Brothers' Tears (18 page)

‘What happened between you and Dominic O'Connor?'

‘He made out that I'd been dishonest. He told the Managing Director that I'd been cheating the firm.'

‘And had you?'

Jacobs glared at Peach, who did not drop his eyes or move a muscle in his face. ‘No, of course I hadn't. But even the whiff of corruption is enough to finish you, when your business is finance. In effect, it was his word against mine. He was younger and he'd made himself the owners' blue-eyed boy. I got out and made a fresh start. It tore me apart at the time, but it was the right decision.'

‘The people who worked with you at Morton Industries remember you as feeling very bitter against a man who is now dead. I believe you threatened him with violence.'

Jacobs was silent for so long that Peach thought he was not going to react. Then he said evenly, ‘I told Dominic O'Connor at the time that he wouldn't get away with what he'd done. I told him that, however long it took, he was going to suffer the consequences.'

‘Thank you. Perhaps you can now understand our line of questioning.'

‘What I said to Dominic O'Connor four years ago was rhetorical. It was said in a red mist of fury. I don't think he felt threatened by it.'

‘I would have done, if it had come from a man who'd previously almost killed an enemy with a knife.'

Jacobs' nostrils flared and his face reddened beneath his floppy dark hair, but his voice remained controlled. It was a strangely disturbing combination. ‘I'm no longer violent. You may not wish to believe that, so consider what I had at stake. Common sense would argue against me taking retribution now, however much I might desire it. I've got too much to lose.'

‘That is a convincing argument, here in your office. But logic doesn't always win, when passion takes over. Where were you on Friday night, Mr Jacobs?'

He was shaken anew by the sudden question. He ran a hand quickly through his hair, making it look even more out of control. Then his face brightened. ‘I left work early and went and played a round of golf at Brunton Golf Club.'

Tommy Bloody Tucker's club. Peach didn't ask if Jacobs knew the superintendent; you shouldn't allow yourself to be prejudiced against any suspect. ‘What time did you finish your game?'

‘It was a four-ball. It would be around six when we finished, I suppose. Then we had a round of drinks.'

Clyde Northcott recorded the names of Jacobs' three companions in his notebook and they watched their man relaxing in his chair. Then Peach said, ‘What time did you get home in the evening, Mr Jacobs?'

He was suddenly tense again. ‘That's when he died, isn't it?'

‘That seems the most probable time at the moment, yes. We'd like to know when you left the golf club and when you arrived home.'

In case there is too long an interval between the two, he thought. Dominic O'Connor's house was only a couple of miles off his route and they must surely know that. ‘I can't be certain of the times. I didn't know then that I was going to be questioned about them by a DCI, did I? Most people left the golf club before us, apart from a party who were eating there. I think I left at about half past seven, but I couldn't be precise. I'm pretty certain I was home by eight o'clock.' He tried to banish the graveness from his face with a smile, but didn't succeed. ‘And I didn't kill Dominic O'Connor on the way!'

‘So who do you think did kill him? If you're innocent, it's obviously in your interest to give us your thoughts on the matter.'

‘I agree. But I can't help you. I've not been in close touch with him for the last four years.'

It was over, at last. They left him with a card, so that he could contact them if he thought of anything useful. He shut the door behind them and went and went slowly back to sit behind his desk, staring for several minutes at the chairs the CID men had lately occupied.

The young officer was studiously incurious about Colin Davies. It wasn't her business to size him up. She was waiting at the station sergeant's reception desk and she ushered the visitor swiftly through the labyrinth of the CID section and into DCI Peach's office. ‘Mr Davies to see you, sir,' she said stiffly, and then was gone.

Peach rose and shook the man's hand, noting a firm, sinewy grip and a few grey hairs in his visitor's short-cut crown. Probably mid-fifties, Percy thought, but fit for his age and without an ounce of surplus fat. One of those enviable men who would be the same weight when he was sixty as he had been when he was sixteen. Percy said, ‘This is Detective Sergeant Northcott, who will be as interested as I am in whatever you have to say.'

‘Your bagman.' Davies nodded affably at the big black man and sat down in the chair which had been set ready for him.

‘You're ex-job?'

‘No. I've never been in the police service. But I worked for many years in state security. I used to protect politicians and the occasional royal. I can provide proof of that, if you think you need it.'

Peach wasn't surprised by this. Over the last thirty years, the protection of VIPs from terrorism had employed more and more people and been a greater and greater drain on the resources of the country. No one save a privileged few had any clear idea of the vast cost of this security. It was an immense burden on national finance which politicians and others chose not to publicise. He said, ‘I imagine you were eventually pensioned off. I need to know you weren't dismissed for other reasons.'

Davies smiled bitterly. ‘You have it in one. The powers that be think you need to be as young and fit as an SAS man to look after the great and the good. In most situations, experience and judgement are more valuable qualities than youth, but people like to have clear rules: it saves them having to think.'

‘And why are you here?'

‘To give you whatever sparse information I can. It concerns Dominic O'Connor.'

‘Then thank you for coming in. You know enough about police work to realise that we'll be glad of all the help available at this stage.'

Colin Davies wasn't a man for small talk, which suited his listeners. ‘I haven't retired. I operate in private security work. There's plenty of work around for people like me, as you can no doubt appreciate from what you see. Dominic O'Connor had used my services in the past. He was about to use them again. I was due to see him today, with a view to resuming employment with him.'

‘So you've a good idea who killed him.'

A thin smile, a sharp shake of the head. ‘I can't tell you who did that. I think I know why he wanted me back. I think he felt a threat, but I can't guarantee that he was right. In other words, I can't be sure that his death came from that source.'

‘We'll be glad to have your information. We need your expert view on this.' Peach wasn't being ironic, as he might have been with some outsiders. This man knew his work and was no time-waster.

Davies relaxed a little as he realised he was being taken very seriously. ‘Any Irishman who has grown up in Eire and attained a prominent position is of interest to the provisional IRA. People here think that all danger has passed with the Sunningdale Agreement and subsequent settlements, but that isn't so for all Irishmen. Both James and Dominic O'Connor were regarded as traitors by the extremists in the republican movement. I'd guarantee that both their deaths are being celebrated in Dublin and Belfast at this moment.'

It was Peach's turn to shake his head. ‘Jim O'Connor was killed by a man employed by an industrial rival. We're confident that we've arrested the right man.'

‘I accept that. And the same may be true of his brother. But it was my duty to inform you that action by the provisionals is at least a possibility.'

‘It was and we're duly grateful. Can you give us any more detail?'

‘A little. The numbers of the provisionals are much diminished since the settlement. But as you would expect the ones who remain active are extremists. They haven't forsworn violence; on the contrary, they constantly seek opportunities to use it. They argue that in taking revenge on people they think have let the Cause down, they are keeping the neutrals fearful and preparing for their final revolutionary push, which will secure a free Ireland without divisions. Dominic O'Connor was one of the people they thought had let the Cause down. He was sympathetic to their aims as a young man, but he rejected violence as a way of securing them. That meant that the more successful he became, the more prominent a target he made himself for revenge.'

‘And how exactly does this operate?'

‘They have five people, three in Ireland and two in this country, whom they actually title Avengers. Both the administrators and these men themselves seem to like that title, which they think adds drama and excitement to what many English people would see as mere terrorism, the brutal killing of innocent people.'

‘And Dominic O'Connor felt in danger from one of these men?'

‘That's where this gets frustrating, for me and for you. I simply don't know. I'd have found out today. When he used me a few months ago, he was protecting himself against threats from some of the people working around his brother Jim. They weren't particularly close as brothers, as you may have discovered, and Jim operated in very shady circles. There's evidence of that in the way he died. Four months ago, Dominic was afraid of the same sort of death. He also knew that both he and Jim were possible targets for the rump of the IRA provisionals. So he retained my services. I found out what I could for him and I stayed at his side for eight weeks. There was no threat to him during those weeks and he eventually decided that he could dispense with my services. Broadly speaking, I agreed with him. There is never
no
threat, but by the beginning of March it seemed minimal in this case.'

‘But he was about to re-engage you.'

‘It seems so. You may know of some threat from the people who killed his brother a few days earlier. Otherwise, I think he must have been thinking of the Irish danger.'

‘We're investigating various other possibilities, but the one you're talking about seems the strongest one of all at this moment. We know the IRA people you're talking about are fanatical killers.'

‘And trained and experienced as well. They've picked off seven people that we know about, over the last couple of years.'

Clyde Northcott had his notebook open. He now spoke, for the first time since he had been introduced to this slight, intense visitor. ‘You mentioned these men who style themselves avengers. Is there a particular one who operates in this area?'

‘They take turns, operating for a few months each to minimise the chances of discovery and arrest. They regard their killings as executions: they're zealots operating on behalf of other fanatics, as you say. According to my information, the man shadowing targets in this area at the moment is a man named Patrick Riordan.'

Northcott made a note of the name and said in his deep voice, ‘Presumably he's killed before.'

Davies nodded. ‘He's been killing since the worst days of the conflict. That was in and around Belfast. But in recent years, he's killed at least two people and probably more as an avenger. He's a dangerous man with nothing to lose. You need to approach him with extreme care.'

Peach gave him a grim smile. ‘Unfortunately the system doesn't allow us to employ you, Mr Davies. I should certainly do that, if it were possible.'

‘I can give you an address. He'll bear no grudge against you, because you've no connection with the Irish conflict. That's the theory, but men like him are volatile. He regards himself as a soldier with a right to protect himself when fighting for the Cause.'

Percy looked at the address Davies had scribbled on his desk pad. ‘Do we take an Armed Response Unit with us? That might escalate a simple interview into a major incident, putting innocent people at risk.'

‘It's your call, but I think you've answered your own question. We know he's killed, but we haven't the evidence for an arrest. You might find that, if you can prove that he killed Dominic O'Connor. At present Riordan is officially an innocent citizen.'

They shook hands whilst Davies wished Peach luck. Two very different men were united for a moment by this danger from a man neither of them had ever seen.

The mortuary attendant had seen all kinds of reactions. This brittle control and near-giggling was unusual, but not unique.

He said, ‘Would you like a few minutes to compose yourself, Mrs O'Connor? I can rustle up a cup of tea in no time if you'd like to sit down.'

‘No. I'll get it over with, I think. It's only a formality, isn't it?'

The mortuary man didn't answer that and didn't offer any further comment. He wasn't the most imaginative of men; it didn't pay him to be, in this job. He said, ‘We've completed all the forms now, apart from the final signature. You can go ahead whenever you're ready, Mrs O'Connor.'

Ros nodded and moved quickly to the spot where he told her to stand. It was strange seeing the body paraded before her like this. So flat, so cold, so still. Quite solemn, but not frightening at all, really. They'd tidied him up very well; you could hardly see the line under his hair where they'd peeled the scalp back, and the sheet was well drawn up over his torso to conceal the cuts beneath it. There was still the death mark where the cable had bitten into his neck, but they'd done their best to disguise even that.

She took a long moment to look at what had once been her husband. It felt almost like an anti-climax. She found herself wishing that it could last a little longer. Then she said, ‘That's him. That's my late husband. That is Dominic Francis O'Connor. If you'll show me the right place on the form, I'll sign it now.'

Ros looked round into the solemn face of the man standing behind her and gave the little half-giggle he had already heard twice before. ‘It doesn't take long, does it?'