Martin Edwards - I Remember You

And there was plenty to be sceptical about. Finbar was a victim who had enjoyed a narrow escape from annihilation rather than a suspect, but with a frown here and a puzzled query there, Sladdin conveyed the clear message that while all victims are innocent, some are distinctly less innocent than others. He could be excused a measure of mistrust, given Finbar’s insistence that Harry be allowed to sit in while he explained who and what he was and described the events leading up to the explosion.

‘A solicitor, sir?’ Sladdin had asked. ‘Do you think you’re in need of legal counsel?’

‘Harry’s a pal, Inspector, he’s been a tower of strength. I’d like him to stay, if you don’t mind.’

Finbar’s initial reluctance to make the short journey to the police station had also led to some shadow boxing.

‘Reg Sharma has very kindly offered to put his private rooms at your disposal, Inspector. And I’m sure you’ll understand, after such a dreadful shock I’d feel more comfortable there, however well you’d look after me.’

He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he added.

Harry held his breath, wondering what dreadful secret was about to be revealed. But Finbar was not that naive. He did no more than state the obvious and dress it up as a heartfelt admission.

‘Truth is, I’m rather embarrassed by the circumstances which brought me to the hotel. You’re a man of the world, Inspector, I’m sure you’ll understand. I’m going through a difficult divorce at the present time and Harry here is advising me on how not to put another foot wrong.’

Sladdin maintained weary courtesy whilst making it plain that the interview must take place on his own territory rather than in the Blue Moon. Harry nodded, signalling Finbar not to push his luck. The detective would want the questions and answers recorded on tape and, if irked, could make sure he had his way. Finbar was Irish and a bomb had gone off: easy to make out a case for detaining him under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.

Once they had arrived at the station, the interrogation had been shrewd rather than hostile. Harry recognised techniques he often employed in court when cross-examining a witness whose devotion to the truth was uncertain. Cautious probing was called for at first, with direct attack an option all the more effective for being held in reserve.

In his search for a motive for the bombing, Sladdin inevitably touched on Finbar’s Irish antecedents and allowed himself a doubting smile when Finbar protested ignorance of anyone from his native land who might wish him dead. ‘Thank you, Mr Rogan,’ he said, for the benefit of the tape recorder operating silently on the table between them, and motioned to the constable accompanying him to switch off the machine. The gesture was obviously intended to encourage Finbar to greater frankness.

‘Now, then. The tape has stopped, as you see, so let’s talk man to man for a minute. We don’t know yet whether the bomb was meant to kill you, and went off too early, or was simply meant to scare you rigid. Either way, it’s clear that someone is seriously displeased with you. So I need you to be frank. Exactly how much contact do you have with the Republican movement?’

Harry had seen the question coming. He had seldom heard Finbar talk about the Irish troubles, but the inference to be drawn from the bomb attack could have been drawn by a Lestrade. Anyone could start a fire, even one sufficiently fierce to destroy a building. Car bombers were a rarer breed.

Finbar rubbed his nose. He was no fool; he too must have foreseen this line of enquiry.

‘I won’t deny I knew a few people who were that way inclined.’ He might have been speaking about bashful gays. ‘Same as anyone living in Liverpool might know a bloke who earns a crust selling dodgy cars. But that’s as far as it went — I was never mixed up in any sectarian shenanigans. Live and let live, that’s my motto.’

Harry could see his client calculate pros and cons before deciding to name names. Those he mentioned mostly sounded small-time: people who might have done a bit of fund-raising for the cause. The only one which meant anything to Harry was the last.

‘And of course,’ said Finbar, ‘there was Pearse Cato.’

For a moment it seemed to Harry as if Sladdin had been struck by lightning. The careworn features would never betray shock, but a flickering of the eyelids was akin to a squeal of amazement from someone less self-contained. Finbar glanced at the detective uncertainly. If, by adopting a casual tone, he’d hoped to lessen the impact of his reference to Cato, he had failed. Even Harry, no student of current affairs, had heard the name in a hundred news bulletins.

‘Pearse Cato?’ asked Sladdin, careful not to sound too eager. ‘Tell me how you happened to know him.’

‘Not much to tell, really,’ said Finbar. He bit his lip and Harry could see he already regretted mentioning Cato. But Sladdin would not let it go now. You couldn’t claim acquaintance with Lucifer and then dismiss him as a bit of a nonentity.

‘His family lived across the road from ours in Dublin,’ said Finbar unhappily. ‘He was maybe five years younger than me. We were never close.’

‘But you were aware of his — connections?’

‘From when he was a kid, he was committed to the armed struggle. His uncle had been shot in a tit-for-tat killing. All the Catos were bred to battle, but Pearse was special. No one messed him around.’ Finbar shook his head. ‘Everyone kowtowed to Pearse, me included. He had a mad streak. Nothing was surer than that one day he would wind up dead.’

As indeed he had. His assassination had made headline news, Harry recalled: mown down in a bar a couple of summers ago by a gang of Kalashnikov-wielding paramilitaries who called themselves loyalists. They had fired as many bullets as were necessary to destroy the face seen on so many Wanted posters. In England, the tabloid press had celebrated the killing of the man they dubbed Europe’s most wanted terrorist; for Pearse Cato was notorious, an outcast from the Provos who had formed the Irish Freedom Fighters with a handful of others more concerned with murder for murder’s sake than with political progress. According to rumour, he had been responsible for upwards of a dozen murders on either side of the Irish Sea: a retired brigadier in Virginia Water; a backbench MP in Great Yarmouth; a judge in Magherafelt and a motley assortment of British soldiers and suspected Army informers.

‘Might someone,’ suggested Sladdin, ‘think you were on better terms with Cato than you describe? Perhaps now they’re gunning for you.’

Finbar gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I promise you, Inspector, my religion is the same as my politics. I’m a card-carrying member of the self-preservation society. Violence frightens me. It hurts people! Believe me, the closest I got to Pearse Cato was when I tattooed him.’

Sladdin pursed his lips. ‘Tattooed him? With what?’

‘A mailed fist flourishing the Irish Tricolour,’ said Finbar, a mite shame-faced. ‘It covered his chest. Not one of my more elegant creations, but Pearse liked body pictures, for his women as well as for himself. He didn’t know much about the finer aspects of tattooing but he knew what he liked.’

‘So you were neighbours and had a fleeting business relationship, that’s all?’

‘Not very businesslike,’ said Finbar. ‘The sod didn’t pay for any of the work he told me to do. And with Pearse, you didn’t ask. He hated putting his hand in his pocket, unless maybe it was to impress a girl. If he’d lived till fifty, he’d have died a millionaire.’

‘I see.’ Sladdin returned to a topic he’d worried at earlier. ‘And are you quite sure no one could have known you were coming here with Miss — er, Wilkins?’