Field of Blood (17 page)

milling police and the crouched soldiers in their fire positions. Jones, his driver, was close behind him.

Ànyone see what happened?' Ferris managed a good, authoritative voice.

`The peelers shot Mrs Murphy.'

Ònly just out of hospital, and the fucking bastards shot her down.'

`She'd a hernia, murdering pigs.'

`Mrs Murphy wasn't thieving, didn't stop her getting shot.'

Perhaps he should have laughed in their faces. Perhaps he should have laughed

until his stomach sides hurt.

`There was a robbery . . .' Ferris said.

Ànd the peelers came and killed Mrs Murphy, out for her week's shop.'

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`Did anyone here see the robbers?' Ferris tried to be deliberate and spelled out his question as if talking to backward children. `Did anyone here see the two men

who carried out the robbery on the supermarket?

'I's seen Mrs Murphy shot . . .'

`Bloody murdered, more like.'

Ì's seen the peelers do that.'

`But you didn't see the thieves ...?' Ferris stared at the faces of the crowd. `You

didn't see the Freedom Fighters ...? You didn't see the bloody freedom fighting

A.S.U. attacking the legitimate target of your own bloody Christmas box ... ?T

'Don't you fucking swear at us, you fucking Brit cunt face.'

Ferris turned to his right, sought out the voice. She was quite a pretty girl. She was about seventeen, and she wore a tight sweater under her open anorak and

tight jeans, and her mouth was twisted in a savage arc.

`Pithily put, Miss.'

He went back to the landrover. Ferris and his escorts and Jones mounted up. He

told Jones that they would tour round the Andersonstown sidestreets, away

behind the supermarket. It was a case of finding something to do.

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**They drove off the main road, into the maze of small streets flanked by red-brick houses.

`She needed a good fuck, that cow ...' Jones observed. Èver get the feeling you're wasting your time here, Mr Ferris?

'That's not the kind of thought permitted to an officer, Fusilier Jones.'

They drove through Andersonstown for half an hour. Since they had no idea of what their fugitives looked like or were wearing, it was a wasted effort.

When their radio called them back to barracks they drove past the supermarket.

A smaller force of police and soldiers were still in position and white ribbons marked the area of the incident. The shoppers were streaming round the ribbons,

in and out of the supermarket. Ferris couldn't see the bloodstain from the old lady's wounds, washed by the rain.

`Fusilier Jones, if we weren't here then it would be even worse than it is,' Ferris

said. `That's why it's worth us being here.'

Fusilier Jones kept his eyes on the traffic in front of him. Ìf you say so, Mr Ferris.'

McAnally had eaten his lunch in his cell. The uniformed policeman had given him

a cigarette when the tray was taken away. The uniformed policeman knew

McAnally was special, and had given him one of his own Bensons. He sat on his

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bed. McAnally was an oasis in the cell block. All the cells were occupied. He was

the one who had turned, who had asked for immunity. In the other cells were men from the Provos and from the I.N.L.A. and from the U.V.F. and from the Ulster Defence Association. Castlereagh was not sectarian. The Prod

paramilitaries had the cells beside the Taig paramilitaries. He drew on his cigarette. He rarely smoked. Roisin always had a fag in her mouth, even when the

baby was on her knee ... It might have been the strength of the cigarette, it might

have been the fact of his asking for immunity, but he felt light‐headed, like he'd

sniffed glue. All the cells were taken, but his was different. In his cell was a man who had turned, a man who had offered to break the oath of the Organization.

And it had all been so easy ... Sean Pius McAnally was not a man to examine his

own navel, but he chuckled to himself when he considered how easy it had been.

And he had the bastard Rennie running every bloody whichway, had him

sprinting up his arse. He'd make a statement. He'd give evidence. What was the

big deal about giving evidence? No big bloody deal ... He'd give evidence. Then

there was the new life. There was a life outside Belfast, a life outside Ireland ... All so bloody easy, all so bloody simple.

He would be living a new life with Roisin and Young Gerard and

Little Patty and Baby Sean, while the H Blocks were full, while the courts were full, while the bloody cemeteries were filling.

They'd reckoned Gingy McAnally was a pushover when they'd come down to the

caravan beside the canal, they'd bloody learn what it could cost them.

Supergrass ... Super Gingy ... Super McAnally ... Super hit man on the R.P.G....

Supertout.

He was laughing. His laughter cracked back at him from the cell walls. He felt no

remorse at the treachery. He felt no guilt at the betrayal. He felt an ecstasy because he believed he had avoided three life sentences with a recommended minimum of twenty‐five years to be served.

Super Gingy McAnally, and no bloody pushover for any bastard.

Èvery instinct, Chief Constable, every instinct I possess points to the moral and

political dangers of granting this man immunity.'

The Secretary of State was fighting his corner, and losing.

The Chief Constable was a brusque short man, glorying in his reputation of direct

aggression when confronted with politicians.

`Your instincts are wrong, Secretary of State.'

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Ìt's a dirty business, the supergrass business, and shown to be fallible.'

`The policy of the Converted Terrorist has provided us with a greater fund of intelligence than we've ever had on the P.I.R.A.'

Èvery retraction after the granting of immunity makes us a laughing stock.'

`That's the worst, Secretary of State, the retractions. Even if there's a retraction we have still gained valuable information.'

The Secretary of State believed the Chief Constable to be a nondrinker. He never

took a drink when they met socially. He believed there to be a direct link between

monumental pomposity and alcoholic abstinence.

Ì've been in this job three years, for the first time in that three years I believe I am close to dealing a very considerable blow to the mainstream effectiveness of P.I.R.A.... political dangers are not my concern. As to moral dangers, I would regard myself as being as aware of those as any other man. I want to hit the Godfathers. I want immunity for McAnally.'

The Secretary of State fidgeted on the settee. That had been his first error, sinking down into the soft cushions while the Chief Constable sat on a high-backed chair, on the raised ground where he could dominate. And Fred was no damned help, kept his mouth shut. And all the time there was the towering figure

of the detective that the Chief Constable

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**had wheeled in, and who stood behind his master's chair as if he was struck dumb.

`McAnally's a murderer.'

`We'll have a dozen men charged with murder, and we'll have the Brigade staff

for conspiracy.'

`Cabinet won't agree to it.'

`You have to make them agree to it, otherwise there are many people alive and

well at this moment who will lose their lives, if those Brigade staff men go free.'

`That's rhetoric, Chief Constable.'

The Secretary of State heaved himself up from the sofa. The room was too hot,

he was perspiring. He went to the window. He felt as if his room was invaded.

`What do you want of me?'

The Chief Constable's voice softened with the fruits of victory. Ì want you to speak with the Attorney General, and I want you to listen to Mr Rennie. Mr Rennie is one of two officers based at Castlereagh who head the Converted Terrorist programme. He is a formidable opponent of the Provisionals, who have

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twice tried to murder him. I want him to tell you at first hand of the importance of the Brigade staff of P.I.R.A.'

`Tell me, Mr Rennie.'

Ì went to a funeral this morning, Secretary of State, as you did. I carried the coffin some of the way. He was an old friend, a good friend. He was killed by Sean

Pius McAnally ...'

Such a stern, strong face, the Secretary of State thought. God, would he ever be

rid of these suffering, intense faces. He was an intimidating man, this Rennie. The

Secretary of State rarely met the men who fought the war in the middle

echelons. He met the Generals and the Chief Constables at conference, and he met the private soldiers and the constables for fast casual conversation.

Ì spend my time locking away Volunteers. I never get my hands on the men who

control those Volunteers. Brigade staff don't carry weapons, they don't carry target maps, they don't carry my photograph. The rubbish kids carry the

weapons and the maps and the photographs. Brigade stays above incriminating

evidence. If I can get a man into court to give evidence against the Brigade staff

then I will have severely damaged their movement. I need McAnally to have immunity, I need McAnally to know that he's not going down. I have to win his

trust, perhaps even his affection ... and he killed my friend. The Brigade men believe they're safe from us. I don't want them to feel that any more.'

The next weekend the Secretary of State would be at his English home, on his Yorkshire acres, and while he was out on the moors with his dog, this man would

be in the Interrogation Rooms at Castlereagh.

He saw Rennie hesitate, question to himself the wisdom of speaking again.

`No, Mr Rennie, I want to hear everything.'

`The ghettoes in this Province, sir, are maintained by two factors, fear and loyalty. By breaking with his people McAnally has cut his loyalties. They'll work the fear on him. It's a fear that it's difficult for an outsider to comprehend, because it's the fear of a bad death at the hand of your own people . . . What I'm

getting to is this. If we're to use McAnally against the Brigade then we have to show trust in him. If we try and kick him into the witness box, or trick him in, then we'll fall on our faces ... Sir, he's gone further down the road than I'd dare go.

Myself, I'd rather do the twenty‐five years.'

Ànd for us to win his trust you want immunity?

'Yes, sir, I want immunity for McAnally.'

The Secretary of State said, very quietly, `So be it.'

`Thank you, sir.'

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Rennie's eyes roved over the room, as if hunting down a whisky decanter. Not a

drop in sight. The Chief Constable stood with his briefcase, and looked

ostentatiously at his watch. The civil servant showed relief, because the

Moderator could still be fitted into the schedule.

The Secretary of State smiled, the public smile. `What sort of fellow is this McAnally?

'A disgusting little wretch, sir,' Rennie said.

Disappointment clouded the Secretary of State's face. Ìf I'm to argue for his immunity I'd like to have heard him spoken better of ... You won't fail me?

'You'll have my best effort, sir.'

Ferris was tumbled off his bunk by the shout of the adjutant. He was led to the

Commanding Officer's room.

A telexed order from Lisburn HQ was handed him. The G.O.C.'s office instructed

Sunray to make Lieutenant David Ferris available at all times possible for liaison

with Detective Chief Inspector Howard Rennie, R.U.C. Castlereagh.

Ìt's not of your doing?'

`No, sir.'

`What's being cooked?'

Ì don't know, sir.'

Ì don't like clever games that get in the way of professional soldiering.'

It seems I don't have much choice, sir.'

`You've no choice, and neither have I, which is why I don't like it. What's so special about you and this McAnally man?'

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**`Nothing that I know of, sir,' Ferris said.

Sunray looked curiously at Ferris. `The battalion's an open family, David. The battalion doesn't have secrets.'

Ì'm as much in the dark as yourself, sir.'

A police landrover was standing ready to take Ferris away from the Springfield Road barracks.

The identity of the Chief, who had taken over responsibility for the running of Belfast Brigade two and a half years previously was known to only a small handful

of men in the city. As a figure in the background of public events, the Chief had

seen off the threat of informers that had threatened to strike at the very 93

intestines of the Provisionals' Organization. One after the other, the

supergrasses had copped out, backed down, retracted. The Organization had

survived, but was now warier. He reckoned the Organization was tighter than at

any time since he had grasped the rank of Belfast Brigade Commander. He

operated on the need to know philosophy. Through a labyrinthine chain of

command he controlled the activities of the A.S.U.s, their weapons' systems supplies, their financial support through the robbing of banks and Post Offices and businesses, and the discipline of the movement. This chain was well