parked the car in a gravelly forecourt, got out, knocked on the door.
After a minute’s pause it was opened by a large, attractive, red-haired woman about fifty-five. She was wearing a brown cardigan and a green corduroy skirt that went down to her ankles. She had a large bosom and her eyes were clear, hazel, and intelligent.
“ Bail ó Dhia is Mhuire duit ,” she said.
“And to you,” I replied.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
I took out my warrant card and showed it to her.
“Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, Special Branch,” she read frostily.
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m at Carrickfergus RUC at the moment and this is Detective Sergeant McCrabban, also of Carrick RUC.”
She grabbed the door and thought for a moment about slamming it in our faces, but she wavered. “This isn’t about Lizzie, is it?” she asked dubiously.
“Uhhh . . . no. Who’s Lizzie?”
“My daughter.”
“No. This is about Annie McCann.”
She nodded. Her face hardened.
“I see. I suppose you’re looking for Dermot?” she said with a groan of annoyance.
“Yes, and we were wondering if—” I began but she cut me off immediately.
“Do I look like an informer to you?”
“What does an informer look like?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. “You’ll get nothing here. We don’t know a thing about Dermot and if we did we certainly wouldn’t be telling the RUC!”
And yet . . .
And yet she still stood there. And she didn’t close the door.
Something was up.
I looked at the woman.
Something was going on here. Something I wasn’t twigging.
She had gravity, this lady. Power. Her daughter had been married to Dermot McCann but it didn’t come from that.
“We couldn’t possibly get a cup of tea, could we? Then we’ll get out of your hair and get on back to Carrick,” I tried.
She considered this for a moment, nodded, left the door open, and walked into the house.
Crabbie and I exchanged a look.
“Could be a trap. After you, mate,” I said.
We walked into a large, comfortable living room that must have been the old dining room when this was a coaching inn. There was a massive stone fireplace, rugs over a stone floor, attractive watercolors on the wall, a bookcase filled with what looked like volumes of poetry and history.
I sat on an ancient red leather sofa and got up again when the woman came back with the tea. She asked how we took it. I was milk and one sugar and Crabbie was milk with no sugar. She poured our tea into cups of fine nineteenth-century china. There was cake too. Dundee cake, carrot cake, homemade.
We both took a slice of the Dundee.
“I’m Mary Fitzpatrick. Annie’s mother,” the woman said, sitting down on a high-backed armchair.
“Nice to you meet, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” I said formally.
“Likewise,” Crabbie said.
I took a sip of my tea. It was not laced with arsenic, which came as something of a relief. Mary Fitzpatrick might be the mother-in-law of a famous IRA operative but she wasn’t pathological.
“Very nice Dundee cake,” Crabbie said into the silence.
“Thank you.”
“Do you happen to know where Annie is?” I asked.
“She’s away with her da. I think they went rabbit shooting.”
“I see.”
“It won’t do you any good, you know. Annie wouldn’t tell you anything even if she did hear from Dermot, which she hasn’t since he broke out of the Maze.”
“We were wondering if he’d contacted you or Annie or you knew where he might be?” I asked.
Mary smiled and shook her head. “What incentive could I possibly have to help you, the agents of the occupier. Why on earth would I turn in my former son-in-law to the likes of you?”
“Dermot’s planning a bombing campaign. He’s going to kill a lot of innocent people,” I suggested.
Mary nodded. “There will always be casualties in a war. It’s regrettable but there it is,” she said brusquely.
“And then there’s the fact that the Brits have MI5 and the SAS looking
After a minute’s pause it was opened by a large, attractive, red-haired woman about fifty-five. She was wearing a brown cardigan and a green corduroy skirt that went down to her ankles. She had a large bosom and her eyes were clear, hazel, and intelligent.
“ Bail ó Dhia is Mhuire duit ,” she said.
“And to you,” I replied.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
I took out my warrant card and showed it to her.
“Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, Special Branch,” she read frostily.
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m at Carrickfergus RUC at the moment and this is Detective Sergeant McCrabban, also of Carrick RUC.”
She grabbed the door and thought for a moment about slamming it in our faces, but she wavered. “This isn’t about Lizzie, is it?” she asked dubiously.
“Uhhh . . . no. Who’s Lizzie?”
“My daughter.”
“No. This is about Annie McCann.”
She nodded. Her face hardened.
“I see. I suppose you’re looking for Dermot?” she said with a groan of annoyance.
“Yes, and we were wondering if—” I began but she cut me off immediately.
“Do I look like an informer to you?”
“What does an informer look like?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. “You’ll get nothing here. We don’t know a thing about Dermot and if we did we certainly wouldn’t be telling the RUC!”
And yet . . .
And yet she still stood there. And she didn’t close the door.
Something was up.
I looked at the woman.
Something was going on here. Something I wasn’t twigging.
She had gravity, this lady. Power. Her daughter had been married to Dermot McCann but it didn’t come from that.
“We couldn’t possibly get a cup of tea, could we? Then we’ll get out of your hair and get on back to Carrick,” I tried.
She considered this for a moment, nodded, left the door open, and walked into the house.
Crabbie and I exchanged a look.
“Could be a trap. After you, mate,” I said.
We walked into a large, comfortable living room that must have been the old dining room when this was a coaching inn. There was a massive stone fireplace, rugs over a stone floor, attractive watercolors on the wall, a bookcase filled with what looked like volumes of poetry and history.
I sat on an ancient red leather sofa and got up again when the woman came back with the tea. She asked how we took it. I was milk and one sugar and Crabbie was milk with no sugar. She poured our tea into cups of fine nineteenth-century china. There was cake too. Dundee cake, carrot cake, homemade.
We both took a slice of the Dundee.
“I’m Mary Fitzpatrick. Annie’s mother,” the woman said, sitting down on a high-backed armchair.
“Nice to you meet, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” I said formally.
“Likewise,” Crabbie said.
I took a sip of my tea. It was not laced with arsenic, which came as something of a relief. Mary Fitzpatrick might be the mother-in-law of a famous IRA operative but she wasn’t pathological.
“Very nice Dundee cake,” Crabbie said into the silence.
“Thank you.”
“Do you happen to know where Annie is?” I asked.
“She’s away with her da. I think they went rabbit shooting.”
“I see.”
“It won’t do you any good, you know. Annie wouldn’t tell you anything even if she did hear from Dermot, which she hasn’t since he broke out of the Maze.”
“We were wondering if he’d contacted you or Annie or you knew where he might be?” I asked.
Mary smiled and shook her head. “What incentive could I possibly have to help you, the agents of the occupier. Why on earth would I turn in my former son-in-law to the likes of you?”
“Dermot’s planning a bombing campaign. He’s going to kill a lot of innocent people,” I suggested.
Mary nodded. “There will always be casualties in a war. It’s regrettable but there it is,” she said brusquely.
“And then there’s the fact that the Brits have MI5 and the SAS looking
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