The dog whined and Bridget called across the yard, “Come away in, Dermot.”
She was in her early sixties and looked older, a stout, motherly looking woman with the red cheeks that came from country living, and white hair. When Dermot had arrived on her doorstep by night she had been overjoyed. The shock of seeing him in the flesh when she had thought him in prison was almost too much to bear. Of course, he’d told her his presence had to be kept a secret for the time being until he got himself sorted out with the IRA. She’d found blankets and pillows and driven him half a mile up the track in her old jeep to the barn at High Meadow, where they dealt with the sheep in lambing season. There was a room with a secret door above the loft and Riley had used it often in the old days when on the run.
“You manage here until I see old Colin and Peter and tell them to take a week off,” she said, referring to the two pensioners who worked at the farm part-time.
But in the morning, Bell and Barry had arrived from Dublin in a silver BMW, truly frightening men who had asked about Dermot. She’d lied through her teeth, which was a thing she didn’t like to do as a good Catholic, had insisted Dermot was in prison. Two things had helped. When they interrogated Colin and Peter, the two old men were genuinely bewildered, had also insisted that Dermot was away in prison in England, and were patently telling the truth. Secondly, Bridget had been able to produce a letter written by Dermot in Wandsworth only ten days before.
The two men had insisted on searching the house and farm buildings. Barry, who was six feet three and built like a wall, told her in a low, dangerous voice as they were leaving, “You know who to phone in Dublin if he turns up, you’ve done it over the years. He has nothing to worry about. The Chief wants words, that’s all.”
Not that she’d believed him, not for a moment.
In the kitchen, she passed him an egg sandwich and a mug of tea. “You’re spoiling me,” Dermot said.
“Ah, you’re worth spoiling.” She sat at the table and drank tea herself. “What happens now, Dermot? Bad enough to be on the run from the police, but the IRA is something else.”
“I’ll make my peace. All I need is a chance to tell my side of the story. It’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”
“And you’ll stay?”
“I’m never going to leave again.” He grinned. “Find me a nice girl in the village and I’ll settle down.”
At that moment, Bell and Barry were approaching Tullamore in the BMW. Their meeting with the Chief of Staff had been brief.
“I’m concerned Riley’s been up to no good. He was last heard of leaving Wandsworth in the company of Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and we all know what that means. I want the bastard, so go back and get him for me.”
As they entered the village, it was Bell who noticed Colin and Peter emerging from the post office. “That’s interesting,” he said. “The two old men from the farm. Why aren’t they working?”
“Maybe they’re part-timers,” Barry said.
“But they’d still work mornings, that’s when all the hard work’s done,” Bell said. “Driving in the cows, milking, and so on. I know about these things, I was raised on a farm. I’m going to have words.”
Colin and Peter had vanished into Murphy’s Select Bar, and Bell followed them. At that time in the morning, there was only Murphy, the two old men with a pint of stout in front of each of them already, and a hard-looking young man in cloth cap, jacket, and jeans at the bar.
The old men stopped talking, frozen with fear, and Murphy, who knew very well who Bell was, turned pale. The young man drank some of his ale and frowned.
“Now then, you old bastards,” Bell said, “I don’t think you were telling the truth when we spoke yesterday.”
“Jesus, mister, I swear we were.”
“Then tell me one thing. Why aren’t you working?”
“It was the missus wanted to give us the day off,” Peter said.
“Hey, you,” the young man at the bar called. “Let them alone.”
Murphy put a hand on his arm. “Leave it, Patrick, this is IRA business.”
Bell ignored him. “So you haven’t seen Riley?”
“I swear to God I haven’t.”
Patrick moved in and tapped Bell on the shoulder. “I said leave them alone.”
Bell swung his right elbow backwards, catching him full in the mouth, and as Patrick staggered back, Barry, who had appeared in the doorway, gave him a vicious punch to the kidneys, which sent him on his knees. He stayed there until Bell pushed him over.
“Silly boy,” he called to Murphy. “Tell him to mind his manners in future,” and they left.
Barry took the wheel and drove out to the farm. He paused at the entrance where the truck from the dairy was parked, two men manhandling Bridget’s milk churns on board.
“Interesting,” Bell said. “She’s given her laborers a holiday, so how in the hell did that old woman manage those milk churns?”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Barry told him and drove along the track.
Bridget happened to be in the storeroom at the back when they arrived, so she didn’t hear them, and the Alsatian was up at the barn at High Meadow where Dermot was checking on some ewes. She came into the kitchen carrying a bag of flour and stopped dead in her tracks. Barry and Bell were standing just inside the kitchen door.
“You’re back,” she whispered and placed the bag of flour on the table.
“Yes, we are, you lying old bitch,” Barry said. He took a pace forward and slapped her across the face. “Now where is he?”
She was terrified out of her mind. “I don’t know, truly I don’t, Mr. Barry.”
“You’re a bad liar.” He slapped her again. Blood ran from her nose and he grabbed her hair and nodded to Bell, who lit a cigarette.
She started to struggle. He pushed her down across the table and Bell blew on his cigarette until it was red hot and touched her right cheek.
She screamed, writhing in agony. “No – please! I’ll tell you.”
Barry let her get up. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” he said to Bell and turned to Bridget, who was sobbing bitterly. “Where is he?”
“Half a mile up the track, the barn at High Meadow. There’s a room with a secret door above the loft. He sleeps there.”
Barry smiled. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?” and he and Bell walked out.
“Oh, Dermot, what have I done?” Bridget said and started to cry bitterly.
At High Meadow with the ewes, Dermot saw the flash of silver on the track below and knew he was in trouble. He hurried into the barn, Karl following. He couldn’t take the dog with him to the secret room, for any kind of a whine would give him away, never mind barking.
“Off you go, boy, home to Bridget.” Karl hovered uncertainly. “Go on, get moving!” Dermot told him.
This time, the Alsatian did as he was told. Dermot climbed the ladder to the loft, then clambered over bales of hay and got the secret door in the wood paneling open. He climbed inside. It was dark, just the odd chink of light, and he waited.
When Barry and Bell got out of the BMW, the Alsatian sat looking at them. “Get rid of that for starters,” Barry said, and Bell took out a Smith & Wesson revolver.
The moment he pointed it, Karl took off, scattering the sheep, making for the valley below. Bell laughed and put the revolver back in his pocket.
“A smart bugger, that dog.”
“Well, let’s see if Dermot is,” Barry said and led the way inside.
They stood looking up at the loft crammed with the bales of hay and Barry called, “We know you’re there, Dermot, so you might as well come out. Bridget was very forthcoming after a little persuasion.”
Dermot, in the darkness, almost choked with rage, but he didn’t have a gun, that was the thing, couldn’t take them on.
It was Bell who spoke now. “There’s a lot of straw in here, Dermot, not to say hay. If I drop a match, you’ll be in serious trouble. Of course, if you want to end up like a well-done side of beef, that’s your affair.”