“Which it wasn’t.”
“Of course not. He was late because he called at Folly’s End and switched trucks. The bullion never went down with the Irish Rose because it was never on board. It’s locked away in that hidey hole at the back of the barn at the farm, at Folly’s End. Isn’t that the biggest laugh you’ve had in years?”
THE LAKE DISTRICT
1995
FIFTEEN
KATHLEEN RYAN COASTED in out of the mist and grounded on the slipway beside the jetty. She didn’t bother tying up, simply left the inflatable where it was, and went up to the quayside and crossed to the Loyalist. She went round to the yard at the rear and found Barry’s station wagon. When she tried the door it was locked. She stood there thinking about it. She had to get out of it, had to keep moving, so she crossed to the back door.
Kevin Stringer sat at the table drinking tea and reading yesterday’s newspaper. He looked up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Jack Barry’s keys for the station wagon, where are they?”
“On the sideboard.”
She reached for them and put them in her pocket. “I need my shoulder bag. I left it in the bedroom. I’ll go and fetch it, then I’ll be off.”
She went out and left Stringer there, very disturbed. It was quiet, no staff due in for a couple of hours, and for some reason he knew fear.
He heard her coming down the stairs and she came in. She’d got rid of the reefer coat she’d worn on the boat, was wearing a long raincoat and her old black beret. The bag hung from her left shoulder.
“Do you know where Ladytown is?”
“It’s on the far side of Newcastle on Dundrum Bay. You just follow the coast road.”
“How far?”
“Twenty miles.”
“Good, I’ll be away, then.” It was noticeable that the American accent had disappeared and now she had reverted to the hard Belfast accent of her youth.
Stringer got up and moved to block her way. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Jack?”
“Dead. Martin killed him, Martin Keogh. He killed Sollazo and the other fella, too. He’s still on the boat with that woman. I locked them in the cabin and came back in the inflatable.”
Her voice was flat and monotonous and Stringer felt strangely light-headed. “Not Keogh – Dillon. Have you lost your wits, girl? They can’t all be dead, not all three.”
“Oh, yes they are. Anyway, I’ll be off.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” He put his hands on her shoulders.
Her eyes seemed to burn in that pale face and she cried out, “Don’t put your hands on me, you Taig bastard.” She pulled the Browning from her right-hand pocket, jammed the muzzle against his side, and fired.
He gave a terrible groan and staggered back. “Damn you, you’ve done for me.”
She shot him again and he fell against the table and dropped to the floor. “Good riddance,” she said. “If I had my way I’d shoot the lot of you.”
She put the Browning back in her pocket and went out. A few moments later she drove away in the station wagon.
DILLON EASED THE Avenger into the side of the jetty and Hannah scrambled over with a line. He cut the engines, went over the rail to join her, and tied up.
“Right, let’s get moving.”
He took Hannah’s hand and they ran across the street in the rain going round the side to the yard at the back. Hannah peered cautiously in through the kitchen window.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone there,” she said, “and I see the station wagon has gone.”
“All right, in we go,” Dillon told her and took out his Walther.
There was the immediate pungent smell of cordite and then, of course, Stringer’s body. Hannah dropped to one knee and searched for a pulse. She looked up and shook her head.
“He’s quite dead.” She stood. “She doesn’t take prisoners, that girl. I wonder where she’s gone?”
“Look, she gave her uncle those pills to get him away from Barry and Co. to a hospital from where they thought they’d be able to do a runner. He died and she blames herself, but she is running and on her own now,” Dillon said.
“To the Lake District in England?”
“Where else, but how to get there?”
“Fly to Manchester and hire a car.”
“A possibility or maybe a private flight. Several old airstrips on that coast from the Second World War. You only have to look in Pooley’s Flight Guide.”
“It’s a possibility.” Hannah nodded. “And there was that strange remark she made back there on the boat. It’s there waiting for me…”
“And I’ll fly in out of the sea to get it,” Dillon said.
“She’s mad, Dillon, you do realize that? Did you notice she didn’t sound American anymore?”
“I know. She was talking pure Belfast just like the sixteen-year-old girl I saved on a dark street ten years ago, but never mind that now. We’ll go in the office and call Ferguson.”
FERGUSON AT HIS flat in Cavendish Square had only just awakened and he sat up in bed and listened calmly to what Hannah had to say.
When she finished he said, “Give me your telephone number.” She did so and he scribbled it down. “I’ll call back. Give me fifteen minutes.” He put the phone down, picked it up, and rang his office at the Ministry of Defence. When the duty officer answered he said, “Ferguson here. Put me on to Flight Information.”
WHEN THE TELEPHONE rang in the office at the Loyalist Hannah answered at once. “Brigadier?”
“There is a Royal Navy Air-Sea Rescue base at Crossgar on the Down coast only ten miles from you. You’re expected. From there you will be flown in a Sea King helicopter to the Air-Sea Rescue base at Whitefire. That’s on the Lake District coast near St Bees.”
“What then, sir?”
“I’m leaving the office now for Farley RAF base. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. They’ll have a Ministry of Defence Lear jet waiting for immediate departure. They tell me we’ll make Whitefire in forty-five minutes. We’ll helicopter to this Folly’s End place from there.”
“Fine, sir, looking forward to seeing you.”
“Stop being sentimental, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “Just move your arse,” and he put the phone down.
“Now what?” Dillon asked.
She filled him in quickly. When she was finished, she said, “What about Stringer?”
“Let the staff find him. Ferguson will handle the RUC later. Let’s get moving, girl dear,” and he opened the door and led the way out.
KATHLEEN RYAN FOUND Ladytown with no difficulty and she pulled over in the village square, got out and spoke to an old woman who was walking by with a poodle on a lead.
“Would you be knowing where there’s an airfield near here?”
“I would indeed, love. That would be Tony McGuire’s place.”
“And how would I get there?”
“About two miles on. Let me explain,” and the old woman went into detail.
IT WAS A sad sort of place, obviously run down and neglected. The sign on the gate said McGuire’s Air Taxis and the paint was peeling. The tarmacadam of the drive was pitted with holes, and she bumped along toward the administration buildings. There was a tower and two hangars and no sign of any planes.
She parked outside what looked like a World War Two Nissen hut and the door opened and a small, wiry man in jeans and an old black leather flying jacket appeared. His gray hair was close cropped and there was a watchfulness to him.
“Can I help you?”
“Would you be Tony McGuire?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Michael Ryan’s niece, Kathleen.”
McGuire said, “I haven’t heard of Michael in years. I thought he was dead.”