“Why were you in Derry?” a different voice asked.
“I was investigating the murder of Francis Deauville and the disappearance of Elena Deauville in Carrickfergus.”
“Who are they?”
“Francis Deauville was a heroin dealer probably executed by DAADD. Elena Deauville was his wife, who went missing.”
“What’s the Derry connection?”
“A car belonging to Harry Selden was spotted in the vicinity of Deauville’s house shortly before his murder. The car was following Deauville.”
“Harry Selden?”
“Aye.”
More muttering from the men in the room. Four distinct voices, possibly five.
“Don’t lie,” a voice said.
“I’m not lying.”
“We won’t hesitate to torture you if we have to to get you to tell the truth.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“We’ve got a can of petrol here and we’re in a derelict house. We could just pour this over you, light a match and leave.”
“I smell the petrol. I know you could do that. Please don’t! I’m telling you the truth!”
Silence and this was more terrifying than the questions. There could be a gun at my temple right now and I wouldn’t even know it.
I was afraid of the darkness.
Afraid of the pain.
My whole body began to tremble. I was having trouble breathing.
“I’m having trouble breathing,” I said.
“You’ll be having more trouble breathing in an hour or so,” a voice said.
A few guffaws.
“You know Harry Selden’s a councillor, don’t you?” a voice said, a different voice, higher-pitched but vibrating with authority. It was a voice I recognised from the TV. This was almost certainly ****** **********, the IRA commander in the city and a prominent leader in Sinn Fein.
“He may have mentioned that to me,” I said.
“What exactly is his connection to this murder case?”
“All we know is that his car showed up in Carrick and he may have been following the victim. But Selden says his car was stolen.”
“Was his car stolen?”
“Apparently it was. He put in an insurance claim, although he didn’t report the car stolen to the police.”
“He wouldn’t go to the police.”
“That’s what he said.”
“It sounds to me, Inspector Duffy, that this wee trip up here was a wild goose chase,” ****** ********** said.
“That may be the case.”
“You’re a very brave man driving around the Bogside in an unmarked police car. Very brave or very stupid.”
“Very stupid it turns out.”
“You’re from Derry though, are you? That’s a Derry accent is it?”
“I went to school here.”
“And you’re Catholic.”
“Yes.”
“A Catholic policeman.”
“Yes.”
“You know there’s a bounty on Catholic RUC men.”
“I know.”
“You don’t seem particularly scared.”
“I’m fucking terrified. I have a wife and a kid. A little girl. She’s just begun talking and walking.”
“We all have wives and kids … All right, time’s a factor here. I don’t think we need to send a message with this one. He won’t give us any trouble … You won’t give us any trouble, will you, Sean Duffy?”
“I won’t be any trouble.”
“So you’d appreciate it if we didn’t set on you on fire or didn’t beat the shit out of you?”
“I’d very much appreciate that.”
“Are your parents alive?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure your mother would be happy to know that you didn’t suffer.”
“Yes.”
“There’s plenty here who would love to use you to get revenge for what happened in Gibraltar and what happened at Milltown Cemetery.”
“I know.”
“But if you’re a good lad and just do everything everyone tells you and don’t play silly buggers I can promise you a quick and painless death and a body that won’t upset your wife or mother if it ever gets found. That’s the best offer you’re going to get today. Fair enough?”
I swallowed hard. I had one play and it wasn’t much of a play. I’d been to school with Ken Kirkpatrick who was now the IRA quartermaster in Derry. And I’d been Deputy Head Boy to Dermot McCann when he was Head Boy. Dermot was an IRA martyr who’d nearly killed Mrs Thatcher in Brighton (fortunately no one knew my part in that affair).
“Look, I don’t know if it’ll help but Ken Kirkpatrick knows me. He knows I’m not a bad guy.”
“You know Ken Kirkpatrick?”
“I went to school with him. I went to school with Ken Kirkpatrick and Dermot McCann.”
“Dermot’s no longer with us.”
“I know, but if you talk to Ken—”
“We’re not talking to anybody! I’m in charge here. Now, I’ve offered you a nice little arrangement. You be quiet and do as you’re told and you go gentle into the good night. If you start to get on my nerves it’s the petrol can. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I said.