Controlled Explosions by Claire McGowan Read Free Book Online

and louder, until it was right on top of them.
    ‘That was good work,’ said Johnson. ‘Maguire’s daughter was nearly on the doorstep, I hear. The O’Keeffe girl had a gun. Could have been nasty if we hadn’t broken the brother in time.’
    ‘Is Paula all right?’ Bob was sitting in Johnson’s office, overlooking the town. The riot had at last burned itself out, like a fire starved of fuel. The protestors had wandered home, the streets empty except for torched cars and litter and stones. The last rays of sun touched the roofs of the town. It looked peaceful, a huddle of buildings cradled in the green hills. It looked like nothing bad ever happened there.
    ‘Aye, she’s grand. Upset, though. We took her down to see her da. She’s at her wee friend’s now.’
    Bob waited to hear why he’d been called in here, after such a long day, the blood and the bones and the sun burning into his head.
    ‘You were asking about the list,’ Johnson said.
    Bob readied himself. This was it. He’d had a good career. There were other things you could do at forty-eight … prisons, security … when you had no choice but to face something, you faced it. ‘There is one, then?’
    ‘Aye. Off the record.’ Johnson slapped something down on the table. Bob looked. For a moment he didn’t understand what he was seeing. That wasn’t his name. It was …
    ‘But he’s …’
    ‘He’s a liability. We couldn’t get him on that thing with his wife, but you saw him today. He’s a loose cannon. He’ll get someone killed sooner or later. Maybe himself.’
    ‘He’s Ca—’
    Johnson glanced at him. ‘The new police force of Northern Ireland will not be gerrymandered, Sergeant Hamilton. We need to be beyond reproach. We need to weed out the bad apples. And he is rotten. Him and that editor pal of his, they used to leak more than the bloody
Titanic
.’
    John O’Hara was eleven years dead and it didn’t seem right to impugn the man. ‘But the daughter,’ Bob said. ‘He’s bringing her up all by himself. Her mother—’
    ‘There’ll be a generous award,’ said Johnson. ‘And I’m sure the wean would like her da around more. Since he’s all she has.’
    Bob could hardly get the words out. ‘But he’s … no, sir, this can’t be. He’s the best officer I ever worked with. And he never gives up, not on a case, not on his wife, not on …’ He tailed off. PJ hadn’t given up on Bob, not even when the investigation into Margaret Maguire’s death went cold, tailed off into nothing. But Bob had given up on him.
    There was a silence. Johnson just looked at him.
    ‘Does he know?’ Bob looked down at the desk. It was arranged the way it had been for years, the phone, the jotter, the pencil tin. They were putting in computers now. He’d have to learn how to use one, and have a mobile phone and all that like the young ones did. If he wasn’t being put out, he’d have to learn to work in this new world.
    ‘We thought you could tell him. You were partners, after all.’
    Until the day Bob had gone round to arrest PJ in his own house. More of Johnson’s dirty work. He’d never forgotten the look on PJ’s face when he’d come to the door with the uniformed constable. That bad day back in 1993. And the wee lassie, staring at him with accusing eyes. Her mother’s eyes.
    ‘He’s in ward eight,’ said Johnson, passing Bob an envelope. ‘Send him our best. He can take his notice as sick leave.’
    ‘He’s out? Just like that?’
    Johnson gave him a look. It said –
I know you wanted this
. And Bob had, God help him, sometimes he had wanted PJ gone. Wanted it on the day in 1972 when they’d sent a Belfast Catholic to fill the vacant place left by Robinson getting blown to bits. Wanted it when PJ’s wife had gone and he’d refused to cooperate, refused to believe there were no signs of forced disappearance. Refused to see what was there, if only you looked.
    ‘Make your choice, Bobby boy. It’s this way or the high