Provo. Gordon Stevens

careful with the questions, the interrogators knew. When Hanrahan was sent to Crumlin Road he would be debriefed by the IRA security section within the prison. Then the Provos’ intelligence people would try to establish what the Brits or the RUC already knew from the questions his interrogators had asked him.

      You won’t make it this time, Frank. The two SB men were facing him, the use of his first name sometimes friendly, more often threatening and hostile. You remember what it was like when you were young, Frank, just imagine what it’ll be like this time. So why do it, Frank, you hadn’t done a job for a long time, why now?

      Clarke, Milligan and Black still on the move – Nolan had checked that morning. Plus two more overnight – Lynch and Hoolihan.

      Hanrahan’s face was as grey and expressionless as the walls of the cell, eyes staring straight ahead, the thin scar which Flynn had described and which had pointed them to Hanrahan down the corner of his left eye. Somebody grassed, she read it in his face, somebody turned stag and when they find out who the boys will take him for his cup of tea.

      The first day of the interview ended and Hanrahan was returned to the cell.

      The overnight reports on the Provisional gunmen came through an hour before the interrogation of Hanrahan resumed the following morning. The five gunmen still on the move, now joined by a sixth – Lynan. Foot soldiers, Nolan knew, expendables like Hanrahan.

      The interview recommenced at eight. Overnight they had assessed the possibility of Hanrahan cracking, had also looked at the possibility of Hanrahan turning, of Hanrahan becoming a CT – converted terrorist. Had gone through the files for the single piece of intelligence which might provide the key – gambling debts or affairs with other women were favourites; once it had been found that a Provo shooter had been having an affair with the wife of an RUC man.

      You know the results of the forensics, Frank. You know we can put you in the car and that we have witnesses to say that that was the car used for the murder on Tennent Street. You know that we can prove that you fired a gun that evening. So be fair on yourself, Frank, have a think about it.

      Hanrahan still had not said a word. Would not say a word, the interrogators knew. At eight that evening they finished the second day. The following morning they would formally charge him and the following afternoon, unless he said something worth listening to – unless he said anything at all – they would give up on him as they had known they would from the beginning, and Hanrahan would be detained at Crumlin Road jail. And two months after he would appear before a single judge sitting in a so-called Diplock Court – no jury because of the threat of intimidation – and be sent down for the required period.

      That evening they scanned the Hanrahan file for what Nolan assumed would be the last time, that evening she returned to the flat in Malone Park and thought about the man who had still said nothing, about the details on his file. At six the following morning – two hours before Hanrahan’s last interview was due to begin – she returned to Lisburn; at seven she made the request, at 7.45 she ran through the updates on the Provo gunmen still on the move in the North.

      Clarke and Milligan. Black and Lynch. Hoolihan and Lynan. Plus a seventh.

      McGuire. Not seen for four days.

      She knew who and what he was but checked on the computer anyway.

      McGuire, Kevin. Born 11.4.59. Married, two children. The details flickered on to the screen. Not a bomber or gunman, one of the men who ran the bombers and the gunmen. What the intelligence services would call an LO, a liaison officer.

      She ran the reports together, logged a synopsis, and requested immediate reports on McGuire once he was sighted. Logical, she thought. The troops on the move and the handler out of sight. Almost too logical.

      She left the office and went to the interrogation centre at Castlereagh. Brady and McKiver were eating breakfast in the canteen; she collected a coffee and joined them.

      ‘No problems about me asking a couple of questions today?’

      McKiver was the problem, she and Brady had agreed: McKiver didn’t even think MI5 should have been informed. The last day, they understood, therefore nothing would happen. Therefore she could join in.

      ‘Fine.’

      They went to the interrogation room, McKiver and Brady taking their usual positions along one side of the desk, the prisoner opposite them.

      The forensics, Frank. Confirmation that the car was the murder vehicle and that you were in it. Ballistics suggest that the weapon has also been used in three other killings. The chances of them being put down to you, Frank. Might not carry in court, of course, but could affect the sentence.

      Hanrahan sat impassive and said nothing, not even a flicker in the eyes. No response when they offered him coffee or a cigarette. At 10.30 they broke for five minutes. And when they returned Hanrahan would sit in the same position and not move until they led him out after charging him. There was a feeling of inevitability about the way they left the room, the knowledge that they had been through it before.

      The documents she had requested had arrived. They probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth giving it a try. She wouldn’t mention it to McKiver though; despite his appearance and manner he was a good operator, knew when he was winning and when he was losing. And as long as he stood even the faintest chance he’d hang in. But the moment he knew he’d lost he saw no point in carrying on.

      They returned to the interrogation room.

      The evening in question, Frank. What time did they pick you up? Where did you leave the car after the job? What did you do after? Who told you about the job, gave you the instructions? Who decided it should be you, Frank, who gave you that pair to babysit?

      There was no response, no reply or change in the facial expression.

      ‘You were inside with Slattery, of course.’ It was the first time Nolan had spoken. Fergal Slattery, gunman and bomber. So what the hell did Slattery have to do with it, thought McKiver. Slattery had decided to call it a day, of course, get out while he could, but what bearing did it have on Hanrahan?

      ‘You know what Slattery said, of course, don’t you, Frank?’

      So what the fuck should I know about what Fergal said, they read it in his face, in his eyes. Read something for the first time.

      ‘He said that his children were nearing the age when they would be caught up in it, and that he didn’t want them to go through what he’d gone through.’

      The curtain drew again across Hanrahan’s face.

      ‘Good kids, Frank. How old are they now?’

      She’s blown it, Brady saw the look in McKiver’s eyes as he glanced at Nolan. We had him going, were about to turn him. Now she’s threatened his kids. Okay, so they weren’t about to turn him, weren’t about to make him even say a dickie bird. But kids were out of it. No way they threatened anyone’s kids, not even someone like Hanrahan’s.

      ‘Good school reports, Frank. Boy did well at GCSE, A levels in a couple of years. The girl also expected to do well.’ She put the copies of the reports on the desk. ‘Pity they’re going to end up like you, though. Because you know what’s going to happen when you go down, don’t you, Frank? The boy will end up like that pillock who was supposed to get rid of the motor. Be with you in the Crum by the time he’s twenty. If he’s lucky.’ She leaned forward and moved the reports slightly. ‘Same with the girl. End up pushing a pram for the rest of her life with the kids strung along behind and somebody like you for her husband.’

      Know what I mean, Frank? Know what I’m talking about? ‘Pity really.’ As if there was an alternative. It was in her voice, in the way she leaned forward again and began to take the reports away then left them on the table. She sat back and the interrogation continued.

      So what about the day in question, Frank? Where were you that afternoon? Go for a drink at dinner time? Where’d you go, what did you have? There were no answers, no movement in the body or the face. What about after, Frank?