'I was seventy miles from the scene of the crime when the bloody bomb went off! You knew that. That was stated in court!'
'You were the bomb builder, Tom. The bomb was gelignite, your signature explosive. There were traces of it on your clothing when you were arrested.'
'I built bombs, f'crissakes. I had traces of gelignite in me clothes every day of the week. What does it prove? That my bomb killed Mountbatten? No. It proves nothing.'
'Tom, listen to me,' Congreve said quietly. 'Mr. Hawke and I have come to Ireland to look at another suspect. Someone I was interested in at the time but was unable to build a case against. If we can find that man, and connect him to the murder, well, no guarantees, but it is very possible that your name could be cleared. At worst, your charge would be reduced to accessory to murder.'
'Would me sentence be reduced as well, then? Would I get me thirty years back? D'ya think so, sir?'
Hawke signaled the barmaid for another round and she delivered it promptly.
Hawke eyed the IRA terrorist, waiting until he had his undivided attention.
'Mr. McMahon. Chief Inspector Congreve is here because he thinks there is a possibility you may be innocent of some of the charges against you. Were I you, sir, I would treat him with a bit more respect. He is the only man on this planet in a position to right any wrongs that may or may not have been done to you. If you continue to address my friend in this abusive manner, we shall simply get up and leave you to your fate. Do you understand me?'
McMahon glared at Hawke for a second, saw the red glint of anger in the Englishman's eye that many had seen before, and said, 'Aye.'
'Good. In the summer before Lord Mountbatten was murdered, there were a series of brutal murders of young women in the north of Ireland. Were you aware of these murders?'
'Who wasn't? There was a maniac on the loose.'
'Did you know any of the victims?'
'No. They was all pretty young girls. I was a happily married man and didn't dabble. I didn't drink then, never set foot in a pub.'
'Why do you say that word? Pub?'
'He met them in pubs, didn't he?'
'Did he?'
'What everyone said. What do I know? I wasn't there, was I?'
'Did you ever hear anyone call the murderer by name?'
'Not that I recall, no.'
'A stranger. Any other strangers you can recall that summer?'
'Aye, there was one. Another feller. Right crazy, that lot.'
'Crazy in what way?'
'Told me mates he wanted to kill Mountbatten.'
Hawke looked at Congreve. 'Did this come out in the trial, Chief Inspector?'
'Yes. It was all hearsay, of course, just like this. The existence of this 'stranger' was never proved by the defense. No substantiation at all.'
'This crazy fellow, Mr. McMahon, exactly what did he want from your mates?' Hawke said.
'He wanted a bomb.'
'That's all?'
'No. He said he needed a boat as well.'
'A boat? Why?'
'Why? So he could slip inside this harbor in the dark of night and plant a bomb on the Shadow V, that's why. And that's just what he bloody well did, too. Have a look at the testimony, you'll see.'
'Where did he get the bomb?'
'From me mates. The bomb squad, we called ourselves back then. So we provided him with a bomb. That was the end of it.'
'Was it one of your bombs, Mr. McMahon?'
'Now, Mr. Hawke, how the devil would I know that? I wasn't the only IRA man building explosive devices in them days, as I told you. We practically had a bomb factory going full steam. Are ye going to drink that whiskey there or let her evaporate?'
Hawke slid the untouched glass across the table. McMahon lifted it and threw it back.
'You have any idea what this so-called stranger looked like?'
'How could I? Never saw his face, did I. Even at our meetings. No one did.'
'Why not?'
'Always wore a balaclava, didn't he? Secretive bastard, so they all said. No address. Rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody island.'
'Irish?'
'English.'
'How do you know he was English if, as you claim, you never saw his face?'
'His bleedin' accent, that's how. Spoke just like you, Mr. Hawke. A fuckin' toff if ever I heard one.'
Irish whiskey was beginning to get in the way of this interview and Hawke looked across at Ambrose. They both knew it was time to end it.
'Did this particular toff bastard have a name, Mr. McMahon?' Hawke asked, his tone flat and devoid of inflection.
'Doesn't everybody?'
'What was his, just out of curiosity?'
'Smith.'
'Smith. You're sure of that?'
'I said Smith and I meant Smith.'
'Thank you for your time, Mr. McMahon. If we have any further questions, we'll be in contact with you again. If you should remember anything you believe might help this investigation, here is my mobile number and Chief Inspector Congreve's. And, now, you'll excuse us.'
'Another whiskey afore you go?'
'You got your money. Have as many as you like.'
Hawke pushed back from the table and stood, wrapping his woolen scarf round his neck. 'Ambrose?' he said.
Congreve ignored him, staring at McMahon. 'Mr. McMahon, one more question if you don't mind. A moment ago you mentioned an island.'
'Did I then?'
'Yes, you did. You said 'rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody island.''
'Ah, I did say that, didn't I? What about it?'
'Do you by any chance remember the name of that island?'
McMahon grinned, showing a mouth stuffed with large yellowed teeth. 'It was a long time ago, Detective Inspector. Nigh on thirty years now. Memories fade.'
'Think harder.'
'It would cost you a bottle of Mr. Jameson's finest.'
Congreve signaled to the barmaid, ordered another bottle of whiskey.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE NAME OF THE ISLAND, THOMAS McMahon, if you please.'
'Right. Lamb Island, I think. Or, maybe Sheep Island it was. Hell, man, I dunno. Something like that.'
'Think, Mr. McMahon. I need to know the exact name of that island,' Congreve pressed.
'Mutton Island. That was it, all right. Mutton Island. Off Sligo.'
Congreve stood and paid the barmaid, taking the bottle of Irish whiskey from the tray and placing it before the
