‘You’re here to rubbish Robbie, aren’t you? You’re trying to prove that he did something wrong.’
‘Please calm down, Mrs Carter,’ said Staniford.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ snapped Elaine. ‘I don’t know you but I knew Robbie and what sort of cop he was. What do you think he did?’
‘We’re not saying he did anything,’ said Staniford. He glanced at Ferguson.
‘It’s an ongoing investigation, Mrs Carter, that’s all we can tell you,’ said Ferguson.
‘It sounds to me as if you’re investigating her husband, not his murder,’ said Shepherd.
Staniford put up a hand to silence him. ‘Mr Pierce, I’m okay with you being here, but I’m not prepared to have you impede our investigation.’
‘I’m not impeding anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you’re here in connection with Robbie Carter’s murder, that’s all well and good. But if you’ve another agenda, it might be that Mrs Carter needs her solicitor present during questioning.’
‘The more you talk, the more you sound like a lawyer, Mr Pierce,’ said Ferguson, clearly annoyed.
‘I’m just someone who knows his rights,’ said Shepherd. ‘Presumably you have Mr Carter’s work diaries.’
‘They’re missing,’ said Ferguson. ‘In fact, there’s a lot of paperwork gone missing from Special Branch. And several of the men who worked with Robbie Carter seem to have developed either amnesia or early Alzheimer’s.’
‘Have you spoken to John Maplethorpe?’ asked Elaine. ‘He was Robbie’s boss. He’s a superintendent now.’
‘I can’t reveal details of our investigation, I’m afraid,’ said Ferguson.
‘John can speak for Robbie,’ said Elaine. ‘They were tight. John was a rock after Robbie was killed.’
‘Again, who I am or am not talking to is not something I can discuss with you,’ said Ferguson.
‘Get them out of my house, Jamie,’ said Elaine. She lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
‘What specifically is it you want from Mrs Carter?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I already said. Any diaries or notebooks Inspector Carter brought home, especially during the late eighties. Or any office paperwork.’
‘Do you have anything like that?’ Shepherd asked her. She shook her head. Shepherd looked back at the two detectives. ‘That’s that, then. Unless you’ve anything else you want to ask.’
‘That about covers it for the moment,’ said Ferguson, his eyes boring into Shepherd’s.
Staniford pulled out his wallet and offered a business card to Elaine. ‘Just on the off-chance, Mrs Carter, if you do find anything, please give us a call.’
‘Stuff your card where the sun doesn’t shine,’ she spat.
Ferguson picked up his overcoat. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Carter.’ He nodded at Shepherd. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again some time, Mr Pierce.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Shepherd.
Shepherd led the two detectives into the hallway and let them out. When he came back into the room Elaine offered him a cigarette. ‘Bastards,’ she said.
‘They’re just doing their job,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you’ve got to stand up to them or they’ll walk right over you.’
‘You sound like you know cops.’ She blew smoke at the ceiling.
‘I watch a lot of cop shows,’ he said, ‘but you were married to one, so you must understand where they’re coming from, right?’
She grimaced. ‘Those two aren’t concerned with policing,’ she said bitterly. ‘They’re political. They’re here to rubbish the work the RUC did during the years when they were all that stood between us and anarchy. Do you know how many members of the RUC were killed during the Troubles? Well, I do, Jamie. Three hundred and three. An average of one murder a month throughout the Troubles.’ She jerked a thumb at the door. ‘You think they know that? You think they care?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’ She gestured with her cigarette. ‘But them, they’re outsiders brought in by the British Government to shit on the work Robbie and the rest gave their lives for. They even changed the name of the force, Jamie. What the hell was wrong with “Royal Ulster Constabulary”? It was a name to be proud of, a name with a history that meant something. What is it now? The Police Service of Northern Ireland,’ she sneered, and took another drag on her cigarette. ‘Those bastards are here to prove that the RUC were the villains. Forget about the thousands the IRA murdered, forget about the bombings, the shootings and kneecappings. The IRA are the heroes because they put down their guns. And if they’re the heroes there have to be villains, and who do you think’s being lined up to play that role?’
She sagged on to the sofa, tears trickling down her cheeks.
‘I guess it’s part of the Peace Process,’ said Shepherd.
She shook her head vehemently. ‘It’s got fuck all to do with peace,’ she said. ‘I want peace, of course I do. We all do. No one wanted the killing except the psychopaths in the paramilitaries. But the way to do it was to draw a line and say, “We move on from there.” But that’s not what happened, Jamie. John Major and then Tony Blair just caved in and gave the IRA everything they wanted. The British want rid of Northern Ireland, and everything they’re doing is a step in that direction. Small steps, maybe, but the end result is that we’re slowly but surely being sold down the line. They open the prisons and release the murders and bombmakers. They castrate the RUC. McGuinness and Adams are invited around for tea at Number Ten.’ She stabbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘And what do I get? They want to dig up Robbie and piss on his corpse.’
She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. Shepherd sat next to her and put his arm round her. She rested her head on his shoulder. Shepherd knew that her tears weren’t for the political situation, but for her husband. It was Robbie she missed. He kissed the top of her head, and smelt her hair, hating himself for using her grief to get close to her but knowing that was exactly what he had to do. ‘It’s all right, love,’ he said softly.
‘It’s not fair,’ she sobbed.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘They killed him, Jamie. They shot him dead in front of me and there was nothing I could do.’
She shuddered, and Shepherd held her close, smoothing her hair with his right hand. ‘I’m sorry, love.’
She turned her face up to him, glistening with tears. ‘Jamie . . .’
Shepherd didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could tell her that would ease her pain.
‘Kiss me, Jamie. Please.’
Her hand slipped round his neck and she pulled him close, her mouth opening as she pressed her lips to his.
Shepherd felt something warm pressing against his back and a hand on his thigh. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at his clothes, piled untidily on an unfamiliar chair in the corner of the room. He closed his eyes again and cursed silently. His assignment had been to get close to Elaine Carter, not to climb into her bed.
‘I know you’re awake,’ she whispered.
‘How?’
‘Your breathing changed,’ she said.
Shepherd rolled over and smiled.
She smiled back. ‘Well, this is awkward,’ she said.
‘It’s fine,’ he said.
‘I don’t make a habit of sleeping with the neighbours,’ she said. ‘Mind you, old man Hutcheson was in his eighties and did smell a bit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.
‘For what?’ she asked. ‘What the hell do you have to apologise about?’
‘I sort of feel like I took advantage of you.’
Elaine sat up and wrapped the duvet round herself. ‘I’m a big girl, Jamie. I don’t let people talk me into doing things I don’t want to do. Are you thinking you made a mistake, is that it?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘What is it, then?’
