‘What’s there to get? If you don’t believe me, say the word and I’ll be off.’ Liz heard him shake the door handle.
‘Hold your horses. I’m just surprised. You would be too in my position.’
‘Not very likely,’ said the old man, giving a caustic laugh.
‘I need to know more. You can appreciate that. This man isn’t exactly the only guy in Northern Ireland who’d still like to kill a policeman, or shoot a British Intelligence officer. Wanting is one thing; doing it’s another. Has he made any plans?
‘If you’re asking if this is just some fancy he’s got, you’re wrong. This guy is serious. He’s got plans all right.’
‘Do you know what they are?’ asked Dave sharply.
‘Not the detail. But I know he’s called in external help for the job.’
‘Where from?’
Liz recalled the man she’d seen at the farmhouse; Fergus had identified him as a Spanish hit man. But Patrick said emphatically, ‘France – there’s a Frenchman visiting while we’re sitting here talking.’
‘Have you got a name?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘His name’s Milraw or Milroe, something like that. He’s supposed to be a dealer in old weapons – antiques. He’s got a shop here that’s legit. But I think you’ll find he sells modern weapons as well.’
‘And he would supply weapons to your boss?’
‘He’s not here to sell him a blunderbuss.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘It’s a start, and I’m grateful. But there’s something I still don’t understand – why you are here. I know, I know, that’s your affair. But at least tell me, is there something personal about your reasons?’
‘Personal?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought you’d give two hoots if a cop got shot or someone like me got topped. So what’s this to you?’
And then for the first time Patrick let his taciturn front drop. ‘What’s it to me?’ His voice rose. ‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t given my life and worked my guts out for thirty years to have some little American prick come over and tell me what to do.’
‘This guy’s American?’
‘Boston-Irish. University fella, clever, but just as bad as the rest of them. You know what I mean: all those brave guys sitting on barstools in Boston, throwing in a dollar or two when the NORAID bucket went round, acting tough but doing sweet Fall. Piggott’s just as bad – only instead of getting sloshed in Jerry Kelly’s Shamrock Saloon, or whatever phoney name they call it, he was sitting behind a computer in the university dreaming up the perfect missile. Only it never worked as far as I know. While we were literally dying over here.’
‘Did you say Piggott?’ Dave gave stress to the surname – for her benefit, Liz realised, in case the audio had not been clear enough.
‘Why? Do you know the man?’ asked Patrick suspiciously.
‘Never heard of him. Is he related to the jockey?’ He gave a small laugh.
Patrick didn’t join him. He was quiet for a minute, possibly subdued; he must regret losing his cool like that, thought Liz. He had been so unwilling to talk about his reasons for contacting Dave, the representative of his arch-enemy, yet then he’d blown it. He was nursing a grudge. That was clear now. What Piggott had done to him was anyone’s guess, but Liz didn’t believe it was just his American citizenship that had provoked the Irishman’s rage, and set him off on a quest for revenge.
Dave said, ‘This is extremely helpful, Patrick. But it would be even more helpful if you could find out more and we could meet again. It wouldn’t have to be so elaborate next time; we could meet in Belfast if that suited you.’
‘No.’ Patrick’s voice was unequivocal. Liz heard him open the car door. ‘If I need you again, I know how to get to you. You’ve had all you’re going to get from me, and that should be enough for you to put Piggott away. No amnesty is going to save his arse. And if you can’t catch him, and one of you gets blown away…’ His voice suddenly assumed a gross caricature of an Irish voice. ‘Well faith and goodness, wouldn’t that be a terrible shame?’
17
Jimmy Fergus was an easy-going man, famously affable, a lover of women, pubs, and convivial company. His sunny front to the world masked his professional seriousness; it was his intense commitment to the RUC that had been responsible for the breakdown of his first three marriages. Determined not to let this happen to his fourth, he was now working only part-time for the newly formed Northern Ireland Police Service.
Fortunately Moira, his bride of just over a year, had understood from the beginning how attached he was to police work, and it was she who had encouraged him to defer retirement. Not for her a life in Ibiza or some other stultifying resort, where former policemen sat pickling themselves in sun and booze, stirring only to walk each day as far as the newsagent to pick up the Daily Mail. Jimmy had thought he might take over the family farm in Antrim, but when Moira asked him if he really wanted to spend his days milking cows, he realised that the prospect was more fantasy than ambition.
As it turned out, he had found that it was an exciting time to be in the police force, which made him even more pleased not to have hung up his boots. The new PSNI had swept away cobwebs that even the RUC’s staunchest defenders acknowledged were there; it had also recruited more Catholic policemen than many old RUC hands would have dreamed possible – or, in some cases, thought desirable.
Jimmy welcomed the changes: he had no time for those who longed for the old set-up. He thought it right that as the country changed the police service should change too, and be much more representative of the community it was serving. He particularly welcomed the transfer of the intelligence work from the old RUC Special Branch to MI5, since it meant policemen could focus on fighting good, honest crime – there was plenty of that going on.
But though he was optimistic about Northern Ireland’s future, he wasn’t naive. He knew that in this bit of the island of Ireland, above all, the past never really died. Its tentacles went on twitching and could suddenly reach out and make trouble. Despite his big-shouldered bonhomie, the old policeman had a sceptical view of human nature, and he knew that for all the leopards who’d changed their spots, there were plenty who hadn’t.
It was this knowledge, heightened by a well-honed instinct for self-preservation, that made him notice the laundry van the first time. It had been two weeks before, and the van was parked at the corner of the quiet side street where he and Moira had bought their house – a solid square brick residence with four bedrooms, ample space for visits by the children of their former marriages (now all grown up and with families of their own).
There had seemed nothing odd about the van’s presence – its driver, wearing white overalls, was sitting behind the wheel ticking things off on a clipboard. And when Jimmy saw it again the following week, with the same driver (same clipboard too) he had reckoned it must now be making regular pick-ups from one of the houses down the street. It was only as he unlocked his front door, calling out a cheery ‘I’m home,’ to Moira, that he wondered why in that case the van was parked in a different place – much further along the street. By the time he went outside to have a look, the van had disappeared.
This morning he emerged from his house earlier than usual; he was due at Stormont by eight to discuss the details of transferring old RUC files. It promised to be the kind of meeting he hated (long, and full of bureaucratic detail) but it wouldn’t do to be late.