knew there was more, the misery-milking, sorrow-sucking fuck.
I sighed in resignation. ‘I found out recently that my mother almost died during my birth and that we’d both been very ill afterwards. She couldn’t bear any more children after that, I’d say physically or mentally. Over those first few years, I didn’t sleep very much and she got prescribed tranquilisers. She’s been hooked on them ever since. So basically I ruined my dad’s life, and he’s hated me for it ever since.’
There you have it, you nosy little prick. Happy now?
‘Any siblings?’
‘One older brother. Of course, he’s brilliant at everything. I could never outshine Golden Boy.’
The bitterness with which I imparted that last line shocked me. Did I resent Fintan? Had I been holding him responsible all this time?
Swartz breathed in and out hard through his nostrils, sated.
‘What do you think your mother would like to happen?’
‘Well, obviously she’d like me and Da to patch things up, get on.’
‘Do you think you can ever find inner peace while you have this impasse with your father?’
‘Well, it’s not like we used to be best buds, is it? I’ve borne his disappointment all my life. Now’s no different, it’s just more … official.’
‘What do you think is the cause of your insomnia?’
‘With respect doctor, that’s like asking me “What do you think is the cause of my fuzzy hair?” Your hair is just fuzzy, like Shredded Wheat. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
He studied me thoughtfully, caressing his Shredded Wheat beard. I sat there absently, wondering why they all felt compelled to sport beards. Some sort of academic Beard Pressure?
‘I can’t sign you off until you at least attempt to address your insomnia,’ he announced, finally.
‘But that’s got nothing to do with why I’m suspended,’ I protested.
‘It’s got everything to do with your mental health, Donal. If I sign you off and you blow up again … well, they could wash their hands of both you and me.’
‘I’ve seen specialists about it. No one can help.’
‘You have to help yourself. You need to address the worm. Sort things out with your father. Or at least try to. Do your bit, see what happens.’
I shook my head and shot to my feet: ‘It’s not that simple, doctor. Besides, like I say, that’s got absolutely nothing to do with the reason I’m here. I’m afraid I’ll be seeking a second opinion.’
As I walked to the door, that puff of madness found me.
‘Let’s not forget Swartz,’ I raged. ‘I’ve been sent here because of a single provoked incident, a moment of madness. To drag some random issue from my personal life into it, then use it against me … well, it’s outrageous …’
He didn’t even look up.
‘I had a son like you,’ he said finally, quietly.
That shut me up. They never talk about themselves.
‘He joined the army just to spite me really. He was a bloody musician, not a soldier.’
His eyes studied the carpet, softening.
‘You always think you have time to sort these things out, but you don’t.’
He sighed sadly. ‘He got killed in 1982, in the Hyde Park bombing.’
I shuddered at the memory. The IRA had planted two devices. The first, a car bomb, killed three members of the household cavalry. The second exploded under a bandstand in Regent’s Park, killing eight soldiers as they played songs from the musical Oliver to a crowd of lunching workers and tourists.
He looked up, his eyes manic now, hunting for understanding.
‘He was 22, same age as you.’
‘Oh Christ,’ I whispered, shame flooding me, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘The idiot boy who planted the bomb was also 22. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. They say now the authorities ignored a warning. They let it go off.’
He shook his head, his gaze somehow peering inwards.
‘It’ll be eleven years in July. His mother has never got over it.’
‘And you?’ I said, unable to resist turning inquisitor on a shrink.
‘I’ve forgiven them, Donal. She hates me for it, but I don’t see any other way.’
Those eyes flashed agony.
‘Anyway,’ he sniffed, snapping back to the present, ‘wasn’t it Wilde who said always forgive your enemies, because nothing annoys them so much?’
He laughed. I sensed it was that, or cry.
‘I couldn’t forgive.’
He didn’t react. ‘Well, we hear now that the government is talking to the IRA, trying to thrash out a ceasefire. If I can forgive, and they can sit and talk peace, then surely you and your father can give it a go?’
‘I tried before, several times,’ I protested.
His wet eyes begged mine, like a starving dog’s.
‘I’m still seeking a second opinion, doctor,’ I said.
‘I just hope you get a second chance,’ he said flatly, looking away to release me.
That night, two vivid dreams terrified me awake. Those same nightmares have been haunting me ever since.
At least I hope they’re nightmares. Because if either of them is a premonition, Da’s in grave danger. And I’m the only person who can help him.
Darius looped the holes and I got my badge back. But we’d been sneaky, petty and the Met wouldn’t let it go. They agreed to reinstate me so long as I didn’t work on ‘live’ cases. After all, that had been the root of ‘all my trouble’ last time around. And so they buried me here in their Cemetery with full Acting DC honours. Now it was my job to break out.
My arrival made us ‘The Filthy 13’. But our odd-numbered battalion of outcasts didn’t follow a granite-souled pilgrim like Lee Marvin. No, we fell in behind a kindly old duffer named Detective Superintendent Simon Barrett – known as ‘Claret Barrett’ on account of his poorly disguised drink problem, or ‘Carrot’ Barrett because of his red hair and crippling inability to ever wield the stick. But Barrett’s soft-touch leadership made him an ideal boss for what had become the Force’s cushiest number. After all, the Cold Case Unit had recently acquired the most effective stealth weapon in criminal justice history.
The development of ‘genetic fingerprinting’ in the late 1980s had turned ‘DNA’ into the by-word for belated justice. There was no place you could hide from DNA – it was all conquering, infallible, omnipotent.
As the dispensers of Justice’s indomitable new truth serum, our unit had recently cracked some of the country’s most iconic unsolved murders. Of course the media – tireless proponents of a flat, black-and-white earth – depicted us as a dynamic squad of avenging angels, hoofing down doors and meting out justice to the worst kind of killers – the ones who’d beaten the system and ‘gotten away with it’.
The truth was rather more mundane: DNA fingerprinting proved to be pretty much all we had. And so we approached every unsolved case in the same way. We’d take DNA samples from either all of the suspects in the original case or every man of a certain age in the local area. Meanwhile, we commissioned the Forensic Science Service (FSS) to re-test all of the original exhibits using the latest DNA fingerprinting techniques.