So now Liz was living in unaccustomed cleanliness and order, which she had to admit to herself was rather pleasant, though she did miss the homely untidiness of her Kentish Town flat. She hadn’t done anything about letting it. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
Judith had asked her down to supper, after Daisy was in bed, and the two women had stayed up late, catching up with each other. Liz had reciprocated Judith’s hospitality by cooking a big Sunday lunch for her and Daisy. How eventful Judith’s recent life had been, thought Liz, and how well she had picked herself up from her husband’s disgrace and their failed marriage. What had Liz to report in return? Nothing really, in terms of change to her private life. There was still no one man in her life, no marriage, no children; only the solace of doing work she enjoyed and knew she was good at.
The sole news of Charles she had heard came in a letter from her mother and it was not what she wanted to hear. Her mother and Edward had been to have supper with him, and Charles seemed very well. Her mother went on that Charles was busy again with his garden, and that he had help from one of his neighbours – that nice woman Alison who’d been at the funeral. Alison had also been a big help with the boys, apparently, and Sam, who was not starting boarding until the following September, went every day after school to Alison’s house for his tea and to do his homework until Charles came home from work. Such a good arrangement, wrote Susan Carlyle enthusiastically; it must make life so much easier for Charles. I bet, thought Liz grumpily. I wonder what this Alison woman is getting out of it. There was no mention in her mother’s letter of whether Charles had asked after Liz, which made her not so much grumpy, as sad.
She had explored the city centre extensively, and found that she liked Belfast. There were still plenty of signs of the sectarian divide that had caused the Troubles in the first place – IRA graffiti splashed in paint across a building she drove by each morning, for example – but they seemed like memories of the past rather than evidence of imminent hostilities.
But she thought again about her surroundings after a meeting with Michael Binding. The chief constable was concerned about an increase in activity by breakaway Republican groups. There were signs that policemen, current and retired, were being targeted for assassination. And threats were being made against contractors working for the police, and even against social workers. Binding had said, ‘Ministers are very concerned that all this activity might upset the political balance. It’s been hard enough to get it all in place. If one of these groups succeeds in killing a target, it could endanger the entire peace process.’
He looked worried for the first time. ‘We don’t want to make too many waves, but potential targets are being advised to increase their personal security. And we all of us need to be careful too.’ He looked out of the window as he went on: ‘Make sure that if you take a car from the pool you keep it parked at the garage of your flat, or here in the car park – don’t leave it on the street. The mechanics change the number plates regularly, but we can’t take any chances. And if you detect any sign of surveillance, please report it to A4 and me immediately.’
He turned his head and looked again at Liz with a thin smile. ‘But of course I don’t need to tell you any of this, with all your counter terrorism experience.’
Then why did you? thought Liz, trying her best to smile back.
Binding seemed to remember something, for he said suddenly, ‘By the way, I’ve heard from A4 about that car you drove in from the airport. The wheel was damaged, but they think that’s because you drove on it – the tyre was completely shot.’
‘But what caused the blowout?’
Binding raised both hands in a ‘who knows?’ gesture. ‘It could have been anything. A nail on the road, broken glass, even the way you were driving, I suppose. There wasn’t enough of the tyre left to tell.’
Liz bristled at the suggestion that her driving had caused the blowout. It seemed a gratuitous insult. And how could Binding sound so certain it had just been an accident? But she resisted the urge to challenge him, knowing it would just confirm his view that women were hysterical.
11
Dave poked his head round Liz’s office door. ‘I’m going to see an old RUC Special Branch contact this afternoon. Maybe he can cast some light on things. I’m taking the photographs from the camera to show him.’
‘Where are you meeting him?’
‘At his house. He didn’t want to come here. I’m getting the feeling that this place is behind enemy lines, which is a bit spooky.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jimmy Fergus. He’s retired from full-time work, but he’s still winding up some of the old RUC cases. He’s supposed to be a mine of information.’ Dave sounded sceptical.
‘I know him. He was a big help when I was on that mole case a few years ago. I’d like to come, too.’
Fergus lived in a comfortable suburb on the north side of the city. As they drove there Dave asked, ‘How’s it going with Binding?’
Liz shot him a look, but Dave kept his eyes on the road straight ahead of him. Eventually she caught him looking sideways at her, and they both laughed.
Liz said, ‘He seems to think I screwed up that pool car. Apparently my inferior driving skills caused a blowout.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Dave.
‘He didn’t think so. Then he gave me a lecture on security – he seemed obsessed with where I parked my car.’
‘Well,’ said Dave, ‘Binding’s got a point, even if it kills me to say it. Don’t underestimate the danger. Oh I know, on the surface it’s all sweetness and light, but just twenty years ago any IRA man in Ulster would have given their eye teeth to kill either of us.’
He turned now onto a quiet tree-lined road, with detached red brick houses set back behind high hedges and no parked cars by the kerb. Only a van delivering laundry disturbed the peace.
He’s lost weight but he’s hardly aged at all, thought Liz, as her old acquaintance opened the front door. She was surprised to find him still working for the police service. When they had last met he had talked happily about taking over his father’s farm in Antrim. But since then he’d married again – wife number four if Liz remembered right – so maybe he needed the salary.
‘Liz,’ he said beaming, and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. She introduced Dave, who sat silently, shifting in his chair as they talked of old times. Eventually, bored with a conversation in which he had no part, Dave opened his briefcase and laid out the photographs on the coffee table.
‘I know three of them,’ said Jimmy Fergus, leaning back in his comfortable chair and surveying the enlarged prints now strewn on the table. He scratched a finger against his pockmarked cheek. He was a big man, whose suits never quite fitted his powerful frame, and whose tie always slid an informal inch down his shirt front. But the ruffled sloppiness of his appearance was misleading; Liz knew he was an excellent policeman, with an intuitive feel for a case and a nose for what people were really like. These qualities had seen him steadily promoted over the years. During the worst years of the Troubles, when dozens of policemen had been murdered, they had also helped keep him alive.
‘This guy,’ he said, pointing at the photograph of the driver of the car that had passed the gatehouse several times, ‘is Terry Malone. Long-time Provo volunteer. Enforcer type. Nothing sophisticated.’ Fergus gave a short laugh. ‘Got a Vauxhall now, has he? He’s come up in the world. He used to drive an old banger that was always breaking down on the Falls Road.’