Field of Blood (16 page)

good on the R.P.G.? Got to be good when he was using it, stands to reason.

Stands to reason that Gingy's so damn good on the R.P.G. that he's the man they

have to have ... Stands to reason he's used it before. Stands to reason there are

other charges of a very serious nature that we haven't even come round to thinking about yet.'

`Gingy, I'm corrected by Detective Constable Astley. I should have said ... What

have you got to offer that's bigger than a conviction of

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**an R.P.G. man for three murders, and for crimes that we haven't even come round to thinking about yet ... It really isn't going to be easy. You do see that, don't you, Gingy?'

McAnally felt the sweat drip from his neck to the small of his back. He felt the damp in the fold of his stomach, and running to his groin. He seemed to hear the

clanging of the cell doors in the H Blocks, and the laughter of Young Gerard. He

seemed to feel the wet cold of the Kesh exercise cages, and the fire heat of Roisin. He seemed to know the loneliness of the prison wings, and the peace and

freedom of the caravan beside the canal. The hysteria was rising in Sean Pius McAnally.

`The guys who were with me in the Crumlin Road ...'

`Volunteers in an A.S.U. . . . ? Not enough,' McDonough said.

`The ones who brought me back.'

`Couriers, nothing . . . they're rubbish.'

`The guys who briefed me.'

`Battalion Ops, Battalion Intelligence, can't see that being enough,

Gingy.' McDonough's voice fell to a whisper.

`The fucking Chief briefed me,' Gingy screamed at him. McDonough smacked the

bowl of his pipe into his hand, dropped the

remnants into the ash tray. He was reaching in his pocket for his tobacco

pouch.

`Come again, Gingy?

'The Chief briefed me.'

`Belfast Brigade Commander?'

`He briefed me.'

`Who was with him when he briefed you, Gingy?

'Brigade staff ‐ Quartermaster, Intelligence, and Operations.' McDonough was filling his pipe, filling it like a blind man, by touch.

His eyes never left McAnally's. `When you were briefed it was by the

Belfast P.I.R.A. Brigade Commander, and Quartermaster and Intelli

gence and Operations of Brigade, that's right? 'That's what I bloody said.'

Ànd that's what you're offering us?

'For immunity.'

Ànd you'd make a statement, and you'd go into the witness box? 'For immunity.'

. McDonough struck a match. It was a moment before his flame found

the filled bowl of his pipe. `Would you get Rennie in here?' The door closed behind Astley.

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Ìs that enough, for immunity?

'I don't know,' McDonough said, and stood up, and stretched himself. Ì don't make the decision, thank God.'

*

Astley followed his knock, strode into Rennie's office. He was beaming with excitement.

`McAnally's going to cough ... He's going to give us the Brigade staff . . .'

Astley saw the black tie pulled loose on Rennie's throat below the unfastened top

button.

`For immunity, he'll give us the Brigade staff in Belfast.'

Rennie clasped his hands, rested his chin on his fingers. `Little bastard,' he said.

Ìt's what you hate, isn't it, Mr Rennie, seeing them go free after what they've done?

'The comfort I get, young man, is in the knowledge that it's a rough sort of freedom.'

He closed the file on his desk. He thought of the widow who had stood tall and

proud at the graveside. He leaked a quick half‐smile at Astley. Rennie walked out

of his office, and towards the Interrogation Block, to begin the process of turning

the man who had made that girl a widow.

The uniformed policemen who patrolled the corridors of the cell block and the Interrogation Block at Castlereagh knew the signs. There had been enough of them in the previous two years for them to read the signals that heralded the turning of a prisoner.

On that afternoon the uniformed policemen saw Howard Rennie and Astley

stamping down the corridor on the ground floor of the Interrogation Block ...

Another little shit had changed sides to save his neck.

The uniformed constables always saw the plain clothes detectives as the

cowboys, the mavericks. They liked to smile behind their hands when the 'tecs came pounding out of the Interrogation Rooms in search of a senior man. They

shared something of the excitement now when they heard that Blackbush

bottles were being opened up in the Administration offices, but they liked to smirk with each other when the deflation set in, when a convert turned the rest of

the circle and retracted.

It was one thing, the uniformed policemen would have said, to get a Provie to make a statement implicating his former friends, and quite another thing to build

into the bastard the courage to go, weeks and months later, into the witness box

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to testify. The uniformed policemen had seen and heard the celebrations. Also they had seen and heard

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**the wakes of the detectives when word slipped through that another

supergrass had retracted.

Astley closed the door of the Interrogation Room behind himself and Rennie, shut out the interested eye of the uniformed policeman who hovered in the corridor.

`Let's get the formalities through,' Rennie said. Ì am Detective Chief Inspector Howard Rennie. You have already been cautioned by Mr McDonough and Mr

Astley. Now let's hear what you've got to say.'

McAnally sat limp in his chair. The presence of Rennie seemed to crowd the room

around the prisoner. McAnally slowly straightened, as if the movement

exhausted him.

Ì want immunity. If you give me immunity I'll make a statement ...' `What's the

statement going to tell me?

'Who was with me, when I was on the hits ...' `That's not good enough.'

`Who briefed me. I was briefed for Simpson by Brigade.' `Names?

'Yes.'

`You're offering that for immunity?'

`That's a hell of a lot, that's more than you've ever had.' Ànd you'll go into the

witness box, into court?' Ì've said I will.'

Ànd you're asking for immunity?'

Ànd I want my wife out, and my kids. I want to be shipped out.' Ì don't know that I can deliver, Gingy,' Rennie said.

`You've got to deliver,' McAnally's voice was rising. Big eyes, staring

eyes, beading onto Rennie. Ì can't go back in there, not into the Kesh,

not for twenty‐five ... I can't ...'

Rennie's hand snaked out. He patted McAnally's shoulder gently. Èasy, lad.'

Èverything I can bloody give you, I'll give you, but don't put me back in there.'

Èasy, lad, because it's not that straight.'

Ì've said I'll go into the bloody court, I'll finger them, the whole of Brigade ...

What more do you bloody want?

'Gingy, listen . . .' Rennie was bending over McAnally, and his hand had secured a

father's grip on McAnally's jersey. `Listen ... last year, and the year before we were into chucking immunity about in return for a promise of going into court 85

and giving evidence. We got to look a bit silly, Gingy. Too many chickened out,

too many retracted ...'

Ì'll go the whole bloody way, I swear I will.'

Àll the ones who retracted, they all swore they wouldn't.'

`What does that mean?

'It means that it's a bad time for me to promise immunity, and for you to promise

to deliver.'

McAnally's head lurched forward onto his hands. Rennie wondered whether he was about to weep. He reckoned that he had seen them all, all the marksmen and

the bomb‐makers and the executioners. Bloody awful figure they cut when they

were alone, without an Armalite to cradle.

`You won't do it?

'Did I say that, Gingy? Listen to me. What it comes down to is a matter of trust.

We both have to trust each other. You have to trust me, and I have to trust you.

Trust is a two‐way thing. Are you listening, Gingy?'

McDonough watched, and shook his head slowly. Jesus, and you had to hand it to

the old man. Winding the bugger up, wasn't he?

`Trust, Gingy ... You have to trust me, as I'm going to trust you. You have to talk

to me and trust that I'll do the best I can for you. It might be no minimum recommendation, it might be immunity, you have to trust me. That's one side.

There's another side. I have to trust you. A statement from you, naming names,

naming dates and places, that's no use to me unless I get you into court, unless I

have you under oath and standing up to cross‐examination. Two sides to the coin, Gingy. The trouble is, Gingy, can I trust you?

'Trust, you and me, you're fucking joking, Rennie,' McAnally snorted. `Forget it.

It's immunity or it's nothing.'

McDonough choked. Astley had stiffened straight, no longer leaned against the

wall. Rennie was flushed, angered.

Ì'm one man,' McAnally said, spitting. Ì'm sod all use to you in the Kesh. The Brigade staff, that's useful to you, that's more bloody useful than me. I want an

answer.'

Rennie bit at his lip. His fingernails were driven into the soft part of his hand. He controlled himself. Ì'll get you an answer, Gingy.'

Rennie spun on his heel, strode out of the Interrogation Room.

Ìf it's a joke, Fred, it's a joke in the poorest taste.'

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`The Chief Constable isn't given to jokes.'

The Secretary of State pushed back the tray on his desk. The civil servant helped

himself to a sandwich, and wiped his lips carefully with his handkerchief.

Ì can't make a decision on immunity.'

`The Director of Public Prosecutions makes the decision. The Director is

answerable to the Attorney General in government. The Attorney General is in Cabinet, as you are. If you were to recommend to a political colleague that he should take a certain course of action ...'

`The Prime Minister would have to sanction it.'

`The Prime Minister would, you are quite correct.'

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**`Can you imagine . . .'

`What the Prime Minister would say? I've a fair idea. The Chief Constable's taking

an unusual course. He's bringing with him the Detective Chief Inspector handling

McAnally.'

`To confuse me with security jargon?

'To put you in the picture.'

`When's he coming?'

`Half an hour.' The civil servant reached again for a sandwich. They were potted

shrimp. He fancied the Secretary of State's wife had made them up in the flat.

They were quite excellent.

Ì've got the Moderator then, to hector me about the security of his flock on the

Border.'

`He's on ice, you're fine to see the Chief Constable.'

`Damn you, Fred. I detest letting a beast like this McAnally go free, whatever he

does for us.'

The civil servant smiled. `Principles are a luxury, sir, in wartime ... I'll sit in on the Chief Constable and his hatchet fellow.'

Ferris's landrover arrived at the supermarket with the first of the ambulances.

The street in front of the supermarket windows that were festooned with the cut‐

price advertisements suitable for dole customers was filling with Pigs and police

wagons. The shoppers who had been inside at the moment of the raid and the shooting were spilling out onto the wide forecourt of the supermarket. He saw the shock and white numbness on the faces of the housewives. Bloody amazing,

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wasn't it, that fifteen years into the Troubles these folk could still manage a snatch of shock? Bloody daily occurrence, wasn't it, a hold‐up that went wrong?

He saw the Company Sergeant Major. Ferris went to him. `You want a Sit. Rep.,

Mr Ferris?

'Just what's happening will do.' Ferris saw the C.S.M. pucker his mouth in amusement. All the Battalion N.C.O.s knew they couldn't lure Ferris into the army shit talk.

À couple of heroes went in after the Christmas Savings fund box. There's a pay‐

out this afternoon. Assistant Manager said it was in the safe and he hadn't the key, got himself shot as encouragement to fish in his pocket. An R.U.C. mobile trotted past as the heroes were bunking. The Old Bill put down a barrage like it

was Port Stanley, they've managed a grannie, the heroes managed to leg it.

They're off into Andy'town now.'

`Descriptions?

'Good laugh, Mr Ferris ... Deaf and dumb brigade here.'

Ferris watched as the first stretcher was carried out. There was a

young man, on his back, with his mouth wide open and his breath coming in short

bursts. His shirt was blood‐soaked ... What a vile place, what a bloody awful place

to spend a bloody awful afternoon. He saw the old lady who lay at the far end of

the forecourt. They'd covered her head with a blanket from the back of the ambulance, a warm scarlet blanket. Her ankles protruded from the blanket and Ferris saw that she wore thick stockings and sensible shoes, and the blood seeped from under the blanket by the bulge that was her head. She'd be there until the police photographer arrived.

He walked away from the C.S.M. He'd go through the routines. He went to a crowd that had gathered to watch the casualties and the ambulance men and the