“You can never tell how a serious injury will affect a man,” said
Mr. Calder. This was, of course, before he had become professionally involved with Michael Finnegan.
“For the last year you’ve been acting as his runner, haven’t you?” said Elfe. “You must have got to know him well.”
“Him and his wife,” said Mr. Calder. “They were a great couple.” He thought about the unremarkable house at Banstead with its tiny flower garden in front and its rather larger kitchen garden at the back, both of which Michael Finnegan tended one-armed, hobbling down between whiles for a pint at the local. A respected man with many friends, and acquaintances, none of whom knew that he was playing a lonely, patient, dangerous game. His articles in the papers, his casual contacts, letters to old friends in Ireland, conversations with new friends in the pub, all had been slanted towards a predetermined end.
The fact was that the shape of the IRA’s activities in England was changing, a change which had been forced on them by the systematic penetration of their English groups. Now, when an act of terrorism was planned, the operators came from Ireland to carry it out, departing as soon as it was done. They travelled a roundabout route, via Morocco or Tunis, entering England from France or Belgium and returning by the same way. Explosives, detonators and other material for the job came separately, and in advance. Their one essential requirement was an operational base where materials could be stored and the operators could lodge for the few days needed for the job.
It was to hold out his house as such a safe base that every move in Michael Finnegan’s life had been planned.
“We agreed,” said Mr. Calder, “that as far as possible, Michael should have no direct contacts of any sort with the security forces. What the Department did was to lease a house which had a good view, from its front windows, of Michael’s back gate. They installed one of their pensioners in it, old Mrs. Lovelock—”
“Minnie Lovelock?” said Elfe. “She used to type for me forty years ago. I was terrified of her, even then.”
“All she had to do was to keep Michael’s kitchen window cill under observation at certain hours. There was a simple code of signals. A flower pot meant the arrival of explosives or arms. One or more milk bottles signalled the arrival of that number of operators. And the house gave us one further advantage. Minnie put it about that she had sublet a room on the first floor to a commercial gentleman who kept his samples there, and occasionally put up there for the night. For the last year the commercial gent was me. I was able to slip out, after dark, up the garden path and in at the back door. I tried to go at least once a month. My ostensible job was to collect any information Michael might have for us. In fact, I believe my visits kept him sane. We used to talk for hours. He liked to hear the gossip, all about the inter-departmental feuds, and funny stories about the Minister.”
“And about the head of the Special Branch?”
“Oh, certainly. He particularly enjoyed the story of how two of your men tried to arrest each other.”
Elfe grunted and said, “Go on.”
“And there was one further advantage. Michael had a key of this room. In a serious emergency he could deposit a message – after dark, of course – or even use it as an escape hatch for Sheilagh and himself.”
“Did his wife know what he was up to?”
“She had to be told something, if only to explain my visits. Our cover story was that Michael was gathering information about subversion in the docks. This was plausible, as he’d done an Intelligence job in the Marines. She may have suspected that it was more than that. She never interfered. She’s a grand girl.”
Elfe said, “Yes.” And after a pause, “Yes. That’s really what I wanted to tell you. I’ve had a word with your chief. He agrees with me. This is a job we can’t use you in.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Calder coldly. “Why not?”
“Because you’d feel yourself personally involved. You’d be unable to be sufficiently dispassionate about it. You knew Finnegan and his wife far too well.”
Mr. Calder thought about that. If Fortescue had backed the prohibition it would be little use kicking. He said, “I suppose we
are
doing something about it.”
“Of course. Superintendent Outram and Sergeant Fallows are handling it. They’re both members of the AT squad, and very capable operators.”
“I know Tom Outram,” said Mr. Calder. “He’s a sound man. I’ll promise not to get under his feet. But I’m already marginally involved. If he wants to question Sheilagh he’ll have to do it at my cottage. I moved her straight down there as soon as I heard the news. Gave her a strong sleeping pill and put her to bed.”
“They wondered where she’d disappeared to. I’ll tell them she’s living with you.”
“If you put it quite like that,” said Mr. Calder, “it might be misunderstood. She’s being chaperoned, by Rasselas.”
“I think,” said Superintendent Outram, “that we’d better see Mrs. Finnegan alone. That is, if you don’t mind.”
He and Sergeant Fallows had driven out to Mr. Calder’s cottage, which was built on a shoulder of the North Downs above Lamperdown in Kent.
“I don’t mind,” said Mr. Calder. “But you’ll have to look out for Rasselas.”
“Your dog?”
“Yes. Mrs. Finnegan’s still in a state of shock, and Rasselas is very worried about it. The postman said something sharp to her – not meaning any harm at all – and he went for him. Luckily I was there and I was able to stop him.”
“Couldn’t we see her without Rasselas?”
“I wouldn’t care to try and shift him.”
Outram thought about it. Then he said, “Then I think you’d better sit in with us.”
“I think that might be wise,” said Mr. Calder gravely.
Sheilagh Finnegan had black hair and a white face out of which looked eyes of startling Irish blue. Her mouth was thin and tight and angry. It was clear that she was under stress. When Outram and Fallows came in she took one look at them and jerked as though an electric shock had gone through her.
Rasselas, who was stretched out on the floor beside her, raised his head and regarded the two men thoughtfully.
“Just like he was measuring us for a coffin,” said Fallows afterwards.
Mr. Calder sat on the sofa, and put one hand on the dog’s head.
It took Outram fifteen minutes of patient, low-keyed questioning to discover that Mrs. Finnegan could tell him very little. Her husband, she said, had suggested that she needed a break, and had arranged for her to spend a week in a small private hotel at Folkestone. She wasn’t sorry to agree because she hadn’t had a real holiday in the last three or four years.
Outram nodded sympathetically. Had the holiday been fixed suddenly? Out of the blue, like? Sheilagh gave more attention to this than she had to some of the earlier questions. She said, “We’d often talked about it before. Michael knew I had friends at Folkestone.”
“But on this occasion it was your husband who suggested it? How long before you left?”
“Two or three days.”
“Then it
was
fairly sudden.”
“Fairly sudden, yes.”
“Did he give any particular reason? Had he had an unexpected message? Something like that.”
“He didn’t say anything about a message. I wouldn’t have known about it, anyway. I was out at work all day.”
Outram said, “Yes, of course.”
There was nothing much more she could tell them. A quarter of an hour later the two men drove off. As their car turned down the hill they passed Mr. Behrens, who was walking up from Lamperdown. Mr. Behrens waved to the superintendent.
“Looks a genial old cove,” said Sergeant Fallows.
“That’s what he looks like,” agreed Outram.
When Mr. Behrens reached the cottage he found Mr. Calder and Sheilagh making coffee in the kitchen. They added a third cup to the tray and carried it back to the sitting room where Rasselas was apparently asleep. By contrast with what had gone before it was a relaxed and peaceful scene.
Mr. Calder tried the coffee, found it still too hot, put the cup carefully back on its saucer, and said, “Why were you holding out on the superintendent?”
“How did you know I was holding out?”
“Rasselas and I both knew it.”
Hearing his name the great dog opened one brown eye, as though to confirm what Mr. Calder had said, and then shut it again.
“If I tell you about it,” said Sheilagh, “you’ll understand why I was holding out.”
“Then tell us at once,” said Mr. Behrens.
“Of course I knew something was in the wind. I didn’t know exactly what Michael was up to. He was careful not to tell me any details. But whatever it was he was doing, I realised it was coming to a head. That was why he sent me away. He said it shouldn’t be more than two or three days. He’d get word to me as soon as he could. That was on the Friday. I had a miserable weekend, you can imagine. Monday came, and Tuesday, and still no word. By Wednesday I couldn’t take it any longer. What I did was wrong, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.”
“You went back,” said Mr. Calder. He said it sympathetically.
“That’s just what I did. I planned it carefully. I wasn’t going to barge in and upset all Michael’s plans. I just wanted to see he was all right and go away again. He’d given me a key of that room in Mrs. Lovelock’s house. I got there after dark. There’s a clear view from the window straight into our kitchen. The light was on and the curtains weren’t drawn.”
As she talked she was living the scene. Mr. Behrens pictured her, crouched in the dark, like an eager theatre-goer in the gallery staring down onto the lighted stage.
She said, “I could see Michael. He was boiling a kettle on the stove and moving about, setting out cups and plates. There were two other people in the room. I could see the legs of a man who was sitting at the kitchen table. Once, when he leant forward, I got a glimpse of him. All I could tell you was that he was young and had black hair. The other was a girl. I saw her quite plainly. She was dark, too. Medium height and rather thin. The sort of girl who could dress as a man and get away with it. I got the impression, somehow, that they’d just arrived, and Michael was bustling about making them at home. The girl still had her outdoor coat on. Maybe that’s what gave me the idea. Just then I saw another man coming. He was walking along the road which runs behind our kitchen garden, and when he stopped, he was right under the window where I was sitting. When he opened the gate I could see that he was taking a lot of trouble not to make any noise.
“He shut the gate very gently, and stood there for a moment, looking at the lighted kitchen window. Then he tip-toed up the garden path and stood, to one side of the kitchen window, looking in. That’s when I saw his face clearly for the first time.”
Sheilagh was speaking more slowly now. Mr. Calder was leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Rasselas was no longer pretending to be asleep. Mr. Behrens could feel the tension without understanding it.
“Then he seemed to make up his mind. He went across to the kitchen door, opened it, without knocking, and went in quickly, as though he was planning to surprise the people inside. Next moment, someone had dragged the curtains across. From the moment I first saw that man I knew that he meant harm to Michael. But once the curtains were shut I couldn’t see what was happening.”
“You couldn’t see,” said Mr. Calder. “But could you hear?”
“Nothing. On account of Mrs. Lovelock’s television set in the room just above me. She’s deaf and keeps it on full strength. All I could do was sit and wait. It must have been nearly an hour later when I saw the back door open. All the lights in the house had been turned out and it was difficult to see but Michael was between the two men. They seemed to be supporting him. The girl was walking behind. They came out and turned up the road. Then I noticed there was a car parked about twenty yards further up. They all got into it. And I went on sitting there. I couldn’t think what to do.”
There was a moment of silence. Neither of the men wanted to break it. Sheilagh said, “I do realise now that I should have done something. I should have run down, screamed, made a fuss. Anything to stop them taking Michael away like that. But I didn’t know what was happening. Going with them might all have been part of his plan.”
“It was an impossible situation,” said Mr. Calder.
“When you thought about it afterwards,” said Mr. Behrens, “am I right about this? You got the impression that things had been going smoothly until that other man arrived, and that he was the one who upset things.”
“He was the one who gave Michael away,” said Sheilagh. “I’m sure of it.” There was a different note in her voice now. Something hard and very cold.
“I agree with Calder,” said Mr. Behrens. “You couldn’t have done anything else at the time. But as soon as you knew that things had gone wrong for Michael why didn’t you tell the police everything that you’ve just told us. Time was vital. You could give a good description of two of the people involved. Surely there wasn’t a moment to lose.”
Sheilagh said, “I didn’t go to the police because I recognised the man, the one who arrived on foot. I’d seen his photograph. Michael had pointed it out to me in the paper. I only saw him clearly as he stood outside the lighted window, but I was fairly certain I was right.” She paused, then added, “Now I’m quite certain.”
Both men looked at her.
She said, “It was Sergeant Fallows.”
The silence that followed was broken unexpectedly. Rasselas gave a growl at the back of his throat, got up, stalked to the door, pushed it open with his nose, and went out. They heard him settling down again outside.
“That’s where he goes when he’s on guard,” said Mr. Calder.
There was another silence.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Sheilagh. “You both think I’m crazy, but I’m not. It
was
Fallows.”
“Not an easy face to forget,” agreed Mr. Calder, “and it would explain something that had been puzzling me. We’d taken such tight precautions over Michael that I didn’t see how they could suddenly have known that he was a plant. He might eventually have done something, or said something, which gave him away. They might have got suspicious. But not certain. Not straight away. It could only have happened like that if he was betrayed, and the only person who could have betrayed him was someone working in the Squad.”