“Yes?”
“We’d like you to come with us, Inspector Duffy,” the woman said. “I’m Detective Superintendent Baker, this is Detective Sergeant O’Neill. Would you mind not pointing that gun at me?”
“I’ll keep the gun pointing at you until I see some identification,” I said.
They showed me two warrant cards that seemed convincing enough.
“What’s this about?”
“We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?”
“Personnel stuff. Your record.”
“Am I about to win police officer of the year?”
“Not exactly.”
“Specifically what questions about my record?”
“Allegations of corruption and about your connections with the IRA,” Baker said.
“I’ll need to get dressed,” I said.
“Can we come in?” Baker asked.
“No, you can wait in your car. I’ll be five minutes,” I said and closed the door.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and left a note for Beth. “Police business. Should be back in a couple of hours.”
I went to the car. Of course the anti-corruption unit was driving a brand new Mercedes Benz. No irony or integrity worries there.
“I’ll sit in the front seat if you don’t mind, I need to stretch my legs out,” I said.
“That’s fine,” Baker said and got in the back.
I sat in the plush Merc seat. O’Neill checked for mercury tilt switch bombs and got in beside me. There was a tape of Willie Nelson’s “Pancho and Lefty” in the player and it kicked in when he turned the engine on.
“What’s the last thing you want to hear after you’ve given Willie Nelson a blow job?” I asked O’Neill.
“I dunno,” he said.
“‘I’m not Willie Nelson’,” I said.
O’Neill grinned until he caught Superintendent Baker’s face in the rear-view mirror.
Divide and conquer, Duffy. That’s how you’ll beat them. That and keeping a cool fucking head.
We drove up to Castlereagh Holding Centre and they led me down to a sub-basement interrogation suite.
Tape recorder spooling.
Water flowing in pipes.
Baleful dungeon noises.
Creepy distant heathen laughter.
The corruption stuff was bullshit and they knew it. Chicken shit rule-breaking, fiddling the over-time claims … it wouldn’t wash, but that was only the starter.
“So, Inspector Duffy, how long have you been friends with the top brass of the Derry Brigade of the IRA?” Baker asked.
“I know a lot of people in Derry. Some of them are in the police, some of them are in the IRA, some of them actually work for a living. It’s a small city. Everybody knows everybody else. Contacts are useful for a policeman, especially for a detective. Good to keep all the channels open.”
Baker nodded, put a box file on the table, opened it and began looking through its contents with a bit of theatrical tut-tutting.
“What we can’t figure out, Duffy, is whether you’re incompetent, unlucky or whether you’re working for the other side,” Baker said.
“Duh, duh, duh …” I said, making a fake organ noise.
“The Tommy Little case no arrests, no convictions. The Lizzie Fitzpatrick case no arrests, no convictions. The Lily Bigelow case, one arrest but you allowed the suspect to escape the jurisdiction … do we need to continue? I think you see the pattern here,” Sergeant O’Neill said.
“In 1972 you joined the IRA, didn’t you? You’ve been working for them ever since, haven’t you?” Baker said.
I held out my wrists. “That’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. It’s a fair cop, gov. Take out your notebook. I’ll tell you everything.”
Sergeant O’Neill did in fact take out his notebook. Baker frowned and her little goblin eyes twitched.
No one said anything and the silence worked me. I was actually getting a bit concerned now.
I attempted an ingratiating smile, which I’m sure looked ghastly.
“Come on, guys, you can’t be serious. I’ve worked with MI5. Why don’t you ask them about my loyalty!”
“Yes, MI5, that’s another interesting one,” Baker said, taking a photocopy of the story about the crash in the Irish News and pretending to read it. “Apparently you were supposed to get on that helicopter with all the top MI5 agents in Northern Ireland, that helicopter that flew into the mountain on the Mull of Kintyre. Got off at the last minute, didn’t you, while all your friends in MI5 died?”
“That’s not what happened. I broke my leg and the pilot wouldn’t let me fly.”
“Hmmmm,” Baker said.
This was getting annoying. “We all know the real collusion problem in Northern Ireland,” I said.
“Oh yes and what’s that?” Baker asked.
“That’s between Special Branch and its informers in the Loyalist paramilitaries. One day there’s going to be a reckoning for all the civilians, all the Catholic civilians, you’ve let die in Loyalist attacks, to protect your agents.”
I stood up and headed for the door.