The Violent Enemy
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He found everything he needed laid out neatly across the bed. Underclothing, shirts, even the shoes were the right size and the two-piece suit in Glencarrick thorn-proof looked as if it had been made to measure. There was also a battered rain hat and an old trenchcoat. A nice touch that, he had to admit, however grudgingly. He took them with him when he returned to the living room.
Pope followed him in from the kitchen carrying a large vacuum flask and a tin biscuit box. ‘Sandwiches are inside; it’ll save you having to stop.’
‘And just where am I supposed to be going?’
‘O’More wants to see you.’
‘Where do I find him?’
Pope shrugged. ‘God knows. I’ve been working through an accommodation address in Kendal. Do you know where that is?’
‘The Lake District, isn’t it? Westmorland?’
‘That’s right. You’re in for a long drive. It’s all of three hundred and fifty miles from here and you’ve got to be there by seven in the morning.’
Which was the precise moment at which they would be turning out the cells at the prison and Rogan smiled slightly. They were hardly likely to be looking for him in a place like Kendal. It would take them at least three days to realize that he’d got off the moor and even then they wouldn’t be sure.
‘Why seven?’
‘Because that’s the time you’re being picked up. You drive into the car park of the Woolpack Inn – that’s in Stricklandgate – and wait.’
‘Who for?’
‘I honestly don’t know. As I said, I’ve been writing to an accommodation address in Kendal. Maybe it’s just a jumping off place to somewhere else.’
Rogan shook his head. ‘Not good enough, Pope. You wouldn’t go into anything blindfold.’
‘It’s the truth, Irish, as God’s my judge. I’ll admit I opened my mouth about that escape of yours when I got out and the word must have got around among the boys. You know how these things are.’
‘What about Soames, the lawyer.’
‘Been disbarred for the past five years. A villain down to the soles of his feet. He came to see me a couple of weeks ago. Said a client of his had heard this rumour about you having a way out and they’d traced it to me. It didn’t take him long to get down to brass tacks. He’s a downy bird.’
‘And what’s your cut?’
‘For setting this little lot up? A couple of centuries and my expenses.’
Rogan helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on the table and lit it, an abstracted frown on his face. On the face of it, it didn’t make sense – not any of it. And yet Colum was as cunning as a fox. It would be like him to cover his tracks again, making any direct route to him difficult to find.
‘All right, for the moment, I’ll buy it,’ he said. ‘How do I get to Kendal?’
Pope produced a small white folder and grinned. ‘Nothing like being efficient, so I went to the top. Got you an A.A. route guide. It starts at Exeter and takes you straight through to Kendal.’
He went over it quickly, indicating the route on the excellent sketch maps provided. At Exeter, Rogan would pick up the A38 and follow it through Bristol and Gloucester. From there, the new M5 motorway would take him north past Worcester and Birmingham, joining the M6 for the long run up through Lancashire to the Lake District.
‘You’ll find some sections of the motor-ways are still under construction,’ Pope said, ‘but on the whole, you should have a pretty clear run.’
‘What kind of car have you got for me?’
‘Nothing special. A Ford brake, two years old but the engine’s perfect. I’ve had it checked. You’ll find a few samples of animal feed in the back. You’re supposed to be a salesman for an agricultural firm.’ He picked up a briefcase and produced various documents. ‘Here’s a couple of printed business cards in the name of Jack Mann and a driving licence. Hope you can still remember how.’
Rogan shrugged. ‘I’ll get by.’
There were insurance papers and log book, all in the same name. Even an Automobile Association membership card. Rogan tucked them all into his inside breast pocket.
‘You seem to have thought of everything.’
‘We aim to please.’ Pope took out a worn leather wallet and passed it across. ‘You’ll find forty quid in there. No sense in carrying more. If you were stopped and searched it would only excite suspicion.’
‘The police mind,’ Rogan said. ‘You can never get away from it, can you?’
Pope flushed, but managed to force a smile. ‘That’s about it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Almost nine. You’d better be on your way.’
Rogan pulled on the trenchcoat, belted it around his waist and picked up his hat. They went out through the kitchen and Pope flicked on an outside light, opened the door and led the way across the small courtyard to an old barn. He opened a large door, and two cars were revealed.
One of them was a large dark shooting brake, the other a green saloon. Rogan paused in the entrance, looking at them.
‘Two?’ he said.
‘Well how in the hell do you think I’m going to get out of here at this time of night?’ Pope said. ‘It was bad enough having to walk five miles to the nearest bus stop yesterday after driving out here in the Ford. I picked up the saloon in Plymouth this morning.’
Which was a good story had it not been for the fact that the wheels of both vehicles were still damp and muddy from the day’s rain.
Rogan let it pass. ‘I’d better be on my way.’
Pope nodded. ‘Make sure it’s the right one. No detours to Holyhead for the Irish boat.’
Rogan turned very slowly, his face quite expressionless. ‘And what would you be meaning by that?’
Pope forced a smile. ‘Nothing, Irish, nothing. It’s just that the Big Man’s invested a lot of money in you. He’s entitled to see some return.’
The next moment, a hand had him by the throat, pulling him close and the rush of blood seemed to be forcing out his eyeballs.
‘When I do a thing, it’s because I want to,’ Rogan said softly. ‘Always remember that, Pope. Nobody crowds Sean Rogan.’
Pope went staggering back against the whitewashed wall and slumped to the ground. He crouched there, sobbing for breath, aware of the Ford starting up and moving out across the yard, the engine fading into the distance.
A footstep scraped on stone and a voice said calmly, ‘Friend Rogan plays rough. A dangerous man to cross.’
Pope looked up at Henry Soames and cursed savagely. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’ He groaned, swaying a little as he got to his feet. ‘If I’d any sense I’d pull out of this now.’
‘And lose out on all that lovely money?’ Soames patted him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go back inside and I’ll go over it again. I think you’ll see things my way.’
Round the bend of the road, Rogan parked the car by a five-barred gate and walked back the way he had come. There were several reasons for such a course. In the first place he didn’t like Pope, in the second, he didn’t trust him. And there was the intriguing fact that the tyres of both cars had been wet although the brake had supposedly been under cover since the previous day.
Nearing the cottage, he left the road, pushed his way through a plantation of damp fir trees and crossed the yard at the rear. A curtain was drawn across the window, but when he bent down he could see most of the living room through a narrow crack.
Henry Soames and Pope were sitting at the table engaged in earnest conversation, the whisky bottle between them. Rogan stayed there for only a moment, then turned and retraced his steps.
So – the plot thickened. Most puzzling thing of all, how did Colum O’More come to be mixed up with such people? There was no answer, could be none till he reached Kendal. He leaned back in his seat and concentrated on the road ahead.
5
After midnight Rogan had the road pretty much to himself, although from Bristol to Birmingham and north into Lancashire he came across plenty of heavy transport working the all-night routes.
Just after two a.m. he stopped at a small garage near Stoke to fill up, staying in the shadows of the car so that the attendant didn’t get a clear look at his face.
He made good time, always keeping within any indicated speed limits, and dawn found him moving north along the M6 motorway east of Lancaster.
The morning was grey and sombre with heavy rain clouds drifting across his path, and to the west the dark waters of Morecambe Bay were being whipped into whitecaps. He opened the side window and the wind carried the taste of good salt air and he inhaled deeply, feeling suddenly alive for the first time in years.
He stopped the car, took out the vacuum flask and stood at the side of the road looking out at the distant sea while he finished the coffee. It was difficult to believe, but he was out. For a brief moment, the strange, illogical thought crossed his mind that perhaps this was only some dark, hopeless dream from which the rattle of the key in the lock of his cell door would awaken him at any moment, and then a gull cried harshly in the sky and rain started to fall in a sudden heavy rush. He stood there for a moment longer, his face turned up to it, and then got back into the car and drove away.
He arrived in Kendal just after seven and found the place, like most country market towns at that time in the morning, already stirring. He located the Woolpack Inn in Stricklandgate without any trouble, pulled in the car park and switched off the engine.
It was a strange feeling waiting there in the car, like the old days working with the Maquis in France, and he remembered that morning in Amiens with the rain bouncing from the cobbles and the contact man who turned out to be an Abwehr agent. But then you never could be certain of anything in this life, from the womb to the grave.
He opened the packet of cigarettes Pope had given him, found it empty and crushed it in his hand. A quiet voice said, ‘A fine morning, Mr Rogan.’
She was perhaps twenty years old, certainly no more. She wore an old trenchcoat belted around her waist and, in spite of her head-scarf, rain beaded the fringe of dark hair which had escaped at the front and drifted across her brow.
She walked round to the other side, opened the door and sat on the bench seat beside him. Her face was smoothly rounded with a flawless cream complexion, the eyebrows and hair coal black and her red lips had an extra fullness that suggested sensuality. It was the sort of face he had seen often on the west coast of Ireland, particularly around Galway where there had been a plentiful infusion of Spanish blood over the centuries.
‘How could you be sure?’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘I had the number of the car and Colum showed me a photograph. You’ve changed.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ he said. ‘Where do you fit in?’
‘You’ll find out. If you’ll let me get at that wheel, we’ll move out.’
He eased himself across the seat. She slid past him. For a moment he was acutely conscious of her as a woman, a hint of perfume in the cold morning air, the edge of the coat riding above her knees. She pulled it down with a complete lack of self-consciousness and started the engine.
‘I’d like to stop for some cigarettes,’ Rogan said.
She took a packet from her left pocket and tossed them across. ‘No need. I’ve got plenty.’
‘Have we far to go?’
‘About forty miles.’
She was perfectly calm, her hands steady on the wheel as she took the brake with real skill through the narrow streets and the early morning traffic, and he watched her for a while, leaning back in the corner.
A fine, lovely girl this one, but one who had been used by life and not kindly. The story was there in the shadow that lurked behind the grey-green eyes. Hurt, but not broken – the courage showed in the tilt of the chin, the sureness of those competent hands. The pity of it was that she would never let anyone get close to her again and that was the real tragedy.
Her voice cut sharply into his musing. ‘You’ll know me next time?’
‘And would that be a bad thing?’ he grinned lightly. ‘Liverpool-Irish?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘No accent like it in this world or out of it.’
She smiled in spite of herself. ‘You needn’t think you sound like any English gentleman yourself.’
‘And why would I be wanting to?’
‘You were a major in their army, weren’t you?’
‘You seem to know.’
‘I should do. At one time, I used to get the great Sean Rogan for breakfast, dinner and supper and precious little else.’
They were now on the outskirts of the town and she pulled in beside a low stone wall topped by iron railings. A little farther along there was an open iron gate and a sign which read Church of the Immaculate Heart with the times of Mass and Confession in faded gold letters beneath.
‘Do you mind?’ she said. ‘I don’t get in very often.’
‘Suit yourself.’
He watched her pass through the gate, a small girl with a ripe peasant figure and hips that were too large by English standards. So, she still kept to the Faith? Now that was interesting, and proved she wasn’t an active member of the I.R.A. which carried automatic excommunication.
On impulse he opened the door and followed her along the flagged path. It was warm inside and very quiet. For a little while he stood there listening intently and then he sat down in a pew at the back of the church.
She was on her knees by the altar. As he looked down towards the winking candles it seemed to grow darker. He leaned forward and rested his head on a stone pillar. All the strain and excitement of the past twelve hours catching up on him. In some strange way it was as if he were listening for something.
He pushed the thought away from him and sat back and watched as she got to her feet and walked back along the aisle. She became aware of him there in the half darkness and paused abruptly.
‘That was foolish of you. You could have been seen.’
He shrugged, stood up and took her arm as they went to the door. ‘If you think like that you act suspiciously; if you act suspiciously, you get caught. I’m an old hand at being on the run.’
They stood on the step and the wind blew a fine drizzle of rain into the porch as she looked up at him searchingly. She smiled and it was as if a lamp had been turned on inside.
‘Hannah Costello, Mr Rogan,’ she said and held out her hand.
He took it and grinned. ‘A fresh start makes old friends of bad ones,’ he said. ‘A proverb my grandmother was fond of. Would it be too much to ask where you’re taking me?’
‘The other side of the lakes. On the coast, near a place called Whitbeck.’
‘Is Colum O’More there?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘In the name of God, let us go then. There’s a farm in Kerry my father’s growing too old to cope with. It’s time I was home again.’
The smile vanished from her face and she gazed up at him searchingly. She seemed about to speak, but obviously thought better of it and turned and led the way back to the car.
Dick Vanbrugh was tired, damned tired, and the heavy rain driving against the bathroom window wasn’t calculated to improve the way he felt. He finished shaving and was towelling his face tenderly when the door opened and his wife looked in. ‘Phone, darling. The Assistant Commissioner.’
Vanbrugh stared at her, a deep frown creasing his forehead. ‘You’re joking, of course.’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ll get your breakfast on the stove now. From the sound of him, you’ll be moving off in a hurry.’
Vanbrugh pulled a shirt over his head, tucking it into his trousers as he went downstairs. His tiredness had vanished completely. Whatever this was, it was something big. You didn’t get the Assistant Commissioner on the phone at seven thirty in the morning just because somebody’s warehouse had been turned over.
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