He didn’t like that, but what could he do? We were all supposed to be pulling for the same team.

“You’re lucky, lads. The Colonel’s here. I think he’s down on the range. You’ll have to leave your weapons, gentlemen. Only authorised personnel are allowed to carry firearms inside the base.”

We left our guns and got directions to the range.

We walked down dreary concrete corridors illuminated only by buzzing strip lights. There were no windows and the sole decorations were posters on the wall warning about the dangers of booby traps, honey traps and other IRA tricks.

The honey trap posters showed an attractive blonde woman leading an unsuspecting squaddie into a terraced house with the caption “Who knows what’s waiting for you on the other side of the door?”

The range was on a lower level deep beneath the ground.

We knocked on the No Entry sign and a “range master” opened the door a crack. He was a sergeant carrying a machine gun. We explained our business with the Colonel.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until Lieutenant Colonel Clavert is finished. You need a range pass to get in here and only Colonel Clavert or Captain Dunleavy can issue those. Captain Dunleavy’s not on the base at the moment.”

We waited outside on uncomfortable plastic chairs.

The sound of gunfire was muffled and distant like it is in dreams.

Finally the Colonel appeared. He was dressed in fatigues. A tall man, with jet black hair, a trim moustache and large, round glasses.

He turned out to be English, which was something of a surprise. I introduced Matty and myself and explained why we had come by:

“We’re looking into the murder of Captain McAlpine and we wanted to ask a few questions about him.”

“I wondered when you chaps would finally appear.”

“We’re the first police officers to come here asking about McAlpine’s death?”

“Yes. And it’s been a while, hasn’t it? It was December when poor Martin copped it. Come with me to my office.”

The office was another windowless bunker.

Lime-green gloss plaint covering breeze blocks. A series of framed pictures of castles. A large wooden desk, pictures of wife and kids, a Newton’s cradle. The whole thing looked artificial, like a movie set.

Colonel Clavert offered us tea and cigarettes. We accepted both and a young soldier went off to make the former.

“Did you enjoy the range?” I asked conversationally.

“Oh, yes! It’s wonderfully relaxing. A friend of mine in the Irish Guards up at Bessbrook sent me down a batch of AK-47s they found in a weapons cache. We had them cleaned and oiled, found some ammo. Have you ever shot one of those? Ghastly things. But fun! Sergeant O’Hanlon proved himself something of a master. Trick is short bursts. Full auto is a disaster.”

I could see Matty rolling his eyes to my left.

The soldier came in with tea and biscuits. When he’d gone I got down to business.

“So, Captain McAlpine?”

Clavert nodded.

“Fourth man we’ve lost since I took command here. Such a shame. First-class fellow. We can’t replace him. Not with the riff raff we, uh …” he began and dried up quickly when he realised that he was talking out of school.

He went to a filing cabinet, and took out a file. He sat back down at his desk, thumbed through the file, read it, and closed it again.

“Can I take a look?” I asked.

Clavert shook his head. “Actually, old boy, I’m afraid not. We do not have a code-sharing arrangement with the RUC and this file has been marked SECRET.”

He had a young, open face, did Colonel Clavert, but now it assumed a pinched, irritated expression. He rubbed his moustache, but didn’t look the least embarrassed.

“I’m investigating the man’s murder,” I said.

“Be that as it may, you can’t see his file without authorisation from the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.”

“Why? What’s so bloody secret? Was he on a death squad or something? Going around shooting suspected IRA men in the middle of the fucking night?” I said, in a silly bout of frustration that I immediately regretted.

Clavert sighed. “Don’t be so dramatic, Inspector, it’s nothing like that … And if it was something like that, do you think I’d still have the file in a little cardboard folder in my office?”

“So, what is then?” I asked

He lit another cigarette and said nothing. He smiled and shook his head. Not only was the bastard disrupting the investigation, but I was losing face in front of Matty.

“This is a murder investigation,” I said again.

“Yes, Inspector. But I assure you that nothing’s amiss. We conducted our own inquiry into Captain McAlpine’s death. His killing was a random IRA murder. Nothing more.”

“What? Who conducted this inquiry of yours?”

“The military police, of course.”

“The military police? I see. And did you pass on your findings to us?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was an internal investigation.”

“This is why the IRA is going to win, because the left hand doesn’t know what the fucking right hand is doing,” I muttered.

“I don’t like that kind of talk. It shows a bad attitude,” the Colonel said.

I tapped the desk.

“Listen, mate, I won’t need to go to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. I’m investigating the murder of an American citizen. Captain McAlpine’s death is only an adjunct to a wider inquiry. The Consul General has been on the blower asking about this case and his boss is the United States Ambassador to the Court of St James. There’s this little thing going on in the Falklands Islands at the moment, you may have heard about it, and Her Majesty’s Government is doing everything it can to keep the Yanks fucking sweet, so if a call comes into your office this afternoon it won’t be from the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, it’ll be from the fucking Prime Minister and she won’t be pleased with you, I promise you that.”

Colonel Clavert’s thin, supercilious smile evaporated.

“Very well. I can let you read this, but I can’t allow you to make notes, photocopy or remove it from this office.”

He sighed and passed the file across the desk before continuing, “You’ll understand my caution when I tell you that Captain McAlpine was our district intelligence officer. He ran our informers.”

I understood. The UDR had its own network of informers and McAlpine was the man who was in charge of paying them and assessing their information. Of course the RUC had its own completely separate list of informers and it was rumoured that MI5 had yet another network of its own too. A really good tout could be getting three paycheques for the same piece of information.

I read the file carefully. It was low grade stuff about arms dumps, suspected IRA men, suspected UVF men, suspected drugs smugglers. The payments were small: fifty quid, a hundred quid. There was nothing dramatic here. I passed it to Matty. I could tell that he wasn’t impressed either. I read it again just to be on the safe side and then I spotted something. The penultimate entry about a week before McAlpine’s murder was from an informant, codenamed Woodbine, who “had seen a suspicious character hanging round the Dunmurry DeLorean factory carpark”. For this information McAlpine had paid Woodbine the princely sum of twenty pounds. I pointed out the word Dunmurry to Matty and he nodded.

“Who’s Woodbine?” I asked, passing the file back.

“One moment,” Colonel Clavert said.

He went to the filing cabinet and opened another file. “Woodbine, let me see, Waverly, Winston, Woodbine. Ah, yes, a chap called Douggie Preston.”

“Address?” I asked.

“11 Drumhill Road, Carrickfergus.”

We thanked the Colonel, stubbed out our cigarettes and were about to leave when he asked us if we were going to interview the widow McAlpine in the course of our inquiries.

“We might,” I said. “Why?”