Drink With the Devil (28 page)

“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.”

H
E 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.

A
T 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.

T
ONY
M
C
G
UIRE 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.

I
N 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?”

M
ARY
P
OWER 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.

T
HE
C
ESSNA
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.

He said, “I’ll get that for you,” and opened it. “You first.”

She went out over the wing, put a foot on the little passenger ladder, and reached the ground and McGuire followed her. The mountains were shrouded in mist, and the rain was a persistent damp drizzle.

“You know where you’re going?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, I can walk.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“It’s just three or four miles.”

“Only I was thinking about all that money in your shoulder bag. I mean, anything might happen.” He reached and grabbed it from her.

He stood there beside the plane scrabbling in the bottom of the bag and found the rest of the dollars. “Jesus Christ!” he said.

“Bastard,” Kathleen Ryan told him. “You’re all bastards,” and she took out the Browning and shot him twice in the heart.

McGuire bounced against the wing and fell to the ground. She picked up the bag, slipped the strap over her shoulder, turned, and walked away.

A
T
F
OLLY’S
E
ND
, Benny was forking hay in the loft of the barn when Mary Power went in search of him. “I’ve done lamb stew. Do you want dumplings?”

Benny nodded eagerly. “I’d like that.”

Suddenly the air was filled with noise, an incredible roaring. Mary turned in alarm and ran into the yard, Benny following her, and the Sea King helicopter descended into the meadow beside the farm. The rotors stopped and Charles Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon got out.

Dillon ran forward and Mary said in amazement, “Martin? Martin Keogh, is that you?”

“As ever was, Mary. Has Kathleen been here? Kathleen Ryan?”

She looked bewildered. “No, should she be?”

Dillon turned and shook his head to Ferguson, who still stood by the helicopter. Ferguson leaned in and spoke to the pilot, then stood back and the Sea King rose into the air and banked away.

Ferguson came forward and smiled at Mary Power, who stood outside the barn door, Benny at her shoulder.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”

“Brigadier Charles Ferguson, Mrs. Power. Is the truck still in the barn?”

She went very pale. “The truck?” she whispered.

“Yes, is the truck still in the barn?” he said patiently.

It was Benny who answered. “Oh, yes, truck in the barn till Uncle Michael come back. Benny show,” and he turned and ran inside.

I
T WAS RAINING
hard now as Kathleen Ryan tramped along the Eskdale Road, a strange forlorn figure in her raincoat and beret, hands thrust into her pockets. She reached the gate with the sign
Folly’s End
, paused, then turned in and approached the farmhouse.

It was almost dark, fading fast, and there was no light in the house. She stood there in the yard remembering this place ten years ago, her uncle and Martin, and she ran a hand over her face. Was it then or now? And then she saw a glimmer of light at the door of the barn.

M
ARY
P
OWER AND
Benny sat at the tackle table. Benny was polishing an old pony saddle, Mary watching him. The door creaked open, a small wind lifted straw in the hay bales. Mary looked up and found Kathleen standing there.

“So you’ve come back, Kathleen Ryan?”

“I had to,” Kathleen told her. “It was meant to be from the beginning. Is the truck still here?”

“Oh, yes, it’s always been here. Your uncle Michael changed his mind. Told Benny not to dump the spare truck on the coast road after all. He came here after the robbery and exchanged them.”

“I know about that, he told me. He was afraid the crew of
Irish Rose
would try to steal the bullion. More than that, he was afraid he would have problems with the Army Council in Ulster. There was a man called Reid.” Kathleen shrugged, looking very tired. “He could have caused trouble. Can I see the truck?”

“Benny show,” he cried, got up, and moved to the back of the barn.

He tossed bales of hay to one side as if they were nothing, then pulled on the false wall, swinging it back. Kathleen went forward, turned the locking bar, and opened the doors and there was the bullion in its boxes.

Charles Ferguson said, “Miss Ryan, I believe?”

She turned and found Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon standing there. She stared at them blankly and then something stirred.

“Martin, is that you?”

“As ever was, Kate.”

“I’ve come for it, Martin, come for the gold like Uncle Michael wanted. We’ll beat the IRA at their own game.”

“It’s over, Kate,” he said. “We’re into peace now. We’ve got to give it a chance.”

“Peace?” She frowned as if having difficulty at taking the idea in at all and then her eyes blazed. “Peace with the Taigs?” She was like an avenging angel and her hand came out of her raincoat pocket holding the Browning. “You saved me, Martin, in the alley with those three bastards, remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“But you weren’t there the other time when I was fifteen and there were four of them.” It was as if she was choking. “Dirty, rotten Taig bastards. To hell with them for what they did to me. And Uncle Michael, he hunted them down personally. He killed each one himself.” The gun shook in her hand. “We have to stand and fight. We have to face the Catholic scum.”

And only at that moment did Dillon realize how truly mad she had become, but before he could speak it was Benny who interfered. He staggered forward, looking distressed, arms waving.

“No, Kathleen, guns bad. Mustn’t point guns.”

His hands fastened on her shoulders and she screamed, “Get away, Benny,” and her finger fastened convulsively on the trigger of the Browning and she shot him.

Benny cried out and fell back and Mary Power screamed, “No!” picked up the shotgun from the tackle table, thumbed back the hammers, and fired both barrels. Kathleen was lifted backwards off her feet into the hay bales, the Browning flying from her hand. Dillon ran to her and dropped to one knee.

She grabbed for his hand. “Martin, is that you?” Her body jerked once, then went very still.

Hannah crouched beside him as Dillon stayed there holding a hand. “She’s gone, Sean.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Benny, incredibly, got to his feet and stood, a hand to his side, blood oozing between his fingers. He looked shocked and dazed. Hannah examined him quickly and turned.

“Straight through his side. There’s an exit wound. He’ll live.”

Ferguson gently took the shotgun from Mary Power. “Oh, God, what have I done?” she asked.

“Not your fault, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll see to it personally.” He turned to Hannah. “Chief Inspector, I’d be obliged if you’d take her inside. And Benny. Do what you can.”

Hannah went and put an arm round her and led her out, holding her free hand to Benny to guide him. Dillon stood looking down at Kathleen Ryan. “You poor silly little bitch, I always knew there was something more.”