sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘His forte, if you could call it that, is bank robbery. We estimate Coleman was involved in at least ten major robberies with the Frankie Downey gang, before Downey went to live in Spain. With Downey out of the way, Murdoch saw an opportunity, recruited Coleman and now he uses him as his tax collector.’
‘Colm Coleman … the IRA’s tax collector?’ Clarke says. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, I think recruiting Coleman was a pretty clever play on Murdoch’s behalf,’ Rowlands says.
‘Oh, I agree,’ Clarke says. ‘Pity we can’t recruit Murdoch. Now that would be a coup.’
‘C3 is of the opinion that he’ll do more good where he is. Apparently, he’s one hundred per cent behind the Provos’ peace strategy.’
‘And presumably Coleman would’ve been invaluable to Murdoch because he knew all the ODCs and their methodology?’
‘Exactly, sir.’
Clarke walks up to the screen and wheels around. ‘Gentlemen, this is a formidable gathering.’ He turns to Rowlands. ‘Anything else, Gerry?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Keep me informed.’
It is 1.55 a.m. Panzer’s Land Rover dips and rises on the uneven ground of the disused quarry. He stops and his vehicle lights shine on a grey Toyota. He leans forward. Two faces look up from the steamed-up, back-seat passenger window. Panzer keeps his lights on the Toyota. A young man and a woman with dishevelled hair stagger out of the back, adjusting their clothing. The man squints and holds his hand up to shield his eyes from Panzer’s headlights. He takes a step towards the headlights, thinks twice and joins the woman in the Toyota. They drive away.
Panzer turns off his engine. He is used to the darkness of the countryside, but this blackness is impenetrable. Lowering his window, he listens. Nothing. You’re out there. I know it. I can feel your eyes on me. A car comes up behind him. Its lights are turned off and the driver’s side door opens. A figure gets out. Panzer exhales.
Tiny Murdoch gets into the passenger side of the Land Rover. Panzer looks straight ahead. ‘Are you all right?’ Murdoch asks.
Panzer is in no mood for conviviality. ‘What is it, Tiny? Why did you drag me out of bed at this time of night?’
Murdoch ignores Panzer’s brusqueness. ‘I’m thinking of buying a Land Rover. Would you recommend it?’
‘They’re … very durable.’
‘Very durable. I’ll remember that.’ Murdoch holds out his hand. ‘Phone.’
Panzer hands over his phone.
Murdoch pats Panzer down. ‘Now, let’s get into my car.’
‘Why?’ Panzer asks.
‘Coz this car could be wired.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Says you.’
‘It isn’t. And anyway, how do we know your car isn’t wired?’
‘Coz it’s not my car.’ Murdoch gets out.
As Panzer approaches the car that isn’t Murdoch’s, a man in a camouflage jacket with night-vision goggles emerges out of the darkness. Murdoch and the man speak in whispered Irish before the latter disappears as quickly as he appeared.
As they sit in silence in the car that isn’t Murdoch’s, Panzer’s mind absorbs the situation. Ghosters in camouflage jackets … night-vison glasses … conversations in Irish … who the fuck do you think is out there, Tiny? The Viet-fucking-Cong? The Taliban? You’re a fucking drama queen, boyo. Bringing me to this godforsaken hole in the ground in the middle of the night. ‘What’s on your mind, Tiny?’
‘Barry …’ Murdoch glances behind him.
Panzer had not seen anyone in the back of the car when he got in and he is taken aback when a clean-shaven young man with rimmed glasses leans forward and hands over an open laptop to Murdoch. Murdoch points to the laptop.
On screen, Finbarr is naked and tied to a chair in the corner of a room. Besides having a black eye, there are welt marks on his body. His teeth chatter as he stares at the camera. A person wearing a ski mask holds a gun to Finbarr’s temple. ‘You’re a fucking paedophile cunt, aren’t you?’ the person shouts. Finbarr nods. ‘Fucking say it!’
‘I’m a fucking paedophile cunt.’
Murdoch closes the laptop. ‘We picked him up in Dublin.’
‘What for?’ Panzer says defiantly. ‘What’s he done on the IRA?’
Murdoch glances at the car’s clock. He turns his head to look out the side window. ‘Your son’s an animal, Panzer.’
Panzer cranks his neck and coughs nervously. This is bad, this is really bad. ‘Any confession he made has been beaten out of him and you know it. Look at him. He’s been tortured.’
‘He’s part of a paedophile ring we’ve been investigating for months.’
‘That’s bollocks!’ Panzer says. ‘I don’t believe you, not for a fucking second.’
‘Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other whether you believe me or not. We have him and we know what he’s done and what he’s capable of.’
‘He’s my son.’
Murdoch turns abruptly. ‘And what’s that got to do with it?’
‘You’ve no right to harm him.’
‘I’ve no right to harm him? Are you serious, fuckhead?’ Murdoch points an accusing finger at Panzer. ‘We know about your pervert son. We know he has an associate, a Latvian called … What’s his name, Barry?’
‘Peteris Edgars,’ Barry says.
‘Edgars and your son, amongst others, have been raping children, kids as young as eight.’
‘If he has broken the law then—’
Murdoch pulls a gun out of his waistband and jabs it into Panzer’s neck. Panzer winces. ‘Don’t you dare come over all sanctimonious with me, you lowlife shithead! I am the fucking law! The ’RA’s the fucking law!’
‘Okay! Okay, Tiny,’ Panzer says through pursed lips. ‘No harm meant. I’m just …’ Panzer rubs his ribs and grimaces. ‘I’m a father who’s worried about his son, that’s all.’
Murdoch sticks the nozzle of the gun in Panzer’s nostril, forcing back his head. ‘Don’t ever, ever try to get clever with me again.’
‘Yes. No. I won’t. No worries, no worries.’
Murdoch has spent a lifetime honing his responses to certain situations. He knows it is always a matter of control and that when you have a gun stuck
