one thing; doing it’s another. Has he made any plans?
‘If you’re asking if this is just some fancy he’s got, you’re wrong. This guy is serious. He’s got plans all right.’
‘Do you know what they are?’ asked Dave sharply.
‘Not the detail. But I know he’s called in external help for the job.’
‘Where from?’
Liz recalled the man she’d seen at the farmhouse; Fergus had identified him as a Spanish hit man. But Patrick said emphatically, ‘France – there’s a Frenchman visiting while we’re sitting here talking.’
‘Have you got a name?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘His name’s Milraw or Milroe, something like that. He’s supposed to be a dealer in old weapons – antiques. He’s got a shop here that’s legit. But I think you’ll find he sells modern weapons as well.’
‘And he would supply weapons to your boss?’
‘He’s not here to sell him a blunderbuss.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘It’s a start, and I’m grateful. But there’s something I still don’t understand – why you are here. I know, I know, that’s your affair. But at least tell me, is there something personal about your reasons?’
‘Personal?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought you’d give two hoots if a cop got shot or someone like me got topped. So what’s this to you?’
And then for the first time Patrick let his taciturn front drop. ‘What’s it to me?’ His voice rose. ‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t given my life and worked my guts out for thirty years to have some little American prick come over and tell me what to do.’
‘This guy’s American?’
‘Boston-Irish. University fella, clever, but just as bad as the rest of them. You know what I mean: all those brave guys sitting on barstools in Boston, throwing in a dollar or two when the NORAID bucket went round, acting tough but doing sweet Fall. Piggott’s just as bad – only instead of getting sloshed in Jerry Kelly’s Shamrock Saloon, or whatever phoney name they call it, he was sitting behind a computer in the university dreaming up the perfect missile. Only it never worked as far as I know. While we were literally dying over here.’
‘Did you say Piggott?’ Dave gave stress to the surname – for her benefit, Liz realised, in case the audio had not been clear enough.
‘Why? Do you know the man?’ asked Patrick suspiciously.
‘Never heard of him. Is he related to the jockey?’ He gave a small laugh.
Patrick didn’t join him. He was quiet for a minute, possibly subdued; he must regret losing his cool like that, thought Liz. He had been so unwilling to talk about his reasons for contacting Dave, the representative of his arch-enemy, yet then he’d blown it. He was nursing a grudge. That was clear now. What Piggott had done to him was anyone’s guess, but Liz didn’t believe it was just his American citizenship that had provoked the Irishman’s rage, and set him off on a quest for revenge.
Dave said, ‘This is extremely helpful, Patrick. But it would be even more helpful if you could find out more and we could meet again. It wouldn’t have to be so elaborate next time; we could meet in Belfast if that suited you.’
‘No.’ Patrick’s voice was unequivocal. Liz heard him open the car door. ‘If I need you again, I know how to get to you. You’ve had all you’re going to get from me, and that should be enough for you to put Piggott away. No amnesty is going to save his arse. And if you can’t catch him, and one of you gets blown away …’ His voice suddenly assumed a gross caricature of an Irish voice. ‘Well faith and goodness, wouldn’t that be a terrible shame?’
17
Jimmy Fergus was an easy-going man, famously affable, a lover of women, pubs, and convivial company. His sunny front to the world masked his professional seriousness; it was his intense commitment to the RUC that had been responsible for the breakdown of his first three
‘If you’re asking if this is just some fancy he’s got, you’re wrong. This guy is serious. He’s got plans all right.’
‘Do you know what they are?’ asked Dave sharply.
‘Not the detail. But I know he’s called in external help for the job.’
‘Where from?’
Liz recalled the man she’d seen at the farmhouse; Fergus had identified him as a Spanish hit man. But Patrick said emphatically, ‘France – there’s a Frenchman visiting while we’re sitting here talking.’
‘Have you got a name?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘His name’s Milraw or Milroe, something like that. He’s supposed to be a dealer in old weapons – antiques. He’s got a shop here that’s legit. But I think you’ll find he sells modern weapons as well.’
‘And he would supply weapons to your boss?’
‘He’s not here to sell him a blunderbuss.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘It’s a start, and I’m grateful. But there’s something I still don’t understand – why you are here. I know, I know, that’s your affair. But at least tell me, is there something personal about your reasons?’
‘Personal?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought you’d give two hoots if a cop got shot or someone like me got topped. So what’s this to you?’
And then for the first time Patrick let his taciturn front drop. ‘What’s it to me?’ His voice rose. ‘I’ll tell you. I haven’t given my life and worked my guts out for thirty years to have some little American prick come over and tell me what to do.’
‘This guy’s American?’
‘Boston-Irish. University fella, clever, but just as bad as the rest of them. You know what I mean: all those brave guys sitting on barstools in Boston, throwing in a dollar or two when the NORAID bucket went round, acting tough but doing sweet Fall. Piggott’s just as bad – only instead of getting sloshed in Jerry Kelly’s Shamrock Saloon, or whatever phoney name they call it, he was sitting behind a computer in the university dreaming up the perfect missile. Only it never worked as far as I know. While we were literally dying over here.’
‘Did you say Piggott?’ Dave gave stress to the surname – for her benefit, Liz realised, in case the audio had not been clear enough.
‘Why? Do you know the man?’ asked Patrick suspiciously.
‘Never heard of him. Is he related to the jockey?’ He gave a small laugh.
Patrick didn’t join him. He was quiet for a minute, possibly subdued; he must regret losing his cool like that, thought Liz. He had been so unwilling to talk about his reasons for contacting Dave, the representative of his arch-enemy, yet then he’d blown it. He was nursing a grudge. That was clear now. What Piggott had done to him was anyone’s guess, but Liz didn’t believe it was just his American citizenship that had provoked the Irishman’s rage, and set him off on a quest for revenge.
Dave said, ‘This is extremely helpful, Patrick. But it would be even more helpful if you could find out more and we could meet again. It wouldn’t have to be so elaborate next time; we could meet in Belfast if that suited you.’
‘No.’ Patrick’s voice was unequivocal. Liz heard him open the car door. ‘If I need you again, I know how to get to you. You’ve had all you’re going to get from me, and that should be enough for you to put Piggott away. No amnesty is going to save his arse. And if you can’t catch him, and one of you gets blown away …’ His voice suddenly assumed a gross caricature of an Irish voice. ‘Well faith and goodness, wouldn’t that be a terrible shame?’
17
Jimmy Fergus was an easy-going man, famously affable, a lover of women, pubs, and convivial company. His sunny front to the world masked his professional seriousness; it was his intense commitment to the RUC that had been responsible for the breakdown of his first three
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