CHAPTER 34 

The Preacher was awake and in deep concentration. Black was worried, aware that he had made his first mistake. Pensively he stared at the slowly melting ice in the bottom of a crystal glass, toying with the idea of another cognac. After deliberation he decided on a small measure. He poured the spirit, added one cube of ice and settled back in his favourite chair. As he swirled the golden liquid around in the glass, his thoughts turned to Giles. Despite his abhorrence for the Irish nation he had an undeniable soft spot for his young conquest. ‘Why did you have to betray our friendship Giles?’ he mumbled. ‘I never meant you any harm. Why did you have to be such a bloody fool?’ Mood swings were becoming more frequent and his present one changed from melancholy to outright rage. Exploding, he hurled the glass against the mantle. As always he vented his anger on the paramilitaries. ‘The innocent suffer because of scum,’ he screamed. Seething with rage he stomped into the room which housed his computer equipment. His temper dissipated as he took in the soothing hum of the PC. Lovingly Nathan brushed a speck of dust from the screen with the back of his hand. He was almost purring. Tenderly he drew his fingers across the synthetic casing of the VDU.

as one would a lover’s body. ‘Good evening my precious,’ he whispered. ‘How can we avenge the death of poor misguided Giles? Perhaps we need a change of scenery.’ Closing his eyes he punched in a command. The computer gave an electronic garble before randomly selecting a city. ‘Londonderry you say, dangerous territory for an Englishman to go roaming around in, but still the challenge is irresistible.’ Nathan was slipping further over the edge as the hatred ate at his soul. He pondered on the idea for a few seconds before deciding to make Derry his next port of call. Decision made, he positioned himself in front of the screen punching the keyboard as the machine pandered to his perverted needs. In a veritable trance he gave the instrument his total attention. He was seeking a name, a name that would direct him to his next victim. ‘Which little piggy won’t be going to market in the near future?’ he cackled. Slowly he scanned down the list of known terrorists in County Londonderry. ‘I wonder should we up the stakes. Shall I go for a real murderer for a change? Yes I think that is an admirable idea. Now what was the name of the bastard they released last week? It began with an F, Flynn, no, Ferrus no that wasn’t it either. Flatley, no, ahh, I remember now, it was Farrel, yes Liam Farrel that was it. Now let me look you up, you piece of shit.’ Eagerly he scrolled down until he came to the name he was seeking. Positively drooling he opened the file on Liam Farrel. Details of the man’s crimes jumped unto the screen. Guilty of causing an explosion in Belfast. Four people dead including two Catholic school children. Seventeen injured, three seriously. ‘Fuck me Liam,’ gloated Black. ‘If anybody deserves to die it’s you. For incompetence of nothing else. You reeked more havoc upon your own people than you did on the Protestants. You really are one thick, Paddy bastard. Yes indeed Liam my man, you are in for the treat of your miserable life. Prepare to find out exactly how it feels to lose one’s reason for living. You are about to enter the world of grief, have first hand knowledge of what the sorrowing families suffer after some unknown executioner has taken away a lifetime of memories. After gathering the relevant data on Farrel and his family, he hit print and sat smugly waiting for the machine to spew forth the hard copy. With delight he fingered the paper which was as warm as a living thing. ‘Ah,’ he gloated with satisfaction, ‘The death warrant of Liam Farrel and family.’ Pleased with what he considered a successful evening’s endeavour, Nathan calmly shut down the computer, gave it one last pat and retired. Visions of Farrel’s futile struggles as he witnessed the mutilation of his loved ones sent a tingle down the madman’s spine. A sinister grin parted his lips as he drifted off.

Blood splashed across the bedroom walls. Moira was beneath Con, his firm body driving into her as she held him tightly. She studied his face as he stiffened in ecstatic release. Their eyes met but his were lifeless, ghastly pinpoints set in a vacant stare. He slumped across her, his body weighing a ton and threatening to crush the life from her. She thrashed and struggled but he would not budge. She was struggling, gasping for air. ‘Connor, Connor,’ she cried but her pleas fell on death ears. It was at that moment she felt it, a hot sticky liquid streaming like a river in torrential flood flowing though the valley parting her breasts. She tried to scream but the sound came out as a silent whimper and he was becoming heavier. ‘God please help me,’ she beseeched, as panic tightened her heart began to race. Her lungs were imploding as she sucked in air in diminishing gasps but it was useless, she was asphyxiating beneath his lifeless form. Just as she was fading into oblivion a monster dragged the limp body from her causing her to gag as oxygen invaded the vacuum that was her lungs. Her eyes flew open to see the thing holding her lover aloft, it’s talons gripped firmly around his throat. He dangled in mid-air and the creature was cackling. Blood was spilling from every orifice, his mouth, his ears, and his rectum. A hideously large limp penis was dispensing blood like a bowser. She awakened screaming, perspiration glistening on her naked body. Tears were flooding as she, still half-asleep, tried to wipe away the blood. In a stupor, she stumbled across the cold floor in search of the bathroom. A drained ashen face stared back at her from the mirror above the sink. Her hair was matted, wisps adhering to her forehead like withered spider’s legs. She looked for all the world, as if she had exited from the shower. Realising that she had been having a nightmare, her breathing began to normalise. The night’s chill was turning her sweat to icy tendrils. Quickly Moira ran some water into the sink and forced herself to plunge her head into it’s freezing depths. The icy dousing had the desired affect and in a more relaxed state of mind she turned on the shower. After adjusting the temperature to a few degrees below boiling she entered the cubicle. Soothingly warm water chased away the chill from her body, making her feel much better. God Con what sort of a life do we have together? I may not survive another nightmare like that. A contact number that Tullen had given her and which she vowed never to use flashed into her head. She wanted no dealings with murderers or their apprentices. Moira smiled at the thought, apprentice murderer indeed, ‘Yer crackin up girl.’ ‘Get a grip,’ she scolded herself, before returning to bed. A tangle of sweat soaked bedding forced her from her reverie. ‘Fuck me what a mess,’ she complained. ‘Ah well no use lookin at it, it won’t make itself,’ she sighed, turning to fetch clean sheets from the airing cabinet.

Choosing to live in a village on the outskirts of Derry City was the worst option the Farrels could have taken. The setting was idyllic sure but the house may as well be situated on the moon. Gina Farrel had become used to living alone with only the company of their five children between herself and insanity. When her husband was locked away in Long Kesh prison, she enjoyed regular visits from friends who would drive out two or three times a week to see her. Her sisters called as often as was convenient and she had the solace of her garden, which she tended with love and professionalism. Things were different now that Liam was back in the bosom of the family. He was full of love and promises during her visits that became less frequent with the passage of time. There was no doubting her devotion to him in their youth. In truth she had once worshipped the ground that he walked upon. Rumour of his being a member of the IRA. was an undeniable magnet to an adolescent girl and Gina had been hopelessly drawn, as had many other neighbourhood girls. Most of the unattached females vied for his attention. He only had to smile and they were his for the taking but he had chosen Gina. Life had been wonderful then, full of hope and aspirations. But a mere three months after their wedding, Ceiron their eldest, first drew breath. Gina smiled at the memory. Liam the big hard man trembling as the midwife handed him the screaming bundle. He was filled with pride that day and would have given her the earth. The second child was another boy whom they called David, after her father. Then came the three girls. ‘Christ,’ she hissed bitterly, recalling how her poor body had expanded on a yearly basis. Gina stood semi-naked abhorring the frump glaring back at her. A fat distorted bump, defaced by stretch marks that furrowed and puckered the skin of her once flat abdomen and hips, made her lips purse with distaste. Purplish rivulets patterned her once beautiful body like tributaries of the Nile. ‘Fuck I hate full length mirrors,’ she mumbled. She took one last despairing glance before turning to cast a venomous eye upon her spouse. Her vagina still ached from his bullish efforts of the previous evening. There was no billing and cooing now; instead, he rutted at her like a boar that smelled food. ‘Bastard,’ she whispered at the reclining figure before leaving the room. She was still mumbling when the phone’s shrill warbling interrupted her. ‘God now who can that be?’ she grumbled. ‘Fuck it, let yon lazy pig get up and answer it, I need a shower,’ she growled, thrusting open the bathroom door. She slipped off her pants and with distaste studied the interior. Residue of their coupling soiled the fabric of the underwear. With disgust she hurled the offensive item into the wash basket. ‘Suppose the fucker’s knocked me up again,’ she said dejectedly, before turning toward the shower. Grimacing she fiddled with the shower mixing unit. ‘Gina, Ginaaah are ye gonna answer that fuckin phone?’ came a growl from the bedroom.

‘Fuck you,’ she murmured, casting a scornful glance in the direction of the bedroom before entering the shower. God but it felt wonderful. The warmth of the shower’s jets pampered her body, revitalising her sinking spirit. Gina adored the shower, especially in the morning, often spending fifteen or twenty minutes letting the needles of hot spray work a therapeutic miracle. ‘Oh what a feeling,’ she hummed as she roughly towelled herself dry. A fresher rosier reflection smiled back at her. ‘Much better,’ she proclaimed, ‘Ye may have a body like a bag of shite but yer face is as pretty as ever. Wonder if yon lazy bugger has answered the phone yet?’ Making as much noise as was humanly possible she clumped across the bedroom floor and clattered open the wardrobe but it was, as she knew it would be, a futile exercise. From somewhere beneath the, thirteen point five tog duvet came an unmistakable grunt, betraying the presence of her snoring spouse. Reluctantly admitting defeat, Gina sighed, finished dressing and traipsed downstairs to prepare breakfast for her brood.

An air of anticipation filled both camps after the respective hierarchy had studied the amateur detective’s reports. On the nationalist side, Tullen was greeted by the beaming face of Peter Daley. ‘Well now Sherlock, it looks like you’ve been wastin yer time all these years. I can just picture ye in yer uniform. Chief inspector Tullen. Naw, it doesn’t have the right ring te it. Ye would never make it past constable. Sure they’d never let ye inte the masons we a fenian name like yours,’ teased Daley.

‘Ach I don’t know about that, necessity is the mother of detention,’ retorted Connor.

‘Great work Con, you and yer wee Proddie mate make a formidable team eh.’

‘He has his moments, as a matter of fact I quite like the wee bugger. Fancies himself as a bit of a ladies man but other than that he’s sound.’ Tullen told him.

‘Don’t be lettin yer guard down Con, he’s still yer enemy and familiarity breeds sloppiness,’ warned his superior.

‘If I’m in any danger it was you who put me there,’ retorted Con. ‘No need te worry about me Mr. Daley,’ he added losing patience.

‘Take it easy Con, ye know as well as the next man, how things are. Yer caught between a rock and a hard place. Workin that close te someone it’s hard not te grow fond of him. Christ do ye think I don’t know that? Give me some credit. Shit I realise it’s an awful situation but security must remain yer top priority, that’s all I’m tryin te say.’

‘Aye yer right, sorry Peter. I’m a bit tense these days but I’m disappointed that ye think

I need remindin where my obligations are,’ replied Connor tiredly.

‘It’s only te be expected, say no more Con. Well now, the wee barman has turned out te be a walkin gold mine,’ said Daley, referring to Peter the barman. ‘What de ye think we should do about him?’

‘What do ye mean, do about him?’

‘Come on son, he’s had a real good look at ye. He’s become a bit of a liability, if ye know what I mean.’

‘Don’t even think about it Peter. The boy is just that, an innocent kid afraid of his own shadow. I swear to ye Peter, if anythin happens to him I’m out,’ snarled Tullen, his face set in stone.

‘Yer gettin a wee bit soft Con, or is it soft in the head? What if he talks and word gets through te the branch? ‘He had a long time te memorise yer face ye know. The boy if he was questioned could give a real good description of ye. He could pick ye out of a parade Con, use yer loaf for fuck sake,’ snapped Daley.

‘I’ll take me chances,’ argued Tullen.

‘Have it your way for now but in the mean time we’ll be keepin an eye on yer man. You can get back te yer new buddy and we can do a bit of sniffin around from our end. With what ye have told us we may be able te pick up a fresh trail on the madman. ‘I suppose that’s about it then, on ye go and remember what I said about yer sidekick Con.’

Without reply Tullen banged open the door and rushed into the street. Connor was beginning to see his old comrades in a new light and was disgusted with his observations. In a bid to calm his anger and frustration he inhaled deeply. The cool air had settled him down a little but a seed had been planted. Feeling somewhat better and glad to be away from the stale atmosphere of the club, he set of at a good pace down the Falls Road, in the direction of the city centre. In dismay he eyed the dilapidated structures as he progressed. ‘What a fuckin dump,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s no wonder the Brits. think we’re thick, killin each other for nearly thirty years over this heap of shite. And what will we have te show for it? Callous murderin bastards like Daley in the drivin seat, some fuckin future.’ Whilst walking down the road that afternoon, Tullen came to a momentous decision. Once the Preacher was dealt with he and Moira would leave Ireland for good. He wanted no part of the Peter Daleys of this world. No more involvement and definitely no more killing. His conscience was already brim full with remorse, there was room for no more.

That evening Clements and Tullen spent their time studying the video of the young barman’s interview. They played it countless times. Totally engrossed, each man attempted to pick a snippet from it’s content that would point them in the Preacher’s direction. Finally Connor hit the but-

ton killing the power to the recorder. ‘What do ye think Billy?’

‘I think yer man, the Preacher, has a likin for wee boys.’

‘Christ Billy get with the program, we know he’s a fuckin arse bandit,’ grumbled Tullen.

‘I know that but that’s not what I meant. What I’m sayin is he likes young men as opposed to men, if ye know what I mean.’

‘Okay but how does that help us?’

‘If I’m right in what I’m thinkin, it’s probably a good bet that yer man lost someone over here, someone very special. A brother maybe or hopefully a boyfriend. Clements could not bring himself to utter the word lover, when discussing a relationship between men. He found the idea of men making love utterly repulsive. ‘Go on Billy, what’s yer point?’ asked Tullen, beginning to show interest.

‘My point is, if he did lose someone close, the chances are, he was in the army.’

‘And,’ interrupted Connor, ‘If he was in the army, it’s a fair bet that he was killed not long before the bold Maurice Scott. Is that what yer sayin?’

‘I think so,’ replied Billy uncertainly.

‘Right our next step is to get hold of the records for last year, say six months before Scott was murdered to see how many young blokes were killed,’ said Tullen elated. ‘Billy yer a wee star.’ Clements was looking pensive, not sharing in Tullen’s jubilation. ‘What’s wrong Billy?’ he asked warily.

‘Murdered is the correct word,’ replied Clements.

‘What?’ said the other, confused.

‘You said killed, when ye were referrin to soldiers. They weren’t killed, they were murdered,’ he spat.

‘Let’s not get into a political debate here Billy, okay?’ said Tullen evenly.

‘Aye yer right Con. Auld prejudices die hard. We can’t do much until we get a list of deceased to work with,’ said Billy.

Their request for the required information was relayed to their respective contacts. They were informed that it would take a day or two to compile. It was no easy task for sympathisers within the government to lay their hands on such information at a moments notice. Dane was also contacted and requested to research all relevant stories pertaining to the deaths of security members prior to the death of Maurice Scott. The net was finally shrinking on the maniac known as The Preacher.

Unaware of the joint venture formed to ensnare him, Black began his most daring undertaking. For an Englishman to set foot in Derry, was highly dangerous. To achieve what Nathan intended, was nothing short of madness. Any stranger found snooping around was immediately treated with suspicion. If the stranger happened to be an Englishman, he was automatically assumed to be a member of the security forces. He would be ostracised and if he did not take the warning, would disappear without a trace. Needless to say few unaccompanied Englishmen ever set foot in the Maiden City. Black decided that the risk was worth taking. In his youth he was quite keen on amateur dramatics boasting a remarkable art for mimicry. He wagered that his passable American accent would see him through for a few days. His intention was to enter the city in the guise of a tourist. But there were certain preparations to be finalised before setting foot in Derry.

His first port of call was the USA. where he vacationed for the best part of a month. New York cab drivers are a breed apart. Natural scavengers who delight in conversation and the chance to earn easy money. Black assumed correctly that if he befriended one and threw a few dollars in his direction it was a fair bet that he could inveigle a little help from him. Nathan tipped well and made a point of asking for Mick Martinez, a likely candidate who had dropped Nathan at the hotel after his first evening in New York. The depot was happy to comply with the Limey’s wishes, after all who gives a shit which cabby does the job. Using his considerable charm with a few dollars thrown in for good measure, Nathan soon won the driver’s confidence.

Within a week they were on first name terms. As ever Black erred on the side of caution. He was not about to have his plans put at risk by making basic errors. Using his judgement of human nature he probed at Martinez, in an attempt to see how far the cabby would be willing to bend the law. He was not disappointed, Martinez was a petty hustler of long standing. ‘No problem Steve, for that was Black’s alias Stateside, ‘Ya know how it is over here. This is a capitalist society, free trade’s the name of the game. How can I help ya?’

‘Actually Mick, I need a passport, social security number and a driving licence. Is that too much to ask?’ ‘Hell no but it’ll take time. A week or ten days and that shit don’t come cheap,’ responded Martinez with a sly grin.

‘Exactly how much will it cost me Mick?’

‘Could be five big ones and then there’s my commission of course.’

‘Five big ones,’ repeated Nathan, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah man, five grand, thousand, K, ya get me?’

‘Yes I follow your drift but five thousand is a little too steep I’m afraid. Tell you what, I’ll give you two big ones tomorrow and another two in one week upon receipt of the documents, okay?’

‘Shit man, you’re killing me, I don’t think my contact will go for it,’ argued Mick, in apparent disappointment.

‘Ah well, don’t trouble your friend. What do you say we forget that I ever mentioned it? Let’s have a drink for old time’s sake. I’m sure I can find help somewhere else in a metropolis such as New York,’ purred Nathan.

‘Shit man why ya want to talk like that, I’m your buddy Steve and what good is a buddy if he doesn’t come through. I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he’ll see reason but he wont like it. I’ll be in Den’s at noon with your answer, Adios,’ said Martinez, concluding the conversation. Casting Nathan a black stare, he turned on his heels and headed for the bar’s exit. His snarl was quickly replaced by a grin as he stepped out into the night. Old Smokie would knock up a set of papers for twelve hundred, fifteen max. The podgy figure disappeared into the throng of New York’s nocturnal humanity.

They met as arranged the following day. Black was already seated at the bar when Martinez arrived. His lip was curled as he seated himself beside the Englishman. ‘Fuck but you Limeys drive a hard bargain. It took ages for me to barter my contact down. It had in fact taken ten minutes and no bargaining was involved. Smokie was a refugee from an eastern bloc country and an expert at forgery. Martinez had told him the Englishman’s requirements and the old man had quoted eighteen hundred dollars. The taxi driver bitched that the price had risen. The forger shrugged and said, ‘Inflation, take it or leave it.’ Martinez knew when he was beaten; he had seen the determined look in the old guy’s eyes many times before. ‘Okay you old crook but I want them in one week. ‘No problem,’ smiled Smokie, he had been prepared to drop his price by a hundred or so. What a smuck, he thought. Mick left him, in the same frame of mind.

‘He requires ten passport sized photographs,’ Mick informed Nathan. Black nodded opening an attaché case. With a flourish he withdrew an envelope containing several sets of the snapshots, taken from a machine at central station. He removed three from the package and handed them to Martinez. ‘Two extra for good measure,’ he informed the cab driver. ‘How long?’

‘One week but that will cost ya an extra five.’ snapped Martinez.

‘Done, here is the two thousand as promised. You will have the rest plus five hundred same time next week, see you then.’ Black did not wait for a reply but was gone before the other could comment.

A pleasant week was spent sightseeing. Nathan was killing time until the documents were ready. Finally the day arrived and as before he was at the bar awaiting the American, who, not content with the extra five hundred he had fleeced from the Englishman, tried to screw a few more dollars from Black. His efforts were met with derision. ‘Enough of your petty con tricks Mick. If you want to stay friendly and prolong a profitable arrangement in future, please hand me my papers. With a smile Martinez complied, ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying.’

‘Yes I can,’ Nathan informed him, handing over an envelope containing the cash. Martinez quickly counted the notes, ‘What is this,’ he demanded.

‘What is what,’ sighed Nathan.

‘There’s only two grand here. The price was two five and what about my commission?’ he snarled.

‘Did you think I came across the Atlantic on a cattle boat Mick? Now take the two grand and be happy. The going rate is closer to half what you quoted my friend and you know it, so let’s have a drink and shake on it.’’Fuck, I thought ya was too good to be true,’ sniggered Martinez. ‘Here’s to future business,’ he said raising his glass.

‘To future endeavour,’ said Black, clinking the proffered glass. Black left smiling and Martinez watched him leave giving a respectful shake of the head. Two days later Black landed at Belfast International airport in the guise of one Newton Amos, from Hertford Connecticut. He booked into the Europa Hotel, adding credence to his tourist guise. Four days later he had hired a car and was on the road to Derry.

Three days after their initial enquiry the information requested filtered back to Connor and Billy. There were three possibilities, the first being Corporal Turpin, a twenty-seven year-old, recruited by the Sherwood Foresters. He was a married man with three children. The second was Jason Thomas Leonard a private with the REME. Nineteen years killed by a sniper’s bullet in Belfast. Tullen shuddered as he read the name. He recalled the night when he had snuffed out the soldier’s young life. Clements stared at him sensing the change in his demeanour. ‘Somethin the matter there Con? Ye look like ye seen a ghost.’ ‘No nothin. I was just thinkin, the guy Leonard, he was only nineteen. Bloody waste eh?’ observed Tullen in an effort to impose self-discipline.

‘Fuck that’s rich commin from the likes of you. He was here protectin British interests, that makes him a legitimate target accordin to yous lot, no matter what fuckin age he was,’ snapped Clements.

‘Ach fuckin forget I ever mentioned it,’ rebuffed Tullen. The third was a twenty-year-old Scot named Macbride who had been lured away by a female in the border area. His naked body had been found severely mutilated days after his abduction. ‘Only three,’ said Clements casually, ‘And only two fit the bill. I’m not so sure about the last eejit either; Christ he risked life and limb te get his leg over. He doesn’t sound like a turd puncher te me. As regards the married guy, I’ve heard tell of some bein closet poofs but in the army as well, it’s highly unlikely. No my money’s on the youngest one, what’s his name Leonard. I think we’ve hit the jackpot Con me boy.’ A cold chill gripped Tullen at the mention of the boy’s name. What was happening? First he teams up with Clements and now this. Was God having some kind of sick joke at his expense? Or had this young man come back from the grave to haunt him? Why was I chosen? he pondered. He relived the evening of the boy’s death. His mind was tormented by the tall figure in the cross hairs of his weapon. He gave a start as he heard the crash of the rifle. God was he losing his mind. And what of their nemesis The Preacher, was he Tullen, responsible for unleashing the monster on the innocent citizens of Ulster? His ears were ringing; he was reliving his worst nightmare. ‘Did ye not hear me Con? What the fuck’s the matter with ye?’ Are ye sick or somethin?’ queried Clements with suspicion. His colleagues change of mood had not passed unnoticed.

‘Naw the name rings a bell. I remember the day after he got topped. They showed a picture of him on TV, he looked so young. I remember sayin at the time. What’s a kid like that doin over here? What a fuckin waste,’ he repeated.

‘What now Billy? Where do we go from here?’ said Tullen wearily.

‘It looks like you an me’s off on a wee jaunt to the big smoke. Have a word we the boy’s folks. Who knows what we’ll turn up?’

Ecstatic is an inferior adjective to describe Starrett’s mood, as he listened with growing excitement to Clements’ theory concerning the connection between the murdered soldier and the Preacher. ‘Brilliant Billy boy, absolutely brilliant. It all fits like a jigsaw puzzle. Do ye remember the first murder Billy? The Blackmore family,’ prompted Starrett. It cannot be a coincidence. The boy’s name was Jason, the same as the young squaddie.’

‘Fuck me that’s right, shit I had forgot,’ agreed Clements excitedly.

‘It is all beginning to fit. You and your republican confederate have been busy, no doubt about that son,’ said the commander. ‘For the first time we have a glimmer of hope. If your theory proves to be correct and there is no doubt that it is, then we have a tangible lead to the identity of the murdering bastard. Call it intuition but I think that young Jason is the reason behind his madness. I agree, you and your mate must leave for the mainland tomorrow. With any luck we will pick up a hot trail. I Pray to the Lord that you are right with your assumptions,’ concluded Starrett solemnly. He watched as Clements departed before putting through a call to England. ‘Hello, Carter, how are you my boy? How is life treating you in that den of iniquity,’ he chuckled.

Without waiting for the other to reply he continued, ‘Listen Carter, your young friend Billy Clements will be arriving on your doorstep tomorrow. I want you to keep an eye on him. No, no he must not be approached, be sure to keep a low profile. He has a Mickey in tow. I want you to pay particular attention to him. Be sure that you know his face as if it were your own. In the near future you may have to bid him an eternal farewell. Do you get my drift?’ There was muffled laughter from the other end. ‘Well it’s been nice talking to you again Carter, be sure to stay in touch.’ An evil grin broke the contours of Starrett’s face as he re-cradled the receiver. , Yes indeed Mr. Whatever your name is, your number is most definitely up.’

The one o’clock shuttle to Heathrow arrived on time. As Connor and Billy entered the main arrival hall they were greeted by a wizened old man with a broad Northern Ireland accent. ‘How’s it goin there lads?’ he enquired. ‘I’ve bin requested te pick yous up. The man says that I have te extend the greatest courtesy to yous,’ he added. Clements nodded in reply. The old man shrugged and made his way toward the exit, followed at a distance by the others. He led them to a short stay car park where he had left ancient Volkswagen Beetle. ‘Hey yous don’t say much. How goes it over there?’ he asked, trying to strike up a conversation. His efforts were in vain as no reply was forthcoming. ‘Fair nough,’ he muttered. ‘Yous is booked in at the Quality Inn near Hillingdon. ‘There’s a car hired for yis at the hotel. Yer booked in under the names of White and Charles. Ask reception for messages. The keys to the jalopy are in an envelope addressed to Mr. White. Got that?’ he asked. Clements nodded, Tullen ignored the man completely. Shortly after they were safely ensconced, Clements dialled Jason’s parents’ home number and arranged a meeting for later that evening.

Bed and breakfast houses are the cheapest and in the opinion of many, the best accommodation in Ireland. They are not exactly five star but the welcome one receives is far superior to the plastic greeting of large hotel groups. Another advantage they have over hotels is their relative privacy. A person once booked in, can come and go as one pleases. Black was clever in choosing one because he was aware that most hotels in the province were kept under some sort of surveillance. It was virtually impossible to keep a constant watch on what amounted to tens of thousands of the smaller type of accommodation. Nathan opted for a comfortable, if small, residence in the village where the Farrels lived. He could not believe his good fortune to see the vacancy sign Illuminated in the window of a boarding house not two hundred yards from the Farrel’s home. It was owned by a pleasant widow who fussed over her guests in a manner bordering on obsession. She adored Americans and let him know it. So well mannered and never a moments worry for her. If she was twenty years younger she would sell up and move lock stock and barrel over to the States. Nathan played the role of the American gentleman, complimenting her on her well-kept property. The old dear, duly flattered, handed him a front door key and left him to his own devices. He had spun the old girl a yarn about a great grandfather who had settled in the States. He fabricated a story about how his antecedent had married his childhood sweetheart, a girl from Limavady before sweeping her away to the new world. The woman, who had heard different versions of the same story countless times, listened politely to his narration. She wished him luck on his quest to find his ancestors, excused herself and set off for the supermarket. Black had enjoyed reeling off such rubbish. It brought out the imp in him. He had loved dressing up in his days of amateur dramatics and in many ways regretted not having gone professionally into the theatre. The old dear seemed to have swallowed his story hook, line and sinker, which pleased him immensely. His parody of the boring Yank had worked a treat and just to be absolutely sure, he blustered around the house drawing her into conversation whenever possible. It was no surprise when he caught her tiptoeing past his room in an obvious attempt to evade him. To have the woman avoiding him at

all costs had been his main objective and he was pleased to see that it had worked admirably.

Evening fell and Black was in a wonderful frame of mind. With a flourish he set off to take his first peek at the Farrel household.

Years of practice in the art of surveillance gave Carter Fairchilds the confidence to follow Clements and Tullen with a minimal fear of detection. He watched as they entered the underground station at Hillingdon. Giving a wry smile, the giant returned to his vehicle. No need to take the same tube and risk discovery, he decided. After all he had a better than average idea of their destination. Smart move on their part leaving the hired car in the hotel parking area, he observed grudgingly. In his experience it was always easier to detect a tail that was following on foot. Because of the sheer bulk of the man, entering the car was always ungainly. He knocked his head on the doorframe as he entered and with a curse of exasperation vowed to trade the vehicle for a larger model and hang the expense. Fairchilds was a careful man. He fumbled around inside rearranging the rear-view mirror, adjusting the seat belt, looking over his shoulder but the preparations were a pretext. He was taking in the complete scene and in particular any parked vehicles. Only one car was occupied, and that by an elderly lady who was fussing with a lipstick. Satisfied that he was not the subject of surveillance, he put the car into gear and drove off. As he pulled away from the occupied car he kept a tight watch on it. He had never seen or heard of a pensioner in the game but you never know. The old lady’s car stayed rooted to the spot. Fuck Carter, you are becoming paranoid man, he mentally chastised himself and with a sheepish smile, headed in the direction of the Leonard household. Traffic was light and he made good time, arriving a little more than twenty minutes ahead of his quarry. He drove past the house casually peering at the front door. He was seeking an advantageous point from where he could observe the coming and goings to the dwelling. Fairchilds eyes positively lit as he found a small café on the corner. Whistling an Ulster marching tune, he entered the establishment. He glanced around the dining area once before selecting a table by the window. Presently a bored waitress approached him presumably to take his order. ‘Good evening my dear. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a menu and a smile to accompany it,’ he added with a wide grin. ‘Pardon?’ replied the waitress. Fairchilds sustained the smile as he read the plastic decal pinned to the girl’s breast pocket. ‘A menu please Amy, if it’s not to much trouble and tell me to mind my own business but why is such a beautiful woman, such as yourself, looking so glum?’ The girl brightened at the compliment. God but he was a big one and ten, no fifteen years her senior but his accent was adorable. Amy was immediately interested as she was a fool for large men being almost six foot herself. With a flash of white teeth she returned his smile all semblance of boredom cast firmly aside. ‘Is that an Irish accent?’ she enquired. ‘Indeed it is not my girl, it is an Ulster accent and an awful burden it is too,’ he added.’It is not, as a matter of fact, I find it quite sexy,’ she told him boldly.

‘I’ve never heard of it described as sexy before but I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank-you very mush Amy, you have made my day. I don’t mean to be rude but I am absolutely famished, would you mind awfully if I peruse the menu.’

‘Oh sorry I’ll fetch one right away. Be with you in a second sir,’ she flustered.

‘Take it easy love and please call me Carter. To my recollection I have not been knighted but there’s hope yet I suppose,’ said Fairchilds, laying on the Irish charm thicker than cement.

‘I’m Amy, Oh but you know that already,’ said the girl blushing and turning to fetch the menu. She was back in an instant holding out the card like an offering to the gods. Carter glanced at it before ordering a pepperoni pizza and coke. ‘Quick as you can now Amy darlin, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all sir,’ she was virtually purring.

‘Ach would you forget about that sir business. You know I’m not a knight. Perhaps I look like a schoolteacher,’ he added, enjoying the banter.

‘Oh I don’t know about that Carter,’ she replied, emphasising Carter, ‘I bet you could teach a girl a thing or two,’ she smirked, flirting unashamedly.

‘Now that would depend on the girl Amy, she would have to be a willing student, if you know what I mean,’ he rejoined with a leer.

‘Perhaps we could discuss lessons after you’ve eaten your pizza,’ she said cheekily.

‘Now that would be a fine way for us to get acquainted. What time do you get off love?’

‘I don’t get off until two,’ she replied, wrinkling a dimple on her left cheek.

‘Doesn’t leave a lot of time for preliminaries does it now? I have a bit of business to attend to tonight but I’m sure it will be finalised long before that. What do you say I pick you up after work and give you a ride home?’

‘I’d say you were a wee bit forward,’ she answered, giggling as she mimicked his Ulster accent.

‘Well now you’re a regular colleen so you are but does that mean yes or no darlin?’ he asked with a grin.

‘I suppose it’s yes but make sure you get here on time, I don’t relish the thought of hanging around here at two in the morning.’

‘I promise to be here at five to two. Your boss is looking a wee bit miffed,’ he warned, nodding in the direction of a sour faced continental who was scowling at them from his position behind the till.

‘Ah bugger him,’ she whispered. ‘Be sure to enjoy your meal sir,’ she added theatrically. Fairchilds scrutinised the street, barely looking at the contents on his plate, as he hungrily devoured the meal. Here they are, he observed with satisfaction. You are becoming too predictable Billy boy, he thought, as he watched Clements and his compatriot come strolling down the street. The house was barely thirty yards from the café and he had a birds-eye view of the scene. He estimated that the interrogation of the Leonards should take twenty minutes, thirty maximum. What did it matter? He was in no hurry. He took time savouring the pizza, which was surprisingly good. With a wave of the hand in Amy’s direction he raised himself from the chair and headed for the café’s entrance. On the table he left cash for the bill and a handsome tip for the girl. She smiled as she pocketed the blue note and with renewed vigour, set about clearing the table. Amy was not the same girl who had came on shift a few hours earlier.

The Leonard’s residence was a small semi, boasting a well kept, if somewhat petite, garden at the front. The rear garden covered a much larger area where the couple spent most of their daylight hours, tending and enjoying it’s bounty. Working in the garden had become an escape for them. It nullified the effect of the terrible vacuum left by the loss of their only son. The pallid face of Doris Leonard opened the door to the two Irishmen. Tullen made the introductions flashing a warrant card and informing her that he and his colleague were employed by the special branch. I hate to invade upon your privacy and realise how hard it must be to have lost an only son but we believe that there were a few unexplored points during the original investigation into the death of Jason. Tullen was deliberate with the use of the dead boy,s Christian name. Staring into the destroyed face of this broken woman, Connor felt unforgivable remorse. He yearned to confess his guilt, to plead for forgiveness but instead asked permission to enter the wretched woman’s home. Upon entering he again apologised for the intrusion but explained how vital it was to them to have a detailed history of their dead son prior to his enlistment.

‘I am not sure I follow what you mean,’ said Mrs. Leonard, ushering them into her tastefully decorated lounge. ‘Samuel dear, these gentlemen are from the police in Ireland,’ she said, by way of an introduction. The man rose. His face was a carbon copy of his wife’s. Etched with grief, his eyes sunken and dark rimmed.

‘We had a row you know. The last thing I did before my boy left was slap his face. May the lord forgive me,’ he muttered near to tears.

‘You were asking about Jason,’ said the woman, embarrassed by her husband’s display of weakness.

‘Yes if you could just tell us about his interests, hobbies, friends if any. Mrs. Leonard found the question strange but giving a shrug complied. Mr. Leonard on the other hand sat detached, occasionally letting out a little whimper like a frightened mouse, at the mention of his son’s name. Doris also related of their last evening together, glaring at her grief stricken husband who shrivelled before her accusing stare. With sorrow and regret she recounted the fateful evening, telling of the reason for the altercation. Dutifully she attempted to draw her husband into the conversation. ‘Tell them about the cricket Samuel.’

‘Cricket?’ enquired Clements, raising an eyebrow and entering into the discussion for the first time. The man seemed to brighten.

‘Jason was a marvellous cricketer,’ he informed them proudly.

‘Did he belong to a club?’ asked Clements.

‘Of course,’ replied the boy’s father, as if it was the silliest thing that he had ever heard.

‘My boy was brilliant, a fast bowler. Why he was only at the club a matter of weeks when he was drafted into the first team.’

‘He must have made you both very proud,’ said Tullen sympathetically.

‘What was the name of the club sir?’ asked Billy, showing little interest in the bereaved man’s feelings.

‘Oh sorry, it was Hillingdon CC, you must excuse me, this is very hard.’

‘Not at all sir,’ said Tullen. ‘It will not take much longer. Did he have any school friends and if so, were any of them members of the cricket club?’

‘As a matter of fact he did have a friend who played for the club. Young Carl Davis, he was the one that took Jason down there. I am still at a loss. How has any of this got the slightest bearing on the murder of our boy?’ the man asked suspiciously. Mr. Leonard I know this is difficult but you really must trust us. We need this information in order to bring your son’s murderer to justice,’ said Clements, frustrated.

‘Now I know it sounds strange but some times information such as this can be helpful. The IRA. has many tentacles and I am sorry to say it but your son may have been targeted from the mainland. These people have no morals, they gather information about boys like your son, boys who have joined the army. They pass on the data to operatives in Ireland and again I am sorry to say it, your son’s death may be attributed to one such person. We must eliminate the possibility or catch the bugger, pardon my language, before he fingers someone else’s son. Your answers may help us to do that.’ Samuel Leonard crumpled at Clements’ onslaught.

‘Let me see if I am hearing you properly. Are you telling me that one of Jason’s friends may be a member of the IRA?’ said Doris incredulously.

‘That Mrs. Leonard, is exactly what I am saying,’ Clements told her, his voice barely audible.

‘My God!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘What have we come to?’

‘If you want information about the cricket club, I suggest you speak to Walter Howlet. He calls from time to time to see how we are coping. The man means well but I wish he would leave us to heal in our own manner,’ she said sadly. ‘He is the wicket keeper I believe. I have his number somewhere,’ she informed them, rising to fetch it. She returned moments later holding out a slip of paper. ‘Here it is.’

‘That’s grand, thank-you for your help. Oh just one last thing, is Mr. Howlet a family man?’

‘Yes he is, at the last count he and his wife had five children. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason really, it’s for future reference,’ lied Clements.

‘Oh I see,’ said Mrs. Leonard, completely baffled by the young man’s answer.

‘Look this is a bit embarrassing for us,’ said the husband.

‘What is Mr. Leonard?’ asked Tullen.

‘It’s er,’ he said, hesitating. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘Jason didn’t live with us before he entered the armed services. We had no contact with him for several months, after the row you understand.’ His shoulders slumped as he raised a clenched fist to his open mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks, the man had disintegrated before their eyes. His wife came over to him compassionately placing an arm around his hunched shoulder. ‘God I’m sorry, I am so very sorry,’ he sobbed, as his wife led him away.

‘Will that be all,’ she asked sternly. ‘As you can see my husband is somewhat overwrought.

‘Yes we quite understand Mrs. Leonard, please accept our apologies for the distress we have caused. It was never our intention to upset either of you,’ said Tullen, as he himself fought for control of his emotions. God forgive me. What have I done? he prayed, as guilt gripped him like a vice. He knew that this day would haunt him for eternity. A flashback of the incident came flooding like a torrent into his mind. He remembered the boys thin body being flung backward as the bullet completed it’s fatal journey. What evil had driven him to carry out such acts of barbarism?

‘Let’s get out of here. We can call this Howlet bloke from the hotel.’

‘We can let ourselves out Mrs. Leonard, thanks for your patience,’ said Clements.

‘Yes of course, I hope you find the bastard, as you can see he has destroyed my husband and me as well.’ Tullen was already out unto the street as she uttered her despairing words. Billy caught up with him at the garden gate. ‘What the fuck was all that about Con? Jesus Christ ye nearly blew our cover in there,’ snarled Clements angrily.

‘Nothin okay, just fuckin leave it. I’ll tell ye about it when this shite is over. Look Billy I’m not in the mood for questions, not askin or fuckin answerin them. When you get back to the hotel you can call yer man and arrange te meet him in the morning. I’m goin out te get pissed and if ye don’t mind I’ll be doin it alone. I’m not the best of company right now,’ said Connor menacingly.

‘Whatever ye say, I’m not in the mood for socialising either,’ agreed Clements, in a softer tone. He could tell that meeting the dead soldier’s parents had shaken Tullen badly. Perhaps he was feeling remorse or even responsible for the boy’s death. It was better to let him have his head and leave him to his own devices. I’ll head back to the hotel. That way you’ll know where te find me,’ said Billy.

‘Look Billy I need a bit of space, I’m sorry for snappin. If it’s any consolation I’m goin te have a head like a pulverised turnip in the mornin.’ Tullen turned on his heel and was heading away from Clements before he could reply. As he watched his colleague’s back he felt sorry for the man. There was no denying that despite their political differences, he was beginning to become very fond of his partner.

Fairchilds sat behind the wheel of his car awaiting their exit. His Canon camera was poised and ready to catch as many shots of them as was prudently possible. He was able to get several good shots of Tullen as he came down the garden path. Satisfied that he had taken some excellent stills of Tullen’s face he opted to disappear before Clements came into view. There was always a danger that the wee man would spy him behind the wheel and that would not please Starrett. Driving away his mind turned to his earlier meeting with the lovely Amy. In anticipation of a pleasurable evening he began to sing, Once in love with Amy. He was chuckling at himself as he manoeuvred the car around the corner.

‘Why is it always raining in this God forsaken dump?’ mumbled Black, as he strolled toward the Fallen’s house. As he approached it his pace slowed considerably and he afforded a long glance at the property whilst passing the gate. He was delighted to see that the cottage set well back from the road. ‘Fabulous,’ he whispered. At that precise moment the cottage door opened allowing a long sallow man to exit. ‘Get the fuck out of here ye drunken bastard and I don’t care if ye never come back,’ came the scream of a woman’s voice, followed by a crash as the door slammed behind him. The figure turned to reopen the door. ‘Ach come on love, don’t be like that,’ he answered, his head disappearing from view. ‘Fuck away off te yer cronies and don’t think ye can paw all over me when ye get back,’ screeched the female voice.

‘Ah fuck it, I’m away out, there’s no talkin te you when yer in yer bad month,’ he shouted, as the door once more slammed in his face, almost crushing his nose in the process. He was mumbling aloud as he passed through the gate. ‘A man can’t even catch up on auld times without gettin his head bit off.’ Nathan watched as the forlorn figure sauntered away from him in search, he assumed of some liquid comfort. With his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets the man cut a sorry sight. ‘Fuck it appears that you have enough trouble Mr. Fallen,’ observed Black, under his breath. ‘It seems such a waste to relieve you from your misery,’ chuckled the killer. As he watched the man’s hunched figure amble away, he thought of the spies and terrorists in the Ian Flemming novels. You hardly fit the bill Liam, which proves the old adage that, one really can not judge a book by it’s cover. Nathan returned to his digs still chuckling at the thought as he entered. ‘The Gods are smiling on you Nathan,’ he told himself as he began preparations for the attack. If all went well, he mused, his business in this one horse town would be over rather more quickly than planned. Fallen was a fool. A sneer crossed the murderer’s face because he was positive that Fallen was downing his own kind of poison whilst, he Nathan Black, was planning a more fitting demise for the terrorist. Once satisfied that everything was in place, he struggled into a rucksack in keeping with his guise as the stereotyped American tourist. Making the usual clumping racket, he shouted a greeting as he exited the guesthouse. The landlady was enjoying her favourite television game show. She raised her eyes skyward, gave a tut and returned her attention to the set.

Stilling himself for the evening ahead, Black pushed open the door and entered Feeney’s bar. A quick glance around the room told him that Fallen was drinking alone. In all, there were six customers present. Two couples, one pair huddled intimately in the far corner of the bar. The other middle aged and presumably married, were seated as far away from the other patrons as was humanly possible. The remaining customer, a male pensioner, leaned on the bar studying a newspaper. Fallen stood at the other end of the bar staring into a half-consumed pint of Guinness. The couples were engrossed in their own company, neither bothering to look at the bar’s latest occupant. The lone drinker gave him a slight scrutiny before returning to more important issues. Perfect, thought Nathan as he sidled to the bar taking up a position two barstools down from Fallen. ‘Evening barman, could I have a beer please?’ The barman flashed

a humourless smile before moving toward the bogus American.

‘Sure thing sir, any particular kind?’

‘Sorry?’ replied Black with a vacant stare.

‘We have draught and bottled sir, which do you prefer?’

‘Oh yeah, gimme a pint of Harp lager please?’

‘Good choice sir, are ye just passing through?’ asked the barman, feigning interest. You never could tell with Yanks, some tipped very well and others were tighter than Hattie Jaques’ G-string. It doesn’t do any harm to spread a little smarm, he reasoned.

‘Passing through, no why do you ask er, Sean,’ he pronounced it Seean,’ making a big thing of reading the label on the barman’s chest.

‘That’s Sean, pronounced Shawn sir, he informed the other helpfully. ‘I was askin if ye were just passin because yer wearin a rucksack. Thought maybe ye were on a hike or somethin.’

‘Oh yeah the bag. I have stuff in it for emergencies. I’m staying just a few hundred yards along the road. At Mrs. Brant’s place. She sure is a great old girl, do you know her?’ Sean nodded without comment.

‘I always carry the bag with me when I’m on vacation, I’m a regular boy scout, be prepared,’ he chuckled. ‘I see,’ said the barman, rapidly losing interest. Big tipper or not, this guy was as interesting as a lecture on bunions. Holding that thought he drifted toward the other end of the bar, picking up the empty glass left behind by the other sole drinker, who had vacated the premises a few minutes earlier. Nathan turned to his right. Fallen’s pint was almost gone. ‘Why hello there,’ greeted Nathan loudly. ‘You seem to be as lonesome as your glass looks. Can I buy you another?’ Fallen turned slowly eyeing the stranger, gave the bar a cursory glance and returned his stare to Black. ‘My name is Amos, Newton Amos,’ he informed The Irishman thrusting his hand out.

‘Liam Fallen.’ answered his prey, somewhat confused.

‘Do you mind if I buy you a drink buddy? You look like you could do with a bit of cheering up.’

‘Shit, does it really show that much?’ he said gloomily, accepting the American’s hand. Black turned on the charm and it was not long before they were conversing like lifelong friends. Black was enjoying playing the gullible yank and felt that he was carrying it off well. Playing the game to the utmost he boasted about Life in the States, of sexual conquests in the far east and South America. Fallen, as was Nathan’s intention, was feeling secure in the company of his newest acquaintance. The night progressed, the terrorist became more and more inebriated. No way was he to be outdone by his blowhard from across the pond.

‘What do ye do for a livin Newton,’ he slurred.

‘I’m in the computer business. Got my own company and it’s doing very nicely, yes sir. Started from scratch and now employ more than fifty people. How about you Liam?’

‘I’m in the ranks of the unemployable,’ he tittered at the self-incrimination.

‘Don’t follow you there buddy.’

‘You are in the company of a very bad man Mr. Amos. I am a convicted terrorist,’ Fallen whispered conspiratorially, pointing at himself..

‘The hell you say,’ replied Nathan, looking suitably impressed. ‘Hope your on the right side. I’d hate for people back home to hear that I’ve been drinking with a Brit. Shit man, I’d never live it down,’ boomed Black.

‘Shush,’ hissed Fallen, pressing a finger to Nathan’s lips. ‘Don’t ye know it’s dangerous to discuss stuff like this in public,’ he chided, the other drunkenly.

‘Hell yeah, sorry Liam, me and my big mouth,’ replied Nathan, duly chastised.

‘Last orders gentlemen please, let’s be havin ye,’ called Sean.

‘Ach shit, I was just beginnin te enjoy meself. Tell ye what Newton, why don’t we get a wee carry out. We can get some fish-n-chips and take the party te my place. My Gina’s a lovely girl and she thinks Yanks is great, what d’ya say?’

‘Carry out?’ said Black, seemingly confused.

‘Shite ye may be a computer whiz but ye know fuck all about drink?’ chuckled Fallen. ‘We can buy a couple of dozen beers and a bottle of vodka from Sean. That is what we, and our Scottish neighbours, call a carry out,’ he explained patiently.

‘Now that sounds like a very civilised custom but are you sure your wife won’t mind?’

‘As sure as shit Newton my man. I wear the trousers in our house,’ winked Liam. Nathan could not believe his luck. Was it possible that this would be wrapped up tonight? He purchased the required alcohol from the barman who feigned reluctance, ‘You know how it is Liam, licensing laws an all.’ His expression of concern was replaced by one of greedy pleasure as the American handed him a ten-pound note. The two friends staggered to the door followed by Sean. ‘Goodnight sir,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘Bloody Yanks,’ he muttered, his thoughts already fixed on the mess awaiting him inside.

A cold sweat broke on the forehead of Walter Dane. It was three thirty in the morning and his phone was screaming for attention. Frightened of whom he knew would be on the line, he deliberately leaned over to pick it up. ‘Dane here,’ he said apprehensively, certain that the familiar abomination would be whispering it’s perverse message in his ear. He had no idea of how he knew but the premonition of evil was overpowering. He had not been in contact with the murderer for months. A call at such an hour was unusual although not unheard of. Minor irritations, such as early morning calls, were expected, they came with the job. Was dealing with a madman considered part of the job? Dane blinked, checked the time on the luminous dial of the clock on the bedside table and resolutely steeled himself. ‘Good evening Mr, Dane,’ The reporter’s eyes flew open. He was certain of the caller’s identity but hearing the silky whisper was as shocking as having iced water thrown in his face. ‘I know that it is an ungodly hour to be calling and I apologise for the inconvenience but there is something that you simply must know. I have completed another successful escapade and simply had to share my news with someone,’ he continued.

‘Why me? Why have I been chosen as your personal confessor?’ spat Dane.

‘Tut tut Walter, confessor? Don’t you think that you are being a teeny bit melodramatic? At the very least you are stretching poetic license to the limit. Perhaps you are right, I should give a more deserving hack the chance to achieve immortality. What do you really want Walter?’

‘Sorry, you caught me at my lowest ebb. People have forgotten that you exist, you know how fickle the public can be. As you so rightly pointed out I am a mere mortal and I’m afraid that I don’t share your penchant for butchery,’ retorted the reporter. ‘Well Mr. Dane, people will realise soon that I am very much alive and regarding your stomach for butchery, I did not hear you complaining when you were basking in journalistic orgasm over the scoop I laid on a plate for you. Nevertheless I accept your apology. Now listen Walter,’ spat Black. ‘Get into your excuse for a car and drive to Dungiven. There is a public phone box in the centre of town. In said phone box, you will find a postcode. You should be able to see it easily enough. It is written in blood. After you have read the postcode, pick up the receiver and dial the local constabulary and inform them that another parcel of rats has been eradicated. I imagine that even they should be able to work out the address from the postcode,’ he added disdainfully.

‘Good God no more please, Why are you murdering innocent women and children? In the name of all that’s holy, have you no soul man?’

‘Oh Walter, can you not see? That is precisely why I am doing it. My soul was ripped from me and discarded as one would, yesterday’s paper. This is my way of redeeming it.’ God this bugger is as mad as a hatter, thought Dane. ‘Why are you keeping up the pretence, by whispering? They are aware that you are an Englishman,’ snarled Dane. ‘Why don’t you be a man and speak properly, this bloody whispering is damaging my hearing.’

‘My but you’re the grouchy one in the mornings. My whispering I am sorry to say, is the price you must pay for selling newspapers. Have no fear Walter I would never contemplate deserting you. As a matter of fact, I hold you in the highest regard. In my opinion you are the closest thing to a human being that this God forsaken island has produced. Now stop all this nonsense and toddle off to Dungiven, there’s a good chap. Oh one more thing, no two more things. The murdering bastard had a ringside seat this time. I found it most exhilarating having him plead for his miserable life. Pathetic really, he had watched the mutilation of his entire family yet he begged me to spare him. Silly me, I thought terrorists were made of sterner stuff. It begs the question, are they all of the same ilk, snivelling cowards like him? The second thing, I don’t want you calling the police with my information Walter, you must be the first to arrive at the phone box. If I see the RUC. arriving before you do, our relationship will cease forthwith. Is that clear Walter?’

‘Yes perfectly clear,’ answered the journalist resignedly.

‘Excellent, I promise Walter that if they catch me which unfortunately for you is highly unlikely, I shall reveal the exclusive story of my fall from grace to you and you alone my friend. Goodnight.’

It was well after five am. when the reporter drove into the small town of Dungiven. He slowed to a veritable crawl as he rolled down the main street in search of the phone box. The journalist encountered the structure more or less in the centre of the town. Early morning mist hung in the air giving the scene a sinister appearance. Hammer House of Horror, the old British movie productions flashed into his head. He gave a wry smile at the thought but was held in an all-encompassing dread at what the small cubicle would reveal. ‘Why the fuck am I doing this?’ he asked himself. ‘This mad bastard could be waiting to pounce. He could cut me into little pieces if the mood takes him.’ Dane was wearing gloves for two reasons. The first one was obvious, Northern Ireland was bloody freezing at that hour. He also wore them to ensure that his fingerprints would be absent when the police forensic staff was called in to gather evidence. The usual message was painted across the dialling code index. Below were some letters and figures, presumably the latest victims’ postcode but beneath this was the name and address of Liam Farrel. Dane’s shoulders drooped. He recognised the name, remembering that he had covered the story of the terrorist’s release from prison. Fear clenched at his bowels, God what if the Preacher had chosen this family because he, Walter had brought them to the maniac’s notice. ‘Ach don’t be such an old fool,’ he admonished himself. Returning to his vehicle, the little man

took a deep breath before punching the home number of Detective Inspector Kiever.

Sleep was becoming increasingly unbearable for Moira. The nightmare was recurring, making her feel more exhausted than before she closed her eyes. She tossed and turned trying to find a softer spot in a pillow that was in fact as soft as a cloud. For the umpteenth time she scrutinised the clock which told her it was only five thirty. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, ‘I’ve no chance of catchin any sleep now.’ Laboriously she dragged her body from the bed and headed for the toilet. As she showered an impish smile played on her lips. ‘Fuck it, I’m not eatin breakfast alone.’ Having withdrawn the curtain to ascertain what the weather was doing, she dressed in warm clothing and decided to pay her sister a visit. Feeling better than she had for weeks she drove out of the city. Derry was a beautiful city. Ancient architecture intermingling with twentieth century structures gives it an atmosphere of vibrant uniqueness. Moira adored driving through it’s narrow streets unhindered by traffic but it was becoming a rare privilege. She hummed as the Craigavon Bridge disappeared behind her, already savouring the welcome and hearty breakfast she would receive from her eldest sister and family. The morning was in full swing as she drove into her sister’s driveway and she stopped to listen to the bird’s cheerful trilling. Moira smiled to see that lights were already burning in the house. Wanting to surprise her sister she crept past the front windows making her way to the rear of the cottage. Strange, the door was ajar even though the temperature was little above freezing outside. Her world shattered as she entered the kitchen. Sally, Gina’s youngest was pinned to the kitchen table, the parody of a smile on her elfin face where her mouth had been sliced to meet her ears. She wanted to scream but it came out like the croak of an ageing crow. Moira stood shaking her head. Was this the extension of her nightmare? Slowly she passed the small figure averting her eyes. The horror was beyond comprehension. There was a squelching sound as the soles of her shoes slapped through congealing blood. A sickly sweet odour pervaded the air and a red pool was oozing under the door leading to the rest of the house. Reluctantly she forced herself to open it and caught her first glimpse of the entrance to Hades. All control of her faculties departed, she fainted falling headlong into the gore.

A four-storey office block looked down upon a small garden that was tastefully landscaped adding to the architect’s creation of a functional yet understated working environment. Clements nudged his colleague drawing Tullen’s attention to a mosaic pool the centre piece of which was a minuscule King Neptune. Overfed goldfish swam around uncaring as the mythical figure pissed upon them. They chuckled in unison like kids who had caught a glimpse of their teacher’s knickers. Introducing themselves as police officers to an officious receptionist, they were informed that Mr. Howlet was expecting them. ‘You can go right up. Take the lift to the second floor and his office is third right,’ she informed them through a pert mouth whose smile appeared to be painted on.

‘Thank-you so very much miss. It is a rare pleasure to find efficiency mixed with a pleasant manner.

‘Why thank-you sir, how nice of you to say so,’ replied the girl coyly.

‘Not at all, the pleasure was all mine. Credit where credit is due Sonia,’ said Clements gallantly.

‘If I can be of any further assistance sir.’

‘Absolutely not, you have already given up too much of your valuable time,’ interrupted Connor. Clements pulled a face as Tullen turned from the desk inveigling the girl into an involuntary giggle.

‘Come on then we haven’t got all day,’ urged Tullen.

Howlet was waiting at the lift, obviously informed of their progress. Thrusting out a hand, he introduced himself, ‘Howlet, you must be the men from the special branch. This way please,’ he ordered, striding along the corridor. Clements cringed at the little man’s public school accent. They followed him into his office where, once inside, he positioned himself upon the seat of power. Both visitors were taken aback by his miraculous rise in stature. Clements had to bite his lip to refrain from laughing aloud because Howlet’s chair was easily six inches higher than those in front of his desk. ‘Now how can I be of assistance gentlemen?’ he offered, his face set in stone.

‘Firstly let me say how grateful we are to you for seeing us at such short notice. You are obviously a very busy man.’

‘Oh that is quite all right. I know where my duty lies, fire away,’ he said, sanctimoniously.

‘Just a few routine questions,’ began Tullen. ‘Have you had occasion to visit Northern Ireland in the recent past sir?’ he enquired officiously.

‘No sorry, have to admit that I have never been there. Too damned scared of the place if you don’t mind me saying,’ replied Howlet. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No particular reason sir. Mrs. Leonard says that Jason was a member of your cricket team. How well did you know him?’

‘Not all that well really. He was a bright lad as I recall. Impeccable manners, a credit to his poor parents.’ Howlet had the habit off clipping his sentences in staccato fashion, as if he only had enough breath for a few words at a time. ‘Damn good bowler. Quick as lightning.’

‘Do you recall if he had any close friends at all?’ enquired Clements.

‘Well actually I hate gossip but he was rather close to Nathan Black.’

‘Nathan Black?’ repeated Clements, jotting down the name. ‘Exactly what did you mean by gossip Mr. Howlet,’ asked Tullen.

‘Look this is rather awkward. After all the boy is dead and raking over the past can only cause more pain to his mother and father,’ Howlet uttered uneasily, his superior manner had deserted him.

‘Please believe me Mr. Howlet, anything that you tell us will be treated in strictest confidence. Our job is to tie up loose ends. As you can imagine a case of this nature is an incredible burden on our resources, not to mention the cost to the treasury. I should not be telling you this sir but I can see that you are a man to be trusted. Please do not repeat it to another person. We believe that Jason was targeted for termination by an IRA. spy on the mainland. Anything that you tell us may help to catch the bugger, so please bare with us,’ lied Tullen.

‘Okay, there was talk, hell more than talk. Black and the boy had a relationship. They lived together. As far as I can tell, his parents had no knowledge of their co-habitation.’

‘By co-habitation you are implying that they had a homosexual relationship?’ interjected Clements, his eyes glinting.

‘That is the rumour,’ said Howlet, ‘A frightful business, Jason was only seventeen then, no more than a boy. Nathan resigned from the club after one of the members confronted him with it. That is all I can tell you regarding a er, rather distasteful episode. The next we heard was of the boy’s death in Ireland. I know it’s a cliché but you can never really believe that such things are going on until it happens to an acquaintance. His parents were devastated as you can imagine and it brought the club members down to earth with a bump. Needless to say how very sorry we all were and personally I break out in goose bumps every time I read or hear of a murder over there. You may not believe this but we on the mainland share the deepest sympathy with you in these troubled times.’

‘That is kind of you Mr. Howlet. It is always a tragedy when a life is lost and I can assure you that we are doing our utmost to bring the murderers to book. You have been most helpful and once again let me apologise for usurping your valuable time,’ said Tullen.

‘Any time gentlemen, I only hope that my input has been of help,’ replied Howlet rising. He offered his hand again before showing the two Irishmen the door.

Only the sound of the lift was audible as they descended to the foyer. Months of painstaking and often infuriating enquiry had come to fruition. Broad, contented grins swam on the faces of both men as they exited the building. ‘We’ve

fuckin got the bastard,’ Clements was the first to speak.

‘It certainly looks that way Billy. Fuck the bosses this really is a day for celebration. What say we go and get well and truly plastered,’ laughed Tullen.

‘Fuckin apt, the question is, where can a man get a decent drink in this hole?’

‘On second thoughts, it may be better if we head for home. After we report in we can slip the leash and hit the town. The sooner they start the hunt for Mr. Black the better,’ said Tullen sensibly. ‘We can’t sit on this information a minute longer Billy.’

‘Sorry te disagree with ye but our business over here is only just beginnin.’

‘How do ye mean?’ asked Connor warily.

‘What I mean is that we should find the prick and finish it now.’

‘Hold on there Billy, he may not be the right man, besides the brass may have some other plans for him. My vote is te go back, speak te the bosses and let them decide what the next move will be.’

‘Aye I suppose yer right,’ Clements reluctantly agreed. ‘That’s it then, back te the digs have a spot of lunch and if we’re lucky we may just catch the three o’clock shuttle.’ I’d rather get blocked in Belfast anyway,’ he added.

A message was awaiting them upon their return to the hotel. A contact number was left for

Tullen at reception. He walked down the street to a public call box and dialled the number. Recognising the coarse voice of the old man who had picked them up at Heathrow, Connor asked what the breach of security was about. ‘Where the fuck have yous been?’ growled the other.

‘Hey hold on there auld hand, we have work te do over here ye know. We weren’t sent over te suss out the tourist hot spots,’ retorted Tullen.

‘Somethin’s come up,’ said the other mildly.

‘Oh aye and what might that be, yer breakfast?’ chuckled Connor.

‘Ye’re a fuckin riot. Have ye not seen the news?’ snarled the little man his agitation once again to the fore.

‘Naw, what’s wrong?’ asked Tullen soberly.

‘Yer man’s bin at his work again. Seems he topped a family in Londonderry.’ Tullen’s face was ashen as he replaced the receiver. His head was buzzing; the euphoria of earlier squeezed from him, like air from a punctured tyre. ‘Oh no,’ he muttered, ‘We’re too late.’

They separated at the airport, each man had been ordered to his respective camp. Tullen was driven immediately to a meeting with Peter Daley. Realising that this was not standard procedure, he feared the worst. An air of gloom greeted him as he entered the room. His superior, usually up-beat was sitting morosely alone in the corner. ‘Bad news Con, I think ye should have a drink before I begin.’

‘Cut the crap Peter, what’s up?’

‘Get a drink Con, I won’t start until yer sat down,’ wearily Tullen complied. After sitting grim faced opposite his superior, he downed a shot of whiskey. Satisfied, Daley began, ‘It’s yer girl con, it’s Moira.’ Colour drained from his face as a terrible dread threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Tell me Peter, what is it, she’s not…’

‘God no, slow down son, the wee girl’s fine, well under the circumstances she is. She discovered the bodies. The preacher paid her sister a visit. I’m afraid that he has murdered the whole family. Her sister was married te Liam Farrel, they found his body as well. The poor bastard was unrecognisable. Any way the cops found Moira wanderin around in a daze. The house was a blood bath and as ye can guess, she is in a bad way.’

‘Where is she now? I have te go te her.’

‘It’s not that easy Con, I don’t think they’ll let ye see her.’

‘Hello, Hello is that you Nathan, Howlet here, Walter Howlet.’

‘Ah yes Walter, how are you old man? Long time no see. How can I help you?’

‘It’s nothing really, I was just calling to let you know that you may be getting a visit. Special branch no less.’ Alarm bells immediately began ringing. For the first time since his evil quest had began, Nathan Black felt what it was like to be afraid. ‘What in the lord’s name are you prattling on about Walter,’ he blustered, fighting down the panic.

‘I had a visit from two Irish policemen yesterday. Said they were from special branch. It was in connection with young Leonard’s murder. They intimated that his friends could possibly shed some light on his death. I gave them your name and they said that they would be calling on you soon. When I asked them how Jason’s acquaintances could help with their enquiries, they said that it would help tidy up a few loose ends, whatever that was supposed to mean. Anyway forewarned and all that.’

‘Perhaps they are closing in on the bastard who murdered him,’ offered Black.

‘I certainly hope so. I know it was a terrible shock to you in particular er, I mean you and the boy were pretty thick. How are you coping?’ We never seem to see each other nowadays.’

‘Look Walter much as I would like to chat I’m snowed under trying to arrange dinner for some bloody nips, you know how it is old man, busy, busy, busy. Now that you have made the effort to contact me let’s get together for lunch. Why don’t I give you a call next week some time, okay.’

‘Looking forward to it, it’ll be like old times, well goodbye and I’ll talk to you soon.’ Nathan was relieved to here the click heralding the end of conversation with the horrible little man. ‘Old

times,’ he scoffed. ‘When did you and I ever have any times, young or old, you pompous little prick?’ he growled.

He stared at the mirror for an age, his mood matching his name, awaiting for his anger and misgivings to abate. Nathan had known that he was not infallible yet it was too soon. Finally he dragged himself away from the mirror. It was probably nothing, the police may indeed be asking routine questions but Black concluded that the risk was not worth taking. A conversation with the authorities may put him in a compromising situation. Contingency plans were already in place for the time when he came under suspicion. Funds had been salted into numerous bank accounts throughout the world. In effect Nathan could vanish without trace if he so desired and the moment had arisen. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled countless occasions when he had duped greedy, gullible bank officials at home and abroad. It had been a simple task to build a portfolio of bogus identities and Nathan had basked in the pleasure and intrigue. Yes he had found that it was true, people really did not give a monkey’s when they smelled the opportunity to earn a quick dollar. So long as one had a sizeable amount of hard currency to invest, blind eyes were turned as easily as cream in the Tropics. Finances were the least of his worries. There was still the small matter of his accidental demise to fabricate. Nathan had long since developed the plan to bring about his premature end. He had surreptitiously scoured the gay scene for some time, cultivating new relationships but above all seeking a man of similar height and build as himself. The unfortunate person had sealed his own fate weeks earlier. Forming a relationship with the man had been a simple matter and to a certain extent a labour of love. The hapless Dornan had like many others succumbed to Black’s disarming manner. Kieran was tall, elegant, witty and ironically of Irish descent. His father hailed from the small town of Clonakilty in County Cork. As the weeks passed they grew closer. Dornan like so many others mistook Nathan’s interest in him as a sign of affection. Inevitably he fell hopelessly in love with his executioner. Their relationship was very private, as always Black insisted as much. Seldom were they seen out together and on the few times that they were, Nathan had discouraged displays of affection. At times Kieran was bewildered and hurt by his rebuffs but Nathan a past master in the art of emotional diplomacy. Papering over the cracks of a faulty relationship was his greatest gift. If his new lover became petulant or unreceptive Nathan feigned shyness embarrassment or any excuse from a vast repertoire. A bauble or trinket accompanied by a delicately worded card soon brought Dornan running. His character was an open book.

Fingers crossed Black dialled his number. The phone rang for four excruciating pulses before Kieran’s silky voice purred on the other end. ‘Dornan’s residence for unemployed lumberjacks, only men with large choppers need apply. I hope I can accommodate you.’

‘My dearest Kieran, you support the most worthy of causes.’

‘Oh Dilly darling, how are you?’ gushed Dornan excitedly. ‘When did you breeze into town? I hope you did not delay too long before calling, you know how much I miss you.’ Black had used the alias Denis Gillingham on their first encounter. Dornan had wrinkled his nose with displeasure denouncing the name out of hand. ‘How absolutely ghastly, I could not possibly be seen around town with someone burdened with such a disability. I shall call you Dilly,’ Black faked indignation but reluctantly consented to the new title when Kieran pouted, ‘Please do this one little thing for me and I shall be eternally grateful. I simply refuse to become involved with someone named Denis and I do very much want to be involved with you,’ he added coyly. Nathan had burst into a genuine fit of laughter and the rest was plain sailing. ‘Believe me Kieran you are always the first in my thoughts as I step from the plane. I’m in town for a few days and I thought we could spend them together. If you are free perhaps you could pop over this evening and we can plan the weekend over a spot of dinner. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds incredible, I had planned to meet a few of gang at the Dive but there was nothing definite. Okay darling; crack a bottle of Chianti. I am feeling positively Latin tonight. I’ll be over at nine,’ assented Dornan.

‘Perfecto grande, my pet, don’t be late,’ cooed Black wickedly. Exhaling a satisfied sigh, he busied himself for Dornan’s lethal surprise. How fitting that my next extermination should be half-Irish, thought Nathan.

Dornan arrived at precisely nine o’clock. He was a stickler for proprieties and prided himself on his punctuality. One of his idiosyncrasies was to throw tantrums when subordinates lapsed into tardiness in the work place. Everything was as how he imagined it would be. Black had planned an Italian evening and the aroma of oregano permeated the apartment. A bottle took pride of place as it stood decanting on the table. Great care had been taken to present the ambience of a Roman repast. ‘You have outdone yourself Dilly, I could be standing in a restaurant in Venice,’ complimented Kieran, planting a theatrical kiss on Black’s cheek. To put Dornan at ease had been Black’s intent. As the evening progressed his guest would become inebriated enough to make killing him a simple task. As he thrilled at the thought of the other’s murder, the

familiar stirring was threatening to burst from his pants.

‘God but you are a lovely creature,’ he murmured breathlessly. ‘Dinner can wait,’ he whispered as he lowered his companion unto the settee. Dornan insisted on washing his lover, which gave Black a pang of remorse but this quickly faded, as the other’s incessant chatter became an irritant. Dinner was perfect and Black’s plan was working to perfection.

‘Adore Ruffino,’ enthused Dornan as Nathan plied him with the contents of a second bottle. ‘As do I darling but it reeks havoc with my digestive tract,’ lied Nathan. ‘Just lie and relax on the sofa whilst I fetch another bottle.’

‘Oh Dilly darling I couldn’t possibly. You know how I suffer after a night on the plonk. I want to be in supreme fettle for tomorrow’s festivities. By the way, what did you have in mind for tomorrow?’

‘Oh don’t be such a wimp, I have already uncorked it especially for you. It has been breathing through dessert.’

‘If you insist but my condition in the light of day is your responsibility. Don’t go off on a tangent if I am laid up with a head like an over ripe tomato,’ chided Dornan, already the worse for wear from the previous two bottles.

‘Come on Kier, you’re only young once. Giggling uncontrollably his companion slurped wine from the glass. The drink had at last brought about the desired result and Dornan had difficulty finding his lips.’God Dilly my head is spinning and itsh all your fault,’ he slurred. ‘Sorry darling but I feel really tired, my resistance to drink must be on the wane. Would you mind awfully if I lie down for a tick?’ he was beginning to slump sideways even as he spoke.

‘My word Kieran but you look terrible, here let me put your feet up,’ said Black in sham sympathy. ‘Just lie there for a while. It will pass presently I’m sure. In the meantime I’ll just wash up.’ Dornan was fast asleep before he had finished speaking.

Quickly and quietly Nathan cleared away the evidence. He manually washed one set of dishes, placing the other in the dishwasher. Stealthily he stole through the apartment clearing away all trace of his friend Dornan. When he was finished it was as if the other had never been present. Satisfied he set the second stage of his fake death into motion. Donning a pair of lightweight overalls Black proceeded to the cupboard under the sink where he had secreted a ball peon hammer. He removed it from it’s hiding place and retraced his steps. Kieran lay oblivious to the peril he had placed himself in on the day he had befriended Black. The murderer stood for a second surveying the scene. His intended victim lay sleeping like a baby. Deliberately Nathan raised the hammer above his head and brought it smashing down on Kieran’s forehead. His skull caved in

under the blow. Again and again he rained blow after murderous blow on his helpless victim. All movement had ceased. Dornan was dead. His plan was nearing completion. There was still the problem of dental records so once again Black began pulverising the already unrecognisable face. Cruelly he drew the body’s mouth open shining a pencil torch inside. Not the hint of a tooth remained; the jawbone was mangled to a pulp. Black shook his head sorrowfully, before scoring the letters NF. across Dornan’s brow, wincing as the blade scraped into bone. ‘Almost over,’ he remarked as he went to fetch the petrol. Liberally he drenched it’s contents on the body and across the furniture. He completed the task by pouring the remainder of the container on the carpet. Taking a can of paint spray, which he had purchased months earlier, he went to the front door. After making certain that he would not be disturbed he sprayed the message, ‘Death to all fucking queers NF,’ across the hallway. Doors were fully opened, the French windows leading to the veranda, were left ajar. Nathan had booked into a hotel in the city centre. Taking one fleeting glance at the prostrate body of Kieran Dornan, he lit a match and casually tossed it unto the petrol soaked carpet. The liquid ignited with a whoosh. Flames rushed around the room devouring everything in it’s path. Black watched gleefully for a few moments before making his escape. ‘Rest in peace Nathan,’ he sniggered as he exited the building. From the park across the street he watched as the flames licked out through the French windows seeking nourishment on the veranda. Greedily it gulped in the night air feeding it’s hunger and becoming a raging conflagration in the process. With Kieran Dornan now a memory, Nathan smiled and disappeared into the gathering crowd. He was strolling in excess of a mile from the scene of his crime as the first scream of a fire tender’s siren disturbed the night’s silence. ‘Too late, too late shall be the cry,’ he smirked.

An incredulous Carter Fairchilds listened as Starrett informed him of the killer’s suspected identity. ‘Hold your horses John. Nathan Black, you did say Nathan Black?’

‘Yes,’ spat Starrett irritably.’

‘And you want me to follow him wherever he goes?’ Tiny dread began to nibble at the commander’s confidence. ‘Why do you ask, are you acquainted with the man?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘No not really but tailing him will prove an impossible task. Unless of course you want me to go to hell.’

‘Let’s stop all this bullshit right now. I’m not in the mood for games. Tell me what you know about him,’ exploded Starrett.

‘Nathan Black died in a fire at his home last night. Seems some National Front people didn’t take kindly to having a queen in residence on his manor.’ His joke was greeted by silence. ‘Are you there John?’ Starrett had let the arm holding the receiver drop to his side. All colour had drained from his face as he stood, staring at the instrument’s cradle. Deep in thought he returned the phone to his ear.

‘Did you manage to get some good prints of Clements’ friend?’

‘That was a wee bit easier than the other request. As a matter of fact you would think he posed for a photo session.’

‘Well study them well for you and he have an appointment in the very near future.’

News of Black’s demise filtered back to Clements. ‘Christ would ye credit it,’ growled Billy. ‘All these fuckin months runnin around like blue assed flies tryin to track the bastard down. When we finally do, what happens? He does a fuckin Joan of Ark. His timmin’s impeccable, why could they not have barbecued him before he had time to murder another family?’

‘Bit of a lucky break if ye ask me. Yer man gettin te Fallen before us saved us a bullet,’ quipped Cairns. ‘That’s just fuckin great, we’re into cheerin for the murder of women and children now.’

‘Take it easy, I was only jokin. Anyway what’s it te ye? I think yon taig’s turnin yer fuckin head, yer gettin too friendly if ye ask me.’

‘Well nobody’s fuckin askin ye,’ scowled Billy.

‘Quiet now the pair of you. I’m trying to make sense of this,’ interjected Starrett.

‘What do ye mean boss?’ asked Tommy.

‘What I mean is that it is bloody convenient, The Preacher dying like that. Almost too convenient’

‘I don’t understand,’ said a confused Clements.

‘Hell of a coincidence. Billy and you both know how I hate coincidences. Take a good look at the situation son. Yourself and the popehead go over to England and ask a few questions about the wee soldier and two days later his friend becomes a target of the NF. It all seems a bit too contrived for my liking. Cast your mind back Billy boy. How did the peeler Maurice Scott meet his maker?’ Starrett pointed out smugly. ‘Fuck me, ye mean he’s topped some other punter and done a Lord Lucan.’

‘It certainly looks that way Billy. Question is, does he know if it was us or the branch that was asking the questions? Secondly is he daft enough to carry on as The Preacher or will he cut his losses and run? Let us leave it for a few days, I want to have another word with the shrink. Put some hypothetical questions to him. In the mean time you and your buddy can go your separate ways. It will do you good to take a break, he is beginning to have a bad influence on you son.’

‘Aye yer right enough John. Billy’s eyes are comin closer together,’ chuckled Cairns in reference to the old wife’s tale that one can always tell a Catholic because their eyes are too close together.

‘Fuck you too Tommy,’ replied Billy. ‘Think I’ll do a spot of fishin. Haven’t had the rod out for ages.’ ‘Now you’re talking Billy, that sounds just the ticket. We shall be in touch,’ concluded Starrett. He waited for Billy to leave before addressing Cairns. ‘Make arrangements for Fairchilds to come over Tommy. Next month will be grand, be sure to let me know the exact date well in advance. Oh, not a word to Clements now, let’s keep it between you and I okay.’

‘No problem John, anything you want me to tell Carter?’

‘No nothing as yet. Give him a few days notice. Around the middle of the month should do fine,’ answered Starrett.

‘She’s in some state Con,’ Tullen was informed by his friend Gerry. ‘Just sits there starin at the wall. Every now and then she lets out an ungodly scream and starts sobbin fit te die,’ he added, with a shake of the head.

‘Will she see me Ger?’ asked Connor anxiously.

‘Hard te say what she wants. Hasn’t spoke two words since it happened. You can try talkin te her but God only knows what her reaction is gonna be,’ replied Gerry sadly. ‘Fuck if I ever get me hands on the bastard,’ snarled Gerry, through gritted teeth.

‘Wishful thinkin Ger, people have been tryin te catch up with him for more than a year now.’

‘Ach fuck it,’ shouted Graves in frustration. Tullen sympathetically patted him on the shoulder saying, ‘I know exactly what yer goin through pal, I feel the same way.’

Connor was unprepared for the sight before him. She sat on a hard dining room chair. Her eyes were blood red, her hair bedraggled and unkempt. His heart was breaking for her. He wanted to share in her pain and his guilt was almost unbearable. He edged closer to the chair, as if she would up and bolt like a frightened deer. Moira did not stir, if she had any idea of his presence she gave no indication. Tullen was afraid. With great patience he slowly lowered himself in front of her. Her legs were splayed in a wanton pose. He shuffled between her open thighs and taking her hands in his, he slowly began to unfold them. They were locked solid as if petrified by some ancient curse. Moira attempted a timid smile for him but it was fleeting as she relapsed into her inner turmoil. ‘Please be strong darlin,’ he began. ‘I would love te be able to say somethin te ease yer pain but anythin I would say would be hypocrisy. I love you darlin. I love you with every beat of my heart. My soul is yours for the askin, please come back te me. Glistening orbs formed and spilled from her eyes. She threw her arms around his neck dragging his head to her breast. So tightly did she hold him that his breathing was restricted. At that moment Connor did not care if she crushed the last breath from his lungs. He could hear her heart beating, feel her relax into his arms. Tullen was ecstatic because at that moment he was certain of her love for him. Tenderly he unfolded her arms from around his neck. Taking her cheeks between his palms he gently placed a kiss upon each eyelid.

‘Will ye not speak te me love? Tell me what I can do te ease the pain. Please darlin it is killin me to see ye like this.’ Without warning she broke down completely. An ear-shattering wail threatened to rend his eardrums.

‘Oh God why? My poor sister,’ she bubbled. ‘It was like walking into a nightmare, and those poor innocent children.’ She was inconsolable as the floodgates disintegrated. Her sobbing threatened to tear her asunder. Tullen held on to her tightly allowing her grief to manifest itself in a torrent of tears.

‘Moira please be still, you’re scarin me te death. We’ll make it through this, I promise. We must both be strong in order to cope with the future,’ he pleaded. His words had a profound affect upon her. The change was dramatic. Gone was the bewildered doe, only to be replaced by a tigress.

‘Thanks for bein here when I needed ye the most,’ she spat. ‘Love, love is just a word te you. Ye have no time for it, have ye Con? Not you, sure you’re one of the big fellas. One of the bastards who’s supposed to help us gain our self respect. Gina was married to a big man too. A lot of fuckin good he was to her. That demented bastard was able to walk into my sister’s home and murder, no butcher them all. You should have seen it Con. The children were cast aside like so much offal ye’d find in a butcher’s bin. There was no dignity in their last moments on earth. They were naked and hacked to pieces. I tread on one of their hands for fuck sake. I was in a daze, wandering around trying to see which bit belonged where, like some grotesque human gig-saw puzzle. Where were the big men when my sister and her children needed them, answer me that Con? And as for that fuckin lazy bastard of a husband, he was fuckin drunk. Did ye know that Con? He was the only one in tact. Oh his throat was slit but-… ‘

‘Stop it darlin, I beg ye for the love of God stop this,’ pleaded Tullen distraught.

‘Why Con? Haven’t ye the stomach for it?’

‘Please Moira don’t do this, Yer upset, ye don’t know what yer sayin darlin.’

‘Oh but that’s where ye’re wrong,’ she contradicted him calmly. ‘I know exactly what I am sayin Con.’

‘What is it Moira, what do you want me te say, I quit? Okay I quit, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘God almighty man, don’t ye realise, there is no quitting now. It’s too late for that. You are gonna stay in the game until that monster is caught Con. I want to hear from your lips that ye watched him die. Do ye understand?’ she screamed.

‘We think that he may already be dead,’ he told her quietly.

‘What, what did ye say?’

‘We were unto the likely suspect, tracked him to London. Well there was a fire and it looks like he was burned to death.’

‘Oh no, that man is gonna burn in hell and you’re gonna send him there. I can feel it in me heart Con. He is alive and laughin at us all, I’m sure of it.

Dealing with nationalists was abhorrent to Starrett. He regarded them with the same distaste as one has for dog dirt but he was a prudent man, therefore he arranged a meeting. Daley although not as venomous as the UDA. commander held loyalists in equal disdain. He acquiesced to his enemy’s request and a date was set for the following week. Both factions waited with bated breath for the slightest indication that the Preacher was still at large. Nothing suggested to the metropolitan police force that the charred remains found in the burned out apartment were not those of Nathan Black. Their enquiries had established that he was a homosexual and the motive for his killing was bigotry. Starrett had full access to Black’s file, via a contact in Scotland Yard but remained sceptical. He aired his misgivings to Daley who agreed that Black’s death was too coincidental. Having accepted that there was an overwhelming possibility that Black had faked his own death; it was decided that he, the Preacher, would be treated as still alive. Reluctantly both parties agreed to keep the Tullen, Clements partnership in tact for the time being.

The following day, an old friend approached Peter Daley. The man was a shadow of his former self and Daley was shocked to see his one time partner in such poor health.

“How are ye doin Shamey? I hear yer not in the best of fettle,’ said the IRA. leader.

‘Tell ye the truth Peter I’m finished, that’s what I came te see ye about. Fact is,’ said Horan his visitor, hesitantly, ‘Fact is I’m dyin Peter.’

‘Shit Shamey, I’m sorry. What’s the problem?’ asked Daley visibly stricken. Horan and he had been close friends for as long as either would care to admit. The man’s revelation had shaken him to the core. Horan gave a sad snigger, ‘It’s the big C Peter. Ach I’ve known about it for a while now. Well not exactly that it was cancer although I suspected as much. I’ve been havin shockin pain when I go to the toilet and there’s a lot of blood. Anyway yer woman,’ continued Horan, referring to his wife, ‘ Dragged me down te the medical centre. They made an appointment for me te see a specialist at the Royal and the rest is history.’

‘Ach Jesus Shamey, I’m sorry te hear this. Did they tell ye how long ye’ve got left?’

‘Aye, I insisted on that. Sure I’ve nothin te be ashamed of. I’m not afraid te meet me maker,’ said the other indignantly. ‘Aye and the things I had te do durin the struggle I’d gladly do again. I’ll be tellin him that if he asks,’ chuckled Horan. ‘Six months max but probably less. They wanted te operate but the success rate is lower than a worm’s bollocks, so I demurred. Told them I don’t want te be lyin around in some bloody hospital when I have a couple of good months left in me. The doctor gave me painkillers and told me I’d probably made the right choice. Look Peter I didn’t come here for sympathy,’ said Seamus boldly. ‘I have a proposition for ye.’

‘Oh I see and what would that be Shamey?’ asked Daley intrigued.

‘Yer man, the Preacher. It seems te me that he’s pulled the wool over our eyes. You don’t believe he’s dead any more than I do, do ye Peter?’ observed his friend, his rheumy eyes sparkling.

‘Go on Seamus I’m all ears.’

‘We’ve been in this game a long time Peter. When have ye ever seen a coincidence turn out te be just that? Naw I’m not buyin it for one minute, yer man has killed some other poor bastard te cover his tracks. It’s almost exactly the same as when he done away we the RUC. prick.’

‘So what are ye suggestin Shamey?’ replied Daley showing a great deal more interest.

‘Okay, but before I begin I want ye te promise to let me finish.’

‘It’s the least I can do under the circumstances,’ agreed Daley.

‘The reason for yer promise is that yer not goin te like what I have te say. I want te confess te the murders I committed,’ Daley was flabbergasted and began to protest but the other raised a hand to cut his protestation short. ‘No Peter please,’ he beseeched. ‘As I was sayin, I will confess te me crimes, make up some bullshit story about wantin te meet me maker we a clear conscience but I shall add one more name to the list.’ Daley’s eyes sparkled realising the real reason behind his old comrade’s offer.

‘Yer gonna say that it was you who killed the young soldier Jason Leonard.’

‘Bingo,’ smiled Seamus Horan.

‘Jesus but yer one devious auld bastard. But yer a brilliant one for all that. Yer bettin that the weirdo will take the bait and come callin.’

‘I’m pretty sure that he will. The man’s eaten up we hatred. There’s no way that he could resist takin revenge on the man who instigated that hate.’

‘Shit it’s one dangerous game yer playin. What about yer family, do ye want te be puttin them at so much risk?’

‘No Peter there’s no risk, sure there’s only Maggie livin at home now. The kids are all up and away. You remember Maggie’s sister Laura?

Well she lives in Scotland, has done for more than twenty years. Laura’s man passed away a couple of years back. It is about time she went te pay her respects properly. I’m sendin her on a wee holiday. Me and her sister Laura never got on. She married a prod and well ye know how it is. I’ll convince Maggie that it’s best if she goes alone.’

‘What will she say about yer confession Seamus, will she let ye face that ordeal on yer own? Besides yer plan has a wee flaw. Yer man would never be able te get to ye when they put ye behind bars,’ said Peter. ‘Ach now catch yerself on, who said anything about the law. Christ there’s no way in the world would I be caught dead talkin to they buggers. Naw I’ll do it through the papers. Yon clown Dane has been in contact we the Preacher from the start. We use him under the pretext of a book about a dyin terrorist who wants to tell his side of the story before he pegs out. The proceeds of the book will help to take care of Maggie in her twilight years. He can intimate that only he knows me whereabouts. Shit he can say what he likes. At the end of the day he is sworn to keep me hidin place a secret. I can just see the headline, ‘Old warrior begs the chance to die with honour,’ ye know the bullshite they print nowadays. Well, what do ye think?’ he asked In conclusion.

‘Yer plan has merit Shamey but there are still a couple of weaknesses. For instance, what if the reporter is afraid te risk his neck and the other mob may not want te go along we it,’ explained Daley. ‘Who the UDA? I should think that they would jump at the chance of puttin one of us into the lion’s den. Yer right enough about the journalist though. Fuck it Peter I’m sure ye can work somethin out but make it soon I haven’t got a lot of time te spare.’

‘Aye yer right Shamey. ‘I’ll get back te ye as soon as I can,’ uttered Peter, hugging his friend to his chest in a loving embrace. ‘Some fuckin business,’ he observed, his eyes misting over.

Negotiations between the two camps were swift. In a matter of days Daley had met with Starrett and conveyed the dying man’s proposition. Word for word, the plan was divulged, Daley gauging his adversary’s reactions at every opportunity. Starrett listened intently to the proposal, only speaking when he had heard it’s full content. ‘I hate to say it but you have one decent operative at least.’ Daley ignored the dubious compliment. The situation was critical and he had no intention of being drawn into a childish argument. ‘Ye can say that again, aye and one of the bravest persons I have ever met,’ replied Peter.

‘Well man what do ye think of his idea?’ he asked anxiously’

‘I think it is an excellent notion. How soon can we put it into effect?’

‘Shit we can start movin after we are through here,’ Daley informed him.

“Very good, regarding Mr. Dane, you have no need to trouble yourself on that score. Mr. Dane and I have an arrangement, if you catch my drift. I am quite sure that he would be only too pleased to comply. I’ll have a wee word and get back to you as soon as possible. I take it that you shall deal with security matters?’

‘Aye leave that end te me, and I trust in God that we can end this thing once and for all,’ said Daley in conclusion, offering his hand. Starrett looked at the outstretched hand, sneered and turned on his heels. Horan had wasted no time in convincing his wife Maggie that she should prepare for his imminent death. As the meeting was in full swing he was waving goodbye at Belfast International Airport. She remembered the excuse he had used to cajole her into leaving him. ‘You and yer sister have a few bridges te build love. I want te see her before it’s over, sort of bury the hatchet. I hope she doesn’t bury it in me auld head.’ She smiled as she took her seat at the rear of the flight cabin. Her husband had told her that he was the human bait to catch a monster and at first she was angry.

‘You are one silly auld bugger,’ she had chided. ‘Do ye think that they care about ye, do ye think that any one of them would give up his precious time if he was in your situation?’

‘I don’t know pet but I am not them am I? I’ll go to me grave a happier man if I have helped te rid the province of that madman. Please do this for me and I swear that I will come over there te Scotland and kiss yer sister’s arse,’ he jibed.

‘Ach there’s no talkin te ye man,’ she exploded in exasperation. ‘Ach Maggie darlin, do ye think this auld worn out carcass is any trade for one innocent young child or mother. They have a lifetime ahead of them, you know what I’m sayin is true. Ye’ve always been the strongest partner in our union Maggie,’ he told her lovingly. ‘Aye and a brave one too. I’ve watched ye over the years, saw the look of dread on yer face whenever I was called away. Ye knew what I was up te, hell ye always were the smart one. Ye never once tried te stop or interfere with me doin what I felt was right. Do ye really think that this is the time te be changin the habits of a lifetime?

‘Okay I’ll go but ye better make sure that it was not a wasted effort. The world can do without the likes of yer man I suppose,’ she said with a sigh, referring to the Preacher. ‘That’s the ticket. I promise ye Maggie darlin that I will make it over te Scotland and we can have that walk through the mountain heather like ye always wanted.’ His wife cried silent tears as she studied her husband’s face. Holding his hands in hers she composed herself and informed him that she would leave in two days.

As Starrett had suggested at the meeting with Daley he was in contact with Dane shortly after it’s conclusion. The reporter reluctant at first, finally agreed after John had pointed out that this story, if all went according to plan, would make him more famous than Kate Adie.

Tullen visited Moira who was a very different person from the one that he loved and cherished. Her hatred for the Preacher had turned to obsession. So embittered was she that their relationship was in jeopardy. Gone was her radiant smile of greeting for him. His visits were treated with cold indifference but Connor refused to let what they had between them die. Thinking with his heart he reasoned that his love was enough for both and in time the old Moira would break through the misery that poisoned her. Her contemptuous stare was disappointing but as usual he braved the derision. Feigning ignorance to her attitude he smiled and enquired after her health. With a shrug she lit a cigarette, turned and re-entered the house leaving the door ajar. Chain smoking, Tullen observed, was her legacy from the ordeal. He made a mental note, he must somehow get her to cut down. Some hope, a voice goaded from deep within his sub-conscience. Having never smoked himself Connor detested the habit. It was as if she had succumbed to some horrible affliction, which manifested itself as a glowing growth that had affixed itself to her beautiful lips. Connor felt that he had to do, no say something to drag her back to sanity. Before he realised what he was saying he had blurted out Horan’s plan. The change was dramatic, colour spread across her pallid cheeks as if she was a virgin bride on her wedding night. She listened with enthusiasm as Tullen, encouraged by her attention, spilled out every detail. In silence she waited for him to finish what he had to say before asking, ‘Who will play the part of his wife?’

‘Sorry?’ replied Connor bemused.

‘The Preacher, he murders the families of the people he despises. He knows every detail of their daily routine. The monster is mad, not fuckin stupid. Don’t ye think he’ll suspect somethin odd about a dyin man’s wife desertin him when he needs her the most?’

‘God I suppose he might at that. I hadn’t really given it much thought. No one else has for that matter but it is a valid point,’ he added, attempting to sustain her better frame of mind. ‘I’ll bring it up as soon as possible. The boss is bound to agree with ye. Ach he must, they’ll bring in a female from somewhere te act as a decoy, in place of Horan’s wife. Good girl, that was well spotted,’ he said but his compliment was badly received.

‘No they fuckin won’t bring in a volunteer. Least not the type ye have in mind.’

‘What are ye gettin at Moira? Of course they will. We can’t take a chance of blowin this.’

‘Ye don’t get me do ye? Are ye thick or somethin?’ she snapped, returning to her former self. Tullen was at a loss for words, mystified by her mood swing. ‘Hey less of yer lip girl,’ he retorted, in an attempt to defuse the situation. A grimace of sheer malice distorted her face as she replied, ‘Listen te me very carefully while I try te explain,’ she was speaking in monosyllables as one would to an imbecile. ‘When the plan is put into action, there will be only one person playin the part of Horan’s wife. You’re lookin at her, savvy?’ she screamed.

‘No fuckin way Moira. Ye can put that idea right out of yer fuckin head, savvy,’ he retorted. ‘I could never let ye put yerself in such danger besides the commanders would never agree te an amateur workin on a gig like this.’

‘Fuck the commanders Con. Ye’re just goin te have te convince them differently. I’ll never be able te have a decent night’s sleep if I am not allowed te help catch that bastard. Can ye not understand?’ she pleaded, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Ye have te make them see that Con, please. You and I could never put this behind us if ye don’t. What sort of a relationship could we have if I relive the nightmare day after day? You would begin te feel sorry for me and pretty soon your sympathy would fester and turn te indifference. He knew she was right but dread was churning at his insides. Tullen was caught between a rock and a hard place. He was certain if he did not acquiesce, he would lose her yet the fear of injury to the only person he cared for, weighed equally on his conscience. What if the Preacher was to get to her before he could save her? God he could never live with that. Tullen attempted one last time to make her see reason.

‘Moira please listen. Horan is pushin sixty and has one foot in the grave. His wife is as old as he is. The Preacher has records of all known activists and auld Seamus done three years for possession. It stands te reason that yer man must know how old his wife is.’

‘Oh yeah and did they not have any children or was old Seamus too busy out murderin people,’ she snarled.

‘Okay, okay ye win,’ said Tullen, suddenly tired of the abuse. ‘I’ll put it te them, se what they think.’

‘Oh no Con, ye’ll tell them how it is or by God you and I are history. I fuckin swear it,’ she spat.

Convincing Peter Daley to accept Moira’s request proved easier than he assumed. ‘Somebody has te do it, why not her? Ye blew security by blabbin te her in the first place. From what ye’ve been sayin, she has a passionate hatred for the killer. What better motivation is there to see this thing through te the end. Bringin her in on the operation is a sensible move under the circumstances. We’ve had word from the other mob. Ye’ve te team up with yer wee proddie buddy today. Here’s the contact number,’ said Daley, proffering a slip of paper. ‘Let him know what we have decided before breakin the good news te yer girlfriend. I hope for all our sakes she can handle this Con,’ he added grimly. ‘We may only get one chance at the bastard and I want him stone cold. Under no circumstances must the Preacher escape.’

‘Aye Peter,’ nodded Tullen, bearing the expression of a condemned man.

‘What? Are ye out of yer fuckin mind?’ Clements was not as receptive to Tullen’s request as Connor’s boss Daley. ‘Fuckin hell Con, this is no jaunt in the park ye know. It won’t be as easy as pickin off some green squaddie we a fuckin armalite.’

‘Take it easy Billy. The whole affair is bizarre, Christ ye only have te look at our situation, it’s hardly text book terrorism is it?’

‘I hear what yer sayin and I feel real sorry for yer girl but Jesus Con, she’s had no trainin. Furthermore, and I mean no offence, she’s hardly what a shrink would call stable at the moment.’

‘Fuck it Billy, I know all the reasons against it. Do ye not think I’ve tried te make her see reason. Hell I know it’s a risk but ye should have seen her face, listened te her. She scared the shit outta me. I’m sure she can pull it off and regards trainin, I’m not convinced that she needs any.’

‘What?’ shouted Billy incredulously, ‘Is there some air gettin in, have ye been sleepin in a draught? Christ that’s the best I’ve heard yet, trainin’s not fuckin necessary,’ mocked Clements, shaking his head.

‘Listen Billy, yer man’s gonna smell a rat. He’s not daft, he was smart enough te cover his tracks after we went over there askin questions. Then all of a sudden, low and behold a fuckin IRA man, right out of the blue, confesses te murderin his boyfriend. Do ye not think he’s gonna be the slightest bit sceptical about the chances of all this happenin at once?’

‘That’s a risk we are goin te have te live with but what does this have te do with Moira?’

‘My bet is that he’ll be watchin the house before he strikes. He’d spot a trained operative a mile off. Moira hasn’t a clue about surveillance and neither would Horan’s daughter. They’re supposed te be livin in a safe house. Actin like normal people. It stands te reason that a complete amateur would have more chance of decievin him than a specialist, that’s all.’

‘I see what ye mean, ye may have a point there. What the fuck would I know, sure only last year I was graftin for Harland’s. Okay Con, we play it your way.’