“No.”
She took another draw and held it in. “They charged them with nineteen, but really there were about thirty murders. The Shankill Butchers were a gang of men, twelve or so of them, Protestant loyalists. They got hold of a black taxicab, drove around at closing time. Whoever hailed them got killed. They wanted Catholics but sometimes got their own side. They weren’t that fussy. What does that tell ye about the depth of their political convictions?”
Paddy tried to affect concern, but to her it was just a story about faceless men killing other faceless men. “It was an excuse?”
Aoife looked over at groups of workmen sunbathing their lunch break away, stripped to the waist across the glimmering water. “One fella, Thomas Madden, wee quiet man, forty-eight, unmarried, a security guard. They hung him up by his feet for six hours. One hundred and forty-seven stab wounds. Chipping away at him for hours.” She flicked her wrist. “All the work of the same hand, ye can tell that from the shape of the wounds. They put the time of death at about four a.m. Later, when they found him and saw where he’d been killed, they found a witness, a woman who’d been coming past around four. She was walking home after a party, she said, and heard a man’s voice. She thought someone was wild with the drink. He was shouting, ‘Kill me, kill me.’” Aoife flattened her hand to her chest wearily. “I don’t know why that hurts me so much.”
Paddy held her hand up. “That’s enough for me, actually.”
“Aye well, there’s my point: in peacetime the Butchers would just be sadistic serial killers, but to some people they’re folk heroes. And they’re the people the peace seekers have to go through. Both sides have their share of bastards. Any one of them can single-handedly break a ceasefire and keep the fight going. That’s who they need to weed out if there’s to be any hope.”
“And McBree’s doing the weeding?”
“So I’ve heard.”
Paddy leaned back on her elbows, letting the sun warm her face. “When you said they don’t trust you, who were you talking about?”
Aoife shrugged as if it was a silly question. “The bosses.”
“Why would the bosses want to hide how Kevin died?”
Aoife prodded Paddy in the shoulder. “That’s your job.”
IV
Helen, the chief librarian, was busy giving a junior member of staff a bollocking. She looked down her nose through her red plastic glasses.
“Tell him that the reason we need one or two keywords is so that an idiot like you doesn’t end up with a truckload of envelopes to lose on the way up the stairs.”
The copyboy was a teenager, his skinny legs hardly filling the smart trousers his mum had ironed for him. He was looking at the red beads on Helen’s glasses chain, trying to give the impression of looking at her without having the courage to actually do it.
“The next time they give you a clippings request, take them this form.” Helen held up a small yellow sheet with three questions on it. “Get them to fill it out. That way you won’t waste my time and yours.”
Paddy leaned over the copyboy’s shoulder and pointed at Helen. “She used to give me grief all the time too.”
He turned, afraid at first and then grateful at her comradely tone. Helen wasn’t pleased. She scowled after the junior as he shuffled out of the office and gave Paddy a cold smile. They were friends sometimes, when Helen forgot about office politics and power games, which was about once a year, usually when her heart had been broken by yet another separated or divorced man. She was on an earnest hunt for love.
Paddy had met a few of Helen’s dates when she bumped into her in bistros around the West End. Red-faced businessmen in expensive suits, mostly. She wondered Helen could eat looking at some of them, much less sleep with them. But although Helen was handsome she was a nippy cow and Paddy supposed that brought her trade value down a lot.
She glared through her glasses at Paddy. “I don’t appreciate you speaking about me in that manner in front of a junior member of staff.”
“Yeah, OK.” Paddy was looking back into the library, at the big table where women with scissors used to cannibalize endless copies of each edition, cutting out stories and filing them in small brown envelopes under subject headings. Nowadays it was all done electronically: the copy was typed into computers to be set and sent to the print room downstairs, and a disk of the articles went to a company with expertise in these things. Helen was alone in the library, general of a dispersed army, and it had made her more unpleasant.
“OK: Brian Donaldson.” Paddy smacked her lips and leaned across the desk. “Martin McBree. Independent and joint.”
Helen sucked her teeth at Paddy to show that she wasn’t happy, turned, and went down to the clippings drum to call up the search. She punched in the names to the panel, the metal drum churned and clanked, and slits opened up along its body. She lifted the envelopes out and slapped her hand with them, thinking for a moment. She looked at Paddy, a smug thought shimmering across her face, came back to the desk, and stamped them.
“These cross-ref for IRA and Northern Ireland.” Helen handed her the envelopes, trying not to smile. “Did you see Merki’s copy last night? Contradicts your IRA theory a bit, doesn’t it?”
Paddy nodded politely. “Yes. I’m a fool, Helen,” and she walked out of the room.
In the corridor she looked at the dates stamped on the front of the clippings envelopes. No one had had either of them out for over eight months. Merki wasn’t following the same trail because he was convinced the IRA weren’t involved.
She ran upstairs to the newsroom, clutching the envelopes and pulling her narrow skirt up to her thighs so she could move faster.
V
She found a space on a desk in a quiet corner and opened the first envelope that came to hand.
Martin McBree was IRA royalty. His career was outlined in two separate full-page profiles. He joined the organization when he was little more than a boy, pledging his loyalty three years before the Troubles began in the North, in the balmy days when IRA was said to stand for I Ran Away. He came through as part of the generation of Northern Irish Republicans who ousted the old guard when the Troubles began, turning the IRA into a significant paramilitary force.
On the second Bloody Sunday, British soldiers, unprovoked, had fired upon a peaceful civil rights march and killed thirteen unarmed civilians. McBree had been in the crowd that day and a photographer captured him in a moment of such tender glory that the image was published in newspapers all over the world. He was carrying another man, one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees, leaning backwards to counter the weight. He was small, only five foot seven or so, but he must have been all muscle and sinew. The man had an open chest wound, was probably dead already. He had a black coat on and the photo was in black and white, but there was no mistaking the thick black blood on his chest, running down his arm and dripping from his limp hand. McBree’s pale shoes were splattered with blood. It was a good picture but what made it famous was the wild-eyed priest standing in front of them, holding up a white hankie in surrender, begging safe passage through the government snipers.
Paddy read down: the dead man was a plumber. He had four sons and a daughter. He was thirty-one.
She looked at the picture more closely. McBree didn’t look frightened. His jaw was clenched tight at the strain of the weight he was carrying. Here was a man used to blood. Here was a man who could face a hard task without flinching.
She found his name in an article about the first round of hunger strikes: he had been imprisoned many times for arms offenses and was the prisoner representative at the Maze for a year. Talks broke down when he left.
More recently he had been arrested and released for traveling on a false passport. He was on his way back from Lebanon. She checked the dates, counting back to Pete’s spell in hospital. Terry had been reporting from Beirut at the same time.