Cramer looked at his palm, as if the network of lines and creases would reveal to him whatever had upset her. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.
The girl turned back to him. She took hold of his hand again and ran her fingers across his palm. Cramer felt his spine go cold and he shivered. He was suddenly certain that Su-ming knew what was wrong with him, that she had somehow detected the cancer that was growing inside him. Cramer swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. She looked up at him and he knew that the word on her lips was death and that she was going to say it out loud. He cleared his throat. ‘What do you see?’ he repeated.
The girl’s face was devoid of emotion. She looked up at him with no more compassion than she would show a piece of machinery, as cold and impassive as a catwalk model. She tilted her head back a fraction and her lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. The gymnasium was totally silent. Cramer was unable to take his eyes off the girl, but he could sense the Colonel and Allan straining to hear what she would say. Su-ming nodded as if she’d decided to tell him, but it was still a second or two before she spoke. ‘Sadness,’ she said softly. ‘I see great sadness.’
Cramer took back his hand and slipped it deep into his overcoat pocket as if trying to hide it from her. She carried on looking deep into his eyes and this time Cramer realised he could see something there; something that looked disconcertingly like pity.
The girl suddenly turned around and walked away, her boots making no sound on the wooden floorboards. The three men watched her go. Only when the door had closed behind her did Allan turn to look at Cramer. ‘I don’t know about you, Mike, but I’d give her one.’ Cramer didn’t laugh.
Paulie Quinn paced around his cell like a caged animal. He hadn’t slept, partly because of the light but also because someone kept banging on his cell door at irregular intervals. He hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink and he had a pounding headache. He was also scared, more scared than he’d ever been in his life. He realised that the police hadn’t stormed the house because of the old revolver. They must have known that he’d been involved in the deaths of the tourists. He was facing a murder charge. Life imprisonment. He paced faster and faster. Life behind bars. He was only eighteen years old. Did life mean life? Would they really keep him in prison until he died? It wasn’t fair. All he’d done was to dig out the stuff and sit in the back of the truck.
Paulie wondered if Lynch and O’Riordan had also been arrested. He stopped pacing as he was struck by the thought that one of them had given his name to the police. Tears welled up in his eyes again. He heard footsteps outside, then the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door was thrown open. Two men in leather bomber jackets and jeans walked in purposefully. ‘I want a solicitor,’ Paulie said, but the men ignored him. They grabbed an arm each and frogmarched him out. Waiting in the corridor was a third man, older with greying hair and reddish cheeks. He had a black hood in his hands and he thrust it over Paulie’s head.
‘I want to make a phone call,’ protested Paulie. He was dragged along the corridor and into a room. He was pushed backwards and he fought to keep his balance, but instead of falling to the floor he collapsed into a chair. He heard a door slam and then the hood was ripped off his head.
A man in a dark brown suit was sitting at a table, a notepad in front of him and a fountain pen in his hand. The tie he was wearing had little ducks on it. Paulie blinked and shook his head. He felt sick and he retched and tasted bile in his mouth. ‘Who was with you, Paulie?’ the man asked. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair that kept falling across his eyes and an upturned, almost feminine nose.
‘Who are you?’ asked Paulie.
‘Who was with you?’
Paulie realised there was another man standing with his back to the door and looked over his shoulder. He was slightly older than the man with the pen, wearing a green tweed jacket and black trousers. In his hand was the hood.
‘I want a solicitor,’ said Paulie.
‘No, you don’t,’ said the man at the door.
‘I want to phone my mum.’
‘Mummy’s boy, are we?’ said the man with the pen.
Paulie’s face flushed. ‘She’ll be worried about me.’
‘She’s going to be even more worried when she finds out what you did.’
‘I didn’t do nothing. Are you the cops?’
The man with the pen smiled and wrote something down on the pad. ‘We know your brother was with you. Who else?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The truck. The arms. Heavy stuff, Paulie. Very heavy stuff.’
Paulie swallowed. He could still taste the bile and he snorted, trying to clear his throat. ‘I don’t know anything about no arms.’
‘You know a kid died, Paulie?’ Paulie shrugged. ‘We know you were just a hired hand, Paulie. It’s not you we want. It’s the big boys. We want their names.’
‘You know what they do to touts.’
The man with the pen smiled thinly. ‘They’re going to do it to you anyway, Paulie. Unless you help, you’re as good as dead.’
Paulie’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ he said.
‘Oh yes we can,’ said the man at the door. ‘Besides, you’re here for your own protection.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘They know we’ve got you, Paulie,’ said the man with the pen. ‘And they know you’ll talk. You think they trust you to keep quiet? A boy like you?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Paulie. They think you’re spilling your guts right now. And the longer we keep you, the more they’re going to be convinced that you’re talking.’
‘You’re not the police?’ Paulie knew they weren’t RUC because the RUC took the IRA volunteers they arrested to their interrogation centre at Castlereagh. And wherever he was being held, it wasn’t Castlereagh. There were no cameras recording the interview and Paulie had been told that the police had to record all their questions.
‘No, we’re not. But we do have the right to screen you prior to RUC interrogation. You’ll know when that happens, Paulie, because you’ll be arrested and they’ll be over you like a rash. You’re better off talking to us, believe me. But if you really want us to hand you over to the RUC, we will.’
Paulie frowned in disbelief. ‘You will?’
The man sat back in his chair and tapped the pen on his notepad. ‘Sure. We could arrange that right now.’
Paulie stood up. ‘Okay. That’s what I want.’ The overalls were flapping around his legs and the sleeves hung down over his hands.
‘I can assure you that within twelve hours of putting you into police custody, you’ll be dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘The IRA won’t risk letting you live, Paulie. I can guarantee it. They’ll protect the big boys.’
‘Bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Paulie, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Who are you anyway?’
The man with the pen smiled. ‘Five,’ he said quietly. ‘MI5.’
Paulie felt his legs go weak. He sat down and ran his hands through his greasy, unwashed hair.
‘How’s that?’ shouted Cramer, standing with his hand on the door handle of the gleaming grey Mercedes 560 SEL.
‘Too posed,’ answered the photographer from the second- floor window. ‘Look to your right, then slowly move your head back.’ Cramer did as he was told amid a series of clicks and whirrs from the camera’s motordrive. ‘Better,’ shouted the photographer. ‘Okay, Su-ming, you can get out of the car now.’ Su-ming opened the car door and climbed out, a bored look on her face. The camera clicked again.
The Colonel stood at the entrance to the building, leaning on his stick and watching. Allan moved to stand in front of Cramer as if shielding him. The camera clicked again, like an automatic weapon firing rapidly. The Colonel stepped onto the gravelled drive and looked up at the photographer. ‘Get the driver as well, will you?’ he shouted. ‘And make sure Su-ming is in all the shots.’
‘Yes, boss,’ the photographer answered.
