“What?”
“The day her husband was killed Mrs Deauville and her husband were in the pub in Carrickfergus for a drink. When they walked home Mrs Deauville thought that someone was following them in a car. Mr Deauville told her that she was talking nonsense but she grew up in Bulgaria in the bad days. She knew when she was being followed.”
“What car?”
“A blue Ford Escort.”
“That’s not as helpful as you think it is, Mr Yavarov. There must be 5,000 blue Ford Escorts in Ireland,” Crabbie said.
“Perhaps this will help,” Yavarov said, sliding across a piece of paper.
When I opened it it was a licence number: AIU 9785.
“That’s a Derry licence plate,” Crabbie said.
Yavarov looked at us and shrugged. “It may not mean anything.”
He had nothing more to add but this was bloody gold.
“We’ll certainly investigate it, Mr Yavarov. Now if I were you I’d get home, the IRA funerals for the three volun–people who were killed in Gibraltar are due to start in half an hour and I imagine the trains are going to be packed and the city is going to be one huge traffic jam.”
He stood up. “I hope you will be able to find Elena Draganova.”
I shook his outstretched hand. “I hope so too.”
We saw Yavarov across the station and headed home in the Beemer before the funeral procession began.
When we got back to Carrick RUC we went straight to the computer in the Incident Room. Finding out who drove AIU 9785 was the work of a moment. A few mouse clicks on the Macintosh and a sift through the National Vehicle Registry database.
The car belonged to one Harold Selden, forty-five, who lived in the Scissors Area of the Creggan Estate, Derry.
“What’s a lad from Derry doing all the way down in Carrickfergus?” McCrabban asked.
“What’s a Catholic lad from Derry doing all the way down in a Protestant housing estate in Carrickfergus?” I countered. For if he lived in the Creggan he was definitely a Catholic as all the Prods had been driven out of that part of the city two decades ago.
“I think we can guess why he was so far out of his territory,” Crabbie said.
“What?”
“Scouting a hit for the DAADD?” Crabbie suggested. “Smart play. Bring in an assassin from the outside who won’t be recognised down the chip shop later.”
“Maybe some eccentric assassin who likes to shoot his victims with a crossbow?” Lawson mused.
“Look him up on the criminal database, Lawson.”
That also was the work of a moment. “No criminal record,” Lawson said, with obvious disappointment.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean he hasn’t done anything,” Crabbie said. “It could just mean that he’s a good criminal who doesn’t get caught.”
“Who fancies a trip to Derry?” I said cheerfully.
This suggestion was not met with universal enthusiasm.
“Now?” Crabbie said.
“Why not. What else are we going to do?”
“It’s such a hassle to get up there and the day’s nearly over,” Crabbie said.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m not afraid of Derry. I’ve been there before.”
“You can admit it. There’s parts of Belfast that scare me, but Derry’s great. Derry people are wonderful. Love to go back to Derry. Derry’s my home.”
“Yeah, cos nothing bad’s ever happened in Derry,” Lawson muttered.
“What’s the matter? Are you afeared too?”
Lawson shook his head. “No, but Crabbie’s right. It’s getting late. Those big funerals are on. Shouldn’t we let the local peelers bring him in for questioning?”
I shook my head. “Look at the pair of you. Well, I’m going out to the car. You’re free to join me if you want.”
Of course they both traipsed after me but I saw Crabbie check his sidearm twice and Lawson looked as pale as William Joyce when they took him to the drop box at Wandsworth Prison.
“If you’re worried about the hour let’s see if we can’t light up the Glenshane Pass, eh?”
“Sean, don’t kill us. I have three kids and Lawson’s got his whole life ahead of him.”
“Sensible speed boys. You know me.”
It was eighty miles from Belfast to Derry on the M2 and the A6. A one hour and twenty minute run according to the Automobile Association. I did it in 59 minutes dead. The BMW 535i lapped it up like a kitten licking cream.
We stopped outside Harry Selden’s house, a nice wee three-bedroom semi-detached job in the Scissors area of the Creggan. One of the nicer parts of the sprawling estate. By the murals all around this was heavy IRA land, but there were few wee muckers or watchers on the streets today.
“Maybe there’s a football game on?” Crabbie suggested.
“Nah, around here everyone’s glued to the telly watching the funerals.”
We knocked on Harry Selden’s door.
“Go away!” he said.
“It’s the police,” I said.
“The police? Now?”