“There’s the theory that Thatcher is deliberately letting the situation spiral out of control so she can wash her hands of Ulster, unilaterally withdraw and let the UN or the Americans take charge.”
“I hadn’t heard that one. She wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t she? Only Nixon could go to China, remember. And it would be immensely popular in England. A few Tory right wingers would be furious for a while but they love her.”
This was getting pointless. Bored intel guys and their speculations. I was an actual detective who had actual work to do.
“Tell me about DAADD.”
He told me everything he knew. DAADD had attacked forty-two alleged drug dealers in the four years since they’d been calling themselves DAADD (before that they simply called themselves the IRA). Twenty-five of these alleged drug dealers had been successfully killed with a variety of weapons: pistols, rifles, shotguns, carbines. They’d never used crossbows before, but as an ad hoc group loosely under IRA command a crossbow attack wasn’t out of the question.
“Really? I thought it was a completely bizarre choice of murder weapon considering the number of guns available in Ulster,” I said.
“Guns yes. We estimate that the Libyans alone have given the IRA about eight hundred AK-47’s and—”
“Eight hundred?” I said, aghast.
“Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. You won’t repeat that, will you, Inspector Duffy? Wouldn’t want to generate alarm.”
“No. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” I said, imagining the prospect of eight hundred armed IRA men descending en masse on Carrick police station – it would be a massacre. Thank you Colonel Gaddafi.
“But a machine gun makes a bit of a racket doesn’t it? Even a hand-gun makes noise. No, a crossbow could be quite an effective little weapon for a group like DAADD. Differentiate them from their mother organisation. Especially when non-lethal force is required or you’re doing a punishment attack. I was fascinated by the attack on Mr Morrison and since the second on Mr Deauville I’ve been eagerly awaiting a third. If there is one we can consider that a pattern and I’ll write a paper on it. I’ll send it to you if you want.”
“Thanks. Well, look, I’m sorry but I must dash,” I said, pointing at my wrist watch.
“You haven’t got pudding.”
“You get one,” I said, getting up and leaving two twenty pound notes on the table.
“Where are you going?”
“Work. You’ve been very helpful, thanks, mate,” I replied, found the BMW in the Europa Car Park, checked underneath it for bombs and drove back to Carrick RUC.
I spun Lawson my worries about the case and Constable Clarke’s attempts to bat away at least one of them regarding the murder weapon.
We had nothing else on so we worked the evidence until two o’clock, processing tips from the Confidential Telephone and reading and rereading Mrs Deauville’s statement. For want of anything better to do, I drove us to Mountbatten Terrace where we canvassed the neighbours again, but nobody had seen or heard anything and if they had “they wouldn’t be telling the bloody peelers”.
We went for an afternoon tea break at the Old Tech on West Street and sat by the fire. The tea was warm and the shortbread was home-made. While we were in the restaurant the rain stopped, the wind changed and the snow began.
Carrickfergus lies far to the north on the 55th parallel, which also crosses the Alaskan peninsula and the city of Novosibirsk. I went to a lecture once where Jo McBain said that a hundred centuries ago Carrick and all of the north of Ireland lay under a mile of ice. But now the snow came only for a few days a year in February and March and the sea never froze. It was a miracle really, but as Dr McBain said, surely the ice would come again and all these pubs and houses and power stations and people would be wiped clean from the land.
No need for peelers then. No need for anything.
“Sir? … Sir?”
Lawson staring at me.
“What?”
“You were lost in thought.”
“Aye, I was.”
“Were you thinking about the case?”
“I was thinking about ice.”
“I was just saying we should get back to the station.”
“Yeah.”
We went back to the station, where much to my surprise Crabbie was there to meet us.
“What are you doing here?”
“Wife has the kids down to visit her sister in Fermanagh.”
“The house felt a bit lonely?”
“You said that, not me.”
“You are allowed to admit to human emotion, you’re Presbyterian, not Vulcan.”
“Well …” Lawson said.
Crabbie and I both grinned. “Times have changed, eh, Crabbie? When you or I were at his tender age we wouldn’t have dared raise an eyebrow to our elders and betters, would we? Next he’ll be saying that the music of 1988 is better than the music of 1978 or 1968.”