When they entered the interview room, the harsh light from the overhead fluorescent strip was enough to make Eban blink and squint.
“Did you say interview room or interrogation room?” he said sardonically.
“We don’t do that kind of thing.”
Eban raised his eyebrows cynically.
“Here, I mean.”
Watson had taken off his jacket which he hung on a peg behind the door, and was now rolling up his shirt sleeves. He’d brought with him a pillow for the small of his back, which pained him like a toothache when he sat for too long.
Eban, seeing this, crossed and hung his own overcoat on top of Watson’s jacket. He returned to the table and began to arrange his files in front of him again.
Watson observed this uncomfortably. For a moment the policeman considered crossing back and removing his coat from under Eban’s.
Maybe placing it on his chair back. But he knew how this would look.
Certainly insulting.
Possibly weak.
Instead he sat down and watched this enigma across from him busy himself in preparation for he knew not what.
He saw how the sweat stuck to Eban’s clothes. Thought he caught a whiff of fetid arse crack from him. Wondered about fleas and lice; the parasites that may now be crawling from this man’s rag into the very fabric of his Donegal tweed jacket.
He suppressed a shudder.
The office was a standard enough affair.
Almost identical to the one in which Eban had seen the fat man answering questions on his journey to Watson’s room.
There was an elaborate recording device on the desk between them and a file of blue-lined A4 paper for Watson to make notes. Two biro pens, one red, one black, sat on top.
Eban thought that the conicaled, cushioned walls seemed acoustically designed to deaden or muffle noise, for some reason that he couldn’t fathom. They reminded him of a padded cell.
Maybe just his imagination.
Because he had imagined this room and this exchange many, many times before.
In his dreams.
In his fantasies.
“What, no two-way mirror?” Eban feigned disappointment.
Watson ignored him.
Instead he cleared his throat and pushed the record buttons on the desk machine. Then, looking at his watch, he made a note of the time on his pad and began, in a rather officious tone.
“Just to take you through the standard operating protocols, as a general rule, cases are examined in chronological order starting with the earliest – but there are some exceptions. We sometimes review cases out of sequence; maybe because an elderly relative is in poor health, or because a number of violent events are linked…”
Eban was not looking at him, but rather removing a pen and paper from one of his own folders.
He began to write.
“Say that again,” he suddenly fired at Watson; more an instruction than a request.
“What?”
“The bit about violent events being linked.”
“Well, you obviously heard me the first time.”
Eban stopped writing and looked up.
Slowly, he smiled at the detective with what seemed to Watson to be some degree of perceived advantage. Like a chess player who has surrendered his piece, safe in the knowledge that he is three moves ahead of his opponent. Watching him, amused, like a cat with a mouse.
As cryptically as he could manage, Eban said, “You see, Detective Watson: you’re making breakthroughs already!”
Dan Watson became aware that he was being drawn into some sort of mind game.
He found this irritating in the extreme.
“Yes, we make exceptions within stated protocols, or – as in your case – against all our better instincts and judgement, we may do someone a special…” He paused for effect. “Call it a family favour.”
The sarcasm was not lost on Eban, who batted it back. “And I’m eternally grateful.”
Watson returned to his procedural preamble rather wearily. He knew it off verbatim.
“In order to ensure consistent professional investigation standards, the HET has developed a process through which every case is taken. Firstly, Collection and Assessment. This includes the recovery and examination of existing records and exhibits. Secondly, Review. Here cases are examined to determine whether any further investigative or evidential opportunities exist. Next…”
He looked up from the notes he’d been writing as he spoke, and paused for effect and emphasis.
“… and in cases so deemed applicable and warranted, reinvestigation may be judged to be necessary. If the review finds any new evidence or possible lines of inquiry, these are followed up and criminal charges may be brought.”
The detective was making it clear that he would remain final arbiter of Eban’s petition.
Eban was beginning to become impatient. “Look, is all this really necessary? I’m interested in a resolution. In justice… I imagine you’d call it ‘closure’.”
Watson carried on, undeterred. “In some cases a resolution could involve judicial proceedings. For all families it will include the provision of a written report addressing the specific questions they have asked.”
“And my specific question is: where is that man? Is he alive or dead?” Eban was deliberately confrontational in tone. “And what do you propose to do to find out?”
Watson raised his voice a little to convey both authority and disdain. “The Historical Enquiries Team has full support from within the police service and maintains close links with other agencies including the police ombudsman for Northern Ireland, Forensic Science Northern Ireland and the Northern Ireland Office.”
Eban shrugged his shoulders. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s get started.”
Dan Watson looked at him as he would an idiot child.
“Just so as I’m clear, Mr Barnard: you want us to investigate the serious assault or possible murder of someone currently unnamed… in 1970? If I authorise a team – a very overworked and under-staffed team, I might add – to take this on, will you drop this nonsense concerning your responsibility for the murder of your brother?”
Eban placed his pen on the desk, folded his arms and sat bolt upright. “Absolutely not!”
“Then I’m not sure that I’m prepared to help you with this.”
For a long moment Eban said nothing. He glared straight at the detective with barely disguised rage. Then, disconcertingly, slowly, he began to smile.
As before, some inner calm that he had not thought himself capable of, until today, was seeping through him.
Dousing the fires.
Calming his nerves.
Eventually, he spoke.
“Oh come on Watson! Aren’t you even a little intrigued? Won’t you dig just a little? God knows what you think of me, but I’m not mad you know. What was it Sherlock Holmes said? ‘Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth.’”
He was beaming at the policeman now. Clearly enjoying the game. “Elementary really… you should know that.”
Watson fought an urge to punch this man in the face. But Eban Barnard had never looked more like his dead brother Alex than at this precise moment. Worse still, Watson couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was toying with him. Pushing his buttons for the fun of it.
It made him angry.
He abruptly shot out a long leg and kicked the wire wastepaper basket across the room. It clattered into the metal filing cabinet, startling Eban.
It had the desired effect.
In an eye-blink, Dan Watson came from behind his desk, drawing himself up to his full six feet three inches.
“Suppose you tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?” He rolled his shirt sleeves further up in a menacing manner.
Eban was not cowed. “Suppose I do… will you sit still long enough to listen; to hear me out?”
Watson smiled. He loosened the top two buttons on his shirt, pulled down the knot in his tie and with deliberation, returned to his seat. He plumped the cushion on his chair and – pushing himself back – stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet on the desk top.
He made a little spire with his fingertips beneath his chin. “Shoot.”
“You might not like what you’re going to hear.”
“Goes with the territory.”
Eban too adjusted himself in his chair, getting comfortable, settling in for a long session, warming now to his task.
“Are you a churchgoing man, detective?”
“Not particularly.”
“Me neither…”
As he spoke he was taking out newspaper clippings from one of his folders and arranging them so as they now faced the policeman.
“… but that’s where it all begins – or rather, ends – for me: in church.”
Watson bent forward and read aloud. “The Newry Reporter, August 1991.” He looked up at Eban quizzically.
Eban spoke dryly, by way of explanation, “It’s from my collection.”
“First 1970; now 1991? Do you mind telling me…?”
Eban chuckled and pointed at him. “The Historical Enquiries Team… right?”
Detective Watson did not appreciate the pun.
Watson continued to read aloud. “Groom-To-Be Defies ‘Get Out’ Order: One of the six Newry men who have been ordered by the IRA to leave Ireland by noon on Saturday says he is being wrongly accused and will not leave. With an apparent stalemate in negotiations, two local men have claimed sanctuary in Newry Cathedral and continue with their campaign to have the threat of IRA violence against them lifted. I remember this; it was in all the papers… but what’s it got to do with you, or with Alex, or this mysterious ‘victim’ from 1970 for that matter?”
Eban could taste vindication.
At last he had the captive audience that he had dreamed and schemed and ached and suffered for. He pulled his chair closer to Watson and leaned right across the table. He rested his upturned hands under the glare of the powerful desk lamp. And for a moment, he seemed to trace the deeply ingrained lifelines that criss-crossed his palms. As if he were searching for something there.
When he spoke, it was in little more than a whisper.
“I spent some time there, in that cathedral – with them, I mean; babysitting them, you might say. God knows they needed it…”
The reminiscence seemed to grip him and Dan Watson saw that this strange, troubled man was being transported by the recollection of things past.
When Eban spoke again it was as if he were talking to himself.
He looked right through the police officer.
Right through the walls of the room.
To somewhere he was compelled to return to.
“What is it they say, detective: no good deed goes unpunished?”