“Alive and well and waiting for me over in the English Lake District, and the thing is he told me that if I needed a quick trip over there the man to see was Tony McGuire.”
“Did he indeed?”
“Oh, yes, told me he’d used you often in the old days.”
He stood there looking at her, a slight frown on his face, and then he said, “You’d better come in.”
THERE WAS A stove in the office, the pipes going up through the ceiling, a camp bed in one corner, a map desk, and an office desk cluttered with papers. McGuire lit a cigarette.
“So what do you want?”
“A quick trip to the Lake District.”
“And when would you want to go?”
“Now.”
He stared at her, shocked. “That’s a pretty tall order.”
“You do have a plane, don’t you?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Just one at the moment. The bank foreclosed on me and took my best plane, the Conquest, in lieu of debts, but I do have a Cessna 310.”
“So we could go?”
“I’ll show you.”
He led the way out and crossed to one of the hangars and rolled the rusting door back revealing a small twin-engined plane.
“How long would it take to get to the Lake District in that?”
“Probably about an hour.”
“Good. I’ll take it.”
“Steady on,” he said. “First of all, it needs refueling and I’ll have to do that by hand and that takes time.” He turned and looked up at the sky. “And the weather stinks. I’d need to wait to see if it would clear.” He turned to look at her. “And then we have to decide where we’re going.”
“As close as possible to a place called Marsh End. It’s south of Ravenglass.”
“All right, let’s go back to the office and I’ll check in Pooley’s Flight Guide. That shows every airfield and airstrip in the U.K.”
HE LEAFED THROUGH the book for a while and then paused. “I remember this place, Laldale. It was an emergency field for the RAF in the Second World War. I landed there once about fourteen years ago. There’s nothing except a load of decaying buildings and an airstrip.”
“So we can go?”
“Well, we’d need to land at somewhere with Customs and Security facilities first.”
“Three thousand dollars,” she said, “and we fly there direct.”
She pulled up the false bottom of her shoulder bag and produced several wads of American dollars obviously to a much greater amount, and McGuire’s throat went dry. He swallowed hard and managed to speak.
“Is this some political thing? I know what your uncle and his people get up to. I don’t want trouble. I mean, those days are gone.”
“Five thousand,” she said and held the money out. “How long did you say it would take?”
“An hour,” he said hoarsely.
“An hour there and an hour back. I’d say five thousand dollars was good pay. Here, I’ll count it out while you go and refuel.”
She sat at the desk, took out wads of dollars, and started to count. McGuire watched, fascinated, and licked his lips.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll refuel the plane.”
He almost ran across the broken tarmacadam of the runway to the hangar, and the one image that wouldn’t go away was the sight of all those dollar bills coming out of her shoulder bag.
AT THE SAME moment, the Sea King helicopter landed at Whitefire Air-Sea Rescue base. The rotors stopped and as Dillon and Hannah Bernstein emerged a Range Rover pulled up, a Royal Navy Lieutenant-Commander got out.
“My name’s Murray. You’ll be Brigadier Ferguson’s people.”
“That’s right,” Hannah said.
“He’s due to land in ten minutes. I’ll take you along to the mess and you can have a coffee.”
They got in the Range Rover and he drove away.
TONY MCGUIRE CAME into the office and found her sitting by the stove.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Your five thousand dollars are on the table.” He went and picked them up, a bundle in each hand. “Count them if you like,” she said.
“What the hell, I trust you.” He went and unlocked an old-fashioned safe in the corner and put the money inside.
“Can we go now?” she said.
“I don’t see why not.”
He turned and led the way out. As they walked across to the hangar, she said, “Can we get away with it?”
“Oh, sure,” McGuire said. “There’s more unrestricted air space out there than people realize, and if I approach the coast of the Lake District at under six hundred feet I won’t even show on radar.”
“I see.”
They went into the hangar, she climbed over the wing, and took the seat directly behind the pilot’s. McGuire climbed in and closed the door. He fired one engine, then the other and turned.
“Okay?” She nodded. “Here we go, then.”
He taxied out onto the runway, bumping over holes, and turned into the wind at the far end. There was a slight pause and they moved forward. He boosted power and they lifted up into the mist and rain.
IN THE OFFICERS’ mess at Whitefire, Dillon and Hannah were having a cup of tea when Lieutenant-Commander Murray came in with Ferguson.
“Here you are, Brigadier,” he said.
Ferguson gave him his best smile. “I’d appreciate a word with my people, Commander. Ten minutes? After that we’ll leave in that Sea King for the destination I’ve indicated on the map.”
“As you say, Brigadier.”
Murray saluted and withdrew. Ferguson turned and smiled. “Is that tea? I really would appreciate some, Chief Inspector.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hannah found a clean cup and poured. Ferguson said, “You have been having a ball, Dillon, haven’t you?”
“Well, it’s been complicated, I’ll say that.”
Ferguson accepted the cup of tea from Hannah. “And your usual kill ratio I see. Barry, Sollazo, and Mori. Really, Dillon, you constantly remind me of the tailor in the fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm who boasted of having killed three at one blow, only in his case it turned out to be flies on a piece of jam and bread.”
“Jesus, Brigadier, have I disappointed you again?”
“Don’t be silly, Dillon. What about the girl?”
“She’s quite mad,” Hannah Bernstein said. “Whatever mental state she was in before is one thing, but this business of the death of her uncle has put her right over.”
“So you think she’ll turn up at Folly’s End?”
“She doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” Dillon told him.
“All right, calm down.” Ferguson put his cup on the table. “Let’s go and see, shall we?”
MARY POWER WAS feeding the chickens at her back door, a black and white sheepdog at her side. It was late afternoon, darkness tingeing the sky on the distant horizon. She finished with the chickens, then went in search of Benny and found him in the barn sitting at the tackle table cleaning the barrels of a shotgun.
“There you are. Did you see to the sheep in the north meadow?”
He nodded eagerly. “I brought them down,” he said in his slow pedantic way. “And put them in the paddock.”
“You’re a good lad, Benny.”
He reached for an ammunition box, took out two cartridges, loaded the gun, and snapped the barrels up. For a moment it pointed at her and she cuffed the side of his head and pushed the shotgun to one side.
“I’ve told you before. Never point it at anyone. Guns are bad.”
“But the fox might come again,” Benny said slowly. “Last time he killed twelve chickens.”
“Well, you get the bastard when he comes, but don’t shoot me,” she said. “Now come and have your break. Cup of tea and that nice fruit cake I made.”
He put the shotgun on the table and followed her out.
THE CESSNA 310 came in from the sea at four hundred feet and banked to starboard. A few moments later it dropped in at the end of the runway at Laldale and taxied toward the far end. McGuire turned into the wind and switched off the engines. Kathleen reached for the door handle.