The preliminary coroner’s report accepted accidental death as the most likely explanation for the events at Red Hall cottage, but some of the press still liked the love triangle twist that sucked in a “hero cop”.
As the story refused to die I began to think that maybe I could be in trouble. I had been ordered to keep away from Sir Harry McAlpine. I’d been told to yellow a case which I had subsequently investigated on my own time. I had concealed information from my superiors. And the fact that the only evidence – the piece of tattooed skin – linking Sir Harry with the death of Bill O’Rourke had been destroyed in the explosion did not help matters.
I had a harsh
Had I been given order X? Had I disobeyed said order … That kind of thing.
I knew my failures better than them: Sir Harry had escaped justice, Emma was dead. DeLorean – whatever the hell he was doing – was going to keep doing it as long the Northern Ireland Office let him and as long as he kept those precious precious jobs in Northern Ireland.
The press finally got bored of the story and the whole thing died for a while after my
All seemed normal down at Carrick RUC until one day, out of the blue, in June, I was summoned to a formal disciplinary hearing. This was the real deal: dress uniform, charges, and I was told that I would have to get myself legal representation.
The hearing convened in a civil service building in the centre of Belfast. The board was made up of old men. Their faces grey, their noses blue. They had joined the police during or perhaps just after the war, and the RUC back then was a different animal: a Protestant force for a Protestant people. The timing of the hearing made me more than a little nervous, for they had picked a moment when the story could be buried. The Argentinians were on the verge of surrendering in The Falklands. Scotland, England and Northern Ireland all had teams in the World Cup. Nobody would waste that much ink about a former hero now disgraced. They could fuck me up or let me off without anyone giving a damn.
The case against me was read out by a sleekit-looking chief inspector from the internal affairs unit. The meat of the O’Rourke case was barely mentioned at all. The only evidence the tribunal seemed interested in was what particular orders I had disobeyed and whether I had correctly followed RUC procedures. It was pure chicken shit.
And it dawned on me that this punishment was coming not from Belfast or London but from Washington, DC.
I had pissed off the Americans, and the Americans wanted to see me punished.
The old men on the board listened to the case against me, heard my defence, read their notes and retired to consider what should be done with me.
I waited.
The room was stuffy, but no one thought to open a window. The panel clearly were not going to be away for very long – and sure enough, they came back in after a pro forma fifteen minutes.
Chief Superintendent Pullman called my name. My RUC counsel gave me a nudge, which meant that I should stand. I stood to attention. My thumbs pointing down along the seam of my trousers. My heels together. My gaze steady. My dress uniform spic and span.
Chief Superintendent Pullman shuffled his papers, cleared his throat and read the verdict: “Detective Inspector Duffy, after long and careful deliberation, this tribunal has found that you have committed four separate breaches of the RUC code of conduct…”
The stenographer began recording my various infractions. She knew it was chicken shit, too. I mean, until very recently they were still beating suspects with rubber hoses down the Castlereagh Holding Centre – they couldn’t talk to me about breaches of their fucking code of conduct.
“You have disobeyed direct orders on several occasions. You have embarrassed the force on foreign soil …” Pullman continued.
Embarrassed the RUC? Our name is mud in America. Read the
Pullman continued talking. His lips moved, the other men nodded, I looked at them with contempt. Old men. Stupid men.
“… In conclusion, Inspector Duffy, it is with great regret that we must inform you of the unanimous judgement of this disciplinary panel.”
I swallowed and looked at a crack on the back wall.
“Effective immediately, you will be reduced to the rank of sergeant.”
“Back-dated to January first, 1982, your accumulated leave, personal days and other benefits will be similarly reduced to the benefits accruing to a sergeant.”
Okay so it was bad. I’d lost a rank. But if they let me stay in Carrickfergus I’d still get to lead a team of detectives. Maybe if I kept my nose clean for a year they’d quietly bump me up again to inspector. And if they posted me to a big station in Belfast, a DS could get himself involved in some of the more interesting cases …
Pullman took off his glasses and stared at me.
“Do you understand and accept the verdict of this tribunal?”
I was expected to respond in full for the benefit of the stenographer.
“Yes, sir, I am being demoted to the rank of detective sergeant with full loss of seniority and remission, sir!”
Pullman looked up at me with surprise.
“No, Duffy, you’ve misunderstood – you are being demoted to a sergeant in ordinary. You are being removed from the CID lists.”
My knees buckled.
An ordinary sergeant? I wasn’t going to be a detective?
A regular copper? A regular copper was little people. A regular copper was nothing.
I sat down again.
My lawyer looked at me to see if I was all right. He passed me the glass of water when he saw that I was not.
“Do you understand the verdict,
“Drink this,” my lawyer whispered.
I got back up and returned Pullman’s gaze right into his ugly mug.
“No, I don’t bloody understand it! This is bollocks! Have you any idea what it’s like out there? Have you any idea what it’s like to be out there on the line every day of your fucking life?”
Pullman shook his head at the stenographer who immediately stopped typing.
“Duffy, we appreciate your service and we take these measures with great regret. But you have embarrassed the name of the—”
“Fuck your regret and fuck all of you! And make sure you write that down, love,” I said.
I clicked my heels together, saluted and stormed out of the room.
They had a car for me but I went home by myself on the train.
It was full of school kids and I had to stand, enraged, the whole way. I got off at Downshire Halt and made for the off licence. I bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a six-pack of Bass.
I walked up Victoria Road.
“Oh, you look very nice, all dressed up,” Mrs Bridewell said, pushing a pram.
“Thanks,” I replied curtly.
I went into 113 Coronation Road, searched through my records and put on “Hellhound On My Trail” by Robert Johnson.
I ripped the uniform off my body and threw the police medal against the wall.
It bounced and nearly landed on the turntable.
I popped the first can of Bass.
“A sergeant in ordinary! I’ll fucking resign first. That’ll show you, you fucks,” I said.
