Matt was taking no chances. Through the head-shed he called out not only the RUC and the Liaison Officer, but also a flatbed truck, so that the car could be taken away for forensic examination and a thorough search. At the least it would yield fingerprints; at best, it might turn out to have secret compartments, with weapons, traces of explosive or other incriminating evidence in them. In any case, the Cortina was undrivable, as its right front wheel had buckled under the impact with the wall. The Audi, in contrast, had suffered nothing but superficial dents.
We drove back to base in a discreet, well-spaced convoy, with the Sierra in the middle and the intercept cars fore and aft. That was the last journey the Sierra would make for the troop. Now it had been blown, it would have to be binned, at any rate from Ulster. The only future for it was to be sent back to England and used as a range car. The intercept cars would probably go in for a paint job.
The entire incident had lasted less than an hour. We reached base without further trouble, but I found that in the warehouse the atmosphere wasn’t very sweet. ‘Hey, Geordie,’ one of the senior guys said as I was going to dump kit in my room, ‘you want to watch yourself. This place has been in fucking uproar since you sent the balloon up. You sure you haven’t been somewhere you had no business to be? Better get your story right, or you’ll be deep in it.’
The wash-up was pretty hostile. The sergeant major couldn’t make out how I’d been picked up. As far as anyone knew, the Sierra hadn’t been blown before I took it out. There was a strong suspicion that I’d been somewhere out of bounds, but I denied it strenuously, inventing a fictitious route round the edges of the city. I think I got away with it, but the debrief left me with the feeling that I’d almost dropped a colossal bollock. It also left me disturbed by the fact that I’d been forced into telling lies — something that I never like doing, least of all to my mates. Yet another worry was the sheer number of the enemy. The bastards seemed to be everywhere, with nothing to do but lurk about and look for targets. The one big consolation was that I hadn’t led them to my in-laws’ home. To have done that would have been a disaster of the first magnitude.
As soon as things had settled, I phoned them and got Meg.
‘I’m really sorry about that,’ I began.
‘What happened?’
‘It was just that a job came up suddenly.’
‘Well — it’s a bit late now. Tim’s asleep already.’
‘No, no — I wasn’t meaning I’d come out now. I only called to apologize. I had a present for Tim, too.’
‘You couldn’t help it, I’m sure. There’s always another day. But you ought to come and see him more often. He’s getting to be a bit of a handful.’
‘Oh, like what?’
‘He doesn’t always want to do what I tell him. He’s inclined to lose his temper, too. I’m not saying I can’t manage him, but the more he sees of his father the better it will be.’ She broke off for a moment and then added, ‘By the way, a letter came for you.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t look very exciting. A small brown envelope, typed — that’s all.’
A prickle went up my neck. Maybe Chief Superintendent Morrison had surfaced.
‘It can’t be anything important,’ I said casually. ‘Why not open it and tell me what it says?’
‘All right, then. Hold on while I get it.’
There was a pause. Then I heard rustling, ripping noises.
‘Well!’ said Meg in her most superior voice. ‘It’s nothing much at all. Just one typed line, in fact.’
‘What does it say?’
‘ “Your man is Declan Farrell.” ’
‘What? Say that again. At least, no — wait one while I get a pencil. Hold on.’
I was in the public phone booth outside the canteen, and had to make a dash for the ops room to borrow paper and pencil from the duty clerk. Back at the booth, I grabbed the receiver and said, ‘Hello? Yes?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Meg. ‘You sound all flustered.’
‘No, no. I’m fine. Just had to grab a pencil. What’s the name again?’
She repeated it, and spelt it out.
‘Fine. Got it.’
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Not a lot. But I’ll work it out. Thanks anyway.’
In the morning I phoned Morrison on his direct line to ask if I could go and see him.
‘You got my note, then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘D’you know a pub called the Old Bell, out on the Comber road?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Fine. It’s on your right going out. I’ll meet you there at seven-thirty tonight.’
Settled in a quiet corner, the chief could have been any old businessman having a pint on his way home after work. But what he had to say related to business far beyond most ordinary people. Basically, he was trying to warn me not to tangle with Farrell, because of the sheer nastiness of the character.
‘You’d be the better for leaving him alone,’ he said, ‘For instance, when two harmless young lads were caught trying to nick his car for joyriding, he had them brought to him, and rather than crippling them in the traditional way, using an electric drill, he had them held down while he himself used a hand drill to perforate their kneecaps. So pleased was he with this arbitrary sentence that he went straight out and gave himself a lavish dinner.’
Morrison took a swig from his pint of stout and went on in his quiet, tired voice, ‘And did you hear about the young woman they battered to death this time last year? You remember that one? No? Well, Farrell thought she was a Protestant informer, or working for us. So they grabbed her. Of course she couldn’t tell them anything, because she didn’t know anything. She was perfectly innocent, not involved at all. First she was raped, then they took her out behind a pub and beat her to a pulp with hammers. When they found they couldn’t kill her by stamping on her, they finished her off by hurling a breeze-block down on her head. That’s Farrell for you. There’s nothing subtle about IRA torture; it’s just the most basic and brutal thuggery.’
He went on to say that Farrell was one of the IRA’s chief extortionists, and that he raised many thousands of pounds a year from running protection rackets. ‘He’ll go to the manager of a big building site and say, “Look, if you don’t want your machinery to go missing, or you don’t want your walls to fall down, it’ll cost you a couple of hundred a week.” Security firms — that’s another racket. The IRA charge for seven or eight men to guard a factory, when in fact there are only two working. The irony is that, with the IRA on the scene, the place isn’t going to get raided anyway; one thing thieves can do without is getting kneecapped.