Adrian McKinty - The Cold Cold Ground

I placed the barrel of the.38 on his neck.

“Drop the gun and slowly put your hands on your head.”

He did as he was told.

I took a step backwards. “Laura! It’s all right now! I’ve got him.”

“Are you sure?” she called back.

“See if you can find my raincoat, it’s got my handcuffs in it.”

Scavanni turned and looked at me. He was grinning. I felt like pistol-whipping that smile off his fucking face.

Laura gave me the raincoat. Her face was flushed. Her chest heaving. For an insane second I wanted to blow his brains out and lay her down and fuck her into next week.

“Hold your hands out!” I said to Scavanni. “Laura, reach into the pocket, take out my handcuffs and cuff him.”

She seemed reluctant.

“Don’t worry, if he so much as twitches, I’ll put one in his left ear.”

“It’s not that. How do these things work?” she asked.

“Put his hands in and close them tight,” I explained.

“Oh, I see.”

She cuffed him.

“What now, Sergeant Duffy?” Scavanni said.

“Now, Mr Scavanni, we go back to the house, I call Detective Chief Inspector Todd and he shows up with a bunch of men anxious to have a wee chat with you. You get lifted, I get a fucking medal and maybe a promotion and you get life in prison. Probably in solitary cos I think they’ll be out to make an example of you, won’t they?”

Scavanni did not seem ruffled or concerned in any way.

“There’s a phone in my living room,” he said.

“All right, let’s go.”

We went back inside the garden walls. His car was in the driveway and the front door was open. The phone call to his office had obviously spooked him and he had driven home to see what, if anything, was up. Better for me.

“Why did you kill her?” Laura asked him.

“My dear, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Scavanni said.

“Dr Laura Cathcart. Pathologist.”

“Charmed. Freddie Scavanni, Sinn Fein Press Officer,” Freddie said.

“Why did you kill her?” she asked again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”

“Who were you shooting at in the woods?”

“I thought it was that dreadful fox again. He causes havoc in my bird feeder. I suppose I should have gotten the shotgun.”

“Fox my arse. You saw us near the car. You knew the game was up. There’s no point running your bullshit any more, Freddie.”

We reached the living room and I put Freddie in the beanbag chair. Laura sat in the sofa and I sat in the chair next to the phone.

“Before you call Carrick RUC, would you indulge me in my one phone call?” Freddie asked.

“No fucking way.”

“I think you’ll find that it explains everything.”

“Yeah, it goes right to an IRA hit squad who’ll speed down here and try and save you before the coppers come.”

“Oh no,” Freddie said. “Nothing like that. It’s a London number. 01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, tell them it’s Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”

“Pardon?”

“01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, you tell them Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”

“What are you playing at, Scavanni?”

“Dial the number. You’ll see. If you don’t, your entire career will go down the shitter.”

“Don’t threaten me, my lad!”

“That’s not a threat, believe me. Call the number. And if at any stage you are not completely happy, immediately hang up and call Carrick RUC. What have you got to lose?”

“Well, I’m slightly curious,” Laura said, still flushed and excited by it all.

“All right, I’ll indulge you. Consider this your phone call. And if I don’t like it I’m hanging up.”

“It’s a deal.”

I dialled 01 793 9000.

“Hello? Who’s calling, please?” a young female, English voice said.

“Stakeknife.”

“What is your four-digit reference number, Stakeknife?”

“1146.”

“Thank you, Stakeknife, I’m putting you through to Mr Allen.”

There was a pause and then a man came on. An older Englishman.

“What is it, Stakeknife?”

“Who is this?”

“Who’s this? How did you get this number?” Allen demanded.

“My name is Detective Sergeant Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC,” I said.

“Where’s Stakeknife?”

“He’s nice and safe. He’s under arrest.”

“Where? At the police station?” Allen barked.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.

“Let me speak to Stakeknife. How do we know he’s still alive? Who are you?”

“I’ve told you, I’m a policeman and-”

“What’s your warrant card number?”

“Let me speak to him,” Freddie said.

“I think I can cut through this dismal swamp of mistrust.” “Is that Stakeknife?” Allen asked.

I looked at Scavanni. “I’m getting fed up with this. I’m going to hang up.”

Freddie shook his head. “No, no, let me speak to them for a second or two.”

I glanced at Laura. She shrugged.

“All right. You got two seconds. Anything I don’t like and you’re toast.”

I carried the phone over and held it in such a way that we could both listen.

“Oh hello, Mr Allen, this is Stakeknife. I’m afraid I’ve been arrested by a member of the Carrickfergus police. He wants to bring me to his local station. We’re still at my house.”

“Has he told anyone else?”

“He’s brought a lady friend with him. A pathologist.”

“Shit.”

“Mr Allen, he’s very sceptical. I’m concerned that he’s not going to take your word for it. You’ll have to get the Minister.”

“Tell him to hold on,” Allen said. “And give him the phone back.”

“He wants you to hold on,” Freddie said.

“I heard him.”

“Can you hold the line please, Sergeant Duffy?” Allen asked.

“Yes.”

I sat back down on the sofa. I found that I was trembling.

A minute went by. A minute and a half.

A voice on the phone said: “Hello.”

“Yes?” I replied.

“Hello, Sergeant Duffy, do you recognize my voice?”

It was William Whitelaw, the Home Secretary, Margaret Thatcher’s Deputy Prime Minister.

“Yes, sir, I recognize your voice.”

“Sergeant Duffy, would you mind awfully waiting at your present location for a few minutes? We’re sending out a couple of chaps who will explain things to you much better than I can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Duffy. There’s a good chap.”

I hung up the phone. I looked at Laura.

“What is it?” she asked.

“He’s MI5. He’s an MI5 undercover agent in the IRA. He’s a fucking spook.”

Half an hour later, two men pulled up in a silver Jaguar.

I sent Laura upstairs and kept Freddie handcuffed and the gun pointed at his head until I saw their IDs.

They were both in their forties. Ex-military. Old-school agent handlers. After they uncuffed Freddie, I had a stab of panic.

The easiest way out of this would be to immediately kill me.

Kill me.

Kill Laura.

Make us go away.

But they didn’t kill us. They put us in the back of the Jag and drove us to Thiepval Army Barracks in Lisburn. HQ of the British Army in Northern Ireland. They took us to a fenced-off, high-security area and then to an even tighter security installation within that.

They took us to separate rooms and debriefed us.

I told them about the evidence I had against Scavanni.

They told me that it sounded pretty flimsy to them. They told me that Stakeknife was a valuable asset. A very valuable asset. He was now the head of the IRA’s internal security branch, the Force Research Unit, and thus a very important person indeed.