish
records to the time of Elizabeth I. His family had lived her
longer than the Virginia settlers had lived in America. And no
little bastard with a balaclava and an Armalite was going to :
drive him out. Ever.

He glanced at his watch. Gone seven thirty. Time to

for the Ulster fry his wife would be preparing for him before she
left for work.

Calling Toby to heel, he started back and found himself
humming that tune again. A sort of catchy

Just a few weeks back it seemed like it was always being
on the radio. Stirring lyrics that certainly stirred his blood. 'Red
is the colour of anger. And black is the colour of hate. And
yellow the colour of those who look on, doing nothing to alter
their fate...' No doubting the meaning there. A call to arms, at
least metaphorically speaking.

It was sung by a group 9f students called the Tain. That made
Nairn smile. But the Tain and their song 'Colours' hadn't
made everyone smile, far from it. Complaints flooded in from
the Republican community. The BBC banned it overnight and
projected concerts were cancelled in the interests of public
order. Now tapes of the group's songs could only be bought
privately by mail order and to hear them live you'd have to go to
the packed bars and clubs in the Loyalist strongholds.

Nairn reached the gate, slipped on Toby's choke-chain and
stepped onto the road. His son was coming out of their drive in
his Mini, waving as he passed on his way south to Drogheda.
After studying computer science at Queen's University in
Belfast, young Brian had landed himself a plum job maintaining
the Bank of Ireland's computer network.

Then llairn stopped walking. A cold finger of fear ran down �
his vertebrae. Toby's hackles rose and he gave a low growl.

The nondescript saloon was pulled in on the verge opposite
the drive to his bungalow. In the days before the Provo Army
Council had announced its ceasefire, llairn would always park
an old wreck of a car to block the gateway. But now there was
free access. He forced his legs to move; it took a strong physical
effort, edging closer to the roadside opposite the car, ready to


226

leap for the ditch. His eyes darting left and right, then glancing
over his shoulder in case he'd missed someone behind him. His
heart was thudding in his chest, his palms sweating; 74.

He squinted, trying to see beyond the sheen of light on the
car windscreen. Just a driver, he thought, but couldn't be
certain. Toby's teeth clenched now, his growl cip, straining at
the leash.

The side window suddenly rolled down. Inside a face was
smiling. 'It's Albert Nairn, isn't it?'

God, the man was going to shoot him. Had a gun hidden on
his lap. Nairn heard the words, but they weren't his. Some

diser0bodied voice. Firm, confident. 'Who wants to know?' 'Cuchulainn ; the answer came.

Strange accent, Nairn thought abstractedly. Australian or
American perhaps, not Irish.

The man's right arm was moving, his hand slipping beneath
the lapel of his jacket.

In his mind Nairn was going over the word the stranger
had said, picking out the phonetic breakdown. Koohull-in. Cuchulainn.

My God! His mouth dropped open. It had been so long since
he'd heard that word. So long.

And yet only minutes ago he'd been humming that tune.

The driver's hand withdrew from his jacket. Not a gun in his
hand, but a buff envelope. HE reached out, offering it tO Nairn.

Nairn just stared at it. Cuchulainn, Cuchulainn, Cuchulainn. The word spinning round and round inside his skull. Cuchulainn.
The mythological Hound of Ulster. Dating back to the
third century BE or even beyond. To times before there was
the written word. Cuchulainn. The heroic Hound of Ulster who
rose to resist the invaders from the southern kingdoms. Who

fought alone while Ulster's warriors lay sick and helpless.
'Take it,' the man said. 'Quickly.'

Trembling fingers clutched the paper. Then suddenly his
mind cleared, and he stuffed the envelope into his side pocket.

The car drew away, leaving Nairn standing and staring after it
for a full minute before he walked slowly up his drive, his mind.
reeling.


227

'Albie, sure your breakfast is cremated,' his wife chided as
entered the kitchen to the smell of burnt bacon.
him with concern. 'What is it? You look like you've seen ghost.

He smiled weakly. 'It's nothing. I just felt a little dizzy.'
Then he sat and tried to eat, thankful when his wife left a: minutes later to drive to work. He reached into his
opened the envelope and spread the single sheet of
tinted paper on the table before him.

It read simply: TONIGHT. BE AT THE LAKE
PARK AT SUNDOWN. FOLLOW THE RAVEN

HAVE A FACE MASK WITH YOU TO WEAR WHEN,
YOU LEAVE YOUR CAR.

YOU WILL BE BACK HOME BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
TELL NO ONE OF THIS MESSAGE AND DESTROY
IT IMMEDIATELY.

PS. YOURNO IS 25.

He stared at it for a full five minutes before screwing it into a
tight ball and dropping it into the furnace of the Aga boiler.
Then he stepped into the front parlour and ran his eye over the
three neat shelves of the bookcase. They were not a family of
great readers. He found what he was looking for. A battered
Oxford University Press paperback edition of The Tain, printed
in 1970. A translation and interpretation of Ireland's most
ancient fantasy legend, 'The Cattle Raid', a scholarly work by
Thomas Kinsella. He flipped through the yellowing pages, the
strangely powerful and mystic illustrations of the French artist
Louis le Brocquy grabbing his attention as they always had.
Semiabstract brush drawings that made him think of the cave
drawings from the very dawn of time. Why did they make him
shiver?

Page ninety-eight.

He read the verse:


Dark one are you restless

do you guess they gather
to certain slaughter...
the raven ravenous

228


among corpses of men...

death of sons

death of kinsmen .,.

death death!


And there on the opposite page the inky blob.ike a psychologist's
test. 0hat does this remind you of? Nah-n didn't really
understand the words, but he understood a raven of death when
he saw one. He'd had enough and replaced the book quickly
amongst the other volumes. Why had it always made him feel
like that?

He went to his writing desk and took the set of keys from the
maker's secret compartment, then walked outside to a large
outhuilding made ofbreezeblock and tin. Releasing the padlock
he entered and switched on the fluorescent tube lighting. The
large hut had been constructed in 1974 and had only ever been
used for storage of the junk he habitually collected. Boxes and
boxes of car parts and racks of panels prised from wrecked
vehicles, all of which he thought might one day come in handy.

Carefully he picked his way through towards the back,
remembering the day when the walls and roof had been completed,
leaving an earthen floor. When the local builders had
left, another team arrived with a small mechanical digger. Not
usual workmen types, but quietly efficient, almost military in
their manner. They did not speak much but when they did there
was no mistaking the English accents. Hidden from prying eyes
by the shell of walls and roof, they had finished their work in just
a week. Then they left, never to be seen again. The concrete
floor was a legacy of their handiwork. But only one.

At the rear half a dozen crates, had been deliberately left
empty and were therefore easy to shift. Beneath the steel trap
door glinted under the overhead light. Six heavy-duty padlocks:
three combination types and three needing different keys. Once
these were freed, he struggled to lift it open, the smell of musty
air overwhelming him. He felt suddenly like the violator of a
tomb, intent on plundering the treasure of the pharaohs.

To his surprise, the light switch worked, the flickering tubes
below illuminating the steel ladder that descended vertically.


229

Gingerly he began his climb, down through two feet
reinforced concrete into the underground bunker. 7

He reached the bottom and looked around. Perhaps

feet by thirty. Wall-to-wall racking and more racks dividing
area into low corridors. It was amazing how much could be
stored in such a confined space. Literally hundreds of weapons:
assault rifles, sub-machine-guns, pistols and revolvers, all pristine
and oiled direct from the manufacturers and all carefully
wrapped in oilskin. None had ever been fired.

Other racks held metal ammunition cases, hundreds of them.
Yet more held crates of grenades of every description. Another
row was filled with radios and transmission equipment. A little
dated now, but all still functioned perfectly well. Another wall of
shelves was filled with anti-vehicle mines and another piled high
with boxes of PE4 high explosive, detonators and coils of wire.

It had never really occurred to Albie Nairn before to
whether or not all this stuffwas still stable after nearly a quartercentury
underground, whether he and his family were sitting
virtually on top of one gigantic unexploded bomb.

Quickly he left the bunker and resecured the trap door before
restacking the empty crates to hide its existence. When he'd
finished, he felt a little shaky, a bit breathless. Like a mild
anxiety attack. Going down there had been like passing through
a time warp. Like becoming suddenly, brutally, back in touch
with reality. The reality of over twenty years ago. He'd been a
young man then, thirty-four and fit, admittedly a little overweight,
but still fit. Now he had rheumatism in his fingers, a bad
back and a spot of gut trouble.

He stepped out into the sunshine that was now breaking up
the cloud and felt a sudden relaxing of tension as he locked the
doors. But despite the fresh air, the smell of the mustiness and
oiled gunmetal persisted in his nostrils.

Calmer now, he started walking back towards his bungalow.
Then something made him stop and turn and look. Down the
slope of the drive, across the road, over Doyle's pastures to
the hills beyond.

On the other side of those hills was the enemy. The nearest


230

Catholic-dominated town, steeped in hard-line Republican
tradition.

If- no, when - the enemy came over the hill, ma:?lge now they
would be ready for them.

231


While Albie Nairn was wondering exactly what was afoot, an
increasing number of people were similarly approached as the
day progressed.

Most were respectable and respected members of their communities:
shopkeepers, farmers, teachers, businessmen, bank
managers, solicitors - even police officers and clergymen. None
had ever been connected with the Loyalist paramilitary gangs.

All, however, had at one time belonged to the Frontline
Ulster Movement, an embryonic resistance organisation whose
members had shared Albie Nairn's fears of an ultimate
doomsday confrontation since the dark early years of the latest
conflict. Everyone in the Northern Ireland community knew of
its existence from its occasional strident proclamations, but also
that it had withered on the vine over the years. Its long slow
decline had been speeded by the conviction of its founder
Wallace McIlroy on paedophilia charges; he later hanged
himself. Since then the FUM was rarely found to be worth
quoting by the media, and at most, its continued spluttering
survival was seen as an irrelevant joke.

But that morning, before Nairn had taken Toby for his walk,
all that had begun to change.

Stevie Gavin, known to everyone as Rattler, lived in the
staunchly Loyalist area of the Shankill. Years before, he had
selected the two-up two-down terraced house at the end of a
cul-de-sac street that was marked by two gigantic gable-end
murals, one depicting William of Orange astride his white
charger and the other the red hand of Ulster in clenched-fist
salute. The kerb stones were painted red, white and blue. No
one, let alone an innocent Catholic, was ever going to wander
into that dead end without knowing he was walking right inside
the lion's mouth.

So there was only one way in to find Stevie Gavin, but there


232

was another way out for him - at the back, through a specially
concealed gate in the fence and into the adjoining rear garden,
then through the neighbours' house and out into the .street. He
had a set of keys and he used them often, at any hour Of the
day, or more usually night. And, inexplicably,..the streetlamp
opposite that house had been the frequent tar..t.of vandalism.
It had been permanently out of action for as long as anyone
could remember.

Neither was Rattler on the telephone; there was no point as
all calls were routinely monitored by intelligence agencies. So if
someone wanted to reach the Ulster Defenders' chief, they
had to be 'connected', to know who were the runners who had
access to him. And even they did not know his whereabouts
from day to day; he was always on the move and rarely at the
place he called home. Sometimes with his girlfriend, sometimes
not; like so many of the paramilitary leaders of all persuasions,
he had sacrificed his wife and child and normality in general to
the cause he believed in.

There were plastic venetian blinds at all the windows and
they were always shut. Stevie Gavin lived perpetually in a world
of artificial light, in constant fear of surveillance and the
assassin's bullet, both here and wherever else he stayed. The
front door was never answered and those who knew the routine
would go down the side of the house to the back door, so
triggering the infra-red light switch and the audio alarm inside.
That would give Gavin time to arm himself and identify the
caller on closed-circuit T3/ before his bodyguard opened
the steel-plated door.

Peter Keegan remembered the system of old and Johan van
Niekerk, who knew Rattler from the past, had recently dropped
in to check it out. It had been a friendly'reunion and over tea
both men had speculated on the mysterious escape from a
mainland prison of Rattler's erstwhile friend who had betrayed
his organisation. Before he left, van Niekerk had arranged to see
Gavin again in a few days' time.

That was how Keegan could be certain Rattler would be
home this night.
And Rattler's escape route, his way out, would be the way


233

in for them. All four approaching singly and from different
directions on opposite sides of the street. Keegan and van
Niekerk from the east, Gaza and Hutch from the west. Converging
to meet in the patch of shadow beneath the shattered
streetlarnp.

Gaza jemmying the window, slipping inside and letting them
in through the front door. All on tiptoe so as not to wake the
family sleeping above their heads. Out through the back into
the garden adjoining that of Stevie Gavin.

Van Niekerk's steady aim on the infra-red security light,
taking it out with the second silenced round. Then go. In
through the concealed door in the fence. Sledgehammers
coming out from under long raincoats.

A sudden rain of blows shattering the urban quiet, rending
timber, locks and hinges torn from their mountings. Bolts and
chains ripped free under the frenzied pounding. Seeming like
minutes because their lives depended on the speed of entry, but
in reality only thirty seconds.

Then in. Team splitting: van Niekerk and Hutch into the
living room, catching the bodyguard groggily awake, still
tangled up in his sleeping bag on the sofa.

Gaza already heading up the stairs, Keegan trailing. The
younger man going through the bedroom door like it wasn't
there. Which was as well because it was bolted and the sheer
force of his shouldered entry had ripped it clear.

Light from the landing fell across the carpet and the bed. A
woman sitting upright, her face as white as the sheet she had
clutched to her chest. Caught midway between the bed and the
window was Rattier, dressed in boxer shorts and carrying a
Magnum. He froze, startled, unsure whether or not to shoot it
out.

'HALT OR I FIRE!' Gaza yelled, already on one knee and
his gun unwavering in a double-handed grip.

'Fucldn' army,' Rattler muttered in disgust as he realised he
was a second too late.

Keegan entered behind his friend. 'Not the army, Stevie,
we're friends.'
Rattler's jaw dropped and a fringe of lank black hair fell


234

across his forehead to half-obscure his dark and glittering eyes.
'You?'

'The gun, drop it!' Gaza snapped. After tours o .te streets
of Londonderry and Belfast he knew better thanto take any
chances with a terrorist gunman. Especially one with the reputation
of Rattler.

Gavin let it clatter to the linoleum floor. 'I dorset believe this.'
Keegan thought how vulnerable the other man looked now,
vulnerable and harmless. His face gaunt and his body thin to
the point of emaciation, stripped of its flesh by years of nervous
tension, of never knowing. The skin was so pale it was obvious
he hadn't seen proper daylight for months. Not for Rattler
casual weekend strolls with the family in the park or sunning on
a beach. His was a dark secret world of rooms with the shutters
down and cars with tinted windows. Scurrying furtively from
bolt hole to bolt hole, seeking safety. Knowing that to stay in any
one place for too long was to die. And his face now said he'd

been in this house one fateful night too many.

'I've not come here to kill you, Stevie.'

The eyes did not blink. After a moment, Gavin said hoarsely:
'So what the fuck?'

'We're going to take a trip.'

On the bed, the woman whimpered, still clutching the sheet.
'Shut up!' Rattler ordered, not taking his eyes from Keegan.

'You'll be back here tomorrow night, Stevie. That's a
promise.'

Then van Niekerk appeargd at the door, pushing the hapless
minder before him. 'So you can tell your goon here and your
lady friend not to send the boys out looking.'

'Johan?' Rattler squinted at the light. 'You bastard, you were
in on this. You bloody set me up.'

'It had to be done,' Keegan said. 'We need your help.'

'My zvhat?' The man stared, incredulous. 'You fuckin' Brit
informer, you want my help! Like shit!'

There was a slight smile on Keegan's face. 'That's why we

had to do it like this. Sorry. Things are about to change.'
"What things?'

'We're activating the Frontline.'


235

Rattler started as though the other man was mad. 'This has I
be a joke.'

'No, Stevie. It's time to activate the FUM,' he repeated.
'Any time until last year was time to activate the Fronfline
Rattler jeered. 'Not now in the middle of this laughable blood peace process. I know it won't last, but I'm buggered if I'
goin' to be the one to restart it.'

'That's why I want you to come with me now,' Keegan sai
softly. 'To listen to what I have to say.'

Rattler shook his head. 'And why should I listen to you
Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you spy on me for ore
twenty years on and off, reporting everything back to the arm
and MIS?' He almost spat the words in his contempt.

Keegan considered that for a moment. 'At the time I though
I was right to do it, and mostly I still do. I didn't want i
degenerating into a full civil war. You and the Ulster Defender
have always been at the centre, Stevie, the hard core. Not afiraic
to commit any atrocity...'

The eyes facing him hooded fractionally; Rattler didn't lik
terms like that.

'It played into the hands of the enemy,' Keegan concluded. '
bad press. Got Whitehall and the general public thinking we'r
as.bad as the Provos, so wash their hands of the lot of us! That',,
why I did what I did.'

Rattler snapped back: 'Kill six Taigs for every one of ours random
terror of the innocent - it worked well enough to driw
the Provos finally to a ceasefire!'

'I won't deny that,' Keegan replied. 'And it also worked weI
enough for the Gestapo.'

The man ignored the jibe. 'And if I refuse to come with you?'
'We do need you, Stevie. I'm sure we can put our differences
behind us. We need you and your experienced players to form '
he hunted for the right word' - our tungsten tip.'

That brought a thin and humourless smile to Rattler's lips.
'Very poetic. But, I repeat, what if I want no part in this?'

Keegan placed a hand on the man's shoulder, but Gavin drew
back. 'Okay, Stevie, the bottom line is I can't afford not to have


236

you with us. You and your people are too dangerous to have as
enemies.'

Behind them van lliekerk raised his silenced pistol. He said
nothing, didn't have to.

A pink tongue flicked along Rattler's lips and. his eyes shone
darkly as he glanced momentarily at thewoman.0n" the bed and
then down at his boxer shorts. 'You would seem to have me at a
disadvantage.'


At twenty minutes to seven, Albie Nairn drove into the lakeside
car park.

His heart was thudding. What the hell was he getting himself
into? Ceasefire or no ceaseftre, this could be a setup. He could
just have accepted an invitation to his own funeral. Anyone
could be behind it, an old enemy or a new one. Provo or
Loyalist, who knew? Anyone who thought he was connected
might have a grudge.

And here he was, driving slowly into the car park glowing in
the golden light of a blood-red October sunset over the lake, a
mist floating above the still green waters. Perhaps the last sight
he would ever see.

There were four cars already there, each facing towards the
view. He made a wide circling sweep, getting as close to each
vehicle in turn without making it too obvious he was checking
the occupants. But there was no one he thought he knew or
even recognised.

One car was empty - no doubt its passengers out walking by
the lake - a courting couple huddled lovingly together in
another. Single men sat in the other two and Nairn wondered
why? Snatching a few moments away from nagging wives, pondering
their fate - or was it something mbre sinister? Both had
glanced at him as his car rolled by. Furtive eyes, he thought,
wary. Much like his own.

Don't park too close, he told himself, just in case. If they
make a run at your car, give yourself enough distance to get
clear. He slowed and stopped. Facing the lake because that
could be the only reason for being here. But leaving the bumper
six feet from the fence and putting the wheels on full left-hand


237

lock so he'd have space to clear in one sweeping movement if he
needed to drive out fast.

He switched offthe engine and waited.

Five minutes. Twilight dimming quickly; now cars on the
road had their lights on. The courting couple drove away. Then
another car swung in.

Nairn's mouth went dry, watching in his mirror as the car
crossed behind him, kept going and parked at the far end. No
one got out. He breathed again.

More lights on the road, something else entering the car park.

A white van, Transit type. It cruised slowly in a wide circle, past

each vehicle in turn but without stopping.

What the hell was the driver playing at?

As it drove back past him, he saw the emblem on the side. A
black blob design, the unmistakable drawing by Louis le
Brocquy. Above it the words: Raven Laundry.

Already the vehicle was disappearing, working its way back to

the main road, flasher going, indicating right. Nairn fumbled
for his key, rushing to start the engine. Stalled it in his haste.
Tried again. Sod, have I flooded the carb? he asked himself. He
closed his eyes in relief as it fired at last and he engaged gear.

By now, the van was on the road, another car already following
it out. He recognised it as belonging to one of the
solitary men. Damn, he might block his view of the Raven
Laundry van. Light shone in his rear mirror. Someone falling in
behind him.

Too late now. He joined the main road, the car behind still
following. Following him? His heart began to thud again.

It took ten minutes and several distinct changes of route
before he slowly began to realise. All three cars were following
the Raven van. He was in a convoy.


'It's been organised like a rave party,' Keegan explained. 'The
people we've called up have no idea of the final destination.'

Rattler was in the back of the car, squeezed between Keegan

and van Niekerk. They'd been travelling in darkness down
country roads for almost an hour and he'd lost all sense of
direction. Somewhere in Armagh or Tyrone, on the borders. 'It


238

won't work, Peter. You'll be riddled with informers.' He smiled
then at the irony of his words. 'You should know - you were one.
Perhaps you still are getting in on the ground floo9.f this new
outfit.'

'You'll have to trust me, Stevie. This is clean. Pure driven
snow.'

'Forgive me if I laugh.'

'Laugh all you like. Just listen to what is said.'

But with quiet satisfaction, Keegan noted that Gavin wasn't
laughing. As each hour had passed since they'd snatched him
that morning, Gavin had become steadily more thoughtful.

'We're here,' Gaza announced suddenly and pulled off the
road onto a narrow tarmac track. Ahead was a cluster of car
lights.

'And where is here?' Gavin asked.

Keegan tapped his nose. 'Need to know, Stevie, need to
know. Things are going to be very different from now on.'

Gavin could see now that they'd stopped in a private car park.
There were scores of vehicles: family saloons, estates, muddy
four-wheel drives belonging to farmers, a couple of motorcycles,
two small lorries - and vans. He noticed three white
vans, each with a strange symbol and the words Raven Laundry.

People were everywhere, milling around and waiting, but not
talking. It was a mild shock to see that everyone was wearing
some kind of mask, whether a balaclava or handkerchief.

Van Niekerk nudged him and handed him a woollen ski
mask. 'Put this on,' he ordered.

Rattler obeyed, still bemused by the entire business.

Then they were out, fully masked and standing around with
the others. A little farther ahead, he saw the lights of what was
undoubtedly an Orange Lodge hall. The sign outside had been
thoughtfully draped in black cloth to emphasise that this was
unofficial business.

One hooded figure wearing a red armband detached itself
from a group nearby and walked up to Keegan. 'It's gone well. I
reckon we've had an eighty per cent takeup.'

"�gell done, Tim. Right, let's get everyone inside.'

His son walked away and, with two other masked men, began


239

acting as usher to shepherd the bewildered gathering into th
hall.

Stevie Gavin walked alongside Keegan. Despite himself, he
found his excitement and expectation mounting. He was beginning,
just beginning to be impressed. A month ago Keegan wa
in a mainland prison with six years left to serve. Now this.

They shuffled through the double doors and into the hall.
Limp flags of the local Orange Order stood racked along one
wall like the forlorn permants of a defeated army. A trestle table
had been set out on the stage and above it hung a stencilled
banner in Gaelic script. Cuchulainn.

'You've not forgotten,' Gavin remarked.

'No,' Keegan said. 'And it's never been more appropriate.'

The other man indicated the rows of plastic-backed stacking
chairs put out for the audience. 'Where do I sit?'

'On the stage with me. It's all right, no one else here knows
who you are. I want you to see them, see how they react. I want
you to feel part of this, Stevie. It's important.'

Rattier shrugged and followed up into the wings and to the
seat that was indicated to him. He felt uncomfortable. A sea of
masked faces, eyes staring at him expectantly. He didn't like it
at all. His was the world of shadows, of not being seen.

Then the double doors were shut, Hutch and Gaza standing
guard. Keegan rose to his feet.

He paused, savouring the atmosphere of nervous anticipation.
Total silence, not a shuffle, not a cough. 'Gentlemen, I
will keep you for only a short time. And afterwards we shall not
meet again like this until it is all over.

'What is over, you will ask? I shall explain. The Frontline
Ulster Movement is at last, after twenty years, being called to
arms in defence of the province. It is a long time since you
pledged your allegiance to fight for your homeland and I understand
that some of you may have modified your views. That is
your individual choice and it will be respected. If at any time
during the next half-hour you decide you want no part of this,
you may just walk out. You have been specially chosen. Also
each of you was issued with a number when you were summoned.
Just give it to the usher on your way out. and wait


24O

outside. We will all leave together, not before. And I assure you,
no harm will befall any of you who decide to go.' He hesitated.
'However, your silence about this meeting will-.e.absolute,
whether you leave or stay with us. There will be no bar gossip
and no pillow talk. For anyone found to have talk.ed, retribution
will be swift and deadly. Remember that. Tis meeting has
never taken place and to talk of it will be considered as treason
by Frontline's war council and dealt with accordingly.

'My identity is known to just a few people here and I intend to
keep it that way. Your identities are known only to me en masse
and individually you will only ever be referred to by the number
you've been given. My number is One. Further, your names
do not appear on any government intelligence data as being
members of Frontline. I cannot tell you how this has been
achieved, but rest assured that it has.

'It is our intention to organise you into four-man cells of
complementary talents. This will support cells for our active
service units, providing logistical and technical support, from
storage and false documentation to transport, communications,
and safe houses. No one will be asked to carry out
active service missions which will be conducted only by volunteers
with professional military training. Units will be drawn
from cells and tasked to individual assignments.'

'Wait a minute!' interrupted a large man rising to his feet in
the front row; judging by his clothes, he was a farmer. His
borrowed pink ski mask looked incongruous in this setting.
'What the hell is all this about and why now, in the middle of a
ceasefire? It doesn't make sense. We've got peace for the first
time in a generation and I for one intend my grandchildren
should enjoy it!'

Keegan nodded his understanding. Believe me, I know
exactly how you feel. And I also know how you'd feel about your
grandchildren growing up in the Republic of Ireland, knowing
that you did nothing to stop it.'

That produced a rippling murmur of agreement through the
audience.

'We will do nothing to shatter that peace although we know it.
is just a callous tactical manoeuvre,' Keegan assured. 'All of us


241

in this hall tonight know that it will not, cannot, last without a
massive breach of faith by the British Government. None of us
on the platform have any doubt that they will not dare openly
betray the Protestant majority of Northern Ireland and be seen
to submit to PIRA terrorists, however much they would like to.
That means that they cannot give the terrorists what they
demand. And therefore they cannot square the circle. This
ceasefire is the cruellest deception yet to be presented to the
decent, law-abiding folk of Ulster. And because the Provos
cannot have what they demand, they will return to violence,
sooner or later. Even if Sinn Fein got as far as all-party talks,
within a month they would realise that ten per cent of the
electorate cannot dictate its will to the rest.

'And when the war returns to the streets of London, Belfast
and Londonderry, then we must be ready. That is why we are
calling you to arms NOW!'

This time the murmur from the crowd was more than a
ripple. Keegan had hit a chord, echoing what most had been
thinking privately.

He continued quickly: 'For a quarter-century this organisation
has stayed its hand. Has trusted the British Government
to do its duty by us, its loyal citizens. But clearly we can now see
that our trust has been misplaced. Tempted by the ceasefire,
London is contemplating the unthinkable, the reunification of
Ulster and Eire by stealth and sleight of hand. Note that there
is only one topic on the agenda. Not whether Eire left the
Commonwealth illegally to set up the Republic or that it should
rejoin the United Kingdom. Oh no, not that. So in truth there is
only one subject to be discussed -7 how our homeland can be
pushed closer and irreversibly into the arms of Dublin. That
and nothing else. And I can tell you exactly what the plan is. To
set up so many cross-border institutions and to involve the Irish
Government in every aspect of the province's political decision
making, that Ireland becomes united in all but actual name. It
will ruthlessly use the bribe of funding from the evil European
Union and its creeping federalism and the ERM in order to
achieve its aims. The result of any so-called referendum in
Ulster won't mean a thing. It won't change the reality of the


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situation.' He paused to allow his words to sink in, and knew he
had his audience rapt. Was speaking aloud the thoughts of every
one of them. 'And when the ceasefire ends - as it.will - are we
again going to sit confined in our homes for the next twenty-five
years and watch this country being raped again, its people and
its policemen killed and maimed, the fabriC- of our society
ripped to shreds? Watch while the British Government again
does nothing and ties the hands of all those who can with its
legal niceties and yellow cards? We know who and where the
Provos are, so does Whitehall. They always have done, but
they've never done anything about it. Nor will they in the next twenty-five years!'

More nods and murmurs of approval. But not everyone was
convinced; the farmer was on his feet again. 'If you're right and
the ceasefire ends, then surely we Protestants and Loyalists will
have no fears of being pushed into a United Ireland in the way
you've said.'

'I wish you were right,' Keegan answered quickly. 'But have
you really thought it through? I have. Already we have enjoyed a
year of peace. And we'll continue to do so. Until next month,
next year. Just when the British Government thinks it has
lasting peace in its grasp, it will be snatched away! What do you
think their reaction will be to that? Think about it. They will
fall over backwards to make even more concessions. If PIRA
resumes its bombings and shootings, then, for a while at least,
Sinn Fein will be excluded. But the SDLP, Dublin, Whitehall
and Washington will beaver, away to get some solution that will
still persuade the terrorists to stop. They will still try, even
harder, to give the Provos what they want. Nothing will have
changed.

'Already the British have opened all" doors to Sinn Fein,
including PIRA Army Council members; they've given way on
the argument of the permanence of the ceasefire and accepted
weasel words instead. They've allowed Adams and his ilk to go
to the mainland and lifted the media ban and they're releasing
terrorist prisoners early. Now they're talking of a twin-talk
approach to get round the cornerstone condition of disarmament-before-talks.
They've taken the troops off the streets, torn


243

down the border checks and have started a phased military
withdrawal. All for nothing, absolutely nothing in return. How
many more concessions will they make in their desperation to
get a settlement? To get rid of us at any price? They will fred
some format, some formula. All this encouraged by a duped
Washington regime in the thrall of the papist Irish lobby and
desperate to claim credit for peace before the presidential
election!.

'Anti do you really think a British Government - of any
colour - will resist? You've seen how far down the road of
appeasement they've already gone. Peace at any price, no
matter how unjust!'

'Bloody true!' someone called, and his words were answered
by cries of agreement.

Keegan knew he had them then, was talking their language.
'We have been and are being betrayed by the leaders of our own
nation. And I ask you this:


"Treason doth never prosper what's the reason?

For if it prosper, none dare call it treason." '


He stared defiantly at the packed rows of people. 'Well, we
dare!' Then his voice rose to fill the rafters. 'NO SURRENDER!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!'

Abruptly he resumed his seat as the audience erupted
leaping to their feet with fists and voices raised in a chant of
approval, chorusing his last words, turning to each other, hearts
burning and eyes on fire beneath masks and balaclavas. At last a
voice had been heard in the wilderness, a voice that echoed
every personal belief and fear they had each had for so, so long.
Just when their spirits were finally crushed, their will to fight
eroded by a smothering sense of helplessness, with their politicians
mouthing the same old no surrender rhetoric as they
again gave away a little more of their cultural identity, their
heritage and their birthright to Southern nei#ibours who had
chosen to become a foreign nation state. Now, suddenly, it was
as though a banner had been unfurled, a battle ensign fluttering
before them. in their imaginations they could already bear the
flutes and the heavy beat of the Lambeg drum. Alad above


244

the triumphal marching band, the voice of a leader calling them
to arms.

The ovation continued, the cheering and the clapp'.mg rolling
on, even when Keegan once again rose to his feet. Van Niekerk
glanced pointedly at his watch; the longer thi.s, rally ran, the
greater the danger of being compromised.

Keegan raised his right hand and to his supbise the noise
died away immediately. Total obedience. 'Gentlemen, if any of
you wish to leave, now is the time to do so. To remain, you
should be totally committed - otherwise go. We respect your
view. But you must wait outside with our usher until we all leave
together.'

Again he was surprised when only two people, decidedly
embarrassed, rose and edged awkwardly to the side. There were
a few low hisses and boos, but mostly the eyes inside the masks
watched them go with disdain.

As the exit door closed, Keegan said: 'Our intelligence tells us
that Dublin anticipates the withdrawal of British troops from
our province soon, to be replaced by some other international
force. Perhaps London does not foresee it, but the Irish
Government expects a badly organised Loyalist uprising, an
apocalyptic pogrom as bad as anything we've wimessed in the
former Yugoslavia. And it has contingency plans, as it always
has, for its army to rescue the Catholic population. After which,
you may be assured, it will not again retreat.

'We have evidence that Dublin has spent millions of punts of
EU grant aid in the past fev( years to totally re-equip its armed
forces beyond any self-defence or UN peace-keeping role. So
you can see that time is short. But rest assured our plans are
well in hand. We have communications, sophisticated arms
and explosives and we have a campaign: Not a campaign of
slaughtering the innocents like the butchers of the Provisional
IRA, but a campaign to bring the Republic to its knees economically
and spiritually. And our demands will be simple and
clear.

'To withdraw from the Anglo-Irish Agreement of 1986,
giving Dublin a say in the running of a foreign nation state, and
to intern all members of the IRA south of the border.


245

'And, most important of all, to remove from that country's
written constitution - and from its very psyche - its claim on
Ulster. Because, my friends, despite all the talk and hollow
promises of the past ten years, it remains. The one thing that
Dublin could have done during twenty-five years to allay our
fears and to discredit and disinherit the IRA, and still it has not
done so.

'So we will do it for them and hit them so hard they will no
longer want our homeland for their own! They will realise we
are ngt worth the Holy Roman candle!

'Cuchulainn has arisen. Collectively we are now the Hound of
Ulster, so appropriate to come again to the rescue of our people
from the southern invaders while our warriors lie sick and
defenceless. We are at war with Dublin.' He raised his right
hand in a clenched salute - all but Rattler, who stared in incredulity,
suddenly noticing that every other man on the platform
wore a red glove. "CUCHULAINN! CUCHULAINN!
C UCHULAINN.

The voices of the audience rose as one seeming to shake the
roof and walls like an earthquake. Everyone was on their feet,
shouting their support, carried along by the excitement of it all.

It was then that one figure of slender build stood to one side
of the platform. Only as the mouth within the balaclava opened
and the first pure notes floated above the audience, was it
realised that the singer was a girl. The effect was shocking, her
voice like crystal and needing no accompaniment as the words
now familiar to everyone present rose to a soul-rending crescendo.
'Red is the colour of anger, And black is the colour of
hate, And yellow the colour of .those who look on - doing
nothing to alter their fatel'

More rapturous applause. Keegan turned quietly to Rattler.
'Okay, Stevie, we leave now. Quick, on your feet.'

Still bemused the man joined the departing group from the
platform, down the steps and past the waving forest of arms
reaching to touch them and slap their backs like fans of a
winning football team.

Suddenly they were outside in the clear night air, all relieved
to be away from the heat and clamour of the packed ha.ll.


246

'Back to the car?' Rattler asked.

Tim tugged his arm. 'No, the other way. To the helicopter.'

Rattler did a double-take and changed direction, .&.chopper?
Are you takin' the piss?'

'No,' Keegan replied, lengthening his stride. '..We'll be out of
the province and over the border in five minutes. Low level all
the way.'

'Am I supposed to be impressed?' he sneered.

Keegan pulled offhis balaclava and ruffled his hair to let the

breeze cool the perspirati.gn from his scalp. 'Were you?'
'It was like a fuckin' Nuremberg rally.'
'That good?' van Niekerk joked.

'That good,' returned Rattler, 'if you're a fan of AdolfHitler.'
He continued walking, clearly turning something over in his
mind. 'So what's this campaign you were talking about?'

Keegan didn't even have to pause to think. 'We'x'e going to
hit them where it hurts. Destroy their tourist industry and
agriculture, their banking system. Then their infrastructure transport,
electricity, water, gas. We'll make it impossible for
them to sell their produce abroad. I've had years to work this

Out.'

For once Stevie Gavin let his mask slip a fraction. 'Well, if
that rally was an example of your planning, I suppose you could
just succeed.'

His former friend stopped walking. 'With you and your
people with us, Stevie, we can't fail.'

Rattler's eyes narrowed. 'Why the hell should I help you?'
Keegan looked up into a clear sky full of stars, something he
had rarely seen for over five long years. 'Because in the end,
Stevie, you were right and I was wrong. Those bastards in
Whitehall betrayed me then, just like they're betraying the
entire province now.'

Rattler didn't answer as they continued walking, but he
began to feel something, a sensation filling his chest. A sensation
he had not experienced for many a dark year. Pride.

Back at the hall car park, Albie Nairn was one of the last to
leave. He sat in his car, humming that tune as his mind reelecf
and he watched the vehicles queuing to go through the gate.


247

Then he remembered he was still wearing his balaclava ant
swiftly pulled it off. He realised that his eyes were full of tears.


The monthly progress meet was on neutral ground. Old habits
died hard and anyway Roger Pinfold knew that Harry Grise- wood would insist if he himself had not.

Everything boxed and separate. That was how to keep secrets
secret.

Too many prying eyes and ears in London, so Pinfold took
the suburban line rattletrap out of Waterloo to Surbiton. He
knew Grisewold lived in the area somewhere, sharing his flat
with Margie Lewis. Both reliable, both former staffers and no
running one of several private investigation agencies that the
Security Service frequently used.

However, he made sure that Grisewold's outfit only ever
worked for him; that way no documentation would exist at
Thames House. Pinfold was in a position of such authority to
allow him to syphon off whatever funding was needed from
other deniable and highly classified black operations as was

necessary. No one above him would ever call him to account.
Everything boxed and separate.

His mind was preoccupied on the journey by two things.
Both, as far as he knew, unrelated. The first was the continuing
disappearance of the prisoner Peter Keegan. No hint, not even a
whisper of where he might be. Nothing from immigration, the
Prison Service, Special Branch or the Anti-Terrorist Branch.
Zilch. He had disappeared off the face of the earth. Fine,
Pinfold thought, as long as he stayed that way.

Of course, Curtis Manning of the CIA would be clucking
around like some paranoid chicken looking for its head. Always
running scared when he'd lost control of someone who knew
too much, especially ff he thought this might upset his beloved
President's peace process. Pinfold had been fielding phone calls
for a week, allowing his secretary to do the stonewalling.

The other subject that niggled at the back of his mind was
an intelligence signal that had come through from Northern
Ireland. An uncorroborated report that there'd been stirrings in
the Frontline Ulster Movement, a quasi-paramilitary group


248

that Pinfold's department had long regarded as toothless and
moribund. Probably it was another of their occasional outbursts
of predictable vitriol which even the Belfast .ne.wspapers
ignored. Rumour of a meeting or rally in some remote rural
backwater near the border. A bunch of anal-retentive, teetotal
churchgoers, thought Pinfold dismissively, thaffs all the Frontline
had ever been. All bullshit and no action in twenty-five
years.

But once again it might just be enough to get Curtis Manning
twitchy, so Pinfold for one was not about to tell him. He just
hoped Manning hadn't learnt that once, as impressionable
youths, both Peter Keegan and Rodney Littlechild had been
members. That would really get him going.

The train pulled in and Pinfold alighte, d, making his way
across the high street to the dingy little cafe that served breakfasts
all day long. It was nearly empty and Grisewold sat at his
usual table, munching on a fried egg wedge. Pinfold collected a
chipped cup of stewed tea from the counter and joined him.

Grisewold nodded without speaking because his mouth was

full and shoved the plastic folder across the table.

'What's this?'

'It's what that ex-cop Derek Penny gave Lomax,' the other
man replied, and a tiny gobbet of chewed egg landed on the
folder. Pinfold flicked it away distastefully as Grisewold swallowed
and cleared his mouth. 'They're keeping several copies at
different locations - I thought it was less obvious to snatch the
one from Lomax's pad - especially as we've already been inside
the place.'

'How long have you had these?'

'Couple of weeks.'

'They aren't photographs.'

Grisewold sniffed. 'We didn't have time before the sister
came back. Devil of a job to find it as it was. We just snatched it
and ran. Made it look like a burglary.'

But Pinfold wasn't listening. 'God, Harry, have you seen this
stuff? It's all highly classified department material. Where the.
hell did Penny get it from?'


249

'From when he was running his inquiry in Belfast, I should
think. When he discovered what Keegan was up to.'

Pinfold nodded. 'Through the RUC, or maybe the army,' he
agreed. 'I certainly had no idea he'd got hold of this stuff.'

'It'll interest the jury,' Grisewold said absently, pausing to call
to the waitress for a jam doughnut. 'Reads like Roddy Littlechild
was the best agent the Brits ever had.'

No panic, Pinfold thought. His mind raced ahead, a mind
endlessly practised in the art of damage limitation, seeking for
the weakness that he knew must be there somewhere. Then he
saw it. 'Of course, Harry, these are only photocopies. Who's got
the originals?'

Grisewold smiled, not an especially edifying sight. Pinfold,
the smug bastard, wasn't always as smart as he thought he was.
'Your department, I should think, boss. Tucked away in the
vaults. No one would have handed over original classified stuff
to Derek Penny. They'd have swung for it. You're looking at
copies of copies.'

'Ah; Pinfold said, suddenly seeing the light. 'Forgeries.'
'Don't look like the real thing to me, boss,' he said with a dry
chuckle. 'Given the sequential numbering, I'm sure you could
trace the actual originals.' He lit a cigarette.

Pinfold considered for a moment. 'That still leaves us with
the problem of Derek Penny himself. He can give evidence as to

his source and the authenticity of these documents.'

'Perhaps he can be persuaded otherwise.'

Pinfold shook his head. 'Not Derek Penny. That's why
Keegan is,' he corrected himself, 'was doing a stretch. His army
handlers and the RUC put real pre.ssure on for Penny to drop it.
He refused point blank.'

'And your department?' Grisewold asked casually; but he
was never a good actor when performing in front of Pinfold.

'I think you know the answer to that,' he replied reproachfully.
'My department were remitted to run a different agenda
by then, looking to the future.'

Grisewold chuckled. 'A rogue element, eh?'

A patina of ice crystals seemed to glaze Pinfold's eyes. 'Quite
the contrary, Harry, my department's instructions have always


250

come from the very top. And at that time we were beginning to
realise that Keegan and his ilk would become an embarrassment
and a liability.'
	?..

	'So you let him go swing?'

The MI5 man's expression didn't alter. 'You'd do well to
remember that, Harry.' "

Oh, I will, you bastard, Grisewold's eyes said But his voice
spoke different words: 'Problem with people like Penny is that
they don't bend.'

	'What do you mean?'

'Any engineer will tell you. Things that don't bend under
pressure- well, they snap.'

Pinfold regarded the other man carefully. 'I don't see Penny
snapping. Not the sort.'

'He's exactly the sort. He's bitter and twisted, full of disillusion
with his former police colleagues, the Home Office, the
government. He's not exactly hard up but he's got to be
careful. And he's not well.'

'How d'you know that?' Pinfold began and stopped himself;
his department did it all the time. Banks and NHS regional
authorities with their central computer records were an open
book to the Security Service.

'He suffers with nerves. Regular prescriptions for Valium and
sleeping pills. He's got a small overdraught and negative equity.

I don't think it would take much to push him over the edge.'
'What do you have in mind?'
'Somethirtg Margie sugges, ted.'

Momentarily Pinfold imagined the two of them in some
squalid little flat. The insatiable slag up to all her old tricks that
were legendary in the service; then after, lying in their stale
sweat, having a cigarette while they picked over the intimate
personal details of Derek Penny's life. 'Tell me.'

'He prides himself on his integrity, always has. But if some
question was to arise of some impropriety...'

At that moment Pinfold's mobile began bleeping. 'Okay,
Harry, leave it with me.' Irritably he tugged the telephone from
his jacket. 'Hello,' he snapped.

	'Mr Prendergast?' It was a woman's voice. 'Jane Wednesday


251

here, Attorney-General's Office.' Her tone was very self
assured but, he detected, slightly ruffled. 'I thought you'd want
to know of a most extraordinary occurrence in the case of Police
v. Littlechild.'

'That's most kind of you, Miss Wednesday.' His oily response
disguised the fluttering he felt in his heart. 'What's happened?'

'Sir Joshua Stokes has had a witness summons issued against

him. I think it's quite unprecedented.'

'I'm sorry, who?'

'The director general of the Metropolitan Police Forensic
Science Laboratory at Lambeth. A witness summons has been
issued obliging him to appear before an examining magistrate at
Woolwich to explain why forensic samples have not been provided
to the defence - or at least access granted to the defence's
own experts. Sir Joshua is absolutely outraged.'

'Who's responsible for this?' Pinfold wasn't even aware that it
could be done.

'The defence solicitors, Eisner, Pollock and Browne.'

Pinfold closed his eyes. 'Her!'

'Yes, Samantha Browne. She might just as well have subpoenaed
Her Majesty or the Prime Minister. Sir Joshua is just

not treated in this manner.'

'Is it legal?'

She hesitated. 'Unheard of, yes. Actually illegal, no. Browne

has clearly browbeaten and misled the magistrate into issuing
the summons. I am fully aware that she's a canny operator after
all, she is on our unofficial blacklist.'

'So what can be done about it?' Pinfold cut in.

'Well, I can certainly have the GPS refer the matter to the

Law Society. Such an action is clearly a breach of the agreed

code of conduct.'

But Pinfold's life had been dedicated to cirqumventing codes

of conduct in all respects. 'No, I mean what can be done about

the summons itself?'

'Well, I'm sure the Met and your department have no intention
of having Sir Joshua dragged before some magistrate like a
common criminal any more than I do. Lambeth will just have to


252

give the Littlechild case top priority - and give way to Browne's
demands.'

Pinfold didn't mention that the case results had-been given
priority on his personal instruction, but also with the heavy hint that there should be no great rush to release them to the
defence. He said: 'Well, thank you for advising(he, Miss Wednesday.
Please continue to keep me informed of any further
developments.'

As he folded away his mobile, Grisewold asked him what had
happened. When Pinfold exllained, the investigator scratched
thoughtfully at the day's growth of stubble on his chin. 'Well, if
the GPS is going to refer the matter of the Browne woman's

conduct to the Law Society, they can add something else.'
'What's that?'

'The defence has been sniffing around prosecution witnesses

without agreement with the police or GPS.'

'How d'you know that?'

'We've got Lomax under twenty-four-hour surveillance.' He
gave a smug little smile. 'That tracer I indented for - the one
you complained about -well, it's paid off. If my team had to be
right up his arse, he'd have spotted them by now.'

'Lomax?' Pinfold repeated. 'You can't report him to the Law
Society.'

'He's acting for Browne, boss. Her junior clerk did the
legwork in her free time, then Lomax and a mate of his followed
up with the actual questioning. Browne's hired Lomax to act as
a private dick. He's spoken to Salmon, the landlord of the
Mortar and Pestle.'

'Interviewed him?' Pinfold paled. Salmon's evidence could
be crucial.

'More like threatened to break his legs.'

'Did he say anything?'

'I don't think so. My boys paid a little follow-up call. He's
more scared of losing his pub. But just to be sure we roughed
him up a little bit, broke a few optics. He's more scared of us
than Lomax.'

'Be careful, Harry. I don't want this blowing up in our faces.:
He glanced at his watch. 'Look, I've got to catch the next


253

train back into town. Meanwhile, I want Browne and Lomax
watched like hawks.'

'I'm doing my best, boss. They're both fully wired to sound,
so to speak. But my team's pretty stretched. They're exhausted - there's only so much four people can do.'

Pinfold didn't like that, even if it was stating the obvious.

'I've got to keep the lid on, Harry, so I can't draft in staffers.
Haven't you any more people you can hire?'

Grisewold smiled. 'You can't get the quality nowadays, and
when you do it comes expensive.'

'I've got to keep the budget under control or else it'll start to
show.'

God, Grisewold thought, he'd find the funding soon enough
if things went wrong and his own neck was on the line. He said:
'Then there's not a lot more I can do.'

Pinfold rose to his feet, leaving his tea untouched. 'Leave it
with me, Harry, I'll see what I can do.'

But on the train journey bck to raterloo, he did not give it
too much thought, preoccupied as he was with the meeting he
was due to have with Lord Moffat and the American Curtis
Manning. When he called in at his office in Thames House
before going to the electronically swept conference room, he
glimpsed the letter on the top of his IN-tray. Recognising the
crest of the Staffordshire Police Force, he snatched itup.

'Jesus,' he breathed as he scanned its contents. 'That's all ]
need.' He stuffed it into his pocket and set offfor the basement.


Curtis Manning dearly considered himself to be a mover of
mountains, and preferably before breakfast. Big and rawboned,
he had the bearing of a military commander who had
never contemplated defeat in his life, even when it stared him i
the face. It showed in his glittering gimlet eyes and the defianl
iut of his chin.

In his mid-fifties, he'd cut his teeth on the Bay of Pigs operation
in Cuba and had been immersed in the sewerage of U5
clandestine ops ever since. Nam, Cambodia, Laos, El Salvador:
Nicaragua, Afghanistan and South Africa. More recently he'd
been involved in rearming the Croats in the former Yugoslavia,


254

And, of course, Northern Ireland where he'd had an interest for
many years, even before this latest involvement in the ceasefire
and peace process on behalf of the White Ho.u.e.. Curtis
Manning was a man who liked to be trusted as the one who got
things done.

He was in typically bullish mood when Pinfold rrived to find
him drinking coffee with Moffat. Typically theAmerican was
already in rolled shirtsleeves, on his feet and pacing the room
impatiently. The comparison with the relaxed Moffat, overweight
and pin-striped, lounging in his chair, couldn't have
been more marked.

'Hi, Roger,' Manning greeted, turning sharply. 'Thought we
might have to start without you.'

Pinfold hid his irritation. 'I've just come up on the train.' He
didn't say where from.

'Your trains still running late, eh? So much for privatisation.'
It was meant to be a joke, a typical Manning Brit-bashing
joke, but Pinfold wasn't in the mood. 'In fact the railways aren't actually private yet, Curtis. I just thank God we've st///got a
railway system worthy of the name. I really do wonder how you
Americans manage.'

Manning saw the barb and ducked. 'We fly, Roger, we fly!'
And he chuckled heartily at his own quick wit.

Moffat moved quickly to defuse any further antagonism.
'Let's get ourselves up-to-date, gentlemen. I have to report to
the Cabinet Intelligence Unit at six, so I really have little time. If
you'd like to kick off, Roger?'.

Pinfold settled in his chair, having decided how not to give
the impression that their plans were falling apart at the seams.
'Just to remind ourselves, the purpose of Operation Gadfly is
two-fold. To ensure that the PIRA ceasefire holds and the peace
process maintains its momentum, given the government's
balancing act. That is, between how many concessions it can
make and still keep the Protestant majority on board.'

'And without admitting the inevitability of reunification,'
Manning chipped in. It was part of his bravado to call a spade a
shovel - no point in fudging the bottom line in private, had
always been his maxim.

255


'Quite,' Pinfold murmured. 'The most immediate danger to
this had been Donny Fitzpatrick, a highly influential member of
the PIRA Army Council who was dead set against the ceasefire.
On the Loyalist side, we have most of the paramilitaries under
control, the little shits see themselves as budding politicians.
The biggest danger is the man they call the Rattlesnake or
Rattier, Stevie Gavin.'

'And he's the guy you tried to get Littlechild to top?'
Manning asked.

'Yes, that was just before the ceasefire was announced. We
thought it best to get Rattler out of the way at the start. As you
know, Littlechild refused. As an ally, Littlechild was invaluable,
but as a potential enemy, he is very dangerous. He has considerable
military experience and exceptionally good contacts with
South Africa and other arms-supplying countries who will trade
with anyone for hard currency. We couldn't risk him possibly
switching loyalty back to Gavin.'

'I am aware of his CV,' Manning said acidly. 'That's why I
wanted him blocked out.'

Pinfold continued: 'The second purpose of Operation Gadfly
has been to silence anyone who can reveal any previous activities
of the British,' he glanced pointedly at Manning, 'or other
allied governments that could cause great embarrassment or
misunderstanding. Revealed at this critical time, the first casualty
would be the peace process. The second would be the
credibility of the British Government and especially the integrity
of MI5 and certain operations mounted by the CIA. That
would hardly allow the United States to present itself as an
honest broker.'

'I know all that crap,' Manning intervened. 'Hell, we've all
got skeletons in our cupboards. The question is will they rattle?
That's why we're all here.'

Pinfold held up three fingers. 'Only three people can do any
real damage. Rumours are one thing, we've always lived with
that. But Stevie Gavin, Peter Keegan and Rodney Littlechild
are the ones with credibility.'

Manning hissed gently through his teeth; he didn't like the
sound of that. 'Who rattles loudest, Roger?'

256


'Reverse order,' Pinfold replied. 'Stevie Gavin knows the
least and he's so deeply implicated in over thirty murders, it's
hardly in his interest to talk. -?,.

'Keegan and Lirdechild are different. The mdia already
know that Keegan was an army agent and have speculated that
Litflechild was too. Now, until a month ago whought we had
the two of them safely out of harm's way for several more
years...'

'Don't remind me,' Manning interrupted. 'So is there any
news on Keegan?'

Pinfold shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. But, as he's on the
run, he's not likely to want to attract media attention either.'

'I wish I had your faith,' Manning muttered. 'So anyway,
Roger, you're telling me the real danger is still Rodney
Littlechild.'

Moffat said: 'We must be sure we have that situation under
control, Roger, so you'd better update us.'

Pinfold told them about the evidence that Littlechild's
defence team had unearthed from the former DCC of West
Weald, Derek Penny, Lomax's questioning of witnesses and
Browne's provocative ploy to get her hands on forensic evidence.
He then indicated without detail the countermeasures
he'd taken to neutralise any potential damage to the prosecution
case.

'There has been one other new development you should
know about,' Pinfold added, addressing his words to Lord
Moffat. 'A request has come through from the Assistant Chief
Constable of Stafford for us to arrange an interview with
Colonel X.'

'Who's he?' Manning asked.

'A former colonel in Army Intelligence who was running
Keegan for us. The request was made on behalf of a Detective
Superintendent Bill Johnson who's in charge of the operation to
recapture Keegan.'

'Why should he want to speak to this Colonel X?' Moffat
asked.

'He's dissatisfied with the co-operation from the Anti257


Terrorist Branch and my department - we've instructed

the bare minimum on Keegan's background to be released.'

'Why, for Godsakes?' Manning asked. 'IY want that

back inside.'

'It's a delicate balance, Curtis. Tell Johnson too much
heaven knows what he might accidentally unearth.'

Moffat agreed. 'Let me have a discreet word about Johnson
with the Chief Constable, Roger.'

Pinfold looked down at the letter on his lap. Tvea sneaking
suspicion Johnson is doing more than hunting down Keegan. It
could be that his unauthorised interview with Derek Penny has
aroused his curiosity.'

Manning could see that. 'The fact he took Lomax and the
Browne woman in tow suggests he sees a link between Keegan
and Littlechild. That's a very dangerous turn of events.'

'I agree,' Moffat said. 'Do we have any knowledge yet how
Littlechild's going to plead? Has he taken the bait?'

The MI5 man shook his head. 'Not yet. It's still fighting taik.
Mind you, they haven't seen the forensic evidence yet.'

'I don't like it,' Moffat said. 'It's that damn Browne woman.
She just won't accept defeat - thinks she's on some bloody
moral crusade.'

Pinfold almost smiled. 'Perhaps she is.'

'We need more insurance,' Manning decided. 'There's no
way they must be allowed to fight this case. We must make them
see there's no way out. Any ideas, Roger?'

The other man had an idea all right; he'd been mulling it over
for a couple of weeks. 'There is a possibility. Something that
would make the defence realise that Littlechild was going to
face a prison sentence whatever thb outcome. There's a connection
that would put Littlechild neatly in the frame, but there's a
risk involved.'

'Why?' Manning asked.

'Because we can't control the defence reaction, only surmise
the most logical outcome. And then you can never rely on any
jury. Nevertheless, on balance it's virtually foolproof.'

'You'd better give us your idea in full, Roger,' Moffat decided.
It took Pinfold ten minutes to outline what he had in mind.

258


He concluded: 'It'll box him in so tight, he'll be forced to take
the line of least resistance.'

'The Browne woman won't like that,' Manning o1. ,erred.

'But it won't be her neck on the block' Pinfold'relied. 'In
the end it'll be Littlechild's decision. So the risk is minimal)

Manning could see that. 'I'm more worried alot this Lomax
guy. He's too much of a loose cannon. His background makes
him dangerous and he knows where to poke around. I'd be
happier with him on a tighter rein.'

'We have limited resources, Curtis, you know that.'

The British excuse for everything, Manning thought, and let
his contempt show in his voice. 'Look, just over a month and
the President goes to Belfast. I can't afford any shit hitting the
fan. You need resources, I've got 'em. Zack Ryan and his boys
are running all over Ireland lookin' for work to do. He'd be
more than happy to lend you some manpower. I insist.'

Moffat smiled. 'It's nice to see the old special relationship
isn't dead.'

'Just sleepeth,' Manning quipped. 'I'd consider it a discourtesy
if you turned my offer down.'

'We wouldn't dream of it, old man,' Moffat said. 'Would we,
Roger?'

Pinfold didn't answer. Harry Grisewold was going to love
this.

Moffat added: 'That's settled then. And I think we'll have Mr
Littlechild so tightly chained up, the Browne woman's going to
need Houdini to get her clieny untied.'

259


Lomax arrived at the offices of Eisner, Pollock and Browne at
just before one. He was in high spirits as he parked and sauntered
in out of the late October sunshine and up the paper
cluttered staircase.

Following the witness summons issued against Sir Joshua
Stokes, things had started to move, although not quite as fast as
Sam Browne would have liked. Lambeth had telephoned direct
to say that a copy report of the forensic findings would be
available within a fortnight and access granted to a defence
expert. Bullseye!

That morning Browne had phoned him with the news that a
package was on its way by courier from the GPS. She was delighted with her coup, not least because the day before Erie
had visited her husband in Belmarsh and reported he was deeply depressed at the lack of any progress.

'I'm going to see him this afternoon to give him the good
news,' she'd said over the phone. 'Come with me, Chris, and
help boost his morale.'

'If you let me take you to lunch first,' he'd replied, half-joking.
She relented. 'Well, just half an hour for a pie and a pint.'
'Not exactly seductive.'

Her voice hardened. 'Don't even think about it, Chris. We've
done the candlelit supper big and it didn't work out,
remember?'

Was he still really getting the cold shoulder or was she just
playing a game? He wasn't sure, any more than he was sure he
wanted to pursue her.

Those thoughts were still tumbling through his mind as he
entered the solicitor's chaotic outer office. Browne was leaning
against Totty's desk, long trouser-suited legs outstretched and
her hair the soft, pinned-back muddle he'd got used to. The two


260

of them were raising glasses of champagne with old man Eisner
and the pimply-faced clerk called Wayne.

'Can anyone join the party?' Lomax asked. ..,

Browne peered over her reading specs. 'Chris! Come and
have some bubbly - celebrate my victory over the system. Only
Sainsbury's own, I'm afraid.' "

'We Eisners have our reputations to keep tip,' the senior partner said, shaking Lomax by the hand. 'I hope you're as
proud of her as we are.'

'Well, let's say I'm very pleased for Roddy's sake.'

She noted that, he saw; her eyebrow arching in a quizzical
sort of way. 'The messenger should be here any minute. Then
we can really get to town on Roddy's defence.'

'Don't forget Bill Johnson,' Totty chimed in with a champagne
giggle.

'Oh, yes, it slipped my mind. Bill phoned earlier, trying to
track you down.'

'What does he want?'

'A word apparently. He's down at Scotland Yard today on
some briefing and would like to see you. I said he could join us
at the pub across fle road.' She noticed the flicker of disappointment
in his eyes. Teasingly she added: 'I thought it would
be a good idea for us to have a chaperone.'

Before Lomax could respond, a leather-clad spaceman in
visored bonedome staggered to the top of the stairs clutching a
large padded envelope.

'Package for Mr Browne,' he announced.

Browne sprang to her feet. 'Gimme, gimme,' she laughed,
snatching it from him. 'Sign for it, Totty, will you?'

Feverishly she plucked at the staples, breaking a nail in the
process, and pulled out the file. 'This is what I want. I'll read it
over lunch.' She grabbed her shoulder bag and turned to
Lomax. 'C'mon, let's go.'

They crossed the street to the crowded pub and weaved their
way through the lunchtime drinkers. By the time Lomax had
fought his way to the bar to get the drinks and sandwiches,
Browne had charmed two burly workmen into giving up their
table.

261


'How'd you manage...?' he began. But she wasn't

Her specs were on and she had the lab report open on the table;
She was staring in disbelief, her face ashen.

He put down the glasses and plates. 'What is it?'

Her head was shaking slowly. 'Oh, Chris, I don't believe this

I really don't. They must have it wrong.'

'What, for God's sake?'

'According to this, Roddy's fingerprints have been found on

the gun, the murder weapon.'

'That's impossible.'

'I know. Of all the things I was expecting, that wasn't one. It must be a mistake, although I don't see how.' She shut the
folder with a snap. 'For many things there might be a rational
explanation. But fingerprints, that's a killer.'

'Somebody must have faked it. I mean, we know it's a setup.'

She gave a sad, sympathetic smile. 'I'm not sure it's possible
to fake that, Chris.'

'These people have got limitless resources, technology.'
'Even so, fingerprints are like DNA. Virtually non negotiable.'
She glanced at the plate of sandwiches, her appetite
gone. 'I can only imagine they got him to handle the weapon
at some time, then kept it for when it was needed. But I'm
snatching at straws. Only Roddy can answer that.'

Suddenly a cheerful voice intruded. 'You two look like you

won the pools but forgot to post your coupon.'
Lomax turned. 'Bill! Good to see you.'
'But a bad moment?' Johnson asked.

'Worst possible,' Browne said. 'We've just had the forensics
through. Roddy's fingerprints are On the murder weapon.'

If Lomax thought the policeman's reaction was going to be
one of I-told-you-so, he was mistaken; he accepted the news
quite calmly. 'Some things aren't easily explained, but to be
honest I'd be a bit suspicious about it anyway.'

'You've changed your tune, Bill.' Lomax nodded towards the
bar. 'A pint?'

'No thanks, I need to keep a clear head for this afternoon. I
just wanted to speak with you for a minute.'

'You could have phoned.'

'Too many ears twitching. I'll be honest with you, I was rather
disturbed by our meeting with Derek Penny. Admittedly, I
didn't like the man, but I was very unhappy that his .io quiry had
ever been allowed to get off the ground in the'fist place.
Keegan was obviously someone's sacrificial goat: whatever the
misdemeanours to protect his cover. However, that's just a
personal opinion. What deeply concerned me Was that our
Assistant Chief Constable knew about the meeting within
twenty-four hours. Penny wouldn't have told him, so I cn only
surmise that someone was following me or one of us. I can't
think why anyone should take that close an interest in my investigation
into Keegan's whereabouts, unless someone is
concerned that I might discover something they don't want me
tO.'

'What happened?' Lomax asked.

'I was rapped over the knuckles for making an unofficial visit.
Fine, a small blot on my record; I can live with that. Then I got
to thinking about Keegan's controller in Army Intelligence, the
Colonel X who gave evidence at his trial. So I asked the ACC if
I could make a request for an official meeting with him. Struck
me Colonel X might know even more about Keegan than

Penny. The ACC saw no problem with that.'

'But?' Lomax guessed.

'The next thing we know is the Chief Constable himself
gets involved. Word has come down from on high that certain
powerful people are unhappy with my inquiries. It's not in the
so-called national interest. In short, I'm treading on someone's
toes. And Colonel X is strictly off-limits.'

'Why are you telling us this?' Browne asked.

Johnson shrugged and smiled, uncomfortably. 'Maybe
Penny's zealous seeking after truth got to me. Maybe pricked
my conscience. But your client's history seems inextricably
entangled with Keegan and hearing what Penny had to say
about those MI5 reports, it seems to me that Littlechild could
be just another victim of some unofficial coverup.'

'What are you going to do about it?' Lomax asked.

'I'm afraid there isn't much I can do about it, Chris. I've been.
officially warned off and that's it. I shall ask to see the Chief


263

Constable personally and register my dissatisfaction " " "
He'll listen and might even be sympathetic. But I'm not
myself; it won't change anything. There's no more I can do.'
glanced down at Browne. 'But you can. If they're putting
Colonel X out of bounds, it's because he knows too
about Keegan. And if he knows about Keegan, he knows ..
Littlechild. Don't either of you know his identity?'

Lomax shook his head. 'I realise from Keegan's trial that

must have operated under his overall command, but always
through intermediar!es. was at the bottom of the pyramid and
he was at the top. No name was ever used.'

'What about you, Sam? He was one of your defence witnesses.'


Browne smiled tightly. 'But it was a Diplock Court and there

were strict conditions if I wanted to use him as a character
witness. No pre-trial interview and a screen in court. We were
only allowed to converse in open court during the trial.'

Johnson grunted. 'Then you know as much about him as I

do. Bugger all. But if anyone can shed light on your client's case
he must be the best bet yet. The only crumb I've had is that he's
retired.'

'Where wouldyou start looking for him, Bill?' Browne asked.

'I'm sorry, Sam. I haven't a clue.'


The prison officer looked up from his desk. 'Ah, Miss Browne. I
did telephone your office, but you'd just left. I wanted to save
Mr Lomax a wasted trip.'

'What's the problem?' she asked.

'Littlechild's a Cat A, ma'am, .and this is a legal visit. Brief

only, I'm afraid. Not even a legal assistant. He'll have to apply

for a social visit. There's two a week.'

She smiled demurely. 'Couldn't you make an exception?'

'Not for a Cat A, sorry.'

Lomax shrugged. 'I'll wait outside in the car. Give Roddy my

best.' He turned and walked back to the gatehouse.

'Usual procedure,' the officer said. 'No tape recorders and no

files. You can take in a pen and paper, that's all. If you'd leave

your bag with us, a female officer will give you the usual search.'


264

Browne walked through the metal detector then gritted her
teeth as expert hands ran over her body. Even having had the
foresight to wear trousers did little to make it more harable. No
concession was made to her professional legal standing: She
supposed that the lawyers of terrorists and m.aior criminals
might sometimes be as committed or as bent asheir clients, but
it didn't help the feeling of utter degradation. " '

She was taken through numerous locked gates and featureless
corridors. Two plain wooden upright chairs and a table
were the only items of furniture in the small, empty glass
cubicle. A tin-foil ashtray was overflowing and cigarette ends
had spilled onto the bare tiled floor at her feet.

God, she thought, it was impossible to feel optimistic in a
place like this. If it depressed her, what on earth was it doing to
Roddy Littlechild?

Then the door on the far side of the cubicle opened and the
prisoner was shown in. Immediately, she could tell he'd lost
weight, even since her last visit three weeks earlier. His
shoulders sagged and his eyes were sunken and void of
expression. He nodded to her as he dropped into his chair, took
a tin of rolling tobacco and some liquorice Rizla papers from
the pocket of his prison fatigues, placing them on the table.

'How are you, Roddy?' She knew it was a fatuous question
even as she asked.

'Do you really want to know?'

'If it'll help.'

He glanced back at the stone-faced warder who'd taken up
position outside. 'This place is doing my skull. Twenty-three
hours a day locked in a cell with a psycho who thinks he's the
second coming of Christ. It's like living in a lavatory. I was used
to army life, but not this. I'm starting to get claustrophobia,
panic attacks.' He was fiddling with his tobacco, trying to roll it
into a paper, but his trembling fingers were making a mess of
it. 'One shower a week and one change of underpants. Sorry,
Sam, but you asked. There are no recreational facilities, no
work to do.'

'I know it must be awful.'

'And I haven't even been tried yet,' Littlechild added. 'I'm


265

beginning to think I'm guilty myself. I can even see e doubt i
Evie's eyes.'

'That's not true, Roddy. She's with you all the way,'

He didn't argue, didn't have the energy. Finally he'd
managed to get the roll-up into shape and light it. 'iqo point in
asking if there's any news?' he said, inhaling deeply.

'We've had the forensics through at last.' There was no point
in overegging the optimism. 'At a glance there's nothing much
that can't be explained. Except, the report states that your
fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.'

Cool green eyes stared at her through the drifting veil of smoke. 'That's not possible.'

'Obviously I'll have to verify it, Roddy, but it's unlilely to be a
mistake.'

'It's not possible,' he repeated, half to himself.

'Perhaps there's something you've forgotten to mention? Did

Fitzpatrick show you a gun when you were together i the pub?'
'No.'

'Are you absolutely sure?'

'I think I'd remember that.' Sardonic.

'Because if he did and you touched it?'

His eyes narrowed. 'Are you putting words into ray mouth,
Sam?'

'Of course not.'

'It just didn't happen.'

She made light of it. 'Well, you just keep trying to remember,
until our next meeting. It weighs the scales dramatically against
you. So think very carefully.'

His eyes held hers steadily, tell'.mg her he saw whece she was
coming from, knew she couldn't put it into words. ''11 see if I
can't iog my memory.' He dragged hard on the roll-up and
exhaled. 'Has Peter Keegan been recaptured yet?'

'No, I'm sorry. But I've been to see someone. Someone who
can vouch for your credentials with the Security Servie.'


'It's better I don't say. But he's got written evidence and he's
more than willing to testify on your behalf.'

'Will that help?'


266

He found himself staring into her frank blue eyes. 'At best it'll
make a jury question the prosecution case and possible motives
for our argument that this is a frame-up. It's the .bs.t development
so far.'

'Forgive me if I don't give three cheers.'

She overlooked his scepticism. 'This witnessys you assisted
MI5 in stopping an illegal arms shipment fromS0uth Africa to
Loyalist paramilitaries. Is that correct?'

That stopped him in his tracks, his facial muscle momentarily
frozen as he stared at her, a cloud of anxiety casting a
shadow behind his eyes. 'Ah.'

'Well?' Her eyes bore into his like a hypnotist's.

The roll-up burned down to his fmgertips, but it took a
moment for him to feel the pain. He stubbed it out in his
ashtray. 'I've always denied involvement in arms dealing. It's
easier than getting into convoluted explanations. And once

people start throwing mud, some always sticks.'

'So what happened?'

'Stevie Gavin - Rattler - got mixed up with Paisley's Ulster
Resistance movement in the mid-eighties. The politicians soon
lost interest, but Gavin wanted to make it work. He got funding
from some source or other and approached the South Africans.
As he and I knew each other from way back, my chief in police
intelligence in Jo'burg ordered me to play host when Gavin
came to visit. I showed him what was available and gave him the

price list. After that I was only involved on the edge of the deal.'
'And you informed MIS?'.
He nodded.

'Why, if Gavin was a friend? And anyway, I thought Stevie
Gavin himself had worked for the Se.curity Service.'

'He wasn't a close friend, more a casual drinking pal. We'd
just known each other a long time. And he only worked for MI5
when it suited them and it suited him. If something fitted with
his agenda, then he'd co-operate, but not otherwise. And this
arms shipment thing was dangerous. If Gavin had access to a
massive arsenal he was quite capable of starting a civil war all by
himself. Besides -' he hesitated as he concentrated on another
roll-up.


267

'Besides what?' she urged.

Again he hesitated. 'There are other measures in place in case

the Ulster situation ever degenerates into civil war. It's in safe

hands and will stay that way.'

'Do you want to tell me about it?'

'It wouldn't help. It has no bearing. Anyway, there are some

things it is better for you not to know.'


It was not a meeting that left Browne feeling at all optimistic.
There were so many secrets in Rodney Littlechild's life and he
clearly found it difficult to part with some of them. And it was
impossible for her to know if any could yet prove to be his
downfall.

But as she walked out from under the shadow of Belmarsh
that day to reioin Lomax in his car, she was unaware that those
exact fears were to be realised three days later.

It was to have been a routine remand hearing at Woolwich
and she was therefore mildly surprised to see that Henry
Halifax QC was present again. This time with DCI Millman
and the GPS solicitor Ian Spinks. Halifax was unusually
subdued, acknowledging her only with the polite smile and nod
of a courtier, and keeping well away. There was an unmistakable
air of superiority in his manner, a look of self-satisfaction in
his eyes. A signal to Browne that he had a surprise in store and
she wasn't going to like it. Something was afoot, but she wasn't
sure what.

After the defence's iunior counsel Ronnie Rock made an
eloquent, impassioned and ultimately vain plea for the early
release of witness statements from the police, she found out.

Halifax rose to address the Bench: 'Sir, if it pleases the court,
in view of certain new evidence that has come to light, the
prosecution requests that the prisoner be remanded into police
custody for seventy-two hours pending consideration of further
charges.'

Browne's mouth dropped open. Of all the things she had
been anticipating, it certainly wasn't this.

'Which police officer is making this application?' the magistrate
asked, taken aback.


268

'Detective Chief Inspector Millman of the AntiTerrorist
Squad, sir,' Halifax replied with a triumphant glance in
Browne's direction, 'who is now present in court.' ..

Ronnie Rock took a moment to recover, turning to Browne.
'What the hell's going on?' he asked in a hoarse whisper.

'You tell me,' she replied testily. 'Just get in tl-re and stop it!'
The defence lawyer sprang to his feet; there was no need to
act out his genuine sense of indignation. 'SIR! I really must
protest! This is absolutely outrageous! I beg the court to turn
down this request outright. It is clearly a flagrant abuse of police
privilege, an attempt to intimidate and undermine my client
who is already accused of the most serious of all possible
crimes.'

'Yes, yes, Mr Rock,' the magistrate said patiently. 'I understand
your consternation. And indeed I shall ask Mr Halifax for
the fullest explanation.'

The prosecution silk rose obligingly. 'Yes, sir, of course. I am
informed by Detective Chief Inspector Millman that he wishes
to arrest and question the prisoner further with regard to a
charge of conspiracy to murder.'

Browne was shaken. Littlechild, unmoved, stared back at his
accuser.

'I would ask you to elaborate further, Mr Halifax,' the magistrate
said.

Halifax nodded. 'Of course, sir. The police have reason to
believe that on August 5th 1987, the prisoner may have conspired
with person or person unknown to murder one Dominic
Smals in Belfast and assisted by supplying the firearms in full
foreknowledge of their intended use.'

Ten more minutes of ferocious argument followed, but in the
end, the magistrate acceded to the police request before
nodding obsequiously in Halifax's direction.

'The court will rise,' the usher announced.

As soon as the magistrate left, Browne rushed towards the
door but found her path blocked by a gathering of Halifax and
his prosecution team.

'Dear me, Cruella,' the barrister said in feigned surprise, 'you


269

are in a hurry. I do believe someone's gone and upset your
applecart.'


'You have already told us in previous interviews, Roddy, that
you were in a branch of the South African Security Polices'
Detective Chief Inspector Millman said in the custody suite
back at Paddington Green, following Browne's privileged consultation
with her client. 'And you were in this unit in 19877'

'Yes.'

'And you went to Belfast on home leave in July of that year
through to August 107'

Littlechild felt his heart skip a beat and the blood rush to his

face. He was aware that Sam Browne was watching him closely
scribbling in her notebook in a spidery scrawl. 'Yes', he said.

'At the same time that a man called Dominic Smals was shot
dead on the streets of Belfast?'

Littlechild's voice had lowered to a murmur. 'I know nothing
about that.'

'Speak up for the tape, please, Roddy. Do you know who
Smals was?'

Another nod. 'According to the newspapers he was a white
South African iournalist. A freelance.'

'Did you know he was an active campaigner against
apartheid?'

'I think that's what the papers said.'

Millman raised his heavy eyebrows like two halves of a bridge.

'I think you knew that before you came home to Belfast for your
leave.'

Henwick added: 'His killers have never been caught.'

Littlechild looked at him directly. 'Are you saying I killed him
too?' he challenged.

It was Millman's turn. 'Did you?'

'No.' Flat denial.

'But you know who did, don't you?'

Littlechild's mouth clamped firmly closed and he averted his
head.

'Well, do you?'

There was no response.


270

'I'm asking you for the third time.'

Browne said: 'My client is not able to answer that question.'
Millman glanced sideways as though some aggra.va.ting little
dog was pulling at his trouser cuff and he wanted tO shake it off.
'Can't or won't answer, Roddy? Well, what is it?' ..

'I have just told you, Chief Inspector,' Browe repeated. 'My

client is unable to answer the question! Please respect that.'
'You realise his refusal to reply could harm his defence?'

Her mad eye widened a fraction. 'I'm his lawyer, Chief
Inspector, and I am advising my client here and now, not to
answer your question. Do you understand?'

Littlechild added: 'I won't be answering it, ever.'

'Thankfully,' Millman said, 'you weren't so reticent when you
were boasting to your previous cell mate.'

That really shook Littlechild. 'Do you mean Reg? Reg
Turtle? You must be joking, I wouldn't tell that paedophile the
time of day!'

'Ah, but you told him more than the time of day, didn't you?'
Henwick interrupted. 'Why was that? To frighten him, or to
shut that irritating, gabby mouth of his? Or was it just to boast
how big you were and what a little nerd he was?'

Browne said: 'What does this man claim my client told him?'
Millman swelled his chest, wanting to get it all just right.
'That the murder of Dominic Smals was carried out by a South
African hit team. Government professionals. Smals was an
effective anti-apartheid campaigner and agitator who caused
considerable embarrassment to Pretoria. And you, Roddy, by
your own admission, used your contacts in the Loyalist paramilitaries
to supply them with handguns to do the job.'

'That,' Henwick added emphatically, 'is conspiracy to
murder.'

'Where is this,' Browne glanced at her notes, unable to read
her hasty hieroglyphics, 'this Reg Turtle now?'

'He's been transferred to Risley,' Henwick said, 'for his own
safety. But we're not relying on his word alone. We've checked
with the RUC in Belfast and with the Security Service. It all
fits.'

She shut her eyes. Not again. The Security Service. She


271

should have seen it coming. Taking a deep breath to steady
her nerves, she said: 'And what deal has this Reg Turtle been
offered?'

Millman lowered his voice. 'I'll pretend I didn't hear that.
Now I think you and your client might need some time to
consider your position. We'll continue tomorrow when we have
more data from the RUC and other sources.' He leaned
towards the tape recorder. 'Interview suspended at 16.30
hours.' And switched offthe machine.

'This is another stitch-up,' Littlecfiild said angrily. 'The
Security Service knows it's a lie.'

Something snapped inside Browne's brain, a short-circuit, a
connection. 'Who put you onto this, Chief Inspector? It wasn't
this Reg Turtle person, was it?'

Millman hesitated. 'No, it came through the Home Office.'
'Let me guess. Mr Prendergast.'
His silence gave her the answer.

Her eyes blazed. 'Doesn't that strike you as a coincidence,
Chief Inspector? We're not talking Home Office here, are we?
We're talking MIS.'

'Look, Miss Browne, my patience is wearing thin. The
Security Service is responsible to the Home Office as I'm sure
you're aware. Mr Prendergast's legal department liaises
between the two. After so many previous convictions against
terrorists have been subsequently overturned, its remit is to
ensure that every legal procedure is properly followed and safe
convictions secured. That is in your interests as well as ours and
it is why Mr Prendergast's department interviewed all prisoners
who have had direct known contact with your client. And in
view of what's been discovered, I for one am very pleased they
did. Because then one of my own officers was able to follow it

up and take a statement from Turtle.'
'After he was primed by MIS.'
'You mean interviewed.'

She searched his eyes for some sign of self-doubt, however

small. 'You just don't see, do you?'

'Meaning?'

Turning, she shook her head. 'It doesn't matter.' . Then she


272

struggled to get some authority back into her voice. 'Look,
Chief Inspector, I need to talk with my client.'

'Of course,' he replied. ?.
'But not here. Another interview room.'
Millman looked perplexed. 'Why?'

'Because this room could be wired, bugged.' "

A pained look of incredulity showed on the irspector's face.
'Miss Browne, you are being ridiculous. You can see for yourself
the tape machine is off. And I give you my personal guarantee
this room is not bugged, as you put it.'

'With respect, the deepest respect, your guarantee is worthless.
We're dealing with the Security Service here. If they
decided to put a microphone in here, it's doubtful anyone
would even know.'

Millman and Henwick glanced at each other; there was no

doubt what they both thought. The woman should be certified.
'No offence meant,' she added with a tight smile.

'Interview room next door?' Henwick suggested with an
inane and patronising grin.

Her relief was genuine. 'Thank you.'

After they had changed rooms, Browne lowered her voice to a
conspiratorial whisper as Littlechild leaned towards her across
the table. 'They're getting desperate.'

'How the hell do you work that out? They've got me twice
over now.'

'Exactly, Roddy, they only need to get you the once. I've been
here before - with Peter Kegan. They're working up to a plea

bargain, I can feel it in my water.'

'I don't understand.'

'As you didn't opt for a confession, they're getting twitchy
that the murder charge won't stick.'

'Not even with the fingerprint evidence?'

She shook her head. 'I don't know why they're getting
twitchy, Roddy, just I sense they are. By going for a second
lesser charge, the temptation for us is to go for a guilty to
conspiracy in return for them dropping the big one.'

'And I still go to prison for something I haven't done.'

'It happens all the time, believe me.'


.
	273

'So I'm finished.' There was utter despair in his voice.

Enemies he could see, he could fight. But this?

'Only if you play their game,' she said with more optimism

than she felt. 'Prendergast and his lot are betting on a guilty plea
and the presentation of minimal prosecution evidence in court
They won't have to prove their case. I remember MI5 sweating
over the Keegan trial in Belfast until he pleaded guilty. If he'd

fought, then God knows what would have been made public.'

'And that's what you wanted him to do, right?'

She smiled gently. 'You can't win them all.' Looking at her

notes, she said: 'How strong a conspiracy case can they bring

against you, Roddy? Be honest.'

'Well, I never said a word to Reg Turtle, I promise you that.

But I imagine they could make a convincing case for conspiracy

if they've got MIS's connivance. All circumstantial though.'

'Okay,' she said decisively, 'this is what we'll do. I'll come

back tomorrow and stay with you until they've finished questioning
you. Wait until we've got the full picture. Then I'll
set up another meeting with your banister, Mr Meyrick, and
consider all the options.'

'He seemed like a good bloke. Didn't say a lot.'

'He listened, Roddy, that's what matters. He's the very best

and he's very keen on defending you. We're lucky to have him

on board.'

A wry smile broke on his lips, but the humour failed to reach

his eyes. 'Luck. That's a commodity that's been in short supply

just lately. If you see some, buy it for me, will you?'


The next day Rodney Littlechild was formally charged with
conspiracy to murder Dominic Smals in 1987 and was duly
remanded back to custody in Belmarsh.

It was a crushing blow to Lomax and especially to Evie.
Despite Sam Browne's best efforts to reassure them that
nothing was as bleak as it at first looked, it was of little consolation.
Late into the night Lomax sat with his sister, trying to
allay her worst fears yet at the same time feeling a fraud for even
trying. They demolished a bottle of whisky between them, but it
didn't help. Despite the alcohol, neither of them slept.


274

A week later, Browne paid a legal visit to see her client in
Belmarsh with Tristram Meyrick QC. They both saw it as
imperative to boost Littlechild's morale which had �le.ady taken
a battering. The barrister tackled the murder harge first.
'Don't be too downhearted by the initial foren..sic report, Mr
Littlechild. These things can often be explainedby independent
experts and we've got the very best. They'v been granted
access to all the evidence.'

'It's been an uphill struggle,' Browne admitted, 'but we're
starting to get some co-operation at last.'

Meyrick said: 'Let's leave the murder charge to one side for a
moment, Roddy. We've already got all the angles covered on
that. So let's look at this conspiracy business. Sam's kindly dug
up newspaper reports from the Belfast papers at the time - the
mainland nationals barely mentioned it. According to the police
you were at home on leave in Belfast when Dominic Smals, a
white South African journalist, was murdered by a South
African hit team. Did you know this man Smals?'

'Only by reputation because there was a security police file on
him .'

'Tell me.'

'Smals was actually an Afrikaner. Wrote about politics and
social history. Pretoria knew he had strong links with the
African National Congress and marked him down as a propagandist
and activist. Life got pretty uncomfortable for him and
he left the country in the early eighties to settle in Belfast.
Fhen he got in with Sinn Fein and started writing pro
Republican stufffor the foreign press.'

'How did you regard him?' Meyrick asked.

'At the time he was just a name on a file. He was irrelevant to
me. We were pretty used to woolly-minded liberals all around
abe world declaring what ogres we all were in South Africa. One
more didn't make any difference.'

Browne frowned. 'You approved of apartheid?'

He shook his head and sighed wearily. 'No. To my mind it
as a stupid concept that was crumbling away, dying of natural
:auses. The signs were everywhere. It was unjust and
�indictive .'

275


'So Smals was right?'

Littlechild shook his head. 'I had no time for apartheid,
but then I didn't want black majority rule, especially under a
Communist government. That's where Smals and I would have
disagreed.'

'Communism has collapsed since Smals was murdered,
Roddy. And South Africa now has black majority rule. Isn't that
only just? Is that so bad?'

He gave a mirthless chuckle. 'Do you have time to read
newspapers, Sam? The place has slipped into total anarchy.
Murder, robbery, rape and mayhem- you'd make a fortune out
there. The poison from Smals and the others did its job all right.
Created a nation of disaffected and disillusioned people getting
angrier and angrier as the ANC's promises come to nothing.
And it'll get worse. Watch this space.'

Browne said: 'But you only knew about Smals after his
murder, is that right?'

'Obviously I took more of an interest after his killing and
looked up his file when I returned to South Africa.'

Meyrick's mind went into overdrive. 'But had you taken part
in this conspiracy, the prosecution could claim you had a
double motivation. Smals was in league with your two most

hated enemies, the Provisional IRA and the ANC.'

Littlechild shrugged. 'I suppose so.'

Browne said: 'According to news reports, Smals was assassinated
by unknown gunmen and the murder has remained
unsolved. At the time it was assumed to be some Loyalist hit
team.'

'So where have the police got Lhis information that it was a
South African death squad?' Meyrick asked.

'There can only be one source. MI5 have known it was a
South African team all along. That's how they've been able to
suggest there's a link with me.'

Browne lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the first and
inhaled deeply to help her concentration. This was not looking
good. 'Roddy, you were on leave from the South African
Security Police - a covert unit at that - in Belfast at that time.


276

Are you seriously telling me there is no connection with you and
Smals?'

'I knew nothing about it until after it happened.' ...

'And you did not use your Loyalist contacts tO supply the
murder weapon?'

He could see the doubt in her eyes, could un2ierstand it. 'No,
Sam, I did not.'

Meyrick interrupted. 'Do you know who did?'

Littlechild lay back in his chair, an ironic smile on his face. 'I
found out later.'

'Who?' Browne pressed.
'You're going to love this.'
'Tell me.'
'Peter Keegan.'

Her mouth dropped. 'But Peter was an army agent.'

'Exactly. He supplied the weapons because MI5 told the
army that he should.'

Meyrick said: 'That's just not credible.'

'Oh, it's credible all right,' Littlechild answered. 'Smals had
just returned from the US lecture circuit on Sirra Fein's behalf,
raising money for Noraid. He was also trying to set up a deal to
buy Stinger anti-aircraft missiles for the IRA. So when Keegan
reported that a South African team wanted rid of him as well,
they thought why not? All MI5 had to say was one word on the
phone, and all their dirty work was done for them.'

'My God,' Browne breathed, shutting her eyes momentarily.
When she opened them again, Littlechild was watching her
closely. 'And, Roddy, do you know who actually killed Dominic
Smals?'

He held her gaze. 'Yes, Sam, I do. But I'm not saying,

because it would put lives at risk back home.'

'Ulster?'

'I meant South Africa. The ANC is purging the old white
security apparatus and digging up all the old skeletons.
Whether what they did was right or wrong, the South Africans
believed it was necessary. At that time the fronfline of the Cold
'Var wasn't Europe, it was southern Africa. The men who did it
were good friends, honest, courageous and patriotic, whatever


277

you may think of them. And I know they would never betray me
if the situation was reversed. I'm not in the betrayal game. I'll
leave that to this country's politicians.'

Meyrick plucked a hair from his sleeve. 'Apart from Reg
Turtle's testimony, the police claim a certain Billy Baker saw
you hand over the weapon to the killers.'

'That's rubbish. King Billy's an MI5 puppet. He's just saying
what he's told.'

'He's becoming a rather important puppet,' Browne pointed

out. 'A key figure in both cases. He's the one who told you
Fitzpatrick was going to be in touch, and therefore the only
person who can give evidence it was Fitzpatrick who'd asked to
see you. Now he appears to be the prime prosecution witness in
the conspiracy case.'

'And still can't be found?' Littlechild asked, appearing
already to know the answer.

'The RUC claim to have no knowledge of his whereabouts.

I've got my old practice in Belfast putting out feelers, but
they're not hopeful.'

Meyrick said solemnly: 'From what I understand of the situation
so far, the only way we may be able to raise doubts about
your guilt is if you can name the men who actually did the
killing. I don't think a denial of involvement will be enough.'

'I can't do that.' It was as though the logical conclusion of it

all was just sinking in. 'I'll just have to plead guilty to the
conspiracy.'

Browne looked aghast. 'That's just what they want. They're
banking on this King Billy never being cross-examined.'

'I know.' His voice was very flat.


'Do you still believe he wasn't involved?' Meyrick asked as they
drove back to London.

'Yes,' Browne replied firmly. 'Everything he's ever told me

has been backed up by events.'

'Doesn't mean he's not telling porkies on this one, dear
heart.'

'Except I've heard through the grapevine that the GPS has


278

dropped the charge against Reg Turtle. That dirty little paedo
phile has been released for lack of evidence.'

Meyrick shook his head. 'That's not conchas.ive, Sam,
although I suspect you're right. It'll be the deal he's got for
promising to give evidence against our client..Never mind, I'll
tear him to pieces in the witness box.' "

'If you get the chance, Tristram. They'rebanking on us
offering a plea. And I've a nasty feeling in my water that's what
Roddy's going to go for.'

'Mmm,' Meyrick said. 'This is getting to be like a game of
poker, Sam.'

'And they've got the best hand.'

He nodded. 'And upped the stakes. But it's a high-risk
strategy to them. If all MI5's dirty linen gets washed in public,
heads are going to roll. Bringing up Dominic Smals' murder at
this stage of the game would be a helluva gamble for them if
they've got it wrong and Roddy stands on a not guilty. There'll
be an absolute stench of rotten fish if he gives evidence - even if
only half of it's to be believed.' He squinted his eyes in concentration.
'So what does that tell us? That the murder charge isn't
watertight.'

'I agree, but they hold all the aces.'

'No, they don't. We're playing with a card sharp. All these
aces are pulled from up his sleeve. They're all fake and he knows
it. Therefore, he's relying on huff and bluff to persuade Roddy

to throw in his hand without looking at his cards.'

'Very eloquent.'

'A good analogy. We must hold on to it, make Roddy see it
that way too.'

'Well, Tristram, we'll soon know how fake their aces are. I've
got a pathologist from the independent labs coming over this
evening with her report.'

279


When Meyrick dropped Sam Browne back at her office, she was

pleased to find Lomax there, laughing and chatting with Totty.
'Glad you could make it, Chris.'

'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' he replied. 'Evie was furious
she had to go to the wine bar. I've strict orders to phone her as
soon as I've heard the forensic results.'

Browne smiled tightly. 'Let's hope there's nothing to alarm
her unduly. We'll know soon enough. Miss Sixsmith should be here at any minute.'

Totty interrupted: 'A couple of things, boss. Mr Eisner's
received a letter from the Crown Prosecution Service. It
claimed you was in breach of the code of practice between them
and the Law Society.'

'Bloody cheek.' Browne took the offered letter and one-handedly
manoeuvred her reading specs into place. 'Mmm.
Interviewing prosecution witnesses without agreement from
the GPS or Millman and without a police presence. Tough,
as the police wouldn't tell us who they were. And likewise
visiting the scene of crime under false pretences without waiting
for a court order. Phooeyl'

'What'll happen?' Lomax asked.

'They suggest I should be removed from the case in the
interests of the accused receiving a fair trial - very funny - and
are sending a report to the Law Society. Oh dear, I do seem to
have been a naughty girl.'

'Mr Eisner was furious,' Totty said.
'With me?'
'No, the GPS.'

Lomax said: 'They're a bit slow off the mark, aren't they?
That all happened weeks ago.'

'That's the legal system for you, Chris. Never do anything in
a week when you can take a year.'


280

Totty said: 'I picked this up from your flat this afternoon.
From the Kent Police, giving notice that you're being sum

monsed for driving without a valid vehicle licence,..

Browne slapped her forehead. 'That's all I need."

'Does this mean I'm working for a criminal lawyer?' Totty
asked chirpily. "

'Not funny. Another crack like that and you 0n't be working
for anyone. I'm lost without wheels and I just haven't got time
to go looking.'

'I'll ask me brother. He's in the trade. Anyway, that car was a
heap.'

'I loved that car.'

'You need something with a bit more class. Something that
fits your image.'

'You mean a middle-aged spinster who's got more wrinkles
than a walnut. What've you got in mind?'

Totty grinned. 'A Sherman tank.' She looked past her boss
and indicated the door. 'I think this is Miss Sixsmith.'

Wendy Sixsmith was in her late thirties and stood five foot
four in her sensible grey pumps which matched her sensible
grey suit. The frilly ruff at the neck of her blouse was the only
concession to femininity. She wore little make-up and had her
silver-rinsed hair pulled tightly back into a no-nonsense
ponytail.

'Sam Browne?' They shook hands. 'Lovely to meet you after
we've spoken so often on the phone.' She held up a weighty
Gladstone leather case. 'Shall we get straight down to it?'

'Yes, but not here.' Browne obviously felt rather stupid saying
it. 'The walls could have ears, as they say.'

Sixsmith smiled. 'Very cloak and dagger. You really have
upset some people, haven't you?'

Totty had hired them one of the small upstairs meeting rooms
in their local pub.

As they walked, Wendy Sixsmith explained that her partnership
was one of only five fully qualified independent forensic
science practices in the country whom defence lawyers could
call on.

As the only source of training was the Home Office, most of

281


the seven hundred scientists were retained by the government.
That left an assortment of partially or ill-qualified so-called
'expert witnesses' with some kind of scientific qualification
available for defendants to challenge forensic findings in court.
Many of these offered their services as a sideline and in some
cases were little more than well-meaning amateurs.

'So you can see that all forensic evidence weighs overwhelmingly
on the prosecution side,' she said. 'And, of course,
everyone tends to accept the Crown's forensic evidence without
question - or at least without the right questions. Defence
"expert witnesses", if they're any good, don't specialise sufficiently
to know what to ask. And it's simply above the heads of
lawyers, judges and juries.'

While Lomax was buying drinks from the bar, Wendy
Sixsmith spread out her file of reports and findings on the
billiard table in the upstairs room.

When all three were together, Sixsmith began: 'The thing
that really disturbs me is that the first people on the scene were
from the MI5 surveillance team outside. They claim to have
discovered the body at eleven forty-five, immediately after the
killing. Yet it was not until one fifteen that the police were called
in with a fully trained scene-of-crime officer. That was one and
a half hours with people clomping about the murder scene,
contaminating the evidence. Why the delay, I wonder? Perhaps
they were awaiting instructions from a higher authority?'

'Or rearranging the evidence,' Browne suggested and lit a
cigarette.

'I can't speculate on that. What I can tell you is that the scene

of-crime officer was not as thorough as he might have been.'
'Do you know why?' Lomax asked.

'No,' Sixsmith answered with a tight smile, 'but I can guess.
When thh police arrived, the version of events would have
already been established by the Security Service people present.
It was self-evident that your client had shot the victim through a
locked door. Therefore not much point in trying to find forensic
evidence to put your client inside the flat. And I can imagine the
police officers being a little overawed and intimidated by
the presence of MI5 - perhaps being hurried along or else not

282


questioning MI5's analysis of events too closely. Why should
they?

'The SOCO took fibre samples from the dead man's, clothing
as a matter of routine, blood samples from the halland lounge
carpet, then concentrated on the door and corridor. Mostly
footprints - these are virtually invisible dust imprints that are in
fact very clear when lifted onto an electromagnetic foil sheet -
and, sadly for your client, fingerprints. Then there were the
bullets embedded in the hall wall.'

'So did you discover anything to support my client's case?'
'The short answer is yes and no.' She smiled sympathetically.
'Sorry. On the up side, Lambeth didn't bother analysing the
fibres and hairs from the dead man's clothing. No point for
them to, as I've explained. But I did and isolated over thirty
three of them. A mixture of animal, vegetable and man-made.
Most were associated with clothing - wool, cotton, goat, vicuna - and others with furnishings. In particular, I noticed an
unusual accumulation of a reddish velour fibre taken from the
trousers. That suggests the victim may have sat redently on
newly upholstered material, which could possibly confirm his
whereaboats just before the killing. Within a few hours I would
have expected such a density of fibres to have been reduced to
lower levels by natural fall-out, brushing, rubbing and sitting
down on other surfaces. But I'll discuss that with you later.' She
was talking faster now, excited about something else. 'But the
best discovery was the human hair analysis. Four types of
human hair, excluding the victim's own.' She paused and
smiled, savouring her moment. 'And one is a perfect DNA
match to your client.'

Browne and Lomax both stared in disbelief.

Sixsmith laughed. 'Don't look so surprised. Your client said

he'd met the victim before the killing and this proves he did.'
'That's wonderful!' Browne said.

'There's more. Fibres taken from the dead man's jacket cuff
matched those taken from your client's jacket - probably transferred
when they shook hands.'

Lomax found himself grinning like a child; this was just too.
good to believe.

283


'Another point,' Sixsmith continued, 'is that of all the three
dozen footprints successfully lifted from the corridor outside,
not one matched your client's shoes. That could be construed
as strange, but not conclusive either way.'

Browne sensed that was the last of the good news. 'And the
fingerprints?'

The scientist shook her head. 'I'm afraid I just can't explain
it. Your client's thumbprint on the doorbell. Clear as anything,
no doubt. And the murder weapon was found in a dustbin just
outside the back door of the apartment block. A perfect set,
see for yourself.' She fanned out the numbered police exhibit
prints.

'But my client was never there,' Browne prot.e.sted.
Sixsmith shrugged. 'Then it was his doppelganger.'
'A .45 automatic,' Lomax observed, leaning forward.

'Yes, it fired six metal-jacketed rounds, four of which passed
through the body and all embedded in the wall.'

He frowned: 'Were they the only prints on the gun?'
'Yes, you can see. It's been dusted all over.'
'No palm prints?'

'Doesn't look like it.' Sixsmith was curious. 'What are you
driving at?'

Lomax held out his hand, closing his fingers slowly as though
grasping a gun butt. 'I would have expected the fingertip prints
to have been in a line on the leading left-hand edge of the butt,
and maybe an index print on the right-hand side while he kept it
away from the trigger.'

Browne raised an eyebrow. 'I see what you mean; that is how
you hold a gun after all.'

'It's almost as though someone had wiped the thing clean,'
Lomax added, "then picked it up once. Not by the butt, but
gripped it along the barrel.'

'I'm sorry,' Sixsmith said, 'but the bottom line is, they're still
your client's prints. But, anyway, let me give it some thought.
I'll see if I can't make sense of it. And, if you'll allow me, I'd like
to consult a ballistics expert because that's not my speciality.
With my limited knowledge I can see nothing amiss, but if this/s

284


some sort of elaborate plan to implicate an innocent party then
it could well be worth further investigation.'

'I'm not sure the Legal Aid Board will agree to that,' Browne
replied. 'Can you put a price on it?'

'Between one and two thousand as a ball-park ..figure.'

Lomax didn't hesitate. 'Do it,' he said. 'Whther they agree
or not.'


'Can you afford it?' Browne asked later, after Wendy Sixsmith
had left and she had returned to her flat with Lomax. She'd
found a bottle of Glenmorangie in the kitchen cupboard and
poured some into two tumblers.

He savoured the smooth liquid. 'Like a good malt, some

things are beyond price.'

'Like friendship?'

Momentarily he was back. The room darkened and muzzle
flashes briefly illuminated the unforgiving Falklands landscape
of Goose Green all around him. His companions behind him
and on both sides, faces pressed into the damp peat as the
shrapnel sliced over their heads. The Argentinian lines ahead
and the smell of fear and death and cordite all around him.

He had physically to shake his head to clear it of the memory.
'Friendship,' he repeated. The word seemed so inadequate.
'Something like that, something more than that.'

She was on the sofa beside him now, her legs curled beneath
her and her shoes discarded on the carpet. He was aware of her
watching him closely as she nursed her tumbler in both hands.
It was then that he realised that her hair was down, hanging
lankly to her shoulders. In need of a thorough shampoo and
conditioning rather than the hurried attention it received when
she was working all the hours God gave. Somehow it made her
look unusually vulnerable and very ordinary. This was the price
she paid for trying to help a man who'd saved his life but
whom she scarcely knew. His heart went out to her and he
realised then just how grateful he was to have her fighting by his
side.

'Blood brothers?' she asked gently, as though not wanting to.
intrude into this exclusively male domain.


285

	He smiled at that. 'Oppos, mates. Nothing more fancy than

	that.'

	Her cheeks coloured. 'I'm sorry. That was impertinent.'

	'No, it's just something that's hard to explain. When you train

	together, then fight together. It was all so new. We may have

	been Paras, but none of us had ever experienced anything like

	the Falklands, not a real fighting war. You just can't share that

	with anyone who wasn't there.'

	She nodded. 'Yes, but I'd like to understand, to know what

	happened.'

	He was dismissive. 'It's not important, not now.'

	'It is to me.'

	'To you?' Surprised. 'Why?'

	Browne looked sheepish. 'Because I want to know what

	makes you tick. And to have had your life saved by Roddy that

	time must have been the single most important event that ever

	happened to you.' With a smile she added: 'After all, if it hadn't

	been for what happened then we could never have met.'

	He frowned. Where was she coming from? 'And is that

	important to you?'

	'I don't know. I think it might be. What happened that night?'

	He didn't answer immediately. First he poured more malt

	whisky into his glass. Then said in a quiet voice: 'It was Goose

	Green, we were advancing on the Argentinian positions. Our

	company was pinned down. Roddy and I were together as the

	Argies got our range with their mortars. The air was thick with

	shrapnel. But we both knew we couldn't stay there all night. We

	just looked at each other, sort of unspoken words. Then

	Colonel H began his charge.'

	'The man who died?'

�

	'Colonel H. Jones.' Lomax smiled in grim admiration at the

	memory. 'Daft bugger. He led from the front, charging towards

	the Argie positions. It broke the spell, then Roddy and I were

	hard on his heels.' He heaved a deep sigh. 'It was a pretty messy

	business. Fixed bayonets. First time I'd ever, you know, killed

	someone. About five went down. Then it was my turn. A high
	velocity
round caught me in the left arm, shattered the

	humerus. I went out like a light. Our line swept on apparently


286

and in the heat of the moment no one knew what had happened
to me. As soon as Roddy realised I was missing he came back

alone to find me.'
	..

Browne's room seemed suddenly very hushed, ecept for the

exaggerated ticking of the mantelpiece clock, as h9 continued. 'I

came to and found this Argie soldier creeping lySt, trying to slip

away. He must have seen me move. I don't know fit was anger

or fear, but he swung his assault rifle in my direction. I can see

the smile on his face even now. So maybe it was vengeance. It

must have been obvious I couldn't move and I'd lost my

weapon. But still he pointed his rifle and I could see his finger

tightening on the trigger.'

'God, how awful,' she whispered.

'I remember thinking, well, this is it. I tried to conjure up a

picture of Fran, my wife, and Manda in my mind. Manda was

just five then. But the images wouldn't come. That's when I

realised there were tears in my eyes. When I couldn't even say

goodbye. Then there was a shot from close by and the bastard

was blown off his feet.'

'That was Roddy's doing?'

He nodded. 'He'd found me. But the muzzle flash alerted an

Argie machine-gun nest that had been missed in the advance.

Rounds were landing all around us. Roddy didn't hesitate. Just

threw me over his shoulder like I was some rag doll and ran like

hell after the rest of our company. He should have got a medal.'

'He didn't?'

'Nothing's fair in love or war. Life isn't fair.'

'It certainly hasn't been fair to Roddy. But what's unfair,

Chris? Being born crippled or blind is an unfair we can't do

anything about, like accidents and diseases. We can only do our

best.' He saw the fire of deep anger in her eyes. 'But there are

some unfairs we can do something about, should do something

about.'

He guessed then; it wasn't difficult. 'That's why you chose

law?'

'Yes.' She hesitated. 'But in my naivety I was wiser than I

realised. Only later I came to understand how many innocent

victims there are in our so-called civilised society. There are


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victims of bureaucracy and state power as well as criminal injustice.
Little people, Chris, who don't have the knowledge or the
money to fight the big guns. The single mother fighting a local
council to get herself rehoused. Parents whose children are
wrongIy taken into care. An asylum-seeker resisting a Home
Office extradition order back to some murderous regime. All
that sort of thing is pretty intimidating to little people. It
crushes them, ruins their lives. And there are thousands of
people in iail who shouldn't be there, convicted on the flimsiest
of evidence. Because magistrates always believe the police
rather than the accused. Because a duty solicitor couldn't be.
bothered to do his job properly. And that's before you get to the
big stories of people like Peter Keegan and Roddy. I mean, you
expect that sort of thing in dozens of corrupt countries around

the world, but not here.'

'You sound bitter.'

She placed her glass on the coffee table and reached for her
pack of cigarettes. 'Do you remember when you were a kid? I spent most of my childhood in India and then moved with my
family to Aden when Dad was in the RAF. Grown-ups seem to
have everything under control, don't they? They seem to know
everything, what to do and when. Tell us how to behave and
have their own code of conduct, of fairness, right and wrong.'

He smiled at that. 'And it's only later you realise they make
mistakes and get things wrong just like you.'

Browne laughed. 'Too bloody true!' she said with feeling.
'And as you grow up you expect governments and officials in
authority to behave just like your parents did. To be all-knowing
and incorruptible, tireless and benevolent to their people. Then
you learn the truth and when you do it comes as a terrible
shock.'

'You sound like a little girl lost.'

Her smile was mischievous. 'Sometimes I think that's exactly
what I feel I am.'

It was then that he had an overwhelming urge to kiss her. To
risk it yet again. But she was too far away because her legs were
curled up beneath her with her knees brushing his thighs. If he


288

reached across, she'd have too much time to resist, to turn her
head away.

To hell with it, he thought, and instead took her.hand, gently
prising the burning cigarette from her fingers. 'What are you
doing?' she demanded.

He stood and stubbed out the filter in the htray. 'What I
should have done a long time ago.' He leaned over her, taking
her wrists and easing her to her feet.

'Chris? I don't think...' she began, but did not struggle.

'That's right,' he said harshly, 'don't think. Just shut your
eyes and don't think.'

To his surprise, she obeyed, her lashes fluttering closed like a
child trying not to peep. His hands were on her arms now and
he felt her body tense. Knew that at any moment she would
pull away. Then his lips feathered against hers and her mouth
opened a fraction in a small gasp that might have been surprise.
The faint mix of whisky and tobacco was perversely exciting in
his nostrils. Exciting because he didn't care. At that moment he
wanted only to kiss this woman, this aloof ice maiden. She had
melted him and now the only stupid thought in his head was to
melt her.

He brought his mouth.fiercely down on hers, bruising her lips
against her teeth. Lust, anger and maybe something else. He
was aware of her back arching, her arms struggling to be free as
he pinned them to her sides. She was surprisingly strong; he
could feel the flexing of her biceps beneath his fingertips. Then
suddenly the power seemed to drain from her and her mouth
yielded. Her tongue tasted sweet against his, unmoving at first,
then responding tentatively.

Gradually he released her right arm. She allowed it to hang
by her side as his palm glided from her sleeve to lift and gently
cup her breast. Against his skin, the material of her blouse was
fetchingly limp from the perspiration of a long day. There
was something raw and animal about her now, not freshly
bathed and scented. He felt the blood rushing to his loins,
involuntarily pressing against her. A soft gurgling sound, almost
like the purr of a cat, escaped her throat. Then, to his surprise,.
her right hand was on his shoulder, her cool fingers curling the


289

hair at the nape of his neck. The sensation sparking down his
spine like a mild electric current.

Then the telephone rang, and the spell was broken.

She pulled away sharply and glared at him. 'Don't try that
again, Chris! Ever! Or you'll find yourself on a charge for indecent
assault- or worse.'

He stared at her, stunned, not believing. But before he could

reply she turned away to answer the phone, snatching up the
handset. 'Browne speaking. Who?' Her tone softened instantly.
'Oh, Evie, yes. We've only been back a few minutes. Chris was
about to call you.' She glanced up, then. 'Evie, hang on a
minute and I'll update you...'

Lomax was walking towards the door.

'Chris!' she called. 'Where are you going?'

He hesitated and turned. 'Back to my planet, Sam. And out

of your life.'

She opened her mouth to speak but couldn't find the words.
Then she was staring blankly at the closed door, aware of a
strange and empty sensation as though something deep inside
her had just died.


It was mid-December but there were no decorations up and
definitely no festive spirit at the remote farmhouse in County
Longford in the Republic of Ireland.

As daylight faded over the washed-out rural landscape and an

icy north-easterly picked up, a group of men gathered around
the television in the kitchen. They stood and watched with a
detached and cynical air, drinking from their mugs of hot soup.

The President of the United States was in Ulster. Standing
outside Belfast City Hall, talking into the microphones, his
voice croaked with emotion. Eyes glittering with unshed tears
for the benefit of the crowd, and CNN.

'Turn that fuckin' shit off,' someone said, 'before I throw up.'
'Poking his nose in,' Albie Nairn said, reaching for the set.
'Trying to take the credit to get the Irish American vote.
Doesn't he know how it's all going to end?'

As the picture cut out, the door opened and Gaza stepped in

from the yard. 'Car coming, boss. Flashed his lights.' .


290

Lights flashed three times on the approach track. So one of
ours, Peter Keegan knew. As expected and on schedule. So no
nasty surprises, lXlo Irish Special Branch raid or romtgm Garda
patrol. So everything ready for the council of war.

[t had been a busy couple of months since the rebirth of Cuchulainn. A suitable headquarters had talon time to find,
because many criteria had to be met. This farm had been
available for immediate vacant possession, was a good mile
from its nearest neighbour in all directions and a clearing in the
adjacent copse provided a suitable site for a helicopter to land
and take off unseen. And there was an airfield ten miles away
where Johan van Niekerk was able to set up the office of his
courier cover firm.

This had been used to ferry down quantities of explosive and
handguns for self-defence from the secret cache in Albie
Nairn's garden.

A number of cheap second-hand vehicles had been purchased
and used for various reconnaissance missions ranging
the length and breadth of the country. Yet that had not long
begun; there was much more still to do. But Keegan was
delighted with the progress.

He turned as he heard the car pull up outside. Moments
later, Rattler entered, rubbing the circulation back into his bony
hands, the collar of his black raincoat turned up against the
cold.

'God, Pete, you could have got a car with a friggin' heater that
works,' he said, as van Nickcrk stepped in behind him and
closed the door. 'First this mad South African scares me shifless

with his flying, then tries to freeze me to death.'

Keegan grinned. 'A good trip then?'

A lank comma of black hair fell over the forehead of Stevie
Gavin's pale, gaunt face as he laughed. 'Yeah, a good crack, I
suppose. How're things going?'

'Much advanced since we last met, Stevie. We'll bring you up
to date - once you've got some hot soup inside you.'

Gavin dumped his raincoat on a chairback and lit himself a
cigarette. 'Just coffee, Pete. Black.' He glanced around at the
faces he didn't know. 'You lot heard the latest?'

291


'We were watching on the box,' Nairn said innocently.
'No, not that smarmy nerd. The word on the street?'
'We've been a bit cut offhere,' Keegan admitted.

'So I see. I'll get that put right, plug you into the Defendert
intelligence wing in the North.'

'That would be useful, Stevie, thanks. So what have they got;
Gavin stared down at the cigarette burning between his nico
fine-stained fingers. 'The IRA is reforming its leadership unde
a new So-called Continuity Army Council. The hard men ar
back in control.'

Keegan felt the flutter in his heart and the knot of tensio
tighten in his belly. 'Is this official?'

'Not yet, but it'll be rubber-stamped in January. Word i,,

they'll resume bombing on the mainland by February.'
'Christ,' Keegan breathed.

For a moment no one spoke. They didn't have to. Now the]
all knew. When their final preparations were ready, it wouldn"
be a moment too soon.

'So,' Gavin said, 'are you going to introduce me to my ne
comrades-in-arms?'

Keegan went clockwise around the kitchen table giving first
names only: Tim, Albie, Gaza, Hutch. 'And you've met Johan
again, of course.'

Van Niekerk smiled and introduced the remaining five new
faces. 'All old friends of mine from South Africa. You probably
won't remember, but you've met at least one of them before.
When you set up that arms deal with us in '87.'

Gavin glanced at Keegan. 'The one you and Roddy Littlechild
tried to scupper between .you' he accused, still not
completely forgiving.

'Tried?' Keegan asked with a grin.

'Yeah,' Gavin replied with laconic self-satisfaction. 'Over half
of it got through.'

Van Niekerk laughed as he read Keegan's expression. 'It's a
little secret I've yet to share with you, Peter. In South Africa we
had a lot of experience in avoiding arms embargoes and foreign
intelligence services. Therefore we used a method we often
employed when there was a danger of infiltrators discovering a


292

deal. We went ahead with part of the shipment as planned.
Then we went to Stevie here - the personal end-user himself
and set up a completely different routing will .no intermediaries.'

At that, Keegan couldn't resist a smile. 'As it's turned out,
I'm glad you did.'

'Never did trust me, did you?' Gavin challenged. 'Too much
of a wild man to be trusted with enough weapons to start a war?'
'It's true, Stevie, your reputation goes before you.'

Gavin waved his index finger. 'Let me tell you, Peter, those
weapons have been kept under lock and key from that day to
this. I've never let the UVF, the UDA or anyone else get hold of
them. And nowyou want them.'

Keegan shook his head. 'They might be needed in the fullness
of time, but I hope not. If they are, our plans and our
strategy will have failed. I admit I misjuqlged you, Stevie, and
I'm sorry. But the truth is Fronfline - Cuchulainn - has ample
weaponry and always has done.'

Gavin shook his head in disgust. 'Don't give me that bol
locks, Peter! Frontline has always been piss and wind since the
start. For all the rumours of hidden arms over the years, I've
never seen so much as a water-pistol! MI5 set up Frontline and
MI5 closed it down.'

'Wait a minute,' van Niekerk interrupted. 'Let's just get this
straight, because if I'm getting deeper into this, I'd like to know
exactly what's going on. I thought Frontline was set up as
a middle-class resistance movement by this Wallace McIlroy
character. And you needed the arms my South African department
supplied to Stevie to get it up and running.'

'We want Stevie's expertise and his experienced colleagues,'
Keegan said firmly, 'not his arms. At least aot yet. I didn't want
to mislead you, but...' He glanced around the room at the
expectant faces. 'I've kept all this a secret for so long that it's
difficult to let go. I guess one day the wilderness of mirrors will
shatter and we'll all see who's been behind them pulling the
strings.'

'So it was started by Wallace McIlroy?' van Niekerk persisted..
'Yes. Wallace McIlroy was a very charismatic but rather


293

strange character, full of contradictions. He was fiercely against
the Roman Catholic Church, saw the Pope as a symbol of the
Antichrist. He was a student of Irish prehistory and used to
argue that the Protestants were the original people of Ireland,
driven out to seek sanctuary in Scotland by the later Celtic
invaders.'

'A weird guy,' van Niekerk murmured.

Keegan shook his head. 'Not weird, just an original thinker

and a bit zealous on the religious front. He served with the
Special Operations Executive during the war, then afterwards
ran an operation smuggling Bibles into the Soviet Bloc. So you
can see the roots of his intelligence connections. He foresaw the
current Ulster conflict and set up Frontline in the late sixties.
Later MI5 found him a useful and willing ally. They financed
him and arranged for a number of Frontline members to go to
Rhodesia for proper military training. Roddy Littlechild was
one of them. Of course, we were all young and naive then;
no one knew MI5 was behind Frontline, supplying the arms.
That only emerged gradually over the years.'

Gavin gave a snort of derision. 'Don't overegg the pudding,
Peter. What bloody arms? There are no bloody arms. That was
all McIlroy bullshit.'

'That's what I always thought,' Keegan agreed. 'Until
recently. But they came in all right, two large shipments organised
by MI5 contacts in Belgium. Heckler and Koch G3 rifles,

M
	16 Armalites, Walther sub-machine-guns.'

'Nab.' Gavin shook his head in disbelief.

Keegan grinned. 'Here's a memory test for you, Stevie. You
remember the Ulster Workers' Council strike in 19747 When
Loyalists brought the province to a standstill to bring down
the power-sharing executive in Stormont after the Sunningdale
Agreement?'

'Sure, how could I forget?'

'And do you recall that Frontline took a full-page ad in the
Ulster edition of the Daily Mail and the Newsletter beseeching
the unions to call it off?'

Gavin scratched his head. 'Yeah, I do vaguely. I thought it


294

very odd. I'd always believed Frontline was opposed to the
executive.'

Keegan said: 'Well, the reason was, the dockers were going
or strike at the very moment hundreds of tons of weapons for Cuchulainn were sitting in containers at Larne docks.'

The other man's mouth dropped open fore second. Suddenly
his scepticism evaporated. 'You mean it, dbn't you?'
'Every word.'

'And now you want to combine your armoury with that of the
Ulster Defenders and,' he gave an evil little grin, 'go to war.'

Keegan's eyes hardened perceptibly. 'No, Stevie, not yet.
We'll not motivate the general population until the situation
really goes down the tubes. From the hard core of recruits at our
rally, I want to train a cadre of instructors to teach new recruits
tactics and weapons' handling as things worsen. In the next year
or two. The timing rather depends on the politicians and what
decisions they make.'

'So where do my people fit in?' Rattler asked, beginning
to see yet another excuse for Frontline's ongoing history of
inaction.

'As I said at the meeting, it's time to bring the battle to the

South,' Keegan replied, 'and just as soon as possible.'

'Now you're talking.'

'But I'll not resort to barbarism,' Keegan warned. 'There'll
be no bombing of civilians on the streets of Dublin. No
assassinations of Irish politicians.'

Disappointment showed in Gavin's eyes. 'It has to be all or
nothing, Peter, or it will fail. That's one thing we can learn from
the Provos.'

'Just listen!' Keegan snapped back. 'I agree with you, but it
must be done with a strategy that does not alienate us from our
friends and natural allies. Not the governments in London or
Dublin who'll hate us for destroying their plans. We must know
that whatever words the politicians use to condemn us, the people are with us in their hearts. I want their sneaking admiration
that someone's fighting against all the IRA stands for, to
foster a sense of shared pride.'

Van Niekerk saw what he meant. 'You want them thinking


295

good for you, doing what no British Government has ever had
the balls to do.'

Keegan's eyes were suddenly alive with a fire that, none of
those present had ever wimessed before. 'Exactly. Cuchulainn
must be regarded in the public perception as a modern-day
Robin Hood. We have to be audacious and daring, And that
way recruits for the ultimate resistance will be beating their way
to our door.'

Stevie Gavin thought for a moment. 'What about the enemy,
Peter? And I don't mean Dublin, I mean the Provos. When do
we start taking those bastards out?'

'We are guerrillas, freedom fighters, Stevie, not terrorists. I
don't intend to stoop to their level. Bring Dublin to its knees
and they'll get rid of the Provos for us. They've interned them
twice before in their history. We'll make sure they damn well do
it again!'

'You're wrong. Take out the Provo leadership if you really
want to hear the cheers in the Shankill.'

There was a natural authority in Keegan's voice. 'You're with
the Frontline now, Stevie. You made your choice and now you
take orders like everyone else.'

Rattler shrugged and grinned stiffly. 'Sure, boss, anything
you say.'


The days were shortening and the shops were filled with
Christmas glitter.

Erie was over eight months gone and the impending birth
brought the only glimmer of happiness into her life. Lomax
spent many hours traipsing round the shops with her, sharing
the experience that was rightly Roddy's, buying all the paraphernalia
that would be needed for the new arrival.

When she came home with a plastic bag of second-hand baby
clothes from the Oxfam shop it almost broke his heart. After
that he insisted he went with her and purchased everything she
needed new. Well, not quite everything. He picked up an old
rocking cradle from the Portobello Road and spent hours stripping
it down and repainting it in bright colours with stencils of
fairytale characters. Never having thought of himself as artistic,


296

he was rather pleased with the professional-looking result. The
baby might not have a nursery of its own in the poky flat, but at
least the cradle would be something special.

The work helped take his mind off his and Evies 6ther problems:
Roddy's committal hearing date was now set for mid
January but his prospects looked no better and Lomax's cash
reserves were dwindling fast. Every time his th0aghts wandered
to Sam Browne, as they frequently did, he tried his best to stop
them, although without much success.

Manda was in regular contact by phone from the family
home in Hereford where she'd taken it upon herself to organise
his job-application campaign in her spare time.

She would .scour all the appointment pages of the national
newspapers in the college library and post details to him with
carefully crafted letters for him to sign. As a result he'd actually
been asked to attend six interviews, although as yet no job had
materialised.

It was looking more and more likely that he would eventually
have to follow his friend Joe'Monk's example and work abroad
for Rob D'Arcy's security company. But there was no way he
could entertain that idea until after his brother-in-law's trial.

Evie now went to the occasional progress meeting at Eisner,
Pollock and Browne and only once asked him why he no longer
spent so much time with the solicitor.

'No point, sis. Nothing much will happen now until the trial,'
he'd answered glibly.

Then in late December she'd returned from a visit to

Browne's office looking deeply despondent.

'What's up? Want to talk?'

She looked around the small room, its walls seeming to close
in on her. 'I need some fresh air, Chris.'

So they went to the park as the clear day began to die, the
bare chestnut trees casting their elongated shadows across

the dewy grass. There was no one about.

'So what happened, sis?'

She shrugged, taking his arm and huddling close to him for
protection against the chill damp air. 'Nothing really. I was jus.t
told the truth. Sam was her usual bright and cheerful self. I


297

couldn't bear it. I challenged her to level with me, no sweet talk.
What was the bottom line?'

They'd slowed to a standstill. Twilight was falling, the landscape
mellow and diffuse in the gathering mist. Not a breeze
stirred. 'What did she say?'

'I could see she didn't want to tell me, but in the end she did.
All they've got is Derek Penny's evidence and that by itself just
won't be enough. Not to be certain of an acquittal, not with the
fingerprint evidence against him. And she's su'//waiting for

the witnesses' statements from the prosecution.'

'I can hardly believe that.'

'She's sure they'll come anytime. They'll have to now the
committal date's been set.' She stared unseeing along the
avenue of trees. 'But she really needs to talk to the man they call
King Billy - Billy Baker who phoned Roddy to say Fitzpatrick
wanted to get in touch. He's also involved in the conspiracy
case. He's somewhere in Ulster but she can't trace him.'

Lomax wasn't surprised at that. 'What about Colonel X? Has
she had any luck with him?'

'No, the MOD clammed up tight when she made inquiries.'
He nodded thoughtfully. 'It needs a backdoor approach.'
By the time they left the park, it was dark.

Two days later Lomax arrived at Belfast's Aldergrove airport.
He had talked only to Joe Monk about going and swore his
friend to secrecy. Nothing of the purpose of his visit was mentioned
to Manda or Evie. Or even Roddy Littlechild.

Lomax was fully aware of the dangers. He was out of the
secretive brotherhood of the SAS now. He couldn't just pick up
the phone to the 'Kremlin', the Regiment's intelligence section,
and call in a favour. At least not this sort of favour. Further he
had no doubt his telephone was bugged, probably at some
remote exchange, and anyone else closely associated with Littlechild
was likely to be under surveillance. If the opposition got
wind of what he was up to, then he could be in deep trouble. If
they could stitch up Roddy for murder, then they were quite
capable of anything.

So he had discussed his options with the only persorr he could


298

trust and who knew the problems. And Monk hadn't been
optimistic. Then Jerry Tucker's name had cropped up.

Lomax had last seen Tucker at his retirement pazy; He was a
lieutenant in Army Intelligence in Northern Ireland who had
worked with both men during their secondment to the ultra
secret unit generally referred to as 14 Int, althollgh its name was
changed frequently to keep its enemies in the Ulster paramilitaries
guessing. On the last count it was DARG, the Defence
and Research Group. Tucker was a chubby, cheerful man with
ginger hair and a faceful of freckles; thanks to his easygoing
nature, Lomax and Monk had quickly become firm friends with
him.

As the aircraft had descended out of the wintry sky, Lomax
had looked down at the dull sheen of Belfast Lough and felt the
old dark fears closing in on him. A knot of anxiety tightened in
the pit of his stomach. It would be all right now, he'd told
himself. All different, not like before the ceasefire. But he'd
been lying to himself, and he'd known it all along.

There were spits of light rain in the air and a raw wind was
blowing down from the north-east. He went straight out to the
airport concourse with his overnight grip. The terminal had
been extensively refurbished since he'd last been there and there
was no obvious sign of heavy security, not even the inevitable
plain-clothes officer from Special Branch with an eye out for the
regular players.

He told the taxi driver to take him to the Malone Lodge Hotel
and settled down to enjoy the journey and relive some of the
more pleasant memories of the province. There were quite a
few, a fact that the bad ones tended to overshadow.

The permanent checkpoint on th airport roadhad gone, the
brick blockhouse now boarded up and derelict at the roadside.

'You'll see a big difference, so you will,' the driver had told
him. 'Belfast's fair bustling nowadays. People are coming in to
shop who haven't dared to for years. Sure, I've doubled my
income since those bastards stopped. It's beeh good for business.'
He glanced up into his mirror. 'You're not a squaddie, are
you?'


	299
	.

That wasn't a question anyone would have dared ask before
the ceasefire. 'Not now.'

'You've got the look. But then I thought you were probably
too old.'

'Thanks a bunch. You've made my day.'

They both laughed.

On arriving at his hotel, Lomax put a call through to Tucker's
office, but it was a full twenty-four hours before his friend came
back to him with effusive apologies, explaining he'd been out
'walking the parish boundaries' as he put it. Lomax told him he
was over from the mainland to look up some old mates,
including him; perhaps they could meet for a drink? Tucker was
pleased. A drink for old times' sake seemed like 'a good crack'.

'Where d'you want to meet? Spoiled for choice now,' the man
said. 'Restaurants opening up all over the place. The peace

seems to have given everyone an appetite. What d'you fancy?'

'I really don't mind.'

'The Garage is an in-place for the smart set. Do a nice cajun
chicken. And some of the prettiest waitresses in town. It's on
the east side of City Hall. See you there at around eight.'

Lomax found no difficulty in locating the converted warehouse
with its brick walls, black-painted steel joists and
wrought-iron minstrel's gallery; the place was heaving with
Friday-night revellers and he was lucky to find a spare table.

This was not the Belfast he remembered, not the place where
you existed in a perpetual dank twilight and an atmosphere of
brooding menace. The ceasefire had transformed the city.
Army and RUC patrols were off the streets, the shopping
centre barriers were open and the bag searches at every store
and restaurant had stopped. It was all bright lights, chatter and
ringing cash registers. It had even stopped raining. He felt his
apprehension begin to ebb away.

Tucker was twenty minutes late. He arrived flushed from the
exertion of running to make up lost time but seemed as iovial as
usual, ifa little preoccupied.

'Something cropped up just before I left,' he apologised.
'Anyway, great to see you again, Chris. Let's order - I'm famished
- then we can catch up on gossip.'


300

They talked pleasantries and reminiscences while they ate,
yet Lomax sensed that Tucker was distracted, his humour a
little strained. ..

'So how's life with the slime?' he asked, a refekerce to the
'green slime', army slang for intelligence units... 'Pretty dull, I
should imagine.' Tucker
wiped his mouth on a napkin. 'Dull bui busy. With all
the VCPs off the streets and army patrols restricted to the
border bandit country, we've lost our information infrastructure.
Not so easy to keep track of the major players if you've got
to eyeball everyone. Before the ceasefire, we could plot their

movements from all the sightings reported in.'

'Are the leprechauns still active?'

'Little buggers never stop. They're still recruiting, training
and doing dummy runs to keep their hand in, although South

Command is more active than up here.'

'So will the ceasefire last?'

The other man grinned. 'That's the million-dollar question.
Even with my lot, opinion is divided and we're supposed to
know. Personally I'm sceptical, but then the politicians reckon

they know best. A triumph of optimism over reality.'

'And the reality?'

'It'll break down.' Tucker was emphatic as he waved to the
waitress to bring more beers. He stopped talking as the waitress
arrived and kept quiet until she'd gone before he said, lowering
his voice: 'What's the real reason you're here, Chris?'

Lomax felt that old sensation return, the shuddering dread
that caused his heart to flutter in his chest. 'That's very perceptive
of you.'

The laughter had gone from Tucker's eyes. 'Not really. The
reason I was delayed was because something crossed my desk

that I had to check out.'

'Something?'

'Something about you. I'm routinely copied relevant reports
from Box. This one had your name on it. You're under covert
surveillance.'

Lomax's face was a mask, his flesh stiffening like cooled wax..
Tucker said: 'Somehow I don't think that surprises you.' His


301

grin was fading. 'Well, it surprised me. So I called up Group to
query it. After a few minutes' pow-wow amongst themselves,
the duty officer came back on and said it was all a mistake. Told

me to shred the copy.'

'And did you?'

He nodded. 'Old habits. So, Chris, what gives?'

Lomax explained at length, including both Rodney Littlechild's
predicament and his hope that Keegan would be
recaptured and persuaded to give evidence for the defence.

'We've been put on alert for Keegan,' Tucker confirmed,
'although this is the last place anyone expects him to'curn up. It
sounds as though your friend Littlechild is between a rock and a
hard place.'

'Believe it.'

'Oh, I do, Chris. I've been associated with Box for long
enough in this business to know what some of their operators
get up to. And I've known you and Joe long enough to know
there's something in it if you're convinced.'

'That's good, Jerry, because I'm desperate for some help. I
need to find the Colonel X who gave evidence at Keegan's trial.
All I know is that he's retired.'

'Just as well, because no serving officer would give you the
time of day.'

'I need a name and an address. Or at least a phone number.'
Tucker looked uncertain. 'Well, I can tell you his name was
Colin Roebuck; he used to be my CO.-But we wouldn't have
details any more, Chris. The only hope is Army Records or that
someone at the office is still.in contact with him. I could ask
around... But everyone's cagey .about addresses and phone
numbers.'

'I'd be grateful. And there's something else.'

'Isn't that enough?'

'I need to contact King Billy. Billy Baker.'

His friend glanced nervously around m be certain no one
could hear, before turning back to Lomax, his voice a fierce
whisper. 'For God's sake, Chris, are you crazy?'

Lomax held his gaze. 'I wouldn't ask if it wasn't absolutely


3O2

'Not that easy. Billy seems to be in Box's domaivnowadays.
I've had nothing on him in months. He's not in "his usual
haunts. In fact, the rumour is he's gone to ground. Not
receiving visitors.'

	'Couldn't you make discreet inquiries?'

Tucker looked uncomfortable. 'Not without raising eyebrows.
You're entering dangerous territory. If half what you've
told me is true, certain people are going to get very upset if you
go prodding in dark corners.'

'I don't have any choice. It's that or see the man who once
saved my life banged up for a crime he didn't commit.'

'But I do have a choice. I've no doubt the report on you I
saw was genuine. The mistake was sending the copy to my
department. If anyone realises I'm helping you, the brown stuff
could fall on me from a great height.'

	Lomax's heart sank. 'So you won't help?'

'I didn't say that. Just that we need to be careful. As it is,
I've been told that report was an error, so I'm ignoring the
implications and seeing you - why not? But if it's true, then
someone probably already knows I'm with you here.' He
avoided the temptation to look around for likely watchers.

'Perhaps we could find out?'

	'What d'you mean?'

'Do a little fieldcraft, find out if you've got a tail.' All humour
had drained from his eyes now. 'It's you they're watching, not
me. Let me leave now as ifI'm going home. You have a beer,
then walk out and back towards your hotel. Do a lot of stopping

and starting and I'll see if I can pick a.nyone out.'

	'It might be someone you know.'

Tucker shrugged. 'At least then we'll both know the score.'
There seemed to be nothing to lose by trying, so they made a
show of their farewell and Tucker wandered out while Lomax
went to the bar for another pint of Guinness. He made a point
of glancing at the girls in their weekend 'curry-anda-disco'
microskirted finery - a typical male alone and at a loose end.
But all the time his eyes focused beyond the obvious subject of


303

his attention, scanning the rows of smiling, perspiring face.
Nothing, and no one looked out of place.

Just after ten, he finished his drink and stepped out into
street, heading towards City Hall without a backward glance.i.
Minutes later he passed the refurbished Europa Hotel, remembering
the days when there would have been few venturing out
at night into this mile or so of restaurants, bars and discos. Bu
now it was f-died with a colourful lively throng with long queues
forming on the pavement as people waited for tables. Clearly
capacity was reaching saturation point. He stopped frequently
to look in shop windows or to study menu cards in bistro
doorways. It felt strange using the old techniques, studying
reflections in mirrors and glass. But there were too many
people. If you want to lose a tail you travel to suburbia where
you could be sure you've shaken it offin the near empty roads.
Tucker would be in a better position to judge, standing back
and seeing who responded to his movements. Who walked
when he walked, who stopped when he stopped.

Twice he diverted down isolated side streets, then hailed a
taxi back to his hotel.

He'd barely closed the bedroom door when the telephone
rang.

It was Tucker, phoning from a call box and not giving his
name. 'I've flushed two of them out, Chris. I thought I'd picked
one up earlier and I was right. When you flagged the taxi, a
car Pulled in almost immediately after. Two males came from
different sides of the street and jumped in, then followed you.
They're probably sitting outside your hotel now.'

'Nice to know someone cares,' Lomax murmured, feeling
resentful of this invasion of his privacy.

'I'll check out the car reg tomorrow, see if that tells us anything.
At least now we know. I'll be in touch.'

The absolute certainty of what was happening was in a
strange way a relief. 'Thanks, pal. I owe you.'

304


Thirteen


Christmas didn't prove as restful and uneventfuIaS Lomax had
hoped.

At Manda's suggestion, he and Evie would spend the holiday
back at his home in Hereford where they would be joined by Joe
Monk. Lomax was quite looking forward to it until his sister
had dropped her mini bombshell a few days earlier.

'I've invited Sam Browne to join us, Chris. When we were
chatting, it cropped up that she'd be at home alone. That
seemed terrible at Christmas.' She saw the look on his face.
'Oh, it's all right, I checked with Manda first. She said fine, the
turkey's plenty big enough.'

'Browne's not family,' he replied coldly.

'That's the trouble, she's not anybody's family. She was
delighted when I mentioned it. I think she leads a very lonely
life .'

'Perhaps she deserves to.'
'That's not very charitable.'
'No, I suppose it isn't.'

It came as no surprise when Browne arrived in her rented car

with a holdall and a briefcase stuffed with papers.

'Can't you ever leave work alone?' Evie asked.

'It's our Christmas prezzie from the GPS. The prosecution
bundle. Arrived on Friday, at last. Thought I'd continue going
through it when I've got a minute.'

Her meeting with Lomax had been stiffly polite and he'd
obligingly kissed her on the cheek. They regarded each other
cautiously, neither knowing quite what to say. The atmosphere
improved during the evening at a local pub and then on
Christmas Day itself, but both of them kept their distance.

Over the prolonged lunch, Lomax noticed Browne become
more animated as the wine flowed. She'd been seated next to.
Monk who flirted outrageously with her, but she didn't seem


305

to mind. In fact, she rather gave the impression she
enjoying it. Even when he caught her under the mistletoe in
passionate embrace.

Lomax turned away, but not before his eyes met hers for

moment. One frozen, questioning moment. What was
doing? Was she deliberately trying to punish him? Then
turned her face back to Monk's and they'd both laughed
some joke or other. To Lomax it was salt in the wound, i.

That night he might well have hit the bottle hard

hadn't started her contractions and he'd had to race

the hospital.

Evie and Roddy Littlechild's son was born one month

turely on Boxing Day afternoon.

'It would have been nice to have called him Noel,' Evie

the day after, as they all stood around the tiny shrivelled baby in

the incubator.

'You still can' Lomax said. 'I think Boxing Day is close
enough.'

'He's gorgeous,' Browne observed. 'Now Roddy has another

special person to fight for.'

The visit had left them all feeling more cheerful as they
returned home for lunch. But while Manda was preparing.
sandwiches in the kitchen, Browne brought Lomax and Monk
rudely back down to earth.

'I've had time to go through all the statements in both cases

now,' she announced. 'It's pretty much as I expected. No more

nasty surprises in the murder cases thank God.'

'What about the conspiracy charge?' Lomax asked.

She extracted some papers from the file on the dining table.

'The most damaging statement i the one from William Baker,
this King Billy. Yet, perversely, he'd be the best defence witness
in the murder trial- if we could find him.'

'Still no luck?' Lomax asked, but didn't mention he was
following his own line of inquiry.

'No he's a pretty shadowy character. In fact, I hardly know
anything about him.'

'Last I heard of him was about six years ago,' Lomax said. 'A

local Loyalist warlord, he ran a drinking club off the Shankill.'


306

'Oh, he's still around,' Monk confirmed. 'Or at least he was
just nine months ago when I was running a covert OP on him.
Fat bastard. Still into protection, extortion and pia.ting porno
videos, but mostly it seems to be hard drugs now.' '

'Liked to think of himself as the leader of major Loyalist
paramilitary group,' Lomax recalled, 'but hig gang was just a
bunch of thugs.'

Monk added: 'He's been mixed up with the UDA, the UVF
and others at different times, but he never had any real political
commitment. Case of what was in it for him. I think he fell out
with all the Loyalist factions at one time or another.' He paused
for a moment's thought. 'There were rumours in the early
eighties that he'd done a job or two for the Brits.

Alarm bells were ringing louder in Browne's head. 'You mean
MI5?'

Quite possibly, but I've never had proper confirmation.
Anyway, I think any sort of co-operation with him died out a
few years later.' He tugged absently at his moustache. 'Mind
you, there were strong rumours that King Billy played a part in
tracking down the PIRA bomber they called AIDAN just
before the Downing Street Declaration.'

Browne's eyebrow arched. 'So Billy Baker could be back on
board with MI5?'

Monk grimaced. 'That's a difficult one.'

'C'mon, Joe,' she flared, 'you said you ran an observation

post on him and he was into narcotics.'
'That's what Int reports said.'
'So why wasn't he arrested?'

A shrug. 'No evidence, I guess, just hearsay.'

'Were you looking for evidence?'.

'No.' Monk shook his head. 'It was routine surveillance
because he's a major player and isn't trusted. If we'd discovered
anything on drugs it would have been passed on to the RUC for
action.'

'But via MIS,' Lomax pointed out.

Browne gave a soft grunt. 'So if you or some other surveillance
team learned anything, ultimately it would be MI5 who
would decide what, if anything, was passed to the RUC?'


307

'I guess so.' Monk's eyes hardened. 'All I know is, Sam, that
in Northern Ireland nothing is ever quite what it seems.'

She gave a brittle laugh. 'I think I've learned that, Joe. And
now we have an unconvicted narcotics dealer and gangland
leader giving testimony that he saw Roddy hand over weapons
to the killers of Dominic Smals in 1987. It's a shame he's
vanished just when we want him to help prove Roddy didn't murder Fitzpatrick. If it went to a second trial for conspiracy,

what's the betting King Billy would magically reappear?'

'Heads they win, tails we lose,' Lomax murmured.

Browne sighed. 'To look on the bright side - if there is one -
at least I'm in a position to request interviews formally with

those prosecution witnesses we haven't already spoken to.'

'You haven't got long.'

She smiled tightly. 'Don't I know it. Committal's just-two
weeks into the New Year.'

The conversation was broken by the telephone ringing in the
hall. They heard Manda leave the kitchen to answer it. 'Dad, it's
for you! Won't give a name!'

Lomax levered himself from his chair and quickly left the
room. Manda handed him the receiver. 'Hello?'

'Ah, Chris, tracked you down at last!' It was Jerry Tucker's
voice. 'Listen, mention no names. I'm on home leave, but
before I left the province I ran a check on the car that followed
you over there. It was one of our pool cars, but lent out to some

American operators.'

'American?'

'Yeah, I know that sounds odd. But we've had a lot of sneaky
beaky teams from the US out here since just before the cease
fire. Mostly opening up secret lines of communication with the
State Department, Dublin and Sinn Fein from what I gather.
We've got the infrastructure and kit on the ground, so we help

out. None of us like it much, but you know -'

'Orders is orders?'

'Just be careful, right? There're a few rumours flying around
about these boys and they're not good, even if it's only half
true.'

'What sort ofrumours?'

308


	'Any news on the two names?' .

'Not yet. I'll let you know if I get anything. And"d6n't forget,
watch your step. You're walking blind in a minefield.'

	Lomax hung up in deep thought.

	'Sandwiches
everyone!' Manda called.
		" "

	But suddenly he'd lost his appetite.


On their first morning back at work in the New Year, Sam
Browne and Totty began bombarding the Crown Prosecution
Service and DCI Millman of the Anti-Terrorist Branch with
formal requests to interview confirmed prosecution witnesses
in both the Littlechild cases.

Crown prosecutor Liz Shilling of the GPS hid behind her
stonewalling secretary for four days until an inadvertent slipup
by a receptionist put Browne's call through.

The prosecutor's tone was terse. 'This is an unusual case in
that it directly affects national security. The Director of Public
Prosecutions might not be pleased for me to sanction your
request.'

'We do not yet live in a total police state, Miss Shilling, and
I'd respectfully remind you of the long-established principle
that there is no property in a witness. Sound familiar? I'm
informing the C P S of my intention, not asking permission.'

Shilling wasn't backing down. 'And I'll remind you, Miss
Browne, that you've already been reported to the Law Society
for approaching prosecution witnesses without notifying me
first.'

'When the police wouldn't tell u.s who their witnesses were,'
Browne replied tartly. 'Which is anyway why I am informing the GPS now.'

'You say you've already written. Then, if you're determined
to go ahead, that should suffice.'

'If you've read my letter, you'll see I've requested GPS assistance
in asking the police to co-operate, given their stubborn
reluctance since the very beginning of this case.'

	'I haven't seen your letter personally. It's in the system.'


309

'That's why I've been driven to phoning as I haven't had a
reply in nearly a week.'

'I'll see if I can find your letter.'

'I'll fax you a copy.'

'I can't act on faxes. It has to be a proper letter.'
'Then I'll messenger one round immediately.'
'If you wish, but you'll be wasting your time.'

Browne growled down at the receiver in her clenched fist.
'This conversation is being taped.'

'Oh, yes?' Slightly taken aback. 'For what purpose?'

The solicitor ignored that. 'Why will it be a waste of my
time? Because you do not intend to act with the impartiality incumbent on the GPS?'

'I don't mean that; Your request will be considered in due
course and go through the proper channels.'

'Meanwhile, DCI Millman is steadfastly refusing to communicate
with me. He's permanently out of the office, on
vacation, in court or in the sodding bog!'

Browne sensed Liz Shilling blanch before she replied: 'I'm
sure DCI Millman is very busy, Miss Browne. But you might
find him a little more communicative if you could only learn to
be civil. Good day.'

The line went dead, leaving Browne to fume at the dialling
tone. Totty came in with a pot of black coffee as her boss
slammed down the phone and angrily lit her twentieth cigarette
of the morning.

'You'll smoke yourself to death,' the girl observed.

'They're my kippers,' Browne snarled. 'And have you had
any joy with Millman - or need I ask? What's the excuse this
morning?'

'Offwith a cold.'

'What about the organ-grinder's monkey, DS Henwick?'
'One fax every thirty minutes like you said. A phone call
every hour, plus telex, and letter every night. They must be
drownin' in bleedin' paperwork.'

'Double it,' Browne said, then changed her mind. 'No, hang
on.' She reached out for the phone. 'I just do not believe

310


Millman has a cold - men like him don't even admit they get
them. What's the number?'

Totty told her. She dialled and composed herself, while the
telephone rang. 'Oh, good morning. It's Hammersmith Hospital
here. I'm sorry to trouble you, but I ne.ed to speak to
Detective Chief Inspector Millman.' She put ter hand over the
mouthpiece. 'Is he married?'

The girl shrugged. ' 'Ow should I know?' Eyes heavenward.
'No, no,' Browne said into the phone. 'I'm afraid it's his wife.'
Totty's mouth dropped open.

'Chief Inspector!' Browne said as though he were a long-lost
friend. 'I'm so glad I caught you. You must be so busy.'

'Switchboard said you were the Hammersmith. My wife...'
'Oh, gosh no, that was a misunderstanding. I was having a
conversation with my partner when I rang. His wife's having
a baby. Sorry, it must have confused your receptionist.'

'Hmm,' Millman said. 'Anyway, Miss Browne, what is it?'
'Have you received my request to interview witnesses?'
'I can hardly have failed.' Cold.
'I was expecting you to call.'

'Yes, well, as you know, I've been busy.'

A girlish laugh. 'Not to worry, we're talking now.'

Millman decided to grab this particular cow by the horns.
'Well, look, you've already had your people contact the two
publicans in the murder case without my agreement so that
really leaves the MI5 operator who identified your client
outside Fitzpatrick's apartment. And I'm afraid the Security
Service has refused point blank to talk to you. Not much I can
do about that, I'm afraid.'

'What about the taxi driver wh picked up my client and
drove him to the King's Head? His is a key statement.'

'He's abroad, I'm sorry to say. Won't be back until just before
the trial.'

'Where abroad?'

'Er, Trinidad, I think. Holidays.'

'Is he Jamaican?'

An involuntary laugh. 'No, an IC One male.'


311

Then a sudden thought occurred to her. 'This taxi of his, is it

a minicab?'

'No, it's a licensed black cab.'

Browne moved on to the conspiracy case. 'There's another

MI5 man's evidence in this.'

'And the same answer. Sorry, out of my hands.'

She read down her list. 'Reg Turtle and the Loyalist paramilitary,
William Baker- King Billy.'

'I might be able to arrange something with Turtle.'

'No, thank you. He's an out-and-out liar - I'm not worried

about him. My QC will tear him to shreds in court and I don't

want him to see it coming.'

'I see.' Millman sounded just a little surprised at that.

'But I am still interested in King Billy.'

'Ah, yes, as a defence witness in the murder case. As-you

know, I have put your request to the Royal Ulster Constabulary,
but frankly I'm not holding my breath. You probably appreciate
he's a slightly dodgy character - I never said that, mind and
not easy to pinpoint. Always "on the gallop" I think the
expression is. I am sorry, Miss Browne, it's the best I can offer.'

After a couple of pleasantries, they hung up. 'Damn and

sod it!'

'Nothing doing?' Totty asked.

'More brick walls than Parkhurst.'

There was a knock at the door. It was Lomax. 'Who's died?'

'You, if you make another crack like that!'

'Drawn a blank on interviewing any prosecution witnesses

what matter,' Totty explained.

Browne said: 'How many taxi drivers d'you know who can

afford six weeks in the Caribbean? We seem to have picked the
only one who can.' She sighed and forced herself to relax.
'Anyway, it's a long time since we've seen you in the office,
Chris. Just passing?'

'Taking Erie to Belmarsh,' he said. 'Thought I'd drop in with

the glad tidings.'

'What about?'

'I had a call from my friend Jerry Tucker in Belfast this
morning. I'd asked him for any info on Colonel X, Colin


312

Roebuck. Well, Jerry has been clearing up his chief's office,
taking down cards and decorations before he gets back from
leave. Anyway, there were some cards that came?ila, late, just
before Christmas. His chief had just opened them before he

rushed offto catch the shuttle. One was from Colin Roebuck.'
'Was there an address?' "

'No, but the envelope was franked in Banbury Oxford.'
Browne's face lit up. 'That's wonderful, Chris! Brilliant! I'll
get a local solicitor to check the electoral register... God, I
needed some good news.'

He hesitated, not really wanting to drag himself away. 'Right,
well, I'd better be on my way. Erie's waiting in the car. Sends
her love.'

'And how's little Noel?'

'Loud and smelly.' Lomax grinned. 'Not a born traveller.'
'It'll make Roddy's day to see his son.'

Lomax was still reluctant to go, trying to find something
sensible to say. 'Our holidaying taxi driver, the one who drove
Roddy to the pub the night of the murder, right? I suppose he is
kosher?'

'Why shouldn't he be?'

A shrug. 'It's just that nothing else seems to have been that
night. Only a thought. See you.'

Browne said suddenly: 'Hey, Chris!' He turned at the door.

'It's good to see you around here again.'
He smiled uncertainly. 'Sure.'
'Pax, eh?'

'Sure, Sam, pax.' And then he was gone.

Totty studied Browne for a moment. 'What's all this pax
stuff boss? You two fallen out? How d'you always man.age to do
that? He really fancies you, you know.'

Browne regarded her assistant over the top of her specs.
'Don't talk nonsense. Now go away, you horrid child.'

With a knowing grin on her face, Totty sauntered back to the
chaos of the outer office. One of Wayne's elaborate paper darts
landed with stealth-bomber accuracy in her ample cleavage.

'Oh, do grow up,' she barked without her usual tolerance.


313

'And make yourself useful. Who would have a list of London
taxi drivers?'

'The Public Carriage Office, of course.'

Totty looked it up and dialled the number. Ten minutes later,
she called Browne on the intercom. 'Your taxi driver witness,
Mark Wortle.'

'What about him?'

'He's not listed.'


It was just one week before the scheduled committal hearing of
Police v. Littlechild, and Derek Penny, the former Deputy
Chief Constable of West Weald, was unaware that his world was
about to be cruelly shattered.

He had spent a pleasant couple of hours at the church
directing the junior choir in rehearsals while his wife Meredith
pottered around with the flower arrangements.

The boys were doing well really, considering that they had
come straight from school and would have almost certainly
preferred to have been doing something else before knuckling
down to an evening's homework. Lovable rogues, the lot of
them, but Penny would sort them out. A little carrot and a little
stick. He had a way with kids. The shame was he and Meredith
hadn't been able to have any of their own.

Still, give the choir another month and maybe they'd be good
enough to enter in the southern counties' competition. Another
silver cup to go in the display cabinet with the others.

They finished just before six when he and Meredith left for
home, dropping in at the pub for a quick drink before returning
to catch the Channel 4 News.

It was a surprise to find the unmarked police car by the gate
and a local detective sergeant with a DC waiting at the door.

'Hello, Reg,' Penny greeted. 'What's this in aid of, not one of
my angelic choirboys been drawing on walls?'

The sergeant did not smile. 'Bit more serious than that, Mr
Penny,' he said tersely.

Penny frowned. That was unusually formal. Reg was Reg and
he was Derek; the sergeant's son was the solo soprano of the
choir.


314

'Perhaps we could talk inside,' the sergeant said. Glancing
sideways at the worried look on Meredith's face, he added
pointedly: 'Best if it's just you and my DC, I think.' ..,

Penny put his key in the lock and let them in. His vife said:
'I'll put the kettle on.'

Once they were seated in the front room, the'ergeant chose
his words with care. 'This choir-singing thingof yours, how
long have you been doing it?'

That took Penny by surprise. 'My involvement with choirs? I
was brought up with it from the age of five. My parents were
greatly involved with the local church. It's been a hobby ever
since.'

'And you've often been involved with choirs through your
local community work as a policeman?'

Penny nodded. 'On certain postings, yes.'

'Including at the time of your secondment to Salford in Manchester
in 1975 and '767'

'Yes, I was assistant choirmaster at St Bartholomew's.'

The sergeant smiled thinly; it was all tying up. 'And do you
remember a boy there called Tommy Aitken?'

Despite his growing unease, Penny's dry laugh was involuntary.
"Te're talking twenty years ago, Reg, I can't remember the
names of all the boys.'

'You can try,' the other man pressed.

A shake of the head. 'I'm afraid not.'

'�'ell, Mr Penny, I'm afraid he claims to remember you.'
'qhat do you mean?'

'He says he was in the St Bartholomew's choir and alleges
that you subjected him and other boys to acts of gross
indecency.'

'It's a lie. I've never laid a finger on a child. Never! Ask
anyone, ask your own son, dammit, Reg!'

'He's pressing the charge, Mr Penny.' For the first time there
was a softening of the sergeant's expression. 'Sounds like he's
been talking to a shrink, if you ask me.'

The truth was sinking in and Penny asked, his voice.
quavering: 'What happens now?'


315

'I'm going to ask you to come down to the station and make a
statement.'

'Am I going to be arrested?'

'Obviously that depends.'

'My God.' Penny felt that he was suffocating.

'If it's any consolation, Mr Penny, in my experience there's
every chance he'll change his mind before the case gets to court.
And even if he doesn't, he may have difficulty in convincing a
judge and jury after such a long time's delay. But then there is

one other former choirboy who is backing his allegations.'

'That's impossible!'

'I'm afraid not, Mr Penny. So let's get down to the station and
get this over with.'

Meredith opened the door. 'Nice cup of tea, anyone?'


Tension and anxiety were mounting relentlessly as the date of
the committal hearing approached. It was a blessing for Erie
that the demands of baby Noel absorbed her completely
leaving her so exhausted that sleep came easily.

Sick of lying awake each night and walking around like a
zombie all day as he tried to distract himself, Lomax took to
visiting the offices of Eisner, Pollock and Browne more regularly
again. Unsure of the reception he'd get, he was pleased
when Browne and Totty welcomed the extra help.

At least he felt he was doing something useful as he was given
the task of finding a firm of local solicitors in Banbury to look
up Colonel Colin Roebuck's name on the electoral register. He
spoke to five before he found one who was willing and sounded
reasonably efficient.

When he sauntered into Browne's office, she glanced up.
'What were you saying the other day, Chris, about black cabs?'

Lomax nodded. 'It just struck me as convenient for the police
to have found the taxi driver whose evidence condemned
Roddy, but not the one on the return trip who could confirm his
alibi.'

'That's the way it goes sometimes.'

'Sure, but it made me think. We're certain Roddy's phone
was tapped and the flat bugged. MI5 would have known when


316

he was leaving to see Fitzpatrick. It would have been easy for
them to have a cab cruising past just as he left.'

Browne looked thoughtful. 'Roddy said it was .b.it of luck,
because you don't get many black cabs in Southall, and it was
raining.'

'And MI5 use black cabs.' "

'What?'

'They've got their own fleet. BT vans for static ops and black
cabs for mobiles. No one ever looks twice and they don't get
parking tickets.'

'Do you really think so?'

Lomax said: 'Why don't we check this taxi driver out? I know

he's away but his wife or girlfriend might know something.'
'Well, I - I suppose so.'

They both knew they were clutching at straws again.

'I'll call Joe. The three of us could go round this evening.'


The home of taxi driver Mark Wortle was in a block of council
flats in Romford, Essex, on the north side of the Thames.

Lomax and Monk stood well back so as not to present an
intimidating presence when Sam Browne rang the bell. From
inside they heard a child screeching above the noise of some
junk television game show. A young female voice shouted at the
youngster to shut up as she opened the door.

'Yes?' Her face was pinched and white, the skin beneath her
eyes grey with fatigue. The baby in her arms gurgled and its tiny
little fingers toyed with the mother's lank hair.

'Mrs Wortle?' Browne asked politely. 'I'm sorry, this obviously
isn't a convenient time to call. Oh, what a pretty little
baby. What's her name?'

'Johnny. I was just putting him down.'

'Of course, silly of me. He'll be a handsome chap when he
grows up.'

'What d'you want?'

Little Johnny regurgitated his supper over Browne's gently
prodding fingers and she withdrew her hand with an embarrassed
smile. 'I'm Sam Browne, a solicitor. I really wanted to
see your husband. He's the witness in a case - someone he


317

picked up in his cab -' Warm, sweet-smelling vomit dripped off
her hand and splashed down her skirt.

'Mark's away and he doesn't talk to me about his business.'
She stared at the mess on the solicitor's clothes. 'That looks like
an expensive suit. You'd better rinse it off or you'll never get the
stain out. Come in for a minute.'

'Would you mind?' Browne's foot was already in the door.
'That's most kind.' Mrs Wortle stepped aside as Lomax and
Monk followed her in. 'These are two colleagues from work,
Chris and Joe.'

The woman regarded them suspiciously, evidently wondering
why, as solicitors, they weren't wearing suits and ties.
'Best come in the kitchen.'

The two men drew back towards the living room. 'We'll wait
here, okay?' Lomax said.

A little girl in pink pyjamas was sitting on the floor playing
with the remote control in front of the television. About six,

Lomax guessed, with an open face and big brown eyes.
'What's your name?' Monk asked.
'April. What's yours?'
'Big Joe.'

'That's a funny name. Why Big Joe?'

'why d'you think?'

And while Monk engaged in banal conversation with the
youngster, Lomax idly cast his eye round the room while
listening to what Browne and Wortle's wife were saying in the
kitchen.

'So where is Mark?'

'In Jamaica, jammy beggar.'

'Not many taxi drivers can afford that sort of holiday.'

Mrs Worfle gave a cynical little laugh. She'd put the baby in
its highchair and was on her knees in front of Browne, sponging
the material. 'Mark's not on holiday, he's working. And he's not

a taxi driver.'

'No?'

'Not as such. He's a driver, does all sorts.'

'I thought he had a black cab.'


318

'He has. It's in his lockup0 But he does private work for

companies, not the general public.'

'Isn't that unusual?'

'No, according to Mark a lot of business people prfer black
cabs to cars. More space, more comfort.'

'I agree, I much prefer them. So what's he doing in Jamaica?'
'Relief chauffeur while another bloke's on holiday.'
'Sounds very grand.'

'The British High Commission might sound grand, but
Mark says he's just a glorified lackey.' Mrs Wortle stopped
scrubbing and climbed wearily to her feet. 'There, that should
do it. Anyway, Mark'll be home in a few weeks. Leave a card
and I'll tell him you called.'

'That's kind, but no matter,' Browne said. 'It's not
important. Thanks for the clean-up.' She turned towards the
living room. 'Come on, you two. And stop chatting up the girls,
Joe.'

Lomax replaced the faded framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
A good-looking if dour-faced man with a moustache
wearing a Number One dress uniform and cypress-green beret.

Once outside, they sauntered along the balcony towards the
steps. 'I think you were right, Chris. He's working for the High
Commission in Jamaica.'

'I know I'm right,' Lomax replied. 'There's a photograph of

him in the living room, taken some years ago. Army uniform.'
'Is that significant?'

'The cap badge. He was in the Intelligence Corps. So at some
point in his past, Wortle would have been known to the Security
Service.'

'I reckon it's a stronger connection than that,' Monk said.
'My best guess is that Wortle's on their payroll as an A Branch
surveillance driver. All that tosh about private clients, that's just
what he tells his missus. Now they've shipped him out to
Jamaica to keep him away from the likes of us.'

Realisation dawned on Browne's face. 'Until the trial.'


Lord Moffat loathed mobile phones. He hated people having
loud and animated conversations on them in restaurants. Or


319

showing off their business prowess when negotiating on trains
for the benefit of fellow passengers. And he hated the thought
that there was nowhere he could go to escape if someone
wanted to reach him; no sanctuary fishing on a river bank or
even in a lavatory. Of course, you could switch it off, but then
what was the point of having one in the first place?

Anyway, he'd borrowed the confounded thing now from his
assistant. Because, just this once, he was anxious for the call,
even if it meant using the mobile. Because today was the committal
hearing in the case of Police v. Littlechild. He just hoped

it didn't bleep in the middle of lunch with the minister.

Of course it did.

It made Moffat jump and he splashed soup over his tie before
fumbling to find which pocket he'd put it in. Heads turned as
the sound continued, most embarrassing; mobiles were
frowned upon in this establishment.

'Hello, yes?' Moffat demanded, listened intently for a
second, then shook it irritably.

'Press the receive button,' the minister suggested helpfully.

'Ah.' Moffat remembered the instruction then, thumbed it
roughly and tried again. Static whistled in his ear.

'Allow me,' the minister said and reached over the table to
pull up the little aerial. 'Better reception.'

Moffat smiled, thinking what a fool he must seem. 'Hello?'

It was Roger Pinfold.

'What happened at the committal?'

Pinfold sounded irritatingly calm. 'He was committed, of
course. Rodney Littlechild will appear at the Old Bailey in nine
weeks.'

That was a relief. Somehow he half-expected the Browne
woman would have magically pulled some sort of rabbit out of
the hat. At least that was the bottom line; but not quite all he
wanted. 'The Bailey? I wanted this to be low profile, Roger.'

'I know, sir, but the fact is any judge will want the prestige of
the Central Criminal Court.'

Bloody bewigged fools, Moffat thought, considered themselves
just one down from royalty and one up from God. 'I can't


320

believe that Browne woman didn't rock the boat. They didn't
go for no-caseto-answer?'

A light laugh at the other end; Pinfold was cleas!y relieved
and feeling pleased with himself. 'No, she and Tristram
Meyrick are not fools. It would have taken an absolute miracle
and a barking mad magistrate to have had thecse thrown out.
And defence wouldn't want to reveal their haiad to us at this
stage. They'll plan to keep their powder dry for the trial... Our next concern will be the judge.'

Moffat grunted. 'I'll put that in hand, talk to the Lord Chancellor's
department. They know who's who and which ones
have conventional values.' Followed the Establishment line and
had their eyes on the New Year Honours List, he meant,
and Pinfold knew it. 'But tell me, Roger, are they going to
fight?'

'That's a difficult one, sir. Looks like it on the face of it. But
Browne took Henry Halifax aside after. Said she thought her
client wouldn't go through with it. Would probably offer a plea

at the eleventh hour.'

'Did she mean it?'

'Or getting us to drop our guard? That we just can't know, sir.

But I'm optimistic he'll cave in eventually.'

'Good.'

The minister regarded Moffat carefully as he packed away his
mobile and stuffed it in his pocket. 'You look pleased, Anthony.'

'Just a little problem sorted.'


A few days after the committal, they located Colonel X at his
Tudor farmhouse in the rolling Oxfordshire countryside on the
outskirts of Banbury.

Colin Roebuck stood on the low roof of the derelict annexe
surrounded by piles of local stone which he was using to restore
the building. He watched as Lomax's car turned off the road
and approached along a muddy track.

A frown creased his forehead as he saw the woman emerge
and he took in her dark business suit, the raked-back fair hair
and power shoulder pads. He had no doubt where she wa
from.

'Colonel Roebuck?' she called up, friendly enough.

He looked down and felt a little easier when he saw she'd

been joined by a man. Men in positions of power were usually
more reasonable, more pragmatic. He curbed the urge to hurl a
solid Tudor brick through the windscreen of the car below and
send them both packing.

Instead he thrust his thumbs into the front pockets of his old
cords. 'If you're from the planning department, I don't see
anyone without an appointment.'

'We're not,' Lomax called back.

Roebuck looked again at the woman, and thought of the
other major problem dominating his life. 'The Inland
Revenue?'

Lomax grinned at that and shook his head. 'No, sir. I'm a
former soldier who served on attachment to your unit and Miss
Browne is a solicitor who represents Peter Keegan and Roddy
Littlechild.'

The colonel stared, taken aback, the colour draining from his

thin weathered face as the names sank in. After a moment he
recovered and said: 'Let me get down. We can't shout about
that sort of thing.'

He was clearly fit, moving swiftly for a man in his mid-fifties,
descending the ladder with boyish agility. Despite the chill,, a
green army-surplus body warmer and a flat cap were his only
concessions to the weather.

'Planning department's been giving me hell over this restoration,'
he explained with a wary smile. 'I think they'd prefer the �
place to remain a ruin. Trouble is they don't live here.' He
stared hard at Browne. 'I know.you from the Keegan trial.
Defence lawyer, weren't you?'

She smiled, flattered at being remembered. 'Unfortunately,

we never got to talk. Only the barristers and judge spoke to you.

But we were all grateful you put in a good word.'

Roebuck grunted. 'Not sure it did Keegan much good. It

certainly did nothing for my career.'

'No?'

But the man refused to be drawn. 'You'd better come inside.'

Apart from the absence of the bitter northerly wind, it was


322

little warmer in the dark flagstoned interior than it had been
outside. The big fireplace was empty. Colin Roebuck clearly
wasn't one to feel the cold. 'The wife's out at SCAT.S picking
up some fencing,' he said unnecessarily. 'We'll go through to the
kitchen and I'll put some coffee on. It's only instant, I'm afraid.'

As the water splashed noisily into an old-fasflioned whistling
kettle, he glanced up at the former SAS man atd repeated the
name. ' 'Lomax, Lomax. Rings a vague bell, but I don't recognise
you.'

'I was on attachment from 22. "We never met as far as I recall.
I did some minding and close protection work with some of
your agents in the field. Pretty menial stuff.'

Roebuck placed the kettle on the Aga and smiled. 'Also
pretty essential stuff. Dangerous too. I'm afraid we got so
engrossed in our Machiavellian schemes that we sometimes
forgot about you chaps who did the legwork. You're out now, I
presume?'

'A few months.'

The colonel grinned. 'And missing it like hell, I bet?'
Lomax laughed. 'And then some.'

'So what do the two of you want with me,. something to do
with Roddy Littlechild's trial, I imagine?'

'Yes,' Lomax replied. 'I'm his brother-in-law and Miss

.
	Browne and I are trying to prove that he didn't murder that IRA
man Fitzpatrick.'

Roebuck's face was deadpan. 'Naturally you are.'

Lomax said: 'The probl6m is we're convinced that Roddy
was set up by the Security Service, which means by implication
that they were somehow involved wi the murder.'

'Ouch,' Roebuck replied. 'That's dangerous territory and I'm
not sure you should be telling me about it.'

Browne intervened. 'We have to tell someone, Colonel, to
trust someone, and I notice you didn't even blink at the possibility
it could be true.'

Absently he took three mugs from the stripped-pine dresser.
'I could believe anything in connection with Northern Ireland
especially at a time like this. And, please, do me the honour of


323

dropping the colonel title. I've left that all behind me now. I no
longer feel much pride in my work over in the province.'

'Really?' Browne asked innocently. 'I remember you speaking

at the trial. Emphasising the importance of your work and Peter
Keegan's contribution.'

Roebuck gave a wry smile. 'That was then, Looking back

now, I sometimes wonder if we weren't all just pawns in
someone else's game. Anyway, despite being flattered that you
feel you can trust me, I don't really see that I can be of much
help. You see, I ran Peter Keegan for Army Intelligence,
whereas Roddy Littlechild was purely an agent for MI5.'

'There's a good chance the prosecution will deny he was an
agent.'

'I'm sure they'll at least play it down,' Roebuck agreed, 'but I

can confirm he was a key player in MIS's intelligence network.
He was on good terms with all the major Loyalist figures, like
Keegan, of course, and Rattler, Mad Dog, King Billy and the
others. They'd confide in him and it would all get fed back to
MIS. I know it was through him that they managed to intercept
a major arms shipment from South Africa.'

'Would you be prepared to confirm all that in court?' Browne
asked.

A bleak look came into Roebuck's eyes. 'Giving testimony in
Peter Keegan's trial was the worst career move I ever made.
After that I was sidelined and given dead-end postings.'

Lomax said: 'That's what Derek Penny reckoned happened

to him over his investigation into Keegan.'

Roebuck was surprised. 'You've spoken with Derek Penny,

have you? I wouldn't have thought.he'd have given you the time

of day.'

Browne noticed his tone. 'Do I gather you didn't get on?'
The kettle began to whistle and Roebuck removed it from the
hob, filling up the line of mugs. 'You could say I wasn't too
happy when he started stomping all over the province in his big
copper's boots. Of course, you could argue that the inquiry
should never have been set up. But after revelations in the
press that Loyalists had been given information from RUC files
about likely PIRA targets there was quite a furore..Someone


324

somewhere had a vested interest in letting it go ahead. I can't
believe Derek Penny was chosen by accident.'

'What do you mean?' Lomax asked ..

'Derek Penny was known as an evangelical zealbt, a sanctimonious
and self-righteous little prick - excuse me.' He stirred
the mugs, taking his time as he remembered.-" 'Penny's main
claim to fame was terrorising motorists in Wet Weald. The
biggest catch of drink-drivers every Christmas, that sort of
thing. Always rabbiting on about Christian ethics in policing
and that sort of thing. Very naive in his way about people and
certainly about the facts of life in Northern Ireland. There were
plenty other senior officers who would have had the wit and
wisdom to walk on eggshells over there, who would have understood
the delicate and difficult nature of intelligence work. But
not Derek Penny. Everything to him was stark black and white.
Whoever chose him must have known that.

'He'd already upset the RUC before he came to my department
and started ferreting. I tried to tip him the wink, hinting
that it would be unproductive to dig too deep. But he already
had wind that Peter Keegan had allowed murders to go ahead to
protect his cover, and then Penny was like a pit bull. Wouldn't
let go however hard you hit him.'

Browne looked puzzled. 'Why should anyone in Whitehall
have wanted Keegan to be exposed? I don't understand that.'

Roebuck handed out the mugs of coffee. 'I think someone
saw it as an opportunity to expose British intelligence activity. I
asked myself why a million times all through Keegan's trial. I'm
sure you did yourself. It's only since that I've come to realise
that sometime in the late eighties the agenda began to change.
Some civil servants and politicians b.egan to see Ulster as a nowin
situation and began preparing the ground for a British
withdrawal.'

'Roddy has said something similar,' Lomax recalled. 'That
the Brighton bombing was the real watershed, followed quickly
by the Anglo-Irish Agreement. His belief is that there was one
faction of new wave thinking battling with the old Northern
Ireland hands.'

Roebuck nodded. 'He could very well be right. But it was all


325

quite subtle. As you know, I was in the thick of the intelligence
war, but you were never aware of the gradual shift in the
political landscape. In the early days, some of the Loyalist paramilitary
groups were regarded almost as allies, doing favours for
us. Gradually that stopped. Then, bit by bit, our orders were to
turn on them and regard them in the same light as the Provisionals.
Whitehall wanted the security forces to be seen as
even-handed no matter that the Loyalist groups only existed to
counter PIRA.

'I only began to learn of the real turf battle going on after the
trial. While I was running Keegan I had to keep MI briefed. I
never did like their liaison officer - man called Pinfold. When
everything went pear-shaped, Pinfold was more than happy to
abandon Keegan. I insisted on giving evidence and Pinfold
obiected strongly. It was only when I went over his head to his
boss, a man who was only referred to as Mr Grey - rather
appropriate that - that I finally got my way. The three of us had
an unholy row. It was then that I got an insight into the real
divisions. Grey was old school, willing to fight on against PIRA,
while Pinfold wanted to negotiate a settlement with Dublin
behind the scenes. I gathered the split in opinion ran right
through Whitehall and government to Cabinet level.'

'And who won?' Browne asked, anticipating Roebuck's reply.
'I think events have shown that. The British Government has
made a series of concessions from before the Downing Street
Declaration and since. That's when the Americans started
getting heavily involved, politically active in Belfast and Dublin.
So far, it's very nearly worked, but in the end it won't be enough
for the Provisionals. For me the last straw was Foxtrot Four
Zero.'

Lomax recognised the reference. 'The downed Chinook?'
'Mmm,' Roebuck confirmed, and leaned back against the
pine refectory table, cradling his mug of coffee. 'That crash
wiped out virtually the entire intelligence old guard in Northern
Ireland. RUC, army and MI5. It was lunacy putting them all
on one flight to an anti-terrorism conference in Fort William,
Scotland. Even top commercial companies don't allow their key
executives to fly all together. I would have been on that flight ff


326

my son hadn't had a car crash and been taken to hospital. I
received the news and got off at the last minute. I remember
several people weren't happy about me leavir.. Funnily
enough, I recall Pinfold was one of them. LecturEd e about
duty before family. I told him to stuffit.'

'Are you saying the crash wasn't an accident?iomax asked.

There was a sad, weary look in Roebuck's ee. 'I can't say
that. I can't know for sure, no one can.'

Browne said: 'Could it have been the IRA?'

'Very unlikely, If it was deliberate it would have required
highly sophisticated knowledge and equipment to interfere with
the navigation and radar equipment.'

Lomax frowned. 'You're saying one of our own government
agencies was responsible?'

Roebuck shrugged. 'Responsible, involved? In collusion? It's
guesswork, except that it's common knowledge that the crash
site was sealed off for several days and the CIA had a unit
in there searching the scene. You have to ask yourself why?
Removing evidence? I don't know. All I know is that the crash
cleared the decks in Northern Ireland of all the old intelligence
dinosaurs like me. Within a few months the Provisionals
announced their ceasefire. And for many, the reason for the
crash has never been satisfactorily explained.' He gave a rueful
smile. 'Anyway, it was enough for me. I left the army as soon as I
could after that. I've been happy enough since. This place keeps

me busy and Ihave time to devote to my hobby.'
'What's that?' Browne asked.
'Skydiving.'
She winced at the thought.

'You should try it sometime, both 9f you. Be my guests at the
club .'

The idea appealed to Lomax. 'It's a while since I've done it.
Thanks, might take you up on that.'

'Meanwhile I have to ask you,' Browne said 'if you'd give
evidence for the defence. Confirm that Roddy was a loyal MI5
agent and helped the Crown. If you can corroborate what
Derek Penny says, it'll strengthen our case no end.'

Roebuck grunted. 'Well, in your position I wouldn't want to


327

rely on Penny's testimony alone. He's a strange character. Hi:
obsession with truth can be counterproductive. He ma,
confirm your client's good points but he'll also have no compunction
about saying anything derogatory either. He could
well prove to be a liability.'

'Thanks for the warning,' Browne said. 'But is that a yes?'
Roebuck half-smiled. 'I thought life was getting too boring t
last. Hell, why not? Someone's got to make a stand against these
people, so it may as well be me.'

'It's much appreciated,' Lomax said.

'I'm just not sure it'll be much help. But I have kept copies of
many documents that crossed my desk in Northern Ireland.
Some may well refer to Roddy Littlechild.' He saw the
expression on Lomax's face. 'Yes, I know everything should
have been shredded, but I looked at things differently after the
Keegan trial. I was covering my back. I suppose I wanted an
insurance policy in case anyone turned against me.'

Browne said: 'Derek Penny did much the same thing.'

The colonel nodded. 'He upset different people for different
reasons, but he'd have found himself feeling just as vulnerable
as I did.' He drained his coffee. 'Anyway, I don't keep that sort
of stuffhere. It's all safely under lock and key. Let me have your
card, Miss Browne. Perhaps I can give you a call if I find
anything.'

328


Two weeks later Sam Browne received a call fromColonel X.

'Got some stuff that might be of interest to you,' Colin
Roebuck said in a distinctly enigmatic way. 'Can't go into detail
over the blower, and I don't want to risk the post.'

'Then let's meet,' she said. The calendar on her desk read
Friday 9 February. 'Maybe over the weekend?'

'Fine. I'm at the parachute club every Saturday. Why don't
you come up and see the fun?'

It was agreed. She felt a thrill of anticipation but made a
deliberate attempt to subdue it; there was no point in building
her own or Roddy's family's hopes up, only to see them badly
dashed. Roebuck's find could be everything, or nothing.

She put a call through to Evie's flat which Lomax answered.
'I've heard from a mutual friend of ours, Chris, that builder
who specialises in Tudor restoration. Thought I'd go and see
him tomorrow and wondered if you'd like to come along?'

Lomax picked up on it immediately, deliberately playing it
down for the benefit of any eavesdropper. 'Well, if you'd really like my company, I suppose a breath of country air would do me
good.'

'I'll pick you up at ten. Show offmy new motor.'
'Can't I drive? It'd be nice tO get there in one piece.'
'Chauvinist pig!' she laughed.

'I'm going on the razz tonight with Joe, so I could be in a

fragile state. Promise you'll take it slow?'

'Promise.'

But, of course, she didn't.

They went like a rocket along the M40 towards Oxford in
the second-hand silver sports coupe that Totty's brother had
procured for her. And their speed seemed only to drop marginally
when they turned offfor the airfield.

He glanced sideways at her and was reassured to see that at


329

least she was concentrating fully for once. And looked more
happy and relaxed than he'd seen her for a long time, her hair
casually up and wearing a lumberjack shirt, jeans and trainers.
Almost a different woman.

It was just twelve when Lomax said: 'Can I put the radio on? I
missed the news last night.'

'So did I, but it sounds to me as if you and Joe missed last
night period.'

He turned the dial. 'Looks complicated.'

'It is. Radio, CD and cassette. The instruction book's bigger
than the one for the car.'

Suddenly the announcer's voice filled the cockpit. Neither of
them registered exactly what he said, just key words leaping out
to stun the brain. 'Last night's IIL4 bomb in Docklands. . .
dead and dozens injured. Some horrific. . . Lacerations from flying
glass... Timed for maximum casualties... Condemned by
London, Dublin and Washington... Ceasefire at an end...'

'BASTARDS!' Browne shouted at the road. 'God, Chris,
can you believe it? Starting all over again.'

He shook his head. 'You know, even I was thinking it might
last.' Momentarily he remembered his trip to Belfast just before
Christmas, the happy faces of the shoppers and late-night revellers.
He murmured: 'So it was all just a cruel deception.'

'And now everything's back to normal then,' she said, accelerating
with the turbo kicking in at four thousand revs as they
overtook a lumbering juggernaut. Air horns blasted from the
opposite direction as she cleared the oncoming tanker by a few
feet.

Lomax blanched. 'Either you're the best woman driver in
Britain, Sam, or the luckiest.'

'What?' She hadn't even realised how close she'd come.
'Sure, be angry with the terrorists, but don't take it out on the
roads. Not while I'm with you. When you said you'd bought a
Nissan, I didn't know you meant a bloody 200SX.'

She laughed then, her black mood broken, and grinned at
him. 'Yeah, they've come a long way since they built those tin
huts in the Second World War, haven't they?'

Lomax smiled. 'Very funny, but different spelling, I think.


330

Anyway this isn't another Celica, this is a monster. One of the
fastest of its class.'

'But a beautiful monster,' she replied lightly. 'A. poor girl's
Porsche.'

'It needs to be treated with respect and caution - like all
monsters.'

She flicked a look in his direction. 'If that's a Very unsubtle
allusion to me, Mr Lomax, then you'd better believe it.'

The distant speck of a high-flying light aircraft in the porcelain
sky indicated that they were nearing the airfield. Even as
Lomax pointed out the machine, half a dozen tiny black figures
spiralled away from it in free-fall. After a few seconds they
edged together, holding hands to form a circle, then breaking
again, going their separate ways. Then the canopies mushroomed
and disappeared beyond the treeline.

'You haven't changed your mind then?' Lomax asked.

'Are you ioking? They must be mad. You'll be suggesting I go
bungee-iumping next.'

'Can't be any more dangerous than driving with you.'
Deliberately she put her foot on the gas.

As they entered the wire-mesh gates, the Cessna 208 Caravan
touched down while its former passengers, carrying their parachute
bundles, were still trudging back across the field towards
the clubhouse. Browne parked beside the concrete apron on
which a number of tables and chairs were set out for onlookers.

Roebuck, wearing a red iumpsuit and his face grinning
beneath the bald sunburnt Grown, recognised them and rose to
his feet. He waved and beckoned them to join him. His bonedome
helmet and goggles were on. the table, surrounded by
coffee cups and the remains of a sandwich.lunch.

A handsome woman in her forties with straight silver-grey
hair sat next to him. Looking very much an army officer's wife,
she wore an old Barbour and a tweed plaid skirt against the
nagging wind that blew uninterrupted across the field. 'Nice
to see you, Miss Browne, and you Lomax. This is my wife
Arabella.'

'You're not jumping?' Browne asked as they shook hands.


331

'Good grief, no! I'm just here for moral support while the

little boys play their games.'

Roebuck turned to Lomax. 'What about you? One of our
members has to leave early, so there'll be a spare place on the
flight after next,'

Lomax was delighted. 'Great idea. I've brought my log. A

jump today will keep it up to date.'

'Then I'm happy to oblige,' Roebuck replied, pleased to have

found a like-minded soul. 'I've got a spare chute in the back of
the car,' he glanced at Browne, 'along with some copies

of documents I've found for you.'

'What have you got?'

With a grin and a conspiratorial flourish, he tapped the side

of his nose. 'Reports that I originally unearthed for the Keegan
trial. There are two references in official secret documents confirming
that your client Roddy Littlechild was an acting agent
for MI5 and that, with Keegan, he was directly responsible for
the seizing of Loyalist arms smuggled in from South Africa in
1988. And I can vouch for the authenticity of those documents.
One was an analysis by Army Intelligence and the other was
from the Security Service.'

'That's brilliant,' Browne said.

'There was something else I'd completely forgotten about.

An old RUC investigation report from 1987 into the murder of
a South African, Dominic Smals. Highly classified and before
my time in the province. Only reason I kept it was because it
referred to Keegan who I was then running. And it begged more
questions than it answered. Part of it refers to an interview with
an RUC informer who claimed he saw Keegan, who was then
in the Ulster Defenders, hand over small arms to two unidentified
visitors from South Africa in return for money. This was just twenty-four hours before Smals was shot.'

'Keegan must have just returned with his family from South
Africa,' Lomax added, 'after he'd decided he'd had enough of
the undercover life.'

Roebuck said: 'I remember checking my predecessor's files,

but there was no reference to the incident. If it was an Army
Intelligence job, then it was highly irregular and suggested to


332

me an MI5 involvement. Naturally I never asked Keegan about
it because, officially, it never happened.'

'This is dynamite,' Browne said, scarcely able o.keep the
excitement from her voice.

'I don't know about that,' Roebuck cautioned.. 'It's far from
conclusive. My predecessor died aboard Foxtr0t Four Zero and
the informer isn't specifically named in the report. To identify
him you'll need the co-operation of the RUC and I doubt you'll
get it. At least it suggests that at the time the police's prime
suspect was Peter Keegan and not Rodney Littlechild.'

'And Keegan wasn't arrested because Army Intelligence and
MI 5 were protecting him,' Lomax guessed.

'You can see how times have changed,' Roebuck said grimly.
'Anyway, it's a pleasure to be a bringer of good tidings.'

'It'll fully back up Derek Penny's evidence,' Browne told him,
'which is just what Roddy needs.'

The former Army Intelligence officer frowned. 'Then it's a
double pleasure, because I've a feeling Derek Penny's evidence

is no longer worth what it was.'

'What do you mean?'

Arabella said: 'Then you haven't seen today's paper.' She
lifted the folded tabloid from beneath Roebuck's helmet. 'We
don't usually get this rag but when Colin saw the front
page...'

Browne almost snatched it from her and stared openmouthed
at the lurid headline.


EX-POLICE CHIEF IN CHOIRBOY SEX SCANDAL


Lomax peered over her shoulder with a sinking feeling in the pit
of his stomach. 'Has he been arrested?'

She was fumbling in her bag for her reading specs. 'I don't

think so. Wait a second. No, it says held for questioning.'
'Then surely they can't name him,' Lomax said.

'They haven't,' Roebuck confirmed, 'but it's Derek Penny all
right. It'll be clear enough to anyone who's ever known him.
What does it say? Former high-profile senior police officer of
West Weald. No newcomer to controversy after investigating


333

allegations of RUC collusion with Loyalist terrorists in Ulster.

And a well-known choirmaster in amateur circles.'

Browne shook her head. 'This is a disgusting piece of journalism.
And an interview with two alleged victims. You're right,

they might just as well have yelled his name from the rooftops.'

'Do you think there's any truth in it?' Arabella asked.

'I've always thought I could smell closet gays at fifty paces

but I've been wrong before,' Browne said furiously. She slapped
her hand against the paper. 'But look at this crap, pointing out
he and his wife had no children. Bloody innuendo! The poor
man- I must call him later; he needs legal help.'

Lomax said: 'I think you've got enough on your hands right

now?

She glared at him. 'Do you now? I don't seem to remember
asking your opinion.'

Roebuck and his wife exchanged bewildered glances. The
colonel said quickly: 'Look, I'm due to go up now. You two have
a coffee with Arabella. I'll be back in half an hour and then we
can run through those files.' He looked at Lomax. 'You still on

for later, Chris?'

'You bet.'

This time it was the two women who looked at each other,
shaking their heads in unison. Boys will be boys. They'll never
grow up. Incorrigible.

Roebuck disappeared into the clubhouse with his helmet and
re-emerged some five minutes later with a group of skydiving
friends. Laughing and joking, they sauntered across the turf to
where the Cessna pilot was winding up the revs and checking
the flaps.

'They're mostly ex-army,' Arabella explained. 'There's a lot

of military people in this area. Just as well, otherwise it would
have driven Colin mad. He's not very used to talking with

civilian types. He really misses army life.'

'But not you?' Browne asked.

'I'm just glad he got out in one piece. I wasn't happy with
what he was up to in Northern Ireland, all that dangerous
covert work.' She glanced at Lomax. 'And you Chris, I gather
you worked with my husband's unit?'


334

'Yes, but we never met.' He didn't shatter her illusions by
telling her it was men like him who faced death every day on
the urban frontline, not the desk-bound spymaser.s like her
husband.

Browne said: 'I think Chris misses the army life too.'

'I miss the life,' Lomax replied, but not some.of the work. I'd
had enough.'

Arabella laughed brightly. 'I'm not at all sure I believe you,
you know.'

But Browne saw the dark shadow fall across his eyes and
instinctively knew he wasn't seeing the sunlit green of the airstrip
as the Cessna taxied ready for takeoff. Remembered
secrets he'd shared with her that night of the storm. Knew he
was in the black hell of Goose Green. Or was he on the rain
sodden Bosnian hillside when an enemy round again had his
name on it? Or was it behind Iraqi lines, with the young goatherd's
warm blood on his hands, on the day that Lomax lost his
soul?

Beneath the table, she moved her fingers across his knee and
he looked towards her as she took his large hand in hers
and squeezed.

But she'd been wrong. For that transient moment he'd been
back in the run-down Bogside ghetto. Lunging against a wall,
scruffy in jeans and trainers, eating from a greasy bag of chips.
Watching, and suddenly knowing he was being watched.
Microphone clipped to the neck of his T-shirt, but the enemy
too close for him to talk. The Browning High-Power bulky and
comforting in his waistband, but too far away to reach it if
things went wrong...

A premonition. In just those few seconds, as the Cessna
gathered speed and its nose lifted, he knew. Knew he'd be
going back. Back to face the demons on the dark, dank streets.
Demons he thought he'd left behind for ever.

'That was a smooth takeoff,' Arabella observed. 'The pilot's
really very good.'

The Cessna swept skyward, skimming over the trees at the
field edge as it rapidly gained height, the engine noise receding


335

to become a lazy distant drone. Sunlight glinted on the canting
wings as it swept over the distant spires of Oxford.

'They usually jump from around twelve thousand feet,' Roebuck's
wife said. 'We can expect them back over the field in
about ten minutes. Let me get you both a coffee.'

She returned a little later with a tray carrying sturdy china
cups and saucers bearing the paraclub's crest. As she sat and
passed the sugar lumps and plastic packs of milk, she said
suddenly: 'I do hope you realise the risk Colin is taking for you.
At any trial it's going to come out that he kept copies of classified
documents and made them available to you.'

'I realise that,' Browne said, 'and we're very grateful.'
Arabella smiled stiffly. 'I hope you are. It's a serious contravention
of the Official Secrets Act. People at the Ministry of
Defence can take great exception to that sort of thing. And to
them it won't make the slightest difference that it was being
used to save an innocent man. I've seen how vindictive they can
be, especially if it casts government departments in a bad light.
He could end up in court himself.'

Browne shook her head. 'Not if we win our case. They'll not
want to stir it all up again.'

'That's a very big "if" I'm afraid.'

'If your husband was ever charged, h4rs Roebuck, I can
promise you he'll have the best lawyer money can buy.'

Arabella held the other woman's gaze. 'If that's a joke, Miss

Browne, I'm afraid it's a very bad one.'

'I wasn't joking.'

A voice called out from one of the adjoining tables as the
young son of one of the skydivers was first to spot the returning
Cessna. All eyes turned in the direction of the pointing finger.
Family members brought out binoculars and telescopes;
children jumped up and down with excitement while wives
looked on with slightly anxious expressions.

'I'm not sure I want you to do this,' Browne murmured to
Lomax.

'I didn't know you cared.' But behind his throwaway response

he felt a small glow of satisfaction that she evidently did. It was a
start.

336


They could all see the Cessna now, hear the faint buzz of its
engine high above and downwind of the airfield. One of the
wives nearby gave a little gasp as the first dark spe.gk.detached
itself from the aircraft's minuscule silhouette. It was followed by
another, then another. Within split seconds, six parachutists
were free-falling towards the earth, edging i towards each



other in readiness for linking hands.

A small cheer went up from the onlookers and some clapped
spontaneously. It had been perfect aerial choreography.

'Bravo,' Arabella breathed. 'That's the best one this year.
Colin's training them, you know. He'd like to form a competition
team. If he could do that, he might even stop missing the
army.'

The circle broke, the individual skydivcrs bursting away to
give themselves space to deploy, bodies now rapidly becoming
identifiable as they plunged groundward. One canopy snapped
open, jolting the body in its harness and they could see the man
looking up to check the rigging lines. Another opened, and the
others deployed in quick succession, drifting gracefully over
the Oxfordshire countryside. All moving towards the X-marker
of fluorescent orange plastic. It was looking good.

'Christ,'-Lomax gasped, 'someone's in the shit.'

'What?' Arabclla said.

But she didn't need an answer. Now she and Browne could
see it too. The last skydivcr had failed to deploy. He was hurtling
to earth, overtaking the staggered row of floating canopies.

'Your reserve,' Lomax urged beneath his breath, 'pull your
reserve.'

'My God!' Browne exclaimed, hand to her mouth.
Instinctively Arabella knew. 'Oh, C olin!'

At last the reserve began to unravel, but it was all too late.
They sensed rather than felt or heard the bone-shattering
force of the impact at the far corner of the field. One of the
wives screamed. Then, for a moment, there was a shocked
silence.

'Call an ambulance!' someone shouted. People began
running forward.

Suddenly Arabella shook herself from her paralysed stupor.


337

'I'll get the car,' she said and broke into a run, leaving Lomax

and Browne to follow.

She had the engine started even as they scrambled in, driving

off before the doors were properly closed. 'We don't know it'a

Colin,' Browne said hopefully.

Arabella didn't reply.

Giving the X-marker a wide berth to avoid the other skydivers
who were now landing, they overtook the running
helpers and raced towards the field edge. As they neared,
Lomax recognised the red iumpsuit. Arabella pulled up sharply
and leapt out, leaving the engine running.

Roebuck was on his back, his face hidden behind the helmet

and goggles. His body appeared normal at first glance, with no
grotesquely distorted limbs, but it also looked strangely slack as
though the iumpsuit contained crumpled newspapers rather
than solid flesh and boae. Lomax guessed the man's skeleton
was shattered to smithereens.

He knelt down and checked the pulse. It was there, but

feeble.

'Is he alive?' Arabella asked, stooping on the other side.

'Yes.'

Carefully, Lomax eased the goggles up onto the helmet. Roebuck's
eyes Were closed and the trickle of blood from his mouth
exaggerated the waxy whiteness of his skin. He looked strangely
calm, almost peaceful.

'Colin?' Arabella touched his cheek with her fingertips.

'Colin, can you hear me?'

The eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Parched lips mouthed

his wife's name silently.

'You're okay, Colin. You'll be okay.'

Browne looked across the body and caught Lomax's glance;

his face was impassive. She guessed he'd seen this many times

before, probably even worse.

Arabella leaned over her husband, her ear close to his mouth

to catch his last words. Slowly she regained her feet, trembling
slightly as she looked down at the eyes staring sightlessly at the
sky he'd loved so much.


338

'He said something about the ripcord,' she murmured, too
numbed to know what she was doing or thinking.

Browne put her arm round the woman's shoulder.g.athering
her in like a hurt child. But Arabella's tears wouldn' come, not
yet.

The remaining skydivers had now joined the ahers who had
run from the clubhouse; all stood in a semicircle-10oking on in
dread horror, not wanting to intrude on the moment of private
grief.

'Let's take you back,' Browne said tentatively. 'Some hot tea,
something stronger.'

Arabella stared at her, scarcely comprehending. 'Tea? That's
what Colin always says. Tea in a crisis. Things never seem as
bad . . .'

'Would you rather stay here?'

The woman stared down at her husband's shattered body.
'He looks so restful, at peace.' She sniffed heavily, straightened
her back. 'I can do nothing here, not now. Tea, yes. I need some
tea.'

Lomax watched as they turned back towards the car, then
knelt again and gently closed Roebuck's eyelids. Then he
noticed the colonel's fist. Clutched in his fingers was the
ripcord, the strap sheared neatly. Almost as though it had been
cut.

Not cut, of course, he told himself, because if it had been,
Roebuck would have spotted it when he checked his rig before
the jump. He slid the strap from the fingers and examined it
carefully, noticing the staining and slightly acrid smell. The

material wasn't cut, he realised, but rotted.

Then the answer came to him. Acid.

He stuffed the cord into his pocket as the crowd edged
forward, and left to join Browne and Roebuck's wife. They sat
in the back of the car and he took the wheel, driving slowly back
to the clubhouse, passing the deflated canopies that had been
abandoned where they landed.

Parking beside Browne's 200SX, they returned to the tables..
The club steward saw them and rushed offto fetch teacups and


339

a bottle of brandy from the bar. The Roebucks' friends

up, shocked and offering hesitant commiserations.

It was another five minutes before the police arrived

closely by an ambulance. People drifted back as
the scene of the accident and photographs were taken for th
record before the paramedics stretchered Roebuck's corpse into
their vehicle. :

A police sergeant approached and spoke with Arabella for a
few moments, offering his sympathies and a lift to her home or
to the hospital, whichever she preferred.

'I'll be another five minutes,' he told her. 'Then I'll pick you
up.'

As he walked away Arabella turned to Browne. 'You'd best
have those papers my husband promised. He wanted that.'
There was a lump in her throat. 'It can't do him any harm now.

Would you mind?' She held out the car keys.

'It's okay,' Lomax said, 'I'll get them.'

He took the keys, stood and turned. Three paces took him to
the first row of parked cars. Several people were milling around,
still in a state of shock, still talking it through with friends,
somehow not wanting to leave in case it seemed they didn't
really care.

For a moment he thought Roebuck's car wasn't where he'd
left it. Next to the glistening sleek body of Browne's 200SX was
a different vehicle. He knew it was a different vehicle because
someone else had the boot lid open and was shouldering his
parachute pack. The man closed and relocked it and began
walking away towards the airfield gates where a nondescript
grey car waited, its engine idling.

Lomax did a double take. The car was Roebuck's. What in
hell? Instead of running after the man, instinctively he called
out. That was stupid, he realised almost immediately. But it was
already too late as he heard his own words, 'HEY! YOU!'
screaming in his ears.

The man turned for a second, then began to run. Lomax
could see then that, apart from the parapack over his shoulder,
he carried a briefcase in his left hand. Briefcase. The realisation
struck Lomax like a thunderbolt. Roebuck's briefc.ase. Con


34O

taining the classified documents for Roddy Littlechild's
de fence.

'What is it?' Browne called. . ,

But he wasn't hearing. Instead he broke into a sprint, trying
in desperation to make up the distance before the man reached
the waiting car. It was hopeless, of course, because he already
had the rear door open and was hurling in the parapack before
scrambling in after it.

Lomax redoubled his effort, legs pounding and his heart
thudding as he willed himself on. He was within reach of the
rear, when he was caught in the sudden burbling cloud of
exhaust. It clawed at his throat, the car tantalisingly close, the
rear bumper edging away from his outstretched hand. In a final
effort he flung himself at the smooth metallic surface. One hand
snatched at the radio aerial and his other sought a grip, any grip.
But there was nothing, just polished steel that was slippery
beneath his palm. He felt the surge of power trying to pull him
off, was aware of the rear door flapping, not even closed before
the driver took off.

The aerial snapped. Immediately the force of his effort to
hold on propelled him backwards, his fingernails tearing as he
vainly tried to dig them in. He felt himself going, and the next
second was dumped unceremoniously on the gravel by the
gate. Dust from the spinning wheels enshrouded him as the car
accelerated away.

'For God's sake, Chris, what are you playing at?' He turned
to see Browne running up to him.

Lomax gulped for breath. 'Those bastards have just taken the

papers from Roebuck's car.'

Her mouth fell open.

'Don't stand gawping, woman. Get your bloody car!'

She went to retort, changed her mind, then turned and
started running back towards her 200SX. Lomax crawled painfully
to his feet. His trousers were in shreds two gaping holes at
the knees, and his skin red with grazing.

There were a dozen or so people around the car park who.
glimpsed some or all of what had happened. Now they looked at


341

him with the bemused and silent stares more usually reserved

for drunks and lunatics.

'Did anyone get the number of that car?' he called out.

No one had. And neither had he, damn it. He was angry with::
himself for not having stopped and noted the
than gone running after it like some macho hero in a Hollywood
movie.

It seemed an embarrassingly long wait before Browne's
200SX pulled up alongside and he leapt in.

'Go right!' he snapped, and yanked the seatbelt harne.
across his body. 'And step on it!'

'Yes, boss,' she murmured, swinging the long nose out
through the gates and accelerating so hard that the rear wheels.
spun and fishtailed on the dusty tarmac.

Nought to sixty in seven seconds, Browne had told him
earlier. Well, it would aeed to be for them to stand a chance of
catching up with the thieves.

'What sort of car was it?' Browne asked, trying to think
logically as they flashed through a sun-dappled tunnel of trees.

'A Ford, I think.' He tried hard to recall. 'Yes, a Mondeo. Just

a 1.8. But if this is MIS, there'll be something different under

the bonnet.'

'MIS?' She glanced at him.

'Watch the road!' he ordered angrily. 'God, Sam, you don't

think it was a bloody coincidence, do you? Roebuck dies and a
passing thief just happens to steal the stuff from the back of his
car. It was planned. The bastard didn't even have to jemmy the
boot, he had a skeleton key.'

'Jesus.' She stared blindly at the road ahead, understeering as

they took the bend wide, drifting onto the offside.

'Concentrate, Sam,' Lomax said. 'Use the right gears always
max power. Brake hard before the bend, change down
and accelerate out, foot right down!'

'You can fucking drivel' she retorted.
'No time. Just do it.'
'Shift'

Another bend. She braked too late, fumbling the gears, losing


342

power and ground. Then she found second, and floored the gas

peddle.

'That's better,' he said charitably, but she knelt.he didn't
mean it.


	'Are you saying Roebuck was murdered?'

'Virtually. His chute was tampered with. If'iooked like the

reverse of the ripcord strap had been scored with a razor blade,

then some form of acid applied. Maybe brake fluid.'

'You didn't say anything to his wife.'

'I think she had enough on her plate. Anyway, I couldn't be

certain then. I am now. Why else would they take his spare

parachute?'

'The one you were going to use?'

'Whoever sabotaged them wouldn't have known which one

Roebuck was going to jump with.'

'God, Chris, that means it could have been you back there.'

It was a chastening thought on which he didn't want to dwell.

'I imagine that's why they've taken the spare. Any inquiry might

ask how his parachute was damaged, maybe snagged or stored

next to corrosive liquid. But with two of them identically tam
pered
with, the police would be virtually certain it was

deliberate sabotage. The thieves probably planned to lift it

while we were all out at the accident. Taking the car with us

messed up their plans.' He glanced forward. 'Careful!'

But he needn't have worried. This time Browne's timing was

perfect as the bend loomed. She braked hard at the last

moment, deftly switched gears, and gunned up the power

almost immediately she began turning the wheel. The 200SX

went round tight and hard, nearside wheels virtually touching

the embankment, clinging tight as the rear started to break

away, so she was already lined up for the next straight. Up ahead

brake lights blinked momentarily in the gloom of overhanging

trees as the Mondeo vanished around another twist in the road.

Maybe two hundred yards ahead. Not bad. Not exactly good

either, but at least they were gaining.

The sight of their quarry spurred Browne on, and Lomax

found his knuckles whitening as the car's speed increased per

ceptibly. She was good, he conceded; at least when she put her


343

mind to it. Then she went into the next turn a shade too fast,
the tyres shrieking in protest and the rear beginning to slide
before she throttled up. Momentarily, he glimpsed the Flat
Panda heading towards them, the startled white faces of the
elderly couple. Heard the warning bark of the horn as the little
car crunched into the offside hedge.

'Sod,' Browne chided herself, her gaze fixed ahead on the
Mondeo. 'Are they all right?'

Lomax glanced over his shoulder. 'I should think so. Just a
dented wing.' - They'd entered a straight avenue of towering limes and now
they were really shifting, the 16-valve turbo kicking in to launch
them forward like a jet fighter with afterburners full on. It ate up
the gap of worn tarmac behind the leading car, clearly taking its
driver by surprise.

'Keep your nerve,' Lomax said, 'and don't go mad. If only
you can get close enough to get the registration number.'

'Sod that, Chris. I'm going to drive the bastard off the road
and make a citizen's arrest.'

Despite himself, Lomax had to smile; she clearly meant every
word. But now that the Mondeo's driver had picked them up,
he was doing something about it. Whatever he had in the engine
compartment, it was more than 1.8 litres. Almost immediately
he began to surge ahead again, stretching out the distance
between them before he disappeared round another hairpin.

Browne followed, managing her best racing change and
holding the bend like a limpet. They'd regained their loss
and begun closing the gap again. Then the Mondeo flashed past
a red Roadworks Ahead sign on the verge, moments before it
leapt a humpback bridge, the chassis lifting high on its springs
until the wheels all but lost contact with the road. The car
plunged out of sight. Browne followed. It felt like taking off
from a ski jump, the suspension shuddering under the impact of
their landing.

Suddenly everything came into view. Their side of the road
coned off and the Mondeo reaching the line of cars that waited
for the red traffic light to change.

But the Mondeo driver wasn't about to join the queue.


344

Although a Rover saloon was heading towards him, past the
steamroller and generator abandoned for the weekend, the
Mondeo driver swung out to pass the waiting lin.e His hooter
shrieked out a heart-stopping warning. A blaze of'headlights
reflected in the Rover's windscreen as the other car headed
straight for it.

Browne didn't hesitate. She changed down arid followed the
Mondeo, bypassing the queue as more hooters joined the
cacophony of protest. Meanwhile the driver of the Rover lost his
nerve and spun the wheel as the racing Mondeo bore down on
him. With a nauseating crunch of steel and shattering of glass,
the Rover burst through.the red tape and into the heavy front
wheel of the steamroller. Traffic cones were scattered everywhere.
Browne ploughed through them, now right on the
Mondeo's tail as it gathered speed. Lomax could clearly see
the tense white face of the thief glaring back at him. In the
excitement of the moment he almost forgot about the registration
number; he took a pen from his jacket and hastily
scribbled it down in his pocket book.

'Okay, Sam, I've got his number. You can ease off now before
we kill someone or ourselves.'

'You're joking,' she snapped back. 'If they've got Roebuck's
evidence, we'll never see it again. And you don't think they're
genuine plates, do you?'

Of course she was right. Did he really think he could trot
down to the local police station, report the theft and the car
number and seriously expect anything to happen as a result?

She clung tenaciously to within inches of the rear of the
Mondeo, matching his acceleration and braking when he was
forced to slow for a bend. He could. 't shake her off. Then twice
he tried braking without warning, forcing her to swerve, her

bumper just missing his offside light cluster.

'Try that just once more,' she willed.

He did. And this time she was ready. Instead of braking, she
threw the wheel hard over to the right and pushed her foot to
the floor. As the 200SX swerved out, she double-checked the
short, straight ahead was clear and let the turbo kick in. The
coupe surged forward alongside the Mondeo.


345

'Don't do it!' Lomax warned.

The Mondeo's driver glanced sideways as they passed, a look
of consternation on his face. He was young, still in his twenties,
Lomax shut his eyes. The two cars were neck and neck, the
200SX squeezing ahead, the speedo needle sweeping past
the hundred mark. Then she swung the wheel left, hard without
warning, cutting right across the Mondeo's path.

The driver reacted wrongly. Perhaps he was too new to the
game, or rusty, or fired or just badly trained. Or perhaps he
simply wasn't expecting such a dangerous and deadly
manoeuvre by a good-looking middle-aged female solicitor.

In any event, he was caught off guard. Instead of accelerating,
driving the 200SX into a spin or cutting Browne up before she
cut him, his reaction was that of any layman. Instinctively, he
swung his wheel left to avoid her.

It was all over in a second. Once he'd made his error, he was
travelling too fast to do anything about it. The Mondeo
bounced over the rough turf of the verge and down the other
side, out of view. Browne stood on the brakes and the 200SX
went into a shrieking, slewing skid until the ABS cut in and they
straightened up. Jamming the gearshift into reverse, she backed
up at speed to where the Mondeo had disappeared. Before it
had stopped, Lomax was already out and running up the low
embankment where he paused.

The Mondeo had careered off the verge and taken flight
across a drainage ditch before smashing through a wire fence
into a wheatfield. It had landed nose first, buckling the bonnet
and causing the doors to burst open. The driver was hanging
half out, restrained by his seat belt.

Lomax edged down the grassy slope and jumped the ditch.

'Wait for me, Christ,' Browne called, her trainers skidding on
the long grass.

He offered his hand to help her across the ditch then they
proceeded to pick their way through the tangle of wire and
uprooted fence posts. By the time they'd cleared it, the driver
had recovered his senses and was struggling to release his seat
belt.

'Stay where you are!' Browne yelled.


346

	'SamF Lomax warned.

But the young man was already out. In jeans and nondescript
bomber jacket, he looked mean and fit with close-co.pped hair
and an earring. Despite a cut above his eye and his slightly
groggy stance, he'd made a quick recovery and vqas now moving
towards Browne in a low crouch.
	'Fuck
off, cow!' he demanded.

She stared at him, suddenly filled with abject horror. He
raised his arm, bent at the elbow to give her a back-handed slap
and clear his escape route. Instinctively Browne ducked and
parried with her left forearm, knocking his aside. As his guard
opened, she swung her right fist hard and low, hunching so that
the full weight of her shoulder went in behind it. The blow
struck him squarely in the abdomen and he collapsed onto his
knees, winded.

Browne looked in surprise and amazement at what she'd just
done, then a smug little smile broke on her lips.

'You bastard,' she said flatly. Then she brought up her knee,
catching him hard under the chin. He toppled over, unconscious.

Lomax turned to locate the passenger who'd taken Roebuck's
documents and parapack. He was staggering out of the rear
door and beginning to run across the field, still clutching the
briefcase. Lomax sprinted after him, pounding across the grass,
then launched himself in a rugby tackle. As his arms encircled
the thrashing legs, the passenger toppled forward with his
hands outstretched to break the fall.

The man began kicking, trying to break the grip, but Lomax
held fast, clawing his way slowly up the body under a rain of
blows. A fist caught him on the cheek, then full on his nose. It
was an excruciating pain, but he forced himself to ignore it until
he could grab the flailing limb with both hands. Executing a
stabbing knuckle-punch to the man's bicep, Lomax momentarily
disabled him. That gave Lomax the opportunity to sit up
and pinion the man to the ground with his knee while dragging
the numbed arm securely up into the small of his prisoner'
back.


347

'One squeak,' Lomax warned breathlessly, 'and it snaps.

Okay?'

There was a muffled surrender mouthed from the face
pressed into the grass. Then the body relaxed, the fight gone.
Lomax dragged the man to his feet and picked up the briefcase
before frog-marching him back to the car.

Browne had found a wheel brace in the boot of the battered
Mondeo and stood with it at the ready as the driver stirred on
the ground.

'I thought you'd killed him,' Lomax said. 'That was some

road rage.'

'I should have kicked him in the balls,' she replied tersely.

'I think you've done him enough damage.' He pushed the
second man roughly onto the ground beside the driver. 'Right,
now you two have got some explaining to do.'

'Who's this?' Browne said suddenly. She stood facing the

road and could see a couple scrambling down the bank from a

car that had pulled up behind her 200SX.

The man was middle-aged and wearing a flat cap, but the
woman looked several years younger.

'What's happened?' the man called out. 'Is anyone hurt?'

'Damn,' Lomax cursed. 'That's all we need. I wanted a few
moments alone with these two.'

The man was slightly out of breath as he arrived. 'Goodness

me, what a smash! Are these two injured?'

Browne forced a sweet smile and reached out for the man's
shoulder, starting to turn him away. 'It's just minor cuts and
bumps, but would you mind going to the nearest phone
and calling for an ambulance. They ought to have a proper
checkup.'

'No need, I've got a mobile phone.'

Lomax's heart sank as the man reached into the pocket of his
short driving coat and pulled out a Browning 9ram.

'What the hell?' Lomax began, then stopped. He didn't have

to ask what was going on. It was all too clear and he kicked
himself for his own ineptitude. Of course, MI5 wouldn't have
sent in one team for a tricky operation like the one at the
airfield. Anything could have gone wrong, as indeed it had. And


348

he and Browne had been so busy chasing the Mondeo it had
never occurred to them that they in turn were being chased.

'Open the boot of the car and get inside,' the man.r,dered.
'You bloody murderer!' Browne snarled.

It was the woman now who stepped forward. She was in her
late thirties, solidly built although not unatttactive. Without
hesitation, she slapped Browne hard across the cheek. The
solicitor fell back against the side of the car; when her hand
came away from her mouth there was blood on her fingers. 'Do
as you're told,' the woman ordered. 'Or we'll bloody well torch
it with you inside!'

The man glanced down at the two men. 'Eddie, Greg, on
your pins. And you've got nothing to laugh about. Get that
briefcase and the parachute and get over to our car. I'll talk to
you later.'

Browne was now reluctantly climbing into the boot, still
glowering. Lomax held his tongue and watched, looking for an
opportunity to take them on. But the odds weren't good and the
woman might also be armed. He studied the gunman's face
carefully until the woman saw Lomax staring at him. 'Now you.
Get in with her.'

'We hardly know each other.'

'Well, now's your chance to get acquainted. Shift!'

Browne squeezed up as tightly as she could to allow room for
Lomax. 'I'll see you in court one day,' she told the gunman who
said nothing, but slammed the lid.

They were immediately .entombed in absolute blackness,
sounds from outside cut offand a faint smell of petrol in the air.

'I hope that was an idle threat about torching the car,' Lomax
said.

Browne's face was only inches from his, but he could see
nothing. 'God, Chris, they wouldn't, would they?'

Now he wished he hadn't mentioned it. 'I shouldn't think so.'
Alarm remained in her voice. 'We'll suffocate, I'm feeling
claustrophobic already.' She hammered her fist on the metal

pressing down on her head; not a sound came from outside.
'Someone will be along soon.'

'We're in the middle of the countryside, Chris.'


349

'There's always someone around. We'll be seen from the road,' he assured. 'Now, is there some sort of fastener or catch behind
you? We might be able to let the back seat down and get out that
way.'

'I can't move.'

'Let me try.'

'Get your hands offmy tits!'
'Sorry.'
'Liar!'

He chuckled. 'True.' He couldn't find any form of catch as he

ran his fingers along the top edge of the seat. 'It's no good.'
'Oh, God,' she wailed.

He changed the subject, trying to imagine her in the darkness.
'Where did you learn to pack a punch like that?'
'Barney's Gym. I box there.'

'No kidding. No shortage of sparring lartners, I bet?'

He could tell somehow she was smiling when she said: 'No,
why? Fancy your chances in a couple of rounds?'

'Not after I saw the way you floored that bastard.'
'Better than he deserved.'
'Still, that woman had a point.'
'What?'

'Said this was an opportunity for us to get acquainted.'

'He was gross['

'I thought I recognised him.'
'That pi#'
'Something familiar.'

'I'm scared. I can't breathe. The air's running out.'

'No, it's not.'

'Chris, what are you doing?'

'Kissing you.'

And that was the bizarre scene that greeted the bemused
police officer who released the boot. They had been incarcerated
for barely ten minutes when he'd seen the crashed car
while passing on Panda patrol.

'You're not going to believe this,' Lomax began, shielding his
eyes from the sudden influx of light.

And clearly the young constable didn't. Neither did the desk


350

sergeant at the local police station. Browne let Lomax do the
talking and took her cue from him. He missed out all speculation
about tampered parachutes and just reportcd that after
Roebuck's death he'd seen a stranger stealing belongings from
the widow's car. They'd given chase and the thieves had gone
too fast and driven themselves off the road. I-Ididn't mention
that Browne had forced them off. The sergeant Was obviously
sceptical about the arrival of two strangers - Lomax omitted
mention of guns - although he didn't challenge the statement.
However extraordinary it sounded, he couldn't fathom how else
they could have ended up in the boot of a crashed car that
wasn't theirs.

'I'm glad you didn't mention I hit that creep,' Browne said as
they were driving back to London afterwards. 'With the state
of British law, I'd have probably been arrested for criminal
assault.'

'There was no point trying to get the police involved. Even if
they believed half of it, MI5 would arrange to have it hushed up.
Look what Bill Johnson was told when he started taking an
interest. And your joke about an assault charge isn't that funny.
If we kicked up a fuss you might just get charged with
dangerous driving for real. As it is, I expect the local plod will
just file the incident away and forget about it.'

'Well, I certainly won't. If someone really did murder
Roebuck, I want him to swing for it.'

'They did murder him, Sam. It's getting nasty.'

'But they didn't kill us. "Zhy?'

'Not a time of their choosing. Or else we're too close to a
high-profile trial.'

'Chris, I'm frightened.'

'You'll be okay. They only bump offlawyers in Italy.'

'That's not funny.'

'Anyway,' Lomax said, 'let's forget about it. Let me take you
out for a meal tonight.'

She shook her head. 'I'm not in the mood. Not after what
happened to Colin.'

'We can commiserate together. Like we did in the car.'

'That was a moment of madness, Chris. I was scared.'


351

'At least you didn't threaten to have me charged with

attempted rape this time.'

'You were lucky.'

He shook his head sadly. 'Why do you always pull back, Sam?
What is it with you?'

'Look, Chris, I don't want to get involved, that's all. Not with

you, not with anyone. And I'm not pulling back. I told you I'm
not in the mood. Besides, I've got work to do. I want to phone

Derek Penny when I get home.'

'It's Saturday.'

'The world doesn't stop just because it's the weekend, Chris.
We've just lost one of our two star witnesses. With all this stuff
in the papers about child abuse, I don't want Derek Penny
going wobbly on us too.'

Reluctantly he had to admit she was right. He'd seen the
mountain of files she had to work through. Since the late arrival
of the prosecution's huge evidence bundle prior to committal
she'd been wading through the reams of papers. On the murder
charge it seemed the police had interviewed every other inhabi

tant of south London and had obligingly sent her the lot. It had
all but swamped her as she was duty-bound to read and sift out
anything that might be relevant to the defence and follow it up.
Now he felt bad. 'If there's anything I can do to help?'
'Sure, I'll let you know.'

Almost as soon as she'd dropped him outside Evie's flat in
Southall, Browne regretted it. She glimpsed his receding figure
in her rear-view mirror and felt a small tight knot of fear
forming in her chest. Why did she do it? Why did she seem
deliberately to set out to destroy ny relationship she'd ever
had? She was losing Lomax again, she could sense it, feel it.
Now that he was seeing her more regularly again she felt almost
depressed when he wasn't around. She used to enjoy her own
company, her freedom and space to do what the hell she liked
when she liked. But now when he wasn't there, her flat felt
empty. Desolate. The residence of a dried-up old spinster who
had never known love. No, not never known. A spinster
who had turned her back on it, because she couldn't bear the
thought of love in case she lost it once again.

352


Thinking of Lomax made her decide to stop off and buy a
Chinese takeaway before returning home. The building was
cold and airless and she opened a window before .c2ecking the
answerphone and settling down to eat. With a bottle ored wine
on the table, she began working through the prgsecution files.
She hardly tasted the chicken chow mein and bely registered a
word she read. " "

A vision kept creeping into her mind's eye. The cloudless
blue sky. A ragged little bundle, a distant speck, the red
jumpsuit tugged by the wind. Her ears heard what Roebuck
heard. Nothing but the awesome silence of the sky. The whistle
of gravity's pull and the slipstream snapping at the material of
his clothes. And she saw what he saw. Earth spinning up to meet
him. And she felt his dread, his horror as the parachute ripcord
came away in his hand. The lingering horror - seconds seeming
like minutes as he waited to die - that he took with him to the
grave.

She heard and felt the thud of impact and closed her eyes. No
one should ever have to face death like that.

Again she tried to read. The blue Mondeo. That car chase.
Already it was a bizarre dream that had never happened. Had
she really forced it off the road? And the passers-by. That
middle-aged man with his flat cap. The awful woman, the bitch.
Had she had a hand in Roebuck's death? Suddenly these
weren't half-imagined phantoms that had set up Roddy Littlechild
for murder and hindered her progress in his defence. Now
the phantoms had faces; now she knew they were for real. She
had seen them. Dammit, she had touched one. Hit him. God,
had she really done that?

Unconsciously she glanced down at the knuckles of her right
hand, saw the bluish tint of her bruised skin. She smiled at the
memory. Barney should have seen that, he'd have been proud of
her. Like Lomax had. He hadn't exactly said, but he didn't have
to. She could see it in his eyes.

Lomax. Locked in the bloody boot with Lomax. Suddenly
she felt an overwhelming urge to phone him. Tell him to come
over because she was frightened and she was lonely. And she.
wanted him.


353

No. She pushed away the half-eaten takeaway and lifted the
telephone onto the table. Consulting her notebook, she dialled
Derek Penny's number.

It rang for a long time. She checked her watch. Nine thirty.

Not in bed yet and the Pennys wouldn't be out socialising if
they'd read that morning's newspapers. Perhaps they'd gone to
ground?

She was about to replace the receiver when the ringing
stopped and a woman's voice came on the line. 'For God's sake,
can't you leave us alone!'

'Meredith? It's Sam Browne here.'

'Who?' The voice quavered.

'Sam Browne. I'm a solicitor, we met the other week.'

'Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I thought it was the press again.

The phone hasn't stopped all day. It's been perfectly beastly)

'I can imagine. Look, I read the story today and I thought

your husband might need help.'

'He didn't do all those awful things, you know,' Meredith said

with breathless indignation.

'I imagine not, that's why I'd like to help.'

'He might not want to talk to you,' she said defensively. 'He's

not in a very communicative mood. I'll ask him.'

Browne waited for several long minutes before Derek Penny
came on the line. 'This is none of your business, Miss Browne.'

'I think perhaps it is. If these stories are unfounded, then
someone may be trying to hurt you because you're a trial
witness.'

There was a hesitation. 'I suppose that's possible. I certainly
can't think of any rational explanation.' Finally he agreed to
meet her at her office on Monday morning.

She had just hung up when the telephone rang.

It was Lomax. 'Sorry to interrupt you.'

Browne was pleased to hear his voice. 'I've just been talking

to Derek Penny. He's coming to see me Monday morning. Will

you be doing anything?'

'Only writing for job interviews.'

'I may need a gumshoe. Penny's due at nine.'

Tll be there.'


354

'So why are you disturbing me, Mr Lomax?'
'That man in the flat cap -'
'Yes?'

'Remember I said he looked vaguely familia. ell, he's
changed a lot since I last knew him. Name of Harry. I've just
been cracking a couple of cans with Joe. He knew the man even
better. Was a field operator for MI5 in Northern Ireland way

back. Joe knows his full name.' 'So what have you got?'
'Harry. Harry Grisewold.'
'No kid.'

'Known behind his back as Dirty Harry.'

355


Fifteen


'So you haven't even been charged?' Browne asked.

Penny was sitting stiffly upright in the solicitor's office while

his wife regarded him with silent concern. 'No,' he said. 'I
was just interviewed by the local police and asked to make a
statement. Obviously I denied the allegations and said that I did
not recall the names of the people who were accusing me. Well,
I wouldn't after twenty years.'

'Did the police indicate that they intended to prosecute?'
'Not specifically. Just said the usual, that their investigation
was continuing. Then last week our local paper ran the story
without naming me. Of course it was obvious to everyone. The
entire village turned its back on me.'

'You wouldn't think people we've known for years would
believe Derek capable, would you?' Meredith asked plaintively.

'I'm afraid people believe what they want to believe,' Browne

said. 'And some like to see the mighty fallen.' She turned back

to Penny. 'You think the local police tipped offthe paper?'

Penny shrugged. 'They say not, but it doesn't matter now the
tabloids have picked it up. One claims to have investigated and
named all the names, mine included.'

'They won't do that again,' Browne promised. 'I'll get an
injunction slapped on them and we'll start suing for libel
damages.'

'Oh dear,' Meredith said, 'I couldn't bear all that sort of
thing.'

In a rare show of emotion, Penny reached out and took his
wife's hand. 'She's right. The mud's been thrown now and it'll
stick whatever I do. Going to court will just drag it all up again.'

Lomax had been leaning against the wall. 'These two men

who made the allegations, do you know where they live?'

Penny shook his head. 'No, the police won't give that sort of
information. At first I thought they might be ex-cons.I've put

356


away trying to get revenge. But if they are, they aren't names
that ring any bells with me.'

Browne said: 'There's not a lot I can do if I don,a.ke out an
injunction.'

'I don't want to get embroiled, Miss Browne. I'd rather let it
blow over if I can.'

Lomax said: 'What is it you're afraid of?' "

Penny glanced up at him. 'Very perceptive of you. To be
honest, I wasn't the most popular man amongst my police
colleagues. iF i fight a newspaper in court, God knows what sort
of lies it might dig up. It could even affect your client's case.'

'Are you still prepared to testify on his behalf?.' Browne
asked.

'Of course.' He sounded almost indignant. 'Provided you still
consider my testimony of value after this scandal.'

Later that day Lomax used a call box to telephone Detective

Superintendent Bill Johnson in Stafford.
'Hello, Chris, nice surprise.'
'How's life?'

'Bit quieter now that manhunt for Keegan's on the back
burner. Vanished into thin air. Incidentally read all that stuff
about Derek Penny over the weekend. Quite incredible.'

'That's why I'm phoning. I think it's part of a deliberate

smear campaign because he's a witness.'

'Isn't that a bit unlikely?'

Lomax said: 'Did you also read about that skydiving accident
in Oxford? A man called Colonel Roebuck.'

Johnson was hesitant, perhaps starting to guess. 'Yes.'
'He was Colonel X at Keegan's trial. Do you get my drift?'
There was a brief considered silence on the other end of the
phone. 'Before I got involved in all this, I'd have laughed in your
face. How can I help?'

'Some info from Penny's local coppers.'

'I can try,' Johnson said guardedly. 'Someone on the Kent
force owes me a favour.'

Three days later, Johnson called back with the addresses of
Penny's two former choirboy accusers. Both lived in cheap.
short-let bedsits in different parts of north London. And the


357

following evening Lomax and Monk planned to approach
the two men simultaneously so that neither could warn the
other.

They went in at seven and in both cases got the same reply
from their respective landladies. Earlier that day the occupant
had upped and flown leaving no forwarding address.

Half an hour later Lomax and Monk kept their pub rendezvous
to compare notes.

'Mine had barely been there a month,' Monk said.

'Any clues?'

'Told a neighbour he'd been a seaman in the Merchant Navy.'
'Could be a connection,' Lomax thought aloud. 'I said I'd
consider renting the place and had a look round. He'd left
behind a copy of Globe and Laurel, the Royal Marines' magazine.
Said he'd just got a job on the oil rigs.'

'Could be ex-cabbage hats,' Monk decided.

'Oil rigs, divers,' Lomax followed his train of thought. 'Divers
could be Commachio Troop or Special Boat Service.'

'Navy is Navy. Mean Royal, but say Merchant. Always keep
your cover story close to the truth.'

'If they're ex-SBS, it could mean they'd cross paths with the
intelligence community.'

Monk wiped the froth from his moustache with the back of
his hand. He grinned. 'That's what I call making two and two
equal five.'

Lomax laughed. 'If we're right, I call it bloody good detective
work.'

'I'm beginning to like this business. Philip Marlowe, eat yet
heart out.'

'Trouble is, we're not getting paid.'

'There's always a snag.'

But on this occasion there was an even bigger snag as they
discovered when they called at Sam Browne's flat to give her
their news. Her footsteps were heard racing down the stairs
inside before she flung open the door. 'Chris - er, hello, Joe.
Where on earth have you been all this time?' she demanded.

Lomax was taken aback. 'I told you earlier, looking up
Penny's accusers.'


358

	'Did you find them?'

	'No, they'd both upped sticks and flown.'

	'Then they've served their purpose.'
	.

	'What?'


'Of course, you don't know. I had a distressed call from
Meredith, Penny's wife, not long after you lef He's hanged
himself.'


Lord Moffat was returned to his Victorian apartment in
Cadogan Gardens by ministry car.

He had spent an hour and a half in the Cabinet Intelligence
Unit meeting doing his best to persuade the Prime Minister and
others that all was not lost just because the Provisional IRA's
ceasefire had collapsed

He had told his despondent colleagues that it was only to be
expected. 'We allowed the Unionist politicians to dictate too
much of the agenda. Difficult, I know, with them demanding a
referendum on the final outcome of any talks - a virtual veto on anything they don't like. And then insisting on a start to
paramilitary disarmament even before talks begin. A resumption
of violence was therefore inevitable, as I predicted in my
memorandum six weeks ago.'

'I see no realistic way forward now; the Prime Minister had
responded gloomily.

'Not at all, sir,' Moffat replied. 'You're still pushing ahead
with elections of those participating in the talks. That's good.'

'But little hope of all key parties participating,' the Northern
Ireland Secretary had interrupted wearily. A large man with
gravitas projected with a cultured public-school accent and a
diplomat's evasive turn of phrase, Sir Ralph Maynard had been
in the job too long. It had simply worn him down and now his
plans to retire from his thankless task were public knowledge.
'Or, indeed, all parties being able to qualify to participate.'

That was a reference to the suspicion that the Provisional
IRA would decide to renew its ceasefire. Moffat had waved the
problem aside. 'It may be no bad thing if Sirra Fein doesn't
attend. If the Republican diehards are not there, then the
Unionists may be persuaded to relax their stance.'


359

There was a steely glint of interest in the Prime Minister's
eyes that belied his benign appearance. 'I think I understand
what you're getting at, Lord Moffat.'

'We have no doubts about what both PIRA and Dublin want,
Prime Minister, and the stepping stones to get us to an agreement
that sits comfortably with everyone. Namely, so many joint cross-border collaborations in health, tax, police and currency
that eventually the infrastructure of North and South
becomes as one.'

'So continue,' Maynard suggested. 'Softly, softly? But
nothing too extreme, too sudden?'

'Exactly that,' Moffat had exclaimed. 'Without feeling Sinn
Fein is pushing them into a corner, the Unionists will agree to
far more co-operation with Dublin than they would otherwise.
The key, as I've said before, is to keep the legal actuality of all
these decisions and changes deep in all the small print. Leave it
to the Brussels lawyers to pronounce one day exactly how
tightly bound Ireland has become as one state. No need for any
British Government to take the rap for what'll seem as Europe's
meddling. All of us in this room recognise the inevitability of the
future of the island of Ireland, and we should not reproach
ourselves if we adopt less than straightforward means.'

All in all, it had been a satisfactory meeting, Moffat concluded,
as he took the ancient elevator cage to the top floor of
the mansions.

Entering the stillness of his high-ceilinged apartment, he
made his way first to the walnut credenza and poured himself a
stiff gin and tonic before settling down in his favourite leather
club chair to catch ITV's Early Evening News.

He wasn't fully concentrating, the sound too low and Moffat
feeling too weary to reach for the confounded remote control.
Reporter outside Leinster House. Looking serious. 'A quarter
of Dublin without electricity...' Moffat frowned. Had he
heard right?

Cut to a talking head. An inspector in the Irish Garda.
Moffat found the control, thumbing up the volume. 'A main
powerline was brought down by an explosive device in a remote
region of County licklow. Police have sealed off the area:


360

'Have there been any arrests?' the reporter asked.

'Not so far. It is possible the explosive device was timedelayed
but that's yet to be confirmed: .

'Do you think this is the work of Loyalist terrorist's from the
North of Ireland?'

'I really cannot speculate at this time: "

Cut back to reporter. 'A spokesman for the government told
me earlier that it could be at least two days before full power
supplies are restored to affected areas of the city:

Back to studio, the announcer saying: ' While official sources
in Dublin refuse to confirm or deny that the explosion is
the work of Loyalist extremists from Northern Ireland, in the
province itself a group calling itself Cuchulainn or the Hound
of Ulster has claimed that it carried out the attack in response
to the ending of the IRA ceasefire. We go direct now to our
reporter outside Belfast City Hall:

Without realising, Moffat had already finished his gin,
getting a mouthful of lemon peel; he put his glass aside without
taking his eyes from the screen.

'Hello, John; the studio anchor said. ' What can you tell us
about this new terrorist organisation?'

'Not a lot, Michael; replied the Belfast reporter in front of a
crowd cheering and waving Union flags. 'No one appears to
have heard of them until today when they claimed to be responsible
for the explosion which denied electricity to up to a
third of Dublin. It is a Loyalist grouping that says it is the
military wing of the Frontline Ulster Movement:

'And what is Frontline Ulster? That name isn't familiar to

me.'

'No, Michael, it wouldn't be. But it's known to most Ulster
people from the early 1970s when it pronounced itself to be
some sort of resistance movement to meet a doomsday scenario
of total civil war. Until now it has been regarded as moribund:

Back to studio. 'So why have they chosen this moment to
take military action, do you think?'

The reporter waved a thin sheaf of orange-tinted paper for
the benefit of the camera. 'Well, Michael, I have here their
official communique which says it now considers itself to be at


361

war with Dublin. It claims Ulster has been betrayed by the
Westminster Government, which is continuing a policy of
eroding the civil liberties and rights of their Unionist majority
and which continues a policy of pushing - I quote - "the
province's loyal subjects of the Crown into the arms of a foreign
nation state".' An awkward smile at the camera. 'Meaning
Eire, of course. The communique says it is not prepared to wait
until this happens or for another twenty-five years of urban
warfare while Westminster continually fails to take necessary
effective action to destroy the Provisional IRA.'

' What does it expect a British Government to do?'

'I don't think this organisation expects it to do anything;
that is rather the point.'

'So what's the purpose of bombing power supplies to
Dublin?'

The reporter tapped t-he communique with his forefinger. 'It's clearly stated here that the intention is to force Dublin to
take the action these Loyalists think is necessary. Cuchulainn makes two demands. Firstly that the Dublin Government
cracks down on the IRA in the South by interning all suspected
members - which they say has been done twice before, in
1939 and 1957, with great effect. Then they demand that
Dublin revoke Clauses Two and Three from its constitution,
which lay claim to the Six Counties. And finally that the
Anglo-Irish Agreement be scrapped:

"Has there been a response from Sinn Fein or from any of the
other Loyalist paramilitary groups?'

'None so far, it took everyone a bit by surprise when the
announcement was made a coupl of hours ago.'

'And yet I see quite a few people behind you, apparently
expressing approval of the action that's been taken. Is this
orchestrated support?'

'Michael, yes, this is rather a strange phenomenon. A local
pop folk band broke on the Loyalist pub and club scene a
couple of months ago. They called themselves the Tain after the
book of Irish mythology which features the Hound of Ulster.
This band makes no secret of its affiliations with Frontline
Ulster, which is a perfectly legal movement, and has had great

362


success with an own-label record called "Colours". It is plainly
a recruiting song aimed at the Loyalist community. Thepeople
behind me claim to be fans of the band. Perhaps i .would be
helpful if I read out the chorus from that song:

A wry smile from the anchor man. 'As long. as you don't
attempt to sing it, John: "

'Certainly not.' Joke shared. The reporter referred to his
notes and cleared his throat:


'Red is the colour of anger,

And black is the colour of hate,

And yellow the colour of those who look on,

And do nothing to alter their fate:


'Thank you, John. And now next tonight...'

Moffat switched off the set and stared at the blank screen for
several seconds in deep concentration.

What the hell was going on? The Frontline Ulster Movement.
Impossible! What the hell was Roger Pinfold playing at?

As his fingers reached towards the telephone, it rang and

made him jump. He snatched at the receiver. 'Moffat.'
'Pinfold here, Lord Moffat.'

'I was just about to call you, Roger. What in damnation is
going on, all this nonsense about Frontline...?'

'Not over the phone, sir,' Pinfold hissed. 'I'm calling from my
car. If it's convenient, I'll be with you in ten minutes.'

'I'll be waiting, dammit,, and expecting answers too.' He
slammed the receiver into its cradle and walked unsteadily to
the cabinet to pour another drink.

He had barely regained some composure when Pinfold
arrived.

'I came as soon as I could,' the MI5 man said breathlessly.

Moffat glared at him. 'Really, I cannot believe what I've just
seen on the news.'

'It's worse than that. The media reported one pylon blown
up. But in fact there were three. Three main electricity feeder
lines into Dublin are down. And there's been major disruption.
to the railways with tracks blown up.' He took a deep breath,


363

hardly believing his own words. 'Dublin's in the process
slapping on a news blackout and is setting up a crisis ne
management team. I've just come from an emergency meetin
with the director-general. Not a pleasant experience. Anywa]
we're putting a D-notice on the media regarding any futtu
developments. A couple of minutes ago the Taoiseach was o
the telephone to the Prime Minister. They'll both want to pl
down the seriousness of this development.'

'Seriousness?' Moffat countered. 'How can it be seriou
Roger, with Frontline under your personal control?'

The man smiled defensively. 'Not exactly control, sir.'

'Let's not bandy words.' Lord Moffat felt his blood pressttt,
rising. 'It's your personal area of responsibility. Your job t
maintain accurate files on the membership list, to know wha
individuals are up to.'

Attack was always the best form of defence, Pinfold thought
'My department has done that. For a start, all weapons cache:
were closed down by my predecessor. These explosives haw
come from some other source and that suggests this is som
kind of splinter group.'

'So what do you intend to do?' Moffat demanded.

'Nip it in the bud. This development is serious in terms ofit
timing and the apparent professionalism. But, as you say, w
have an up-to-date membership list for Frontline. The RU(
and army are now making plans for a massive dawn swoop in
the province tomorrow morning. They won't know what's hit
them.'

Moffat took a deep breath, swelled out his chest. 'I hope so,
Roger, otherwise neither will you.'


It was one of those uncannily still Sunday afternoons and bitterly
cold.

Lomax stood by the dormer window and sipped at a mug o!
soup. From one of the long row of gardens below, woodsmoke
spiralled into the wintry sky and flecks of snow eddied about
but didn't settle. Rows of snowdrops stood bravely in the
window box.


364

'I've toasted some crumpets,' Evie said, coming in from the
kitchen.

'I can smell them,' Lomax replied, turning back. into the
room.

'One of Roddy's favourites. With butter and strawberry jam.
The other day he said that's one thing he ms.sCd. Silly, isn't
it? All that business with Derek Penny and we talked about
crumpets. I don't believe he could bear to think about it,
about just how bad things are now.'

'We've still got the documentary evidence.' Lomax tried to
introduce an optimistic note into his voice.

She shook her head. 'Roddy doesn't think it'll be worth much
without Penny himself to back it up. We've talked it over and
we've accepted that he's going down. If he fights it'll be a life
sentence and if he doesn't he's looking at fifteen years.'

Lomax felt a rush of anger. 'Don't talk like that. Have some
faith.'

'In Sam Browne?' Evie gave a pained little expression. 'I
don't have to because I'm not the one who's besotted with her,
Chris. However good she is - and I know she and that barrister

Meyrick will do their best - neither of them can work miracles.'
He sat down beside his sister. 'I know it'll be tough.'
'It'll be tough on you if you bankrupt yourself.'

'I won't. Besides, Roddy can sue for thousands when we win.'
'We can't win if we go for a plea bargain.'
'For God's sake, Evie, Roddy can't do that.'

Her eyes flashed. 'We'renot on a holy crusade, Chris. It's
mine and my husband's life we're talking about. And our baby. I
want us back together as soon as pgssible. If we listen to Sam
Browne, Roddy'll end up doing at least five years more than he
needs to. Noel will be grown up by the time he gets out.' She
sniffed heavily to stop her tears and pushed away her plate, the
crumpet untouched.

Lomax sat in thoughtful silence. He understood the
reasoning, and could only wish that he didn't.

Evie said: 'So please will you start looking for a job. Properly, I
mean, not halfheartedly.'


365

It was then that he realised. 'Has Manda been talking to you
about this?'

Evie bit her lip. 'Oh dear, I promised her I wouldn't let on.'
'And she promised me she wouldn't breathe a word to you.'
'Chris, she's not a fool. Manda knows the perilous state of
your finances. Nearly all your savings have gone on living and
travel expenses since this business began. That's before your
divorce settlement. Fran will expect half the value of the house

and half the savings you've already spentl'

Lomax seethed. 'Manda had no right.'

'She had every right, Chris. She's your daughter and she's
worried about you. How many old soldiers are there sleeping
rough under Waterloo Bridge? Or on park benches throughout
the country?'

Lomax didn't reply immediately. He sat back and drained his
soup. What could he say? Evie was right, Manda was right. He
was trying to juggle what remained of his finances with one
hand tied behind his back. He was already a month behind on
the mortgage.

At last he said: 'Don't worry about me, sis, I'm a survivor.
I'm prepared to face anything provided Roddy doesn't throw in
the towel. If he does, then it will all have been a waste.'

Evie frowned. 'Don't lay that on me, Chris. It's not fair.'

'I think it is,' he answered, more harshly than he intended.
'Your influence over Roddy is crucial. He knows my view, but
you're his wife. You're the one who matters. You and Noel. And
what sort of world do you want to bring the child up in?'

She gave a bitter little laugh. 'Not the deceitful and corrupt
one he's been born into, that's for sure.'

'Exactly. So do something to change it. Roddy can win. He
didn't commit murder so there has to be a way to win. And we'll
find it. Even if Roddy goes down, we'll appeal and I personally
will go on digging until I find the truth. Don't let Noel grow up

being ashamed of his father.'

'For God's sake!' Angry.

'No, sis, it's got to be said. Give the kid something to believe

in. When he's old enough to understand, he'll know his father
served his time defiantly declaring his innocence. In a way,


366

better that than spend a shorter time having confessed to a
crime he didn't commit!'

Then the tears began to well in Evie's eyes. 'Oh Chris, I
don't know what to think.' And she began to sob as he took her
in his arms.


'Mr Justice Todd!' Browne fumed for the umpteenth time. She
strode across the pavement towards Belmarsh Crown Court
with the rest of them striving to keep up. It was the day of the
pre-trial review and a plea and directions hearing.

'Repeating his name won't make him go away, dear heart,'
Tristram Meyrick admonished as they reached the court steps.
'It's sounding like an incantation.'

'A prayer even,' offered the Jamaican Ronnie Rock.

She stopped and turned. 'Not a prayer, Ronnie, a curse.
You'd know all about that. Voodoo. Don't you know a friendly
village witch doctor who can make a doll for me to stick pins in?'

Rock laughed. 'All the witch doctors I knew have got practices
in Harley Street now.'

'Just how terrible is this Todd?' Lomax asked.

'Last of the hanging judges,' Browne said contemptuously.
'Establishment all the way. A bloody arse-kisser.'

'Sweeney Todd,' Totty added helpfully as she struggled with
the enormous bundle of papers. 'That's what Wayne calls him.'

'For once, Wayne's said something sensible,' Browne
snapped. 'Amazing how Todd's name pops up - supposedly
an unbiased choice by the Lord Chancellor's Department whenever
the government is determined to win a case. It's
either him or one of about four others in the same mould.'

'And, of course, the.Lord Chancellor is a Cabinet Minister,'
Rock pointed out.

Meyrick said: 'I don't believe anyone's yet managed to overturn
a Lord Chancellor's judicial selection since he was given
the powers of discretion in 1925. Anyway, Todd's not so bad,'
he reassured. 'I've conducted a defence under him before.

Strict but fair. You just need to know how to handle him.'
'And how's that?' she asked.
Meyrick grinned. 'With kid gloves.'


367

Browne had calmed a little. 'I shall smile sweetly at him
across the court room all the way through the trial.'

'Please don't do that,' Rock replied. 'We want to win this.'
With a half-smile, she pushed open the doors and stepped
into the courthouse lobby. Barristers and solicitors stood
around the bare and soulless room in animated groups with
their clients or with court officials.

She picked out the rival prosecution team immediately. It
wasn't difficult, Henry Halifax's baritone laugh was like a ship's
horn in a fog as he recounted some story to the phlegmatic GPS
solicitor. Ian Spinks was the antithesis of his barrister, painfully "
lean in a dark suit and bland tie with the sort of schoolboy face
that Browne associated with anoraks and trainspotters. The
impression wasn't helped by the lank wing of oiled hair across
his brow and spectacle frames that were too dark and heavy for
such a pale and youthful face.

It took a second for her to place the other man, but Lomax
got there first. 'Roger Pinfold,' she heard him breathe beside
her.

Pinfold was on his mettle, had obviously seen them and
mentioned it because Henry Halifax turned. No second
thoughts, no hesitation from the barrister; immediately his
arms outstretched in exaggerated welcome, his florid face
beaming beneath the horsehair wig. 'And how is the loveliest
woman that God created?'

'I don't know, Henry,' she said, attempting to retreat as
Halifax embraced her and kissed her cheek, 'you'll have to go
and ask her.'

'Put her down,' Meyrick said."You don't know where she's
been.'

'And is this a red knickers day, I wonder?' Halifax whispered
quickly in her ear as she pulled away. 'Ready for mortal
combat?'

'Wouldn't you like to know?' she replied acidly and straightened
her crumpled jacket before turning to Pinfold. 'Here to
see justice done, are we? And is it Pinfold or Prendergast today?'

Spinks looked bewildered. 'What doyou mean, Sam?'


368

Browne gave a wan smile. 'Just that your Mr Prendergast is a
bit of a chameleon. Mr Lomax knew him by a different name.'

The prosecution solicitor looked none the wiserb.ut Pinfold
stepped quickly in with a suave smile. 'I'm afraid..your boyfriend's
mistaken. They say we all have a doppelganger - an
exact double - somewhere, don't they?' -

'Saddam Hussein and Adolf Hitler used them I do believe,'
she replied with an innocent smile. 'Oh, and for the record, Mr
Lomax is not my boyfriend.'

'Then I'm still in with a chance,' Halifax rejoined swiftly.
'You and the nearest leper colony. Or is that unfair to lepers?'
'Ouch,' said Halifax. To his credit he looked genuinely
abashed. 'I see you've mellowed since our last encounter.
Talking of which, does your client still intend to run in the face
of all the evidence?'

'He's pleading not guilty, Henry, if that's what you mean.' As
she said it, it gave her a small sense of satisfaction to see the
concern in Pinfold's eyes.

Halifax said: 'Pity he doesn't just save the taxpayer a lot of
wasted money.'

'Some of it yours, of course. That must rankle.'

'It does, if I dwell upon it.'

'Don't let it. This time it'll be money well spent. There's
always a price to pay for justice.'

It was then that the case of Regina v. Littlechild was called
and both teams of lawyers began making their way to the
courtroom.

'What was that about a red knickers day, Sam?' Lomax asked
innocently.

Irritation flashed in her eyes or a. moment before she
relented.

'It's all about the psychology ofcolour. It can help influence a
iury about how they perceive people. That's the theory- at least
in the States. Of course, all barristers have to dress the same
here, but we can use it for witnesses and, of course, the
defendant. Roddy will wear a nice new suit, a light blue-grey
suggesting openness.' She lowered her voice. 'Most of the


369

prosecution witnesses, the police, will almost certainly wear
very sombre dark colours.'

'And you believe in such nonsense?'
The mad eye. 'Yes.'
'And the red knickers?'

'The French philosophy,' she explained wearily. 'You are
what you wear and you dress from the inside out. Put on green
knickers in the morning and you feel cool and relaxed. Yellow,
cheerful. Black, sexy or white, submissive. Red for anger, for a
fight.'

'And today?' Bemused.

'Bright scarlet. If I'm run over by a bus they'll think I'm a
hooker.'

'And Henry Halifax knows this?'

'My fault,' Totty said, as they shuffled into the teak pews
before the Bench. 'The boss explained it to me once and I made
the mistake of confiding in Wayne. Now the entire Inns of
Court know about it.'

Browne smiled, grimly. 'It did my reputation no end of good.'
'THE COURT WILL RISE!' the clerk announced and the
red-robed figure of Mr Justice Todd swept in from the door
beyond the Bench. As he sat, Lomax squinted to get a better
view of the man's features. Tall and large-boned, he carried
himself with the air of a man who had no self-doubt, who knew
exactly what he was doing. In another life he could have been
one of the few senior military officers whom Lomax had come
across and instantly disliked. It wasn't difficult to imagine the
impassive broad face with its stern bluish jaw and humourless
dark eyes, ordering thousands of troops over the top without a
moment's prudent second thought. A man who believed in
making decisions, even if they were the wrong ones.

After the clerk's preamble, listing the charges, Halifax rose to
his feet. 'I represent the prosecution in this case, Your Lordship,
and my learned friend, Mr Meyrick, appears for the defence.'

'If it pleases Your Lordship,' Meyrick said, standing swiftly, 'I
should like to request most strongly that the two cases before
you be heard concurrently. The defence believes this is the only


370

way for the jury to understand the full and somewhat confusing
background story that links both charges.'

Mr Justice Todd peered down. 'That is a most egg.aordinary
request.'

'But not unprecedented, Your Lordship. And this is a most
extraordinary case.'

'Mr Halifax?' "

'The prosecution would object equally strongly to any
linkage being attached to these two cases. One relates to the
murder last year of a British subject in London and the other to
the conspiracy to murder a South African national in Belfast
some eight years ago. To suggest any linkage other than that the
same man carried out the crime is preposterous.'

Meyrick was adamant. 'The defence believes that it can draw
a very clear link between the two cases, that link being the work
my client loyally conducted on behalf of the Security Service
and the repercussions of such service. If this is not fully understood
and appreciated by the jury, then they will not be able to
reach a decision in either case with the benefit of all available
evidence before them.'

'Mrnm,' said Mr Justice Todd. 'Well, Mr Meyrick, it may
come as a surprise to you to know that I take my duty of
studying each case before me most seriously. Having scrupulously
read those details, I am of the opinion that any linkage is
purely coincidental and in no way affects the basic decision
facing the jury in each case. Was the defendant guilty as charged
on two separate occasions distanced by the best part of a

decade, each under totally different circumstances?'

'With respect, Your Lordship,' Meyrick began.

'That is my decision, Mr Meyric.k,' Todd came back swiftly.
'Moreover, I do not believe it to be in. the defendant's own
best interest to run the trials concurrently. These are two very
serious charges and to be found guilty on either count will
have serious consequences for him and his family. He will be
ill served if the jury is overwhelmed by an unnecessary and bewildering torrent of evidence.'

Meyrick knew he was beaten; it was no surprise, he'd been
expecting it. 'As Your Lordship pleases.'


371

Halifax was on his feet. 'Your Lordship will be aware that the
Home Secretary's Office seeks to preserve the anonymity of
those members of the Security Service - more commonly
referred to as MI5 - who will be appearing for the prosecution.
I would beg assurance on behalf of the Crown that the applications
be granted?'

Mr Justice Todd looked towards Meyrick.

'We would oppose any such restrictions, my lord, for reasons
that will become clear during the trial.'

'Really, Mr Meyrick?' He might just as well have said, 'Must
you?' 'Very well. The clerk will set a date for a meeting with me
and the two parties in chambers at the Old Bailey. I think

probably tomorrow, if that would suit all concerned?'

There was no dissension.

The clerk of court then read out each charge and asked how
the defendant intended to plead.

'Not guilty,' Meyrick replied firmly to each.

The detail then seemed endless,, the prosecution listing the
number of witnesses it intended to call, the broad nature of the evidence and other legal technicalities, and how long the
respective sides anticipated the first of the trials would last.

Unusually, the murder case would commence in just six
weeks' time. Littlechild's legal team guessed the government
was anxious and would be putting pressure on to get the entire
thing wrapped up and allow any dust to settle before the Forum
elections in Northern Ireland scheduled for early June. Two
weeks was set aside, assuming an end by the Easter Bank
Holiday. Only after the verdict would a decision be made on the
second conspiracy-to-murder cae. If the defendant was found
guilty, then the GPS would most likely just leave the second
charge on file.
However, if there was a not guilty verdict, the conspiracy trial
would surely follow.

'A double-barbed fish-hook,' Browne described it rather
graphically to Lomax as they waited in the rain for a taxi to
return to 10 Paper Buildings. 'A damn cheek saying it wasn't in my client's best interests not to run the trials concurrently. It
reduces it to a seemingly black-and-white case of a Loyalist with


372

paramilitary connections seizing an opportunity to kill an IRA
leader. Open and shut. I know what I'd believe if I was on the
iury.'

'C'mon, Sam,' Meyrick chided. 'Once we knew Justice
Todd was running the trial it was a foregone..conclusion. It

makes our job harder,.but not impossible.'

'How can you get round it?' Lomax asked.

'By working in cross-references to the other case,' Rock
explained. 'Teasing out the truth, so the relationship with the
second charge is exposed.'

'Easier said than done with Mr Justice Todd in the hot seat.
He'll see what we're trying to do and so will Halifax. We'll be
fighting them both all the way.'


'Desperate times call for desperate measures,' Monk said that
night as Lomax explained what had happened during the day.
They were having a couple of pints at a pub near Erie's flat.

'That's the drink talking,' Lomax replied irritably. 'Who
Dares Wins - until you wake up with a hangover the next
morning.'

Monk looked hurt. 'I'm serious.'

'Okay, what can we do?'

'First, what exactly is the nature of our problem?'

'You got all night?'

'All right, what's the most immediate problem?'

Lomax lit a fresh cigarette. 'Fundamentally, according to
Sam and Meyrick, we've got a judge who's virtually in the
prosecution's pocket. If they say it's raining, he gets an
umbrella. If they say it's sunny...'

'Yeah, yeah.' Impatient. 'Can't ctur lot complain about his
appointment?'

'No, it's just not done. Even Sam says that's not worth trying.'
'Is there another way?'

'No,'

'C'mon, Chris, you're not helping. Remember the old
Chinese Parliaments in the mob? Tossing ideas around till we
come up with something.'

Lomax relented. 'Okay.'

'So, what would happen if Todd was taken sick? He couldn't
conduct a trial from his hospital bed.'

'I'm not taking to beating up judges, Joe.'

'Or running them over? Hit-and-run would do nicely.'

'I wish. But I don't think that or food poisoning's on the
agenda.'

'Abduction,' Monk said brightly. 'Just for a few days until
another judge is appointed.'

'Joe, us ending up in jail isn't going to help Roddy.'

Monk saw the funny side of that. 'I don't know. With the right
judge he might win - and be free to visit us when we're inside.'

'You're right in one respect,' Lomax said thoughtfully. 'If only
Todd could be indisposed long enough for another judge to be

appointed...'
'Any ideas?'
'None.'

'I suppose we ought to know more about him. Where he lives,

his family, his recreations? Something might give us an idea.
Perhaps we ought to follow him.'

Lomax shrugged; he really wasn't sure this was a good idea.
'We know there's a meeting in his chambers with Meyrick and
Halifax tomorrow... I could find out the time from Totty.'

'At least we'll be doing something,' Monk said with his usual
enthusiasm.

His friend nodded uncertainly. 'Just one thing, Joe. Don't
breathe a word of this to Evie or Sam. Especially Sam.'


It was big boy's stuffbehind closed doors in judge's chambers at
the back of the Old Bailey. Mr Justice Todd and heavyweight
barristers in genteel, yet bloody-minded combat. Solicitors
excluded, Sam Browne and the prosecution's Ian Spinks feeling
like rejected ringside seconds in the draughty corridor outside.

She didn't know her opposite number well, she realised.
Perhaps that was a mistake. He seemed an unemotional sort,
but it could be shyness. 'D'you smoke, Ian?' she asked, offering
the pack.

'No, filthy habit.'


374

Her smile wavered. 'Yes - er- it is, isn't it? I try to give up, but
times like this - Doesn't it get to you?'

Dark eyes blinked behind the old man's hornrims on the
young boy's face. Boy? A man in his mid-thirties was hardly
that. Yet she couldn't get the image ofanoraks and trainspotting
from her mind.

'It doesn't worry me, Miss Browne. We win the majority of
cases for the GPS. Bound to really as they're virtually all guilty
as sin.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Otherwise they wouldn't have been charged in the first place.
When some do get off, it's usually thanks to some clever lawyer
conning the jury or some technical point of law, isn't it? No
offence meant.'

'Not related to Mr Justice Todd, are you?'

'Pardon me?'

'Nothing, just an idle thought.' Dammit, she thought and lit
her cigarette despite him. Or perhaps to spite him. 'And my
client?'

'I've seen the evidence.'
'So have I. And?'
'A personal view?'
She nodded.

'He's a vicious killer with terrorist connections who should be
put away for a long time. The Security Service has told us

exactly what he is and they should know.'

'No doubts?'

'No. I am a man who like dealing in certainties.' He had the
good grace to blush. 'Well, near certainties. That's why I work
for the GPS. Frankly I wouldn't l.ike to be in your position.
Trying to defend the indefensible.' He indicated her cigarette. 'I
expect that's why you find it such a strain.'

Suddenly she had an overwhelming urge to smack him in the
mouth. Instead she said: 'Ian, I expect you're probably right. In
fact, between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if my client
changes his mind at the eleventh hour.'

'Meaning?' The eyes behind the lenses were suddenly alive
with interest for the first time.

375


'A change of plea, perhaps. He's wavering, I can tell."

'He'd plead guilty to murder?' 0verhopeful there.

'Of course not. He's caught on a double barb. If he was going

to put his hand up to conspiracy, he'd have to see there was

something in it for him.'

'Like?'

'Oh, don't play dumb, Ian. My client isn't suicidal. Fie might

do it, though, ffyou dropped the murder.'

'I'd
have to talk to my superiors.'
'Of course. When you speak to her, please remembek me to

Miss Shilling. Mind you, I expect she's forgotten all alout me.'

Ian Spinks gave an inscrutable little half-smile. 'Somehow,

Miss Browne, I don't think she has.'

At that moment the doors to the judge's chambers swung

open and Henry Halifax's voice burst forth into the corridor

like the howl of a monsoon. Meyrick trailed in his wake.

'Never mind, Tristram, old chum, it was a foregone con
clusion.'
Halifax waved in Browne's direction. 'You didn't stand

a chance. Got me red Y-fronts on today!'

His chortling receded along the corridor as Spinks scurried

after him. News that Littlechild was wavering would soon reach

Pinfold and hopefully the prosecution would lower its guard.

'That bad?' Browne asked Meyrick.

'Worse,' he answered. 'Any MI5 witnesses to remain strictly

anonymous and I get the impression we'll find Public Interest

Immunity certificates have been allowed, denying us access to

any government papers that back defence claims.'

'Oh, God.'

'Todd was in the foulest of moods. That man really is mon
strous.'
Browne's shoulders slumped. 'Okay, let's go back to your

chambers and go through what it means.'

'A beer on the way,' Meyrick said. 'I needone.'


When/Vr Justice Todd later emerged from his chalxbers, he
was wearing a jacket and pinstripes. Without the wig he looked
far less forbidding and several pounds lighter. That was
Lomax's impression as he stepped out of the arclaway and


376

ambled casually behind the judge in the direction of his parked
car.

Monk had stopped Lomax's Cavalier on a dou,c yellow in
view of the exit; he had the bonnet up and the cmergchcy lights
flashing. His friend approached, closed the lid and climbed into
the driver's seat as Todd pulled out in his Bcntlytwolitrc.

The two cars travelled south and over Bladffriars Bridge
before picking up the South Circular and finally taking the A23
towards Rcigatc. The destination wasn't Todd's home as it
turned out but a country hotel nearby.

Leaving Monk behind, Lomax followed Todd inside.

Minutes later Lomax returned to his car.

'Well?' Monk asked.

'Hc's having a drink with a familiar face.'

'What? Who?'

'Roger Pinfold,' Lomax said, a rising sense of anger replacing
his initial shock.

'What is it? Bribes?'

'I doubt it, Joe. No bags of gold anyway. I expect Pinfold's
just playing his role as legal watchdog for the Home Office.'

'This whole thing stinks, Chris. I'm getting fucking pissed off
with it, to be honest.'

Lomax couldn't have agreed more. He wasn't sure what was
worse, the anger he felt or the sense of helplessness. That Sam
and her legal team were dancing to a predetermined tune. The
end would never really be in any doubt.

An hour and a few gin and tonics later, Pinfold and Todd
went their different ways. It turned out that the judge's home
was a vast detached Georgian house within its own high rhododendron
borders. Monk backed into a leafy track and they
settled down to wait and watch.

In fact, Lomax was to do a lot of waiting and watching over
the following six weeks as the trial date approached. Whenever
he had a day free - and he had too many of them - he would
watch the house and take notes, borrowing different cars from
friends and making superficial changes to his appearance. As
his notebook filled, so the pattern of activity became estab.
lished.


377

Mr Justice Todd lived with his wife of similar age. They had a
maid who came to clean each morning and a gardener arrived
to mow the lawn once a week. There were no children still
living at home and Mrs Todd went out most mornings. Lomax
followed her to various minor social events in the village. Coffee
mornings, WI meetings and flower-arranging classes. Her
husband usually left for work early each morning and invariably
visited the country hotel or played a round of golf before
returning home in the evening. The greetings and goodbye
kisses were perfunctory.

'Bet he's got a floozy somewhere,' Joe said, who'd just
returned from four weeks in Kazakhstan in his new job. 'Or a
rent boy. Find one of them and tip offthe papers. Like they did
to poor old Penny.'

'We should be so lucky, and there's no sign yet.'

On the fifth Friday, Mr Justice Todd's wife went to the local
supermarket to do her regular weekend shopping. That was
when they broke in. Access was easy: after scrambling through
the hedge they were able to scale a drainpipe to a first-floor
bedroom window that had been left open, so the antiquated
burglar alarm didn't trigger.

They located the judge's study and Monk picked the lock.
Then they went through all the papers on the desk and worked
their way through each drawer. There was nothing concerning
the trial.

'Look at this. Dirty sod,' Monk said, holding up a tarry
ancient copy of Rustler. 'A pile of them.'

Lomax picked up a gold-edged invitation card by the greenshaded
lamp. 'Interesting. A supper invitation for the night

before the trial opens. RSVP Lord Moffat.'

'Who's he?'

'No idea,' Lomax replied, 'but it means they'll be out.'

Monk had hardly heard. 'Hello, what's this?' He was opening
an envelope and tipping out the contents. Two glossy photographs
of some luxury villa and a yacht. Palm trees and happy
Jamaican faces in the background. And an attached note. He
held it up. Thought you'd like to see the place. Villa and boat all


378

yours for a month, December 15 to Jan 15, as promised. With my
compliments in anticipation of a job well done. Roger P

'Our friend?' .

Monk turned the envelope over. HMSO envelcpe. SW1
postmark. 'Could well be.'

'The bag of gold. A jolly in the sun.' -

'Bastard. Both of them. Bastards,' Monk seethed.

'Todd and his wife will be out on Sunday night,' Lomax
repeated.

'You just said that, Chris. What you thinking?'

Lomax glanced up at the ceiling, so angry that now he was
actually thinking the unthinkable. 'I was just wondering how
long since this house last had its electric wiring checked.'

379


Sixteen


The new Director General of the Security Service was not his
usual equable self when Roger Pinfold entered his office in
Thames House with its panoramic view of the river.

'I've a meeting in an hour with the Cabinet Intelligence Unit,'
John Nash said testily. 'I'm going to be asked questions, and I
don't have any answers. Has RUC Special Branch completed
its report yet? Those raids were weeks ago.'

Pinfold smiled uneasily. 'Just about, sir. It's taken time to find
and interview everyone on the Frontline Ulster membership

list. Nearly all the stragglers are in now.'

'Nearly?'

'Some were abroad and others are - er - well, dead and
buried. It wasn't the most up-to-date list in the world. None
claimed to know anything about Cuchulainn. They pay their
subs and read the FUM's newsletters and that's about it.
Mostly middle-class and living in rural locations. Not a maior
player amongst them and not a weapon found except those held
by RUC cops or gun-club members.'

Nash grunted. This was not what he wanted to hear. 'What
about the leadership?'

'A lawyer, a bank manager and a couple of academics. Oh,
and a printer who runs off their pamphlets. Well, their interrogators
are fairly sure they don't know what's going on. Of
course, they're rather pleased someone's claiming to be their
military wing and one or two are being a bit coy, as if they know
but aren't saying.'

'But there's no hint of evidence that they're at all involved?'
Pinfold shook his head. 'Doesn't look like i$,-I'm afraid, sir.'
'What about this student pop group, the Tain?'

'They were taken in for questioning. Apparently they were
approached about a year ago by a mysterious Englishman called
Tim or Tom Smith. Befriended them when they were playing in


380

a pub, said how good he thought they were and suggested they
write resistance songs for the Loyalists. He gave them some
guidance to get them going, suggested they change th.eir name

from Reservoir Dogs and that they should join the FUM.'
'They went along with it?'

'And haven't looked back.' '
'But otherwise they're unconnected?'
'Appears so.'

'And this Tim or Tom Smith, what happened to him?'

'Disappeared. They say they haven't seen him since midsummer
last year.'

Nash shook his head in despair. 'What's theword from our
informer network?'

'Well, it's not what it was,' Pinfold pointed out.

The director general sighed wearily. 'My predecessor warned
the Cabinet this would happen if we continued the new policy
of isolating the Loyalist groups. They used to consider us as
allies, now most regard us as much the enemy as the IRA.

Frankly, I think we've lost control of them.'

'We've still got friends.'

'If you mean King Billy's lot - ?' Nash didn't even bother to
hide his contempt. 'What does he know?'

'There's a rumour that Rattler's involved.'
'That I can believe. Where's Rattler now?'
Pinfold shrugged. 'On the gallop.'

'On the gallop in the Irish Republic!' Nash said in exasperation.
'Have you read these eports from Dublin? More Power
lines down, more railway bridges. It's creating major chaos.
The media blackout won't last.' Another weary sigh. 'Still our
political masters call the tune. And they, of course, know best.
Even if we haven't a friend left in the Loyalist camp.' That
reminded him. 'Talking of old friends, Roger, what's going on
in the case of Rodney Littlechild? I thought he was going to
plead guilty to killing Fitzpatrick.'

'The defence has dropped hints he will - at the last minute.'

'But you said he was virtually caught red-handed. Tabitha.
actually identified him at the scene.'


381

'That's right, sir. But he's got a top legal team. One can't
count one's chickens.'

'And that's why you introduced conspiracy to the Smals
murder?' There was a hint of disapproval in his voice. 'Was that
wise? Weren't some of our people involved in some unorthodox
ops at that time, running the old agenda?' He meant when it
was still thought the war against the IRA could be won.

'Don't worry, sir. I had Lord Moffat's approval. It was introduced
to pressure Littlechild into a plea bargain so details won't
come out in court.'

'But it hasn't worked, has it?'

'Er - not yet? Sheepish. 'But the defence know we'll drop the
murder for a plea to conspiracy.'

'But if he doesn't co-operate and he's found not guilty on the
murder charge, the Smals case could still go to trial, couldn't it?
That could be a bit uncomfortable for us.'

Thank God, Pinfold thought, for the time-honoured Service
ethos of keeping everything secret. Boxed and separate, never
letting the right hand know what the left is doing. So the DG
only has half the picture, if that. Just like his predecessor and the
one before her.

'Littlechild is the prime suspect in that too, sir. Well in the
frame. And I don't believe any of our people were involved.

There's a witness to what went on.'

'Yes?'

'King Billy; he's still on board.'

'Oh dear.' Nash drummed his gold Sheaffer pen on the
leather blotter pad. 'Still, you know what you're doing, Roger;
I've every faith. Meanwhile, though, we've got to dig deeper into
this Cuchulainn business. Who shut the operation down? Before
your time, wasn't it?'

Pinfold smiled. 'My old boss, Walter.'

'You should have a word.'

'Difficult that, sir. He's in a hospice. Big C, I'm afraid.
Refusing to see anyone.'

'Oh dear. Poor Walter.'

Pinfold agreed. 'He's dying, only given days to live.'

John Nash turned in his swivel chair and took in the spring


382

sunshine reflecting brightly on the grey river water. 'Anyway, I

don't suppose he'd be of any help. The answer won't lie there.'
'No, sir.' ..

'But I tell you, Roger, it lies somewhere. And we've got to find
it before the whole Irish situation blows up in or faces like an

atomic bomb.' "




As both Lomax and his sister were to be called as witnesses,
neither would be able to sit in on the heari.ng in the public
gallery. Nevertheless, both felt a burning need to be at the Old
Bailey on the opening day. To be there for Roddy and for
themselves, to experience the atmosphere and to get an
impression of how the trial was going to progress.

Manda had come down from the family home in Hereford to
babysit while her father drove Erie and Monk to the Central
Criminal Court in the City of London.

The trial was scheduled to start at ten thirty and, when they
arrived with twenty minutes to spare, Browne was waiting for
them. She gave an uncertain smile of greeting. 'Evie - ' A kiss
on the cheek - 'Chris, Joe. Look, I'm afraid there's been a
delay. They've just announced that Mr Justice Todd won't be
conducting the trial after all.'

'What's happened?' Evie asked.

'Apparently he had a house fire last night. A faulty fuse box or
something. The house was gutted. Thank God there was no
one inside at the time.'

'How awful,' Monk said, s.traight-faced.

Browne nodded. 'Apparently they lost everything. So Todd
and his wife have got to find temporary accommodation, buy
clothes and essentials, sort out the insurance.'

'A nightmare,' Lomax agreed a little sheepishly. He wasn't
proud of what he'd done and felt particularly sorry for Todd's
wife.

Erie was more concerned at how her husband would take the
news of further delay. 'How long will the trial be postponed?
Days, a week?'

'Hours, thank goodness,' Browne answered. 'At the Old
Bailey you can't just bring forward other big cases without


383

warning. They're hopeful they can start at two thirty, provided
they can find a senior judge willing and able to hear the case.'

'At least,' Monk said, 'I suppose any judge would be better
than Todd.'

She looked at him curiously; there was something slightly
smug about his expression. 'Not necessarily, Joe. It's just we
know how bad he was for us. Another couldbe even worse.'

Monk caught Lomax's eye and both men shrugged. They'd
done their best.

And they learned the results of their best at lunch as they

sat at the pavement tables in the mild sunshine outside the
Chambers Wine Bar across the street. They'd just ordered
spritzers, beers and a range of salads when Ronnie Rock

appeared, having rushed straight from the court building.
'Well, who've we got?' Meyrick demanded.
Rock gulped for breath. 'You won't believe it.'
'Do come on,' Browne urged. 'Is it that bad?'
'Mr Justice Quigley.'

'Oh, my God!' Meyrick blinked. 'You've got to be winding

me up, young Ronald.'

Browne was momentarily bewildered. 'Is that the one with

the chauffeur-driven Morris Traveller?'

'That's the one,' Rock confirmed. 'Mad as a hatter.'

'A bit strong,' Meyrick chided. 'Mischievous, eccentric, cantankerous
even, and certainly cunning. But mad? I'll reserve
judgment.'

'I don't know whether to laugh or cry,' Browne confessed.

Lomax was horrified. Just what had he and Monk achieved?
'Surely he'll be better than Justice Todd?'

For Evie's benefit, she said: 'I'm sure he will. But he'll also be
unpredictable if he's true to form. He's due to retire - in fact I
thought he had. That's probably why he was free.'

'Did you say he gets chauffeured in a Morris Traveller?'
Monk asked, sharing Lomax's sense of doom.

'His pride and joy,' Meyrick confirmed. 'I've seen it. A real
collector's item, the shooting-brake type with timber window
frames. He gave up driving years ago and hired a driver.


384

Refused to go for a more suitable limo. I remember the Mail ran
a story on it.'

'There's one consolation,' Browne pointed out..'If we're
apprehensive about Quigley's appointment, Henry Halifax will
be having apoplexy.'

And so will Roger Pinfold, Lomax thought.-The prospect of
that cheered him up no end and he lifted his newly arrived beer.
'A toast. To Roddy and Evie. Good luck to them both.'

Browne saw the tears in his sister's eyes and reached across to
her, taking the small pale hand in her own. 'Tristram and
Ronnie and I are going to fight like the devil for Roddy, I
promise you that.'

'Thanks, Sam,' Evie sniffed.

Lomax felt immensely proud of Browne at that moment.
This was most definitely a red knickers day.


'I am minded,' said Mr Justice Ernest Quigley, 'to follow the
decision of my erstwhile colleague, Mr Justice Todd, and run
these trials for murder and conspiracy to murder completely
separately as the prima facie evidence suggests that they are
indeed unrelated events.'

Sam Browne slumped back in her seat having heard the
pronouncement by the rasping squeak of a voice from the
Bench. It had followed Meyrick's robust and impassioned plea
to have the court's earlier decision reversed.

Quigley's style was markedly different from that of Todd. As
he came, bent-shouldered, ia.to court, Browne was reminded of
a bewhiskered dormouse, swamped by the massive wig and
voluminous red gown. Far from generating authority, his voice
and manner suggested a mischievous sense of humour, happy
to share jokes with counsel and to lighterr the solemnity of the
proceedings. He was clearly a man who enjoyed his work and
wanted others to do likewise. Once or twice, she noticed, the
judge's comments even brought a half-smile to Roddy's lips and
she was thankful for that.

Of course, Quigley was saying, 'Mr Justice Todd had more
time to study the papers that are before me now, so I feel I.
should respect his judgment. However, my brief reading does


385

lead me to believe that there may just be a thread linking the two
cases. And I will bear that in mind during this hearing. I may,
therefore, allow a certain amount of relevant - I repeat relevant
- evidence from the defence counsel to be raised until I have
made up my mind whether the second charge in some way
pertains to the first. I make this decision because of the gravity
of the two charges and because of certain restrictions that will
necessarily face the defence since the case involves the intelligence
services and could affect the national interest.

'Nevertheless, I do not intend to make judgment on the
second charge, nor prejudice any future trial on that indictment
which, I repeat, remains separate.' He peered over his gold
pince-nez. 'I would warn counsel for the defence not to be
tempted to take advantage of an old man's generosity.'

Meyrick couldn't keep the grin from his face; the suppressed

fury of the prosecution bench was almost palpable. He bowed
from the waist. 'As Your Lordship pleases.'

Browne glanced up at Littlechild who stood with his hands
white-knuckled on the rail of the dock, looking quite taken
aback at the first small glimmer of good fortune in months.

'Let's proceed,' Quigley said briskly and the trial began to
unfold.

Roddy Littlechild stood tall in the dock. Somewhat to
Browne's surprise, there seemed to be more colour in his
cheeks, as his slumped posture of recent months straightened
and his soldierly bearing returned. It was the old Roddy that
Lomax had described to her, had fought alongside all those
years ago. It was the relief, she felt sure, that battle, however
unequal, had at last been joined..

Halifax caught Browne's eye for a moment and she knew he

was wondering. Would there be the last-minute change of plea

she had hinted at?

She shook her head with a knowing smile.

Minx! Halifax mouthed. Then he turned away and was on

his feet to deliver his opening address. With thumbs hooked
aggressively into the armholes of his waistcoat and his chin
jutting, he said: 'My lord, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on
first impression this trial may appear to be somewhat out of the


386

ordinary, indeed extraordinary. Talk of the Security Service,
which as the country's counter-espionage force is known to
most people as MI5, talk of safe houses and terrorists-.But that
first impression could not be further from the truth. For this is a
squalid tale of nothing more or less than vindictive sectarian
murder. Moreover, the murder of a man who was a crucial
player in the achieving of the ceasefire in Northern Ireland. A
ceasefire that has, lamentably, collapsed in recent weeks. And
who knows - a ceasefire that may have still been in place had it
not been for the untimely demise of this murder victim.'

'Makes him sound like a bloody saint,' Browne murmured to
Totty.

'Yes, the dead man was a former member of the Provisional
IRA,' Halifax was saying, 'but as such he was a man of passionate
- you may think misguided - belief, an Irishman's belief
in the rightfulness of eventual unity in his country. He considered
himself to be a freedom fighter in a long Irish tradition.
To him all actions taken were on behalf of his fellow
countrymen. But in the end he saw the folly of violence and was
instrumental in no small way in persuading the men of violence
to lay down their arms and end over twenty years of bloody
conflict.

'And so it was that the victim, Mr Donal Fitzpatrick, came to
be in an MI5 safe house in south London last August while
conducting delicate peace negotiations with members of Her
Majesty's Government.

'The prosecution intends to prove - beyond any doubt that
the defendant, Mr Rodney Littlechild, a former Loyalist
paramilitary and secret policeman in the reviled South Africa of
apartheid, received a tip-off from terrorist colleagues by telephone
of the presence and location in London of his old enemy,
Donny Fitzpatrick. That he watched the public house where
Fitzpatrick was drinking and stalked him back to the safe house
where he was staying and then brutally shot him dead.

'You will have presented to you conclusive forensic evidence
of the defendant's guilt as well as reliable eye-witness testimony
to confirm it.

'This then is a wicked crime, compounded by the fact it has


387

no doubt gone some way to wrecking the Northern Ireland
peace package that it was hoped would end nearly a quarter
century of violence!'

He resumed his seat in the hushed court before the first
witness was called.

Halifax began by registering a complaint to Mr Justice
Quigley about the improper conduct of the defence-team solicitor
concerning the first prosecution witness to take the stand,
one Mark Wortle, a taxi driver.

'Miss Browne improperly attempted to make contact with
this police witness by visiting his home,' he accused. 'Zhi"
without notifying the police or the Crown Prosecution

By good fortune the man was on holiday abroad and in fact has
only just returned to learn of this intimidating visit during
which his wife was interrogated in his absence.'

Quigley nodded his acknowledgement. 'I understand the
prosecution's displeasure at this visit and I myself find it disquieting
that a member of the legal profession should behave so
unconventionally.'

Halifax's face creased into a satisfied grin as he listened.

'I am even more disquieted,' Quigley continued, 'that the
defence solicitors appear to have been so frustrated by lack of co-operation from the police and GPS in this case as to take
such drastic steps in the interests of their client - in what is the
most serious crime it is possible to commit. There is no property
in a witness, yet the prosecution seems to have been

hellbent on holding on to witnesses with a ball and chain.'
Suddenly Halifax's face resembled a deflated balloon.
Quigley smiled kindly in Browne's direction. 'The defence
solicitor's actions may not have been conventional but, strictly
speaking, they were not improper as earlier witnesses interviewed
had not at that time been identified by the police. And as
for Mr Wortle, he is the prosecution witness, not his wife. Now,
Mr Halifax, you may continue.'

'As Your Lordship pleases,' Halifax grumbled and called
Wortle to the box.

The witness was slight and wiry and in his mid-thirties. His


388

cropped hair sun-bleached and his somewhat gaunt face tanned
after his absence in the Caribbean.

Halifax led him quickly through his evidence. laad been
passing down Littlechild's road in Southall on the night of the
murder and had been waved down by a pedestrian. He
described Rodney Littlechild in perfect detail?. I/is passenger
had asked to be taken to the Duke's Head public house in south
London, but on arrival had asked the driver to drop him a
hundred yards farther on. In his mirror, the taxi driver had seen
the passenger enter a telephone call box; he had picked up the
receiver but made no attempt to make a call.

'Why was this, do you think?' Halifax asked.

'I got the impression he was just making it look like he was
making a call. All the time he was watching the pub across the
street.'

'Thank you, Mr Wortle.'

This time Ronnie Rock was doing the cross-examination.

'Make a point of watching passengers you've just dropped,
do you, Mr Wortle?'

'No, I just happened to notice.'

'Then you must have been noticing for some time to convince

yourself he wasn't actually making a call?'

'No, maybe thirty seconds.'

Rock held up his flashy gold wristwatch. 'If the court will bear
with me. Thirty seconds from now...'

The silence seemed to stretch into long minutes. The prosecution
team began to fidget; one of the jurymen coughed.

'There we are,' Rock said, 'thirty seconds. A long time for a
busy taxi driver to sit doing nothing: idly watching a complete
stranger.'

'Maybe it wasn't that long.'
'Then how long?'
'Ten seconds.'

'And then what did you do?'

'Made a U-turn. That's how I could still see he hadn't
dialled.'

'You managed to do a U-turn, looking both ways for traffic


389

and were still able to be sure he hadn't dialled? You must be very
observant?'

'I suppose I am.'

'Is that due to your army training in the Intelligence Corps?'
Wortle's mouth sagged for a moment, his eyes darting
towards Halifax for help. The barrister slowly shook his head,
unable to intervene.

'Is that relevant?' Wortle asked. 'Surely my past career has
absolutely no bearing on this case.'

Quigley frowned. 'I'd have thought if you have past service in
the Intelligence Corps, it might strengthen your evidence, add
more weight, Mr Wortle. A man trained to observe.' He looked
towards the defence counsel. 'Carry on.'

Rock continued. 'Do you own the taxi that you used to pick

up Mr Littlechild?'

'Yes.'

'You're an owner-driver?'

The witness nodded.

'But you are not a licensed taxi driver, are you? You are not
among the twenty thousand black cab drivers registered with
the Public Carriage Office?'

Wortle paled. Again, there would be no help from Halifax on
this one.

'Come on, Mr'xVortle,' Rock pressed. 'Yes or no?'

'No.'

'So you picked up the defendant illegally that night?'
Hesitant. 'I suppose so.'

'Do that often, do you? Taxi-drive illegally?'

'No, it was a one-off. An indiscretion. Mostly I do private
work for regular clients.'

'What sort of clients? Name some. Individuals, companies?'
'I don't recall offhand. I'd have to check.'

Rock smiled with full white-toothed Jamaican charm. 'I'm
not going to push you on that, Mr '7ortle because I don't
believe you are in a position to tell the court who you really work
for.' He paused. 'Now, during your time in the Intelligence
Corps you served in Northern Ireland, right? And as such you'd
have had regular contact with members of MIS, isn't, that so?'


390

'I can't comment on that.'

Rock brushed his answer aside. 'And both the police and
MI5 regularly use black cabs to mount surveillanceo.perations,
don't they?'

A light gasp went up from the public gallery as Wortle
retorted: 'I wouldn't know about that.' "

'Mr Worfle, you have a nice tan; where did you get it?'

'I've been in Jamaica.'

'My home country. How nice. Since when? Since about a

week after the events you have just described?'

'About then.'

'Lying doggo? Keeping a low profile? But some nine months

must have made it an expensive holiday?'

'It was.'

'Or were you working?'

Wortle now had the look of a trapped animal. 'Yes, I did some

to pay my way.'

'Driving?'

'Yes.' Uncertain.

'A bit of casual driving?'

'Sure.' Escape in sight.

'For the British High Commission, no less?'

'Er- yes.'

'I know something of Jamaica, Mr Wortle. Isn't it true that
the Commission simply doesn't take on casual drivers? Their
drivers have to be fully trained in defensive driving and various
other security techniques, don't they? Full-time professionals
with an impeccable pedigr6e. Now, please tell the court who
you really work for?'

Wortle's eyes flickered shut for a moment. 'I've told you, I'm
self-employed.'

'The truth is, isn't it, Mr Wortle, that you are on the staff of
the Security Service, most probably as a surveillance driver with
your taxi? On the night in question you were instructed to park

near the defendant's house?'

'No, sir.'

'You then received a message by radio to say the subject had
left his house and was looking urgently for a cab, didn't you?


391

And no doubt he was very pleased and relieved to find one in
such a remote street at such a time.'

Wortle raised his voice. 'That's just not true.'

'Thank you, Mr Wortle,' Rock ended with a note of
contempt.

The next prosecution witness to be called was the manager of
the Duke's Head public house. He confirmed that Fitzpatrick
had been drinking alone in the pub and had received a telephone
call.

Rock got confirmation that Fitzpatrick had not appeared
nervous or unduly wary and that the caller had an accent which
was definitely Ulster rather than Southern Irish. The caller had
said quite distinctly that he 'couldn't make the meeting' with
Fitzpatrick before the bar manager had handed over the
receiver.

Earlier, Halifax had established that there was no way of
knowing who had called the pub. The barrister left the inference
hanging that the caller was probably an accomplice of
Rodney Littlechild, who knew and was trusted by Fitzpatrick,
and who set him up so that the assassin knew where to find him.

Although a relatively small part of the prosecution case, it was

a convincing and damning point on which to end the first day.

.


At the start of the second day, the stand was taken by 'Officer A'
of MIS, giving evidence from behind a special security screen
and visible to no one except the judge, opposing counsels and
the jury.

Meyrick lifted his eyebrows. Somehow he hadn't been
expecting a woman. Severely attyactive, she appeared to be
in her mid-forties although the sparsity of her make-up and
unflatteringly bunned grey hair could have been making her
look older.

Halifax began prompting her gently through her evidence.
Firmly and fluently she explained how she had. been the officer
responsible for Fitzpatrick's safety, how she had been in the
car outside the apartment block and had recognised, albeit
belatedly, the face of Rodney Littlechild as he entered. Then
what she had found on reaching the apartment.


392

Only minutes into her testimony, Litflechild appeared to
freeze like a statue. Totty sensed the reaction first and turned
to see their client speak to the prison officer with him in the
dock.

She nudged Browne. 'Something's wrong with Mr Lit
tlechild.' ,

As the solicitor glanced across, the prison officer beckoned.
Swiftly she made her way back to the dock where Littlechild
leaned down to whisper: 'That voice, Sam, I'd know it anywhere.
It's Tabitha White.'

Browne's eyes widened. 'You're sure?'
'I'll never forget it.'
'Okay, I'll tell Tristram.'

A ripple of whispers ran along the defence bench, the assured
words of Agent A hardly registering as the news was rapidly
digested and notes scribbled.

The witness's evidence was brief almost to the point of
indecency.

Meyrick took the floor. 'Now, Officer A, I understand you are
a highly experienced and senior MI 5 case officer of many years'
service?'

'Er - I'm afraid I can't answer that.' She knew the defence
had been given no such details.

'And you've had many dealings with the defendant?'
An awkward halfqaugh. 'Er- no.'
'A few dealings perhaps?'
'None.'

Meyrick held her gaze and said very, very slowly: 'Are you quite sure - on your oath 7 that you've never met the defendant?'
He noted the concern in her eye.s. How cold they looked.
Maybe not concern, but most definitely hatred. And it was
directed straight at him.

'Quite sure,' she said firmly.

Meyrick gave a dramatic sigh. 'Because I suggest that you

were in fact the defendant's controller?'

'I was not.'

'But you are a controller, handler of agents?'

'On occasions.'

393


'Isn't it true that you once told the defendant the government's
agenda on Northern Ireland had changed? That they
recognised the IRA could not be defeated militarily and that in

the end there would have to be a political settlement?'
'I never said any such thing.'
'Not to the defendant?'
'Not to anyone.'

'Did you not once ask the defendant to co-operate in the

murder of a fellow Loyalist known as Stevie Gavin?'

'Certainly not. That sort of thing isn't done.'

Meyrick ignored that. 'And when the defendant turned you

down, wasn't he then considered to be a dangerous liability?
Untrustworthy? Is that when you threatened him if he didn't
leave the country, and subsequently began a smear campaign
against him?'

'No, never.'

'And isn't it true you were afraid the defendant was going to

reveal this and other dubious MI5 tactics in Northern Ireland

in a television documentary?'

'Hardly, as I don't know the man!'

'But someone in your office knew about the documentary,

didn't they? Because the production company was warned off,
wasn't it?'

'I wouldn't know. Not my department.'

Meyrick paused. 'Tell me, Officer A, did you give the defendant's
telephone number to the late Mr Fitzpatrick and suggest

that they meet?'

The witness stared impatiently at the ceiling of the courtroom.
'No.'

'Did you or someone you work with conspire to have Fitzpatrick
killed and set up the defendant to be in the wrong place
at the wrong time?'

Her answer was hardly unexpected. 'Most definitely not.'

Meyrick continued: 'We've heard you were in a car outside

the victim's apartment block. How many of you?'

'Three in total.'

'Wouldn't your presence have been more effective ffyou had


394

been in the flat with your charge, /vir Fitzpatrick? That, I
believe, is usual procedure?'

'In hindsight, yes. That had been the arrangement for many
weeks and it was getting on Fitzpatrick's nerves. Some people

find it very irritating and claustrophobic - the lack of privacy.'
'But you could have insisted?' "

'He was in dialogue with the government volumarily and we
couldn't force protection on him, merely advise most strongly.
But he threatened to leave our safe custody altogether and
make his own arrangements. He was adamant, so that night we
compromised with the car outside.'

'So Mr Fitzpatrick was aware of your presence?'

'He was, and he was able to call us by mobile telephone if we
were required.'

'Which I believe he did on the night in question?'

'Yes. At ten thirty that evening he phoned in to say he was
going down the road for a quick drink alone. At the Duke's

Head public house.'

'Anything else?'

'He didn't want. any minder or protection officer to
accompany or follow him. As I say, he wanted some private
space to relax.'

'And you respected his wish?'

'Not entirely. I was responsible for his safety. I followed at a
discreet distance, observed him drinking alone and then followed
him back to the safe house.'

'And you saw no one followinghim?'

'Not that I was aware -' she hesitated, 'although clearly I was
wrong.'

'Or right,' Meyrick countered.-'And what time did he
return?'

'He was logged in at just before eleven twenty-five. The safe
house is a ten-minute walk from the pub.'

'Then, approximately five minutes later, a stranger walked up
to the block and entered. You said his back was to you, hiding
what he did at the door? That he hardly hesitated, suggesting
that he was able to punch in the correct code or else found the
door ajar?'


395

'Correct. At first I thought it was another resident who'd
been out for the evening. They were of similar build and both
had beige raincoats which were almost identical.'

'No beige raincoat was ever found in the defendant's possession,
was it?'

'I wouldn't know. All I know is that, according to the police,

it has never been found.'

'So how did you see his face if he had his back to you? He had

to walk down a thirty-foot path to reach the door and his back
would have been towards you all the way, surely?'

'We were parked outside and he walked towards us and past

us before turning in.'

'And the street lighting?'

'It was fair, good.'

'Which? It can't have been both."

'Good.'

'And so you were able to see his face clearly?'

'Yes. Reasonably so.'

'Yet you still thought he was this innocent neighbour?'

'Yes. I was tired, it'd been a long day. My reflexes were slow. I
assumed it was the neighbour, then thought - wait a minute,

that wasn'thim. Do I know that face?'

'And did you?'

'Yes, but not well. Only from security files. He was known to
have associated with Loyalist terrorists in Ulster.'

'That is all? Just known to associate with them?'

'Yes.'

'So hardly a priority for MI5 concern?'

'No.'

'Then you must have a remarkable photographic memory,
Officer A, to recall such an insignificant character whom you'd
never met.'

'Yes, actually. Part of the training. I had a brief discussion
with my colleagues in the car, deciding what to do.'

'Hardly the time for a conference at such a crucial moment,
surely?'

'A few seconds, maybe a minute.' She sounded angry now.

'By which time, this person had disappeared inside, right?


396

You have said you rushed inside and when you reached the
apartment door, you found the corridor deserted and six bullet

holes in the door.' .

'Yes.'

'Don't you do things to a safe house to make it safe?'

'How d'you mean?' "

'Come now, Officer A, you are an experienced6perator. Isn't
it commonplace to reinforce the external doors and replace

windows with bullet-proof glass, that sort of thing?'
'Sometimes, it depends.'

'You mean Fitzpatrick wasn't important enough for that?'
'There were bullet-proof windows.'
'But not the door? Why was that?'
'I don't know.'

She was flustered now, he could tell. 'Don't know? You were
responsible for the man's safety. The officer in charge; you've
already admitted that. That apartment was even purchased in
your name.'

Halifax rose swiftly to his feet. 'Forgive me, my lord, but this
is entering into an area of national security. Moreover, my
learned friend cannot possibly know the name of the witness.
And if he does, she may not be able to continue giving evidence
as her personal safety could be placed in jeopardy.'

Quigley said coldly: 'I'm not aware that anyone has given the
lady's name in open court, nor is about to.'

'Certainly not, Your Lordship,' Meyrick confirmed. 'But I
would ask Officer A to tell ts why the door was not protected
against firearm rounds?'

'It just wasn't,' the woman replied. 'A separate department
advises on that sort of thing. I'm not qualified.'

'Isn't it a fact that there had been a bullet-proofing panel in

position, but it had been removed?'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

Meyrick pressed on. 'And is that not the real reason that

access to the scene of crime was denied to the defence?'

'That was not my decision.'

'Don't tell me - another department?'


397

'As it happens, yes.' There was a smirk of triumph on her
face.

Meyrick turned towards the Bench. 'My lord, I would ask
that the court instruct the Security Service to provide a witness
or affidavit explaining whether and when and why a bulletproof
panel for this door was removed.'

Quigley frowned. 'I'm not sure that it's truly relevant, Mr
Meyrick. It is accepted that such a panel was not in place at the
time. This is not a civil court to apportion blame for the
purpose of a claim for damages by the deceased's family,
although perhaps it should be, given the apparent level of
incompetence.'

An undercurrent of amusement flowed through the court,
but stopped short of the prosecution bench.

'Incompetence yes, my lord,' Meyrick cut back in, 'unless
there was another motive, as the defence believes there was.
The circumstantial evidence facing my client is such that we
must strive to persuade the jury that others might have far
stronger motives for wanting Fitzpatrick dead and my client
indicted for the crime.'

'I am afraid, Mr Meyrick, that I am not convinced.'

'Then will Your Lordship allow me to convince this court
that there is something very strange about this case, something
that is not right. Some minutes ago you heard Officer A claim
that she previously had no dealings with Rodney Littlechild and
indeed had never met him. Yet a message was passed to me
from my client identifying Officer A by her voice alone. I crave
Your Lordship's leave to cross-examine this witness further to
establish whether she is indeed known to the defendant. And, as
important, vice versa.'

Halifax piped up on cue. 'This really is most improper. We're
talking here about the interests of national security.'

'No, Mr Halifax, we are talking about the interests of a fair
trial,' Quigley corrected. 'This is an important point to establish
one way or the other. Therefore I propose to allow Mr Meyrick
to cross-examine the witness in camera tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, Mr Meyrick, do you have any further questions for
this witness?'

'Just a couple more. Officer A, presumably you had spent

some time with Fitzpatrick in his flat?'

'Yes.'

'And did you gaxn some msxght into hs polmcal wews?
'Some.'

'Is it not true that, far from being in favUr of the IRA
ceasefire, he was dead set against it? And a such was an
obstacle to the peace process?'

'He never expressed such an opinion to me.'

Meyrick waited for the iury to digest that before continuing.
'You discovered the body of Mr Fitzpatrick at fifteen minutes to
midnight. Yet it was one fifteen before the police were notified.
One hour and thirty minutes. Why was there this unpardonable
delay?'

'I don't think it is your place to tell me what is unpardonable
or otherwise. We are not the police force - our prime consideration
is national security and we answer to the Home Office. In
a case like this there are many implications to be taken into
account- the peace process in Northern Ireland and the private
talks the victim was attending. Superiors had to be consulted
and they in turn had civil servants, and no doubt, politicians to
consult. This takes time after midnight, people have to be
roused from their beds.'

'Or was it,' Meyrick said, 'that you needed the time to move
the body, remove the bullet-proof panel and have shots fired
through the door?'

The public and press gallery joined in a united gasp of astonishment.
Halifax was up immediately. 'My lord, the defence is
attempting to put words into the witness's mouth.'

'Indeed,' Quigley agreed. 'If you isk a question, Mr Meyrick,
it is best not to answer it on the wimess's behalf.'

'Very well. So Officer A, did you need the time to interfere
with the scene of crime?'

'No, that's ridiculous. You've been reading too many cheap
spy novels.'

'I have read Spycatcher.' A titter came from the press gallery
and died out quickly. 'So are you telling this court that no one 399


with or without your knowledge, from or connected with MI5 could
have killed Fitzpatrick?'

'Categorically!' the woman snapped. 'This court will realise
what a preposterous suggestion that is. We are answerable to the
Home Office and have to act within the law at all times!'

'Methinks,' Meyrick murmured, 'thou dost protest too
much.' His voice rose: 'Thank you, Officer A, that is all.'


Fergal had chosen the Fakhreldine, the exclusive Lebanese restaurant
offering a splendid view of Piccadilly and Green Park
from its first floor windows. It was Fergal's favourite and he
always dined there whenever he was in London. And Lord
Moffat had grudgingly come to admit he enjoyed its calm and
understated opulence and the warmth of welcome from its
staff. He was not one for foreign food, more instinctively
inclined towards the plainer fare and schoolboy puds of
London's clubs, but even he had to admit the Arabs had a
pleasingly different and imaginative range of dishes.

However, he drew the line at wines from the Middle East and
ordered a bottle of heavyweight Nuits St George before Fergal
arrived. They had barely finished exchanging pleasantries and
were just beginning their starters of muhamara, a Syrian dish of
chopped mixed nuts in a hot pepper sauce, when the bleeper
started.

He was more used to the mobile now, even beginning rather

to like it. Kept him on top of the situation at the Old Bailey and
enabled him to give instant advice when Pinfold phoned in with
his regular progress reports. Not good news this time, but not
too bad.

'Nothing we can't get sorted," he told Fergal as he put the
thing away.

'I'm pleased.' As always his friend was engaging and polite. 'I
only wish some of our larger problems coold get sorted.'

'Meaning the campaign against Dublin? I thought that's why
you wanted to see me.'

Fergal stared forlornly at his plate and shook his head. 'The
situation's bad, really bad.'

'I know.'


400

The Irishman looked up. 'No, Anthony, you don't know the
half of it. Most of Dublin is without electricity again this
morning. More power lines were blown up. Yesterday it was
Cork's turn.'

'I hadn't heard.'

Fergal's smile was without warmth. 'We Irish. are known for
gabbing and blabbing, but some of us know how to keep a
secret when it's necessary. The US has put a special counterterrorist
unit at our disposal. We've imposed a media blackout
and we're feeding out a story about major technical problems
with electricity distribution. Saying the stories being put about
by Loyalist terrorists are just opportunist propaganda, cashing
in on what is a serious, but transient problem. A failure in the
computer-controlled grid system - we've had the electricity
board's boffms come up with some convincing nonsense.
Bullshit baffles brains and all that. Everyone thinks the power
failures are highly localised - if they realised how widespread
they are, there'd be a public outcry. The Taoiseach hasn't even
informed your Prime Minister how bad it is, because he hasn't

been fully informed himself.'

'That's absurd, Fergal.'

'No, Anthony. Once the politicians learn the extent of the
attacks on the South, it'll soon be in the public domain. There
are many with axes to grind who won't be afraid to wield them.
Old animosities and old scores to settle. Demands for retaliation,
marches in the streets. Our fragile coalition government
might well collapse and more extreme nationalist elements seize
power amid demands for action. Even military action of some
sort.'

Moffat sat back, feeling slightly shcked, 'Against whom?'
'You Brits in the North, of course.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Fergal.'

'I'm deadly serious, Anthony. If your government can't root
out the Loyalists who are causing this mayhem quickly, then
someone could behave rashly, however much they may come to
regret it.' �

Moffat had suddenly lost his appetite. He dabbed his mouth


401

with his napkin. 'I think you're exaggerating the position
somewhat.'

'Last night a bomb went offat Blarney Caste.'

'What?'

'No one was hurt, it was the dead of night. Simultaneously
another small device was detonated near the Cork ferry terminal.
Do I have to spell it out, Anthony? They've already hit
our infrastructure, blown up rail and road bridges. Nothing too
bad yet, but they're playing merry hell with electricity. All police
and army leave's been cancelled, but there's no way we can
protect everything short of general mobilisation. Now Blarney
Castle and the Cork ferry. They've started on our tourist
industry.'

'I see,' Moffat said softly, chastened, as he felt a small sinister
shiver radiating out from the back of his neck.

'Last night there was another development. Our agriculture
ministry received a letter claiming to be from this Loyalist
outfit, Guchulainn. With it was a phial which they said contained
deadly prion protein which causes BSE, or Mad Cow
Disease as the popular press calls it. They threatened to infect
our dairy herds. Said that contaminated Brucella vaccine was
already in widespread use on our farms. Just before I left our
embassy to come here, I had the laboratory results phoned to me.'

'And?'

'The phial indeed contained prion protein.'

'God, these people,' Moffat growled in suppressed rage. Only

days before Britain's health minister had informed Parliament
that scientists could not rule out the possibility that BSE could
jump the species gap to humans. A media outcry was already
beginning. 'At least you are not alone in that.'

Fergal's eyes hardened. 'No, and we'll make damn sure we
aren't. We're taking steps within the EC to ensure this British
scare is blown into a major catastrophe of global proportions just
a little media and committee management amongst allies in
Europe. The world's attention will be. so focused on Britain's
beef crisis that any news of this Cuchulainn threat will be
drowned out in the uproar.'


402

Moffat leaned forward. 'We're doing all we can, I assure you.
All members of the Frontline Ulster Movement in the province

have been questioned.' .

'I know, the Americans have told us.'

That took Moffat somewhat by surprise; the.entire operation
had the highest security classification. Blood'Curtis Manning!
'Ah, well.'

'And I also know that you haven't caught the ringleaders.
Don't take us for fools, Anthony. The Americans have already
informed us that nothing incriminating was found during any of
the raids. I doubt there's even one who would raise his voice in
anger, let alone a gun. Whatever lists you've been using, it
appears they are hopelessly out of date.'

The colour had left Moffat's cheeks. 'I know investigations
are ongoing,' he blustered.

'Take it from me, Anthony, the Loyalists have already slipped
loose their dogs of war and whatever your government is doing
is too little and too damn late. Unless they are stopped and
quickly, I can see this turning into a major international catastrophe.
Lighting the touchpaper for a civil war - or worse - that
could set the whole of Ireland ablaze. Trust me, Anthony. At
this moment we are staring into the abyss.'

403


After the early in-camera session the next morning, Mr Justice
Quigley addressed the jury when they were readmitted. 'Yesterday
you will remember counsel for the defence asked leave to
cross-examine the witness known to you as Officer A in order
tO compare her name to the name given by the defendant, Mr
Littlechild, who claims to have had extensive dealings with this
person from MIS. A claim Officer A denied in court.

'I have to tell you that the surname is different. However, the
Christian name is the same. A name that is very unusual in this
day and age. So much so that I cannot recall in all my long years
ever having met someone with such a name. Until yesterday.

'Whether or not this is the same woman as is claimed by the
defendant, it is up to you, the jury, to decide the balance of
probability. Only I feel it my duty to remind you that in intelligence
circles real names, or real full names, are rarely used,
especially when members are what is termed "in the field".
That is all I have to say on the matter.'

Browne was delighted, exchanging congratulatory smiles
with Meyrick and Rock and giving Littlechild an encouraging
thumbs-up sign. Without putting it in so many words, Mr
Justice Quigley was saying that the likelihood was that Officer A
and the unnamed Tabitha White were one and the same person.

The next session began with the showing of various police
exhibits, including the murder weapon and spent rounds, and
photographs of the scene of crime. Meyrick drew attention to
small screw holes just visible around the edge of the bullet-torn
door.

In answer to this, Halifax begged leave to introduce a new
witness from MIS's administration directorate responsible for
property. The anonymous officer declared under oath that the
panel had been removed sometime previously during redecor

404

ation. Due to an administrative oversight, it had not been
replaced.

Then the next witness was called, an experiq.nced police
examiner called Laboratory Sergeant Ted Manning who had
attended following a call from the first police officers at the
scene. A rather dour but plain-spoken ma he related his
attendance at the apartment. It was straightforward, he said.
Bullet holes in the door and rounds embedded in the wall on
the far side of the hall. Blood on the carpet and a trail leading to
another pool in the living room where Fitzpatrick finally
expired, all cross-matching with the victim. A range of hair and
fibre samples were taken from the dead man's clothing, then
fingerprints and footprints from the corridor outside.

'Were you alone at the scene of crime, Sergeant?' Meyrick
asked.

'No. There were other local officers with me, a police photographer
and members of the Anti-Terrorist Branch.'
'What about MIS?'
'I wouldn't know.'

'Were there any civilians there who clearly were not police?'

'Yes. A man and two women as I recall, they didn't give their
names.'

'Did they give you any instructions?'

'No, I know my job.'

'Did they tell you what had happened?'

'Briefly, yes.'

'Did they appear anxious or agitated?'
'Not that I recall. Maybe fi little impatient.'
'Did that make you fee! pressurised?'
'Not really, I still did the job.'

'But you felt rushed - they were in control, yes?'

'Only in that they seemed to know what had happened.'

'Did you look round the walls and behind the furniture in the
living room?'

He looked baffled. 'No, there was no point. I knew what had
happened. The victim was shot in the hall through the door.'

'Would it be truer to say,' Meyrick asked carefully, 'that you thought you knew what had happened?'


405

'Well, yes, I suppose. It seemed clear to me.'

'Was there a bullet-proof panel fixed to the door?'

'Of course not, otherwise the victim wouldn't have been
shot.'

'Quite. And did you see the screw holes where such a panel

could have been fitted?'

'I don't recall.'

Browne passed a hastily scrawled note over the bench to
Meyrick who glanced at it quickly before asking: 'And did you
check the deceased's possessions?'


'It is claimed he called his MI5 minders in the car outside by
mobile telephone. Do you know if there was one in the flat?'

'There was. It was in the deceased's jacket pocket. The one

he was wearing.'

'So, having been badly shot, the victim would have had no
need to drag himself into the living room to phone for help,
would he?'

Manning shrugged. 'No, but then I expect he was
disorientated...'

'You expect that because there is no other rational explanation,
is there?'
'No.'
'Thank you.'

After lunch Meyrick resumed his questioning. 'Let us return

to the question of the murder weapon. A Heckler & Koch .45
automatic pistol, I understand?'

'Yes, fitted with a special silencer. It was found in a dustbin at
the rear of the building. There was a clear set of fingerprints on
the weapon.'

'And on the doorbell outside the flat you also found a fingerprint,
isn't that so?'

Manning nodded. 'Matching the defendant's prints.'
'Please show me, Sergeant, how you would press a doorbell.'
'I beg your pardon?'

'Just pretend. Imagine a bell in front of you and that you are
about to push it. Demonstrate, please.'

The Lab Sergeant pointed his right hand. 'Like this?'


406

'Your index finger, right? The print you found was from my
client's thumb. Correct?'

'Yes, but then I myself on occasions may have usg.d a thumb.
There is no rule.'

'But you'd agree it's more normal, natural, to use the index
finger.'


	'Yes.'
'And how would you explain three fingerprints - including
neither thumb nor index prints, on the barrel of the gun, but no
palm print on the butt?'

Manning was unfazed. 'If the killer was professional he or she
probably wore gloves. Possibly surgeon's gloves as there were no
traces of material. Then in panic he removed the gloves and
threw the gun away using a bare hand.'

'So not so professional after all. Let me ask you, Sergeant, is it
possible to transfer a fingerprint successfully from one item to
another?'

	Manning shook his head. 'I do not believe so.'

	'Thank you, Sergeant. No more questions.'

Next to give evidence was the senior hospital pathologist who
performed the postmortem, reporting on the state of Fitzpatrick's
body while alive and the cause of death. Namely a .45
round passing through the heart, two more through the lungs
and another through the stomach. Entry and exits points and
the horrific amount of internal damage was given in nauseating
detail.

Meyrick cr0ss-examined. 'The deceased was supposedly shot
through a timber door, wasn't he? Were any wood fragments
found in the wounds, any microscopic particles?'


	'Wouldn't you expect that?'

'I would anticipate, rather than expect. Bullet and materials
do not react together in any truly consistent way. There are all
too many variables from one situation to another.'

Meyrick glanced down at his notes. 'Who apart from staff
was present during the postmortem?'

	'Detective Chief Inspector Millman.'

	'Anyone else?'


407

'A Home Office representative.'
'Did he have a name?'
'It wasn't given to me.'

'Were you given a version of events leading to the death?'

'Verbally, yes.'

'And you put the place of shooting in the flat hallway and
position of death in the living room,' Meyrick summarised.
'Isn't it highly improbable that a man with such terrible wounds
to the vital organs could crawl all that distance, some fifteen feet
- as has been suggested- to telephone for help?'

'Improbable yes, impossible no. He was a big, fit man with
strong heart and lungs. It is amazing what feats the human body
can achieve in a life-threatening situation.'

'Isn't it more likely that a thumping great lead slug through.

the heart killed him outright, doctor?'

The man nodded. 'That would have been my expectation.

But the positioning of the corpse proves otherwise.'

'Unless the body was moved?'

The pathologist frowned; clearly that had never even

occurred to him. 'Why should anyone want to do that?'

'Why indeed, doctor?'

A forensic scientist specialising in gunshot wounds, Dr
Asmail Singh, was then called to the stand. He confirmed the
murder weapon as a .45 Heckler & Koch of German manufacture
which had been fitted with a silencer. The rimmed, roundnosed
Teflon-coated lead slugs that had killed Fitzpatrick had
been fired by that gun, characterised by the five rifling twists to
the left and test-firing comparisons.

'A powerful weapon this,' Meyrick observed. 'Capable of
passing through ten inches of timber, I believe? A veritable
cannon.'

'Very much so,' Singh agreed. 'Six rounds passed through a
two-inch oak door, four then struck the victim and all then
embedded in the far wall, three to four inches deep.'

'Were any human tissue particles found on any of the
rounds?'

Singh looked uncomfortable. 'I didn't examine for that.'

'Why?'


408

'There was no point, it wasn't in question.'

'Because you accepted the police version of events? Yes, Dr
Singh, I fully understand that.' He glanced towards..the pathologist's
diagram of the corpse with all the wounds marked. 'With
the exit wounds substantially lower than the ..entry wounds,
doesn't this suggest to you that the victim was'hot from above,
perhaps while seated, and not while standing to open a door?'

'It could suggest that,' Singh conceded. 'But we don't know if
the victim was stooping to release the lock or even ducking
when he was hit - a reaction to the muffled sound of the first
round. A silencer on a weapon of this power cannot fully
subdue the noise.'

'And where in the wall were the rounds located?'

'In a cluster averaging fifty-five inches from floor level.'


Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Millman of the AntiTerrorist
Branch was the final prosecution witness to be called.
With a little prompting from Halifax, the large officer with his
dark brooding features went through events of the night of
Donny Fitzpatrick's murder.

He confirmed that the victim was attending delicate talks in
London with senior civil servants from the Northern Ireland,
Home and Foreign Offices: Therefore it was considered
prudent to accommodate him in a safe house supplied by MIS,
who were also maintaining a discreet and protective watch from
a car outside.

'Did you have knowledge of this arrangement at the time?'
Halifax asked.

'We were informed, but not involved. Although we cooperate
regularly with the Security Service our organisations
have very different functions.'

'So when did you first know of the events of the night in
question?'

'I received a call at my home in the early hours of the
morning. A duty officer at the Anti-Terrorist Branch had been

alerted at one fifteen by an MI5 officer at the scene of crime.'
'And you went straight there?'
'Yes.'


409

'And what did you find at the scene?'

'That the victim had been shot through the apartment door.

Six rounds had been fired. A trail of blood ran to the living room
where the man finally died.'

'Did the MI5 officer say anything to you?'

'That the killer had been recognised and identified as the
defendant, Mr Rodney Littlechild. I was given an address
which meant that we could make an early arrest the next
morning.'

'And the defendant denied the charge when he was arrested?'
'Yes, sir. He claimed he had not stalked the victim, but had
met him at a public house earlier for a meeting and then gone
straight home. However, the victim's address was found written
on the telephone notepad in the defendant's flat.'

'Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector.'


After lunch on the third day, Tristram Meyrick rose to cross
examine Millman.

'Detective Chief Inspector, are you aware that Rodney Little
child has been an agent of sympathy - that is acting unpaid - of

MI5 for over twenty years?'

'No, sir.'

'That was never mentioned to you by your associates at
MIS?'

'No, sir.'

'At the time, or since?'

'No, sir.'

'But that is what Mr Littlechild told you in his initial interview
with you, isn't that so?'

'He did.'

'Did you attempt to verify his claim?'

'I considered it irrelevant. No one is above the law, no matter
who they are or what they've done previously. National heroes
fall foul of the law regularly.'

'Please just answer the question.'

'I'm afraid I can't. I have received instructions not to discuss
Security Service matters.'

Mr Justice Quigley looked up. 'This has in fact been covered


410

by a Public Interest Immunity certificate, Mr Meyrick. But I
think here the interests of justice must override the general
public interest in protecting MIS. The witness will answer the
question.'

'I did check with MIS. They denied he was ever an agent, just
that they had knowledge of him.' ,

'Didn't that strike you as a somewhat evasive answer?'
Meyrick asked. 'What does "have knowledge" mean?'

Halifax intervened. 'My lord, the witness has answered the
question and the subject is irrelevant.'

Quigley gave a high-pitched grunt that was more like a
squeak. 'I am minded to agree, Mr Halifax. I do not really see
the relevance Mr Littlechild's previous job description has to
his guilt or otherwise of murder on this particular night.'

Meyrick stood his ground. 'With respect, my lord, my client's
relationship with the secret security apparatus of the state is
absolutely central to this case.'

'Very well,' Quigley said, 'but Chief Inspector Millman has
answered your question.'

Meyrick nodded acknowledgement, then turned back to the
witness. 'This was a very odd place, this safe house, wasn't it?
Indeed rather inappropriately named. As I understand it, "safe
house" in the terms to which we're referring means a haven
offered to those whom the state believes to be in danger and

whom it wishes to protect. Isn't that so?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And it is normal for. minders to live in the safe house with the
person they are protecting? Not sit outside in a car. Did you not
think this situation odd?'

'I queried the arrangement,' Millman said grudgingly. 'I was
told it was a compromise arrangemeht.'

'So this was a recent development? How long had it been in
place?'

'That was the first night.'

'Chief Inspector, it is this court's job to find my client either
guilty or not guilty of this crime. Nothing more. But should he
be acquitted, it will raise the question of who else could have
killed the victim? So let me simply ask you this. Is it not possible


411

that a friend or associate of Fitzpatrick, whom he trusted and
who was in the flat with him, could have killed him - for whatever
motive?'

Halifax was on his feet. 'My lord, this question is an impertinent
and speculative fantasy.'

'What exactly are you suggesting, Mr Meyrick?' Quigley
demanded.

'That it is not impossible that Fitzpatrick was killed by
someone he trusted - even someone who was protecting him.
As you will hear, far from wanting to prolong the Provisionals'

ceasefire, Fitzpatrick wanted to destroy it.'

'My lord!' Halifax protested.

Quigley said: 'These are indeed realms of fantasy, Mr
Meyrick. Perhaps you'd care to reword your question without
attaching it to a statement of opinion which you are in no
position to substantiate.'

'Of course, my lord. I submit that it is possible - I say possible,
however unlikely it may strike the jury at this time - that a
person or persons unknown within the safe house murdered
Fitzpatrick. And then colluded with the Security Service to
implicate my client in the full knowledge that Fitzpatrick had
just had a meeting with him.'

'I really don't think I can answer that,' Millman said, not

bothering to conceal his indignation.

'Indulge me.'

'In theory it could be possible. Except, of course, for witness
and forensic evidence to the contrary.'

'In theory it could be possible,' Meyrick repeated, turning
towards the jury with the unspoken implication that those
words' should be remembered. He looked back at Millman
again. 'Let me ask you, Chief Inspector, how did the assassin
enter the block? I believe you needed to know the code to punch
into the keypad or be allowed in by the resident you'd first speak
to on the intercom?'

'We've been unable to establish exactly how. Either the killer

knew the code or someone hadn't shut the door properly.'

'Was it faulty?'

'Not to my knowledge.'


412

'Then the assassin was very fortunate that night, wasn't he?'
Meyrick glanced down at his notes. 'When you first arrested Mr
Littlechild at his flat, did he say something about his.telephone
answering machine?'

'Actually it was his wife. She said there was a message on it
from Fitzpatrick. It was claimed he'd called th previous night
asking for a meeting. We checked, but the message tape was
dear.'

'Could someone have broken into that flat overnight and
replaced that tape with a blank? Or pressed the message erase
button?'

Millman shrugged. 'Are we talking theories again?'

'Your answer?'

'I don't believe so, because we also checked the telephone
company records of both Littlechild and the safe house. No
such call was made.'

'So, if my client is to be believed, someone would have made a
very good job of a cover-up. Someone adept at breaking in and
also with powers to alter public records if it were deemed to be
in the so-called national interest?'

'Mr Meyrick,' Quigley warned quietly.

'Chief Inspector, why was the defence initially denied access

to the scene of crime until a court order was sought?'
'Their request was put to MI5 and turned down.'
'Didn't that surprise you?'

'Yes and no. It was a safe house after all. A security matter.'

'An ex-safe house, don't you mean? It was put up for sale
shortly after the crime, wasn't it?'

'I know nothing about that. We took advice from MI5 at the
time. I saw no problem with this because, all forensic evidence
would be made available to the defence in due course.'

'A very long due course, as this court has already learned.'
'That matter wasn't in my hands.'

Meyrick paused for a moment. 'Are you a naive man, Chief
Inspector?'

The policeman's cheeks coloured. 'I don't believe so.'
'Neither do I. Isn't it true that a certain gentleman by the


413

name of Prendergast has been taking a special interest in this
case?'

'Yes. He is a representative from the Home Office legal
deparu-nent. His presence is due to the political sensitivity of
this case at this particular time. To ensure no trivial errors result
in an unsafe conviction.'

'Are you aware that MI5 is answerable to the Home Office?'
'Of course.'

'And that both organisations have legal departments?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure you know which Mr Prendergast represents?'
'The Home Office.'

'So it would surprise you to know that Prendergast is not his
real name, which is why I have no compunction in using it in
open court? And that we have witnesses who will testify that he
is, or was, a serving officer in MIS.'

Millman shook his head. 'It wouldn't surprise me. He is an
MI5 officer, but serving in a liaison capacity with the Home
Office legal department.'

At that point Halifax sprang to his feet. 'iF i may be permitted
to interrupt, Your Lordship. My learned friend will find verification
from the Home Office that Mr Prendergast is authorised
in his capacity as consultant and liaison officer to its legal
department, if he troubles to look in the unused material
bundle supplied to him.'

Meyrick turned back to Millman. 'And can you tell me who
from the Home Office was present with you at the postmortem?'

The" detective shuffled his feet. 'Mr Prendergast. Officer A
told me she'd called him to attend the scene of crime immediately
after the shooting.'

'Before she called you?'


He could see no further point in pursuing this; he'd established
a seed of doubt and with it the start of a linking thread.
'No further questions, my lord.'


Before Rodney Littlechild was sworn into the witness box, Tristram
Meyrick addressed the court. 'You are about to hear the


414

most incredible and extraordinary but true story. It is not an
exotic tale of espionage or the world of James Bond so glamourised
on celluloid. This is a story of sleaze and he,trayal. Of
corruption at the very heart of our society. Of a section of a state
organ of security behaving in a way that might mgre befit some
fascist state. A rogue element, perhaps, but certainly out of
control and answerable to no one.

'Time and again you will hear protestations from the prosecution
that it is a confection of lies and fantasy. I intend to
prove to you that this is not so. That far from being the perpetrator
of any crime, you will hear evidence to suggest that the
defendant is in fact the victim. That the defendant - happily
married and then expecting their first child - did not just one
day last year receive a phone call tip-off telling him where he
could find, stalk and murder a leader of the opposing IRA
movement.

'It was a remarkably simple setup by, let us say this rogue
element of the Crown's security apparatus to rid itself of two
embarrassments. One was Donny Fitzpatrick, a Republican
utterly opposed to his own organisation's ceasefire, to be killed
by I know not whom. And two, the defendant who had been a
loyal and long-term agent for MI5 who refused to co-operate in
the murder of a fellow Loyalist and was then regarded as a
liability because he knew mo much of the Security Service's
dirty-war tactics in Ulster. And indeed had been driven to the
point of revealing them in a television documentary.'

Henry Halifax rose to his feet in protest and asked the judge
for leave to object in the absence of the jury. Mr Justice Quigley
readily agreed.

'I really must object, my lord, at this outrageous slander
against unnamed officers of the Crown,' Halifax said, after the
iury had filed out. 'My learned friend is suggesting duplicity
and, in his own words, murder by a government agency! This is
in the realms of dangerous fantasy, of the penny dreadful spy
story. I ask that Your Lordship tell the defence to contain its
vivid imagination and keep strictly to events of the night in
question.'

Quigley paused for several long moments, weighing his


415

thoughts carefully before speaking. 'I have heard enough evidence
in this case so far to be satisfied that the defendant did
have some form of association with MIS, possibly over many
years. I can see more clearly now why the defence was keen to
run both cases of murder and conspiracy-to-murder concurrently,
because that background may yet prove relevant to its
theory of the events leading to Mr Fitzpatrick's murder.
Without that background knowledge, the jury will find it
impossible to judge the weight of probability as to whether
the defence's alternative theory of what happened that night is
correct or not.'

'With respect, my lord,' Halifax countered. 'It is this court's
job simply to answer the question, Did the defendant kill Mr
Fitzpatrick or not, on the evidence before it? Yes or no? It is not
to examine theories about alternative suspects - that is for the
police.'

'Thank you for telling me how to conduct this trial, Mr
Halifax.' Quiglcy's voice had risen an octave. The dcfcncc has
merely suggested what it considers to be a plausible alternative
scenario to explain what happened. Neither has counsel
accused the government nor any specific person. I notice he
was careful to use the words "rogue clement". Therefore I am
overruling your objection.'

The jury was recalled as a disgruntled Halifax resumed his
scat, muttering beneath his breath.

Mcyrick then picked up his theme. 'With Fitzpatrick dead
and my client in prison for his alleged murder, the cover-up is
complete and the decks cleared for continuing Ulster peace
talks with no fear of embarrassing revelations. Events that
fateful night last August were rooted in developments that had
taken place over more than twenty years.'

A sudden ripple of muted excitement broke from the press
gallery. The ncwshounds suddenly had the scent of a front-page
scandal in the making.

Meyrick then went back over Littlechild's childhood years in
Belfast where he went to school. Some of the pupils at the
school were later to be major players in rival paramilitary organisations.
One was Donny Fitzpatrick who was destined to


416

become Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRAI Another was

Stevie Gavin, known as 'Rattler,' who headed a small Loyalist
extremist group called the Ulster Defenders. ORe more was
Peter Keegan, older than the others, who later bcame an
informer for Army Intelligence until he was convicted for conspiracy-to-murder,
and another Loyalist terror-gang leader
known as King Billy. " "

With the scene now set, Littlechild was sworn in. 'In 1969
when the current troubles started,' Meyrick began, 'how old
were you?'

'Eleven.'

'Did you get caught up in any of the violence?'

'Not for the first four years. I had a very strict father who kept
me offthe streets.'

'But by 1974, aged sixteen, you were becoming a more rebellious
adolescent, is that right?'

'Not so much rebellious, more politically aware. I began

making up my own mind about things. I joined the UDA.'
'Which is?'

'The Ulster Defence Association. It had been set up to

protect Protestant communities from IRA attacks.'

'Did you ever carry a firearm?'

'No. I was a runner, a messenger boy.'

'But you drifted away from the UDA. Why was that?'

'What they were doing seemed senseless to me, just making
matters worse. On a trip to England I heard people saying the
Protestant Loyalists were as bad as the Provos. I knew it wasn't
true, but unless you've lived in Ulster it's hard to understand
that.'

'Then you read a pamphlet by .an organisation called the
Frontline Ulster Movement.'

'Yes. It made a lot of sense to me.'

'For the benefit of the court, what was the philosophy of
Frontline Ulster?'

'That the Protestant population should leave it to the police
and the army to counter terrorism. Instead, the country should
prepare for a doomsday scenario which foresaw open civil war.' .

'So you joined Frontline and met its leader Wallace Mcllroy?'


417

'Yes, we became firm friends in a sort of father-son relationship.
He became my mentor.'

'Did he ever tell you about his background?'

'He told me he'd been a member of the Special Operations
Executive during World War Two and after retained links with
the British intelligence.'

Halifax intervened. 'This is hear'say unless evidence is to be
brought to substantiate it.'

Meyrick riposted: 'Certainly, McIlroy's SOE career is well
documented in the public domain. I wish to establish the man's
links with the intelligence community.'

'Then leave it at that,' Quigley ordered.

'In 1975 did McIlroy make a suggestion to you and other
young Protestant men of similar age?' Meyrick asked.

'He said the resistance movement would need people of
sound military experience and encouraged some of us to go to
Rhodesia - now Zimbabwe - and join the army. See active
service and get experience.'

'You were introduced to someone?'
'Yes. A man called Walter Grey.'
'An Englishman?'

'Yes, apparently an old friend of Mcllroy. He came across
from London, talked to us, encouraged us. Said he had contacts
in Rhodesia and could arrange everything including paid

flights, pocket money etc.'

'Did you go?'

'I couldn't wait. It was very exciting. I joined the Territorials
there and did my basic training before joining the Armoured
Car Regiment, 2 Brigade, fighting the Communist ZANLA
and ZIPRA terrorists. Later I transferred to the brigade's intelligence
cell.'

'And during this period, until 1990 you returned regularly on
leave to Ulster to see McIlroy and your other former friends in
the Loyalist paramilitaries. On one of these trips did you learn
something that came as quite a shock?'

'Yes, when I was in my early twenties McIlroy thought I was

old enough and mature enough to understand. We met Walter
Grey who told me he was a very senior MI5 officer and that he


418

and McIlro]/had conceived Fronfline and its ultimate military
off-shoot Cuchulainn. Vast arms caches and explosives were in

place, secretly supplied from Belgium using MI 5 blak funds.'
'And did Grey ask a favour of you?'

Littlechild nodded. 'To keep in touch with my.former friends
and report back to him.'

'Then in 1980, you returned to Ulster, but you could see no
future for you there as the Troubles continued. So you decided
to try South Africa for a while. What happened?'

'I met an old friend from Rhodesia who was then in a branch
of the South African Security Police. He was setting up a special
covert operations group. He invited me to join them and I did.
My job was to collect, collate and disseminate information on
any terrorist threat.'

'That was in late 1982,' Meyrick confirmed. 'And I believe
that continued until 1984 when your unit's remit suddenly
changed. Why was this?'

'The ANC planted a car bomb outside the Air Force HQ in
Pretoria. Just after this I went on leave to Belfast where Walter
Grey contacted me. He handed over details of information
concerning Provisional IRA links with the African National
Congress guerrillas. The Provos were given training facilities in
remote areas of Mozambique where they could plan and perfect
mortar bombs in particular. In return the Provos passed on
their bomb-making and setup planning knowledge. My unit
discovered that this had been used in the Pretoria bombing.'

Now in the public and press galleries there was a ripple of
speculative whispers and hushed conversations.

After Quigley demanded order, Littlechild continued: 'As a
result of receiving this information, the South African National
Intelligence Service set up a small groul5 to explore the links
between the Provos and the ANC.'

'What happened as a result of this?'

'The bond between MI5 and South Africa was cemented in
fighting a common cause and mutual enemies.'

'But this being the murky world of intelligence, double-cross
was soon to upset this rosy relationship, was it not?'

'A year or so later, when my unit had got to know many of the


419

Loyalist people well, especially Stevie Gavin - known as Rattler
- my police boss realised that they wanted arms, particularly for
a new military movement called Ulster Resistance. It was
formed in protest over the Anglo-Irish Agreement in 1986. The
South Africans saw it as an opportunity to get their hands on
British missile technology from Shorts in Belfast. They offered
arms in return for secrets.

'Rattler and Peter Keegan came over and I was asked to play
host. They were shown a wide range of weapons and ordered
what they wanted. Their offer of money was turned down if

they could supply the secrets.'

'Did this deal go through?'

'Yes. Armscor weapons were provided via the Lebanon.'
'Did you do anything to stop it?'

'Yes. Rattler was a wild card, and I realised it would be
dangerous for vast supplies of arms to be in his possession. I
didn't know it at the time, but Keegan was an Army Intelligence
agent and was also trying to stop the deal. Anyway, I informed
my contact Walter Grey.'

'Those arms were eventually intercepted in Belfast?'

'Yes, in 1988. Not all, though, I believe some got through to
Rattler.'

'And the missile secrets?'

'I've heard reliable rumours that details of Javelin and Firestreak
were stolen in 1988.'

'But you had done your bit for God and country.'

Littlechild managed a faltering ghost of a smile at that. 'I
thought so at the time.'

'You clearly had a good, if periodic, relationship with MI5 at
that time. So what went wrong?'

'I think it began in '89, the year that Peter Keegan was
arrested and jailed for conspiracy to murder. My contact Walter
Grey retired shortly after and that's when things cooled. MI5
virtually ceased all relationships with the Loyalists and Grey
was replaced by someone else. And I had a new handler
assigned to me. A person called Tabitha White.'

'And did your new handler tell you something that surprised
you?'


420

Littlechild nodded. 'She told me that the political agenda
was changing, that Ulster was no longer of strategic national
importance. In the end there would have to be a ,political
settlement.'

'When did she say this?'

'About three years ago. I'd just returned to UK to settle

down and get married.' " "

'What did she ask you to do?'

'To set up a meeting with Stevie Gavin.'

'That is Rattler - the leader of the outlawed Ulster
Defenders?'

'Yes. He's exceptionally difficult to track down. Never stays

two nights at the same address. It's why he's survived so long.'
'Why did she want you to have this meeting?'

'There was only one purpose. To set up Gavin for
assassination.'

'Were there any witnesses to this astonishing request?'

'Yes, a man known as King Billy. He was another Loyalist
gang leader, more than willing to do MIS's bidding for the right
price.'

'He couldn't set up Gavin?'

'No, Gavin loathed him. My handler hoped King Billy could
persuade me.'

'But he couldn't?'

'I detest King Billy as much as Gavin does.'

That extracted a general chuckle from the courtroom.

'Why did your handler want Gavin dead? Hadn't he himself
worked for MI5 in the past?'

'With them rather than for them. Wet jobs, when it suited
him.'

'Wet jobs?'
'Assassinations.'
'On behalfofMI5?'
'Yes.'

Halifax was up. 'I really must protest, my lord, at these outrageous
accusations.'

'Carry on, Mr Meyrick,' Quigley retorted irritably.

'Please continue, Mr Littlechild,' Meyrick said.


421

'Gavin was volatile and unpredictable,' Littlechild said. 'And
now he had access to quantities of South African arms he was
considered to be a big liability. Besides MI5 wanted to clean up
their act in advance of a political settlement. It was also under
pressure to become more accountable to Parliament.'

'You mean they didn't want journalists and such revealing
past misdemeanours by a government agency?'

'Exactly that. I was told that was one reason no one rushed to
Peter Keegan's defence during the Penny Inquiry.'

'And what did you do to help MI5 with this meeting with
Stevie Gavin?'

'Nothing. I refused.'

'Did your handler respect that?'

'Hardly. Made various threats. It got worse over the next few
months ?

'Why was that?'

'Because I refused to set up Gavin and then refused to have
anything more to do with MIS, she and others began to suspect
I'd arranged for some of those earlier South African arms to

escape the net and reach Gavin.'

'What did she tell you?'

'She wanted me out of the country. To set up a life elsewhere

so I couldn't embarrass the government with my revelations. I

never intended to do that, of course. But I refused to go.'

'Why?'

For a moment, Littlechild stared at Meyrick as though he'd
asked the most stupid question imaginable. 'Because this is my
country, my home. I'd hoped to resettle in Ulster with my wife
and start a family.'

'And after you refused to emigrate, the smear campaign
started?'

'Yes. Newspaper reports and a TV documentary suggesting

I'd smuggled arms to Loyalist terrorists.'

'When, in fact, all you'd done was try to stop them?'

'Yes.'

Meyrick turned to Mr Justice Quigley. 'Thank you, my lord.'


The next morning, Henry Halifax dispensed with any preamble


422

Litttechild in a manner that suggested he was beneath

contempt.

'When, at the age of sixteen, you joined the Fronlihe movement
in Ulster you were quite the little innocent, weren't you?'
'I wouldn't say that.' ,

'No, neither would I. Frontline preached a policy of ethnic
cleansing, of driving all Catholics back to the Republic?'

'No, they predicted that could be the final outcome if things
came to civil war.'

'And that idea appealed to you?'

'It didn't appeal, it just seemed like a realistic prediction.'

'And you spoke with the leader, Wallace Mcllroy, about his
views?'

'Sometimes, he was very busy.'

'McIlroy was later found guilty of having under-age sex with
boys in a youth club he ran linked to Frontline, wasn't he? Not
to put too fine a point on it, he buggered them.' His eyes blazed
at Littlechild. 'Did McIlroy ever bugger you?'

Instantly Littlechild's cheeks were inflamed with fury. 'No.
And I never saw him behave incorrectly in the presence of
youngsters.'

'Just answer the question please,' Halifax reprimanded.
'No, I was never buggered.'

'Because the truth is, isn't it, that you were brought up by a
strict Presbyterian family which believed that the Pope was the
Antichrist? Therefore, you virtually never mixed with Catholics
as a child, isn't that so?'

'I wouldn't deny that.'

'The truth is you hate Catholics. you were drip-fed hatred of
Catholics with your mother's milk, weren't you? All this cosy
stuff about being playground chums is all make-believe to fool
the jury.'

'I never said chums...'

Halifax cut in. 'The truth is you loathe all Catholics and
you'd certainly not give the likes of Donny Fitzpatrick the time
of day, would you? Certainly not as a leader of the Provisional
IRA whom you detest and see as the destroyers of your home423


land. You saw your family's view fully vindicated by the
Troubles. It was a view shared by the Frontline Movement
which so appealed to you. The only time you'd ever agree to

meet the likes of Fitzpatrick would be to kill him.'

'That is not how it was.'

Again Halifax ignored the reply and steam-rollered on. 'And
this man Wallace McIlroy. A convicted child abuser who later
hanged himself- are you really asking the jury to believe this is
the sort of man MIS, a government agency with a reputation to
uphold, would employ?'

'Some people believe the charges were trumped up when he
fell out of favour.'

'Full of stories of trumped-up charges, aren't we, Mr Littlechild?'

'McIlroy
was married with three kids,' retorted Littlechild.
'The truth is, I believe, that you recognised yourself in
McIlroy. A former SOE man, a soldier. A man who sang the
same anthem as yourself. A fellow Spartan, a born soldier, and
maybe recognised and even admired McIlroy's latent homosexuality.'

'The
man's dead, for God's sake!' Littlechild snapped back.
'He can't defend himself.'

'He doesn't need to, but you do. Because, Mr Littlechild, you
are a born soldier. A natural-born killer. I've no doubt McIlroy
suggested you went to fight in Rhodesia and I've no doubt that
appealed to you. We've already learned you are a xenophobic,
racist bigot. What better than to go and fight for the reviled
regime of Ian Smith, kill black people you regarded as scum?

No better, I imagine, than the Catholics in your homeland?'
'That's not true!' Littlechild protested.

Rock glanced at Meyrick, wondering why he didn't intervene.
But the senior counsel was happy for Halifax to show
himself being exactly the sort of man he was claiming Littlechild
to be.

'Isn't it?' the prosecution barrister asked. 'Let's examine the
facts. As soon as Rhodesia's white regime collapsed, you came
back to Britain. After a short spell in the British Army here,
you joined the armed forces of an even more vilified regime,


424

apartheid South Africa. And when black majority rule came
there under President Mandela, you left that place too. Your
actions speak all too clearly.' Halifax smiled smugly;convinced
he'd made his point. 'Would you like to tell the court why you
left?'

	'It was the end of an era.'
	"

		'The
end of apartheid.'

'Not that, the end of white rule.' He remembered Meyrick's
warning not to try to convince the court that he believed South
Africa would degenerate under an inevitable black one-party
state. 'I saw no future for me.'

	'Because you were a secret policeman?'

	'No, but that didn't help.'

'I don't expect it did. As you told police in your interviews,
your job was to make intelligence assessments of ANC activity,
then assassinate them.'

Meyrick stood. 'My lord, I have read the transcripts. My
client said that his unit would sometimes assassinate or
ambush. He would have added that more often than not the
result was to put suspects under surveillance.'

	'And then assassinate them?' Halifax asked mischievously.

'Be careful when quoting transcripts, Mr Halifax,' Quigley
warned.

'Of course, my lord. Now, Mr Littlechild, the police asked
you how many men you killed personally. You answered three.
And two other men, Argentinians in the Falklands War, one of
whom you bayoneted.' He paused for effect. 'Asked how many
men you'd commanded to be killed in South Africa, you
answered - and this is verbatim, my lord - "I don't recall." Mr
Littlechild, you are certainly no stranger to weapons and killing,
are you?'

'I must object, my lord!' Meyrick called. 'My learned friend
is putting an inappropriate slant on what has been a courageous
and quite proper military career.'

'I agree, Mr Meyrick,' Quigley decided.

Halifax gave a little bow of acknowledgement before con.
tinuing: 'But it wasn't always a courageous and proper military


425

career, was it? Sometimes it was sleazy and decidedly illegal
and
not always in your own country?'

Meyrick glanced back at Sam Browne who looked up from

the bundle of papers she was reading. She'd only half-registered

the change of tack.

'In 1987,' Halifax continued, 'you were in Belfast at the same

time as a two-man hit team from your unit was sent to kill a

South African ex-patriot, weren't you?'

Littlechild paled; he used his tongue to wet his suddenly

parched lips. 'Yes.'

Meyrick saw what Halifax was doing; he was referring to the

conspiracy-to-murder case, having previously insisted that it be

tried separately. What the hell was he playing at? 'My lord, this

can hardly relate to the murder of Mr Fitzpatrick last year.'

Quigley peered over his pince-nez. 'The defence really

cannot have it both ways. At your request, I am allowing you to

paint a broader background to the circumstances relating

to that charge. You cannot now object if the prosecution adds its

own colour to that background picture.'

'Very well, Your Lordship,' Meyrick said reluctantly as he

resumed his seat.

Halifax looked well satisfied. 'The target of this hit team was

one Dominic Smals, a journalist from Johannesburg, isn't that

so? Also a vehemently outspoken critic of South Africa and

apartheid on the international stage?'

'He was also involved in Sinn Fein and the...'

'Please!' Halifax interrupted. 'Confine yourself to yes or no.'

Littlechild slumped back. 'Yes.'

'And you supplied the murder weapon from your Loyalist

friends, didn't you?'

'No, I didn't. I only knew about the assassination after it had

happened.'

Halifax hammered on. 'And you know the identity of those

killers, don't you? They are friends of yours, aren't they?'

'They were from my unit.'

'So who were they?'

'I can't answer that.'

'You're under oath. Please reply.'
	,


426

'I'm sorry.'

Meyrick could only listen helplessly. He knew nothing of this
as it was an area that Littlechild had always beeneluctant to
discuss.

'I can understand your shyness in this matter,' Halifax continued.
'Planning an assassination on sovereign .foreign soil is
not something one likes to talk about.'

Meyrick had to do something. 'If Your Lordship will pardon
my interruption, I wonder if my learned friend would tell the
court from where he obtained details of such a fanciful tale?'

Halifax bowed from the waist. 'From police files containing
information supplied by the Security Service.'

Meyrick resumed his seat. He now knew what had happened.
Halifax had filleted the information from the conspiracy-tomurder
case to show Littlechild in potentially damning light.

'And you would have this iury believe,' Halifax resumed, 'that
you are the sort of man who was a loyal and trusted employee of
MI5 for over twenty years, is that right? Likewise have them
believe you received a call from a sworn enemy, Fitzpatrick,
then calmly agree to go and have a quiet beer with him in a
London pub, is that right?'

'That's what happened. I telephoned him and arranged to
meet in another pub.'

'Yet, you'll be aware that the landlord of that other pub says

in his statement to the police that he never saw you.'

'It doesn't mean we weren't there.'

Halifax gave the court one of his smug smiles. 'The truth is,
isn't it, that this meeting never took place. Fitzpatrick drank
alone at the first pub and you, following a tip-off, stalked him to
his flat and shot him. It was just unlucky for you that an MI5
officer recognised you because of your known connections with
Loyalist terrorists and illegal arms shipments.'

Meyrick intervened. 'My client is not, has not and will not be
charged on anything connected with illegal arms smuggling, my
lord.'

'I concur,' Quigley said. 'That last phrase, which I instruct
the jury to ignore, shall be struck from the record.'


427

'My apologies,' Halifax replied graciously. But still he'd made
his point. 'I have no further questions.'

It was a sour note on which to begin the weekend.


Lisa Hardcastle was called the following Monday morning. She
was a good witness, with a firm and confident manner, and
her recollections of her early dealings with Rodney Littlechild
appeared to back up everything the defence had claimed,
especially his desire to quash the rumours about his involvement
in arms dealing. The fact that Double Vision Productions
had been 'leant on' to drop the programme added a nice sinister
spin to her testimony.

But Halifax tore into her. Within minutes he was making it
sound as though Littlechild was only on the make: inventing
uncheckable fairy tales of conspiracy against MI 5 and happy to
betray old comrades in return for cash.

Meyrick had seen it coming, of course, and had emphasised
points of evidence to the jury knowing full well which weaknesses
his legal rival would go for. It was still galling to watch it
happen, and left the defence team with jaded spirits.


A fierce legal wrangle then began in the absence of the jury
when Meyrick presented a short deposition statement by the
former Deputy Chief Constable of West Weald, Derek Penny. It
had been made just days before his untimely suicide.

'If Your Lordship pleases,' Halifax protested. 'I would argue
that the deposition by a dead man should not be allowed to be
entered. It boldly, and in my view mistakenly, states Mr Penny's
belief that Rodney Littlechild was a long-term and valued MI5
agent. This belief gleaned from classified papers improperly
photocopied in contravention of the Official Secrets Act and
hoarded by Mr Penny at the time of the 1989 Regina v. Keegan
trial in Belfast. Unfortunately, my lord, I respectfully submit
that the deposition be ruled inadmissible as-the prosecution
cannot cross-examine a piece of paper.'

That amused the court and Quigley evidently had no objection
to lightening the tone of proceedings. 'Just so, Mr Halifax,
but I believe that were he able to be here today, Mr Penny would

428


repeat his deposition statement of how these papers came into
his possession during that trial, supplied by persons from within
the Security Service. Those documents speak for tl..emselves Mr
Penny merely gives deposition evidence as to their ource.'

'With respect, my lord, those documents are not going to be
permitted to speak for themselves. As You Lordship will
be aware, as classified material they are the subject of a Public
Interest Immunity certificate which your predecessor Mr
Justice Todd upheld at the pre-trial review.'

'I am indeed aware,' Quigley replied evenly. 'But we have
here a man on trial for murder. The defence claim that he was a
loyal and long-serving MI5 agent has a great bearing on the
veracity of his evidence regarding the state of his relationship
with this somewhat- how can I put this? - shadowy organ of the
state at the time of this murder. I am therefore minded to
overturn my predecessor's decision and disclose the contents
to the jury. Also, as these documents are referenced and
sequentially numbered, they would suggest untampered evidence.
Do you wish to consult with me in chambers as to
any names or other sensitive material you would wish to have
blacked out before distribution to the jury?'

Halifax glanced back at Ian Spinks, the GPS solicitor, who
was seated in the row behind; the man shook his head. 'In that
case, no, my lord.'

Quigley raised his eyebrows. 'No? Very well. Mr Penny's

documents may be read to the jury after lunch.'

'The court will rise.'

Meyrick turned to Littlechild and winked. But Browne was
less happy. 'Henry's up to something, Tristram, I can feel it
coming.'


And, as usual, she was right as they discovered when the court
reconvened in the afternoon and Halifax addressed Mr Justice
Quigley.

'If it please my lord, we did not wish to make deletions to the
defence documents for the simple reason that they are forgeries..
And I beg leave to call evidence in rebuttal.'


429

Quigley looked distinctly irritated and it showed in his voice.
'What is the nature of this evidence?'

'My lord, it has only just been released from Security Service
archives. It is the original documentation, with all sequential
numbering and references, of the copied papers provided by the
late Derek Penny. You will see, my lord, that the contents,
however, are markedly different from those already before the
court. Far from recognising the defendant Littlechild as a
trusted MI5 agent, it clearly shows that he was a long-term
Loyalist terrorist suspect and contact was made on occasions to
lull him into thinking that they trusted him. This, of course,
done in the interests of national security.'

'So what are you saying about Mr Penny's documents?'
Quigley demanded.

'That they are crude photocopies of the originals which were
clearly.tampered with by parties unknown for the Regina v.
Keegan trial. In short, forgeries.'

'But the defendant here was not part of that trial,' Quigley
quickly pointed out. 'So why would anyone want to alter what
was said about him?'

Halifax shrugged, 'Alas, my lord, I cannot answer that. Nor
can the court question Mr Penny about the source of his
documents.'

Browne glared across at Halifax who stared into the middle
distance wearing the expression of an angelic choirboy. 'Nice
one,' she snarled beneath her breath, then turned to Meyrick.
'That's what they did after stealing those copies from Evie's
flat. They simply replaced and altered the originals in MIS's
archives.'

'Bastards.'

The uproar and confusion led to the court going into early
recess for half an hour until Quigley returned to the Bench to
instruct the jurors to disregard all evidence relating to the Derek
Penny documents.

Halifax's proposition, that Littlechild's claim to be an MI5
agent was pure fantasy was surely and steadily gaining ground.

As Ronnie Rock succinctly pointed out: 'We're going to be
left to fight this one on purely technical grounds.'


43O

Next into the witness box was Mike Salm0ni the former
manager of the Mortar and Pestle public house.

'You, Mr Salmon, could be described as an unwilling
witness, could you not?' Meyrick began.

Salmon gave a nervous smile. 'You could say that.'

'Because you were visited by two men the morning after the
murder. Who were they?'

'They didn't say. I assumed they were - er - friends of the
killer, although I didn't know about the murder until they told
me. I sort of assumed later they were connected with Loyalist
terrorists.'

'You now know differently?'

'I know they weren't connected with the man in the dock.'
'What did these men tell you?'

'Not to say I'd seen the people I now know as Fitzpatrick and
Littlechild had come into my pub the night before when the

police came around asking questions.'

'Did these men threaten you?'

'Not with violence, but they said if I spoke up they'd inform
the brewery I had a criminal record.'

'How could they know that barely twelve hours after the
murder?'

Salmon shrugged. 'I can only think they had access to police
records, but I didn't stop to think alout it for some time. I was
in a state of panic.'

'So you told the police no one came into your pub who

answered that description?'

'Yes.'

'So what persuaded you to change your mind?'

'Well, the brewery got to know about my record anyway. I'm
now without a job. So I thought, to hell with it.'


431

Ronnie Rock leaned back towards Browne. 'I wonder who

told them?'

Browne gave a tight-lipped, embarrassed smile. 'I'm afraid I

did. He wanted to keep his pub too badly. Sorry, it had to be

either Roddy or Mr Salmon.'
'You're an animal, Sam.'
'I know.'

The witness was saying: 'Fitzpatrick and Litflechild came

into my pub at about ten to eleven, ordered a couple of pints of
Guinness and then left at about ten past.'

'Had someone else entered the pub at that time?'

'Yes, a couple. A middle-aged man and a woman. They

stayed until just after the other two went, virtually on the bell.'

'Did something odd occur?'

'Well, they changed seats, sat where Littlechild and Fitzpat
rick
had been sitting. I thought vaguely it was hardly worth

moving for the odd five minutes.'

'Was there something else?'

'After that, I discovered one of the Guinness glasses was

missing. I assumed one of the two men must have snitched it.'
'But it could as easily have been the couple?'
'Yes.'

Meyrick nodded. 'One more question, Mr Salmon. Had the
seating in your pub been recently reupholstered?'

'Yes, it was finished just a week before the murder.'


The mild-mannered Salmon was to have his confidence rudely
shattered by Halifax's opening volley. 'So you are a selfconfessed
liar, are you, Mr Salmon?' The man coloured and
opened his mouth searching in vain for a reply. 'Well, answer,
yes or no?'

'Er- I suppose so.'
'Is that yes?'
'Yes,'

'You admit you're a liar. You lied to the police following this
alleged verbal threat. Putting your own selfish interest before
the search for truth in a murder investigation?'

'I suppose so. I wasn't proud of it. I was afraid...' ,


432

'I don't need a speech, Mr Salmon. Just for you to admit to
the court you are a liar who can be easily persuaded to change

your testimony whenever it suits you.' -.

'That's not true.'

'Really? Were you not visited some weeks later.by the defendant's
brother-in-law and his friend?' "

'Yes. They said they were, acting as private investigators.'
'Did they intimidate you?'
'No.'

'Where did they interview you?'

'In the gents' lavatory.'

There were some titters from the public gallery. 'At what
time?'

'Just after I'd �losed.'

'They were waiting for you?'

'Yes.'

'That sounds pretty intimidating.'

'Well, I thought so at the time, but later I realised they just
wanted me to tell the truth.'

'Mr Salmon, you wouldn't recognise the truth if it leapt out
and stared you in the face, would you? You just change your

story whenever it suits, don't you?'

'No.'

'What did you tell e defendant's brother-inqaw?'
'That I wasn't changing my story.'
'But you have now. Why?'

'I've already said. I lost my job and my pub anyway. So I had
nothing more to lose.'

'Thank you, Mr Salmon.'


Lomax took the stand the following morning.

'You are the defendant's brother-in-law and an old friend, is

that right?'

'Yes.'

'The court has already heard that you and another friend of
yours have been acting as private investigators in this case. Why
is this?'

'Because I'm convinced of his innocence, and because the


433

smear campaign has left him and his wife destitute. So I lent
hand.'

'You're a former SAS soldier who reached the rank of S
Sergeant by the time you retired last year after twelve
service?'

	'Yes.'
	,

	'What was your speciality in the SAS, Mr Lomax?'

	'Tracking and fieldcraft.'

	'In fact, you were the Regiment's top expert in a craft

	means reading footprints, blood trails, spoor, etc, is that right?'

	'Yes.'

	'A highly respected and reliable professional soldier, you

	also well versed in, shall we say, the modus operandi of

	gence agencies such as MIS?'

	'I've had a fair bit of experience.'

'When you spoke to the witness, Mr Salmon, did you form

any opinion as to whom his previous visitors might have been?'

'My immediate reaction was that they were MI5 officers,

had been sent by...'

Halifax interjected. 'This is pure supposition, Your
Lordship.'

'I agree,' Quigley said.

'As Your Lordship pleases,' Meyrick relented. 'Mr Lomax,

can you confirm that you did not intimidate Mr Salmon into
changing his story?'

Lomax swallowed hard. 'Well, we did come on a little strong

to persuade him to tell the truth. But he was more scared of his
previous visitors than of us. He told us he wouldn't repeat
his story to us in court.'

'Although he since has?'

'So I believe.'

'Then, some time after the defendant was charged, you and a
colleague gained access to the scene of crime, didn't you? This
despite the fact that the defence solicitors had initially been
denied such a request by the police and the Security Service on
the grounds that it was an MI5 safe house? Why did you do
this?'

'Because it was an ex-safe house Once a safe house is


434

compromised it is never used again. It was clearly to cover up
something.'

'And did you discover what that something was?'

'I discovered two things and my friend took dte-timed
photographs.'

'Exhibit G,' Meyrick advised the judge and ju-. 'So what did
you find, Mr Lomax?' "

'Decorators were repainting the flat, replacing the front door
and removing the bullet-proof glass from the windows. Our
photographs showed in particular a close-up of screw holes in
the old door that once would have held a bullet-proof plate

in place and deep plaster repairs in the living-room wall.'
'How high were these plaster repairs from the floor?'

'Six of them were in a cluster about eighteen inches from the
floor.'

Quigley interrupted. 'What is the significance of this?'

'I shall explain in detail with later expert witness evidence,
my lord. But will meanwhile ask Mr Lomax what he considered
these repairs to signify?'

'It's my belief there were six bullet holes.'

'Anything else?'

'There was a much larger bloodstain in the hallway than in
the living room.'

'Is this significant?'

'I believe so. If a man crawls after being wounded, then lies
undisturbed for a period, as in this situation, I would expect the

largest deposit of blood to be in his final resting place.'
'Suggesting to you?'

'That Fitzpatrick was shot in the living room, then crawled or
was carried - to the hall and left.'

'Thank you, Mr Lomax.'


Lomax had lost his appetite for lunch, just toying with a sandwich
over a beer in the Magpie and Stump across the road from
the Old Bailey.

His growing sense of apprehension was well founded when
they returned to court for Halifax's cross-examination.

'How long have you known the defendant, Mr Lomax?'


435

'About fifteen years.'

'Did he ever mention his claim to be an agent of MI5?'
'No, not until about a month before the murder.'
'What, not once in fifteen years? Not even a hint?'
'Never. It's not the sort of thing he'd talk about.'
'Doesn't that strike you as odd?'
'No.'

'Come now, Mr Lomax, you were a soldier in the SAS; you
have experience in the cloak-and-dagger world. Surely it would
have been the most natural thing in the world to share a confidence
or two? Or even a joke about his work?'

'Roddy's not like that. He's quiet and introspective.'

Halifax nodded and changed tack. 'Maybe he didn't mention

it because he hadn't thought of it? At that time he didn't need
some cock-and-bull story because he didn't have a murder
charge hanging over his head.'

Lomax glanced across and met his friend's steady gaze. 'To

be honest, I don't think his imagination would run to that.'

A hint of a smile fluttered on Littlechild's lips and a few
people in the public gallery chuckled.

'You and he are firm friends, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'In fact, more than good friends. You consider that he saved
your life during the Falklands "gar?'

'I don't considerit - I know he did.'

'Yes, I appreciate that was your perception in the heat of
battle. A perception that may have coloured your view of this
man, don't you think?'

'I think that question is beneath contempt.'

'You're not here to express opinions about my questioning,

Mr Lomax. Isn't it the case that your perceived sense of gratitude
to Littlechild disturbed your sense of judgment and has
led you to breaking and entering and intimidating prosecution
witnesses?'

'So shoot me.'

Quigley frowned. 'The witness will be deemed in contempt of

this court if he replies in a like manner again. Meanwhile, Mr
Halifax, the gentleman you refer to, Mr Salmon, has already


436

told us he didn't consider himself to be intimidated by Mr
Lomax. And as regards breaking and entering, I consider the
judgment of those who denied access by the :de.fence to
the scene of crime to be flawed in the extreme. It was an overzealous
use of secrecy.'

'As Your Lordship pleases.' Halifax turned-back to Lomax.
'The simple fact is, Mr Lomax, that you have no way of knowing what caused those holes in the living-room wall that you had so

studiously photographed, do you?'

'I can't be certain.'

'It's purely convenient supposition? Yes or no?'

'Yes.' Reluctant.

'Similarly, the size and positioning of the two bloodstains are

not absolutely conclusive as to the place of death, are they?'
'Not absolutely, no.'

'So all this is wishful thinking on behalf of a man to whom
you feel you owe the debt of life itself, isn't it?'

Lomax didn't answer; it was heads I win, tails you lose.

'No more questions,' Halifax said.

Stepping down from the stand, Lomax felt gutted. Surely he
could have done better, not allowed himself to be caught in the
prosecution's verbal traps? Even kind words from Browne did
nothing to stop his sense of guilt that he'd let his friend down
when he was most needed.


'How was last night?' Danny asked, looking up from his desk
and the early reports from the. money markets around the world.

'Grand,' came Liam's slightly smug reply, slipping off the
jacket of his sharply tailored suit. 'Better than yours, and that's
a promise.'

Rivals in romantic conquests and rivals at work, the two
young men were always first in on the international floor of the
Bank of Ireland in College Street opposite Trinity. No time for
backsliding when you were aiming for the top and playing the
game of trying to pull every girl in Dublin's nightclub mile.

Danny couldn't resist rising to the bait. 'Who was it?'
'Would you believe me if I said Shelagh O'Flynn?'
Danny's mouth dropped. 'You never did.'


437

'Promise you,' Liam said with a lascivious grin. 'So ff you
want to know about the birthmark on her bum - ?'

'Sure you never did.' The most sought-after girl in Investments,
next floor down. Most sought-after girl in Dublin come
to that. Or so it seemed to Danny.

Liam played it cool; he sat down at his terminal and threw the
switch. 'What's wrong? Your screen's not on.'

'No, they've been down again. Another bloody power cut.
You'd think, when they landed a man on the moon a quarter
century ago--'

'Ah, well,' Liam said, 'it's okay now. Here it comes.'

Danny busied himself with his market reports. Questions
about the voluptuous Shelagh would have to wait. It took a
moment before he realised that something odd was occurring.
When he looked up he saw that Liam was staring at his monitor,
mouth agape.

'What is it?'

Liam was frowning. 'I'm not sure. Somehow I've got into the
wrong programme.'

Danny propelled his rollerball swivel chair to his friend's side.
'No, it's not, look- IT-FinFast.'

'I know what it says, but look at the text. It's some foreign
language version.'

It was Danny's turn to smile. 'Not foreign, Liam, it's Irish.
Gaelic, your mother tongue.'

'Is it? Oh, yeah, of course it is. Oh, holy shite, they don't
expect us to work in Gaelic, do they?'

'I bloody hope not.' Danny booted up his own machine.
'Expect it's a test programme of some sort. Let's see what I've
got?'

Both men stood up now, concentrating on the second
monitor.

The page pinged onto the screen. 'Oh, Mary and Joseph, this
can't be right.'

At that moment the department manager's door opened and
their boss strode into the open-plan office. He looked harassed
and was sweating as he walked past the empty work stations.
'You've seen it then, lads?'


438

'What happened?' Liam asked.

'You tell me,' the manager replied tersely. 'Overnight our
entire system's converted to the Gaelic language. Must. be some
kind of virus. I've just called in our expert. Brian Nairn should
be here in half an hour. From what I've told him, he reckons it
could take weeks to replace all the programmes'- every branch
appears to be affected. And if all the hard-driv6s:are infected,
the cost of this could run to millions.'

Danny was hardly listening. He was back at his keyboard, delving into each menu along the toolbar, trying to make some
sense of it. That wasn't easy, as now even the command titles
were in Gaelic and he had to trust to memory.

'Look, Liam,' the manager was saying, 'I'm going to an emergency
meeting right now. When everyone's in, find out who
speaks the bloody language in all departments - we'll form an
emergency team to try and keep the bank ticking over until the

technical wizards sort something out.'

'It's that bad?'

'It's a bloody catastrophe!'

When he was gone, Liam turned back to Danny. 'What you
trying to do?'

A shrug. 'I don't know - find some sort of explanation. It

must be some sort of logic bomb.'

'What?'

'A logic bomb. I read about it somewhere. A sort of virus
bomb. It gets imported innocently through internal E-mail say,
placed by a disgruntled employee - and just sits there on a
timer or using a command signal to release it.'

'You think that's what this is? Where are you now?'
'File Manager- thought I'd...' .
'What's that there, that icon?'
'Never seen that before.'
'Maximise it,' Liam suggested.

Danny clicked on. Suddenly the entire screen yeas filled with
the image: An orange hand and the legend: Cuchulainn. The
Hound strikes back.t Hands off Ulster.t

'Christ.'


439

So far the trial had been running on a knife-edge, Lomax
realised. Meyrick believed they were ahead on points, but
Browne was not so sure. It was still far from conclusively proven
that Littlechild had ever been an MI5 agent.

The evidence of the expert witness, Wendy Sixsmith, could
push it either way.

'You have studied fibre samples routinely taken by the police
from both the deceased's clothing and that worn by the
defendant on the night of the murder?' Meyrick asked. 'Would
you tell the court what you found.'

She ran swiftly through the list, then returned to the
important points. 'In particular, I found cross-matching fibres
of each man's clothing. Taken, according to police notes, from

the right arm of both men's jackets.'

'What does this tell you?'

'That the two men most certainly met that night. There
had been definite physical contact. Most likely the fibres were
exchanged when they shook hands or sat side by side in a public
house. I also found cross-matching hairs from both men, two
from Fitzpatrick and one from the defendant, each on the
other's clothes.'

Halifax raised an objection. 'While Miss Sixsmith may feel
these two men had met, it is not for her to say where they may
have done so.'

'On the contrary,' Meyrick replied, barely concealing his
sense of triumph. 'Perhaps, Miss Sixsmith, you would tell us of
your other finding?'

'I also examined a collection of reddish velour fibres taken

from the back of the legs and seat 6fboth men's trousers.'

'What did this tell you?'

'That they'd both been sitting on the same seat. The unexpected
volume of fibres suggested to me that the seat had been
recently reupholstered.'

'Did you discover where this seat was?'

'Taking advice from the defence solicitors, I visited the
Mortar and Pestle public house. The bench seat, including a
window alcove, had been refurbished last summer.. The fibre


440

match was identical. This evidence was subsequently served on
the Crown.'

'Why do you think the Home Office forensic scin.ce laboratory
missed this?'

'Oh, it's nothing sinister. Given that the manner of death was
known - well, was thought to be known, there was no need to
cross-match these samples which were routinely taken. As the
men were not believed to have met before the killing, there was
no point. In their position I'd probably have committed the
same oversight. No one is looking for unnecessary extra work.'

'Now we come to an extremely important item of forensic
evidence,' Meyrick continued. 'Fingerprints of the defendant
on the murder weapon and a thumb print on the doorbell to
the murdered man's flat. The court heard earlier from the
laboratory sergeant at the scene of crime that he did not believe
it possible to transfer fingerprints successfully. Would you
agree, Miss Sixsmith?'

'No, I would not. It is a contentious issue, and I believe the
police and judicial system,' she inclined her head towards Mr
Justice Quigley, 'if Your Lordship will forgive my frank speaking
- ' the man's eyes twinkled as he acknowledged her, ' - have
perpetuated the myth that this can only be done under strict
laboratory conditions. Not true. I have conducted experiments
myself in a domestic kitchen. If His Lordship would permit me
to demonstrate?'

Halifax rose. 'I really must object. The defence has not
approached us and the pros.ecution would certainly not agree to
this. The courtroom is not the place for conjuring tricks. We
shall be bending spoons by telepathy next!'

'Come, come,' Quigley scolded. '.You say it's not possible and
the defence says it is. The jury and I do not know who to

believe. A demonstration may help clarify the matter.'

'Very well,' Halifax muttered.

'If Your Lordship will permit us,' Meyrick said and turned to
Wendy Sixsmith as she pulled on a pair of yellow rubber gloves,
then carefully removed two straight pint beer glasses bearing
the Guinness harp emblem from a plastic carrier bag. 'These
were thoroughly cleaned, dried and polished and bear no


441

fingerprints.' He glanced at Halifax. 'Perhaps I may invite my
learned friend to take one glass.'

'I want no part in this,' Halifax protested.

'Do go on, Mr Halifax,' Quigley urged. 'We might all learn
something.'

Reluctantly the barrister took the offered glass from
Sixsmith. She then took it back with her gloved hand, placed it
on the bench in front of her and accepted a strip of clear
Sellotape that Ronnie Rock had prepared. Carefully she placed
it over the imprints of Halifax's fingers, pressed down, then
carefully peeled it off. She took the strip to the jury to see more
closely before pressing the adhesive side down onto the second
dean glass.

Sixsmith peeled the strip away again with a dramatic flourish
and returned to the jury. There for all to see was a near-perfect
set of Halifax's prints.

'I am not an expert,' Sixsmith admitted modestly, 'but I'm
told it is more effective with practice. You will note also that I
will need another strip of Sellotape to move the thumb print.'

Quigley said: 'If this method is feasible - and it has been well
demonstrated here - how are you suggesting, Mr Meyrick, that
prints of the defendant's hand were obtained in the first place?'

'Your Lordship will recall the evidence of Mr Mike Salmon,
the manager of the Mortar and Pestle. He is adamant that
an empty beer glass was stolen, he thought by Littlechild or
Fitzpatrick. It is my submission that it was taken by neither of
these men, but by the couple who stayed after them and
swapped tables.'

'Are you suggesting these were police officers?' Quigley
asked.

'No, my lord, that they were acting for this rogue element of
MI5 we've heard so much about. There was an hour and a half
after Fitzpatrick's death for them to arrange things before the
police arrived.'

After lunch, a chastened Halifax concentrated on one point
only in his cross-examination. 'Miss Sixsmith, while I and the
rest of the court were impressed with the demonstration this
morning, would you not agree that this is no more than a


442

fanciful notion? You have no proof that this is what was done,
have you?'

'No, sir.'

'And the red fibre velour is a material popularly used in

public houses, is it not?'

'That's true.'

'In fact, thousands of metres are used in the pub trade every

year throughout the country, aren't they?'

'I don't know, but I expect so.'

'Probably many pubs in the area of the crime?'

A shrug. 'It's possible.'

'So, forensically, the prosecution version of events remains
sound?'

'On my evidence alone, yes, I suppose it does.'


The six-day Easter recess was just a day away and the trial was
clearly going to overrun due to unexpected complications and
frequent adiournments to sort out technicalities.

On the last day before the holiday, Adam Snaith, an independent
ballistics expert, was called by the defence. It marked the
start of a complex debate over details of the shooting which
required Dr Singh to be recalled and re-examined and recross
examined by both sets of counsel.

Snaith's arguments were based on the angle at which the
bullets had passed through the victim's body. He claimed they
were in keeping with Fitzpatrick having been shot whilst sitting, when the bullets would have embedded low in the wall. This
fitted with Lomax's evidetice and suggested that the murder
took place in the living room after all. Dr Singh disputed that
this was necessarily the case.

What had seemed beforehand a sol.id defence argument
became confusing and muddied as the two experts constantly
disagreed and became deeply engrossed in complex statistics
regarding geometry, velocity and deflection. When Browne saw
one of the jurors dozing, she knew the case was slipping out of
their hands. Having earlier captured some of the high ground
of probability, it was beginning to look now as if the defence was just throwing everything at the prosecution, however bizarre.


443

For all their considerable success in establishing an alt
tive explanation to the police's version of events, they ha(
managed to disprove that Littlechild killed the victim.

A weary Justice Quigley drew a halt to proceedings at
in the afternoon. The court would reconvene the follo
Wednesday for the closing addresses and the judge's suml
up.

Both teams of lawyers met at the Magpie and Stump
much needed round of long, cool beers before going their ,
rate ways for the holiday weekend.

'How'd it go?' Lomax asked; he'd been pacing the public
antechamber for most of the afternoon.

'I'm not happy,' Browne confided. 'Tristram and To
have done a brilliant job in casting doubt on much o5
prosecution case and establishing our version. But doubts

not be enough; we haven't been able to disprove anything.'
'But the ballistics expert?'

She shook her head. 'Dr Singh wouldn't give an inch. Di

want to lose face, I expect. In the end it just confused the jut
'Two thousand down the drain.'

'Sorry, Chris.' She touched his arm. 'But without evid,
from Penny and Colonel Roebuck, it would have made
difference. Those two would have given Roddy real credib
The only other possibility...'

He got there first. 'Billy Baker? I'm not sure he's star wit
material.'

'But King Billy knew what was going on, Chris. He conta,
Roddy to say Fitzpatrick wanted to get in touch and Roddy
he's in MI5's pocket. If we can ge.t him to the stand, Trist
will prise him open.'

Lomax looked sceptical. 'He's just a thug. Even his own
has disowned him.'

'That doesn't matter. He knows MI5 wanted Roddy
Fitzpatrick to meet. In essence that's all he's got to say.
he'll bring a real feel and smell of Belfast treachery to
courtroom.'

'Anyway, it's irrelevant. If the RUC and our Belfast solici,
have failed to find him...'

444


Totty had been listening intently. 'If it's that important why
don't you 'ave a go? There's six days before the trial restarts.'

'Don't be a silly girl,' Browne chided. 'If MI5 wants him to
hide, he'll stay hidden.'

'I don't believe you, boss.' Totty looked genuinely annoyed.

'You've always taught me not to give up.' "

'This is different.'

'Chris managed to find Penny and Colonel Roebuck. And
them two blokes who said Penny'd abused them.'

Lomax shifted his feet. 'That was luck, I had inside help.'

'Yes,' Totty replied defiantly. 'One was your mate in Army
Intelligence.'

'Yes, and he's also keeping a lookout for news of King Billy,
and so far he's come up with nothing. He can't keep asking
questions about MI5 matters that don't concern him. He'll lose
his job.'

'But you can,' Totty persisted, 'if he told you where to start

looking. You could go places no solicitor would dare to go.'
Lomax half-laughed. 'You want to get me killed?'
The girl looked sheepish. 'Course not.'

And then he saw Browne staring at him, her eyes questioning.
He knew what she was thinking, 'No, Sam, definitely not a good
idea.'


Of course it was dark. Of course it was raining. It always was in
Belfast, or so it seemed. A cold persistent drizzle that worked its
way down your neck and into the cuffs of your jacket. After a
while, the damp and chill gnawed into your bones.

And it was one of those typical st.reets; Lomax had walked
down hundreds of them in his time. Thousands even. Endless
streets of featureless brick. Small sideroads and alleyways everywhere.
Providing shadows in which someone could hide and
wait unseen. Blinds drawn at every window, blacked out to
give no shadow target for a passing gunman. But those same
windows offering sanctuary to anyone watching him. And he
knew they were.

Should he loiter? Lean against a wall with a newspaper and


445

merge in. Another unkempt, unemployed layabout. Or should
he walk?

Of course he had to walk. He was looking for someone and
King Billy wasn't going to come to him. So he forced one step
along the glistening black pavement. Legs like lead, his soles
sticking to the concrete. God, he hoped he wouldn't have to
run. Heart thudding against his ribcage and the nausea of fear
draining in his gut like water down a plughole.

They were there, at each alley. Sheltering in doorways. Monk
in the first, caromed up but those tombstone teeth giving him
away. A grin. Got you covered, mate.

A gap in the rickety fence. Monk there too and another
thumbs-up sign. And he was at the next street corner beyond
the pool of lamplight.

Another alley. Lomax jumped forward, the old familiar
Browning in his hand. No Monk this time. Just the enemy,
crouched and charging. The gun shook in Lomax's hand, its
muzzle flashes blinding him.

And when the smoke cleared the enemy was nothing more
than a holed plywood cutout in black and brown. Standard
MOD target Figure 11/59, the grotesque charging trooper.

Then Browne stepped out from behind it, taunting him with
that enigmatic smile of hers. Eyes laughing at his fear mocking
his cowardice.

'Are you all right, Chris?'

He spun round. Evie standing in the middle of the street, coat
and hair sodden, eyes dark and lost. Looking so sad and lonely,
head bent as she gazed at the open coffin at her feet, Roddy
lying within its white satin walls, his dead arms clutching the
baby that wriggled and scream6d. 'You were too late for him,'
she said, and lifted her eyes accusingly.

And the baby still screamed as, one by one, the lights came on
all along the street.

'Are you all right, Chris?'

'Aaaagh['

He awoke with a jolt, his body drenched in sweat.

'Chris?'

Breathless, he turned his head towards the bedroom door.


446

Instantly he recognised Erie's silhouette against the hall light.
'What? Evie?'

'I heard you calling out.'

He rubbed his eyes. 'Sorry, a bad dream. Did I wakd you?'
She shook her head. 'No, I couldn't sleep.'
'The baby?'

'No, Noel's good as gold. Just my usual insomnia.'

'You should take some of my tablets.'

'No. I mustn't fill myself with chemicals. I'll make some tea.
Want some?'

'Sure.' He wouldn't get back now, he knew that. The bedside
clock flicked on to five o'clock. And before the day was out he'd
be back across the water.

He pulled on his dressing gown and wandered out to the
kitchenette where Erie was filling the kettle.

'It was Northern Ireland, wasn't it?' she said.

'Yeah,' he replied lightly. 'A bit different this time.'

She turned to look at him, her eyes very wide and candid.
know how difficult it must be for you to go back.'

He shrugged dismissively. 'I went back earlier.'

'That was different, Chris, we both know that. The ceasefire

was on. Now it's all back to how it was.'

'It's still quiet.'

'But it's dangerous again. For people like you.'
'I'll have Sam and Joe to protect me.'
'Sam? Fat lot of good she'd be.'

'You should see her straight-arm jab.'
'She'll be the one to getyou into trouble.'
'Quite a girl.'

Hardly a girl, but yes, she is. Yot just be careful. She's very
good at her job but she's impetuous. And you're...' Her voice
trailed.

'I'm what?'

'Besotted enough to follow her anywhere.'

The? Besotted?' But his laugh of indignation had a distinctly
hollow ring.

Erie poured the water into the pot. 'Yes, you're like a dog


447

with two tails whenever she's around. If she beckons, you
follow.'

'I'm going because I'm the only one who can. I know the
turf.'

Evie reached across the table and took his hand. 'Roddy and I
are grateful for what you're doing, Chris, really we are. But not
if it ends up getting you killed.'

He met her eyes. 'I owe Roddy.'

'I understand. Just be careful.'

'Sure,' he said. 'Now take your tea back to bed and rest even if
you can't sleep.'

And when she'd gone, he washed and shaved and began to
pack his rucksack. By then it was six fifteen and dawn was
breaking. As the sun rose, so the memory of his nightmare
faded with the shadows.

Monk arrived at lunchtime and the two of them drove in
Lomax's car to Sam Browne's south London flat. She was
already waiting outside on the pavement with her case when
they arrived. Dressed stylishly in a beige two-piece and chocolate
blouse, and with her hair flowing freely, Lomax thought
she looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen her.

'I can't wait to get away from the courtroom,' she admitted.
'It almost feels like going on holiday.'

'Damn,' Monk said with a grin. 'Forgot to pack me bucket
and spade.'

They drove off in good humour and once they'd cleared the
suburban traffic made good time down the M4 towards Wales.

It had all been planned with indecent haste the evening
before. Browne had phoned from. the Magpie and Stump on her
mobile to book the car onto the next evening's Swansea to Cork
ferry sailing. At that time of year there were still several places
available and she was offered an upgrade from a two- to fourberth
cabin for the crossing.

That news had filled Lomax with anticipation and not a little
trepidation at the prospect of a romantic voyage. But those
hopes were dashed while he and Browne were back at her
flat. Joe Monk phoned in, back on leave from his new job in
Kazaldastan and anxious for news of the trial. When they all met


448

at a pub later that evening, Monk immediately Volunteered his
services. It had seemed churlish and unwise to turn him down
and so the romantic voyage sank without traceat the very
prospect of the tomb-toothed chaperone sharing the cabin with
them.

As nothing sinister had happened during the weeks of the
trial, Lomax felt fairly relaxed about visiting Ulster.

It was Monk who had introduced a note of'caution. 'Maybe
people have stopped watching and listening, Chris, but maybe
not. You and Sam suddenly charging off to Ulster will certainly
renew their interest.'

'I realise that,' Lomax replied. 'It's why we're going via Eire.

We'll slip quietly over the border.'

'Using your car?'

'C'mon, Joe, we'll just be tourists not terrorists. One of thousands
of cars crossing every day.'

'Do me a favour, swap cars in Cork. Hire one to cross the
border.'

'It all costs, Joe, and times is hard.'
'I'll pay,' his friend insisted. 'There's been bugger all to spend
it on in Kazakhstan. Just cos we're paranoid doesn't mean
they're not out to get us.'

Twice on the journey to Swansea they pulled off into a service
area and went inside for a coffee. Monk loitered to study any
cars pulling in soon after them. At the second stop, he reckoned

he'd identified a suspect vehicle.

Lomax was sceptical.

'It arrived three minutes after us,' Monk insisted as he joined
them in the cafeteria, 'so it can't have had visual contact. A red
Volvo. Male and female couple. She stays on board and he
saunters in and wanders round the shop. Pretending to browse
but not buying anything. He's positioned so he can see us when
we leave.'

His friend was so certain that Lomax was now starting to take
it seriously. 'If the Volvo hasn't had visual contact then they
must have placed a homing device on my car.'

'Surely not,' Browne said.


449

'You're getting a bit lax in your old age, Chris,' Monk
scolded. 'Should have thought of that?

'And have you checked your car?' Lomax asked.

'Sure,' Monk answered a little too glibly; he wasn't the best of
liars. 'Anyway, my car isn't the problem, is it? I'll go out and
have a look for it. Probably a magnetic job stuck on the chassis.'

As Monk quickly drained his coffee and rose to leave, Lomax
said: 'If you find anything, Joe, don't chuck it. No point in
letting them know we know.'

He and Browne followed ten minutes later. Monk had the
engine hood up and was making a show of wiping oil from
the dipstick.

'Any joy?' Lomax asked.

'Finally. Not on the chassis at all. They'd opened it up and
put it in the engine compartment. I thought it was part of your

alarm system. Very professional.'

'Where is it now?'

'In my pocket. And their car's on the other side of the park.
Don't look now, but the bloke's pretending to make a phone
call.'

Browne, however, couldn't resist sneaking a glance. An edge
of fear had crept into her voice as she whispered: 'God, I'm not
sure, but I think it's the man who forced us into the boot of my
car after Colonel Roebuck's accident.'

'Harry Grisewold?' Lomax said. 'I didn't get a clear view.'

'Time we taught that bastard,' Monk growled. 'Got something
in mind?'

Lomax had.

He turned off at the next junction and headed north towards
Stroud, taking it steady while he looked out for a busy petrol
station. A short while later he found one, pulled in and parked
behind an empty estate car whose driver was walking towards
the shop to pay for his fuel. Lomax opened his door, sauntered
to the gap between their two vehicles, dropped to one knee and
shoved his hand under the other car's rear. The homing device
was snatched from his hand, the magnet clamping hard to the
underside of the fuel tank. After testing that it was secure, he
stood up and glanced at the price board with a look of dis�


450

approval. He then casually returned to the driver's seat, started
the engine and swung out onto the road.

Realising that his quarry had stopped, Grisewold9.r whoever
it was in the Volvo, would have pulled over back down the road
to avoid visual contact. When the homer started moving again,
Grisewold would find himself unwittingly foltowing a boiled
sweets-and-candy salesman around the Gloucestershire
countryside.

Lomax then took the next left turn and drove west down a
series of narrow lanes until he was able to pick up the M5
running south before picking up the M4 again to resume their journey across the Severn Bridge to Swansea beyond.

By late afternoon, Harry Grisewold realised something was
wrong. The car he was following had travelled from one town
and village to another across the county, stopping at each for

twenty minutes before moving on.

'Get an eyeball,' Margie urged.

So at the next village he did, slowing in the main street as the
bleep from the homing beacon became progressively louder.

'No sign of Lomax's car,' he thought aloud. He pulled up,
double-parking beside a pale blue estate car. Its owner was
carrying a large cardboard box across the pavement to a tobacconist
and confectioner's shop.

'They've made a switch, Harry.'

'Shit.'

'You were right first time. M4 to Wales and not for a weekend

pony trekking. Swansea or Fishguard.'

'There was nothing on the tapes.'

'C'mon, Harry, they got wise to that months ago.'

He made his decision. 'Get that thing offthe car or we'll have
to pay for it. I'll just have to make Pinfold's day.'

While Margie opened her door and climbed out, Grisewold
called up Pinfold on his mobile. The reception was terrible and
his master irritated at the breach of security.

Grisewold was brief and practical. 'Sorry to interrupt you,
but the birds have flown and we'll need backup.'

'Official?' Horrified.

451


'Don't know. I think they're taking a ferry. Fishguard or

Swansea. They were using his car.'

'What are they up to?'

'How the hell - but no good, you can be sure of that.'

'Okay, leave it with me.' Pinfold knew now he'd have to alert
the American and swore beneath his breath. 'I'll talk to Curtis
Manning. He's got a team in Dublin and they're thick with
Garda Special Branch. We'll have to pull in some favours.
They'll find them.' He hung up without saying goodbye.

Margie returned with the homing device secreted in her
palm. 'How was he?'

'On a scale of one-to-ten, about fifteen. Just short of ballistic.'
She made a face. 'Oops, there goes your New Year Honour.
Still, now we can take some time out. Get a hotel room for the
night, eh?'

'Yeah,' he said wearily. 'I'm shagged.'

'Not yet,' she said with a grin, 'but you soon will be.'

452


Nineteen


The Emergency Contingencies Committee met in closed
session at Leinster House, Dublin. Minutes before, the room
had been electronically swept by security experts and the plainclothes detectives guarding the door were armed.

A senior Cabinet Minister chaired the meeting; also in
attendance were senior civil servants from the departments of
foreign affairs, finance, industry and commerce, justice and
communications. In an advisory capacity were members of the
Council of Defence, comprising defence and state ministers,
the Chief of Staff, the Adjutant General and the Quartermaster
General.

It was to this sombre and tense gathering that the 'chair'
invited Fergal to present his review of the,latest developments
concerning the terrorist group known as Cuchulainn.

'It is my unpleasant duty to confirm what most of you will
have already heard,' he said, 'that two days ago an implanted
crypto-virus attacked the Bank of Ireland's entire computer
system. It will take weeks to correct and the cost will run to
millions of punts. Our friends in the US Treasury are flying out
a team of anti-virus experts from the States to assist us and I
understand we may receive some emergency grants from the
EU to pay for essential work. Of course, our concern is that
information technology in other essential service sectors may
also be vulnerable.'

'Are we prepared for this?' the chairman asked.

'Not immediately. Unfortunately there are so many institutional
systems for the enemy to target that we cannot possibly
cover them all. However, those regarded as essential will from
now on be subjected to twice-daily security sweeps. All of this,
of course, is a new worry to add to the continuing attacks on our
telecommunications, electricity and transport systems.'


453

'Has there been any improvement here?' the chairman asked
directing his question at the Chief of Staff.

The Lieutenant General cleared his throat, obviously not as
confident as he was trying to appear. 'It is my view that we have
stabilised the situation as far as possible, given our current
resources. Only two explosions last night, both minor. One cut
power supplies to parts of Limerick and the other shut off all
telephone links with the town of Ennis.'

'Only two?' the chairman reprimanded. 'Important enough if
you happen to live in Limerick or Ennis.'

'I'm sorry, badly phrased,' the COS conceded. 'Trouble is
we are faced with an ongoing dilemma. Do I swamp Clare and
Limerick with soldiers to back up police in guarding every
pylon and telegraph pole to prevent a repeat attack? iF i do, the
Loyalists will strike somewhere else, maybe in the east.-One
thing we've learned is that they are exceedingly mobile.'

The Adjutant General broke in. 'Of our eleven thousand
troops, we currently have only some seven thousand available
for this work. If we were to consider calling up all-service
reserves, we could bolster this by some fifteen thousand. That
would make a difference.'

There was a shake of the head from the chairman: 'The
Taoiseach has considered this and he's not keen. We'd hardly be
able to maintain the current level of secrecy and media coverage
would panic the community and cost the country dear in lost
resources.'

'And I doubt,' Fergal added, 'it would make a real difference.
Like all terrorists, they will always have the advantage of choice
- when and where to attack. And .they appear to have unlimited
access to plastic explosive.'

'Do we know where it's coming from?' someone asked.

All eyes turned to Fergal. He smiled his winning easy smile,
but his stomach was churning and his mind spinning. How long
should he keep it from them? How would they react? Probably
calmly, but you could never tell. The Taoiseach had taken it
responsibly enough, and he was the one who held the ultimate .
power.

He said softly: 'It's our understanding that Cuchulainn has a


454

near inexhaustible supply, mostly due o an unfortunate accident
of history. The origins of the Cuchulainn group can be
traced to a political movement in the late sixties called. Frontline
Ulster. What was not known at the time was that it was a cover
operation by MI5 for a full-scale British "stay behind" policy
against any contingency, including full BritishWithdrawal.'

A ripple of quiet gasps and murmurs eddied round the table.
The Chief of Staff had trouble containing his sense of
outrage. 'Are you telling us that Cuchulainn is that same organisation,
Fergal?'

'The same or not, we can't be certain. It seems that it has
been taken over - hijacked may be a better word - by other
Loyalist organisations.'

The chairman grunted, his knuckles white and clenched
before him on the table. 'Then it's down to the British Government
to sort out the Cuchulainn group.'

'With respect,' Fergal responded, 'it always has been. As the
Chief of Staff has pointed out, there is little we can do to protect
ourselves effectively. The group can only be attacked and
destroyed in its own spawning ground - the North. And, to be
fair, the British have done all they can. They understood all the
arms caches were withdrawn years ago, but obviously some
were missed. They've organised a massive security round-up of
Frontline members and increased border protection to match our own.'

'Tell us, Fergal,' the chairman asked, 'how do you and your
intelligence people see this Cuchulainn campaign developing
and what would be its outcome?'

The man sighed; how in the Dear Lord's name did you
predict the unpredictable? 'I fear it is almost certain they will be
able to sustain their attacks for the foreseeable future. And once
the news finally leaks out we fear an upsurge of Loyalist support
could lead to a massive campaign of ethnic cleansing in Ulster
to drive out the entire Catholic population.'

'And there would be grass-roots support for this?' the
chairman asked.

'In the present climate of bitterness over the end of the IRA


455

ceasefire, it is likely to grow. There are daily signs

public opinion. I fear the touchpaper has already been lit.'
'Touchpaper?' queried the Chief of Staff.

'For civil war in Ulster, maybe even the border counties

our Republic. And no one can guess the outcome.'

'That serious?'

'I'm afraid so. Xge're staring into the abyss.'

The senior civil servant from foreign affairs said in a

voice: 'There's only one thing to do when you stare into an
abyss.' He paused, aware that all eyes were on him. 'You step
back.'

'Meaning?' Fergal asked.

'Give them what they want. Drop our constitutional claim on

the North and take immediate steps to set up the necessary
referendum. And pull out of all political dealings with the
North. Intern all known IRA members. It would be simple
enough to give them what they ask.' �

'And throw away our trump card?' Fergal came back barely
hiding his disgust.

The foreign affairs man withdrew like a tortoise into the
protection of his shell. He was heard to say quietly: 'Then we
step over the edge with our eyes open.'

'It's out of the question to give in to terrorists - of whatever
persuasion,' the chairman said decisively. 'The Taoiseach has
already ruled that out. There would be a most humiliating loss
of face with the Forum elections looming and talks to follow. It
would be a terrible climb down and would inevitably lead to the
breakup of this fragile coalition government. And if hardliners
come to power, God knows where it all might end.'

For several long moments a disturbed and thoughtful silence
settled over the room.

It was the chairman who finally spoke. 'If we allow this situation
to spark a civil war, then our country will never be
reunited. Only the British can prevent this and clearly - despite
their best intentions - they have failed. We must signal our
displeasure in the strongest terms. Signal in a way that will give
them a message they cannot ignore.'


456

The Chief of Staff straightened his back. 'There is only one
thing that has ever made the British sit up and take notice.'

'A bomb in the City,' someone said, and the mirsl) was as
spontaneous as it was self-conscious; you weren't supposed to
laugh at jokes like that.

'A repeat of Autumn Gold,' the COS said ieily. 'Deploy all
armed forces units to the border in full battle ord6r. Move our
armoured reconnaissance uaits and artillery. Let them see just
how seriously we take the Cuchulainn threat. They haven't liked
that in the past and they won't like it now.'

Fergal added: 'Especially if they don't know whether or not
we mean it.'

The chairman was warming to the concept. 'I propose we put
this forward as a recommendation to the Taoiseach. Those in
favour?'

There were only two dissenters round the table.

'Carried.'

'Just one thing,' Fergal said, addressing himself to the Chief
of Staff. 'May I suggest no one in the armed forces is told this is
only an exercise until the very last moment. If the troops believe
this is for real, so will everyone else.'

The chairman gave a tight nervous smile. Maybe ,then the
British would actually do something about the Cuchulainn
menace.


'That's pushing the old pals' act too far, Chris; Jerry Tucker
warned.

Lomax had telephoned that morning and arranged for them
to meet his old friend from Army Intelligence at a quiet country
pub not far from its Northern Ireland.headquarters in Lisburn.

Monk said: 'It's not that much to ask, Jerry. We're not asking
you to take us to King Billy personally, just point us in the right
direction.'

'His testimony could be decisive,' Sam Browne said earnestly.
Tucker shook his head. 'You don't understand. If the RUC's
not telling you where King Billy is, it's because MI5 don't want
them to. They ultimately call the tune and Billy Baker's become.
one of their biggest assets in recent years.'


457

'He's a thug and a crook,' Monk said with disgust.

been a serious player in the Loyalist paramilitaries for years.'

'Maybe not, but he's singing MIS's tune 'now.'

glanced nervously about him, taking care that there was no one
within earshot. 'I shouldn't be telling you this, not least becau
it's mostly rumour. Box plays its own game over here and only
tells us what we need to know. But it's common knowledge
the grapevine that King Billy's up to his fat armpits in drug.
He's pushing everything, but mostly ecstasy and cannabis to the
kids. There's a theory that it's some bizarre conspiracy to knock

the fight out of the young Loyalist hotheads.'

'I don't follow,' Lomax said.

'Look, during the IRA's ceasefire, the province was transformed.
New clubs and nightspots opened almost every
The kids - the teens and twenties - have been enjoying the
of their lives without fear for the first time ever. In the lull,
lot of the Loyalist yobs have lost their cutting edge. More
interested in scoring dope and getting a legover. If you listen to
their parents in Protestant ghettos, they swear it's a deliberate
policy to keep them subdued. So they're no longer inclined
to mix with the Provos. They're already being called the lost
generation.'

'Surely that couldn't be government policy?' Browne asked,
incredulous.

Tucker grimaced. 'Not government's, but it could be someone's
policy. Who the hell can tell, who would know? All I can
see is King Billy, the main supplier responsible, walking around
with impunity.' He shook his head sadly as if not wanting to
believe his own words. 'Thing is., Box has managed to alienate
most Loyalist factions who no longer see it as an ally. There's
been too much betrayal, like Keegan and your friend Roddy.
Box just isn't trusted any more.'

Lomax said slowly: 'So MI5 has only got King Billy left?'
'Spot on,' Tucker said. 'They found he would dance to their
tune for the right incentive. Now I don't know what he's done
or does for MI5. All I know is we've been told in no uncertain
terms to leave him and his gang alone. If any of my bosses in
Army Intelligence have taken an interest in King Billy or got too


458

close to one of his operations they've received a swift rap on the
knuckles from on high. No doubt the RUC would say the same.'

Browne was chain-smoking in her anger and fru.tr.ation; as
she lit her third cigarette of the meeting, she said testily: 'Well,
we know MI5 used him to get to Roddy. And, if things go the
course, they'll use him to bear false witness irrthe conspiracy
case. Surely you can't go along with that, Jerry?'

Irritation rarely showed on Tucker's cherubic face, but this
time it did. 'Of course not, Miss Browne, but my job is closely
defined. Put simply, what MI5 gets up to is none of my business
unless they decide it is. A fact of life, I'm afraid.'

She watched him coolly for a moment. 'I understand that.'
Her smile was a little oversincere. 'But if you were us, how
wouldyou go about finding Billy Baker?'

Tucker glanced at Lomax with the expression of a drowning
man pleading to be rescued. But his friend's face remained
unsmiling and inscrutable. Crunch point, Lomax thought. Sam
Browne was playing the loyalty-to-comrades-in-arms card
because it was all she had left. It was make or break. Tucker
would either cast them a joker or throw in his hand, stand up
and walk out.

The tension in the smoky little corner of the pub was palpable.
Tucker thought for a moment as he lifted his glass and
swallowed the last of his ale. Then he said: 'It would be a long
shot.'

It was the joker. Yet Browne was desperate enough to pick it

up. 'Yes?' Her eyes glistened with steely intensity.
'A man called Spike. Spike Scott.'
Monk said: 'I know that name.'

Tucker nodded. 'You would do. He used to be King Billy's
head honcho, a young tough in his late twenties. To be honest,
whatever respect Billy ever had as a paramilitary was down to
Spike. But the two of them fell out a couple of years ago over
Billy's dabbling in drugs. Now Spike does his own thing, got
aspirations to be a politician. He's given up his T-shirt and jeans
for a sharp suit.'

'But ifhe's fallen out with King Billy-' Lomax protested.
'They parted company, Chris, but they're still on speaking


459

terms. King Billy respects him, maybe even fears him a bit.
After all, he's all too aware of Spike's capabilities. If you can get

to Spike, it's just possible you'll get to Billy Baker.'

'Got an address for Spike?' Monk asked.

'I know it all too well. My people have got a permanent OP
opposite his place.'

'Oh,' Lomax said.

Tucker's smile was grim. 'That's the rub, I'm afraid. OP
phone taps. If any of you make contact you'll get clocked
and there's no way I can put my head on the block by interfering.
Not during this current crisis.'

'End of the IRA ceasefire, you mean?'

Tucker looked m6mentarily flummoxed, then appeared to
realise the misunderstanding. 'Sorry, Chris, I was forgetting

you wouldn't know about it.'

'About what?'

'The Loyalist attacks in the Republic.'

Lomax frowned. 'I caught something on the radio some
weeks back.'

'You wouldn't have known because of the news blackout
imposed by London and Dublin. Only the first incidents were
reported before the shutters came down, It appears to be the
work of a new Loyalist grouping called Cuchulainn. The Hound
of Ulster.'

'Who are they?'

'Some sort of splinter group of the Frontline Ulster
Movement .'

'Frontline?' Lomax queried. 'Weren't they that defunct resistance
lot Roddy was involved with years ago?'

'That's who they claim to be. Whoever they are, they're.
wreaking chaos south of the border. We organised a swoop a few
weeks back and pulled in all known members for questioning.
Wen we did, we found these people knew nothing about
Cuchulainn. Zilch.'

'How embarrassing,' Monk said with a smile.

'Very. Not least for MIS, because it was they who actually set
it up over twenty years ago.'


460

'That's how Roddy and Keegan got involved with MI5 in the
first place,' Browne murmured.

'I don't think any of those young lads realised, .they were
dealing with MI5 at the time,' Tucker said. 'Only later they
realised they were in fact working with MIS. They thought that
gave them a kind of legitimacy.' The Army IIelligence officer
turned to Browne. 'But as your old client Keegan found out,
that wasn't quite the case.'

'They allowed him to be thrown to the wolves,' Browne confirmed
bitterly.

Tucker nodded. 'At the time, Colonel Roebuck was my boss,
and he was personally running Keegan through one of the field
operators when Derek Penny started investigating. Keegan was
sure MI5 would somehow get it stopped.'

'I know,' Browne said, remembering her client's utter sense of
betrayal at the time.

'The colonel agreed, wanted to pull strings and call in
favours. But even then MI5 wanted to wash their hands of
Keegan because his use to them was over. The man who had the

say-so was a right bastard, a young Turk called Roger Pinfold.'
'We've met,' Lomax murmured.

Tucker looked mildly surprised. 'Small world. He was
adamant that Roebuck should dump Keegan. The colonel
decided to go over Pinfold's head and speak to an MI5 supremo
known as Mr Grey.'

'Very appropriate,' Browne mused, then added: 'Wait a
minute, Colonel Roebuck mentioned this Mr Grey at our first
meeting with him.'

'Grey had known McIlroy since .they'd served together in the
Special Operations Executive during the war. They'd been close
friends at one time. Anyway, Grey wasn't long off retirement at
the time of Keegan's trial, but he still had authority over
Pinfold. Keegan was right that Grey would be on his side,
but Pinfold put up a helluva fight. Pulled every stunt in the book
to get his way. As he was due to be Grey's successor in a few
months, his opinion had to be taken into account. The resul.t
was an unhappy compromise. No one attempted to halt the


461

inquiry, but Colonel Roebuck was permitted to appear as

	witness for Keegan's defence, as you know.'
	. � '

	'But it wasn't enough,' Browne observed.

	'Grey wanted to do more. After all, Frontline had

concept, his baby. Roebuck once told me that Grey felt a
terrible as he did about not being able to get Derek Penny's
inquiry stopped.'

A thought occurred to Browne. 'Is this Mr Grey still alive?'
'I've no idea. The last I heard he was in bad health and that
was four years ago. Roebuck reckoned the Keegan trial broke
him. Why are you interested?'

'Because we're in desperate need of a credible defence
witness now that Penny and Roebuck are dead,' she said.

Jerry Tucker nodded his understanding. 'The news of those
two came as a bit of a shock, I can tell you. I still can't come to
terms with Colin's death.. He was a great bloke - best officer I
ever served under. He lived for free-fall parachuting; he'd done
over a thousand jumps when I worked with him. Who'd have
thought he'd get killed in a freak accident. I thought he was
indestructible.'

Lomax said: 'It wasn't an accident.'
His friend stared. 'Say again?'
'It wasn't an accident.'

Tucker pulled back in an expression of disbelief. 'How d'you
know?'

'Sam and I were there. His parachute had been tampered
with.' Lomax explained the sequence of events and Tucker

listened intently, his jawline hardening as the story unfolded.

At last he said: 'Dirty Harry! Are you sure?'

'It's a long time since I'd last seen him, Jerry, but I'm as
sure as I can be.'

'Harry's no longer with the Service.'

'Ah.' Lomax's exclamation was edged with disappointment.
'We're talking about the same man? Harry Grisewold?'

'Grisewold is it? I only ever knew his first name, but there is
only one Dirty Harry. It must be six years since he left them.'

Lomax was puzzled. 'So maybe Box isn't mixed up in this.'
There was an edge to Tucker's voice now. 'Oh, I think it is,


462

Chris. Harry set up a private investigation agency, I believe.
With some other former Service field officers. Box uses freelancers
like them a lot, especially when they want t0.c.over their
tracks.'

'I see.'

'No, you don't, Chris, not fully. You remember you were
followed when you were last over here and I traced the car being
used back to Group's motor pool? It was being used by a group
of Americans, maybe CIA or some other outfit. Well, I got
intrigued and made a few discreet inquiries. It took a while, but
eventually I got the name ofZack Ryan. Probably a cover name,
but it's something. So I went on the booze with an old mate
from Box. When he was well pissed I started running down the
Yanks and, of course, he joined in. The long and short of it is
that this Zack Ryan is running some sort of op with your old
mate, Dirty Harry.'

'What sort of operation?' Monk asked.

Tucker gave him a pained look. 'No idea, Joe. My mate
didn't say, though I doubt if he knew. Russian dolls, one inside
another, inside another and all that - and I certainly didn't ask.
But we know that at one time at least they had Chris in their
sights.'

'Do they know we're here now?' Lomax asked.
'Not that I've heard, but that means nothing.'
'It was Joe's idea to pick up a hire car in Cork.'

'Wise move,' Tucker agreed. 'Did you have any trouble
crossing the border?'

'None, just the usual. Glanced at my driving licence and
asked what we were doing, where we were going. I said touring
and they waved us through.'

Tucker nodded, satisfied. 'You'll be okay then? He reached
across for Lomax's cigarette packet and scribbled an address
inside the lid. 'That's where you might find Spike Scott. But as
soon as you go there, 14 Int will take an interest in you and I
may not be able to help.'

'You've helped enough,' Lomax said. 'Thanks.'

'It's what mates are for.' Tucker glanced at his watch and.
climbed to his feet. 'Time I was going. I'll see if I can find out


463

where that Mr Grey's living now. Or where he's buried. Happy
hunting.'

After Jerry Tucker left they drove on to a country hotel and
booked two rooms, the men sharing. They wrote false names
and addresses in the register, Monk signing as his friend Len
Pope whose credit card he had borrowed. Following supper
they retired to one of the bedrooms, raided the minibar, and
discussed how they could approach Spike Scott.

'We can't just phone this Spike character up,' Lomax said. 'Even if he believed our explanation, we know 14 Int will be
listening in. So we can hardly arrange a meet either.'

'What about posing as a market researcher?' Browne suggested.
'Going down the entire street, then Jerry's people
wouldn't know we're only interested in Spike.'

'You can't go knocking on doors in Belfast,' Monk said.
'People don't answer to strangers.'

'Especially someone like Spike Scott,' Lomax added. 'Even
to a pretty woman.'

She faked a flattered look. 'Meaning me? Oh, Chris, how sweet.'

'Maybe we can follow him,' Monk suggested, 'then try an
approach when the coast is clear.'

Lomax shook his head. 'That won't be any easier ifhe's under
constant surveillance.' He consulted his large-scale street atlas.
'We don't even know if he's living there or what he looks like.
We're going to have to start at the beginning. A covert recce.'

'Middle of Loyalist heartland?' Monk observed. 'I wouldn't
fancy hanging around there for too long.'

'Could I get away with it?' Browne asked brightly.

Lomax considered for a moment. 'What about the breakdown
wheeze?' he asked Monk.

'Yeah, why not.'

'It'll get you close enough to see what's going on,' Lomax told
Browne, 'but without alerting suspicion. If any neighbours do
get nosy, you can even ask them to help. Just hope they're not
mechanically minded. If it works, it'll give you an hour or so to
observe what's going on. Get an idea if Spike's in the house, if


464

he's leaving for work, if he has a car - anything at all that might
show us how to approach.'

Browne frowned suddenly. 'Is it dangerous?' -.

Lomax looked at her candidly. 'For Joe or me it could be
lethal. But a daffy gal who knows nothing about cars - you
could pull it off.'

Browne's mad eye widened a fraction.


They parked just short of the luridly painted gable end which
marked the entrance to the estate. It was eight fifteen and
already a queue of cars was forming to turn out onto the main
road as residents made their way to work.

Browne took over the driving seat as the two men climbed
out. She released the catch so that Lomax could lift the bonnet

and loosen two of the spark plug caps.

'Okay, try it now,' he called.

The engine struggled into life, coughing and spluttering until
it was ticking over unsteadily. It sounded pretty sick, but should
allow the car to keep moving for another few miles. It was not,
however, a precise science.

Lomax slammed the lid down and returned to the driver's
door. 'Okay, Sam, offyou go. Joe and I will be nearby, but we'll
have to keep out of Spike's actual street. One of us will try to
pass the end of it every ten .minutes or so to check you're still
there, okay? When you decide to pull out, we'll RV - sorry,
rendezvous - at the car park I pointed out. All clear?'

'I must be mad,' she said, drumming her fingers on the
wheel.

'You'll be okay. Good luck.'

She shoved the car into gear and let out the Clutch. Reluctantly
the stammering engine took up the load as she signalled
and edged out into the traffic.

God, the engine sounded awful, she thought, expecting it to
cut out at any minute. But she pushed the thought from her
mind; there was too much to occupy her as she turned into the
estate where Spike Scott lived.

The wall murals were huge, badly proportioned paintings


465

of men in balaclavas carrying rifles, William of Orange on a
demented white charger and motifs of the red hand of Ulster.
Daubed slogans screamed at her: 'The UVF lives - Provos
die!', 'Stop the Priest Process!', 'Peace - but not at any price',
and 'United Ireland not wanted here!' She could feel the vitriol
in the hands of those who had written the words and a sense of
uneasiness crept over her as the car shuddered its way into the
first treet.

Cuchulainn - the Hound of Ulster is with us now.

She'd just glimpsed it as she passed, registering the freshness

of the crimson paint on the old brick wall. That name again.
What was happening here?

Her heart fluttered in her chest. Leaning forward, she
squinted for a better view along the straight narrow street of
terraced houses. It all looked innocent enough: rows of
Victorian two-up two-downs opening onto grey slabbed pavements
and lines of parked cars. But every window, it seemed,
had blinds or curtains drawn. A neighbourhood of unease,
where privacy was paramount and every innocent passerby
could be a harbinger of death. Strangers were not welcome
here. She could feel it, smell it.

For a moment, she was so overwhelmed by her desire to
swing the car round and retreat, she almost missed the first left
hand turn.

She braked, allowing a dour-faced woman with a child and
pushchair to cross the mouth of the street; there was no wave of
thanks, just a glare from the hard, pinched, pale face beneath
the headscarf. Young men leaned against the red-brick walls
and talked in small groups, all in trainers, faded jeans and
bomber jackets with the ubiquitous hood. Always hoods in
Ulster, it was almost the national costume. Funny how you
forgot these small things. Hoods against the fickle weather,
against the frequent drizzle, against the bitter north-easterlies.
Hoods against the prying eyes of strangers who might not be
your friends.

Her eyes flicked right to more youths gathered around a
lamppost. The crushed drink can clattered in the gutter where
it was thrown, the noise through her open window making her


466

tense suddenly. In the rear-view mirror she saw dark eyes turn
to watch her pass. Shaven heads, cigarettes smoked to the butt
between fingers with bitten nails. .

Not a good idea after all, she thought. How could Lomax
have said it was? How could he have gone along with it?

There it was. High on the right, the street' name above the
corner shop. She took a deep breath and turned the wheel.
Panicking now, she tried to take it all in. Spike Scott's street. A
little wider than the last, these houses with handkerchief front
gardens, low walls and trim little privet hedges. She glanced left
and right, trying to pick out the numbers. Even left, odd right.
So she wanted right. Number Twenty-nine. Quick mental
arithmetic. Fifteen doorways. Or was it fourteen? How many
had she already driven past? Shit, she'd already lost count.

The car shuddered on. People on their way to work turned
and looked as they walked. Someone laughed with his companion.

Not Twenty-nine, not Twenty-nine. Had she passed it
already? Should she stop now? Was it safe? She thought how
calmly Lomax and Monk would have handled this - made her
feel stupid. Well, sod them both. Twenty-seven.

God, she'd almost got too close! She slammed on the brakes,
and fell back breathless against the seat and shut her eyes. Well,
this was it.

Taking a deep lungful of air, she braced herself and threw
open the door. She scarcely had to act out her anger, stomping
to the front of the car and throwing up the bonnet in disgust.
Give it a minute or so, she told herself, let them see you peering
at the engine and listening to the dreadful racket. Let the neigh
bouts see you've got a problem, let Jerry Tucker's OP boys
share a chuckle.

After a few minutes, she leaned against the offside wing,
facing towards Number Twenty-nine, and took the mobile telephone
from her shoulder bag. She went through the motions of
making a call. 'Hello, yes, is that the RAC? Yes, a roadside
breakdown. My membe.rship number? Yes, it's...'

All of this was for the benefit of any pedestrians on tlxe
pavement a few feet behind her. Lomax had told her not to call

467


the breakdown service straightaway in case they arrived too
promptly. Was that a joke? She'd make a genuine call after forty
five minutes. In the meantime she had a perfect view of Spike
Scott's house.

She returned to the driver's seat and made as though to read

the morning paper. All the time her eyes moved back and forth
over its top edge, trying to make mental notes as Lomax had
instructed. Almost immediately she'd been aware of twitching
blinds and curtains. A car outside. Someone placing a mobile
bomb? A gunman waiting for a kill? Or someone watching. In
Belfast there was always someone watching. An IRA 'dicker' or a
Special Branch or army covert car? You could never be sure.

She concentrated on Number Twenty-nine. There was no
sign of life: curtains closed on the upper floor, venetian blinds
firmly in place on the little bay window downstairs. The owner
could already have left for work. Could even be on holiday.
Except there were full milk bottles in the small porch, not yet
taken in. And there was a rusty blue Escort on the patch of
tarmac where a garden had once been. She jotted down its
number on the corner of her newspaper. Lomax would be
pleased with that.

'Gotta wee problem, have we, love?'

The sudden intrusion of the harsh Ulster accent made her
jump.

She jerked her neck round to see the hard, blunt-featured
face of the shaven-headed young man pressed against the
window. He was smiling but his eyes were cold. Recovering
from the shock, she wound down the window to increase the
gap by a few inches. 'Car's broken down, I'm waiting for
the RAC.'

'RUC?'

It took a moment to realise he was joking. 'Oh, I see. They
said they won't be long.'

'Not from these parts, are you? From the mainland.'

She gave a tight smile. 'I'm a solicitor,' she said as though that
explained everything.

'What you doin' here?'

'On business.'

468


'No, I mean here. In this street? Seeing a punter, are we?'
'What?' She had trouble with the rapid words wrapped in
such a thick accent. As she deciphered them she str.uggled to
recall the line Lomax had told her. 'No, I was taking a short
cut .'

'This is a dead-end estate, so it is.' He grinned'unpleasantly at
his own words. 'In more than one sense.'

She laughed it off. 'I realise that now. I used to live over here
and thought I knew where I was. My memory was playing
tricks, so many of these streets look the same.'

'Sure it's very confusing to strangers.' As he spoke, his eyes
were darting around the interior of the car, looking for something.
A weapon stuffed beneath a front seat, perhaps, or the
tell-tale wires of a radio, or a telephoto-lensed camera on
the back seat. At last he seemed satisfied and pulled back. 'I'll
keep an eye on you till the RAC comes, make sure you get no
hassle. Hear all these stories about women alone breaking down
in their cars.'

'That's most kind.' And she watched, trembling slightly as
he moved away along the pavement and disappeared into the
doorway of one of the houses. It occurred to her then that
the man could have been anyone, even a member of Tucker's
OP team. A shiver of apprehension trickled down her spine.

Again she lifted the newspaper and adjusted her reading
specs so she could watch Number Twenty-nine over the top of
the sheet. Minutes ticked by, her own watch audible in the
silence of the car. In the mirror she noticed the wafts of cigarette
smoke from the doorway whre the young man remained halfhidden.

Forty-five
minutes passed and Browne began to feel flat with
disappointment. Nothing and no one had stirred in Scott's
house, and now it was time to phone the RAC for real. With a
sigh of resignation she climbed out of the car and made a show
of appearing irritated at the long wait for anyone who might be
watching. Putting the mobile to her ear she paced up and down
on the pavement as she made her call.

She had just finished and snapped shut the mouthpiece when.
the door to Number Twenty-nine opened. Her eyes widened in


469

surprise and she quickly averted her gaze as a woman emerged.
Although she was only in her twenties, the faded print dress,
unkempt hair and flat shoes made her look frumpish and
middle-aged. She crossed the street towards Browne with arms
folded across her chest.

'D'you mind telling me what you're doing here?' she
demanded coldly. 'This is a private street.'

It occurred to Browne that it was a stupid thing to say. The
street was as public as any other; the woman meant they didn't
tolerate unknown cars parked in it.

'Look, I've broken down, that's all...' And she stopped
herself, almost losing this opportunity before she realised. 'You
must be Spike's wife.'

Suddenly the woman's eyes glazed with fear; she instantly
took a backward step.

Browne moved forward, her arms open in a gesture of
reassurance. 'No, don't be alarmed. I need to talk to your
husband.'

But the woman backed away again, her mouth contorting
silently around the word: 'Peelers!'

'No, no, I'm not from the police. I'm a solicitor defending
someone your husband might know.'

The woman glared defiance. 'Then why not telephone or
knock at the friggin' door?'

Browne held her gaze. 'Because your husband's under surveillance
by the army.'

'What?' Now her eyes were wide and wild. 'How d'you know?
What is all this?'

'Your husband sent you to check on me, right?'

The bewildered look told Browne she was correct. Well,
almost. 'Spike's my boyfriend.'

'Okay, fme. I need to see him urgently. Tell him I'll be at the
Clandeboye public house at one o'clock. My name's Browne,
Sam Browne.'

But Spike's common-law wife was still backing away like a
frightened rabbit.

'Please tell him,' Browne pleaded as the woman turned and
ran back to the house. The door slammed shut and silence

47O


settled again over the street. A puff of cigarette smoke from the
doorway told her that the other watcher was still watching. A
few minutes later an upstairs curtain twitched at Tve.nty-nine.
Spike Scott was clocking her, making up his mind.

Thankfully it was only a few more minutes before the RAC
van arrived and a patronising patrol man gave'her a lecture on
the rudiments of car-engine maintenance. He secured the loose
spark plug caps, tested the engine and waved her on her way.


Browne swallowed the double brandy in three hard gulps.
Lomax sat watching her from the opposite side of the small
table in the Clandeboye saloon bar. It was gloomy, with lacklustre
mahogany panels, a threadbare carpet and a pervasive
smell of yeast. Monk sat alone by the door, backup if needed.

An old grandfather clock gave a belated and melancholy
chime at ten past the hour.

'I've never been so terrified, Chris. Look, I'm still shaking. I

don't know how you did it for all those years.'

'You get used to it. Sort of.'

Browne looked around the bar at the small gathering of

lunchtime regulars. 'He's not going to come, is he?'

'He's coming.'

'How can you be certain?'

He indicated a stout middle-aged man in a tweed jacket who
was leaning against the bar. 'Because someone's casing the
joint. Watching us through the mirror behind the bar. He's been
watching us ever since we came in. Spike's not going to want to
walk into an ambush.'

'Who'd want to do that?'

'No idea. More to the point, neither does he. Life can be

quite interesting in the province.'

'A nightmare.'

At that point the man in the tweed jacket saw Lomax
watching him and approached slowly across the room. He
looked amiable enough, but his eyes were suspicious. 'Someone

wants to meet Spike Scott, is that right?'

'I do,' Browne said.

'A solicitor? From England?'


471

'I want your friend's help.'

The man indicated Lomax. 'And who's your boyfriend?'

'He's my client's brother-in-law.'

Gimlet eyes regarded Lomax for a moment. 'Never a soldier,

were you?'

A cautious smile showed on Lomax's face. 'Is it that
obvious?'

'Aye, well you've got that look. Is that how you know our
mutual friend is under surveillance?'

Lomax cast a glance at Browne; she shrugged in response. 'It

just slipped out.'

'Spike's grateful for that,' the man said evenly. 'You can never

be sure.' He looked pointedly in Monk's direction. 'And your

pal by the door, another soldier?'

Lomax knew defeat when he stared it in the face. 'Another

ex. An old comrade - he's just keeping an eye on us.'

Browne was becoming impatient. 'Is Mr Scott going to see

me?'

'That's down to me. Depends what I think.'

She met his gaze and held it. 'And what do you think?'

The man hesitated. 'I think you were the solicitor who
handled Peter Keegan's defence back' in '89. Now you're
looking after Roddy Littlechild.'

The solicitor tried not to let her rising sense of panic show.
'You're very well informed.'

'It's my job.' He straightened his back and looked at Lomax.
'Roddy's brother-in-law, eh? I know a bit about you too. Okay,
Spike'll see you, but not your friend over there. He stays put till
we've had our wee conversation. Go tell him, then follow me
outside.'

The rusted blue Escort that had been outside Number
Twenty-nine was waiting in the pub car park. Its driver was in
his early thirties, short dark hair razored at the sides and back,
an aggressive cut that hardly went with the flash silvered suit
and loud tie. Bright blue button eyes scrutinised their
approach, fingers beating a rapid tattoo on the sill of the
wound-down window.


472

'The woman in the front with me, Albie,' Spike Scott said.
'You go in the back.'

He made no attempt to address them before h .swung the
vehicle out into the stream of traffic with scant regard for any
highway courtesy.

'Were you followed to the Clandeboye?' Lorax ventured.
'Probably,' the man answered, looking into his rearview
mirror, 'if you say I'm under observation. But then why should I
give a shit? I've got nothing to hide.'

Damn, Lomax thought. Spike Scott might be brazenly indifferent
to an Army Intelligence tail, but it meant Tucker's team

would start asking questions and taking an interest.

'Where're we going?' Browne asked nervously.

'Just a wee drive,' Albie Nairn replied amicably. 'Take in the
view.'

Spike Scott said: 'So you want my help, is that it?'

'I'm defending Roddy Littlechild in London. D'you know
him?'

Spike was noncommittal, but Nairn replied: 'There's not
many in the Loyalist community who don't know Roddy. I
think Spike's met him once or twice.'

Browne pushed on. 'We're looking for an important witness
for his defence.'

'Billy Baker,' Lomax added.

The silence in the car was abrupt, the tension almost palpable.
At last Spike said: 'That's a good crack. The big fella
giving evidence in court. Sure who'd believe a word from the
likes of King Billy?'

Nairn chuckled. 'No one this side of the water, that's for
sure.'

'Someone told us you used to know him,' Browne said
anxiously. 'I wondered if you could put us in touch. Act as
go-between.'

Spike studied the road ahead. 'I'm not sure I want to be
associated with the likes of King Billy nowadays. If someone
told you I know him, then th.at someone would know I'm
standing for election in June. For the all-party talks. I don't
want to be tainted by the likes of that fat maggot.'


473

Nairn said helpfully: 'William Baker is no longer regarded

very highly in the Loyalist ranks.'

'He's a fuckin' pusher!' Spike added angrily. 'And we all
know why. He sits at the right hand of Her Majesty, so he does.

Or at least those slimeballs who do the Queen's business.'

'Can't you just give us a lead?' Browne pleaded.

'Oh, we can do better than that,' Nairn said expansively, 'for

our friends on the mainland. Sure young Spike has been
wanting a wee word with King Billy for a while now, only your
man has been avoiding him.'

'Money in it, is there?' Spike asked. 'A wee backhander, a
palm-greaser for old Billy boy.'

Browne glanced at Lomax in alarm. 'I'm not here to bribe a
witness.'

'Oh, sure, you are,' said Nairn. 'Because King Billy isn't
having visitors at the present. We've been trying to see him for
weeks ourselves. But an offer of cash might just open the door,
let me tell you.'

Lomax said: 'How much would do the trick?'

'Maybe five big ones.' Nairn smiled. 'As your opening bid.'

'Do it.'

Browne was aghast. 'Chris, you can't, you haven't got that

sort of money,' she blustered. 'Besides, it's - it's '
'Unethical?' he asked cynically.
'Downright illegal,' she replied.

'So is framing an innocent man for murder.' He turned back

to Nairn. 'It's my money and my decision. Please go ahead.'


The Yank was on to it, and Ha.rry Grisewold was well displeased.

Displeased to learn that Lomax and the bitch solicitor had
indeed turned up in Northern Ireland. Even more displeased
that Zack Ryan had been the one to tell him.

Ryan's boys were in Dublin and Belfast, doing their bit to get
the peace process back on course for their President. Their little
American liaison unit was plugging itself into every British
intelligence and police agency over there, co-operation given on
orders from Whitehall. No one liked that much, of course, they


474

were all well used to guarding their own little piles of excretia
from each other, let alone some know-it-all big shots from
Langley. But Zack Ryan understood British retiqe.nce and
stonewalling and had set about building up his own network.
Plying contacts with lunches and gifts of bourbon or tickets to
take their kids to Disneyland. Christ, Grisewold'thought, it was
just like the wartime GIs with their nylon stockings and chewing
gum. It made him sick, but it worked.

'So maybe you'd best get your butt over here pronto, Harry,'
had been his parting shot on the telephone.

It had felt to Grisewold like an order; the more so because, of
course, that's exactly what he had to do. And he certainly didn't
need the Yank to tell him.

He took Margie Lewis with him on an early shuttle to Aldergrove.
They grabbed a quick fry-up breakfast at Heathrow, then

she watched with bemusement as he ate another on the plane.
'Jesus, where d'you put it all, Harry?'

'I eat when I'm worried,' he replied testily.

'C'mon, you're always eating lately.'

'That's because I'm always worried lately.' He grinned lasciviously.
'I need the oral satisfaction. It's my sex substitute.'

'Don't complain, Harry. It was you who fell asleep again last
night .'

'This sodding case is knackering me. Seven days a week,
twenty hours a day.' "

'Then tell Pinfold to piss off.'
'We need the money.'
'Then stop moaning.'

He wiped his lips with a tissue and gave her a none-too-gentle
nudge. 'Fancy joining the mile-high club?'

When they landed, Zack Ryan was waiting with an unmarked
pool car. The American was mean and lean, and young. And to
make matters worse he kept giving Margie the eye. And Margie
being Margie didn't discourage him. Making matters worse,
she wound Grisewold up in private about toyboys and clean-cut
all-Americans, going on about Zack's pecs and his cute armyacademy
haircut.

'I had the Garda check all the car rental companies in Cork.


475

They crossed over from Eire the day before yesterday,' Zack said, driving lazily with one hand on the wheel. 'Thanks to your
pals' anti-American zenophobia, I didn't get a routine printout
of the list until yesterday afternoon. Then another pal of mine
from Army Int tipped me off.'

Another flight to Disneyland, Grisewold thought, forcing
himself to listen. Zack Ryan- everybody's friend.

'Lomax's car stopped outside a house under surveillance. But
his boss pulled the information before passing it up to his
superiors. A guy called Tucker.'

'Tucker?' Margie asked. 'Jerry Tucker's a friend of Lomax.'
Grisewold was irked, again. He knew Tucker and Lomax
went back a long way, had served together in the province.
Tucker was his secret, dammit. When Lomax was in Ulster,
Tucker was his first port of call. Watch Tucker and you'd find
Lomax. Now, here was Zack telling him like he didn't know.

'You oughta pull this Tucker creep,' Zack said. 'He's a
security risk.'

'I'm letting Tucker run,' Grisewold answered dismissively
and moved on: 'ose house?'

'Guy called Spike Scott. Some Loyalist hardman. Hung up
his balaclava and bought himself a politician's suit.'

'Why should Lomax want to contact him?' Margie asked.
Grisewold knew instantly, but wasn't going to say anything in
front of the American. He just shrugged and asked: 'So where's
Lomax now?'

'Last seen yesterday evening,' Zack replied. 'Passed through
an RUC checkpoint at Katesbridge in County Down. Nothing
since.'

'I suppose the solicitor Browne was travelling with him.'

'And his pal Monk.'

Grisewold reached a decision. 'I know we want to keep this
low-profile, but we'll have to have the RUC. put out an "all
cars". We've got to locate Lomax. It'll be discreet - they're used to it over here. Once he's clocked, we'll put one of our own tails
on the job.'

'Sure, let's get some action,' Zack said, eager to go as always.


476

'Now, Zack, much as we enjoy your company, Margie and
I've got work to do. I'll catch up with you later.'

When the American had dropped them at G.risewold's
private Belfast office, Margie said: 'What's going on, Harry?
You've got that look.'

'Who has Browne been desperate to get as a dfence witness?'
'Billy Baker.'

'And who used to be Billy Baker's right-hand man?'
Margie's eyes widened. 'Christ. Spike Scott.'

The grin on Grisewold's face was smug and wide as he dug in
his raincoat pocket for a roll of Rolos. 'Bloody Zack doesn't
know everything yet.' He popped one of the chocolate toffees in
his mouth.

She frowned. 'where is Baker?'

Grisewold shrugged. 'No idea, that's the rub. He's gone to
ground. Under strict orders to keep hidden till after Little
child's trial.'

'So it's follow Lomax and find them both?'

'If King Billy is breaking cover, then the Browne woman must
be offering money. And if she is meeting with him, then this is
getting seriously out of control.'

'Not much we can do about it.'

'Oh, yes, there is, sweemess and I know Pinfold's desperate

enough to agree.'

'To what?'

'To handing it over to Zack's boys. Give them a free hand.'
'You're ioking.' Her face was momentarily white. Dirty tricks
were getting dirtier by the day. 'They'll negotiate them, you know they will.'

'It'll be nothing to do with us and a problem solved.'
'You can't, Harry,' she protested.
'Not like you to be squeamish.'
'I'm not. Fitzpatrick was a shit.'
'And Roebuck?'

She frowned. 'An unfortunate accident.' There was something
about the expression on his .face. 'Wasn't it?'

'Sure.' Some things were best for only the boys to know.
'But Browne and Lomax...'


477

Grisewold swallowed the remains of his Rolo. 'Browne's
broken the rules and she knows it.'

'God, Harry, that's hardly a hanging offence.'
'It is when the stakes are this high.'
'If we're implicated -'

'Still a babe in some respects, aren't you, Margie? Zack's
people are pros. It'll look like some paramilitary feud that
Browne and Lomax have got caught up in.'

She shook her head, but had to smile. There really was no

one quite like Harry. 'You really are a bastard.'

'And you love me all the more for that.'

'Maybe.' She forced the unpleasantness to the back of her
mind. 'So what now?'

'To our hotel for an hour or two, I think.'

'Lunch,' she said with disgust. 'Not another meal.'

'I had in mind a quick shag. All that talk of the mile-high
club, I've lost my appetite.'

'I love you when you're masterful, Harry Grisewold. And you
know me I'll do anything for a Rolo.'

478


'I must be offmy bloody rocker,' Tucker said.

Moments before he'd scared the life out of them when
Lomax, Monk and Browne had stepped out into the hotel car
park on the Sunday morning. None of them had seen the Army

Intelligence officer lurking beside a parked van.

'How'd you find us?' Lomax asked.

'Someone in Box has put out an "all-cars" for your hire car. It
was routinely copied to my desk. When I saw it, I got a chum in
the RUC to give me first news of any sighting. A passing cop car
recognised it about two hours ago.'

'It was bound to happen,' Monk reflected gloomily.

'I've had an hour's head start, so someone from Box could be
down here at any moment. That's why I've brought the car. You
can have it for a couple of days.'

Lomax was astounded. ' Your car?'

'A pool car. It's supposed to be in the workshop for a service,
but it goes okay. I've juggled the paperwork so no one'll miss it
for a day or two. But you'll have to give me a lift back to my
place.'

'No problem. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.'
Lomax was under no illusion as to the risk Tucker was running
if he were found out. His areer would be over and he'd face
court martial.

Tucker smiled. 'Just do me a favour and don't get noticed,
eh?'

His easy manner belied the stress he was under and he was
clearly relieved when Lomax was driving away from the hotel in
the anonymous grey Rover.

Whatever the risk to Tucker's career, the move couldn't have
been better for them. It was proved at the first RUC police road
check when the Rover was waved through as a 'listed security
vehicle'. The grin on Monk's face was huge.


479

They dropped Tucker in a quiet suburban street in Lisburn,
close to army headquarters. There was little they could do then
until noon when they'd agreed with Albie Nairn to telephone
his home number for any news.

They parked in a Belfast multistorey and passed the
time having a coffee and doing some window-shopping
before Lomax made his call from a box in the near deserted
centre.

'The fish has taken the bait,' Nairn's quiet voice told him.
'We'll rendezvous at five this evening.'

It was a location that had already been agreed so there was no
need to confirm it on an open line.


Harry Grisewold watched in his rear-view mirror as Lomax and

the others returned to the Rover in the parking stack.

This time they wouldn't find the homing beacon, not unless

they stripped out the entire car. He'd fitted it in a rear-door
panel - a quick job with a skeleton key and simple screwdriver.
But not so quick to find unless you knew exactly where to
look.

Doors slammed and the Rover came alive, Lomax reversing

out and heading for the exit. Moments later Margie Lewis
appeared at the exit stairway, dressed in headscarf and an old
gaberdine raincoat.

'He made a call,' she said simply. 'Just one. That was all.'

'If it was to Spike Scott, we'll have a trace,' Grisewold replied

and started the engine, swinging out and heading for the exit
ramp.

'I'll check.' Margie was already qn the mobile. Minutes later,
when they were out on the Belfast streets following the steady
bleep from Lomax's Rover, she had an answer. 'No one's called
Spike today and the OP thinks he's had a tip-offand given them
the slip. Maybe he got out over the garden wall during the
night .'

'Ah,' Grisewold said. 'So chummy's on the gallop. So it all

fits. They've set up a meet. The Browne woman and Lomax

with Spike to introduce them to King Billy.'

'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'


480

'I'm going to enjoy telling Zack where to find Lomax.'

'So you were right about Tucker. You said if we watched
Tucker, we'd find Lomax.' , .

Grisewold's smile became a little smugger. 'Even I didn't
reckon the bugger would be daft enough to get a pool car for
his old mate! Smart move, but a bloody stupi one. Tucker's
finished.'


Five o'clock. Church car park, the tarmac lacquered black after
an unexpected downpour. Half the spaces vacant and the crowd
of worshippers dispersing.

Lomax and Browne in the Rover, waiting. Monk leaning
against a wall, reading a newspaper. But not reading, watching.
An overview, looking for anything out of place, anything or
anyone unusual.

A small blue van pulled up alongside the Rover, Albie Nairn
at the wheel in a Marks & Spencer cardigan with a polyester tie.
He wound down his window and Browne did the same.

're'll go in my car, if you don't mind,' he said. 'You can come
back and collect yours later.'

When he'd locked the .car, Lomax stooped and pushed the
ignition keys into the exhaust pipe. Without a backward glance
at Monk, they joined Nairn, Browne beside him and Lomax in

the rear where he found Spike Scott waiting.

Monk continued his lonely vigil.

A few minutes later he knew he had them. A couple who had
driven into the car park not long after the Rover... So not
needing to be in visual contact with it - Surely that didn't mean
there was a radio tracer beacon on the Rover? Surely not? How?
Then he remembered it had been unguarded in the Belfast
stack.

The couple hadn't gone inside the church, but had remained
in their seats. He didn't recognise the woman, but the man's
face was familiar. Although not in direct view of Lomax's
Rover, they would have witnessed the vehicle switch.

That's why the man looked tetchy, chain-smoking as he.
spoke into his mobile. Was calling for backup because now


481

he couldn't follow Nairn's van on eyeball for fear of being
spotted.

Dirty Harry, Monk decided, was not a happy man.


It was a quiet lay-by on the Newtownards-Greyabbey road
beside the unruffled aluminium surface of Strangford Lough.
That was where the compact grey Flat Panda waited.

When Albie Nairn pulled in and stopped facing it, the driver
climbed out and approached cautiously. He was young and
hard-faced with straggly long hair that was in need of a wash, as were the muddy jeans and faded anorak.

'King Billy's scraping the bottom of the barrel,' Spike murmured,
seeing his replacement as Baker's henchman.

The man didn't introduce himself, didn't need to. 'I trust no
one's tooled up?' he asked warily.

'Don't be silly, son,' Nairn replied.

'I'll have to check.'

He did the job quickly and inexpertly, then peered inside the
van before saying: 'Okay. Get back in and follow me. It's not
far.'

The Panda led the way to Grcyabbey where it took the B5 to
the coastal village of Ballywalter before turning north alongside
the wind-swept sand flats of the Irish Sea. After a mile or two it
signalled and swung into the entrance to a caravan park where a
line of European national flags snapped raggedly in the stiff
offshore breeze. Most of the caravans were locked and cur
taincd, only a few hardy holiday-makers brave enough to
endure the fickle spring weather.

King Billy's mobile court wasset in a far corner of the park
where the perimeter fence adioined open pasturcland. It was a
bright chrome-and-cream affair that was as old as it was luxurious
and looked too large to have ever done much travelling on
the road.

So this was the man's little bolt hole, Lomax thought, where

he could disappear into anonymity when he needed to.

The Panda pulled up and Baker's henchman climbed out. He
glanced around the deserted, wind-scoured field for. a moment,


482

like an animal sniffing the air for scent of danger. Deciding
nothing was amiss, he rapped briskly on the door.

When it was opened, King Billy filled the entire .aperture
with his bulk. He looked pleased to see them, the incongruous
cupid's bow grinning in his chalky, flaccid face. The fingers
on the huge extended hand were of the dimelasions of pork saveloys.
'Come on in, will you,' he said, greeting Spike first. 'Good to
see you again.'

'And you, Billy,' Scott replied. 'This is Albie who I believe
you've met before. And these are our friends from the mainland.
Chris Lomax and Sam Browne.'

King Billy's interest in Lomax was perfunctory; it was
Browne whom he fixed with his powder-blue eyes, the palest
eyes she had ever seen. 'Charmed, so I am. Heard so much
about you lately.'

Browne laughed awkwardly. 'None of it true, I hope.'

The man saw his opening. 'Well, sure it was true about the
legs.' He guffawed at his own sally. 'What an exquisite creature.'

Inwardly Lomax winced, but Browne appeared unaffronted
by the gross flirtation, playing his game.

Baker shuffled breathlessly into the lounge area, sofa seats
ranged along three sides of the caravan. Despite its size, the
presence of the big man made it appear small. He seemed aware
of the fact. 'Sorry if it's a bit cramped. That's the trouble being' a
big fella - you take up all the space.'

Lomax sensed he was in a relaxed mood, vividly expressed by
the voluminous short-sleeved floral shirt and casual slacks that
must have taken yards of material to make. After ordering his
henchman to wait outside, Baker waddled over to the built-in
cocktail cabinet. 'Anyone for a wee drop of Blackbush?' he
asked.

Only Browne declined, settling for a mineral water. She came
straight to the point: 'Mr Baker, I'm here concerning the trial of
my client Rodney Littlechild.'

He gave a demure little smile, his lips taking the shape of a
pink rosebud, and sipped at his drink before replying. 'And how.
is my good friend Roddy?'


483

'Not very happy that you've disappeared when he most needs

you.'

'Needs me for what?' He was smiling, enjoying this.

'I think you've a good idea, Mr Baker. You contacted him to

say Fitzpatrick would be in touch. You persuaded him it was

safe to have the meeting.'

'Really?' The pale eyes widened in feigned surprise. 'I can't

say I recall.'

'Did you know why MI5 wanted Roddy to meet Fitzpatrick?'

'MIS?' Any humour drained from his eyes. 'Don't be fanciful,
m'dear. Sure it doesn't suit you.'

'No one knew his number, Mr Baker, not even his own
brother-in-law. Certainly not you. You were given it by MIS,
probably by a woman called Tabitha White.'

That seemed to surprise him. 'Been doing some homework,

haven't you?'

'Did you know why she wanted Roddy and Fitzpatrick to

meet?' she repeated, realising by the look in his eyes that he'd
never tell her the truth. 'It was to have Fitzpatrick got out of the
way and to have Roddy take the blame.'

King Billy's face was a picture of childlike innocence. Of

course he knew, she decided, and didn't even care. With a cold
thrill of fear she realised she was staring into the hypnotic
eyes of a multiple killer. A man who'd committed or ordered
countless summary executions, created widows and orphans
and cripples on the merest whim.

She was thankful when Lomax said curtly: 'Six thousand

pounds, Billy. My life savings. Half before and half after you've

given evidence.'

'You just walk into court,' Browne added quickly, 'and tell the

truth. It's that easy. Say who told you to phone Roddy, who
wanted him to meet Fitzpatrick. That it was all MI5's idea. Say
that and Roddy's a free man.'

An enigmatic smile played on King Billy's .lips. 'Is that all?

Just the truth. And what will my friends in MI5 think about

that?'

'It doesn't matter what they think,' Browne insisted. 'They

are not above the law. If I call you to the highest criminal court


484

in the land you are expected to attend. And tell the truth. Your
MI5 chums might not like it, but they'll have to respect it.
You've nothing to fear, you just did what they tokl .you. Now
you're obliged to tell a judge and iury what that was,'

'Even if it puts me in personal danger?' He was still playing
games, and they all knew it. -

'They're not going to bump you off,' Lomax countered.
'From what I hear, you're the only friend they've got left. They
need you more than you need them. And they've more reason
to be scared of you and what you know than you have of them.
But I think you've worked that out already, otherwise you
wouldn't have agreed to see us.'

Baker blinked. There was something about the tone in
Lomax's voice that warned him he'd gone far enough. 'Okay,
I'm persuaded. I am a great believer in justice...'

'In that case, there's something else,' Browne cut in quickly.
'You've told the police that in 1987 you saw Roddy hand over
weapons to a South African hit team. The day before Dominic
Smals was killed. That's a lie.'

'Ah, well. It was a'long time ago.'

'Just the truth, Mr Baker,' Browne persisted. 'It really is that
simple.'

'Not for six thousand it isn't,' King Billy replied. 'Twelve.'
'Eight,' Lomax bartered.


'I'll settle for nine.'

Baker looked triumphant."Done.'

Browne was angry. 'For God's sake Chris, you haven't got
that sort of money.'

'I'll find it, borrow it.'

Further discussion was halted by a sharp knock on the
caravan door.

'What does the imbecile want now?' Baker said irritably,
struggling to his feet; he glanced at Scott. 'Can't get the staff
nowadays, Spike. You really shouldn't have left, y'know.'

Spike nodded with a smile. 'Yeah, miss you too, you old
bastard.'

485


Baker's chuckle was like a bubbling volcano as he reached the
door, aad began to open it. 'What is it this time?'

Without warning, the man's huge bulk was thrown back
inside r.he caravan. An unseen wave of air pressure seemingly
flung him against the wardrobe, the plywood splintering loudly. Browne gasped as the acrid stench of gunsmoke drifted in from
the doorway and they heard the sound of feet on the metal step.

Peter Keegan lowered the silenced pistol.


The Eagle patrol had picked them up, the Puma hovering at ten
thousard feet. At maximum altitude, it presented no more than
a tiny blur to anyone on the ground, the clatter of its rotor
blades reduced by distance to the faint drone of a flying insect.

To the occupants of the little Flat Panda and the blue van that
followed, it went unnoticed.

To the pilot of the helicopter, the vehicles resembled plastic
N-gauge models moving across a miniature railway layout. He
was well pleased, having followed instructions from Grisewold
at the church, updated by an RUC sighting on the road. His
message was relayed via ACC headquarters Aldergrove and
Security Service headquarters to Margie Lewis as Harry Grise- wood was driving them past the flat still waters of Strangford
Lough.

'A caravan park near Ballywalter,' she reported.

'Where are Zack's boys now?'

'On the Newtownards Road. Maybe twenty miles.'
'So they could make it in twenty minutes?'
'Sure, the way some of Zack's boys drive.'
'Then give them the co-ordinates.'

Margie looked uncomfortable. 'You really sure, Harry?'

'Just do it.'
Moments later, the Eagle patrol peeled off, its task complete,
and headed towards County Armagh for its next job in yet
another routine day's work.


Peter Keegan hardly needed to examine the body. Its size
seemed somewhat diminished as a crumpled heap of rags on
the floor oozing blood from the four puncture marks around the

486


chest and abdomen. Already King Billy's brightlycoloured shirt
was sodden as the vermilion pool began creeping across the
caravan floor. That almost pretty mouth half-formed.around a
cry of surprise, or was it pain? Eyes staring sightlessly at the
ceiling.

'Peter?' Browne said hoarsely, not believingthe evidence of
her own eyes.

Keegan straightened his back and shoved the gun into the
waistband of his jeans. 'Hi, Sam.' He ginned. 'Sorry to bust up
the party.' He inclined his head towards Lomax. 'Chris.'

'What is this?' Browne asked, her voice quavering as the
shock set in.

They could see that there was another man behind Keegan; a
gaunt figure with unkempt black hair and eyes that smouldered
with an unnerving intensity. Lomax looked across at Spike
Scott and Albie Nairn; one smiling gently and the other
impassive.

'We've been set up,' Lomax told her.

Keegan shrugged. 'Yes, I'm afraid you were. King Billy had
to go.'

Spike said: 'We've been trying to get to him for weeks.'

'Your offer was just too much for him to resist,' Keegan
added.

'Murder,' Browne mumbled, staring at the corpse. 'Coldblooded.'

Keegan
shrugged. 'I suppose I can't expect you to defend me
on this one, Sam?'

'That isn't funny, Peter,' she snapped back. 'Not remotely
funny. Chris was going to pay him to tell the truth.'

'And d'you think he would?' It wa the thin dark stranger who
spoke for the first time. 'He'd have taken your money, or half of
it, and just gone his own sweet way. Said what his master'd told
him to. He knew where his bread was buttered.'

Keegan stepped to one side to introduce the man. 'This
is Stevie Gavin. You've probably heard of him. More usually
referred to as Rattler.'

Browne caught the look on Lomax's face. Rattler, the most


487

deadly Loyalist hit man in the province. The string of killings
attributed to him went back over twenty years.

'King Billy was the last Loyalist in MIS's pocket,' Keegan

said. 'They've given him carte blanche to run his narcotics, to
poison the Protestant youth, to keep them cowed.'

'Getting in the way,' Spike said. 'That's why I left him. I'm

with Cuchulainn now; we all are. A united front against the
Provos and against Dublin.'

'Cuchulainn?; Immediately Lomax picked up on the name.
'You're with Cuchulainn?'

The four Ulstermen looked at each other and grined; there

was no mistaking their pride. Keegan said: 'We are Cuchulainn:

At that moment, the caravan door flew open. 'TROUBLE!'
someone yelled from outside.

Rattler turned and sprang down the steps, followed, by
Keegan. Spike was on his feet, moving to the window, Lomax
close behind him.

From their vantage point on the slight rise, there was a view
across the undulating grass of the park to the main road. A
second car was screeching in after the first, leaving the concrete
ringway to bounce over rough ground in the direction of Baker's
caravan. A family playing ball stood and gawped, then ran for
cover as the cars drove straight at them, intent on only one thing

- reaching their target before anyone had time to react.

Nairn paled. 'Provos?'

'Could be anyone,' Spike hissed. 'Maybe peelers. Let's get

out of here.' He turned to Lomax. 'You'd better come too.
Don't stick around to get shot.'

There was no time to discuss the wisdom or otherwise of
Spike's advice, because outside, Stvie Gavin and Peter Keegan
had opened up on the two cars that were bearing down on
them, lined abreast.

Phut! Phut! Silent rounds spat from the muzzles in angry
whispers, sparks flying as the lead embedded in the bodywork
of the cars. One driver spun his wheel. The car slewed and at
once the windscreen disintegrated. Doors flew open and the
four occupants threw themselves out.

Lomax grabbed Browne's wrist and dragged her but of the


488

caravan, jumping the step and forcing her to the ground.
'DOWN, DOWN!' he yelled.

The second car gave up an attempt to get closer an.d. the doors
opened, the passengers using them for cover as the opened
fire.

Lomax could scarcely believe what he wa seeing. There
must be seven or eight of them out there, pumping out the
rounds. No uniforms, just casual urban garb, except for
the balaclavas. This was turning into a major firefight and for a
second he was back in the Falklands as the bullets zipped above
his head to riddle the side of the caravan.

Keegan and Stevie Gavin were holding their own with Spike,
who looked incongruously like a Capone mobster in his spivvy
business suit, joining in the shooting with a gun thrown to him
by one of the others.

Lomax tried to shield Browne's body with his own and
looked around for some way of escape. To his surprise, he
found a body lying beside him. It took a moment to recognise
the contorted face. King Billy's henchman, who had been on
guard outside, had died whilst trying to loosen the garrotte wire
from around his throat.

With a clear field of fire into the adjoining meadow, their
attackers had no compunction about pressing home their
advantage, free to fire indiscriminately. The caravan bodywork
was studded like a colander and windows were exploding all
around them as stray rounds hit.

On Browne's other side he saw Albie Nairn, face down in the
grass and covering his head with his hands as shards of glass
showered on top of him.

They had only seconds, Lomax realised, before their
attackers found the range, or Keegan, Gavin and Spike Scott
had to stop to change magazines.

'BACK!' he yelled in Browne's ear. 'UNDER THE
CARAVAN!'

She glanced over her shoulder, saw what he meant and began
to wriggle backwards. He slapped her backside hard. 'KEEP IT
DOWN! MOVE YOURSELF!'

Forcing her belly into the grass, she stretched her thighs to

489


get some momentum going. Now that she was underway,

Lomax nudged Albie Nairn and indicated for him to follow.

By the time all three were sheltering in the shadows, probably

only sixty seconds had passed since the firefight had begun.
But, as always in combat, split seconds of action seem to stretch
on for ever.

Browne was sheet-white and trembling, her eyes wide like a

startled animal, begging to be told what to do.

'Over the fence,' Lomax decided, 'into that meadow and run

like hell.'

Out in the open the firefight was petering out. Keegan, Spike

and Rattler had retreated to the sides of the caravan, using it to
provide a small measure of protection. Their attackers were
losing impetus as several of them paused to reload.

Lomax shoved Browne unceremoniously out into the open

behind the caravan, then half-dragged her along behind him as
he raced towards the perimeter fence. Albie Nairn stumbled
breathlessly after them.

At the fence, Lomax dropped to one knee and cupped his

hands to give Browne's foot a lift up, propelling her over the top
wire. Nairn was next, putting up a manful but clumsy effort,
tripping over the top wire and falling into a cowpat on the far
side. Lomax himself was about to follow, when Keegan, Spike
and Rattler pulled him back.

'Stay put, Chris,' Keegan gasped. 'Then we'll give you

covering fire.'

Keegan's foot landed in Lomax's cupped hands and he, too,

was over. The Ulsterman turned, aimed his automatic and let
off a short burst at the attackers while Gavin, then Spike and
finally Lomax vaulted over the fence.

'To the right!' Gavin shouted. 'Into that copse!'

Keegan remained to hold off the pursuers as the rest of them

ran raggedly across the tufty rough ground to the sanctuary of

the treeline.

'Where to now?' Lomax asked breathlessly.

'This way,' Gavin said, as Keegan finally rejoined them, and

led the way into dense undergrowth. In a final glance back,

Lomax saw their pursuers gathered by the fence of the caravan


490

park; they were making no attempt to give chase. There was
much head-shaking and he guessed they would be thinking
about their own survival if police or army patrols, had been
alerted by the shooting.

Lomax followed for several minutes before they reached the
woodland dell. Sunlight lit the bright paintw6rk of the Agusta
helicopter.

Lomax's mouth dropped in amazement.

'God is airborne,' Keegan said with a grin as he saw the look
of astonishment. 'And looks like today He's on our side.'


Harry Grisewold leaned his crossed forearms on the roof of his
car and idly watched the civilian helicopter droning its way
south out over the Irish Sea.

God, that's what he'd like to be doing now. Flying away from
this mess, preferably down to one of his favourite haunts in
Tuscany. With Margie.

His eyes wandered back to the entrance to the caravan park,
now full of RUC and army Land-Rovers as the area around
King Billy's caravan was being sealed offwith tape.

What a disaster! Roger Pinfold was going to love this. He
turned as another car pulled up onto the verge behind his own.
Zack Ryan emerged, long-limbed and moving with a lazy grace,
doing his usual James Dean impression in black jeans and jacket
and wraparound shades.

'You've heard?' the American asked, jaw jutting as he chewed

on a wad of gum.
	'

Grisewold nodded, trying to hold back his anger. 'What the

hell went wrong?'

Ryan shrugged. 'One of those things. Someone saw us

comin' and opened up. It was like a Nam war movie. Pretty

hairy shit. I'm afraid Lomax and the woman got away.'

'Your boys okay?'

'Yeah. A lotta rounds but piss-poor marksmanship all round.'

'Not Mat poor. Several rounds hit King Billy, I'm told.

Taking him out wasn't in the plan - he was one of our best

assets.'

'What? Baker wasn't there?'


491

'He was inside, didn't you realise that?'

'Holy cow- of course, we didn't see him outside.'

'Don't worry, it wasn't down to you. Looks like your boys put

a few more rounds in his corpse. Nothing's certain yet, but from
what the police said, I think he'd been killed minutes before you
arrived. He'd been shot at point-blank range and his minder
had been garrotted.'.

'Who the hell would do that?'

'Anyone. Baker had a lot of enemies. Provos or Loyalists.
Course at the moment, the police think your boys did everything,
it's just a question of whether they think you were Taigs
or Prods.' He looked back across the road. 'Did you see Lomax
or Browne there, or Albie Nairn and Spike?'

'Sure, but they legged it over the fence before we could get a
bead. I don't know Nairn to look at, but that's his van still
parked outside. They were making for that wood over there on
the hill.'

Crrisewold nodded. 'I think some witness has already told the
police that. I've seen a search party heading that way.'

Ryan said suddenly: 'But I'll tell you who I did see? Man, I

had to do a double-take because I've only seen some old mug
shots.'

'Who?'

'That Rattler guy, Stevie Gavin. And, wait for it -'

Grisewold smouldered. 'Don't piss me about with silly
games, Zack. Who?'

'I cottld be wrong, but somehow I don't think so. It was Peter
Keegan.'


It was an exhilarating flight, skimming low over the wave tops,
the downdraught creating a wild screen of spume all around,
hiding the helicopter's outline in the wash of grey tones between
sea and sky.

'Who's your pilot?' Lomax asked, shouting at Keegan above

the roar and clatter of the engine.

'Superb, isn't he? Johan van Niekerk. Used to be a bush pilot
before he joined the South African Army. An old friend, met
him through Roddy Littlechild.'


492

'What the hews he doing here with your?'

'Not just with me, Chris - with Cuchulainn! We've a few
South Africans on the team! Didn't warma stay there no more,
so starting a new life in the provinceF

'Helluva,way to start a new life, isn't it? Joining up with you
lot, with Cuchulainn! I'd have gone for the quiet'life, Canada or
New Zealand!' "

Keegan grinned and Lomax couldn't help noticing how different
he appeared from the last time they'd met in Stafford
Prison. Now he looked alive and full of zest, as though he now
had some purpose in life. 'The South Africans identify with us,
Chris, that's the difference! A beleaguered country, but with
everything to fight for! Old Protestant standards and values!
We're the same breed!'

The pilot had swung landward now that they were well clear
of the Anglo-Irish border. Dunany Point passed below. Empty
fields and hedgerows were flashing by, so breathtakingly close
that Lomax was sure if he reached out he could grab a handful
of leaves from the treetops.

'No one's yet twigged how we get about,' Keegan explained.
'Johnny's set up a little flying courier service as cover and we can
basically go where we please! We log official flight plans, of
course, but no one ever checks! Why should they? Besides,
when necessary we travel under radar level and avoid built-up
areas!'

'Where the hell did you get the money?'

'Don't ask!"

After a while Keegan produced some strips of rag from the
storage compartment. 'I think it best for all concerned if you
put on blindfolds for the rest of the.trip. Sorry, just a security
precaution!'

It was never a pleasant experience to be blindfolded while in
the company of men quite capable of cold-blooded killing, but
Keegan continued to put them at ease, until the pitch of the
engine changed and they became aware of the descent.

'Somewhere in the Irish Republic,' Keegan said in a deliberately
dramatic voice, before leading them out of the helicopter.
and across rough ground.


493

No traffic noise, Lomax noted, and just the smells and
� sounds of the countryside. Once indoors the blindfolds were

removed.

They were in a spacious farmhouse kitchen filled with the
heavy aroma of fresh coffee which emanated from a pot on
the wood-burning stove. Three men, younger than Keegan and
Gavin, were already there, lounging in chairs and smoking.

'What's this, boss? Takin' prisoners now, are we?' one asked.
'That's Gaza,' Keegan introduced. 'Ex-Para, ex-con and a
nut case. And his pal, Hutch. They were both doing stir in
Stafford with me.'

Lomax remembered the news story about the helicopter jail.
break. 'God Almighty, Peter, that was you? I'd never have
dreamt it in a million years.'

That amused Keegan as he indicated the third man; despite
the cropped red hair, the resemblance was quite striking. 'And
this is the man you were hunting all over Cannock Chase. My
son, Tim.'

Young Keegan was unsmiling as he leaned forward to shake
hands with some reluctance. 'No hard feelings?' he asked
gruffly.

'I've no cause to complain,' Lomax said. 'The longer that
search went on, the more money I made. You did well, both of
you.'

Keegan said: 'Coming from Chris Lomax, that's a real compliment,
son, believe me. He's the best.'

Lomax said: 'But obviously not as good as I thought I was.
We realised what had happened eventually, but you were well
away by then.'

'I needed a breathing space,' Keegan explained, 'and time to
move freely and get things set up.'

But Tim was looking decidedly unhappy. 'So why are they
here, Da? Did something go wrong?'

Keegan took the coffee pot from the stove and began pouring
the contents into a row of mugs lined up on the table. 'Well,
something went different. Mission accomplished - King Billy's
reign is over for good. But we'd just topped him .when two


494

carloads of gunmen turned up. We saw them coming and just
started zapping.'

'What d'you mean, gunmen?' Tim asked. 'Billy's h.oys?'

A shrug. 'We didn't stop to ask. Seemed a bit efficient to be
any of Billy's hoods. Maybe Provos. Frankly, I just don't know.
Anyway, we had to change plans in a hurry. Basically we all just
ran. And obviously we couldn't leave Chris and Sam there with
Billy's corpse - not after that shoot-out. They'd get caught up in
a murder inquiry and God knows what as witnesses. Best to
spirit them away, I decided. If they were never there, they won't
be put on to give evidence against me and Stevie.'

The man called Gaza said darkly: 'There's only one way to
make sure of that.'

Lomax didn't like that at all. He was aware just how easily a
comment like that could turn attitudes of ruthless men concerned
about their own survival. 'Like Peter said, we were never
there. We saw nothing and no one.'

He was acutely aware of Browne's presence beside him, the

questioning gaze of her eyes and the smell of fear on her.

'You say,' Gaza sneered.

Lomax turned to face him. 'Exactly that, big mouth. What
d'you want me to do to prove it? Join your merry gang?'

'You could do worse,' Keegan interjected. 'Still looking for a
job?'

That hurt, but it gave him an idea. 'Why, are you offering?'

Keegan didn't blink. 'Why not? We need the best and we can
afford to pay for the best.'

'Chris, you can't join them!' Browne protested. She knew it
was stupid, but it was out before she could check herself.

He turned on her sharply. 'Do shqt it, Sam. This is none of
your business. I think even you realise by now I'm not exactly
cut out to be a solicitor's clerk. And I'm on my uppers.'

'And you'd be fighting for a worthwhile cause,' Keegan
added, clearly taking to the idea. 'Fighting alongside fellow
pros.'

But Gaza was still regarding Browne with hostility. 'Don't
think we've need of no prissy lawyer though, boss.'

Lomax noticed the slight widening of her mad eye as she said


495

slowly: 'On the contrary, the way you're all going that's exactly
what you're going to need.'

'Okay, okay,' Keegan said quickly to defuse the situation. 'We
can't expect Sam here to understand or respect exactly what
we're fighting for. But I can tell you, she's a fine lawyer and a
fighter.' He looked at Rattler. 'There'll be time enough for you
to explain things to her. Win her round.'

'Time?' she asked, feeling suddenly more threatened than
ever. 'We need to be getting back.'

'Back?' Keegan smiled. 'Back to where?'

'Ulster.'

'Not a good idea,' Lomax said.

'He's right,' Keegan added. 'Army Int was on to Spike here
and Box was on to you.'

'How would you know?' Browne asked.

Stevie Gavin answered for him. 'Cuchulainn's got friends in
very high places, including the RUC. It was known you wanted
a meet with King Billy, that you were in the province.'

'And now King Billy's dead,' Keegan said, 'you and Chris
could end up being squared away for murder, just like your
client, Roddy. Or worse,' he added ominously. 'And don't think
it couldn't happen.'

She gave a snort of derision. 'They wouldn't dare.'

Lomax said: 'Don't bet on it.' He turned to Keegan. 'Did you

notice anything unusual about our attackers this morning?'

'Er- not especially.'

'The way they carried themselves, covered each other when a
mag went dry... They'd had military training, specialist closequarters
stuff.'

'American.' All eyes turned on little Albie Nairn. Still in a
state of shock, he was clutching his mug of coffee as if it was
giving him physical comfort. 'I thought I heard Americati
accents.'

'You thought fuck,' Gavin retorted. 'You. with your head
under your arms and your arse in the air.'

'Leave him be,' Keegan warned. 'Albie's never claimed to be

a fighter; he's a planner. He was entitled to be scared shitless, he
didn't even have a gun.'


496

Lomax said thoughtfully: 'It's not as preposterous as it
sounds. A friend in 14 Int told me I was followed by a group of
Americans when I was last over here. Maybe CIA, wh.o knows?
Somehow they're linked in with elements of MIS, although
God knows how.'

Keegan nodded. 'I've heard similar report - various US
teams trying to push the peace process along.'

'Last year, some Yanks approached the Ulster Defenders, my
group,' Gavin added. 'We told them to get stuffed.'

Browne regarded Lomax with increasing concern. 'Are you
saying what I think you are, Chris?'

He took a cigarette pack from his pocket before answering.
There was an uncharacteristic tremor in his fingers as he lit one
of them. 'It's possible those people at the caravan park weren't
out to get King Billy. Rather - somehow - they knew we were
going to meet him and used him as bait to get to us.'

'What d'you mean, get to us?' she asked, hoping she was
wrong.

He blew a ring that hovered magically over the table before

dispersing. 'I mean get rid of us. Negotiate, that's the jargon.'
'God, Chris.' Now she sounded really scared.

'It could fit,' Keegan agreed. 'They wouldn't have been
expecting Stevie and me to turn up at a critical moment and
blow away their plans.'

'So,' Lomax concluded, 'returning to Belfast wouldn't be the
smartest move.'

YBut, Joe,' Browne remembered. 'He'll be worried, won't he?'

'Joe'll handle the situation, worried or not,' Lomax assured.
'He knows we'll make contact as soon as we can.'

'We can fly you back to the Welsh coast tomorrow,' Keegan
promised. 'In good time for when Roddy's trial resumes. When
is that?'

'Wednesday,' she replied.

'And how's it going?' He asked it casually, like an afterthought.

'How
d'you think, Peter? No evidence from King Billy, none
from you.'

Keegan's eyes hardened. 'Roddy and I are both fighting the


497

same enemy, Sam. A cowardly British Establishment with no
stomach for standing up for itself. Christ, no wonder we lost an
empire. Well, we're fighting back now. Dublin and the South's
been crippled for weeks. Power lines down, rail tracks blown,
gas pipelines and telecommunications...'

Lomax frowned. 'It's all been kept pretty quiet.'

For the first time Keegan looked less sure of himself. 'Well,
you're not wrong there, Chris. I hadn't anticipated how efficient
their news management would be.'

'That's why we've been forced to change tactics,' Gavin interrupted.
'Like I always said we should.'

'In what way?' Lomax asked.
'That's enough, Stevie,' Keegan intervened. 'The least said
the better.' He straightened his back and forced a smile. 'Right
we'd best get our unexpected guests billeted. That includes you,
Albie.'

Nairn looked bewildered. 'My wife will be expecting me for
my tea.'

'Your car was left outside King Billy's caravan,' Keegan
explained patiently. 'You'll be a wanted man. We'll let her know
you're all right. But meanwhile you're in for the duration. The
war has started.'

For a moment, the older man stared into his empty coffee
mug, his hunched figure on the stool looking very lost and
alone. He wondered if he was really the only one who understood
what was coming. The predictions of Wallace McIlroy
were echoing down the years from those early Frontline rallies.
Predictions when the days would be as dark as night, the darkness
caused by smoke from the burning and ransacking, the
explosions and gun fire of the civil war that was about to tear
the very soul out of his homeland. And now he would have to
play his part, there was no escape.

Keegan said: 'We're a bit short on accommodation, but if
some of us double up, it'llgive us a spare room for Sam. And,
Chris, I'm afraid I can only offer you the barn - if you don't
mind sharing with a couple of horses.'

Browne noticed Stevie Gavin's stare; it made her flesh creep.
There was no doubt he agreed with Gaza that she and Lomax


498

were a liability that should be dispensed with. But after what,
she wondered? Gaza's lascivious leer gave her a good idea. She

said: 'If you don't mind, I'd like to stay with Chris.' ,..

The smirk disappeared instantly from Gaza's face.

Keegan grinned. 'Fine, I'm sure Chris won't object. As long
as you don't mind roughing it.' '

She regarded them all coldly. 'I can rough it With the best of
them.'

'I'm sure,' Keegan said. 'I've got some army-issue kit you can

wear so you don't ruin that pretty outfit.'

Gaza's smirk returned.

Later Lomax and Browne were shown to the timber barn
with its dirt floor and horse stalls built along one side. 'There's
plenty of fresh straw and I'll have some bedding brought out;
you'll be comfortable enough,' Keegan said. 'And you can light
a fire, Chris, as long as you promise not to burn the place
down.'

It was a relief to be left alone in the tranquillity of the old barn
as a blood-red sun dipped behind the treeline.

Browne looked suddenly relaxed and dropped her shoulders.
'For a moment back there I thought they might decide to kill US.'

Lomax nodded. 'If it was down to Rattler or that guy Gaza, I
think they would have. That's why I've said I'm interested in joining them.'

She stared at him, hardly believing. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry. My
big size eights again. I didn't.think.'

'That's okay. Your disapproval would be expected and at least
it sounded genuine.'

'I didn't want to be left alone in there in case one of them did
something. They probably trust you more :han me.'

'And I thought it was because you couldn't bear to be parted,'
he teased.

'Don't get any ideas, Chris.'

He didn't even bother to answer that, turning away to leave
her staring at his back as he set abou building a small fire. He
made it in the earth floor using a ring of stones. Asmall pile of
straw, bark scrapings and some cotton wool was all he used to


499

get it going. She watched in silent fascination as he worked,
patiently feeding the growing flames with larger scraps of collected
wood. It was a mild night but it would have still been
chilly without the extra flickering heat; once the embers began
to gl0w it was almost cosy, the air rich with the smell of hay and
hazy with woodsmoke. Tim brought in a couple of spare DPM
camo smocks with the blankets, one of which Lomax hung up
to create a snug corner behind the door. Mess tins of lamb stew
followed and Lomax set a borrowed tin coffee pot amongst the
embers.

They ate in silence, and he watched Browne, not too obviously,
as she sat cross-legged opposite him, wolfing down the
food. With her fair hair a soft muddle and tumbling in marked
contrast against the greens, browns and sand colours of her
camouflage jacket, he thought how much like a child she
looked. A bit of a tomboy. Was that how she'd once been? He
remembered her description of her childhood in India. Scampering
about with the boys in just her knickers in the tender
years before innocence was lost. Imagined her swinging on the
branches of the tropical riverbank trees, dropping into the water
with squeals of self-induced fright and helpless laughter.

For a moment he felt an inexplicable regret, almost an ache,

that he hadn't known her then, hadn't shared those carefree
days that moulded her, that made her what she was today. Had
never known her before she'd become obsessed and driven,
before she'd collected the baggage of life and lost hope around
her.

'You're staring.'

He blinked. 'What? Sorry, I was miles away. Just wondering
what you were like as a little girl.'

A half-smile. 'Sugar and spice.'
'I'm not sure I believe that.'
'Daddy loved his little girl.'
'Daddies always do.'
'Even when I was horrid.'
'Were you horrid?'

'You won't believe this, Chris, but I had my moments. My
practice for being grown up. I never wanted to grow up.'


500

'I couldn't wait,' Lomax said.

'Little boy soldier, I bet.'

He laughed. 'Not far off. From tin soldiers to ar,m.y cadets. It
was in the family blood.'

'I'd like to have seen you in shorts.'

'No, you wouldn't. I didn't like girls.' -

'I bet you were a cute little chap. Very happy."

He grinned. 'Never happier than with an air rifle or catapult.'

She laughed aloud at that, it struck a chord. 'Somehow I do

believe that. What about your parents?'

'Dead, some years. And yours?'

'Mum died last year. But Dad...' For a moment her voice
faltered and he realised she was on the verge of tears. 'Sorry.
No, Dad died a long time ago. He really was still quite young.'

There was a noise outside the barn door, someone's footsteps.
Lomax glanced up to see van Niekerk standing with
another coffee pot in his hand. 'Replen,' he said. 'Hope I'm not
interrupting anything.'

'No,' Browne said quickly. 'We were just about to start our
camp-fire singsong. Want to join in?'

He dropped onto his haunches and placed the second pot
beside the first. 'Camp-fire singsongs. God, that takes me back
to the bush.' He laughed at the memory. 'With the army in
Rhodesia. Great times. I thought you might do with this.' He
fished in the bellows pocket of his combat trousers and produced
a plastic bottle of Scotch.

Browne's eyes lit up. 'Oh, God, could I do with a shot of that.'

'Sam's an alcoholic,' Lomax explained helpfully, and shifted
sideways to avoid the glancing blow.

'We haven't had a chance to s.peak,' van Niekerk said. 'I
wondered how Roddy's trial was going?' -

'Keegan said you used to know Roddy,' Lomax recalled.
'Know him?' van Niekerk replied. 'We were close mates. He
was best man at my wedding. Don't get much closer than
Roddy and me. In fact, we first met when he'd just come out to
Rhodesia. God, when was that? Hard to believe it's over twenty
five years.'

'You served together in the Rhodesian Army?' Browne asked.

501


'Yeah, we had our moments with the "terrs", the Communist
guerrillas. Later, when Roddy returned home to Ulster, I went
south to join the South African security police. I was asked to
set up a special unit and invited Roddy to come and join me.'

Lomax said: 'Yes, Roddy's told me about you. I just couldn't
place the name.'

'Do I gather the trial's not going well?' van Niekerk asked.

Brown explained the situation while the South African listened
in careful silence, passing round the whisky bottle.

When Browne finished talking, he said: 'I'm sorry, Sam, truly
I am. Give him my best when you see him. And wish him all the
luck in the world.'

'I'm afraid he's going to need it,' Lomax said.

Van Niekerk's expression was solemn. 'He's not the only
one.'

'What, you?' Browne asked.

The man grimaced. 'Yeah, well, my own stupid fault. Getting
mixed up with this lot.'

'Why did you?' Lomax asked.

'Seemed like a good idea. There was nothing left for exmilitary
like me in South Africa and the witch hunts had begun.
And, well, me and others have always had a fascination with
Ulster. There were quite a few Ulstermen like Roddy in Africa.
It seemed to many of us they faced similar problems. Isolated in
their way from a world that didn't understand, much less care.
So when the crunch came, and Tim Keegan got in touch,
asking for my help to spring his father who I'd known when he
lived in Jo'burg for ome time, well, it seemed like the right
thing to do. The Cuchulainn idea sounded a bold and courageous
move that might actually force a lasting peace. Their

plans were subtle, clever. No one was going to get hurt.'

'But?' Lomax asked.

'It's not working out,' van Niekerk said. 'Not going the way
we planned. There's this news blackout, no one knows the
extent of the damage we're causing, and our demands - essential
to the plan - have not been fully revealed by the media.'
There was exasperation in his voice. 'Keegan's losing control.
It's moving into Rattler's hands and soon the gloves will be


502

coming off. It'll be bombs and bullets, political assassinations,
the works. Then the ethnic cleansing will begin.' Browne looked
horrified. .

'You've seen mild-mannered little Albie. He expl'tined it to
me. They've had twenty-five years of this and it's got to change.
Says the only answer is to drive the Catholics eclat and torch their
houses so they can't come back. Albie's convinced now it's the
only solution.'

'Sounds more like Hitler's final solution,' Browne said. 'It's
horrible, like Bosnia.'

Van Niekerk shrugged. 'Does it help that Albie was crying
when he told me this? Said some of his best friends were Catholics,
but it was no good, they'd still have to go. There was no
other way now to achieve lasting peace.'

'There'd be civil war,' Lomax said darkly.

'Albie knows that. They all do. I think they've finally accepted
it as inevitable. And when it comes, it'll spread across the
border to engulf the whole of Ireland. They've come to believe
that if Loyalists want their freedom, they'll eventually have to
fight for it. And the sad thing is, they're probably right.'

Van Niekerk sighed deeply. 'Anyway, it's not exactly what I

was anticipating. It's all gone a bit sour as far as I'm concerned.'
'You could get out,' Browne suggested.

'And go where? Not back to Rhodesia or South Africa, that's
for sure. Besides a promise is a promise.' His grin was a little
forced. 'Hell, they've got no one else knows how to fly
choppers.'

He glanced then at his watch, deciding it was time to turn in
for the night. At the doorway, he paused: 'Incidentally, Chris,
that was a good move of yours to show an interest in joining us.
Rattler was all for having you both topped.' Browne blanched. 'I
think that swung it. iF i was you I'd stay on until the lady's safely

away from here. You can always change your mind later.'

Then he was gone.

'Christ, did he really mean that?' she breathed.

'Sounded like it. So I wasn't mistaken.'

'I don't want to leave you behind tomorrow.'

He was touched by the concern in her eyes and the dancing


503

light of reflected flames. His arm slipped around her shoulder
and he urged her closer, brushing his lips against her cheek. 'I'll
be okay.'

She turned to face him, her gaze mesmeric as though trying
to understand something. His feelings, or her own? They both
knew it at that moment, moving imperceptibly towards each
other without a word being spoken. So close. Her lips parting a
fraction and her eyelids fluttering momentarily like butterflies
settling on a leaf. The smell of her filled his nostrils; not the
usual smell of soap-scrubbed skin and a trace of perfg me. After
the traumas of the day, there was a raw earthiness, the smell of
sweat and fear mingled with the natural fragrance of her hair.

He felt her lips on his even before they touched, remembered
their taste, anticipating the sweetness of her tongue, the hint of
whisky and tobacco. His loins stirred as his mouth came down
on hers and he thought he heard her sigh.

'NO!' She pulled away suddenly. 'God, Chris, what is it with
you? Whenever we're alone you try it on. I wanted you here for
protection, not for a bloody screw.' She was trembling in her
anger, her eyes accusing, her chest heaving in indignation.

504


Twenty-one
	.


He stared back at her, still recoiling from her outburst. Christ,
could he never interpret her signals right?

Her breathing slowed. 'This is hardly the time, the place...'
Something snapped in his head, pent-up emotion of being
taunted and tantalised for so long exploding in anger. 'When
are you going to stop playing these stupid games, Sam? It's
never the right time or place with you, is it? What are you trying
to do to me? Whoever named you Cruella got it right. Do you
really loathe me that much?'

She seemed genuinely taken aback at that. 'No, Chris, you
know I don't.'

He tilted his head to one side. 'Do I? Well, I thought I did. So

what is it? Why are you so scared frigid to let yourself go?'

'I don't know what you mean,' she protested.

'I think you do. I think the prospect of love, of a relationship
scares you silly. I think you're afraid of another failure. What is
it? Two marriages down the tubes? God, well, I'm hardly surprised
at that. I can see now what the poor bastards had to
endure.'

'How dare you!'

'You're terrified of love and terrified of your own emotions.
So you bury yourself in your work, in good causes, instead of
getting yourself a life. You're working yourself into an early
grave. For God's sake, stop hating yourself, because if you don't
it'll kill you.'

She was reeling; it showed in her face. The mad eye up and a
snarl on her lips like an animal at bay; barking crazy and fighting
back in the only way she knew. 'You just see me as another
conquest, another notch on the bedpost. To you I'm just
another sodding challenge, another mountain to climb. C'mon,
Chris, why the hell should you want to screw me? A bloody.
dried-up old spinster!' Her voice was quavering when she


505

stopped abruptly, realising what she had just said. She was
visibly shaken and the sudden silence was stunning.

Lomax swallowed. 'Sam, you can't believe that. You are the
most beautiful creature I've ever known.'

She blinked, tears clinging like jewels to her lashes, her
mouth open. Speechless.

He grinned. 'Sure, not the youngest most beautiful creature
I've ever known. And sometimes it saddens me that I never
knew you in your first flush of youth, in your adolescence.'

At that she gave a dry half-chuckle and sniffed, trying to
recapture some composure. 'I had terrible pimples.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Maybe that's it. You must know just how
beautiful you are. You've got eyes and a mirror. You must see
how heads turn when you walk into a room. A room full of
beautiful women, yet it's always you they look at.'

Her voice was hushed, her gaze downward. 'You make it
sound like it's something to be proud of. It's horrible. People
expect...'

'Expect too much from a beautiful woman? Is that it? Men
expect too much?'

'More than I can give, Chris. To you I might seem beautiful whatever
that is - but that's not what it feels like from this side.
From this side I've always been gawky, teeth like a rabbit and no
boobs. Men scare me, life scares me. I'm always getting things
wrong, making a fool of myself or making enemies. Sometimes I
feel...' For a moment she mouthed around words that
wouldn't come. 'I feel so inadequate. At my job, at life itself.'

A fragile silence settled between them as they both watched
the flickering small flames of the fire. He wanted to hold her, to
comfort her. But he'd been down that road once too often
already.

At length, he said: 'Once before I made a promise to get out
of your life, but I came back. That was a mistake.'

Her lower lip crumpled like that of a crestfallen child. 'What
d'you mean, Chris?'

'After Roddy's trial, whatever the result, there'll be no need
for us to meet again. And this time I won't come back.'
She felt as though she had been pummelled, the stuffing


506

knocked out of her. She found herself staring dumbly at his
back as he shook out his bedding, pulled off his shirt and
snuggled into the blanket.

"4

It seemed as though he was asleep in an instant. "Maybe he
was, maybe not. But how peaceful and content he looked, she
thought. Like a little boy. Serene. Was it the, relief at having
finally made his decision to walk out of her world?

His eyes opened. Something had disturbed him. Had he been
asleep for a minute or an hour? He shook his head to clear his
mind, propping hhnselfon one elbow. What was it?

The fire still spat and crackled a few feet away. It can't have

been long then, urdess Browne had added another log.

'I couldn't sleep,' she said.

He squinted in the direction of her voice, into the dancing
shadows. It took a moment until the firelight lit the arched line
of her neck and picked out the glistening whites of her eyes. Her
shape was hidden by the DPM camouflage jacket draped over
her shoulders, only the contrasting splash of fair hair visible as
she knelt just a few feet in front of him.

She saw his look of momentary consternation as he focused
in the dark. Knew now that he would see that she was almost
naked beneath the jacket, would see the sheen of perspiration
on the skin between her breasts. Felt his eyes penetrating the
gloom, the confusion in his expression as he registered the
ivory-silk boxers she wore.

'What is this, Sam?' His voice was a low growl.
'I'm frightened.'
'Of what?'

'Of everything. This mess we're in, the danger. Roddy going
down.' Her hair floated around her as she shook her head in
despair. 'I'm frightened of what Grisewold might do to us.' Her
voice trembled. 'But mostly, I'm frightened of myself. Of losing
yOU.'

'Don't wind me up, Sam,' he warned.

She shut her eyes at his words, convincing herself that she
hadn't heard them. Not now, not at this moment. Not now that
she'd decided. Without opening her eyelids again she reached
out and took his right hand, lifting it from the blanket. She


507

carried it very slowly, but very deliberately towards her. The
small white fist of her hand brushed away the edge of the jacket
and pressed his palm hard against her breast. She held it there
until she felt her nipple harden in response, and knew that he
knew.

'No more games, Chris,' she whispered and left his hand
where it was as she reached across for him. And as he took her
in his arms and rolled her over to lie on top of him, her jacket fell
away.

'Sam,' he said, that was all.

She peered down at his face just inches below her chin. 'Yes,
Chris.'

'I want you.'

An impish half-grin. 'I know, I can feel it.'

'Some things can't lie.'

'Don't expect too much, I'm not very good. Be patient with
me. I don't know what to do, you know, not really. Teach me. I
don't want to die dried up and unloved.'

At that moment his heart ached. This was Sam Browne, the
real woman behind the faqade. This woman, so frightened and
too long alone, with tears in her eyes and trails of mascara down
her cheeks. Why hadn't it been him and not two other men who
had found and abandoned her first?

'Teach me,' she said again. Plaintive.

What could he say? 'I knew a man once, in the Regiment for a
short while. Name of Kurt Mallory. Had a way with women made
even whores fall in love with him.'

'Let me be your whore.'

Lomax said: 'He believed the secret was just to concentrate
on giving the other person pleasure. Simple as that.'

'Let me give you pleasure.' Her hand moved down across his
chest. 'Tell me what you like.'

'No, you tell me what you like first.'

Her eyes were unblinking white and the irises dancing flecks
of green amid the blue. So, so close. 'Take me from behind.
Like a dog.'

A light frown creased his brow. 'I don't think so.'

'I want you to treat me like dirt.'


508

'Sam...'

'I deserve it, the way I've behaved to you. Besides...'
'What?' .,..
'You asked me what I wanted.'

'When I make love to you for the first time, I want to see your

face.' 'Then,
afterwards?'

He didn't answer, but rolled her gently offhis chest and over
until he had her embraced beneath him.

The next half-hour passed in a haze. It was like a sweet
hallucination under morphine, all shadows and golden light
from the dying flames. Aware only of the tentative exploration
of her fingers, the whispering touch of her hair on his skin, her
moans. But when he finally drew aside the silk boxers and
penetrated her, she froze. Her eyes were cloudy with concern,
almost frightened, staring at him, knowing that this was the
moment and that her muscles had involuntarily contracted,

barring him at the very gate.

'YES!' she said.

And he pushed through until she yielded with a small cry,
muffled by the small fist that she clenched at her mouth. Then
slowly the waves began to mount, wave upon wave, taking their
time until her head was tossing from side to side. As the
momentum gathered, with increasing abandon it became a
frenzied and almost violent coupling. When she came, several
minutes after him, the power of release was tumultuous, her
teeth sinking into his shoulder and tearing his flesh in her
fevered climax.

Then everything went still, the dream dying away as all
dreams do, but this time the vision and the memories lingered.

'Stay inside,' she whispered breathlessly. 'I'm afraid if you go,
you'll never return.'

'I'll return.' He smiled. 'Trust me.'

'I do.' She relented then, and allowed him to withdraw. 'God,
what have I done to your shoulder? You need stitches.' He
rummaged for his cigarettes while she dabbed at the blood with
her handkerchief. 'God, you don't think I'm a vampire do you?'


509

'Ah, that's it. I knew there was something.' He handed her
one of the cigarettes and lit them.

They lay together for some time. Not talking, just getting
used to the new experience of being this close to each other for
the first time. Eventually, he asked her what he'd wanted to
know since their very first meeting. 'What is it that's made you
what you really are, Sam?' The admiration was plain in his eyes
as well as obvious and total bemusement. 'Such a fighter for the
underdog.'

'Oh, that.' She drew deeply on the cigarette and exhaled,

closing her eyes. 'You really want to know?'

'Really.'

'It's not something I'm used to telling people, especially in
law circles. They'd think I was the blindly biased daughter of a
father who betrayed his country.'

'Your father? You said he was in the RAF.'

She reached for the whisky bottle and examined the last
remaining inch. 'That's right. Then he spent years on secondment
to the Indian Air Force, helping it to develop and
modernise - that's where I was born. Afterwards he was posted
to RAF.Khormaksar in Aden as Wing Commander, Admin, or
"Wingco, drains" as he called it. That was in 1965, the year
that Ian Smith's Rhodesian government declared UDI - its
Unilateral Declaration of Independence.'

Lomax nodded as she swigged from the bottle and handed it

to him. 'I remember. Harold Wilson was Prime Minister.'

'Wilson planned to send in troops to seize it back, which
would have meant flying them to Africa via Aden. It caused an
absolute furore at the base, appa.rently, a near mutiny at the
prospect of the British fighting their own kith and kin so soon
after the last war when Rhodesian pilots fought on our side.

'The C-in-C Middle East and Air Officer Commanding told
London what they thought in no uncertain terms. Dad was
furious too. He was putting up a visiting MI6 .man at the time
and they were lunching at the Rock hotel. They'd had a bit to
drink and the argument got heated, especially when the MI6
man denied what was planned. Dad shouted in the crowded
restaurant that he'd seen the effing Top Secret order, and pro510


duced a copy, waving it for all to see. Made it plain no flights to
Rhodesia would be refuelled or serviced while he was at the

base.' ,.

'Like father, like daughter,' Lomax murmured.

'The government backed down, but they wanted a scapegoat,
to set an example. My father was court-martialled for conduct
prejudicial. Cashiered out of the RAF after years Of exemplary
service. No pension no nothing. And no one lifted a finger to
help. We returned to England penniless. Dad never really got
over it. He died four years later. He was only forty-nine. When

he really, desperately needed help, there was no one.'

'And you've fought for the underdog ever since.'

'When people are that far down, Chris, I'm often the only
friend they have in the world.'

He was beginning to understand.

'At least Roddy's got Evie and Noel and you.'
'And now you've got me, Sam. If you want me.'
'I want.'


It had taken Jerry Tucker hours to get to sleep, tossing and
turning in the narrow bed of his rented bedsit in Lisburn.
Oblivion had finally closed in on him, only to be rudely shattered
by the insistent trilling of the bedside telephone.
He snatched up the handset. 'Yes.'
'It's Joe.'

'Thank Christ for that! Where the hell are you?'
'A church car park.' He gave the location.
'We need to talk, urgent.'

'Agreed, but I've got no wheels. Correction, I've got the

wheels you lent us, but the car's been :locked.'
'Who by?'
'Dirty Harry.'

'Shit, that explains it. Never mind. I'll be with you in twenty

to thirty minutes.'

'Ciao :

Tucker tumbled out of bed in a hurry and began pulling on
jeans and a sweater over his pyjamas. If he'd slowed up physi.
cally over the years, he'd never moved faster than this night. He


511

was out of his bedsit in five minutes flat and had his car out of
the garage in record time. He crashed the gears and hit the gas
pedal.

In just twenty-one minutes, he pulled up on the main road
alongside the deserted car park. Only one car in the entire site,
the pool car he'd lent Lomax.

His spirits collapsed. Normally a car like that left after hours
would have drawn the attention of the RUC. And when it was
known to be a pool car, someone would have collected it. The
fact that it was still there meant someone knew it was there and
was watching it.

Tucker's heart suddenly jumped as the big face with the
walrus moustache appeared at the passenger window.

'God, you gave me a fright,' he said as Monk scrambled in.

'Let's get out of here, Jerry. I've been sitting under that
fucking bush since dark. Feel like I've put down roots.'

Tucker swung out, checked his mirror for signs of a following
vehicle, and headed offwith no clear idea where to. go.

Monk said: 'Something's gone wrong. Chris and Sam went to

see King Billy and never came back to the car.'

"I know.'

'What?' He took a moment to absorb Tucker's answer. 'Are
they all right? What's happened?'

'King Billy's dead. Assassinated.'

'Fuck me.' He shook his head in bewilderment. 'You don't
think Chris...?'

Tucker shook his head. 'Two carloads of gunmen descended
on Baker's caravan hideaway. There was some shoot-out and at
the end of it the big fella was dead. The gunmen drove off and
some people - who must have been with Baker before they

arrived- were seen legging it across fields. One was a woman.'
'You mean Sam?'

'The description fits. Another of them could well have been

Chris. Right age, build and hair colour.'
'What happened to them?'
'Vanished. Anyway, no sign as yet.'
'And they weren't injured?'
'Not as far as I know.'


512

	'What about the gunmen? Who were they, any idea?'

There was a tormented look in Tucker's eyes. 'My boys just
started to take an interest when the Security Service,stepped in
and took over. Complete clamp down. They're handling it all
with an RUC Special Branch team. Frankly, Joe, it stinks of

rotten fish.'
		'Meaning?'

	" "

Tucker found he could no longer concentrate on his driving.
He pulled into the roadside and stopped abruptly. He turned to
face Monk straight. 'Look, Joe, I could be wrong about all this. I
mean 14 Int - my lads - are being kept well out of all this. But
some of them overheard some joke about Top Guns at the OK
Corral.'

	'Meaning?'

'The sort of disparaging stuff our people say when Americans
foul up.'

	'The gunmen?'

'I think so. And if that's true, it might not have been King
Billy they were after. This special CIA unit is operating with
Dirty Harry and King Billy was his man. If it was them, they

might have been out to get Chris and maybe even Browne.'
'Why, for God's sake?'

'It would bugger Roddy's trial for a start. Everything's going
chaotic over here, Joe, you wouldn't believe it! This Cuchulainn

mob are really making their presence felt.' He hesitated.

	'Yes?'

Intensity burned in Tucker's eyes. 'This really is classified.
Top Sodding Secret. In the past week three top Provos have
been assassinated.'

Monk blinked. 'I've heard...'

'Nothing. I know. Sinn Fein's keeping buttoned and so's the
Northern Ireland Office with the Forum elections looming.
But it's happened. Not well-known names, but the real power
brokers.' He sighed and leaned back against his seat. 'Something's
out of control, Joe, and I don't know what it is. But
it's shitting well dangerous and you and Chris and Roddy are
somehow caught up in the middle of it.'

Monk stared ahead through the windscreen at the line of


513

streetlights marching away to infinity. Suddenly it was hot and
airless in the confines of the car. He wound down the window.
'You too, Jerry,' he said quietly. 'If we're caught up, so are you
now.'

Tucker nodded. 'Yes, I suppose I am. It won't take long to

work out who gave you the pool car. I'm finished.'

'I'm sorry.'

His friend sucked in his cheeks, deep in concentration.
'Don't be, Joe. 'Cause I don't give a shit any more. I didn't sign
up for all this sort of crap. I'll be well out of it. You just can't
trust anyone any more.' His jaw tightened as he came to a
decision. 'If I'm not arrested the moment I put my foot inside
HQ tomorrow, then I'll ask for a posting back to the mainland
and get out of the army as soon as I can. But you,' he added,
glancing at Monk, 'you're the one with the problem. You need
to get out of the province fast, before Box or the Yanks whoever
realise you're not going back to that pool car.'

Monk nodded. 'I was thinking of making it over the border

on foot, get a bus to the ferry port.'

'No,' Tucker said suddenly, 'that'll take too long if Box are
looking for you. You've got to move fast. Take my car.'

Monk was startled. 'Well, Christ, thanks, Jerry, but that
won't help.'

'And my ID.'

'You can't do that.'

'I've just done it. Just shave that tash off and you'll get by.
Drive over the border. Tonight. Get the first ferry from Cork.
You can post my ID back when you get home. I'm in such deep
shit anyway, losing my ID won't make it any worse. No one's
going to be looking for my private car or me while I'm still
around.' Then he remembered. 'Sam was asking about that
retired MI5 chief, Walter Grey. His real name is de Witt. Apparently he's in a hospice. Somewhere in south Hampshire.
It's all I could get.'

'Great! You're a pal.'

'If we haven't got each other, Joe, old comrades, who the luck
have we got?'

The return journey to Lisburn took a more leisurely thirty514


five minutes. Two streets away from Tucker's digs they pulled in
and Monk took the driver's seat. Tucker leaned in at the

window. 'Take care, Joe, and watch your back.' ,.

'Sure. And if you get word from Chris or Sam -'

'You'll be the first to hear: Don't worry, Chris can look after

himself.' "

'That's what I'm afraid of.'

The big man let out the clutch and the exhaust burbled softly
away into the mild moist night.

Tucker stood and watched the receding taillights until they
were swallowed up in the darkness. Now he felt totally alone.
He glanced around the familiar suburban street. No one and
nothing stirred. So deceptive, he knew. Such an ordinary place,
Northern Ireland, which made events here over the years all the
more extraordinary.

He'd seen it all, and suddenly the prospect of leaving for good
seemed to lift some great burden from his shoulders. As he
began the short walk to his home, his feet felt light as though
they were floating. A new life ahead, beckoning. No more
danger and deceit, no more not trusting any human, on your
side or the other. Indeed, sometimes he hardly knew which side
was which any more. Away from covert ops, the dirty tricks, the
killing. Away from the fucking rain.

He must have been watching the car for several seconds
before he realised it was moving.

It had been parked facing him, just beyond the house where
he had his bedsit. A dark nondescript model with tinted
windows. And no lights, because if it had had its lights on
he'd have realised it was starting to roll silently forward, its
soundproofed engine generating no-more than a murmur.

He froze. For a second he considered running back the way
he'd come. Or should he race forward, get to the house, hit the
panic button? Twenty yards no contest.

The indecision cost him vital seconds,

With a life and will of their own, his legs crashed into action,
propelling him forward with the fear-induced power of an
Olympian sprinter. The headlights of the oncoming car burst
over him, showering him with blinding light. Lungs heaved to


515

bursting as he stretched every sinew for that extra inch, that
extra millisecond that would get him to safety. Past the neighbour's
garden wall, past the gate pillar, those twin orbs like the
light tunnels of an out-of-body experience. Bearing down on
him, devouring him.

Sharp, hard right-hand turn. Into the garden, across the
crazy paving of the drive. Now the car behind him, engine
screaming as it mounted the pavement ramp, illuminating the
entire front of the house.

Heaving for breath, he stopped before the garage doors and
turned. He couldn't believe it. It was still coming, on top of
him.

He scarcely felt the pain as the bumper crashed into his thighs
and ground his bones and flesh into the unrelenting steel of the
up-and-over doors. The screaming mind-numbing agony only
came after the driver crunched into reverse gear and the car
backed off a fraction. It blew his mind like a tiny bomb planted
in his skull.

His head filled with noise as the car slammed forward again.
"Again and again.


Thomas Harding, a signals lieutenant at headquarters of
Western Command at Custume Barracks, Athlone, stared at
the secret signal in front of him.

He felt a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach as he read it over
again and the list of attachments to it. His eyes were dizzy and
unfocused as he scanned the papers again and again for one
word. In vain.

That word was Exercise, and it wasn't there.

Of course, it was not his job to reason why, as the poem went.
Just to do and die. Wasn't that it?

Numbly he read over the units to be put on immediate
standby. Not forty-eight hours, not twenty-four. Immediate.
Christ, what was going on? He could imagine the panic, the
confusion. Depleted battalions desperately trying to contact
members on leave, or fly back subunits from training exercises
or United Nations duties in some far-flung place. Workshops
sweating to get every vehicle repaired and serviced to oper


516

ational standards, getting the ugly wheeled French Panhard
carriers, like something out of Gothic science fiction, up and
running, the twin 7.62mm machine guns oiled and,te.ady. The
whole of 4 Brigade, including 1st and 28th at Galway. and
Donegal, Western Command - the entire goddamn shooting
match - on a war footing and on the march nOrth to join the
regular border patrols. Reserves called up.

Harding flipped the page. Again he couldn't believe it.
Similar orders for 2 Brigade in Dublin, the other border
command, scrambling troops from the Collins and Cathal
Brugha barracks. Even 6 Brigade from Curragh and Kilkermy
and - he blinked again - Southern Command's 1 Brigade from
County Cork. All the way up to the border. Talk about the big
push, this was reading like all-out war.

And if he needed confirmation, there it was. The long list of
field artillery barracks - McGee, Murphy, Columb, McCann
and Dun Di Mhaoiliosa in Galway. Nine field artillery regiments.
Heavy mortars and 105mm light guns. Plus the Air
Defence Regiment.

He glanced back at the opening preamble of the message. 'To
aid the civil power...' The usual phrase. Balls, Harding
thought, you don't deploy artillery and the Air Defence Regiment
for that. This was armed forces primary role, this stuff. ' To
defend the state against external aggression:

Was all this some administrative oversight? Or was it a reality
training exercise when they would only be told to stand down
when they reached their designated holding-up areas on the
start line at the border? Just what the hell was it all about?
He imagined the telephones at Dublin headquarters would be
jammed with senior officers requesting clarification.

There was always one squadron of the Cavalry Corps' Panhards
- No. 4 out of Longford - designated to support border
security operations, he knew. But according to the signal, two
other squadrons had been mobilised, one from Fermoy and the
heavy mob, the 1st Tank Squadron of Scorpion light tanl(s
from Curragh with supporting Timoney armoured personnel
carriers.

No mention here of the army's Ranger Wing. In previous


517

exercises, the country's special forces had been earmarked to
seize strategic buildings and facilities in the North. They
included the ports of Warrenpoint, Belfast and Larne, Alderg
rove airport, and all broadcasting studios and military barracks.

That in itself was strange, Harding thought, until he considered
that if this was for real, the Ranger Wing's orders would
be passed directly and secretly to their headquarters.

It was a relief when Major O'Hare, a bluff and stocky career
officer, entered the ops room. His usually cheerful expression
was clouded by genuine concern.

'Is this for real, sir?' Harding ventured.

The middle-aged officer shook his head slowly, clearly not
believing himself what was going on. 'I don't know, Tom,
honest I don't. Sure, no one seems to know and that's a fact.
Everyone's in the dark.'

'Surely we wouldn't take on the English - not now? Not when
they've got the elections and Peace Forum coming up.'

'Wouldn't make sense,' O'Hare agreed. 'Unless, of course,

this is all about sealing off the border against the Cuchulairm group. You know, make a big public show. Because that's all it'd
be. You don't stop saboteurs with armour and artillery.'

'That's what concerns me. It's more like a rerun of Autumn
Gold, but on a much bigger scale, and we all know what the
ultimate purpose of that was to be.'

The major nodded. 'Save the Catholic enclaves. Seize the
facilities with special forces, grab the artillery base in Coleraine.'
He paused, trying to recall the detail. 'The armour in
north Belfast, then flying columns straight up the M1 to
Belfast. Cutting off British reinfo.rcements to the second pincer
in the west which would have seized Derry, Strabane and
Enniskillen.'

'Could that ever have worked?'

'I doubt it, we couldn't have held out for long. But the embarrassment
to Whitehall and the international furore would have
brought some kind of result. Diplomatic intervention, a UN

presence, who knows?'

'So why now?'

The major smiled uneasily. 'My guess is it's to frighten the


518

English. A bit of good old sabre-rattling., Put pressure on them
over the peace process and this bloody Cuchulainn threat.'

Now Harding felt a little reassured. 'Well, it certai !y frightened
me for a moment or two.'

It was then that Harding's shift finished and the replacement
duty officer arrived. After updating the newcomer, Harding
made his way towards the canteen. By the row Of public wall
phones he hesitated.

His was a Protestant family that had lived in Eire for generations;
they lived happily amongst their Catholic neighbours,
but also had many Protestant friends and acquaintances in the
North.

It was to one of these that Harding felt compelled to make a
brief call. A rendezvous was agreed. Then the signals officer
hung up, turned away from the canteen and began walking
towards the car park. The photocopied battle orders felt as
though they were burning in his breast pocket.


He looked up from the mess tin of coffee bubbling on the
embers. 'Breakfast.'

She was in the shadows, her hair up and stripped to the baggy
camouflaged trousers that were several sizes too large. They
emphasised the narrowness of her waist and the elegant arch of
her back which she'd kept carefully to him as she sluiced with
water from a galvanised bucket. Before turning, she replaced
and buttoned the jacket.

'That's better. I haven't washed like that since I was a Girl
Guide.'

'No cracked mirror then?'

'What?' Instinctively her hand went to her cheek as she
realised what he meant. 'Oh, no make-up. Yes, ghastly, isn't it?'

'Not from where I'm sitting. Just makes you look - more
ordinary. Vulnerable.'

'Ugly,' she helped out.

'Stop fishing for compliments and get your coffee. At least
you didn't put your teeth in a jar.'

She took the tin mug he'd filled. 'Not while you were
looking,' she replied lightly and sipped at it, scalding her lip.


519

He decided to brave the question he had to ask. 'No regrets,
Sam? About last night.'

'fie ne regrette den: She took the cigarette he offered. 'Except

for the straw up my arse and other uncomfortable places.'
'Sorry about that.'
'You're an animal.'
'I didn't mean to be.'

'That's a compliment,' she replied mockingly. 'I prefer

animals to humans.'

'Not all?'

A hint of a smile. 'No, not any more. And maybe I'm getting
too old for regrets.'

'Good.' He reached forward and kissed her gently on the lips.
She didn't resist and, when he pulled back, she held his hands
to her cheeks.

'I don't want you to stay here, Chris. Now I've found you God,
I really don't want to lose you.'

He couldn't explain what those words meant to him. After
losing Fran, he'd wondered if he'd ever hear them again. 'You
won't, Sam. But if I stay on for now it'll persuade them that
we're not a threat. Half of Keegan's men were in favour of
topping us as a security risk. They're all so far in now that

another couple of killings would make no difference.'

She stared down at her coffee. 'I suppose so.'

I'll wait my chance. In a few days, when the situation's right,
I'll slip away and rejoin you in London.'

He'd barely said the words when Keegan and Rattler:
appeared at the barn door with Spike.

'Still staying with us, Chris?' Keegan asked. 'Or

your mind?'

'I gave my word,' Lomax replied, adding with

than he felt, 'as long as we can agree a price.'

'I'm sure we can.' Keegan turned to Browne. 'Johan's gone to
get the helicopter from the airfield. He'll touch down here
to pick you up in about fifteen minutes. I want you packed, in
civvies, and ready to jump aboard. Then he'll drop you on a
secluded part of the Welsh coast. You'll have to make your own


520

way from there.' He turned to Lomax. 'Come and let's talk
while she gets sorted.'

As the men sauntered towards the nearby copse where van
Niekerk would be landing, Keegan said: 'Square with me,
Chris. Can she be trusted?'

'To keep her mouth shut about you and Cuculainn? She's no
reason to do otherwise. She/s in the middle of a murder trial.'

'Never trust a woman,' Stevie Gavin said darkly. 'Can't help
themselves. I never tell my women anything.'

Not out of the wood just yet, Lomax thought. 'Sam's different.
Besides, if she talks she puts herself at the scene of King
Billy's murder. She knows damn well MI5 would love to de her
in with that. Just think what her arrest now would do for
Roddy's trial.'

Keegan appeared to accept the logic of that.

Lomax said quickly: 'So what about the contract?' He
sounded eager.

'Not in writing.' A joke. 'We're paying mercenaries like Johan
a grand a week. And a two-grand bonus if you finish a three
month tour.'

'You make it sound like a regular army.'

Suddenly Keegan's eyes were very serious. 'That's what it'll
become if all this ends in civil war. And I think it will.'

'Cold feet already?' Gavin goaded Lomax, then turned as
he heard the approach of van Niekerk's helicopter. 'Here he
comes.'

The Agusta came in low over the treetops, then swaggered to

a stationary hover before descending into the clearing.

'Where is she?' Keegan asked, turn.ing.

Browne was running across from the barn, her shoulder bag
flapping.

'Hurry up!' Gavin shouted. 'Every second he's down, there's
a risk of being compromised.'

'Sorry,' she said breathlessly, 'I got taken short.'

Gavin's eyes rose heavenward.

'Good luck with the trial,' Keegan said. 'Do your best for.
him.'

521


'I will.' She turned to Lomax and kissed him briefly on the
lips. 'I'll miss you.'

Then she was gone, bent low, and scampering beneath the
thrashing rotors. No sooner was she aboard than the helicopter
lifted skyward then, canting over, set course for the Irish Sea.

As it shrank from view, Lomax felt an ache in his chest, a pain
that was almost physical. He stared blindly until he was left
watching an empty sky.

'Let's get back,' Keegan said.


The rest of the morning was spent going over future plans for
the next wave of operations against the Republic.

Lomax soon detected a difference in approach between
Keegan and Stevie Gavin. While Keegan had masterminded
the sabotage plan, it was Rattler who'd begun targeting
members of the Provisional IRA and INLA leadership. The
two men were co-operating but there was an underlying antagonism
and the strain was beginning to show. Rattler made no
secret of the fact he thought they should begin assassinating
police and military in Eire and plan to take out some major
political figures.

The argument was in full swing when van Niekerk arrived
back from the airfield where he had parked the helicopter. It
was a relief to see him.

'One fightin' lawyer back on the mainland,' the pilot

announced. 'She's quite a girl, that one.'

"Impressed?'

' Could say.' He hesitated. 'Are you two an item?'

Lomax smiled. 'That's pretty hard to determine.'

Van Niekerk winked. 'Work at it. If you ask me, she's smitten.
Thinks the sun shines out your backside.'

'It does.' And they both laughed, Lomax feeling particularly
pleased to hear the South African's opinion.

The pilot helped himself to, coffee and turned his attention to
Gavin who was arguing for Cuchulainn to take a more aggressive
stance.

'Problem is, Peter, no one knows what we're doing. But blow

up a politician or two, or some gardai and that'll soon change.


522

Can't deny bodies on the street. That's what makes terrorism
work. Terrorising.'

At that moment a car drew up outside and all eyes turned
towards the door.

Lomax had not seen the man who entered before. He was tall
and in his mid-thirties with neat dark hair and ary eyes; it did
not surprise Lomax to learn later that he was a sergeant in the
Royal Ulster Constabulary.

'So what's this news you're so excited about?' Keegan asked
the new arrival

The policeman extracted an envelope from the pocket of his
jacket and slapped it on the table. 'I think we've finally stirred
up the hornet's nest. Dublin's starting to do a little sabrerattling.
It's put the majority of army units on immediate alert
for border manoeuvres. Our intelligence assessments indicate
it's out of frustration over Cuchulainn's activities. They think the
Brits aren't doing enough to stop us.'

Keegan's grin was very wide. 'Shame they don't realise our
HQ is behind their lines.' He picked up the envelope and shook
out the photocopies of the Irish Army signals. Concern clouded

his face as he read. 'Are you sure this isn't for real, Brian?'

'No way, even the Irish aren't that daft.'

Gavin jabbed a finger at the signal Keegan was holding. 'This

is our golden opportunity!'

'What d'you mean?'

'That signal, does it give details of convoy routes, that sort of
thing?'

His colleague glanced back at the papers. 'Seems to. Yes, the
routes various columns will take. Copied to the Garda to keep
the roads clear of traffic. Then timings and the location of
marshalling points along the border.'

'Magic,' Gavin declared. 'So we pick on one of the columns
and set up an ambush. Take 'em out and get the whole thing on
video.' He grinned in triumph. 'I'd like to see Dublin or London
keep the lid on that!'

Keegan looked up, uncertain, glancing at the faces gathered
around the table. Gavin, Albie Nairn, Tim, Spike, Gaza, Hutch.
and the South Africans. And saw the smiles.


523

Their time had come.

Stevie Gavin turned to Lomax. 'And you?'

Despite the draining sense of dread in his gut, Lomax forced
a grin. 'Count me in.'


That night, Albie Nairn and Keegan left with van Niekerk for
the airfield. The helicopter would take them to some secret
location over the border where apparently heavy weapons and
anti-vehicle mines were stored. Meanwhile Gavin and the
others pored over maps and the signal details to select their
target.

Finally, the decision was made. The attack would go in the
following night. They would take on the Irish ikrmy's lst.Tank
Squadron, or at least part of it. The elite, the creme de la creme of
light reconnaissance tanks. It would be a day that Dublin would
never forget and a day that the Loyalist paramilitaries would
savour for ever.

At ten, the helicopter had still not returned and Lomax left
the others to turn in. The barn suited him; there he could be
alone with his thoughts.

He lit the fire and placed the coffee pot on the flames before
sitting down and lighting a cigarette. His only concern was how
best to get away and alert someone to what was going down.
Armed pickets guarded the farm day and night. Given his
training, that would be no great problem. But that would be if
he left alone and he now had in mind to take one person with
him. He'd have to be cautious though, not reveal his hand until
his suspicions were confirmed.

The burden of responsibility was getting to him and he was
feeling unaccountably weary. When he finally turned in that
night, his last waking thoughts were of Sam Browne.


On the Tuesday morning he awoke to the bustle of activity
outside and excited voices. During the night the helicopter
had dropped Keegan, Spike and Nairn with supplies of heavy
weapons. Now the mixed team of Ulstermen and South Africans
were admiring and inspecting the formidable arsenal.
Everything from handguns and assault rifles to antitank


524

rockets, mines and heavy machine guns. Not the very latest
designs but more than adequate for the purpose.

'How long have we got before the ambush?' he asled Keegan.
'Tonight, Chris. We cross our Rubicon at around midnight.'
God, Lomax thought, that gave him so little time.

The rest of the day was to pass in operai0nal planning,
creating a sand-pit model of the ambush area and weapons
familiarisation. With the bantering and camaraderie, it was
almost like old times. But not quite.

Time was running out and Lomax was starting to regret his
decision not to leave the previous night. He had become the
centre of attention, everyone wanting to draw on his experience
and it was impossible even to attempt sneaking away.

That gave him only one hope, a telephone. There was one in
the farmhouse but the use of that was everely restricted for
security reasons. And only Tim and Rattler had their own
mobiles.

So Lomax had no choice but to bide his time, even if that
commodity was disappearing fast.

They stopped in mid-afternoon for a belated lunch break of
sandwiches and coffee. Lomax wandered off to be alone,
leaning against the fence and admiring the pastoral setting

while he sipped from his coffee mug.

'Penny for them?'

He turned. Johan van Niekerk was standing behind him, a
can of lager in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other.

Lomax forced a smile. 'Just trying to get my head around this
stuff. Going to war against Ireland tonight.'

Van Niekerk lughed. Hardly that. They won't be expecting

it. It'll be a turkey shoot.'

'If it goes to plan.'

The South African raised an eyebrow. 'And it never does,
right?'

'Your experience too, I expect?'

'You know how to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.'
There was a bitter humour in the South African's chuckle,
'We'll have the Irish and British security forces down on us like


525

a ton of bricks. I don't think we'll be able to continue like before.

Events will take on their own momentum.'

'Sounds like you don't approve?'

Van Niekerk shrugged, cautious. He wasn't about to hand
himself a death sentence by confessing his reservations to
someone he hardly knew. 'I don't approve or disapprove. It's
what's been decided. Fine. I'm not a general, just a foot soldier.'

That engaging smile. 'If you can have a flying foot soldier.'

'But?' Lomax persisted. He had to know.

The man finished the last of his sandwich and accepted the
cigarette Lomax offered. 'To be honest, it wasn't what I was
expecting. I've followed the Loyalist cause for years, ever since
Roddy Littlechild explained the situation to me back in
Rhodesia all those years ago. Since then I've put my life on the
line many times to protect a way of life. First Rhodesia - I still
find it hard to call it Zimbabwe - and then South Africa. And
both times I've lost.'

'And you're hoping Ulster will be third time lucky?'

Van Niekerk took a deep draught of tobacco smoke. 'I was
feeling pretty down before Tim Keegan looked me up last year
and put his proposition to me. That really cheered me up. I
knew my life there was finished under black rule. Tim's visit
seemed like - I don't know, providence. A message. A new life
and new homeland. A future in my old, age.'

'He told you his father's plans for Cuchulainn?'

' Sure.'

'It didn't put you off?'

Van Niekerk glanced sideways at him. 'Why should it? The
sabotage plan sounded good. Gie the Republic a thorough
shaking up, make them do what they should have done years
ago. And a clear set of political aims. And best of all, no one
would get hurt. Probably like you, I've seen a lot of senseless

killing in my' time.'

'But now?'

He looked back out across the meadow. 'No one mentioned
taking on the Irish Army. Brewing up innocent soldiers in their
tanks. Like some boil-in-the-bag dish.' He almost spat the


526

words with contempt. 'I've known many Irishmen in my time
from North and South. It's killing your own.'

Lomax decided to take a gamble, more sure th ever now
that he'd been right. Van Niekerk was wavering. 'It'll be worse if
it all ends in civil war.'

'Yeah, and no one mentioned that. Didn'texplain the way
things would probably go.'

Push a little more, Lomax thought, one more little gamble. 'I
get the feeling it's changed since Rattler came on the scene.'

Van Niekerk raised an eyebrow, unsure where Lomax was
coming from. Was he being tested for loyalty? Cautiously he
said: 'Gavin has different views. Believes in fighting fire with
fire, pushing things to the edge.'

Lomax decided to go for it. 'I think Stevie Gavin's gaining the
upper hand, starting to run things. Mind you, I'm the new boy.
I could have it all wrong.'

The South African shook his head. 'No, you're right. And
now I'm not sure I still fit in. I'm not even sure I want to be
here.'

'Then walk away.'

A mirthless chuckle. 'You don't walk far with a bullet in your
head.'

'Try flying. You're the pilot.'

Suddenly van Niekerk's eyes narrowed. 'What is this, Chris?
You winding me up, playing games? This isn't a fuckin' joke,
you know.'

Lomax knew he'd struck home. 'Listen, Johan, yesterday I
thought a contract with the6e people for a few months could be
good. God knows, I need the brass. But I was sold the same
story as you. Sabotage work for a .sound political goal is one
thing. But I'm not about to become a terrorist -I've spent my
whole life fighting them.' He added pointedly: 'Just like you.'

'Fine line that,' van Niekerk observed, 'between fighting for
freedom and being a terrorist.'

'A line I'm not about to cross.'

A shadow passed behind the other man's eyes. 'I don't think
you should be telling me this.'

'You want out, Johan, it's written all over your face. So do I.


527

We both got it wrong. Somehow we've got to put a stop to
what's going down tomorrow - mass murder of innocent Irish
troops on peacetime deployment.'

'So what do we do? You want to try walking out of here? Just

see how far you get?'

'The helicopter?'

Van Niekerk smiled at that. 'You don't realise, do you?'

'What?'

'That chopper is their prized investment. I'm only allowed to

fly with an armed guard.' He raised a hand. 'No, no one's ever said I'm not trusted, ever hinted. But I've noticed there's always
a hard man with me since we started operations here. Whenever
I've offered to fly alone, Peter or Stevie Gavin always insist on
an escort, even if it's awkward to arrange. It's no coincidence.'

Lomax hadn't expected that. 'There's one other way. If I can
use a phone I can get something sorted. I can't use the one in

the farm, but if I could get hold of one of their mobiles?'

'Their?'

'Keegan's or Gavin's)

'No need.' He smiled. 'I've got one. Need it in my role.'

Now this was totally dangerous territory. He had to know van
Niekerk was on board. If he wasn't, if he hesitated, Lomax
would have to kill him. Right here by the fence, using just his
bare hands. And then run like hell, take his chances with the
armed pickets.

He said: 'Let me use it. Alert someone to what's going down
tonight.'

'You know who to call?'

'I've an idea.'

An easy smile crossed the Sotth African's face. 'If I knew
who to call, I might have done it myself.'

'Not here,' Lomax said. 'Too exposed.' He saw the farm track

to his right, shielded by wild blackberry hedges on both sides.
'Let's take a stroll.'

They lit two more cigarettes and ambled like old friends,
chatting and laughing for the benefit of anyone observing.

Once out of view between the hedges, van Niekerk said: 'I'll
keep lookout,' and handed over his mobile.


528

er's number. 'Hello,

Jerry?'

'Jerry isn't here.' An unfamiliar voice. 'Who is that?'- .
'Never mind. Can I reach him? This is urgent.'
'Then tell me:

'This is personal. It's got to be Jerry or no one.

'Sorry, chum, Jerry's dead. Now, do you want tO tell me?'
Lomax was stunned. 'Jerry dead?'

'A hit and run last night. Sorry. So, want to talk?'

He rang off, his mind in a spin. Still not fully registering the appalling news, yet feeling somehow responsible without even
knowing why. Who else to call? Whose number? Which ones
could he remember? Joe Monk. He ran his finger deftly over the
key pad. The ringing tone began at the other end. On and on
and on. No answer. Reason began to return. No, of course
yesterday Monk was with them in Belfast. No point of contact if
he was still there. And no time yet to get home unless he flew.
And if he flew, he wouldn't do so from Ulster. There probably
had not yet been enough time for him to get home.

Who else? Sam Browne? Would she be back yet? He keyed in
the office number. 'Eisner, Pollock and Browne,' Totty

announced brightly. 'How may I 'elp you?'

'It's Chris here '

'Oh, my God, where've you got to? We're all worried sick.'
'Isn't Sam back yet?'

'Back? No - oh, hang on a mo'.' A pause. 'I think that's her
now. Expect you can 'ear the s.wearin' and cussin'.'

A second later a breathless Browne was on the line.
'Chris! Are you okay?'
'Fine. And you?'

'Apart from hitching a lift with a Welsh sex maniac lorry
driver.'

'What?'

'It's all right. I gave him a black eye at the Severn Bridge
service station, then persuaded a police patrol car to get me
back...'

'Shut up, Sam,' Lomax interrupted, 'and listen. Things are
about to get out of hand here. Keegan's lot intend to hit an Irish


529

Army convoy tonight. If we don't stop it, a lot of people will get
killed and any peace process will be well and truly over.'

She blinked, trying to absorb what he was saying. 'What
d'you want me to do?'

'I've tried to get Jerry Tucker,' he explained, 'but Jerry died

last night. Car accident.'

'No!' Incredulous.

'This is going to go against the grain, but get hold of Prender
gast - Roger Pinfold. He'll tale it seriously and know the right
buttons to push. Tell him Cuchulainn is going to hit a flying
column of the 1st Irish Tank Squadron around midnight.
Somewhere on the N15 along the Barnesmore Gap in Donegal.
Got that?'

She was scribbling frantically. 'Er- yes.'

'Tell Pinfold to contact the SAS at Hereford and persuade
Dublin to use them rather than their own. The Hereford lads
know me and I'll have van Niekerk by my side. We're the good
guys - make sure he knows that.'

Browne was horrified. 'You're going to be there?'

'I've no option.'

At that moment, van Niekerk said in a hoarse whisper: 'Wind

it up, Chris, Stevie Gavin's wandering this way.'

Lomax acknowledged. 'Gotta go, Sam. Make it happen.'

'I love you,' she blurted, but the line was dead.

Her receiver had barely touched the cradle when the phone

rang again. She snatched it up. 'Browne here.'

'Sam, it's Joe.'

'Oh, thank God it's you. Where are you?'

'Cork, about to board the ferry. What the hell are you doing
in London? How.. 2'

'Long story, Joe, but listen. Chris has just called. Something
bloody awful's about to happen.' Rapidly she brought him up to
date.

He listened intently. Then he said: 'No, not Pinfold, Sam. I'll
contact Jerry Tucker.'

'You can't, Joe. He died last night in a road accident. I'm
afraid, given the time, Roger Pinfold is our only option.'

Monk didn't like it, but it wasn't up to him. Then he remern

530


bered Tucker's last message about the identity and whereabouts
of the enigmatic Mr Grey of MIS. But Browne sounded too
dazed to be taking it in. Moments later he hung up ,and stepped
out of the call box. Yes, he could see why Pinfold wastheir only
option. He knew exactly what was going down, would have th.e
necessary clout and know exactly who to contact to get things
done.

Yes, he understood, but he still didn't like it.

Sod you, Chris, he swore beneath his breath and returned to
Tucker's car. He started the engine and threw the wheel hard
round, taking the car in a circle and bumping up over the
opposite kerb. Then he accelerated hard, back the way he had
just come, this time heading for Donegal.

531


Twenty-two


'Remember this, Mr Prendergast,' Browne concluded. 'You
owe us now. I expect it to be reflected in your actions at Roddy
Littlechild's trial. Some honesty for a change.'

'I can't make any sort of promise, you understand,' he replied
smoothly. 'But this information is truly appreciated. I shall see
that your co-operation is brought to the notice of those who
matter.'

'You will, won't you, Mr Prendergast?'

'Believe me.'

He hung up and lay back in his chair, assimilating the rapid
speed of events and the ramifications. He swivelled round in his
chair to face the window. The peaceful, timeless view of the
Thames, glittering in the spring sunlight.

Fortuitous timing, he thought. Lord Moffat and Curtis
Manning due for a routine progress meeting. He'd been
expecting a difficult session over the way the trial was going. But
now that would be replaced with a different agenda.

In fact, they arrived a few minutes later in a better mood than
he'd anticipated, courtesy of an extended lunch at Moffat's
club.

They listened in blank amazement to what Pinfold had to tell
them.

'So we have the Cchulainn group in the bag,' Manning said,

his face lighting up. Already he was imagining his audience in

the Oval Office.

'Many a slip 'twixt cup and lip,' Moffat cautioned. 'I must
alert Fergal right away.'

'One moment,' Pinfold said. 'The Irish have. brought much of
this on themselves with these stupidly provocative manoeuvres.
And we all know why - to force our hand to stop Cuchulainn. Huh, if only we could- until,now. If the Irish are alerted, they'll
just halt the column. The Cuchulainn group will slip .away. After


532

all, we don't have their exact location and it's rugged terrain
around there, I believe.'

'And just how good are our Irish pals?' Manning asked.
Pinfold's silence answered that.

'Send over an SAS team as Lomax suggested?' Moffat said.
'Too sensitive on this one without Dublin's permission,'
Pinfold replied. 'And we can't ask them without alerting them
to what's going on.'

'Your boys in the Security Service?' Moffat asked hopefully.
Pinfold wasn't about to stick his head into that particular
noose. If it went wrong, there'd be dead Irish soldiers splattered
all over the countryside.

'I'm afraid we're not geared for that sort of operation,' he
replied with a slightly plaintive air. And waited. Curtis
Manning, stone cold sober over an orange juice and waffle breakfast, was predictable enough. After a long lunch and
seeing success in his grasp, his response was a dead cert.

'Your guys ain't geared, Roger,' he beamed. 'But mine sure
are. Tooled up and ready to go.'

Pinfold feigned surprise. 'What an awfully good idea, Curtis.
Don't mind if I send Harry along for the ride, do you?'

Just so we can claim the credit if it works, he didn't actually
say.


They deployed in two cars and pulled into a lay-by on the
Donegal road, just south of Ballybofey, as the sun set behind
the Blue Stack mountains. The sky was blood red and streaked
with gold, throwing the basalt humps into bold relief until they
resembled the outlineshapes of fantastical prehistoric
creatures.

Inspiration perhaps, thought Grisewold, for those ancient
folklore tales of Guchulainn? If he squinted he could almost see a
hound's head up there.

'I like to be proactive, not reactive.' Next to him in the
driver's seat, Zack Ryan was complaining again.

Grisewold dug the cigarettes from his pocket and poked one.
between his thin lips. 'Can't have it all ways. At least we've got


533

our lead at last. And your anti-terror squad gets all the glory.'
He spun the wheel of his trusty Zippo.

'Don't smoke in here,' Ryan replied, as he was engulfed in the
cloud. 'What is it with you, Harry? Working with you, I'll die of
passive smoking or passive drinking. You should see a psychiatrist.
You're too dependent.'

A wintry smile crossed Grisewold's face as he threw open his
door and stepped out into the twilight. The last thing he needed
right now was a lecture.

Ryan joined him, sensing he'd been tactless. 'Sorry, it's just
that I'm pissed.'

'You mean pissed off,' Harry corrected.

'What?'

'This side of the pond, pissed is drunk. So not much chance
you're pissed. You're pissed off.'

'Hacked off, okay,' Ryan retorted. He hated playing these
stupid word games with the Brits.

'No need,' Grisewold answered evenly. 'Like I say, you get the
glory.'

'Not if we foul up.'

'You won't.'

'I'd like to be certain. TJaerc's twenty miles of road along the
Barnesmorc Gap, and Cuckulainn can be deployed anywhere
along it. We won't know where till they hit the Irish column.
Dublin should be in on this, get surveillance aircraft up so we
can locate them, then move in.'

C-riscwold gave a mirthless chucldc. 'I think some people will

be more than pleased if the cavalry arrives a little late. Dublin's
sabre-rattling hasn't been appreciated, so ff they pay a small
price...'

'As long as my guys aren't the ones who pay it.'

'It's unlikely, Zack. We're at one end of the road as the
column's coming up from the other. You'll have a clear run to
the ambush spot when it starts.'

Ryan grunted; he didn't like being used like this. Not a nice

feeling when you didn't know who was pulling your strings.
'What about your informer?'
'What about him?'


534

	'Any special instructions?'

	'Like what?'

	'Like don't shoot him.'
	- .

	'I don't even know who he is,' Grisewold lied.

'Okay, then fire as necessary and only take psoners when it's
safe to do so. My men's safety first.'

	'Sure, Zack. You're the boss.'

� Ryan looked back to the cars. The rest of his men were out
now, stretching their legs, making nervous jokes. The calm
before the storm, all their weapons checked and primed.

'We've got several hours to wait,' Grisewold said, 'and I'm
famished.'

	'You're always eating.'

	'Can't smoke, can't drink, can't eat...'

Zack Ryan shook his head slowly. 'Okay, I've got some Crations
in the car.'

Grisewold grimaced. 'Thanks, Zack, but I'm not that
desperate.'


The helicopter had gone fast and low over the Ox Mountains in
County Sligo, skimming the valley floors before heading north
across the outer reaches of Donegal Bay.

Off their port wing the sun was dipping into the ocean, a
vermilion wash that painted the waves the colour of diluted
blood. Lomax shivered.

This was the second run for van Niekerk and his helicopter.
The first had dropped the advance recce party of four and half
the weapons. While the pilot returned for the second group, the
first split into two, one couple guardi,n, g the remote landing zone
and the other making the one-hour overland trek to the N15
road which ran along the Barnesmore Gap. Meanwhile, Albie
Nairn and Spike remained at the farmhouse base in the South.

Nerves were chewing at Lomax's guts, his heart tripping
unevenly. This wasn't like any pr, e-combat stress he'd ever
known. It was totally different. Cuchulainn may have had its
battle plan, but he did not. His survival, his life, was in thehands
of others now. He and van Niekerk were expected to do


535

their bit, yet both men were only looking for a way out. If it
came, they'd seize it. But if it didn't ?

That was it, time for thinking over. The helicopter slowed
abruptly as it cleared a high pass between two rugged peaks,
then dipped and hovered, awaiting the flashlight signal, the all
clear from the recce party on the LZ.

The helicopter swayed, inching cautiously down until the
wheels touched. 'Right, out!' Gavin ordered.

Each man grabbed his weapon and scrambled for the hatch.
Lomax had not yet been entrusted with a personal firearm and
was the last to emerge. As he did so he turned back to van
Niekerk who sat with Gaza at his side, the Englishman's job to
ensure that both pilot and transport remained there for the
return trip.

'Keep your head down, Chris,' the South African said, his
face impassive. It wasn't good luck to say good luck. Soldiers
could be as superstitious as actors on a stage. Likewise the show
had to go on, regardless.

Lomax gave a brisk nod of acknowledgement then
shouldered the anti-tank rocket launcher and was gone.

He fell in second from last, the short column of figures bent
under the weight of weapons and ammunition, disappearing
into the shadows of the boulder-strewn mountainside. The dim
glow from the Agusta's cockpit lights melted into the gathering
darkness. A few stars were beginning to show; later it would be a
clear sky and the full moon would shed a useful amount of
ambient light.

A hushed, oppressive silence closed in around them, the only
sound that of rubber soles on loose shale and the occasional
whispered curse of missed footing. Lomax began to sweat with
exertion and a mounting sense of anticipation.

If Browne had got his message through, he could expect an
attack to come at any time without warning. But an attack from
whom? The Regiment, he hoped, who knew what they were
doing, who knew him. But would Dublin allow it? Whoever it
was, whenever they struck, he'd hit the deck, find the biggest
rock he could to shield behind. After that his plan was less sure.
Fifteen minutes. Half an hour. Still nothing had happened.


536

He trudged on, his calf and thigh muscles beginning to scream
in protest. His months of retirement and relative inactivity were
beginning to tell. Already the straps of the rocket launcher
were biting into his shoulder.

Surely an attack must come soon. Any moment. But all
around the utter silence remained, just the-stolid clump of
boots and laboured breathing. More minutes passed, the march
seeming endless. Then he heard it. The faint sound of a vehicle.
Heavy, a lorry, trundling along the Barnesmore Gap. Up ahead
the sky lightened perceptibly above the humped horizon as the
headlamps passed.

Nearly there. He glimpsed his watch. Spot on. For exactly an
hour they'd been marching, their timing and navigation perfect.

More cars and lorries now, their engines clearly audible every
few minutes, shattering the quiet at irregular intervals, their
lights momentarily illuminating the roadside terrain.

A shadow detached itself from the rock. The man was
expertly camouflaged with a scrim face veil, the same material
used to break up every regular line of clothing and the assault
rifle he carried.

It was only when he spoke that Lomax realised it was Tim.
'Hi, Da. Any problems?'

Keegan shook his head. 'And you?'

'No, all set. Six Claymores along the far-side embankment,
the disused railway, and Hal's posted lookout one mile down
the road.'

'Any news from Donegal?

Lomax knew one of van Niekerk's South African friends had
been sent by car to the nearby town for a visual sighting of the
1 st Tank Squadron as it passed throtigh.

'He radioed in five minutes ago. He's had an eyeball. Apparently
they're reassembling before the final run up here.
Reorganising and letting stragglers catch up.'

'Convoy pattern?' Lomax asked. He might as well sound as
though he was interested, part of the team as he claimed.

'Appear to be moving in groups of ten to twelve vehicles,'.
Tim replied, 'each with two police motorcyclists, fore and aft.


537

Cavalry units first, then the Tank Squadron. That's five groups.
Then the supply trucks and signals units.'

'So we want the fifth group?' Keegan asked.

Tim nodded, his eyes white and glistening between the dark
smears of cam cream. 'Yes, hit the Scorpion light tanks. That
places the armoured personnel carriers farther up the road,
which is good, because infantry are our biggest worry. If the
balloon goes up behind them, their instinct will be to take flight,

even if they soon stop and come back.'

'But the rear units?' Keegan asked.

'Logistics, tail-end Charlies,' Tim said dismissively. 'They'll
have no stomach for a fight when the lead starts flying.'

His father nodded. 'So we get in position now, right?'

'Yep. You and Stevie form the forward stop-group with Chris.
The South African three will form the rear stop-group, and
Hutch and me will take the centre with the heavy machine guns
and grenade launchers.'

'Fine,' Keegan said, turning to Lomax and Gavin. 'Let's get
going.'

The groups divided according to task, Lomax scrambling
behind Stevie Gavin towards a boulder outcrop that offered a
perfect view of the road some thirty yards away.

As they began sorting out the weapons, Lomax said: 'When
am I going to get a firearm, Peter? I'm starting to feel a little
undressed without one.'

It was Gavin who answered: 'Sorry, Lomax, I should have
explained. You've carried that anti-tank launcher all this way, so
you can have the privilege of firing it.'

Lomax winced inwardly. 'I'm a lousy aim.'

'Said you'd used the kit back at the farm.'

'I didn't say I was any good. I'm better with a rifle.'

Gavin's grin was more like a sneer. 'You wanna contract with
us, Lomax, you. got to earn it. Peter here might trust you, but in
my book trust has to be earned. An ex-SAS man can do a lot of
damage with an assault rifle.'

He realised then he was in a fix. Rattler was as canny as
an urban fox. Shoot up an Irish tank and he was irrevocably
committed. And murder was as committed as you could get.


538

'Stevie's right,' Keegan said, sounding almost apologetic. He
slapped the green plastic sleeve of the launcher with his palm.

'So you'd better get it right.'
	.

	Lomax shrugged. 'I'll do my best.'

He removed the safety pins and end covers, then extended
the telescopic inner tube of the one-shot launcher. His actions
were reflex, his mind reeling with the problem he faced. There
was no way he was going to fire the thing at innocent people.
He'd just have to go through the motions and shoot wide, yet
make it look convincing. If he failed, Gavin might decide then
and there to dispose of him. And he would understand the
reasoning: the seasoned Ulster veteran must have regarded
Lomax's sudden involvement with their cause as suspicious to
say the least. Only Keegan's trust and personal acquaintance
gave him any kind of legitimacy. And now he had to convince
Gavin to give him a firearm in order to stand any chance of
escape.

A few minutes later a radio message came in from Donegal
town: the Irish flying column was on the move at last.

Christ! On the move? Had Keegan's watcher got it wrong?
He must have, but surely not. If he was right, then his message
hadn't got through or hadn't been believed. Otherwise the
column would have stayed put in Donegal. With a dread sinking
sensation of nausea in his gut, he readied himself for the worst.
Lomax checked over the M72 for the last time and aligned the
backsight aperture with the luminous spot on the clear plastic
foresight against each passing car on the road. He then sought
the point at which an oncoming vehicle showed no lateral movement,
but merely enlarged within the. sights. At last he found his
marker, a black-and-white metal pole that carried a Bend
Ahead warning sign. When a vehicle reached that it would be
heading straight for him for between five and seven seconds.
Not long, and there would be no second chance.

Twenty minutes dragged by with excruciating slowness.
Surely some sort of Irish dragnet must be closing in on them
following his message to Pinfold? But somehow it didn't feel.
like it. A similar sensation to being stood up on a date: you knew


539

in the first few minutes that she wasn't going to show, yet still
stood there, hoping in vain she was just running late.

A faint buzz and crackle came from Keegan's earpiece. 'It's
Hal, on lookout,' Keegan said. 'He can see the lead vehicle.'
Must be passing the Biddy's-O-Barnes pub now.

A few minutes later they saw it for themselves, the flashing
blue strobes of the police escort appearing first round the farthest
bend. Then the first angular loaf-tin shape of a Panhard
armoured personnel carrier, an amber convoy lamp blinking
out its warning. Another followed and then another, like a line
of flickering fireflies emerging from the darkness.

By the time the first motorcycle and Panhard rolled past
Lomax's position, Hal had reaffirmed the composition of the
convoy. The Scorpion light tanks were in group five: eight of

them and two Timoney APCs with a Land-Rover at their head.
'You ready?' Gavin demanded, lifting his assault rifle.
Lomax nodded, his mouth suddenly parched.
'Make sure you are.'

Gavin's rifle was pointed at his head.

'For Christ's sake!' Keegan protested.

'Just want to concentrate his mind,' Gavin answered tersely.
Lomax ignored him and hunched his shoulder under the
firing tube of the launcher. He'd have to make this look good,
which wouldn't be easy because the damn thing was notoriously
inaccurate. And, as he'd warned, it was a long time since he'd
used one and hadn't been very good even then. Sod you,
Rattler.

Below them the first groups were rumbling past, totally unexpecting.
Just helmeted heads of the drivers and commanders
showing in the top-heavy-looking Panhards, concentrating on
keeping to formation. Their ten-man squads locked inside for
the claustrophobic duration of the ride. No one gave a sign of
suspecting trouble, everyone looking straight ahead.

The first group cleared Lomax's position to join the necklace

of lights moving like an illuminated worm towards Ballybofey
and the border with Ulster beyond. Then followed the second,
third and fourth groups.

Sweat formed in the small of Lomax's back, his hands warm


540

against the cool metal of the launcher. He forced the thought of
Rattler's pointing gun from his mind, used his right hand to pull
forward the safety catch to the 'arm' position an...d squinted
down the launcher's sights.

There it was. The first Scorpion. Low, light and fast, it was
not an easy target. Primarily a reconnaissance and light support
vehicle, it relied on agility, speed and its low profile for survival.
The aluminium armour was minimal and if Lomax's 66mm
HEAT warhead struck, the effect would be devastating.

With its tracks spinning it was making a steady thirty miles an
hour, its sleek lines and angled turret with the 76mm gun
offering an oblique angle. Lomax rested the fingers of his right
hand on the rubberised trigger cover on the top edge of the
launcher, his thumb hooked beneath in readiness to squeeze.
He held his breath, waiting as the Scorpion trundled round the
curving road. His eyes darted sideways to the Bend Ahead sign,
mentally lining them up, estimating the arrival time as the
tank's nose passed alongside. Because every second would
count. Fire early and more lives might be saved. Stop them
before they reached his group and Keegan and Gavin would be
shooting at longer range.

The plan had been simple. Take out the first and last tanks
with rockets, then rake the vehicles between with armour
piercing and tracer rounds from heavy machine guns and
grenade launchers. Anyone running for cover on the far side of
the road would run straight into a tearing sheet of steel ball
bearings from the line of Claymore anti-personnel mines.

At last the lead Scorpion came into the straight. Head-on
profile. The sights wavered slightly as Lomax's heart tried to
burst its way free of his chest. His .fingers began to press down
the trigger.

Twin sights lined on the sloping front glacis plate. NOW! He
dipped the sights a fraction. A blurred image of dark tarmac.
No time for second thoughts. He squeezed. The trigger went
down, and down, and The
meteor tongue of dazzling flame exploded from the tube.
Momentarily he was disorientated, blinded and deafened by th
hissing roar of the backblast in his ears, the vicious kickback


541

jarring his shoulder. The vision of the arcing fireball in the
darkness seemed etched in his retina, at once a lightning stab of
power, yet at the same time tantalisingly slow and graceful as it
homed unerringly on its target.

His eyes widened and jaw fixed in concentration. God, he'd
got it wrong, misjudged. He'd fired at the tarmac in front of the
tank, but the vehicle had been moving faster than he'd thought.

The sun's core burst white hot before his eyes as the rocket
struck. Blinded again by the instant flux of light, he barely
registered the tank lifting off the road. One foot, two. Then
crashing back to earth, one caterpillar track unwinding like a
steel serpent with a mind of its own.

'Fuckin' brilliant!' Gavin screamed. Hunched over his assault
rifle, he emptied an entire magazine into the smoke and flames.

Lomax blinked again, his eyes adjusting. Then he realised:
Gavin was wrong. The rocket had struck the tarmac a second
before the tank rolled over it. Closer than he'd intended, but
what the hell? The detonation of the warhead had lifted the
tank's front end but the explosive power had dissipated in all
directions. A track had been blown off and the tank was
stopped, and no doubt the driver and gunner.inside would have
shattered eardrums and be badly shaken. But his shot had missed. With his lack of military training, Gavin had failed to
realise exactly what had happened and, now the moment was
past, he didn't care. He was on his own wave of excitement and
adrenaline now, switching magazines and hosing the contents
along the line of tanks as they stopped or crashed into the ones
in front.

A second explosion rent the air, this time at the rear of the
convoy. It was their rear-stop group, the South African trying to
prevent a retreat and landing a rocket dead on target. There
would be no escape for the second crew. The flash lit the surrounding
landscape like a false dawn, shards of metal and bits of
human body tossed high in the sudden pulse of igniting energy.

From the mid-section came the dull thud and crump of
grenades as Tim pump-actioned the hand-held launcher at the
chaos below him. It was joined by the hesitant stammer of
Hutch's heavy machine gun stitching a line of fire up. and down


542

the column of stalled tanks. For several long moments the
clamour of combat was ear-shattering, the constant crackle
of small-arms fire interspersed by awesome, heart-trembling
explosions that shook the earth they stood on.

Momentarily Lomax was back at Goose Green. Frozen in
terror and mesmerised by brightly zipping liras of tracer and
bursting flashes of orange flame. Then the scene of carnage was
obliterated by a fast-gathering fog of smoke and burning oil.
The stench reached his nostrils. That familiar acrid concoction
that made him want to retch. Oil, rubber and burning flesh.
Your turn next, your turn next! The voice of death seemed to be
screaming in his ears. As it had that first time in Belfast. Then
again, louder, in the Gulf War. And later on that wet lonely
hillside in Bosnia.

Then, as though some mental switch had been thrown, he
was suddenly back in the present. For the first time in the past
hour his mind was crystal sharp, his brain functioning again,
kicked into action by the sheer need to survive and to stop the
horror.

While Keegan was standing next to him, unsure, and taking
half-hearted shots at targets below, Stevie Gavin was still firing
magazine after magazine into the turmoil on the road. Irish
troops were now running back and forth between the vehicles
which were stopped in a crazy zig-zag pile-up. Some were
ablaze, others reduced to smoulde.ring hulks. Other soldiers
had orientated themselves, had taken whatever cover they could
find and were returning firewith their Steyr bullpups. One or
two unfortunates had sought refuge on the far embankment
and had triggered Claymores which detonated without
warning, spitting out their deadly steel seed. at waist height.

Lomax looked towards the head of the convoy on the road to
Ballybofey and the border. A trail of brake lights glowed in the
darkness and torches were flashing as the earlier groups began
to realise that something terrible had happened to the convoy
behind them. Not knowing who or what they were up against,
Lomax imagined it would take some time before they decided.
what to do, before some officer made the brave decision to


5z3

engage a totally unknown and unseen enemy. And by then it
would be too late, much too late.

His decision made, Lomax stepped towards Keegan and
without warning swung his elbow hard back into the man's face.
Bone met teeth and Lomax felt them give as Keegan yelped and
let the assault rifle fall from his hands. Lomax snatched it up
and jabbed the butt down onto the back of Keegan's head with
all the force he could muster. His scream was stifled by the
choking flow of blood from his damaged mouth and he collapsed
to the ground, clutching his battered head. But even
above the noise of battle, Stevie Gavin had heard something.
He spun round, eyes glistening and his face shiny with all the
maniacal excitement of the predator in at a kill.

It took a second to register what he was seeing. 'Lomax, you
fuckin' bastard!'

Lomax turned Keegan's rifle in his hands and fired from the
waist. He had no time to aim, couldn't give the man the chance
to lift his own weapon. The rounds whipped viciously past
Gavin, some ripping through the material of his trousers.

A mistake, Lomax knew, as he tried to correct his aim. But
Gavin responded faster with a short return burst that sent
Lomax diving for cover, rolling over and over to escape the
fountains of earth that followed him. The shooting ceased
abruptly and he rolled over one final time, ending on his
stomach with legs splayed and his rifle pointing.

Gavin stood, now some thirty feet away, half-hidden between

the shadows and the flickering light of flames. He'd momentarily
lost sight of Lomax. Now he found him, and fired.
Nothing. Dead man's click.

Lomax fired a three-round tap. And missed.

Shit! A perfect line-up, the bloody thing hadn't been correctly
zeroed. Keegan had been out of the front line too long. As
Lomax shifted his aim to compensate, Gavin melted into the
shadows, leaving behind just the sound of urgent footsteps
crunching on shale as he fled. Only escape was in his mind now,
Lomax guessed.

He quickly checked on Keegan's condition. The man was


544

semiconscious, moaning softly, blood over his face and in his
eyes. He'd be no threat to anyone tonight.

Lomax had other priorities. He took aim at the other Cuchulainn
positions above the road, first at Tim Keegan and Hutch's
mid-section group, then the South Africans' stop-group. The
only targets offered were muzzle flashes, so hexad little chance
of hitting anyone. But, because he was firing at right-angles and
from above the height of their positions, the rounds would land
unnervingly close. He repeated the process twice and as he did,
the muzzle flashes stopped. They had decided to call it a day.
They wouldn't have'known it was him, of course, would be
assuming some Irish troops were turning their flank. Time to
bug out. Up sticks and retreat to the landing zone. In the smoky
half-light of burning carnage, he could just determine the
retreating shapes.

He smiled to himself then, lowering the assault rifle. Well,
they'd be in for an unpleasant surprise and a long walk. If all
had gone according to plan, van Niekerk would have overpowered
his minder Gaza when an opportunity presented itself,
and relocated to a new agreed site.

But Lomax's small sense of achievement was short-lived as
gunfire broke from the direction of the first convoy group on the
Ballybofey Road. Rounds pinged and whined off the surrounding
rocks, too close for comfort. He dropped to his
haunches, shielding behind a rock slab. He was surprised that
the Irish Army commanders were counter-attacking quite so
swiftly.

Then he realised. They weren't soldiers. Two cars had slewed
across the road just in front of the destroyed convoy. Men in
civilian clothes were firing from the open doors, covering others
who were scrambling up towards his positi'on.

Instinctively he knew this was the belated help he'd been
waiting for. These people had no hesitation, knew what they
were doing and were maneuvering like professionals. SAS, he
wondered, or Irish Special Branch?

Whoever they were, they would shoot first and ask questions
after. He was well aware of the rules in their game. They used to
be his. Hastily he searched for the white handkerchief in his


545

pocket and tied it to the barrel of his rifle. Keeping his head well
down, he held the weapon clear of the boulder and began to
wave. Not much else he could do now except pray.

It took a moment for him to realise that the shooting had
finally ceased. Then he heard the crunch of nearby footsteps
and the harsh breathing of exertion. In the dying light of the
fires he was aware of shapes moving around him, encircling.
Jackets flapping, men stood with handguns pointed in double
handed grips and their legs astride. Their movements nervous,
hyped.

'Easy, buddy! Throw away that rifle] Nice and steady now!'

Was he hearing fight? Americans?

He placed the weapon on the rock and raised his hands.

'Took your time getting here.'

'What?'

'I'm Chris Lomax.'

That cut no ice. 'Then get down on your face, Chris
Lomax, and spread your legs.'

As he crawled onto all fours, a foot roughly tdcked his
legs apart and unseen hands quickly but thoroughly frisked
him.

'He's clean,' someone pronounced.

Then the plasticuffs were snapped over his wrists, binding
them together, and he was hauled to his feet.

'Who's this?' Someone had found Keegan, still curled in a
whimpering ball.

'Peter Keegan,' Lomax said, 'the Cchulainn leader. The rest

are making for a helicopter landing zone - about two miles
northwest.'

'Helicopter?'

'Yes, but the pilot isn't one of them. He was forced to cooperate
at gunpoint, lie's helping me, just waiting his chance to
get away from them.' Not exactly the truth but it would do for
the moment. 'Look, I don't know who you are but are you in
touch with the British Security Service? They'll tell you who I
am. I want to get untied.'

'It's okay, Zack.' Another voice, distinctly British, joined


546

them from the darkness. 'I'll take care of Mr Lomax. You and
your boys get after the others. We'll wait for your return.'

The American was pleased to be on his way, and le.d his men
offin hot pursuit of the ambushers.

Then, as the man in the crumpled mackintosh stepped
forward out of the shadow, Lomax's blood turned to icewater in
his veins. It took a second or two for him to find his voice.
'Hello, Harry. We meet again.'

Grisewold regarded him dispassionately for a moment
without replying. There was a movement behind him and an
Irish Army officer appeared, scrambling over the rocks. 'Is it

safe to send in the medics now?' he asked breathlessly.

'Well?' Grisewold asked Lomax.

'They've all left. But be careful, mines are placed on the far
side of the road.'

'Holy Mother,' the officer said, seeing the extent of the
destruction from this vantage point for the first time.

'There's an injured man here too,' Lomax said, pointing at
Keegan.

'No,' G-risewold said quickly, 'I'll take care of him.' The
officer nodded; he had enough on his plate. 'What about the
Americans? Will they need our help?'

'I shouldn't go running after them. You'll end up shooting
each other in the dark. Better to use your troops to seal off the
area. Don't want any of those bastards escaping the net.'

Grisewold watched as the officer made his way back down to
the road, then calmly extracted a packet of cigarettes from his
pocket and lit one, cupping the match flame with his hands.

'Are you going to untie me?' Lomax demanded impatiently.
'Or am I under arrest?'

The man smiled at that, a sly cold smile. 'No, you're not
under arrest. Box has no powers of arrest - not that I'm Box, of

course. Officially, at least. Besides, this is foreign soil.'

'Then bloody well cut these ties.'

'Don't understand, do you? You're not giving orders to
anyone any more, Lomax. You're not a soldier any more. You're .
a fucking unemployed civilian. A nobody. Worse than that


547

you've been upsetting some very influential people within
HMG.'

Lomax restrained the anger he felt. Roebuck, Penny, Tucker.
Not to mention Littlechild. How many others had Crrisewold
helped to destroy to keep the door closed on his dirty little
secret world? 'Who are those Americans?'

'Them?' Grisewold shrugged dismissively. 'A special anti
terrorist unit. Something to do with the Defence Intelligence
Agency, I think.'

'What the hell are they doing here?'

'On the President's orders. Assisting Dublin to keep the
wheels of the peace process oiled.' He chuckled. 'A sanitisation
squad, they like to call themselves.'

'Sanitisafion?' Lomax thought he saw it then, a glimpse of

what lay behind it all. 'Is that what all this has been about?'
'There's a lot to clean up.'

'You mean cover up, don't you?'
Grisewold didn't answer.
'So what happens next?'

He exhaled a stream of smoke and watched as it was whisked
away into the night sky. 'That's just what I've been considering.
There's one good thing about a firefight. Confusion, people get
killed.' He removed the revolver from one pocket and sniffed
heavily before hunting for the screw-on silencer in the other.
Casually, with the cigarette hanging from his lips, he began to
attach it.

'For God's sake, Harry. We've worked together. We were on
the same side,' Lomax began.

Grisewold smiled bleakly at that. 'Yeah, then someone went
and moved the goal posts.' He lifted the gun and fired twice
at point-blank range into Keegan's head, shattering the skull
beyond recognition. For a brief second the limbs twitched with

a momentum of their own.

'Christ!'

'An old adage, but true. Dead men don't talk.' He switched
his aim. 'Sorry, old soldier. Nothing personal.'

Lomax stared death in the face. And worst of all was the

548


The finger curled around the trigger and instinctively Lomax
shut his eyes, his body jerking at the crack of the pistol shot.

Nothing. Nothing happened. He'd felt no pain. He was dead.
This was death. Silenced guns make no noise. "

His eyes opened and he was staring down at Grisewold's
sprawled body at his feet. There was an expression on the face
now. One of surprise, the eyes looking up curiously as though
trying in vain to see the neat hole drilled into his forehead.

Joe Monk stepped out of the darkness. 'Sod me Chris, that
was close.'

Lomax's mouth fell open in astonishment. 'Joe? How the
hell...?'

'I spoke to Sam when I got to Cork. I turned round and came
straight back. Got stuck behind that convoy. God knows why
they let it run. Someone should have stopped it.' He peered over
Grisewold's corpse. 'I thought it was Harry. Couldn't be sure in
the dark. Then I saw him shoot the body.'

'Kcegan,' Lomax told him. Then held up his wrists tied in the
plasticuffs. 'Have you got a knife?'

Monk gritmed. 'Good Boy Scout, me.' He took the Swiss
Army knife from his pocket and began hacking through the
bonds.

'Where d'you get the gun?'

'Off some poor stiff. I'm afraid there're a few about. Now do
you mind if we stop chin-wagging and get the fuck out of here? I
think I've just committed first-degree murder. My car's back
there.'

Lomax shook his head. 'No, the area will be swarming with

troops and police. There's another way.'

'What?'

'By helicopter.' He rubbed the circulation back into his
wrists.


Van Niekerk's helicopter was a dark shape without lights,
parked on a flatfish area beside a stream bed.

'Who's that!' he demanded nervously.


549

'Johan, it's me, Chris. It's okay, I'm with a friend.'

The South African was white-faced and clearly on edge as he
lowered his pistol. Lomax recognised it: the one Gaza carried.
The man himself sat lolling in the co-pilot's seat, the sisal necklace
still around his neck.

'You managed it then?' Lomax observed.

'Just. It's a long time since I've killed a man with my bare
hands. He fought like a lion. Nearly ripped my bloody ear off.'

Lomax examined the blood-sodden flap of flesh. It wasn't an

exaggeration. 'I'll put a dressing on it. Can you still fly?'
Van Niekerk gave a weary grin. 'Watch me.'
'You got enough fuel to cross the Irish Sea?'
'I reckon. If not we'll have to swim.'

For the first time in days Lomax felt the tension ebb. 'An old
friend of ours is going to be mighty pleased to see you.'


Although still shattered from her experiences in Ireland,
Browne hadn't been able to sleep and had drifted through the
following morning in a daze. Worried sick about Lomax she
had barely registered the proceedings in court as the wrangle
over ballistics evidence recommenced. There had been nothing
on the radio news about an attack on the Irish Army and Roger
Pinfold's number was coming up on answerphone.

At lunchtime she and the defence team were crossing the
road from the Old Bailey to the pub when she stopped dead in
her tracks. A taxi tooted and swerved.

'You got a death wish, boss?' Totty asked, pulling her onto the
pavement.

'Eh, what?' She shook her h.ead, trying to clear her brain.

'How in God's name could I have forgotten?'

'Forgotten what?'

'The name Jerry Tucker gave Joe in Belfast before he died.
What have I done with it? It must be in my bag somewhere.'
She stood on the pavement, a cigarette in her mouth, and
began rummaging, becoming more agitated by the second. In
exasperation she knelt and poured out the contents on the
ground. Passers-by turned and stared as Meyrick, Rock and
Totty gathered round her.


550

'What is going on, dear heart?' Meyrick asked. 'Can't you
hunt for your lipstick in the pub?'

'Piss off, Tristram,' she answered snappily. 'Ah, .here it is.'
She scooped the spilled contents back into her bag. 'The real
name of Mr Grey.'

	'Walter Grey?'


'Yes, Grey,' she replied irritably. "The man whO set up Front
line
with Wallace McIlroy. The MI5 man who originally

recruited Roddy.'

'Ah, yes, I see. Roger Pinfold's predecessor.'

She smoothed out the crumpled piece ofnotepaper. 'Walter

de Witt,' she read. 'Unfortunately no address. Tucker thought

he was in a nursing home in south Hampshire. Tristram, you

can manage without me in court this afternoon. I've got to get

back to the office. We really must find this man.

Meyrick agreed. 'It could be crucial, but you're in no fit state;

you're like a zombie as it is.'

'I'll give you a hand,' Totty said resignedly.

Browne grinned at her 'That's my girl."

They arrived back at the office at two o'clock, walking in to

find Wayne waving at them to be quiet as he tuned in to the

radio news. 'It's about the attack in Ireland!' he shouted.

Within seconds the entire firm was huddled round the little

transistor set as the BBC announcer told how news was just

coming in of escaped convict Peter Keegan being shot dead

while leading a Loyalist terrorist attack on an/fish Army border

patrol the previous night. Browne's heart was in her mouth as

the report went on to say that the man's son, Tim, was also

killed together with several people believed to be white South

African nationals. A notoriousparamilitary leader known as

Rattler was understood to be on the run from the Scene.

Five Irish military personnel were dead and ten wounded,

two seriously. One British civilian holidaymaker, thought to be

backpacking, was killed when he was caught up in the fighting.

'God, not Chris!' Browne gasped. 'Oh, please God, no!'

Totty tried to console her and neither rgally heard as the

announcer said that the gang calling itself Cuchulainn had been

attacking utilities in the Republic for some weeks although


551

editors on both sides of the Irish Sea had co-operated in a news
blackout. The gang was finally destroyed by a garda force,
assisted by US anti-terrorist experts in Dublin and information
supplied by MIS.

The office switchboard began flashing and Wayne dragged
himself away from the broadcast to take the call. His mouth fell
open as he listened. Then he grinned. 'It's Mrs Littlechild,
Sam. She's just had a call from Chris. He's safe and says he'll be
in London tonight.'

'Oh, thank God,' she blurted, barely able to talk through her
sobs of relief. 'Where is he?'

Wayne looked nonplussed. 'Er- she says Scotland.'

In a much lighter mood after Ernie Eisner opened a celebratory
bottle of champagne, everyone joined in the frantic
hunt to find the man who could just possibly still save Littlechild
from a life sentence. Wayne called a friend who lived in
Southampton and had him fax a copy of the nursing home list
from his local Yellow Pages directory. They split the list between
them and each manned a separate phone. For half an hour it
became a madhouse, like a newspaper office amid some global
catastrophe, everyone talking at once, then phones trilling
madly as returned calls came in.

At three twenty, Wayne covered the mouthpiece of his
receiver and called: 'I think I've got him! The receptionist's just

going to double check with the matron.'

'Where is he?'

'St Luke's Hospice.'

'Oh shit.' Browne ended her own call and fairly flew across to
Wayne's desk, snatching the phone from him. 'Hello, hello,
hello. Oh, yes? Matron? Yes, a Mr Walter de Witt. Thank God
for that. This really is a matter of life or death. Oh, no. That's
awful. Could I speak with him? Well, can you ask him,.please!
Tell him it's Sam Browne. Oh, oh thank you so much. Yes, I'll
hold.'

'What's happening?' Totty asked.

Browne was trembling with agitation, trying to light a fresh
cigarette from the stub of her last. 'He's sick. Terminally ill with
lung cancer.' She didn't seem to see the irony of that as she


552

finally drew smoke. 'Now it's spread. He hasn't got long. The
matron really didn't want to bother him.'

'So it doesn't look hopeful?' Eisner said.

'I don't think we'll get him to court.'

Then the matron came back on the line. 'I've spoken to Mr
de Witt. He was very interested in your call.' She sounded

surprised. 'He'd be pleased to see you.'

'I can leave right away.'

'What? Oh, I don't know about that. He's very weak, sleeps
most of the time. He was already dozing off just now. Maybe
another day.'

'Matron, believe me, I don't have another day. Let me come.
Ifhe's asleep, fine, I'll just wait till he wakes up.'

Reluctantly the matron agreed. 'Will you come with me,
Totty? And bring the tape recorder.'

'You're not going in that death-trap rocket of yours? Not
likely.'

'The 200SX? I'll go, boss,' Wayne piped up with enthusiasm.
Browne gave a pleading look at Totty, who shrugged reluctantly.
'Okay, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even my heartless
slave-driver boss.'

They arrived at St Luke's Hospice, an old converted manor
house surrounded by a crumbling red-brick wall in the New
Forest. With a duckpond and spreading chestnut tree by the
gravel drive through ornamental gates, it seemed to Browne to
be a tranquil place to spend the last of one's days.

For most of the drive her mind had been on Lomax and
whatever had happened in Ireland. Thankfully, her apprehension
at having to rely on Roger Pinfold had proved to be
unfounded and Lomax was safe. T.e question now was, would
they see a change in the prosecution case? Strings pulled to
persuade the GPS to stop the trial on some pretext? It was
almost too much to hope for, so she must battle on.

As they were met in reception by the matron, she forced her
mind back to the present.

'Walter is waiting for you.' A large, formidable woman in a
dark blue tunic, her severe face was softened by kindly gre.y
eyes. 'I'm surprised. He seems much brighter than usual.

553


Seems to be keeping awake without any special effort. I'll take
you through.'

Old folk, frail and mostly in dressing gowns, tottered about
with sticks or sat around playing cards in the communal rooms;
another small group was gathered round a television set in one
corner. No one seemed to notice Browne and Totty as they
followed the matron through the French windows and into an
elegant white-painted conservatory in Victorian style.

For one dreadful moment, Browne thought he was dead. He
sat so still in his wheelchair, wings of unruly white hair splayed
like a halo against the cushion and backlit by the low-angled sun
that came in over the walled garden outside to cast long
shadows across the lawn. His skin was porcelain white, yet not
in texture. There was no firmness to the flesh where it sagged in
the hollows beneath his cheeks and the livid veins ran like
threads in marble.

'Walter. Your visitors have arrived.'

The watery staring eyes flickered with recognition, suddenly
bright and focused as though someone had thrown a switch.
Even as she watched, the irises seemed to clear as though a
mist had lifted and the pupils sharpened with the glitter of
anthracite. The transformation was almost unnerving as
Browne noticed the beauty in those cobalt-blue eyes and
realised that once he must have been a stunningly attractive

man.

'Miss Browne.' His voice was a croak, parched as desert soil.
He lifted a slender bony hand with effort. She took it and was
surprised how strong the grasp was. But his skin was cold and
for a moment he didn't seem to want to let go, as though
drawing strength from the warmth of her flesh. Perhaps even

holding onto life itself. 'Forgive me if I don't get up.'

'No, no, of course.'

'Just bring yourselves up some chairs.' He waved the frail
hand. 'It's all right, Matron, you can leave us now.' And as
Browne settled in a garden chair, he said: 'And is this charming
girl your daughter?'

'What me?' Totty said, taken aback. 'I should 'opc n.ot.'


554

Browne smiled awkwardly. 'No, Totty's my assistant. I don't
have any children.'

His eyes crinkled. 'That's a shame. As the great Bard said,
"Lady you be the cruellest she alive if you lead these graces to
the grave and leave the world no copy." '

'She's cruel all right,' Totty blurted without xinking.
'Somehow I don't believe that. Then at least I'm honoured to enjoy your original graces, my sweet rosebud. Do you mind if I
call you rosebud?'

Browne's cheeks flushed with colour. The, rosebud?'

De Witt coughed and there was a distant gurgling noise from
his chest. 'I named you that back at the Keegan trial in '89.

Thought then you were my perfect English rose.'

'Quite an old rose now.'

'And old roses have the sweetest fragrance of all. I know
about roses.'

'So you were there, Mr de Witt, for Keegan's trial?'

'Oh yes, I thought he should see at least one friendly face in
court. And please call me Walter. I don't have time left to me for
formalities.' Again he was racked with a dry cough. 'Please
excuse me. Would you mind passing that glass behind you.'

Totty turned to find the glass of white liquid on the wicker
table. 'The milkshake?'

De Witt accepted it with a chuckle. 'Liquid morphine. But
you're right, perhaps I should flavour the milk with chocolate.
This is the stuffthat keeps me going, a balance to keep the pain
in check without completely.addling my brain. I can't let go yet.

Not until it's finished.'

'Fhat's finished?'

'The work I began with Wallace-McIlroy in the early seventies,
the Fronfline Ulster movement. You know about that, of

course. You're here because ofRoddy Littlechild, I imagine?"
'Yes.'

'A smashing lad, had a lot of time for him. I had a son.
Turned out to be a rotten bastard. Too many of my own genes, I
suppose. I'd have liked a son like young Roddy. Hear he's got
himself a wife, lucky woman. A good catch.'

'And a son now.'


555

'That is good. And how is the trial going? I've been following

it in the papers, but you can't tell from that.'

Browne gave a brittle laugh. 'You can't tell from the defence

bench either. To be frank, it's not looking good. He really was

set up.'

'I know Roddy well enough to realise that. Pinfold is behind

it, you'll find. Do you know Roger Pinfold?'

'Our paths have crossed.'

'Pinfold, the evil little bastard, and his other cronies. Lord

Moffat and the rest of them - the other lily-livered grandees of
the Establishment. No honour, no sense of history!' He broke
off into a spluttering cough and gulped a soothing mouthful of
his liquid morphine.

As she waited for him to recover, Browne thought over what

the man had just said. 'Walter, you mentioned unfinished business
with the Frontline Ulster Movement. What did you mean?'

'It doesn't matter, rosebud. Time will tell, only I don't have

much of it left. I expect Tim will be in contact soon, bring me

up to date.'

'Tim?'

A look of youthful anger flashed in his eyes. Not anger at her,

but at himself, she could see that. Angry that the morphine had
slowed his brain and loosened his tongue. 'Getting muddled,'
he said dismissively.

But suddenly Browne saw it. 'Do you mean Tim Keegan?

Peter's son?'

Then, in an instant the years rushed back and the brilliance

of his younger days was once again trapped within the ravaged

body of a dying man. 'I'm tired.'

'You do mean Tim Keegan. You know him... And so you do

know about the Cuchulainn campaign?'

He sat up abruptly and for a moment she thought he'd had a

seizure. 'How do you know about that?' Suddenly the switch

had been thrown again. 'I've seen nothing in the news.'

'Oh my God, Walter, you're not aware of what's happened,

are you?'

'Happened, rosebud?' Confusion returning.

'First tell me. About you and Tim and Cuchulainn."


556

He sighed wearily. 'Nearly two years ago, when I knew I was
on the final downhill run, I wrote a note to Peter Keegan in
prison. For old times' sake, I suppose. He wrote back by return.
It was like finding a long-lost chum. For both of us in a way. In
one letter he said in passing how Ulster needed its defending
hound now more than ever before. He meantCuchulainn. That
triggered the idea. Of course, he didn't know then what I'd

done, what I'd set in place while I was still at MIS.'

'What had you set in place, Walter?'

'An insurance that Cuchulainn would survive. So I wrote and
told him to send his son to visit me. Here. We talked in the rose
garden. I call it my secret garden.' He smiled a twisted smile. 'I
tell you, rosebud, one day the Hound of Ulster will arise!'

Browne too) a deep breath. 'Obviously you don't know. Few
people do. Cuchulainn has been mounting a campaign against
the Irish Republic for the past two months.'

His mouth dropped in shock. 'That isn't true!'

'It is, Walter, I promise you. There's obviously been some
kind of media blackout.'

'I might have known!' Saliva gathered as he spat his words of
contempt. 'The bastards!'

She reached forward and clasped his bony wrist. 'Walter, I'm
sorry to have to tell you this. Peter Keegan and his son are dead.
It all ended last night. A gunfight with" the Irish Army. It's all
over.'

He twisted his wrist so he could take her hand. His grip was
remarkably strong for one so frail and she could see the emotion
in his rheumy eyes, the hurt and disappointment.

Then she saw her opportunity. 'You can hit back at them,
Walter. Strike a blow against the likes of Roger Pinfold.'

It took a few minutes for him to bsorb all that had just been
said. For a while he appeared withdrawn, physically shrunken
by the disappointment. Then slowly, very slowly, a fresh new
spirit seemed to lighten his emaciated features. 'So Tim and
Peter did do it! It all worked after all. ,And perhaps it still can,
d'you think? Just a pity...' But he wasn't really listening; she
could tell his mind was wandering.

'Walter, please, I need to know,' she said anxiously. 'Would


557

you agree to give evidence at Roddy's trial? Tell them how you
recruited Roddy and ran him for all those years? Confirm what
people like Pinfold are capable of?.' She was beginning to gabble
now in her excitement. 'You wouldn't be expected to go, of
course. In exceptional circumstances the court could convene
here. Or maybe a video link...'

'At the trial, me?' A triumphant grin lit his face, and in a
twinkling the years had momentarily vanished. 'An appearance
at the trial of the decade, rosebud. Now there's a thought.'

558


Twenty-three


They had talked for another hour before the old man's strength
started to wane and his eyelids closed. Then it was back to
London as fast as she could to be reunited with Lomax. On the
journey Totty used the mobile to pass on news of developments
to Tristram Meyrick who was yet again working late in chambers.
By the time Browne had dropped her assistant home and
driven across London to Southall, it was nine thirty.

Havingrung the bell she could scarcely wait for someone to
descend the stairs to let her in, and still could hardly believe it
when she saw Lomax standing there. Calm as you like, as
though nothing much had really happened. That goddamn grin
on his face, like some naughty schoolboy. She threw herself into
his arms and just couldn't stop the flow of tears.

Eventually she regained control, gasping and sniffing,
mascara streaked all over her cheeks. 'God, I'm blubbing like a
schoolgirl.'

'It's nice to know you care.' He sounded pleased, as though
he hadn't really been expecting it.

'Oh, I do, Chris. If ever I'd had any doubt, these past two days
- I've missed you.'

He thrust a handkerchief into her hands. 'Don't start all over
again, Sam. I can't stand to See a grown-up lawyer cry. Let's get
upstairs, we've a lot to .talk about. I've brought you back a

present from Ireland.'

'What?' Perplexed.

'Not what, who? Come on up.'

She dutifully trotted up the stairs, trying to catch him, then
followed into Evie's flat. Lomax's sister was there, cradling little
Noel, Manda and Joe Monk.

And another man. She did a double-take. It was Johan van
Niekerk.


559

The next day was to see the start of the summing-up for the
prosecution, yet by the time the defence team arrived at the Old
Bailey the urban message drums had already been at work
and by some mental telepathy everyone in court knew that
something was up. Halifax and Ian Spinks were subdued and
watchful as Browne strode into the lobby ahead of Tristram
Meyrick and Ronnie Rock.

'Definitely a red knickers day,' Halifax was heard to observe
with a chuckle that lacked its usual heartiness.

And his smile vanishedtotally when Meyrick addressed Mr
Justice Quigley in the absence of the jury: 'If it pleases Your
Lordship, I have some unfortunate news to impart to the court.
You, my lord, will be aware that we have been striving for
months to locate a key defence witness from Northern Ireland,
Mr William Baker. We believe he could vouch for the fact that
the deceased Mr Fitzpatrick wanted to contact the defendant
and not vice versa, and that the contact was theidea of MIS.

'I have to inform you that the defence solicitors established
his whereabouts over the Easter weekend but, regrettably,
before a meeting could take place the witness was tragically
murdered by unknown gunmen.'

A low murmur of surprise eddied along the prosecution
bench before Mr Justice Quigley replied: 'Mr Meyrick, that is
indeed sad news and I am sure all in this court will join with me
in extending our deepest sympathies to the deceased's man's
family. Er- was there something you wished to add?'

'My lord, you will be aware that this murder of a key witness
follows the suicide of Mr Derek Penny and the fatal accident
of Colonel Colin Roebuck, after which certain irreplaceable
documents were stolen from his car. In these circumstances the
court may consider the defence in this case to be somewhat
jinxed, or that it indicates something a little more sinister at
work...'

'My lord,' Halifax interrupted, 'the implications of this
remark...'

'Quite,' the judge agreed. 'By now this court is well aware of
the defence's conspiracy theory, Mr Meyrick.'
'Thank you, my lord. And I would now beg the court's


560

permission to allow me to introduce two new witnesses for the
defence. I further apologise for the belated nature of this
request, but it is the result of new information thathas only just
come to light.'

Quigley didn't bother to hide his sigh. 'And who are these
new witnesses?' "

'If Your Lordship pleases, they are Mr Johan van Niekerk, a
former South African officer in the security police and long
term associate of the defendant, and a former senior MI5
officer, Mr "Talter Grey or de Titt, who originally recruited the
defendant.'

Meyrick might as well have ignited an atomic bomb. Halifax
leapt to his feet to protest and demanded an adjournment to
consult with the GPS and government ministries concerning
the nature and implications of allowing testimony from the
surprise witnesses.

By the time the court reconvened after lunch, Pinfold had
made an appearance and was seen talking in the lobby with the
prosecution team. He had studiously avoided eye contact with
Browne and she saw no advantage in appealing to his better
nature. The man clearly didn't have one; if he had, the GPS
would have withdrawn by now. The wrangling went on for the
rest of the afternoon, both in court and in the iudge's chambers.

Halifax argued, with justification, that van Niekerk could
throw no possible light on the murder charge, and neither
could de "�gitt who was still bound to silence by the Official
Secrets Act. Meyrick countered that at last he could prove his
client's long service with MI5 and show why that organisation
might have wanted him silenced- by whatever means available.

Unusually, Mr Justice Quigley called the court back in the
late afternoon to announce his decision.

'I am finding various aspects of this case increasingly disturbing.
Whilst Mr Meyrick's earlier suggestion that the
defence was jinxed can be put down to misfortune and coincidence,
there appears to me to be a thread throughout every
aspect of this trial. Three people who could testify to the
defendant's good name and loyal service to the Crown are all
dead by their own hand, fate or the hands of others. Two more,


561

at the eleventh hour, have been found. Their evidence may not
relate directly to the murder but may cast light on Mr Meyrick's
oft-repeated theory of conspiracy. This can only be discounted
if this court can penetrate the fog of secrecy surrounding this
murder and the background to the main parties. I for one would
welcome such light in the interests of justice. Therefore I shall
permit these witnesses to give evidence to this court. Should
such evidence relate to any other charge facing the defendant,
so be it. For there is no more important crime in the land for a
man to face than wilfully to have taken the life of another
human being. And neither, Mr Halifax, do I intend a witness in
my court to be gagged from free speech by the provisions of the
Official Secrets Act.

'I also accede to the defence request that police protection be
extended to both these witnesses until they appear. This court
will reconvene tomorrow at ten.'

'The court will rise,' ordered the clerk.

Browne literally jumped to her feet in triumph, grinning
stupidly at a very smug-looking Meyrick and a joyous Ronnie
Rock.


For the next seventeen hours Sam Browne was running on
black coffee, a tot or two of whisky and pure adrenaline. With
Evie's flat becoming overcrowded, Lomax and van lliekerk,
together with his uniformed police minder, went to Browne's
home to talk over his testimony with Meyrick and Rock. Meanwhile,
Totty had been set another task. Walter de Witt could not
make the journey to court and therefore a video link would be
established once the old man could charm the matron of St
Luke's into agreeing - which he did. As the Old Bailey's ageing
video monitors were on the blink, Mr Justice Quigley had
agreed to a single large multiscreen being installed by the
Friday. As always, ToRy's brother knew someone who could
provide it.

At three in the morning, van Niekerk was asleep on the settee
and his minder in an armchair by the door. 'Time for bed,'
Lomax said.


562

Browne peered over her reading specs. 'Five more minutes,
Chris.'

	'Now.'


	She put down her pen. 'Yes, master.'

	'I'll kip in the spare room?

	'No, you won't.'
		'You
must be all in.'

	'Almost, not quite. A little secret, I've got them on.'


'You are Johan van Niekerk?' Meyrick asked in court the next
morning. 'Until recently a captain in the South African security
police? Before that you served with the Rhodesian Army, I
understand, where you first met Mr Rodney Litflechild?'

'Yes, back in 1976. We served in the same armoured-car
regiment, in the field intelligence unit.'

'Did the defendant ever confide in you why he'd gone to
Rhodesia to join up?'

'To get experience of a real fighting war - especially in intelligence
and counter-insurgency warfare. He told me that it had
been arranged by a Walter Grey - aka de Witt - who was
connected with the FUM, a Loyalist resistance force set up by
Wallace McIlroy.'

	'Did Mr Littlechild tell you who these men were?'

'Not then, but later when he found out himself. Walter Grey
was a senior MI5 controller and Mellroy was an old friend and
an acting MI5 agent.'

	'Did you meet either of these men yourself?'

	'Not Mcllroy, but I met WRiter Grey on several occasions.'

	'In what circumstances?'

'As representative of our countries' respective intelligence
agencies.'

'So obviously you can vouch that he was not a fantasist, a
Walter Mitty rather than de Witt?' That produced a titter of
amusement as van Niekerk confirmed the man's official
standing. 'Before we move on, may I ask if you heard or saw in
yesterday's media news a story regarding an incident in the
Republiq of Ireland concerning a Loyalist paramilitary group.
called Cuchulainn?'


563

'I did.'

'Had you heard of them before?'

'Yes, about a year after I met Roddy Littlechild he told me it
was the armed wing of the FUM, to be used as a last resort

resistance movement to protect the Protestant population.'

'In case of what?'

A shrug. 'Civil war, or in case of outright hostilities with the
Republic.'

'Did Mr Grey confirm this to you?'

'Much, much later when we knew each other better. He and
Roddy and I got on really well. A lot of us had empathy with the

protestants in Northern Ireland.'

'In what way?'

'Unfriendly neighbours and terrorists in our midst, fighting
the Soviet Communists by proxy. And a similar culture, hardworking
and God-fearing.'

'And did the defendant tell you something else about his links
with Mr Grey and his former Ulster homeland?'

Van Niekerk nodded. 'Grey was afraid of wild Loyalist
elements running out of control. He used Littlechild as a
conduit to keep him informed about what they were up to.
Roddy knew all the major players over there.'

'This relationship between the defendant, Grey of MI5 and
yourself was to grow over the years. Why was this?'

'It was discovered that the Communist government in Mozambique
was allowing the IRA to train there with the African
insurgents attacking Rhodesia. Our two countries had a mutual
interest .'

'And the closeness between you developed even further after
1980 when you, Mr van Niekerk, then left Rhodesia - or Zimbabwe
as it was becoming - for South Africa to work in the
security police - of course, now with a new enemy, the ANC?'

Van Niekerk shook his head. 'Not the ANC, their armed
terrorist wing the Umkhonto we Sizwe. An important difference.
I was asked to set up a small covert ops unit under command of
the Deputy Commissioner of Police. When Roddy Littlechild
came back to Africa after two years in the British Army, I
invited him to join me.'


564

'What was your unit's function?'

'To collate and disseminate intelligence about terrorist
threats, then direct action against them. But a coup!e of years

later, in 1984, our remit was changed.'

'What happened?'

'Well, I set up a sub-unit and put Roddy in eharge. It was
after the ANC's car-bombing of the Air Force headquarters in
Pretoria. The National Intelligence Service discovered that it
had involved IRA technology and planning. I wanted the subunit
to liaise with MI5 and discover fully the links between
the IRA and the ANC's armed wing. We found the two were
swapping expertise for safe training areas and doing other
favours for each other.'

Meyrick glanced around the court, pleased to see that he had
his audience rapt. 'And did that give you an idea?'

'Yes, to do something similar with the Loyalist paramilitaries.
MIS, through Walter Grey, liked the idea. Loyalist gunmen
needed a safe training area which we were able to provide. We
had a succession of visitors, some of them major players who
then were alongside MI5. Big names like Rattier and King
Billy.'

'Did it extend beyond that?'

Van Niekerk nodded. 'They would go on operations for us in
Africa - strangers, unconnected foreigners. They could take out
our ANC targets. As they were unconnected, they left no clues
for our regular police.'

'And was there some reciprocation?'

Van Niekerk shuffled his feet. 'A few times. With MI5's
connivance, our agents sometimes killed for them in Fire and
Ulster.'

The court gave a chorus of gasped surprise, muffling Halifax's
protest. 'My lord, as I warned, this is entirely unrelated to
this murder trial.'

'Far from it,' Meyrick cut in. 'It is why elements of MI5 were
having apoplexy at the prospect of the defendant revealing any
of this to the media, having mistakenly decided he'd turned
against them!'


565

'Beautiful,' Browne murmured and shared a grin with Totty
This was really taking shape now.

'Carry on, Mr Meyrick,' Mr Justice Quigley allowed.

The barrister turned back to the witness box. 'But in this
murky world of spying and dirty tricks, even allies are betrayed
when it suits, aren't they?'

Van Niekerk agreed. 'Yes, at about this time my superiors
decided to supply the Ulster Defenders group, run by a Stevie
Gavin, with advanced weaponry.'

'Who did you ask to set up the deal?'

'Rodney Littlechild. But I knew of his relationship with MIS,
so I couldn't fully trust him not to report it back to them- and I
was proved right. I made a second secret deal direct with Stevie
Gavin and that consignment got through.' Van Niekerk glanced
apologetically in Littlechild's direction and saw the ghost of a
smile on his friend's face.

'Why did South Africa supply this Loyalist group? Not for
money or belief in their cause, surely?'

'No. Instead of payment we suggested missile technology

secrets from Shorts of Belfast.'
'And did you get them?'
'Eventually, yes.'

Meyrick said: 'One last question. Did South Africa receive
defence material routed through Northern Ireland - despite
sanctions?'

'Yes. Sophisticated communications equipment and Soviet
weapons made in the West under licence. In part, it was used
to arm the right-wing terror gangs of Renamo to destabilise

Mozambique. I got Roddy to set it up for us through MIS.'
'Which country was the originator of this deal?'
'The United States of America.'

By lunchtime the stunning revelations were hitting the early
editions of the Evening Standard and the court was besieged by
reporters, radio and television news crews. Browne tried to
run the gaundet of questions, then abandoned her plans for a
lunchdme rendezvous with Lomax.

In the afternoon, Halifax launched into his cross-examination.
'Mr van Niekerk, you mentioned earlier that your


566

security police unit in South Africa hunted down ANC activists
then took, in your words, direct action. By this, you mean

ambush and murder without trial. Correct?'
	.

	'We were fighting a guerrilla war.'

	'Nelson Mandela may disagree with you there. But, Yes or

no?' "

	'Sometimes.'

'And the defendant was part of your team, privy to these
murders without trial and no doubt wimessed what you would
call interrogation of prisoners? What other more civilised
people may have regarded as torture?'

Van Niekerk glanced at the dock. 'As I said, we were fighting
a war, following orders. Roddy's role was intelligence not
executive action; that was a job for others. In fact, he was always
mindful of events back in his homeland and would sometimes
criticise the unit's more extreme activities. Like violent interrogation.
On more than one occasion he caused me to examine
my own conscience.'

Halifax looked pleased. 'But this did not prevent you sending
him as part of a hit team to Belfast in 1987, did it? To kill an
alleged ANC and Sirra Fein acdvist called Dominic Smals?'

Van Niekerk shook his head. 'The department head sent the
team, not me. And Rodney Littlechild was not part of it. He just
happened to be on leave in Belfast at the time, visiting his
father.'

Halifax adopted an expression of sneering distaste. 'Isn't the
truth that the defendant supplied the weapons from his Loyalist
friends for this murder?'

'No. They were supplied by Peter Keegan, an army agent in
the Ulster Defenders and he first obtained sanction from MIS.'
Van Niekerk looked towards Tristram Meyrick, knowing what
he wanted him to add. 'From Walter Grey himself.'


It was rare for Roger Pinfold to get home before eight in the
evening. And tonight it was gone ten before his Daimler Sovereign
swept into elegant Carlyle Square in Chelsea and reversed
into the residents' parking space outside his house.

	As he killed the wipers, lights and power and climbed out, he


567

became aware of the woman standing by the railings, her black

hair and gaberdine raincoat sodden.

'Margie?'

'What's going on, Roger? You haven't answered my calls.'
'Bad time, Margie.' There was an edge of irritation in his
voice. 'And bad form. I contact you, not the other wa3/round.
You shouldn't be here.'

'I had no choice. I needed to talk.'

'Look, don't you think I've got enough on my plate with all

this shit at the Old Bailey? Moffat's going stark raving mad
over this and it's my head on the block. The repercussions are
shaking Whitehall right up through MI5 to the Cabinet Office.
Not to mention Washington.'

'Not my problem, Roger. We did our bit. The Ya0ks fouled

up over Browne and Lomax, not us. And now Cuchulainn's destroyed.'

'Yesterday's problem.'

'So, where's Harry?'

Pinfold paled. In the hurry to clean everything up, the trial

going wrong- 'No one's told you?'

'Told me what?' There was something in his tone.

'Harry's dead. Caught in the crossfire when Zack's boys took

out Keegan's lot. I'm sorry.'

She felt her heart turn to stone, sitting heavily in her chest,

too shocked even to comprehend, let alone grieve. 'You bastard.

You're not sorry. You couldn't even be bothered to let me know.'

'No, you're wrong, Margie, I am sorry. But look at it this way.

It might be a blessing in disguise. After this trial, questions will
be asked and Harry would have proved a liability. He was too

involved in everything. I could never have used him again.'

'What?' She really wasn't hearing this.

'So maybe it's better it turned out this way.'

'You mean it saved you getting rid of him.'

He didn't answer that. She stared at him, trying to see something
in those cold dark eyes. But all she could see was her
own reflection. Turning on her heel, she walked away without
another word.

I loved you, Harry. I shagging well loved you, you randy old


568

sod. And now you've gone and died on me. And already Pinfold
is happily pissing on your grave. God, she needed a drink. A
drink and a packet of salted. She'd share it with him, like they
always had. But this time her down here and him up there,
shagging the celestials.


The pavements outside the Central Criminal Court were overflowing
with onlookers the next morning, the police having had
crush barriers put up overnight. Flashlights popped from the
press pen as Browne and Lomax alighted from the taxi. They
found Monk amid the gathering outside the doors.

'It's a closed session this morning,' he announced. 'No
public.'

'It's as well you can't go in,' she said to Lomax. 'In case you

get called back to the box; you never know.'

'CHRIS!'

Lomax turned at the sound of the familiar voice. 'Bill! What
you doing here?'

Bill Johnson shook hands. 'Came down specially to see the
trial, felt I had to after yesterday.' He glanced at Browne. 'You
seem to be doing a good job, Sam.'

She looked abashed. 'Thanks. But I'm afraid they won't let
you in this morning.'

Johnson nodded. 'Still, maybe I'll see the finish next week. I'd
never have believed you could have put up such a convincing
fight.' "

'So you're on holiday?' Lomax asked.

'No, I've left the job, taken early retirement. After helping
you two I kind of lost faith in my work.'

'I've got to fly,' Browne interrupted. 'Se.e you at lunch.'

As she disappeared inside, Monk said: 'If we can't get in, let's
go have a fry-up and a natter.' Neither of the other two were
going to argue with that.

Inside the courtroom, the large multisectioned screen was
flickering into life on one wall, the gnarled and shrunken Walter
de Witt with his wispy halo of white hair appearing like the fac.e
of a wrathful alien god in some science-fiction movie. It totally


569

dominated the proceedings and added to the electric tension in
the air.

Proceedings were delayed as the matron came into shot,
plumping the old man's pillows and refilling his glass of morphine
milkshake. 'Please don't exhaust him.' Her whispered
words were relayed and resounded around the courtroom.

At last the old man was settled, the jury and lawyers hushed
in anticipation. The oath was taken, de Witt's voice croaky but
strong, despite his obvious breathing difficulty..

'You are Walter de Witt?' Meyrick asked. 'Also known as
Walter Grey during your time as a high-ranking officer in the
Security Service, MI5?'


'When did you retire, Mr de Wit-t?'

The faded blue eyes flashed like sun on ice. '1989.'

'I understand that in the early 1970s you had responsibility
for important aspects of security in Northern Ireland. With an
old friend of yours, Wallace McIlroy?'

The old man cleared his throat. 'Yes. McIlroy had set up a
political group called Frontline Ulster and I used this as a front
to form a Loyalist resistance movement. It had a secret armed
wing called Cuchulainn and it was provided with arms caches by
the British Government.'

'Can you tell the court why this was done?'

'Cold War,' de Witt rasped, the words echoing loudly.
'Northern Ireland was of supreme strategic importance. The
Soviets had large investments in the Republic, a big diplomatic
mission in Dublin and a massive fuel facility in Shannon. Do I
have to spell it out?'

Meyrick smiled gently. 'Sir, for the court's benefit it would
help.'

De Witt took a shallow breath of resignation. 'The Soviets
were cosying up to Dublin and the Provisional IRA was
wreaking havoc n Ulster. In addition, elements of the rich
Irish-American lobby had supplied secret arms caches in the
South in case of all-out civil war spreading to both sides of
the border. Thankfully, these were not in IRA hands,'

'So politically it was a powder keg?' Meyrick sugge.sted.

570


De Witt gave a dry cough of a laugh. 'Not as stable as gunpowder.
Nitroglycerin would ,be a more apt description. In
view of these uncertainties, Cuchulainn was established for the
ultimate defence of the Ulster people when London may politically
have been unable to help them.'

'Do you feel any sense of shame or regret about having established
this?'

There was a fierce light burning in those watery blue eyes on
the screen. 'None.'

'Was Rodney Littlechild one of your recruits?'

The light in the huge projected eyes softened, moisture gathering
in the corners. 'Yes, I had a lot of time for Roddy. A quiet,
reflective lad. I almost regarded him as the son I never had. He
became my best agent and a good friend.'

Meyrick waited for de Witt to nod and lift his morphine drink
to his parched lips. 'Why did you and other MI5 colleagues
seek to gain control of various Loyalist paramilitary groups?'

'We couldn't stop them existing to counter the IRA. But
left to their own devices, they'd have slaughtered thousands of
innocent Catholics. So we tried to control them, send them in
the right direction.'

'You supplied them with the names of known enemies of the
state. IRA, INLA, those sorts of people?'

The old man nodded, his eyes unfocused as he remembered.
'I'm afraid it didn't stop all the killing of the innocents. Never
could, of course, but it contained it.'

'Surely this was not only unethical, but illegal? Particularly in
a democracy.'

That fire was back in the eyes. 'A totally free democracy can
never exist. To do so it would have t9 deny itself the very means
that assured its survival. So technically ilegal yes. Unethical,
no. Terrorism would have destroyed Northern Ireland twenty
years ago had purely legal means been used. The RUC and
army were generally the democratic face of the realm's defence.
The operations of MI5 and others made it work.'

'Mr de Witt,' Meyrick said with great gravity, 'did you in
1987 sanction arms to be given to a South African hit team to
assassinate Dominic Smals?'


571

'Yes. He was a fund-raiser for the ANC and IRA and was
negotiating the smuggling of American Stinger missiles for the
Provos. It was expedient to let the assassination go ahead.'

'Who was ordered to supply the weapons used? The
defendant?"

'No, Peter Keegan. He was our man in the Ulster Defenders.'
At the bench behind Meyrick, Browne felt the tension ebb
from her shoulders. Littlechild's conspiracy-to-murder charge
had evaporated in a sentence.

The defence barrister then persuaded de Witt to confirm that
Littlechild had proved to be his and MIS's most reliable agent
throughout the entire period, culminating in the seizure of
South African arms destined for a dangerous Loyalist leader
called Rattler.

De Witt also confirmed the defendant's role in liaising with

MI5 in the supply of military equipment from America to

South Africa via Northern Ireland.

'Wasn't MIS's role breaking an embargo agreed by both
Washington and London?' Meyrick asked.

De Witt had begun to look really tired now, his eyelids beginning
to droop. He sipped more morphine and steeled himself.
His task was nearly done. 'Remember what I said about democracy.
Under President Carter the CIA was emasculated. It
looked to its friends in London for help. Northern Ireland was
virtually a secret state, all the intelligence agencies involved.
The ideal conduit to move military material around the world.
Apparently destined for a NATO ally, only to be rerouted.
South Africa was one such destination.'

'But the embargo?'

'South Africa was of vital strategic interest to NATO. Moreover,
it held rare and vital mineral resources only available
elsewhere in the Soviet Union. However much apartheid was
despised, the overriding priority for Washington and London
was the survival of a friendly pro-West government. Besides, the
war in southern Africa was seen as the cockpit of the war
between East and West. It was why Britain never endorsed
sanctions, which many didn't understand.'

'But all that has changed?'


572

There was a bitter smile on Walter de Witt's wizened face.
'Oh yes. The Soviet threat has gone and its mineral resources
are available on the open market. Neither South.Africa nor
Ulster any longer plays a strategic role. So Washington sees
more benefit in wooing the ANC and the pan-Irish nationalist
movement in Ireland. By 1989 I could see the writing on the
wall as clear as day.'

;Is that the year your MI5 chief ordered you to close down Cuchulainn?'

'That began two years earlier after the Anglo-Irish Agreement.
It was completed by '89.'

'But in fact you hadn't closed it down, had you?'

His chuckle was dry and the physical pain of the effort
showed in his face. 'I was not prepared to betray the Ulster
people. I closed down most of the caches, but only after I'd
moved many of the arms. Then I sanitised the membership

lists, removing the names of my old and trusted friends.'

'How betrayed?' Meyrick asked.

'Appeasing terrorists step by step. Giving something here,
something there. Taking the line of least resistance.' Spittle
gathered in frothy bubbles at the corners of his mouth. 'Don't
they realise the terrorists will just take what's given, then come
back - for more!' He broke off into a spluttering cough which
doubled him up with pain, then the matron's blue tunic blotted out the screen as she rushed in to assist.

Mr Justice Quigley peered over his pince-nez at the prosecution
bench. 'You will wish to cross-examine?'

An ashen-faced Halifax looked towards Ian Spinks and the
troubled GPS solicitor slowly shook his head.

'Then the court shall adjourn until after lunch,' the judge
said, 'when the prosecution may begi its final address.'

As soon as Mr Justice Quigley had disappeared through his
door, pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. The defence
team burst into enthusiastic charter and the prosecution
benches and jury became alive with heated debate as everyone
began filing out.

Browne lingered, looking up at the huge screen and the.
close-up of the face. His eyes were closed and he appeared


573

remarkably serene. At peace with himself, she thought, his life's
work done. She leaned towards the microphone Meyrick had
used. 'Thank you, Walter,' she whispered.

His eyes didn't open, but his lips moved almost imperceptibly

and she only just caught the croaked murmur of reply: 'My
pleasure, rosebud, my pleasure.'

The screen flickered into blankness as the video link went
down.


It was twenty minutes before she escaped the waiting crowd of
reporters outside and found Lomax and the others in the
Magpie and Stump. They'd already heard news of what de Witt
had said and it had clearly added an unneeded sense of
euphoria to their shared state of inebriation.

'Dad's pissed,' Manda complained, offering Browne a bottle

of mineral water.

'Don't be too hard on him, he deserves something to celebrate.'
She took a sip. 'He knows it can still go either way.'

But Manda was distracted, thinking deeply. 'Dad and Joe

have come up with this really stupid idea with Bill Johnson. And

they sound serious, Sam.'

'Oh, what's that?'

'To start a private investigation agency. It's so ridiculous. Can

you believe that?'

A smile slowly curled Browne's lips and an amused light

danced in her eyes. 'Do you know, Manda, I really think I can.'

It was a female voice. 'Miss Browne?'

Sam Browne turned, feeling unaccountably unnerved. The
woman was dressed in a gaberdine raincoat, her black hair in
need of a brush. Tiredness detracted from the attractiveness of
her looks. 'Don't I know you from somewhere?'

'I once made you get in the boot of a car.' As Browne's jaw
dropped, the woman said quickly: 'Can we talk?'


Browne was surprised that Henry Halifax put up no objection
to the appearance of yet another unexpected witness, In fact, he
looked towards her and gave a sheepish smile and a gentle
nod of approval. Even Henry was realising now that he'd been


574

duped; Ian Spinks averted his eyes, looking suitably embarrassed.

'You are Marjorie Helen Lewis,' Ronnie Rock said..'A private
investigator and former employee of the Security Service, MI5.
On the night of Donny Fitzpatrick's murder last August, where
were you?'

She took a deep breath, her eyes half closed, as though she
were deciding to step over the edge of a cliff. 'I was in the safe

house at Bascombe Court with my boss Harry Grisewold.'
'Another former MI5 operator?'

'Yes. We're often hired for irregular work by the Service.
Roger Pinfold - also known as Prendergast - asked us to be on
standby. At about ten thirty we were radioed to follow Fitzpatrick
to the King's Head public house and wait outside for the
arrival of Roduey Littlechild. If he'd turned up we'd have
entered the pub and arranged to pick up a glass he'd used in
order to get a set of fingerprints.'

'But Littlechild changed the venue?'

She nodded. 'That wasn't unexpected - good fieldcraft. So
we followed them to the Mortar and Pestle and did the job
there.'

'What happened next?'

'Fitzpatrick returned to his flat and then we went in with
Roger Pinfold. He introduced us to Fitzpatrick as a relief
minder team then left. A few minutes later there was a ring at
the door...'

Ronnie Rock interrupted: 'Was it bulletproofed?'

'At that time, yes, they always are. Anyway, Harry opened it
and brought this man into the living room. Fitzpatrick was
completely unsuspecting. The marl pulle.d out a silenced gun
and shot Fitzpatrick on the sofa at point-blank range. Then he
left.'

'Did you know this was going to happen?'

'No. I was a bit shaken, but then I'm used to dirty ops.'

'Did you know the killer?'

'Not then. Later Harry told me he was an East End hit
called Pixie Dean. Harry had paid him cash, half up front. Pixie


575

took the Eurostar to France and went into hiding at some
remote country house rented by Harry.'

'And a couple of weeks later, Harry Grisewold went to pay
Pixie the second half?'

'Not exactly. Harry shot him and fed him to pigs kept at the
house. Eat anything, pigs. The skull was smashed, burnt and
the remains scattered.'

Someone in the jury threw up noisily. Ronnie Rock waited

for silence before asking: 'Do you know who ordered Harry
Grisewold to arrange this assassination?'

Before Halifax or the judge could intervene to stop the
hearsay answer, Margie Lewis said quickly: 'Oh yes.' Hatred
glittered in her dark eyes. 'Roger Pinfold.'

At that moment the case against Rodney Littlechild
collapsed.


Albie Nairn heard the newsflash on the transistor radio as he
worked on the restoration of an aged Wolsey saloon in the
wooden shed beside his bungalow. Rodney Littlechild freed!
Such wonderful news, worthy of a celebration, which was good
because there hadn't been much to celebrate in the past few
days.

There was a sound bite from the husky-voiced lawyer Sam
Browne and hearing her words took him back to her unexpected
arrival at the farm in Eire with Lomax. So much had
happened since then. He, and Spike Scott had known something
was wrong when the Cuchulainn helicopter had not returned.
The disastrous outcome had been confirmed on the early
morning news and the two of them tiad left the farm immediately,
travelling by car across the border ....

His wife had known better than to ask him where he'd been
and the next day an RUC detective called to ask him why his car
had been found abandoned outside the late King Billy's
caravan. He made a statement saying he'd been visiting when
unknown gunmen had attacked. Terrified, he had run away
and gone into hiding with friends. The detective was cletdy
sceptical, but then it was known from witnesses that Nairn
wasn't responsible for the killing. His statement .would just


576

gather dust in some filing cabinet; no one in the RUC was going
to shed a tear for the end of King Billy's reign.

Nairn turned off the radio, took the lead from behind the
door and whistled for his dog. Toby bounded in and the two of
them set out into the fields, passing the outhouse where the vast
arms cache lay. All bolted and sealed again. The genie back in
its bottle - for now.

Rattler back to his old life, always on the gallop, scuttling
from one hideaway to another in the province. Spike electioneering
and Susie Fergus0n grieving for her few weeks of
happiness after so many years of waiting.

He looked out over his neighbour's pastureland and
wondered if he'd ever get the call again. He doubted it.
Wondered if they'd ever find another leader like Keegan,
another Hound of Ulster to take his place when they faced their
darkest hour.


Littlechild swooped Browne into his arms and lifted her off her
feet, whirling her around three times as the crowded court
dispersed. Totty, Me}rick and Rock looked on with wide grins
at the sudden and welcome transformation in the quiet
Ulsterman.

'I never thought you'd pull it off, Sam, really I didn't.'

'Put me down this instant, you'll ruin my reputation,' she
laughed as she landed and quickly smoothed down her rucked

skirt. 'Anyway, you ought to thank Chris as much as me.'
'Where is he?'

'Gone to phone Evie with the news Now come on and let's
get this over with. Don't .talk to the press; I'll read them a short
statement. If you want it, I've an e.xclusive deal ready with the Mail and a TV documentary with Lisa Hardcastle.'

Lomax rejoined them in the corridor, hugged his old friend
and gave Browne a congratulatory kiss. 'I told Evie to jump in a
cab with the baby and get straight down here. She says Noel
can't wait to crack a pint of warm milk with his old da. She's
over the^raoon.'

A melee of media reporters was gathered outside the
entrance, with flashlights blinking and microphones thrust


577

towards them as Browne put on her reading specs and made the
short announcement.

When she finished speaking and the reporters began dispersing
to file their stories, she heard a voice behind her. 'Make the
most of your moment of glory, Miss Browne.' She turned,
startled. It was Roger Pinfold. 'I assure you it won't last. I'll
make certain of that.'

Her eyes narrowed, but when she started to speak, he turned
away. As he did so, she saw the tall, dark-haired detective step briskly in front of him. Chief Inspector Millman said: 'Mr
Prendergast, I wonder if you would mind accompanying DS
Henwick and me to Paddington Green. There're a few questions
I'd like to ask.'

Pinfold shrugged and smiled coldly. 'Sure. Only to be
expected.'

Millman left him standing with his sergeant and walked back
to Browne. 'I'm afraid I owe you an apology, ma'am. You asked
me once if I had doubts. I should have done. I've been used and
it's not a nice feeling.'

She smiled. 'Thanks for the good grace to admit it.' She
indicated Pinfold. 'It's good to see that justice is going to be
done. He's responsible for at least three deaths.'

Millman sniffed. 'Don't fool yourself, Miss Browne. I intend
giving him a hard time, but nothing will stick. Within a few
hours I'll get a call from the Commissioner telling me to drop it.
Word from on high. Sorry, but that's the way it is. Pinfold will
walk.'

Browne looked aghast and glanced at Lomax. He shrugged.
' Some people are untouchable, Sam.'

She looked around and saw the press photographer fiddling

with his camera. 'Have you got film in that?' she demanded.
He looked bewildered. 'Er- yes.'

'Well, here's your front-page picture for tomorrow.' She
turned back to Millman. 'MI5 people need anonymity to do the
job, right?'

She didn't wait for a reply, but spun on her heel and strode
across to where Pinfold stood waiting beside DS Henwick.

Lomax frowned. What the hell was she playing at? .It came so


578

fast he almost missed it as she threw back her right shoulder and
elbow, then lunged. Her balled fist sped foward a blur as
her elbow snapped in to straighten her arm. The impact caught
Pinfold square in the centre of his face. Lomax winced. Browne
yelped at the pain in her knuckles. And Pinfold's legs gave Way.

The flashlight popped, again and again on rrmtor drive as the
man fell writhing to the pavement, blood streaming from his
broken nose. He glared up at her and spat out a piece of broken
front tooth as Henwick rushed to help him to his feet.

Lomax and Littlechild burst out laughing and even Millman
smiled. 'You going to arrest me, Chief Inspector?' Browne
asked.

The detective could hardly keep a straight face. 'Do you want
to press charges, Mr Pinfold?'

But there was no answer as Henwick led him away.

'Did you say Pinfold?' the photographer asked.

'Roger Pinfold,' Browne said. 'You'll have no trouble selling
his picture.'

Lomax dragged her away and the defence team began
walking across the road to the Magpie and Stump where Tristram
Meyrick and Ronnie Rock were already setting up the first
round of celebration drinks.

'God,' she said, nursing her hand, 'I think I've broken a bone.

But, oh boy was it worth it just to see the look on his face!'
'I love you when you're angry,' Lomax laughed.
She smiled. 'Which seems to be most of the time.'
'Just as well then.' And they both knew what he meant.

They barely noticed the' husker outside the pub as they
passed, sitting with his guitar and up-turned hat. Only Rodney
Litdechild paused for a moment, .listening to the haunting
melody as the young man sang.

'Red is the colour of anger - And black is the colour of
hate...'

579


Terence Strong's latest thriller, Deadwater Deep, is also
available in Arrow. Read the first explosive chapter
overleaf.. �

k

Prologue


The sonar operator's hunched shoulders stiffened suddenly.

'I've
got somethin'.' Thumb and forefinger played deftly
with the tuning dial. 'Yeah. Faint, but definitely somethin'.'

His
laconic Tennessee drawl belied the surge of adrenalin
he felt; this was not a man to break sweat easily.

The officer of the watch moved through the airconditioned
red twilight of the ops centre, deep in the
bowels of the anti-submarine frigate USS Knox and peered

at the console display. 'You sure, Crosby?'

'Only that it's somethin', Sir.'

Crosby was good. Crosby had bat's ears, they all knew
that. But even Crosby could be wrong. They were running
on USS Knox's ED passive towed-array sonar, because the
target was one hell of a mother. Her state-of-the-art stealth
hull would simply absorb active sonar signals pinging out
of the bow-mounted Western General Electric rig and give
nothing away. So they were reduced to passive listening.
Because, however dampened, you could never fully eliminate
engine noise and, however slick the design, you could
never stop water rushing over a submarine's bow.

USS Knox had only a bearing. You needed at least three
bearings from separate ships to get a fix. And so far, they
only had the one.

The officer of the watch made his decision, silently vowing
to give Crosby a bad time he'd never forget if he'd
screwed up on this one. 'Bearing?' he snapped.

'Oh-eight-five degrees, Sir,' Crosby snapped back.
'Get the wax out of your ears - track and report.'
'Sir.'

The officer turned to the communications suite. Time to
stick his neck out, and pray he wouldn't be left with more
egg on his face than on his cap. 'Signal Commander 7th
Fleet. Unconfirmed contact, our bearing oh-eight-five.'

Forty-five seconds later Vice-Admiral Ross Harding was
handed the message aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Wearing tropical whites, he sat in a bridge high chair,
which gave him a perfect view of the carrier's floodlit flight
deck below.

His was the appearance and build of a man who had not
been born in the normal way, but hewn fully-grown out of
limestone. Flinty eyes scrutinised the piece of paper in his
huge fist.

After reading the signal, Harding took time to relight the
well-chewed cigar butt before acknowledging the anxious
faces of the small group of VIP visitors to the exercise. A
bunch of grey suits. Politicians and spooks, he wasn't sure
which he detested most. And he had them all here on the
carrier's bridge, in equal measure. In Harding's strictly private
view, each was as over-confident in his abilities and
was untrustworthy as the next.

The Honorable Hal Katz, Deputy Assistant Secretary of
Defense for Special Operations was one and Hank Aspen,
CIA, Assistant Deputy Director of Operations, another.
Both, he knew of old, had the smooth charm and all the
backbone of a rattlesnake. Katz wouldn't agree to anything
that meant he might have to explain away in bodybags,
while Hank Aspen didn't mind any number of them as long
as no one could pin the blame directly on him.

Obviously the vice-admiral wasn't familiar with his
British visitors from across the pond, but he doubted they
were much better. Their Spock was Piers Lansdowne, a
thirty something highflyer with a schoolboy's face and a
pronounced Adam's apple. The trendy foppish cut of his
blond hair and round-rimmed swot's spectacles were an
anathema to Harding. But he had to admit the boy's mind
seemed as sharp as the broken shards of his cut-glass

accent. That told Harding everything: privileged background,
English public school and now Far East Desk of
the Foreign Office.

At least that was the fiction that the Bitish junior
defence minister insisted on maintaining.

But then Frank Hudd was new to higt echelons of his
government, the Armed Forces in general, and ships in
particular. Even as Harding had received the signal from USS Knox, Frank Hudd was throwing up his guts into a
plastic bucket out on the flying bridge. The sea was millpond
calm.

Harding didn't bother hiding his irritation as he
addressed Piers Lansdowne. 'You wanna see if your
Minister is well enough to join us yet? I don't wanna go
over all this again.'

Lansdowne had the grace to blush. 'I'll check on him,
Admiral.'

The American grey suits and Harding shared expressions
of silent exasperation: the entire US war machine
held up for a bucket of British puke.

Moments later Lansdowne reappeared, helping Frank
Hudd as he stumbled through the hatchway.

'Feeling better?' Hal Katz asked brusquely.

Hudd's watering eyes, set in a meaty bloodhound face,
couldn't disguise the embarrassment he felt for displaying
such feebleness before these men of iron. He smiled
weakly, 'Thanks. Better out than in, eh?'

That drew no response, so he tried to look businesslike,
straightening his back and hiking up his crumpled off-the
peg suit to cover his beer bell. 'Pi.ers says something's
happened?'

Vice Admiral Harding nodded. 'One of our destroyers
picked up an unconfirmed passive sonar contact two
minutes ago.' He strode across to the wall chart that
showed the small island off Saipan. The surrounding area
of the Pacific showed the island ringed by ships of the
Carrier Task Force. Harding jabbed a finger at one of

these. FFT. 'Knox puts the contact bearing at oh-eight
five. That's a bearing but no fix. Any number of miles
along that trajectory. So it could still be outside or inside
our protective ring.'

Frank Hudd looked concerned. 'Surely that couldn't be Manta. All this stealth technology stuff, it's supposed to be
foolproof.'

'That's what we're here to find out, Frank,' Hall Katz
reminded patiently. 'To see if it's all the bofftns crack it up
to be '

Vice Admiral Harding cut in: 'We're ordering up three
Sea Kings - they're anti-submarine helicopters with dunking
sonars. We'll attempt to get a confirmation and
triangulated fix on the contact.' Behind him, through the
bridge windscreen, the three sea-grey shapes could be seen
lifting off into the clear night sky. 'Now we're finally all
together, let me bring you up to speed.'

He tapped again on the map of the island. 'Tim-wan is
an island some two miles in diameter. It is deserted except
for a small detachment of electronic engineers and US
marines who maintain and guard a small listening-station.
The destruction of its antennae is the ultimate objective to
this technological exercise.

'The exercise is to evaluate the technical abilities of an
experimental submarine and the efficiency of the crew and
on-board assault team which combine to make up Project
Deadwater.

'As you will be aware, the sub began development in
Britain as a joint private and Royal Navy venture in the last
few years of the Cold War. Under the designation SCUBA - Secure Clandestine Underwater Basing Apparatus - the
sub employs state-of-the-art stealth technology to allow it
to operate close to shore in enemy waters and remain
undetected. Its function is to provide an operational base
for clandestine activity - from the launch of commando
raids to supporting agent networks - for up to a month's
duration.'

Frank Hudd still felt queasy, but forced his mind to concentrate.
'Er, Admiral, since Project Deadwater became a
joint British-American development after our Options for
Change cutbacks at the end of the Cold War, we've had
little detail of progress. What we have had, I'm afraid, is
pretty incomprehensible.'

Hal Katz frowned. 'You have a Royal Navy liaison
officer assigned?'

Hudd smiled sheepishly. 'Oh yes. I'm afraid it's me
who's the problem. I used to be a coal miner. Don't know
one end of a gun from the other.'

'New Labour,' Piers explained kindly.

'All that technical jargon is gobbledegook to me,' the
British defence minister added. 'And I've had no sight of
naval architects' plans, or even a snap.'

'Snap?' Vice Admiral Harding queried.

'Snapshot, photograph. I've begun to wonder if Britain
really still owns the half it pays for.'

The CIA man, Hank Aspen, spoke in his usual flat and
deadly serious tone. 'That's down to my department,
Minister, we tend to be a little over-zealous on the secrecy
front. Especially where new technology's concerned.'

'But we do have an artist's impression here,' Katz added.
'Don't we, Admiral.'

'Sure do,' Harding moved to the flip chart next to the
map and threw back the cover.

'This is the Manta," Hank Aspen said. 'And I hope this
is something no one outside naval operations will ever see.'

Hudd fumbled for his spectacles and, as he focused on
the drawing, his mouth dropped. [t wa like no submarine
he had ever seen before. His first impression was of a sort
of black underwater flying-saucer. But rather than being
perfectly symmetrical, it was a teardrop-shape which
tapered towards the stern. And he could see now where the
name had come from. The wide stabilising 'wings' running
the full length of each side of the craft gave it an uncanny.
resemblance to a manta ray. There was no conning-tower,

or 'fin' as Lansdowne had taught him to call it, just a four
feet smooth hump amidships from which twin masts
protruded.

'The hull shape's been streamlined considerably since

the original conception,' Aspen explained. 'She may look
like something out of Star Wars, but inside she's still a one
sixty tonne cigar tube carrying a four man crew and sixteen
combat swimmers.' He grinned. 'Maybe a few more if they
all breathe in. As you see, the outer is covered with sonar
absorbent panels. In layman's terms, they prevent any hostile
sonar signals pinging back to give away the sub's
location.' He pointed to the X-configurated rudder and
hydroplane control fins at the stern. 'Has fly-by-wire
ailerons, so it operates more like an aircraft than a conventional
sub. Plus port and starboard thrusters, so she Can
turn in her own length. GPS navigation and communications
via satellite. All run by computer, of course.'

The junior British defence minister was lost. 'Of course.'
'Silicon Valley's best,' Aspen continued proudly. 'But
when it comes to putting an assault team ashore, we
embrace appropriate technology. High tech stealth sub, but
the men go ashore by good old tried and tested means as
required.'

'Quite incredible,' Hudd murmured.

'It will need to be,' Piers Lansdowne observed, 'if the
project is to fulfil the role we have in mind.'

Vice-Admiral Harding's face remained inscrutable, only

the fractional narrowing of his eyes indicating that his
analytical mind was humming like a computer. Piecing
together fragments of knowledge, linking them with
threads of logic. Specialist submarine, special forces,
intelligence experts on China, joint-AmericanBritish
interests...

But when he spoke there was no curiosity in his voice. It

was typically matter-of-fact. 'Whatever you have in mind,
gentlemen, this exercise should tell you whether the sub
and the Project Deadwater team is up to it.

'We have the island of Tim-Wan surrounded by a ring of
ships from the 7th Fleet, deploying the most efficient antisubmarine
technology in the world, including ASW aircraft
from our Rota base. Manta will have to penetrate that ring
undetected, their assault team destroy the dummy aerial,
return to the mother ship and escape th ring of ships
again -'

Hudd was enthralled, not conscious that he was chewing

his thumbnail. 'And do you think they can do it, Admiral?'
Harding's back stiffened. 'A personal view, Minister?'
'Of course.'

'Not a snowballs -' He ignored Hank Aspen's withering
glare. 'Looks like Knox is already on to them.'

The signals officer approached the vice-admiral. 'Sorry,
sir. Knox reports it's lost the contact.'

'Thank you.' Harding did not bother hiding his annoyance.
Fleet reputation was on the line here. 'When are our
AS helos due on station?' he checked with the carrier's
caitain.

'A couple of minutes,. Admiral. '

'Then it won't have gone far. I've every confidence.'
But Harding's confidence was apparently misplaced.
After fifteen minutes of hovering while they lowered their
sonar buoys into the water, the flight commander reported
negative to contact.

Hudd felt a small rush of pride. After all, the initial concept
of the SCUBA had been British, even if the Yanks had
tinkered with it. 'If it's slipped through the net, Admiral,
when might we expect them to reach the target?'

'At least another hour.' Harding indicated the CCTV
monitor installed above the control console. It showed a
hazy green monochrome picture of a patch of land and the
base of the dummy radio mast on Tim-wan. 'That's being
relayed direct from the target. Low-level light camera, so
we'll be able to see when the assault team get there.'

'If,' reminded Hal Katz. 'And there are a dozen Marines
on patrol.'

'Maybe it's time to take a break instead ofhangin' round

waiting for nothing to happen,' Hank Aspen suggested.
'The wardroom's at your disposal,' Harding said.

Hudd looked relieved. 'I could do with a stiff drink.
Might settle the old turn.'

Harding gave the British minister a curious look as he
showed the way.

Piers Lansdowne explained quietly. 'Sorry, Frank. It's a

dry Navy.'

'Oh, God, I was forgetting.'

'No problem.' He held something concealed in his hand.
'Take this.'

'What is it?'

'My hip flask.'

Coke, Fanta and coffee were on offer in the wardroom

and a range of snacks was spread on the gleaming table.

'A pot of tea would be nice.'

The steward smiled stiffly, sure he would find an old box

of teabags hidden somewhere in the galley.

They had barely settled in their seats when the officer of

the watch put his head around the door. 'Admiral Harding,
Sir, message from the captain. Thought you'd want to
know, one of the Hawkeyes has picked up a naval vessel
fifteen miles to the north. Been identified as destroyer Luhu.'

Harding's left eyebrow lifted a fraction. 'Makin' this
way?'

'No, Sir,' the officer replied. 'She's moved in to get an
eyeball on Knox and is remaining on station. Luhu's put up
two Harbin helos to see what's going on, but her stance is
non-aggressive.'

'And what's our counteraction?'

The officer smiled tightly. 'Two F18s are buzzing the
helos to warn them off, and we've signalled Luhu this is a
private party, invitation only.'

Harding nodded. 'Keep me posted. We don't want an
international incident by accident.'

'Sir.'

As the officer withdrew, Hudd looked across the table at
vice-Admiral Harding. 'What does all that men?'

Harding offered one of his rare bleak smiles. 'It means
the Chinese Navy is monitoring the exercise and it's playing
a long way from home.'

'It's what we in the CIA have been warning,' Hank
Aspen added darkly. 'We've had evidence for a long time
that China has serious territorial ambitions. It's the only
major power in the world that doesn't accept the geographical
status quo and it's got major territorial disputes
with all its neighbours. That's why Beijing is determined to
project its influence with a modern blue water navy.'

Hal Katz swallowed the remains of his first sandwich.
'I've seen those reports, Hank. The assessment is it'll be at
least fifteen years before the Chinese have an operational
navy good enough to allow them to cause real trouble.
And, anyway, that assumes causing trouble would be in
their interest. To my mind they're too far down the capitalist
road for that.'

'Sorry, Sir,' Admiral Harding interrupted, 'but that's not
what I'm seeing. Since the French sold them the old
Clemenceau carrier, they've been flexing their muscles. Two
years ago you'd never have seen Luhu out here, nearly two
thousand miles off-shore and aggressively poking its nose
into an American exercise.'

Katz shrugged dismissively but Piers Lansdowne, from
the British Foreign Office, added: 'Things have changed
since the Hong Kong handover. It restored national pride
and went to the heads of the 16adehip. Since President
Deng Xiaoping's death, there's been an ongoing powerstruggle
and at the moment the hard men are holding sway.
Two hundred years ago China was the most powerful nation
on earth, and now they see the economic miracle as the key
to restoring them to their former position in the world.'

'Nothing wrong in that,' Katz said defensively. 'Every
nation has its aspirations.'

'Nothing wrong,' the admiral agreed, 'as long as we in

the West don't help them there by selling them all our latest
weapons technology.'

'That's not how State or the White House sees it,' Katz
snapped back. 'They see it as the greatest investment
opportunity for America that the world will ever see. A fifth
of mankind and the second largest economy on earth.'

Admiral Harding did not respond. No point in reminding
the senator that far from being a great market opportunity,
China had actually become the largest source of trade
deficit to both the USA and Europe. He just wouldn't
listen, because the President wouldn't listen and Hal Katz
was the President's man, If the President said jump, he'd
ask how high. So Harding would save his breath to cool his
porridge. Besides, as the old saying went, it wasn't his job
to ask how or why.

The boy Lansdowne accepted a coffee cup from the
steward, little finger crooked like the well-brought up kid
he obviously was. 'Have you noticed how the slogans have
changed?' he asked absently, his cultured English accent
sounding oddly out of place.

'What?' Katz asked, bewildered.

A politely patronising English smile. 'If you read the
Chinese newspapers, you'll notice the old 'To Get Rich is
Glorious' slogans have gone. No more stories of businessmen
successfully risking all to turn round ailing factories.
The new slogans are full of reference to hostile forces
abroad. Accusing them of using economics to democratise
China in order to divide and control it.'
Hal Katz looked blank. 'I don't read Chinese.'

Piers Lansdowne sipped delicately at his coffee. 'Perhaps

you should learn, Sir.'

Frank Hudd nearly choked on his tea. Beautiful! A
stiletto straight between the shoulder blades. Young Piers
was everything the ex-Nottingham miner thought he hated
about the old establishment right-wing, but he'd warmed
to the young man quickly during the long flight .out from

Heathrow in the civilian airliner. He wasn't in the least bit
patronising as the newly-appointed minister struggled to
absorb the complexities of the briefing. Piers was friendly
and witty, explaining that the main obstacle of their secret
mission was the President of the United States himself.

Hudd noticed that, across the table, A/lrniral Harding
and Hank Aspen of the CIA were looking at Piers Lansdowne with undisguised admiration. Then Hudd's
eyes met theirs and the Americans' expression said it all.
The boy from the British Secret Intelligence Service sorry,
Foreign Office - had put into words exactly what
they thought.

For the first time since being flown aboard the carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt, Frank Hudd felt that he was
among allies, if not yet friends.


An hour later, they returned to the bridge. Hudd was feeling
much better, fortified by the tea he had surreptitiously
laced with whisky from Piers' flask.

The carrier's captain informed them that nothing had
happened during their absence. It was good from one point
of view, thought Hudd. The stealth submarine was still undetected. But, as he could see from the CCTV monitor,
there wasn't much point in that if the mission itself was
unaccomplished. And no sign of life had yet been seen at
the island aerial site so far.

Meanwhile the Chinese destroyer Luhu remained watching
and listening on station, its helicopters now returned to
the aft deck to refuel.

When thirty minutes had phssed, Admiral Harding
cleared his throat. 'Well, gentlemen, I have to tell you that
it looks as though we are faced with mission failure. The
US Marine detachment report no sign of activity on Tim
Wan and Manta has only thirty minutes left to return
undetected to the outside of the cordon.'

'But the sub hasn't been found...' Hudd began.
Harding couldn't conceal his disappointment. 'That is

true, Minister, and I'm sorry my boys haven't located it
yet. That may be because of some technical failure. If the
sub is lying doggo on the bottom, it would explain why the
AS sonars haven't picked her up.'

'And why they haven't reached their target,' Hank Aspen
added.

Concern clouded Hudd's face. 'They're not in any
danger, are they?'

'Highly unlikely,' Harding replied. 'In about thirty
minutes they'll make themselves known to us, wherever
they are.'

Hal Katz said: 'I expect it's the new computer software.

They've been having trouble with that.'

'You're probably right.'

Hudd felt suddenly depressed. It just underlined what

the military sceptics back at the Ministry of Defence in
London had told him. The concept was fatally flawed. And
if it was, so was the entire mission that Piers Lansdowne
and Hank Aspen had set themselves. To set free the largest
nation on earth. A thousand million people.

Piers sensed his disappointment, and placed a reassuring
hand on his shoulder.

'Sir!' It was the communications officer. 'Signal from
Knox again. Contact bearing oh-eight-one.'

'Inside the cordon,' Piers advised instantly.

Shit, Hudd mouthed.

'Picked up on active this time,' the officer added. 'Strong
signal and they have a fix.' He rattled off the reference. It
was barely a mile off Theodore Roosevelt's bow.

'Odd,' Harding thought aloud as the CTFC scrambled

the anti-submarine Sea Kings again. 'Active sonar's usually
hopeless against Manta.'

Hank Aspen from Langley said: 'Maybe she's lost some

of her panels. That happened in earlier trials.'

'The panels absorb sonar signals,' Piers explained to
Hudd. 'If some panels are lost, then an active sonar signal
will hit the bare surface and bounce back to give a contact

and approximate position.'

'So what happens next?'

Harding answered. 'We're dropping dummy depthcharges.
If they go off close enough, Manta will surface.
That will represent a kill or SD. Severe damage.' He
turned towards the bridge windscreen andvast flight deck
beyond, crammed with rows of naval fighters. 'If you look
off our starboard bow, you should be able to watch the
floorshow.'

The group craned forward to watch the helicopters
speed across the sluggish swell of the Pacific, the surface
glistening like hammered silver under the full moon.

Suddenly the bridge was filled with the squawk and
static hiss and rapid radiospeak of radio traffic as the pilots
assessed and confirmed their positions above the submarine.

'Fired
one, fired two,' intoned the first helicopter.

He was joined by the second, forming a pattern. 'Fired
one, fired two.'

Hudd saw the dark shape of the charges falling like birdshit
from the helicopter pods. He held his breath, expecting
an almighty roar and the great geyser of displaced water
he'd seen on war movies.

Stupid, of course, because these were only dummies. So
the small fountains of spray were a bit of a disappointment
and they couldn't even hear the detonations at that
distance.

A tense silence followed, Hudd aware of his heart's slow
and steady thud from somewhere deep within his crumpled
shirt.

' We got somethin',' broke in one of the helicopter pilots,
followed by a hiss and crackle. 'Standby, standby. Contact
about to surface.'

Hudd's spirits sank and he tuned to Piers in search of
consolation, but the eyes behind the glasses were fixed and
concentrated, showing no emotion. A cold fish and no
mistake.

Off the starboard bow, where the Sea Kings circled like
vultures waiting to feast on their prey, the sea began to
ferment and bubble. Suddenly the frothing surface was
illuminated by two fierce blades of light from the Nitesun
lamps.

On-the carrier's bridge, each VIP leaned forward hoping

for a clearer view and their first sight of the mysterious
craft. Hudd tried to focus the binoculars with which he'd
been issued.

'Holy cow,' Aspen murmured. The slippery grey, blue

hull was breaking through the cauldron of disturbed water.
'What the hell... ?' Hudd began.

'Negative, negative,' crackled the nearest pilot. 'False contact.
Repeat false contact. Anyone fancy a fish-supper?'

'A bloody sperm whale,' Vice-Admiral Harding growled.
Hudd breathed again, looking at Piers and this time seeing
the big wide grin that made him look more like a
schoolboy than ever.

'Sir, Sir!' It was one of the duty watch officers who
constantly scanned from the carrier with night-vision aids.
'Unidentified contact bearing one-eight-one. Repeat one
eight-one.'

'What?' Hudd was totally bewildered.

'Aft,' Piers translated. 'Behind us.'

Outside the cordon, Hudd told himself, as Harding led

the group across the bridge for a better view over the aft

end.

Scarcely a half-mile off the stem a white froth was forming
on the blue-black surface Of the ocean swells. Piers
helped his minister focus the binoculars.

It was bizarre, like something out of science fiction. The
strangely globular monster rose from the deep, seawater
spilling from her sides.

'USS Manta,' Aspen murmured in awe.

Then, barely without hesitation, it began gliding into the
night. A fine wall of spray burst from the water jets around
the hull's winged edge. They created an envelope of wet

mist that broke up the craft's shape and merged it into the
surrounding sea. Even as Hudd watched, it melted away
before his eyes like an illusionist's trick. 'Cocky
bastards,' the admiral growled, but there was no
mistaking the admiration in his voice.

The Honorable Hal Katz grunted. 'Theg've no grounds
for being cocky. They failed to reach the...'

The end of his sentence was drowned out in the noise of
the explosion relayed from the island over the loudspeaker.
Everyone turned as the TV monitor pulsed momentarily
with white light. As the picture settled and the smoke
cleared, they could all see the collapsed wreckage of the
dummy mast and bewildered US Marines running in all
directions.

'They can't have done,' murmured the officer charged
with watching the monitor. 'I didn't see a thing.'

'We'll re-run the tapes later,' Harding said dismissively.
'See if we can spot when they planted the delayed charge.'

But Frank Hudd was no longer listening. They'd done it
and that was all that mattered. A British concept backed
with Yank know-how had managed to defeat the technology
of the world's finest anti-submarine force. Then put a
joint assault group of American SEALs and British Special
Boat Service troops ashore, Succeeding in planting the
explosives even while being watched by CCTV cameras.

And they said it would never work. Well it had. And now
Frank Hudd, ex-Nottingham miner and one-time CND
protester, was going to claim his place in history. Ironically
by freeing a fifth of humanity still yoked and shackled by
the political philosophy he had 6nce himself espoused.

Out there, unseen and silent, the Chinese frigate Luhu rose and fell gently between the long Pacific swells.

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