I Hear the Sirens in the Street

we largely operated in different worlds. We seldom shared intelligence and what they actually did apart from the odd patrol or operation on the border was a mystery. A lot of drinking, snooker and darts, I imagine. We regarded ourselves as a highly professional modern police force operating in extremis – the UDR was, at best, a panicky response to the Troubles. The Troubles was their entire raison d’être and if the war ever endedwe would still be here but they, presumably, would have to be disbanded. Were there good UDR officers and men? Of course, but were there a lot of wasters, too? Yes. And bigots, more than likely. These days the police were getting up to twenty per cent Catholic representation, which compared favourably to the forty per cent of Northern Ireland’s population who identified ourselves as Roman Catholic on the census. The UDR didn’t publish its Catholic membership, but it was rumoured to be less than five per cent. Of course the IRA made it their number one priority to kill Catholic UDR men, but even so, the regiment had more than a whiff of sectarianism about it. And it wasn’t just the Nationalist papers in Belfast who criticised it – stories about collusion between the UDR and Protestant terror groups had appeared in the mainstream English press, too.
    We were all on the same side, but if we ever wanted to get cooperation from the Catholic community we coppers had to hold ourselves somewhat aloof.
    “Where are you going?” Matty asked.
    “We never checked out Captain McAlpine, did we?”
    “Oh Jesus, this again?” Matty said.
    “Can you think of anything better to do?”
    Matty thought for a second or two. “No, actually, I can’t.”
    We drove to the fortified guard post and showed our warrant cards. A soldier with full body armour, holding an SLR, gave us a suspicious look and then waved us through.
    We parked in the visitors lot and went through another checkpoint at the base’s entrance.
    “What’s the nature of your business, gentlemen?” the guard asked us. Big Derry lad with a black beard.
    “We need to speak to your commanding officer about one of your men. It’s a confidential matter,” I said.
    He didn’t like that, but what could he do? We were all supposed to be pulling for the same team.
    “You’re lucky, lads. The Colonel’s here. I think he’s down onthe range. You’ll have to leave your weapons, gentlemen. Only authorised personnel are allowed to carry firearms inside the base.”
    We left our guns and got directions to the range.
    We walked down dreary concrete corridors illuminated only by buzzing strip lights. There were no windows and the sole decorations were posters on the wall warning about the dangers of booby traps, honey traps and other IRA tricks.
    The honey trap posters showed an attractive blonde woman leading an unsuspecting squaddie into a terraced house with the caption “Who knows what’s waiting for you on the other side of the door?”
    The range was on a lower level deep beneath the ground.
    We knocked on the No Entry sign and a “range master” opened the door a crack. He was a sergeant carrying a machine gun. We explained our business with the Colonel.
    “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until Lieutenant Colonel Clavert is finished. You need a range pass to get in here and only Colonel Clavert or Captain Dunleavy can issue those. Captain Dunleavy’s not on the base at the moment.”
    We waited outside on uncomfortable plastic chairs.
    The sound of gunfire was muffled and distant like it is in dreams.
    Finally the Colonel appeared. He was dressed in fatigues. A tall man, with jet black hair, a trim moustache and large, round glasses.
    He turned out to be English, which was something of a surprise. I introduced Matty and myself and explained why we had come by:
    “We’re looking into the murder of Captain McAlpine and we wanted to ask a few questions about him.”
    “I wondered when you chaps would finally appear.”
    “We’re the first police officers to come here asking about McAlpine’s death?”
    “Yes. And it’s been a while, hasn’t it? It was December when poor Martin copped it. Come with me to my office.”
    The office was another windowless bunker.
    Lime-green gloss plaint covering breeze blocks. A series of framed pictures of castles. A large wooden desk, pictures of wife and kids, a Newton’s cradle. The whole thing looked artificial, like a movie set.
    Colonel Clavert offered us tea and cigarettes.