A Secret Worth Killing For

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Simon Berthon 2017

Simon Berthon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008214388

Version: 2018-02-06

As a journalist, historian and documentary maker, SIMON BERTHON has long been fascinated by the secrecies, deceits and ambitions of the state. His previous books are Allies at War and Warlords (with Joanna Potts). A Secret Worth Killing For is his first novel.

For Penelope,

and for Helena and Olivia

Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

July 1991

‘The movement needs your help.’ She’s lying next to him in Falls Park, the summer of 1991. A-levels are over, the sun shines, university beckons. A scholarship at Trinity College, Dublin, is in the offing and, in the case of clever Maire Anne McCartney, the teachers are confident.

‘Whaddya mean, Joseph?’ she asks, propping herself on an elbow and looking down into his eyes.

‘You’re committed, aren’t you,’ he says. It’s a statement – a confirmation – not a question.

‘Course,’ she replies. ‘Politically, anyway. Freedom, equality.’

‘Politics won’t get us there. It’s the struggle that matters.’

‘I’d never stand in your way, Joseph, you know that. It’s just not the way for me.’ She leans down and gives him a peck on the forehead.

The brightness of the day illuminates him, the chiselled chin, full lips, straight nose, the sparkle in his azure eyes. She expects him to put his arms round her, pull her on to him and roll in the grass till they laugh themselves to a halt. Last night they made love three times; she can still feel him inside her.

He turns away, avoiding her. She detects a tightening in his eyes, a clenching of the cheeks she’s never quite seen before.

‘You know I love you, don’t you, Maire?’

‘Course I do. And I love you too, Joseph. Don’t I always say it?’

‘You do. But just this once I need you too,’ he says, turning back to her. ‘I mean the movement needs you.’

A quiver of alarm. ‘I dunno what you mean.’ He shifts away again. ‘You better tell me,’ she urges.

His eyes swivel and engage hers with a ferocious intensity. ‘There’s a Brit peeler over here – name of Halliburton – Special Branch. On some kind of loan. We’ve been tracking him. He gets lonely at night, drinks in the Europa, eyes up the bar girls. But doesn’t follow through. Around eleven, he’s in his car, heading back to Castlereagh. They’re either housing him in the station or somewhere near; we’re not sure. We wanna speak with him.’

‘Speak with him, Joseph? Whaddya mean, speak with him?’

‘Interrogate him. Find out what he’s doing. Get some intelligence.’

‘And then what? When you’ve interrogated him.’

‘Just scare him. Let him know we’re onto him. Suggest it’s time he leaves.’

‘What’d be the point of that?’

‘Propaganda. How we ran a Brit SB man out of our island. It’ll read well.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Aye, that’s all.’

She rolls over and sits up straight – he raises himself alongside her.

‘Does Martin know ’bout this?’ she asks. ‘Course he knows.’

‘And ’bout you speaking to me.’

‘He would, wouldn’t he? But it couldn’t come from him, could it? Not brother to sister. Wouldn’t be right.’

‘But he knows.’

‘Well, he would.’

She stands up, the warmth of the sun heating her back through her light-red jumper. It’s not enough in itself to create the sweat that’s prickling her. He springs up and ranges alongside.

‘We just need you to attract him. Your quick wits, quick tongue, it’ll be easy. Just a chat-up in the bar, you’re a student wanting a free drink. You take him to a flat. We got one ready in the university area.’

He outlines the plan. All she’s doing is picking up a bloke over a drink. Happens every night, hundreds of times over. She’s listening hard – he cranks it up. ‘Look, Maire, there are moments when you can’t just stand by and look on. Be a passive observer. At some point, everyone has to do their bit. Look at the leadership now, the politicians. Do you think all they ever did was talk?’

‘I’ve just finished A-levels, Joseph.’ Her first instinct is to repel him but right now, at this moment, she doesn’t want to show weakness that could invite his disapproval.

‘Aye, you’ve done well. But you’re eighteen now, grown up. An adult. You’ve responsibilities.’

‘What about responsibilities to myself?’

‘That’s just selfishness. It’s not just the struggle, it’s your friends, your family, your community.’

She halts abruptly. Divis mountain ahead, so often a dour, brooding darkness, seems almost radiant, a mass of green light.

‘I’ve never got involved in that way.’

‘Aye, but this isn’t like that.’

‘You promise me it’s just to interrogate him?’

‘Aye.’

‘No violence. No beating. Just propaganda. Just to show you can do it.’

‘Aye.’

‘I need to hear you promise me, Joseph.’

‘That’s fine. I promise.’

‘You give me your word.’

‘Aye.’

‘And Martin approves?’

‘Aye, he would, that’s for sure. No doubt ’bout that.’

She thinks in silence. She remembers the hunger strikers dying when she’s still a girl and the hatred for the British oppressor. Three years later, she shares her big brother’s pleasure when the IRA blows up Mrs Thatcher’s hotel in Brighton. She knows the cause is just but, for her, school, good results, getting to university become the priority. The British state is still hateful, but her belief in the ‘armed struggle’ deflates like a slow puncture.

Yet Joseph has touched a nerve, a lightning rod brushed by lingering guilt. Maybe he’s right and she’s been selfish. She copped out when others didn’t. If what they’re planning is for propaganda, not violence, perhaps it’s just another act of cowardice to keep on avoiding it.

She flicks a glance at him. What if he’s lying? Just talking shite? When did they last let a peeler walk free? She looks away. He’s never lied to her before. Not that she knows, anyway.

Momentarily, a cloud obscures the sun, turning the mountainside an unyielding brown. He’s saying nothing, the quiet oppresses her. Time seems to freeze – the flapping of a bird’s wing high above reduced to the slowest of motions.

His expression has retreated to that beautiful poet’s dolefulness when she’s about to disappoint him. Like those early months after the first full kiss when she wouldn’t go the whole way. Until she did. If she says no to this plea – a plea he’s made with such passion – will he ever forgive her? Might she even lose him? She thinks of asking – but doesn’t want to hear his answer.

She turns. It’s visceral – she just can’t displease him. ‘OK, I’ll do it. Just this once. For you.’ It’s as if the words have tumbled out of her mouth before she even made a decision. A sudden consolation – maybe she’ll still be able to get out of it. She chides herself for even thinking it. Her rational self re-engages. ‘And there’ll be no violence?’

‘Yes, there’ll be no violence.’

She’s told her mother she’ll be in for tea that evening. Rosa has cooked cottage pie and peas, one of Maire’s favourite dishes. She plays with her food, even forgetting to splash it with ketchup, and speaks little.

‘What’s up with you, Maire?’ asks Rosa.

‘Aye, girl, you need to eat,’ chips in her father. Rosa casts him a warning glare to keep out of it.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ she says. ‘Just not feeling hungry. Dunno why.’

Rosa, who’s come to realize that Maire must be sleeping regularly with Joseph, betrays a sudden alarm. ‘Not feeling sick, are you, love?’

Maire looks up with a wan smile. ‘It’s OK, Mum, I’m not feeling sick.’

‘Well that’s all right, then, love.’ At any other time, Maire would hug her mother out of sheer love for her maternal priorities. On this evening she feels only emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

As they’re clearing plates, the front door clangs opens and Martin breezes in, bestowing smiles and kisses all round. Maire suddenly wonders what her parents think of him; whether they even know his prominence in the movement. Politics in general are sometimes discussed at home, but the rights and wrongs of violence are no-go. It’s only, and infrequently, mentioned when she’s alone with her brother. They must suspect – they’d be blind not to – but have decided it’s best to keep out.

‘Hey, little sister, you’re looking gorgeous as ever,’ Martin declares, not a care in the world.

Maire attempts a show of response but recoils. Surely he must know about Joseph’s conversation with her today and her acquiescence. She wonders at his bravado, and the masking of his double life as happy-go-lucky son and IRA commander.

He notices her listlessness. ‘What’s up, kid?’ How can he even contemplate such a question? She searches for a hint.

‘It’s nothing,’ she says, ‘just a chat I was having with Joseph.’

‘So how’s the world’s greatest revolutionary doing?’ There’s an edge of condescension in her brother’s tone. Again she flinches at his duplicitousness.

‘Full of schemes, as always,’ she replies.

‘Aye, that he is,’ says Martin. ‘That he certainly is.’

He’s giving her nothing. Literally nothing. No comfort, no support, not a hint of empathy. Perhaps that’s the way it has to be.

They decide to try it the next Saturday night. More people milling, more cover, guards more likely to be down.

She prepares. She’s cut her hair, taking three inches off the long auburn tresses, and used straighteners to remove the waves and curls. Instead of the hint of side parting, she brushes the hairs straight back, revealing the fullness of her face and half-moon of her forehead. She examines the slight kink in her small, roman-shaped nose. As always, she dislikes it. She applies mauve mascara and brighter, thicker lipstick to her cupid lips. She wears a black leather skirt, above the knee but not blatantly short, and a bright-pink, buttoned blouse that doesn’t quite meet it in the middle. The gap exposes a minuscule fold of belly. She pinches the flesh angrily. Through the blouse, a skimpy black lace-patterned bra, exposing the top of her firm small breasts, is visible. The overall effect is not a disguise, just a redesign. While it doesn’t make her look cheap or a tart, she’s unmistakably a girl out for a good time.

She’s steeled herself, told herself it’s just a job. Clock on, clock off three hours later. Thoughts of how to pull out have besieged her every minute since she said yes – even though she instantly knew she couldn’t. But once she’s done it, that’ll be it. Never again.

She’s kidding herself. Once you’re in, they’ve a hold over you – you’re complicit. She thinks of her brother – did he recruit Joseph? How did they get their hold over him? She remembers that tightness in his face. Did they ever need to?

She arrives just after 8.30 p.m.

As agreed, she finds a bar table with two chairs, sits down and appears to be waiting for her date to arrive. A waiter comes – she orders a vodka and Coke.

He’s already there, sitting at the bar. The description, both of him and his clothing, is accurate. Late thirties, sandy hair retreating at the sides, a ten pence sized bald spot on top covered by straggles of hair that offer an easy mark of recognition from the rear. On the way in, she’s been able to catch more; the beginnings of a potbelly edging over fawn-belted, light-brown trousers. Brown loafers and light coloured socks, dark-brown leather jacket. Perhaps the brown is an off-duty discard of the policeman’s blue. On his upper lip, a pale, neatly trimmed moustache. Brown-rimmed, narrow spectacles sitting on the bridge of a hook nose. Somewhat incongruously, pale blue eyes. From those first glimpses, he seems a nicer-looking man than she expected. A relief, given one part of the task that lies ahead. But ugliness becomes a victim more easily.

They say he usually drinks one or two before chatting up the bar girls and waitresses. Around 9.15, when she’s been waiting three-quarters of an hour for her elusive date to arrive, she walks towards the bar. She places herself beside him.

‘Another vodka and Coke,’ she demands, louder than necessary.

He turns to her with a raise of the eyebrows.

‘Bastard hasn’t shown,’ she says, glaring at him as if to say, ‘Whaddya want?’

‘He’s a fool.’ He eyes her with frank admiration. The accent is English, south not north. A confirmation.

‘I’m the eejit,’ she says. Her drink arrives and she makes to return to her seat.

‘You might as well stay and chat till he comes. I’ll pull that stool over.’

She hesitates. It seems too easy. What’s this man really like? From nowhere she imagines him hitting her. Where did that come from? Nerves, just nerves. Her heartbeat is racing. She gathers herself. ‘I left my coat at the table.’

‘It’s OK, I’ll keep an eye on it.’ He chuckles. ‘I’m good at that.’ His remark startles her. She hopes she’s not shown it. ‘So who’s the missing boyfriend?’ he continues.

‘Ex-boyfriend. Bastard,’ she repeats. Is she overdoing it? She senses how miscast she is for this performance. She’s a quiet student who should be buried in her books. Some even say she’s gawky. Suddenly she sees that’s maybe why Joseph’s picked her. The copper will never suspect.

He shrugs and sips from his glass. Scotch and ice, must have been at least a double. ‘Men,’ he says. ‘Can’t trust them. Just like criminals and politicians. No wonder they’re usually men, too.’

‘Thatcher?’ she says.

‘Thought you girls said she was a man, too. Anyway, they got rid of her. Assassins all men.’

She makes herself laugh. He raises his glass; she raises hers and clinks.

‘Cheers,’ they chime together, grinning at each other.

‘Bet they were glad round here when she was dumped,’ he says.

‘Aye, they banged the dustbin lids.’

He pauses for another sip. ‘Sorry, should have introduced myself. Name’s Peter.’ The final confirmation.

‘Annie.’ Unless he’s lying, like her.

‘So whose side are you on, Annie?’

‘My side. Fuck ’em all.’ He frowns. ‘Sorry, I should mind my tongue.’ She sticks it out at him like a rude child. What came over her to do that? The job’s become an act, two more hours on stage before the curtain falls.

His grin widens. ‘I like your tongue. Agree with it, too.’

He’s flirting hard now. Another pause. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s making the running. Eventually, he resumes. ‘OK, I’ll try another tack. What do you do, Annie?’

‘Studying. Queen’s. Just finished first year. I’d like to travel but I don’t have money.’

‘Can’t you get a job?’

‘A job here! In Belfast! You find me one.’ A further silence. This time she feels safe to have her turn. ‘And youse?’

The hesitation is just perceptible. ‘My company’s sent me over for four months. We’re investigating setting up an office. The grants are good.’

‘Whaddya do?’

He’s thinking. ‘Financial advice. Investment. All that stuff.’

‘So you’re rich!’

‘That’ll be the day.’ He peers down at his glass.

She feels sweat on her neck and between her breasts. She moves her right hand to her left wrist to check her pulse.

He notices. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, just the heat.’ She smiles. She can’t take the tension much longer, not knowing if he’ll bite. Maybe he’s sussed something – but he hasn’t come with his own prepared story, she’s sure of that. She needs her moment of truth right now. She looks at her watch, finishes her drink and finds the line to close Act One. ‘Bastard still hasn’t shown,’ she says angrily. ‘Suppose I’d better be heading.’

His head jerks up and round. ‘Don’t do that, I’ll buy you another.’

He’s bitten. She inspects him, to make him feel he’s undergoing an examination, to ratchet up his gratitude if she accepts. ‘I probably shouldn’t,’ she says. ‘I dunno you, do I?’

‘I’m harmless as a butterfly.’ His eyes plead with her. He’s on the hook.

‘OK, then, might as well get pissed. Nothing else to do, is there?’

‘You’re the local,’ he says. ‘I was hoping you might have something in mind.’ It’s his first openly suggestive remark and it’s taken time. He’s a cautious man, but now he orders a double vodka and Coke for her, and a double Scotch for himself.

They drink and chitchat, nothing personal or controversial, but a mutual hunger in the eyes. Occasionally she flashes a look around the room. ‘Just in case the bastard’s skulking,’ she tells him. In a corner of the bar she spies a man she’s seen with Joseph once or twice. He’s always peeled off as soon as she arrives, back into his undergrowth. But not tonight. The exit door is jammed shut.

Just before 10.30, an alarm sounds, abrupt and deafening. A voice booms over the Tannoy. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a bomb scare. Please evacuate the building now.’ The warning words are repeated every five seconds. They’re on cue.

‘I’ll grab my coat,’ she says.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ he replies.

They walk out into Great Victoria Street to join the hundreds retreating behind the barricades. Bomb warnings are no longer scary – the age of nightly explosions and shootings has long gone. Now it’s a meaner war. Individual murder, assassinations, suspected informers tortured and ending up with a bullet through the knees or head. A few weeks ago three IRA men were ambushed on a country lane and shot dead by the SAS. That had to come from a grass. She remembers it – no wonder Joseph, her brother and friends want an intelligence propaganda victory. Maybe what she’s doing is OK.

She sets off south and he sticks to her limpet-like. Once they reach the other side of the yellow tapes, they stop to catch their breath. Sirens and shouts echo, nothing more.

‘Bastards,’ he says, ‘why did they have to break that up? I was enjoying myself.’

‘Me too,’ she agrees. ‘Fucking eejits.’ She pauses. ‘Well, I suppose this is it, my flat’s not far. Better be away.’ She’s nearing the end of the second Act – moment of truth number two. She looks at him. ‘And you should be, too,’ she says cheekily.

‘We shouldn’t let them get away with it,’ he says. ‘Busting up the evening like that.’ He takes a breath and exhales into the night air. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Reckon I’ve had plenty,’ she says.

‘Coffee, then?’ he pleads.

‘Honest, I should be heading.’

‘OK, coffee in your flat. And then I go home.’

She laughs at him. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘You make it hard to,’ he says.

‘OK, coffee in the flat.’ Hook, line and sinker. She pounces, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. She feels him relax with pleasure and anticipation as they head towards Botanic and he puts his arm round her. Act Three is about to begin.

They’ve taken a short lease on a first-floor student flat in a street of Victorian terraces. She’s been driven past it once – she wanted a second look but they said it was too risky. There’s a Yale lock above and a mortice below – they’ve told her the mortice will be left unlocked to make it easier for her. They should be in position by now. While she and the man walk, she tries not to search for their car and them waiting inside. The street lamp is opposite the front door, illuminating the house number. She unlocks the Yale and pushes the door open.

‘Don’t you double-lock?’ he says. He’s drunk plenty but he’s still a policeman.

‘No petty crime in this town,’ she replies without a beat. She thanks heaven her brain’s quick enough to disarm him.

She switches on the stair light and leads him up. With the university on holiday, both the ground- and upper-floor flats are empty. At the top of the landing, she slots a second key into a bare wooden door and ushers him in. She’s learnt the floor plan, memorizing rooms, doors, furniture, cupboard contents, electrical appliances. They’d better have got it right. She’d better have remembered it right.

‘Sorry, it’s a bit dire,’ she says. ‘My flatmates are away for the vac but I didn’t wanna be trapped at home with my ma and da.’ She pauses, feigning embarrassment. ‘It means I’m sort of camping in the bedroom.’ She nods towards the room at the back. ‘TV’s there if you want. I’ll make coffee. Oh, bathroom’s there.’

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I could do with it.’

She puts on the kettle. When it begins whistling, she creeps to the front door and peers out. They’re there. She puts the palms of both hands to the window, fingers and thumbs splayed out. Ten minutes. Ten minutes till the play ends and the job’s done. She wants it over.

She’s back in the kitchen just as he pulls the plug. She hears sounds of hand washing and face scrubbing. He’s preparing, cleaning himself for her. More washing sounds. She imagines him taking out his penis and soaping it in the basin. The nerves have been there all night. Now there’s a charge of fear.

He leaves the bathroom, turns into the narrow passage and stops by her in the kitchen. She’s pouring coffee into cups. He comes behind her and puts his arms round her, moving down to the roll of her waist and round to her buttocks. She leans back against him.