“The last part is no recommendation to me,” she said.
“I know,” he told her. “But never make the mistake of lumping Devlin in with the kind of rubbish the IRA employs these days.”
He retreated into himself, suddenly sombre, and the car continued out into the Irish countryside, leaving the city behind.
Kilrea Cottage, the place was called, on the outskirts of the village next to a convent. It was a period piece, single-storeyed with Gothic-looking gables and lead windows on either side of the porch. They sheltered in there from the light rain while Brosnan tugged an old-fashioned bell pull. There was the sound of footsteps, the door opened.
“Cead míle fáilte,” Liam Devlin said in Irish. “A hundred thousand welcomes,” and he flung his arms around Brosnan.
The interior of the house was very Victorian. Most of the furniture was mahogany, the wallpaper was a William Morris replica, but the paintings on the walls, all Atkinson Grimshaws, were real.
Liam Devlin came in from the kitchen with tea things on a tray. “My housekeeper comes mornings only. One of the good sisters from the convent next door. They need the money.”
Mary Tanner was totally astonished. She’d expected an old man and found herself faced with this ageless creature in black silk Italian shirt, black pullover, gray slacks in the latest fashionable cut. There was still considerable color in hair that had once been black and the face was pale, but she sensed that had always been so. The blue eyes were extraordinary, as was that perpetual ironic smile with which he seemed to laugh at himself as much as at the world.
“So, you work for Ferguson, girl?” he said to Mary as he poured the tea.
“That’s right.”
“That business in Derry the other year when you moved that car with the bomb. That was quite something.”
She felt herself flushing. “No big deal, Mr. Devlin, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“Oh, we can all see that on occasions; it’s the doing that counts.” He turned to Brosnan. “Anne-Marie. A bad business, son.”
“I want him, Liam,” Brosnan said.
“For yourself or for the general cause?” Devlin shook his head. “Push the personal thing to one side, Martin, or you’ll make mistakes, and that’s something you can’t afford to do with Sean Dillon.”
“Yes, I know,” Brosnan said. “I know.”
“So, he intends to take a crack at this John Major fella, the new Prime Minister?” Devlin said.
“And how do you think he’s likely to do that, Mr. Devlin?” Mary asked.
“Well, from what I hear about security at Ten Downing Street these days, I wouldn’t rate his chances of getting in very high.” He looked at Brosnan and grinned. “Mind you, Mary, my love, I remember a young fella of my acquaintance called Martin Brosnan who got into Number Ten posing as a waiter at a party not ten years ago. Left a rose on the Prime Minister’s desk. Of course, the office was held by a woman then.”
Brosnan said, “All in the past, Liam, what about now?”
“Oh, he’ll work as he always has, using contacts in the underworld.”
“Not the IRA?”
“I doubt whether the IRA has any connection with this whatsoever.”
“But they did last time he worked in London ten years ago.”
“So?”
“I was wondering. If we knew who recruited him that time, it could help.”
“I see what you mean, give you some sort of lead as to who he worked with in London?”
“All right, not much of a chance, but the only one we’ve got, Liam.”
“There’s still your friend Flood in London.”
“I know, and he’ll pull out all the stops, but that takes time and we don’t have much to spare.”
Devlin nodded. “Right, son, you leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.” He glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. We’ll have a sandwich and perhaps a Bushmills together, and I suggest you go to your Lear jet and hare back to London. I’ll be in touch, believe me, the minute I have something.”
Dillon parked round the corner from Jack Harvey’s funeral business in Whitechapel and walked, the briefcase in one hand. Everything was beautifully discreet, down to the bell push that summoned the day porter to open the door.
“Mr. Harvey,” Dillon lied cheerfully. “He’s expecting me.”
“Down the hall past the Chapels of Rest and up the stairs. His office is on the first floor. What was the name, sir?”
“Hilton.” Dillon looked around at the coffins on display, the flowers. “Not much happening.”
“Trade, you mean.” The porter shrugged. “That all comes in the back way.”
“I see.”
Dillon moved down the hall, pausing to glance into one of the Chapels of Rest, taking in the banked flowers, the candles. He stepped in and looked down at the body of a middle-aged man neatly dressed in a dark suit, hands folded, the face touched with makeup.
“Poor sod,” Dillon said and went out.
At the reception desk, the porter picked up a phone. “Miss Myra? A visitor. A Mr. Hilton, says he has an appointment.”
Dillon opened the door to Harvey’s outer office and moved in. There were no office furnishings, just a couple of potted plants and several easy chairs. The door to the inner office opened and Myra entered. She wore skin-tight black trews, black boots and a scarlet, three-quarter length caftan. She looked very striking.
“Mr. Hilton?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Myra Harvey. You said you had an appointment with my uncle.”
“Did I?”
She looked him over in a casual way and behind him the door opened and Billy Watson came in. The whole thing was obviously prearranged. He leaned against the door, suitably menacing in a black suit, arms folded.
“Now what’s your game?” she said.
“That’s for Mr. Harvey.”
“Throw him out, Billy,” she said and turned to the door.
Billy put one rough hand on Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon’s foot went all the way down the right leg, stamping on the instep; he pivoted and struck sideways with clenched fist, the knuckles on the back of the hand connecting with Billy’s temple. Billy cried out in pain and fell back into one of the chairs.
“He’s not very good, is he?” Dillon said.
He opened his briefcase and took out ten one-hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band round them and threw them at Myra. She missed the catch and had to bend to pick them up. “Would you look at that,” she said. “And brand new.”
“Yes, new money always smells so good,” Dillon said. “Now tell Jack an old friend would like to see him with more of the same.”
She stood there looking at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, then she turned and opened the door to Harvey’s office. Billy tried to get up and Dillon said, “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Billy subsided as the door opened and Myra appeared. “All right, he’ll see you.”
The room was surprisingly businesslike with walls paneled in oak, a green carpet in Georgian silk and a gas fire that almost looked real, burning in a steel basket on the hearth. Harvey sat behind a massive oak desk smoking a cigar.
He had the thousand dollars in front of him and looked Dillon over calmly. “My time’s limited, so don’t muck me about, son.” He picked up the bank notes. “More of the same?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know you. You told Myra you were an old friend, but I’ve never seen you before.”
“A long time ago, Jack, ten years to be precise. I looked different then. I was over from Belfast on a job. We did business together, you and me. You did well out of it as I recall. All those lovely dollars raised by IRA sympathizers in America.”
Harvey said. “Coogan. Michael Coogan.”
Dillon took off his glasses. “As ever was, Jack.”
Harry nodded slowly and said to his niece. “Myra, an old friend, Mr. Coogan from Belfast.”