“I know what they are. This is too weird to be a coincidence.”
I explained that Francis Deauville, my murder victim, had also been in the B Specials.
“Maybe not that weird a coincidence. There must be thousands of people who served in that force,” Linda said.
“Where would I find the records of people who served in the B Specials? They’re not in the RUC service files.”
“You’d have to go to the records office in Belfast. All those old paper files. Probably all falling apart. In fact, you’ll probably find they have all been, quote, damaged in a flood, unquote, in case there’s anything embarrassing in them.”
“It’s embarrassing enough that an ex B Special became an IRA player.”
“There’s more than you think. Bloody Sunday changed everything up here. But I’m glad I’m here, in Derry, not in Belfast with all that rioting. That’s where you are, isn’t it, Inspector Duffy?”
“Carrickfergus. But close enough.” Hmmm, Harry Selden in the B Specials, just like poor old Francis Deauville. I thanked Sergeant Quinn and drove back to the Creggan to sit in front of Selden’s house and think.
I’d only been there fifteen minutes when he came out of his house holding a paper cup and walked it over to the Beemer.
I wound down the window.
“I brought you a cup of tea, Inspector Duffy. It’s a cold day to be sitting out here,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said taking the tea and putting it in the cup holder.
“Now, if you’re interested I’ll be home for about half an hour and then I’ll be walking to the Sinn Fein Advice Centre for my weekly advice clinic. Then I’ll be picking up some sausages for me mother at the Spar.”
“How’s she doing today?” I asked.
“Oh she’s a little bit better today. She’s improving rightly just like the doctor said she would.”
“You do right by your mother, Mr Selden. It’s nice to see,” I said.
“You have to stick by your loved ones.”
“Especially women. The way women are treated in this country. It’s positively medieval.”
“That’s true. Look at poor Mairéad Farrell, shot by your friends in the SAS,” he said.
“And look at poor Marie Wilson. Blown up by an IRA bomb while laying a wreath for those who fought against Hitler … oh, silly me, I forgot, the IRA was on the same side as Hitler. They conveniently forget that little fact in the Sinn Fein manifestos, don’t they?”
His lips thinned and he did not reply.
“B Specials, eh?” I said.
“What’s that?”
“You were in the B Specials.”
“Where did you get that information?”
“Is it true?”
“For a very brief time before the Troubles began I had a part-time job as a—”
“Do your friends in the IRA know about this curious career choice of yours?”
“I don’t have any friends in the IRA. I’m a Sinn Fein councillor, in case you have forgotten.”
“My memory would really have to be going bad – you’ve reminded me of it often enough.”
“A councillor cannot be harassed by a policeman, not if the policeman wants to stay out of the newspapers.”
I laughed at him. “Do your research! It’s a bit late for that. Tell me, did you serve with Francis Deauville in the Specials? Is that how you know him?”
“I don’t know any Francis Deauville.”
“Sure you do. He was on the six o’clock news. The IRA shot him because he was a heroin dealer. Interesting that you would deny knowing him, though. Interesting that your car would make its way from this safe little street all the way down to the twisty dangerous streets of Sunnylands Estate in Carrickfergus,” I said.
“What are you implying, Inspector Duffy? Are you implying that I crawled out of my sick bed, somehow got all the way to Carrickfergus to murder a man I don’t know for reasons that are oblique and all this without any of my doctors or nurses noticing?” Harry asked, his plump jovial face assuming a sinister aspect. He’d been getting gradually bigger and paler as the conversation had gone on and now when he leaned back on his heels he wasn’t Oliver Hardy at all. Now he was Mr Potter from It’s A Wonderful Life or maybe even Sydney Greenstreet from The Maltese Falcon. Like many big, heavy men he was light on his toes. Dainty, almost. I liked that. I opened the car door, got out and stood facing him.
“I’m implying that you had something to go with Francis Deauville’s death. I’m implying that had something to do with Elena Deauville’s disappearance. Another woman who was not treated well on this fair isle.”
“Me? You’re accusing me, a councillor on Derry City Council?”
“I’m accusing you, a player in the IRA.”
“That’s a serious charge.”
“I’m a serious man.”
He stared at me for a minute and then walked away in disgust. Halfway across the street he turned to face me. “I’m a serious man too,” he said.