The Cold, Cold Ground

He’s under arrest.”
    “Where? At the police station?” Allen barked.
    “Who the fuck are you?” I asked.
    “Let me speak to Stakeknife. How do we know he’s still alive? Who are you?”
    “I’ve told you, I’m a policeman and—”
    “What’s your warrant card number?”
    “Let me speak to him,” Freddie said.
    “I think I can cut through this dismal swamp of mistrust.” “Is that Stakeknife?” Allen asked.
    I looked at Scavanni. “I’m getting fed up with this. I’m going to hang up.”
    Freddie shook his head. “No, no, let me speak to them for a second or two.”
    I glanced at Laura. She shrugged.
    “All right. You got two seconds. Anything I don’t like and you’re toast.”
    I carried the phone over and held it in such a way that we could both listen.
    “Oh hello, Mr Allen, this is Stakeknife. I’m afraid I’ve been arrested by a member of the Carrickfergus police. He wants to bring me to his local station. We’re still at my house.”
    “Has he told anyone else?”
    “He’s brought a lady friend with him. A pathologist.”
    “Shit.”
    “Mr Allen, he’s very sceptical. I’m concerned that he’s not going to take your word for it. You’ll have to get the Minister.”
    “Tell him to hold on,” Allen said. “And give him the phone back.”
    “He wants you to hold on,” Freddie said.
    “I heard him.”
    “Can you hold the line please, Sergeant Duffy?” Allen asked.
    “Yes.”
    I sat back down on the sofa. I found that I was trembling.
    A minute went by. A minute and a half.
    A voice on the phone said: “Hello.”
    “Yes?” I replied.
    “Hello, Sergeant Duffy, do you recognize my voice?”
    It was William Whitelaw, the Home Secretary, Margaret Thatcher’s Deputy Prime Minister.
    “Yes, sir, I recognize your voice.”
    “Sergeant Duffy, would you mind awfully waiting at your present location for a few minutes? We’re sending out a couple of chaps who will explain things to you much better than I can.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Thank you, Sergeant Duffy. There’s a good chap.”
    I hung up the phone. I looked at Laura.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “He’s MI5. He’s an MI5 undercover agent in the IRA. He’s a fucking spook.”
    Half an hour later, two men pulled up in a silver Jaguar.
    I sent Laura upstairs and kept Freddie handcuffed and the gun pointed at his head until I saw their IDs.
    They were both in their forties. Ex-military. Old-school agent handlers. After they uncuffed Freddie, I had a stab of panic.
    The easiest way out of this would be to immediately kill me.
    Kill me.
    Kill Laura.
    Make us go away.
    But they didn’t kill us. They put us in the back of the Jag and drove us to Thiepval Army Barracks in Lisburn. HQ of the British Army in Northern Ireland. They took us to a fenced-off, high-security area and then to an even tighter security installation within that.
    They took us to separate rooms and debriefed us.
    I told them about the evidence I had against Scavanni.
    They told me that it sounded pretty flimsy to them. They told me that Stakeknife was a valuable asset. A very valuable asset. He was now the head of the IRA’s internal security branch, the Force Research Unit, and thus a very important person indeed.
    “He might be the key figure in ending the hunger strikes. He might be the key figure to ending the Troubles.”
    I listened. I understood. I was made to sign a document that I was not allowed to read. I was made to sign The Official Secrets Act. A new team came in and it was all explained to me again.
    I signed more documents. A third team came in. It went on until ten o’clock at night. Finally they were satisfied. I would not talk. I would not prosecute Freddie. I would return to my bicycle theft case and never speak of this again.
    They asked me if I understood the big picture. I told them I understood the big picture. A middle-aged woman in a grey skirt and white blouse appeared.
    “In that case,” she said as if resuming a conversation, “we can let you go, Sergeant Duffy.”
    I stood up and looked into her brown eyes. “There’s a condition,” I said.
    Her mouth opened and closed like a Lough Neagh roach wondering if you’re going to throw him back or not. “You’re not in a position to—”
    “You tell Freddie that the killing has to stop. He’s done enough to leave his trail. The killing has to stop!”
    “I’ll tell him.”
    They dropped Laura and me in the harbour car park in Carrickfergus next to my