Higginson’s reaction had been one of curiosity, which, given the possible alternatives, was a relief. Moran had kept things vague, open-ended. A spot of leave, from next week, for a month or so. As far as the team were concerned, no need to elaborate; he was just taking time off, that was all. Charlie was more than capable, Higginson had agreed. As he had shut the door on the superintendent’s ordered domain, Moran’s response to Higginson’s green light had been relief, rather than any great sense of expectation.
So now you have the time. But where to start, Brendan?
Thames House, maybe. But somehow he couldn’t see those doors swinging open at his approach. And who to contact? He didn’t have a name – unless he asked for Aine’s daughter. But what could she do? MI5s 1970s Irish operations were covert for sure, some more than others. The setup Joe Gallagher had been involved in had to be right at the top of that particular list – its existence only known to a select few. They’d sanctioned murder, albeit, as Samantha Grant had admitted, for the greater good, but still…
Moran reached down, unclipped Archie’s lead, and watched the little dog dash off to the canoe ramp, his favourite spot for a dip in the Thames. The water meadows were still partially flooded from the recent rain but there was a freshness in the air that promised change. Moran strode on, deep in thought.
He’d called his old guv’nor the morning after Liam Doherty had burst in upon him. It’d been good to talk to the old man after all this time, not just for the evident pleasure his call had conferred, but also because Moran needed to hear a friendly voice after the trauma of the twelve preceding hours.
‘Brendan Moran. Well, well, well. Not a name I was expecting to hear when I picked up the phone this wet and windy evening. Not at all. Tell me, how are things in the sunny Thames Valley? All ship-shape, decks sparkling and a brisk wind in your sails, am I right?’
Moran had smiled at the memory. Same old Dermot Flynn. Should have been a naval officer like his old man, instead of a high-ranking Garda officer.
‘And to what do I owe this pleasure, DCI Moran? How can a retiree like myself, scuttled in the depths long, long ago, be of assistance? Or is this just a social call?’
‘Both, sir, to be truthful.’
‘I think we can dispense with the sir, don’t you?’
Moran smiled. The voice crackling down the line was clearly weakened by the weight of years, yet Flynn’s sharpness of mind appeared to be very much intact. ‘Old habits, sir.’
‘Very well, Brendan. You’ll at least allow me to be informal?’
‘Of course. Absolutely.’
They exchanged news, reminisced, discussed the state of the Republic, Brexit, the weather, until Flynn steered the conversation back to Moran’s reason for calling.
‘That’s all by the by,’ he said. ‘And you’ve something more important to tell me, I’ll be bound.’
And Moran told him. After he’d finished the line was quiet. All Moran could hear was Flynn’s deep, regular breathing as he digested the information. Presently, Flynn cleared his throat.
‘Well, I’m sorry you had to endure all that, Brendan. Deeply unsettling, I’m sure, even for a man of your experience. And Joe Gallagher! Extraordinary. The man’s an absolute pillar these days. Or appears to be. And you have a recording, you say–?’
‘Yes, sir. One of those old-school mini-cassette machines. Something made me turn it on. Now I just don’t know what to do with it.’
‘I see. I see. Well, let me play devil’s advocate for a moment. Should the burden be all yours? It sounds as though MI5 are already on the case.’
‘Maybe they are, but they’re not making a particularly good job of it. Besides, there’s a personal aspect to this.’
‘Ah, yes, so you say. But this … foreign influence you detected,’ Flynn spoke quietly now, so that Moran had to strain to hear his old mentor’s words clearly, ‘it doesn’t bode well for our future, you don’t think?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘Well, you know, the Eastern warlords are no strangers to our shores, Brendan. Wherever discord can be sown, they’ll be there.’
‘Is there anything I should know about Gallagher?’ Moran wanted to focus Flynn’s thoughts on the specifics; the ex-police chief was advanced in years, plenty of time on his hands, accustomed perhaps to viewing the world through a wider-angled lens than Moran. ‘Anything you’ve heard, maybe, which could be … helpful, in any way?’
Another long silence. ‘I have no idea if this is any help at all, but I do happen to know that Gallagher is a keen sailor.’
Moran frowned. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Quite involved in the sailing club at Ringaskiddy. Chairman, or some such. You know the place?’
Moran did. It was a village fifteen kilometres along the N28 from Cork. ‘Yes. There’s a port – and I believe there’s a ferry service?’
‘There is – and was,’ Flynn confirmed. ‘The Swansea connection is shut now, but you can still get a ferry directly to France.’ The old man paused for so long that Moran wondered whether he was going to continue. Eventually he said, ‘And that’s all I know, really.’ Another long pause, then: ‘You know, Brendan, I wouldn’t worry too much about this business. You’ve had a good career. I should leave it to those who walk the corridors of power, hm? They’re best placed to steer this particular ship – and who knows, they’ve probably got it all under control by now? I’d advise against stirring up a hornet’s nest. I don’t believe it’ll do you any favours.’
‘You’re probably right, sir. Listen, I mustn’t keep you any longer. It’s been good to catch up.’
‘Lovely surprise to hear from you. Don’t leave it so long next time, Brendan,’ Flynn said. ‘And be sure to drop in next time you’re over.’
‘I will. That’s a promise.’
Moran whistled to distract Archie from the moorhens and swans congregating by the canoe ramp. The spaniel came bounding over, shaking the river from his fur in a halo of spray. Moran stepped back to avoid the deluge.
His clipped Archie to his lead, much to the little dog’s frustration, and made for the exit turnstile. Archie planted his feet and pulled in the opposite direction until Moran at last resorted to bribery and produced a paper bag of treats.
On his way to the station an hour later, he reflected again on the conversation he’d had with his old boss. Joe Gallagher had never shown much interest in sailing when Moran had known him back in the day. Could be something, could be nothing. The thought stayed with him for the remainder of the morning until a fresh discovery regarding Cleiren’s wrecked transporter was brought to his attention.
‘Semtex? One hundred percent sure?’ Moran raised his eyebrows.
Charlie Pepper nodded. ‘Yep. Small traces, but traces nevertheless.
‘Could be legit? Demolition and so on.’
‘Ah, yes, it could be. But maybe not if you also take Forensics’ other discovery into consideration.’
‘Go on.’
Charlie ran a hand through her hair. ‘Under the driver’s seat. A Baikal pistol. Adapted.’
Moran frowned. ‘CS gas weapon, right?’
‘Usually. This one, as I said, adapted – to fire 9mm bullets.’
Moran sat quietly for a few moments. Someone thought Cleiren might need a weapon – which implied that persons unknown were taking an interest in the Dutch driver’s cargo and itinerary.
‘Do we have the route traced?’
‘We do. And this is interesting. Big artic, bound for Ireland, via Fishguard, naturally, cause they all go that way, don’t they?’
‘They do,’ Moran said cautiously.
‘Well, so did Cleiren. Except he made a small detour before he hit Fishguard.’
‘Let me guess. Another harbour…’ Moran frowned. ‘Tenby is down the road, isn’t it? Twenty miles or so?’
Charlie’s face fell. ‘How the heck did you know that?’
‘It’s a lovely spot. Been there a few times in my youth. Nice harbour. Boat trips and so on.’
Moran’s mind was racing ahead. Surely not…
Charlie was looking at him. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Nothing. Maybe. I don’t know.’ Moran went to the coat stand, grabbed his jacket. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Go? Where?’
‘I want to see it. Cleiren’s artic.’
‘Er, guv. You’re forgetting something…’ Charlie looked pointedly at Moran’s stick, propped up against the wall.
Moran gave her a withering look, retrieved it with a flourish, and shook it at her mock-threateningly.
‘For your own good, guv.’ Charlie stood her ground.
‘Thank you, DI Pepper. And since you insist on treating me like an invalid, we’ll take your car.’