Police Service of Northern Ireland, Belfast
Detective Inspector Dan Watson continued to note down anything he felt was relevant.
But looking now at the page of foolscap in front of him, he could see that he’d filled barely half of it.
This agitated man across the desk just seemed to drone on and on.
He had begun by listening carefully, attentively, genuinely, for anything that might shed some light as to why he was here.
Maybe some mention of his brother – and Dan’s former colleague – Chief Superintendent Alex Barnard.
Perhaps some reference to this man who had been assaulted in 1970, and who he seemed so animated about.
Instead Eban Barnard seemed fixated on conveying every last detail of his period ‘babysitting’ a couple of reprobates in Newry Cathedral in 1991.
But why?
He still could not make any sense of it.
His back was hurting.
It was inevitable that his mind would begin to wander.
His mobile phone, on vibrate and pressed against his thigh, didn’t help the situation.
He knew it was her.
The first time it had buzzed, he had cannily slipped it out for a look under his desk, unnoticed as Eban Barnard carried on with his ramblings from the past.
She had sent him a photograph of herself, topless.
Her police cap pulled across at a jaunty angle.
He recognised it as one he had himself taken and previously emailed to her.
On one of their nights spent in the Belfast Hilton.
Now, as he sat here listening, every time the phone buzzed in his pocket he knew it was her and his cock tingled and grew hard.
He was aware of the risks he was taking.
Aware of how completely and utterly insane this whole affair was.
Aware of all that he might lose if things got out of hand.
Came to light.
He knew all of this but it did not help at all.
In fact it made it worse.
Much, much worse.
The higher the stakes…
The thrill… the sheer abandonment to lust and to wanton risk-taking.
The reckless, needless, unjustifiable self-destruction.
The excitement of being desired and of desiring again.
The greedy, animal sex.
It was like a drug.
Like a death wish.
And he couldn’t get enough of it, or of Officer Helen Totton.
He’d had four texts from her during the interview.
All of them wanting to meet him in the records hall.
Between the long corridors of racks and sliding shelves. Between sections U through Z. Where the room was in shadow and passing footfall was rare.
Where they had groped and tongued hungrily at each other on a number of occasions.
More thrilling for the fear of interruption.
Of discovery.
He would put his hands on her hips and draw her to him, as she looked up, wet lips parted.
“Supposing I was to tell you you’re in breach of about ten professional behaviour guidelines…”
“Supposing I was to cry and put my head on your shoulder…”
“Supposing I was to let you…”
“Then supposing I did… this?”
In her texts she wanted to know what he was doing in there.
What they were talking about?
He could see her at the door. Bringing tea and biscuits.
Turned away by Sam Coulter.
Did he know something? Were people beginning to talk?
Fuck them!
Let them do their worst.
*
Eban Barnard was still talking though.
He would allow him to finish.
Treat the whole thing professionally and let the man talk himself out.
Maybe that’s all he had come for.
But why the whole sorry story of the Newry Cathedral siege?
It had been well covered by the press, but that was years ago.
And why say he’d killed his brother?
Why request an investigation of some incident in 1970?
Why, why, why?
Maybe there was no answer.
Maybe he was a nutter.
Whatever.
Let him have his tuppence-ha’penny’ worth.
And when he’d exhausted himself, toss him a scrap to send him on his way.
Based on the little information that Eban Barnard had provided, he’d had some of the team look into any serious assaults round Shankill Road, May 1970.
Given the level of activity on the streets then, he’d expected a deluge of incidents.
In fact there were relatively few.
Records were sparse from those chaotic, insane early days of the conflict.
And Barnard’s ‘McGrew’s Pub’ angle checked out.
There were incident records and hospital reports from the Belfast Mater.
A young nineteen-year-old Roman Catholic man – Joseph Patrick Breslin – had been seriously assaulted during rioting activities and left for dead.
Found in the ruins of the disused, burnt-out pub.
Watson had asked Coulter to track him down if still alive and inquire as to whether he –based on an appeal from a non-family member – would be interested in reopening the case for investigation.
Coulter checked addresses, found him residing at the same abode and duly wrote with the request.
If Eban Barnard could legitimately explain why he was interested in this case, and would agree to drop all this nonsense regarding his brother, then maybe Watson might throw him a bone on the survival and identity of the individual he seemed so interested in.
If nothing else it would be a mercy.
The poor bugger sounded in pain.
About what, he didn’t know, much less care.
The phone buzzed again in his pocket.
Christ, she was one horny bitch!
Eban Winston Barnard talked on.