“Why is it you want to know about it?”
I sighed. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story.” I told him about the threats Angel had been getting, the photos and the stalking, about how we were sure the stalker was after something he thought Angel had. I explained about Janulevic sending Petr after me, and how we’d connected them both to this artefact and concluded that Janulevic thought Angel had it.
“Why would Angel have it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s all connected with her father’s death. We think. Someone sent her photos of her father being shot from his bike and killed. MI5 say he wasn’t working for them at the time. But if that’s so, why did someone kill him and make it look like an accident, and document the whole thing?”
Kennedy frowned. “You think he had the artefact?”
“I think that was why he was killed. I think someone thought he was transporting the Xe La and that’s why he was killed. But he didn’t have it, so they’re still looking, and they reckon his daughter must have it.”
“But why wait fifteen years?”
I raised my hands. “I don’t know.”
Kennedy crossed to a box of files on the far wall. “Greg Winter,” he said. “He came to me once about a—”
He looked up at me suddenly. “Spell Xe La,” he said, and I did.
“Have you seen it written down? Who told you it was spelled like that?”
I tried to think. Had anyone told me?
Kennedy grabbed a pad and a pen and wrote “Séala”. “Not Xe La. It’s Irish. You pronounce it the same way, more or less.”
He suddenly looked very excited.
“What does it mean? In Irish?”
“It means seal or mark. Like you might have on a letter, for instance. In terms of what you’re looking at, it’s a seal ring. Believed to have been forged for a king of Ulster, it fell into the possession of the evil elf Cluricaune, who hid it for centuries. The stories don’t have much interest in it other than saying it will grant the bearer his or her heart’s desire.”
Blimey.
“Do you know what it looks like?”
Kennedy shook his head. “I’ve a few books if you want to look through them…?”
I nodded, but my eagerness soon faded when I realised that the Irish “few” didn’t just apply to miles. It applied to books, too. There weren’t a few. There were bloody dozens.
I spent the rest of the day looking through all these fabulous old books—some of them texts on parchment—feeling very privileged. I learnt all sorts of great things about Celtic myths and legends—so much better than Greek ones! I kept having to get out Kennedy’s big fat Irish-English dictionary to translate things, and learnt a lot about Irish pronunciation. It’s quite simple when you get the hang of it. At least, I assume it would be. I didn’t quite get the hang of it, myself.
I hardy noticed it get dark, until Éibhlís came in and asked if I wanted anything to eat.
“I’ve made you a vegetable stew,” she said.
“It’s a Delia recipe…”
I smiled.
“Can’t go wrong with that.” I slipped a bookmark into the text and followed her out into the kitchen. I hadn’t seen Docherty since lunchtime, or Kennedy since he’d told me about the Séala. I hadn’t even thought to call anyone about it. I’d call Luke later, after tea.
But tea turned out to go on for hours, with Éibhlís and her father sparking off another debate, about the Euro this time, which I tried and failed to not get involved in.
“What do you mean, easier?” Kennedy roared.
“Well, you know, if I have to go to a lot of different countries, it’s a lot easier to have one currency in my wallet…”
“Exactly, but it’s not losing cultural identity,” Éibhlís said, and Kennedy looked mutinous.
“Well, no, not really…”
“Sophie,” Kennedy said, “did you not think the Irish Punt was a charming currency?”
I have to say it hardly crossed my mind and when it did, it was just that Punt was a funny word.
“Erm, well, yes, I suppose so…”
“And speaking as an English girl, you must have found it easier to use, what with being nearly the same as your own…”
“But what if she was French, Da?” Éibhlís asked. “Would she have found it easier then?”
“Ach, the French,” Kennedy said dismissively. “Stop your jawing, girl, and fetch me me dessert.”
Dessert was homemade cheesecake. Éibhlís appeared to not only be beautiful, but a fabulous cook. The vegetable stew had been gorgeous.
We were sitting outside in the courtyard, under a gas heater that played gentle light on the candlelit table. While Éibhlís and Kennedy argued happily all through dessert, Docherty turned to me and asked quietly, “Did you find anything useful?”
“Yes. It’s not Mongolian, it’s Irish, and it’s a seal ring. Said to give the bearer his heart’s desire.”
Docherty whistled. “So I guess we have to hope that Janulevic wants world peace.”
“Maybe his heart’s desire is for better hair,” I said. “To lose weight. Learn English.”
“Maybe he wants the love of a good woman.”
“Maybe.”
But honestly? This was a man who’d killed every person who’d ever heard of the Séala. Somehow I didn’t think his heart’s desire involved hugs and puppies.
Éibhlís didn’t even bother to clear the plates away before she fetched a little round flat drum, a bodhrán I think she called it, and a penny whistle, and a fiddle and a guitar, and handed them round and started playing and singing. Kennedy was on the guitar and his daughter alternated the whistle and violin. To my surprise, Docherty picked up the bodhrán and played along.
It was fabulous. Actually, what it was like was when I still lived with my parents, and my dad would insist we’d all sit out in the garden for tea when it was summer, even when it was freezing, we’d all be sitting there in jeans and fleeces, shivering and drinking lots of wine to keep the cold out. And after a while Chalker would go and get his guitar, and we’d sit there playing Beatles songs until the wine ran out or the neighbours started getting grumpy. A couple of times last year, when I went home for tea, Chalker might have a few band mates over and we’d have a jam in the back garden under the fairy lights I’d put up years ago for a garden party and never taken down. I love fairy lights.
It got late, and Éibhlís fell silent as her father sang on in Irish. Docherty placed the drum quietly on the table and we all listened as the song, old and beautiful, went on and on.
Before I realised it, Docherty was shaking me awake and telling me it was late, I should go to bed, and I fell asleep beside him under a soft duvet.
I woke alone when it was light and lay there for a while. I’d had some wine last night, but not enough to get me really drunk. Not enough to give me a hangover. I was feeling good. I’d found out something important about the Séala, something that put us ahead of Janulevic. He didn’t know it was Irish. And he obviously didn’t know Kennedy knew about it, or Kennedy would be dead.
I’d tried to tell him and Éibhlís countless times last night that they might be in danger, but they’d just shrugged it off and said they’d be fine. No harm could come to them here.
Well, yes, I could see their point, but I’d always believed the same thing about my little flat. Right up until the minute when someone threw a flaming bottle through my window three months ago.
I stretched under the covers and wished I’d got some clean clothes to put on. Well, not so much clothes as underwear. Two days was pushing it. Three was just unhealthy.
A knock on the door announced Éibhlís, asking if I wanted coffee or anything else.
“Coffee would be great,” I said, “but so would clean underwear.”
“What size are you?”
Uh, what size am I really, or what can I tell her? “Twelve. UK.” Did they have the same sizes in Ireland?
She nodded and disappeared, coming back a minute later and throwing me a selection of knickers. “Fresh out the laundry,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t do much for you in the way of a bra…”
“I can live with this one. Thanks, Éibhlís.”
She smiled. “Don’t mention it.”
“Do you know where Docherty went?”
“Out for a walk. He’s a bit of a loner.”
“Tell me about it.”
She regarded me carefully. “Is there something going on with you two?”
I shook my head quickly.
“Neither of you complained about sharing a bed.”
“We shared one the night before.” I paused. “I mean, nothing happened—well, pretty much nothing—I mean, I have someone at home,” I fabricated.
“Is he a patch on Docherty?”
I thought about Luke. “He’s better.”
She looked impressed. “Does he have a brother?”
“I—” You know, I had no idea. “I don’t think so.”
“Ah, well. Will I fetch you some towels for the shower?”
A subtle way of telling me I looked a wreck.
“Thanks,” I nodded. “That’s kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She brought the towels and left, and I lay there a while longer before getting up, making my way to the bathroom, and washing all the grime of the last two days off me in the shower. Éibhlís had some coconut shampoo and it smelled divine. I got dressed, put on some makeup, and spotted the car keys lying on the floor.
They’ll get lost there
, I thought, and put them in my pocket to give to Docherty later.
By the time I came down to breakfast I was feeling a hell of a lot better than I had the morning before. I ate some cereal and inhaled some coffee, and looked out of the window. The sky was clear and bright, I had sunglasses in my bag, the grass was green and I felt lively. I’d let the sun dry my hair.
“I think I’ll go for a walk,” I announced to Éibhlís and Kennedy. “See if I can find Docherty.”
They nodded and told me that there was a path at the back of the stables that ran in a wide loop, a very pretty walk a couple of kilometres long.
A couple of Irish kilometres, no doubt. I hoped our flight wasn’t until the evening.
The walk was indeed very pretty, and I felt pretty happy as I meandered along, saying hello to the horses grazing in the fields, feeding them handfuls of grass and laughing as they tickled my hand, snuffling the grass up. My phone battery was dead from searching for signal all night, and my emergency charger was all out of batteries, but it was okay, I could buy some on the way to the airport. Surely there must be a well-stocked shop around here somewhere—where had Éibhlís got all her groceries from?
I made a mental to-do list as I walked, breathing in great lungfuls of gorgeous clean air. I wanted to bottle that air and take it home with me. First thing, though, was to scan in the pages of some of those documents and e-mail them to myself. That way I could print them out for Luke and Karen and Angel. We could do an Internet search for the Séala when I got back.
I also had to get hold of Docherty and find out what was going on with our return travel arrangements. I assumed we were going home today, but I could be wrong. Everything here moved very slowly. We could be here for weeks.
Shame.
When I knew what was going on, I ought to report back to Karen. I was sure there’d be a house phone I could use, but the thing was I didn’t know the number. I could hardly call up Directory Enquiries and ask them for the SO17 number, could I? And I doubted Luke or Maria would be listed.
I doubted Macbeth even had a house, let alone a house phone.
I could call Angel, I suppose. She could speak to Luke for me. But her number was unlisted, too, and I wasn’t entirely sure if I knew it off by heart properly.
I was probably about half a mile from the house when it happened. A huge, booming explosion that shook the ground and sent the horses nearby galloping to the other side of the paddock.
Janulevic
, I thought, and set off at a run.
Suddenly the ground seemed muddy, the air too heavy to run in, my lungs were bursting, I couldn’t run because my legs were made of lead. Really squidgy lead. I rounded the corner of the hedge that bordered the boreen, and where the house should have been was a great big pile of smouldering rubble.
I stood and stared for quite a while, smoke stinging my eyes, and my only thought was that I was really, really glad I had the car keys, and I could get the hell out of here.
The Fiesta had one side—the driver’s side—caved in, but I could get in the passenger side and shuffle over, start the ignition and pray for it to kick over, and then I gunned it down the drive. Janulevic had tried to get me before. He’d be trying to get me now. I shoved thoughts of Docherty and Éibhlís and Kennedy and documents out of my head and rammed pedal to metal.
I drove through the gently drifting clouds of smoke, recklessly twisting down narrow lanes and paying no attention to where I was going. It wasn’t until I found myself coming up to a little town that I realised I’d have to get myself an actual direction to go in.
I pulled into a parking space and got the road map out of the glove box, shaking. I was over the county border into Cork now, and according to the map not far from the city itself.
The city which had an airport.
It seemed like hours until I got there, but get there I did, abandoning the car and zombie-walking into the terminal. I found the Ace booking desk and got myself a flight back to Stansted in an hour. Then I wandered over to the pay phones, shoved in a few cents and dialled the emergency services.
“I couldn’t see as I drove past,” I said, “but I think the house burned down. I heard an explosion. Maybe it was gas. It was very smoky. There might have been people in there. I think there were horses, too. Someone needs to go and help.”
They asked for the address and I gave it as well as I could, trying to remember the towns and villages I’d driven through. And then they asked for my name, and I put the phone down and went upstairs to airside and got myself a large Irish whiskey, even thought I hate whiskey and it was the middle of the day, and downed it in one.
Then I cried.
The thought occurred to me as I was boarding.
I was wondering how Janulevic knew where we were. And from there I got to wondering how he knew where I lived. And then, out of nowhere, came the sneaky, perfidious little thought that Docherty had been there both times.
Docherty had found Petr’s body. Docherty had left the house an hour before the bomb went off. Docherty had got me to go to Ireland. He’d had access to all the things Angel knew, to everything in her house, looking for the Séala.
And I’d just fed him more information.
I started to feel clammy and shaky. The crewman checking my boarding pass had to catch me as I nearly fell.
“Are you all right?”
I stared at him. “I—I’m fine, I think I’m fine… I just got dizzy.” I wandered down to my seat, my mind racing. I couldn’t use my phone on board, of course I knew that—and even if the airline had let me I couldn’t anyway, because I’d forgotten to get batteries for my charger.
It took quite a while to explain what I needed. I was one of the last ones to board and they wouldn’t let me off. I had to take my seat and wait until we were properly airborne before I could get anyone to listen to me, and even then I think they thought I was a terrorist.
I wrote out a message for the trolley dolly. “I need you to radio this to Stansted ATC,” I said, “and get them to call it through to the police. Tell them we don’t need any police presence, but this person
must
be there.”
Looking bewildered, she took my note and went up into the cockpit. A few minutes later, she came back.
“They got the message,” she said. “They’ll do what they can.”
The flight went horribly slow for me and when we landed, everyone was in my way. I raced up the jet bridge, my heart thumping, and when I saw Luke waiting at the top I threw my arms around him.
“What is it?” he said. “What’s so urgent?”
“Where’s Angel?”
“What? She’s with Macbeth.”
“At home?”
“Yes—”
“Get her out of there. She needs to go. Go away. Somewhere secret. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Sophie, are you all right?”
“I’m okay. I’m fine.”
He rubbed a thumb across my forehead. “Is that ash? What’s going on?”
“We have to go,” I said. “We have to go and get Angel out of her house.”
Luke started walking. “Is she in danger there?”
“Yes. Very definite danger. From Docherty.”
Luke stopped walking.
“Docherty? Soph, did you hit your head?”
“No, but about three hours ago I saw Professor Kennedy’s house blown up. He was in it. With his daughter. Docherty was nowhere to be seen. I know, I went out looking for him. Luke, he took me out there to get rid of me. Along with the Kennedys. He did it all together so it’d look like Janulevic did it. And he killed Petr. That’s how he found him. Janulevic didn’t put him there.”
Luke was looking at me like I'd just turned green and vomited lava all over the satellite floor.
“Docherty—” he began, and I held up my hand.
“He knew about the gun,” I said.
“What gun?”
“When you called me, yesterday, and said about the gun that shot Petr being the same that shot you? Docherty said a lot of people have .22s.”
“…So?”
“So, I never told him it was a .22.”
Luke stared at me for a long time. Then he grabbed my hand and started moving. Fast. “We have to move Angel,” he said. “Why didn’t you call me before?”
“I only realised when I was on the plane. My phone is dead. My suitcase… Dammit, and my gun too, they’re still at Kerry airport. At least, I hope they are.”
Luke tossed me his mobile. “Call them. Call Angel too. Tell her to get packing. You have any idea where she can go?”
I had no idea at all.
I called Angel and told her to start packing up her essentials, that we’d sort something out when we got there. She sounded alarmed, and I hadn’t the composure to reassure her.
“I’ll explain when we get there,” I said. Then I called the Ace ticket desk and got them to give me the number of Kerry airport. Eventually I got through to their baggage desk, where they said they had a suitcase and a firearm awaiting collection. I told them to send both items to Stansted, ended the call and went up to the baggage desk where I told them to give me a call when my things arrived. Then I followed Luke down to the car park and drove him home.
“How’d you get here?”
“Karen drove me over. She still won’t let me drive.”
“I notice you lost the splint. And the sling.”
“They annoyed me.”
Let that be a lesson to me.
I made a quick stop at my house to say hello to Tammy, who wasn’t talking to me, and to pick up the revolver I’d half-inched from Petr. It was still loaded, and I tucked it into my handbag. We set off for Angel’s and found her throwing things into a case, looking panicked as Macbeth tried and failed to reassure her.
“Where’s Docherty?” she asked.
“Hopefully far, far away. He’s a bad guy, Angel. He tried to have me killed. We need to get you away—”
“But how can he be bad? He protected me…”
“He was trying to find this Séala thing. Angel, it’s Celtic, a seal, maybe a seal ring. Do you have anything like that?”
She shook her head. “My dad’s signet ring…”
“Show me.”
We followed her into her bedroom and she opened up her little jewellery box. I knew she had a safe upstairs where all her mother’s jewels were kept, but all the things in here were personal—a christening spoon, a charm bracelet, a pendant with pictures of her parents in it. And her father’s signet ring.
Luke and I looked at it. A normal gold ring. “It still pretty much means nothing to me,” I confessed.
“Well, it means something to me,” Angel said, tipping out the contents of her makeup bag and replacing them with the things from the jewellery box. “Sophie, could you go and get the Simon & Patrick for me, please?”
I frowned and went upstairs to get it. I don’t know the first thing about guitars, but I knew Chalker had saved up for one of these for the sole reason that Greg Winter used to have one. Once he came over and Angel let him play and it was like seeing a holy man at Lourdes. All his dreams had come true.
I brought the guitar down with its hard case, and watched Angel pack it away. “You really can’t think of anything that might be a seal?”
She cast her eyes around the room. “I really can’t. Mum was never really into Celtic jewellery, she liked her diamonds, you know? And Dad really only wore this and his wedding ring.”
“Maybe it’s not jewellery,” Luke said.
“It could be anything,” I said in despair. “Right now we have to think about getting Angel away. If Docherty comes back, I don’t want you anywhere near this place.”