Drink With The Devil

THE LAKE DISTRICT
1995
FIFTEEN

KATHLEEN RYAN COASTED in out of the mist and grounded on the slipway beside the jetty. She didn’t bother tying up, simply left the inflatable where it was, and went up to the quayside and crossed to the Loyalist. She went round to the yard at the rear and found Barry’s station wagon. When she tried the door it was locked. She stood there thinking about it. She had to get out of it, had to keep moving, so she crossed to the back door.

Kevin Stringer sat at the table drinking tea and reading yesterday’s newspaper. He looked up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Jack Barry’s keys for the station wagon, where are they?”

“On the sideboard.”

She reached for them and put them in her pocket. “I need my shoulder bag. I left it in the bedroom. I’ll go and fetch it, then I’ll be off.”

She went out and left Stringer there, very disturbed. It was quiet, no staff due in for a couple of hours, and for some reason he knew fear.

He heard her coming down the stairs and she came in. She’d got rid of the reefer coat she’d worn on the boat, was wearing a long raincoat and her old black beret. The bag hung from her left shoulder.

“Do you know where Ladytown is?”

“It’s on the far side of Newcastle on Dundrum Bay. You just follow the coast road.”

“How far?”

“Twenty miles.”

“Good, I’ll be away, then.” It was noticeable that the American accent had disappeared and now she had reverted to the hard Belfast accent of her youth.

Stringer got up and moved to block her way. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Jack?”

“Dead. Martin killed him, Martin Keogh. He killed Sollazo and the other fella, too. He’s still on the boat with that woman. I locked them in the cabin and came back in the inflatable.”

Her voice was flat and monotonous and Stringer felt strangely light-headed. “Not Keogh – Dillon. Have you lost your wits, girl? They can’t all be dead, not all three.”

“Oh, yes they are. Anyway, I’ll be off.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” He put his hands on her shoulders.

Her eyes seemed to burn in that pale face and she cried out, “Don’t put your hands on me, you Taig bastard.” She pulled the Browning from her right-hand pocket, jammed the muzzle against his side, and fired.

He gave a terrible groan and staggered back. “Damn you, you’ve done for me.”

She shot him again and he fell against the table and dropped to the floor. “Good riddance,” she said. “If I had my way I’d shoot the lot of you.”

She put the Browning back in her pocket and went out. A few moments later she drove away in the station wagon.

DILLON EASED THE Avenger into the side of the jetty and Hannah scrambled over with a line. He cut the engines, went over the rail to join her, and tied up.

“Right, let’s get moving.”

He took Hannah’s hand and they ran across the street in the rain going round the side to the yard at the back. Hannah peered cautiously in through the kitchen window.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone there,” she said, “and I see the station wagon has gone.”

“All right, in we go,” Dillon told her and took out his Walther.

There was the immediate pungent smell of cordite and then, of course, Stringer’s body. Hannah dropped to one knee and searched for a pulse. She looked up and shook her head.

“He’s quite dead.” She stood. “She doesn’t take prisoners, that girl. I wonder where she’s gone?”

“Look, she gave her uncle those pills to get him away from Barry and Co. to a hospital from where they thought they’d be able to do a runner. He died and she blames herself, but she is running and on her own now,” Dillon said.

“To the Lake District in England?”

“Where else, but how to get there?”

“Fly to Manchester and hire a car.”

“A possibility or maybe a private flight. Several old airstrips on that coast from the Second World War. You only have to look in Pooley’s Flight Guide.”

“It’s a possibility.” Hannah nodded. “And there was that strange remark she made back there on the boat. It’s there waiting for me…”

“And I’ll fly in out of the sea to get it,” Dillon said.

“She’s mad, Dillon, you do realize that? Did you notice she didn’t sound American anymore?”

“I know. She was talking pure Belfast just like the sixteen-year-old girl I saved on a dark street ten years ago, but never mind that now. We’ll go in the office and call Ferguson.”

FERGUSON AT HIS flat in Cavendish Square had only just awakened and he sat up in bed and listened calmly to what Hannah had to say.

When she finished he said, “Give me your telephone number.” She did so and he scribbled it down. “I’ll call back. Give me fifteen minutes.” He put the phone down, picked it up, and rang his office at the Ministry of Defence. When the duty officer answered he said, “Ferguson here. Put me on to Flight Information.”

WHEN THE TELEPHONE rang in the office at the Loyalist Hannah answered at once. “Brigadier?”

“There is a Royal Navy Air-Sea Rescue base at Crossgar on the Down coast only ten miles from you. You’re expected. From there you will be flown in a Sea King helicopter to the Air-Sea Rescue base at Whitefire. That’s on the Lake District coast near St Bees.”

“What then, sir?”

“I’m leaving the office now for Farley RAF base. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. They’ll have a Ministry of Defence Lear jet waiting for immediate departure. They tell me we’ll make Whitefire in forty-five minutes. We’ll helicopter to this Folly’s End place from there.”

“Fine, sir, looking forward to seeing you.”

“Stop being sentimental, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “Just move your arse,” and he put the phone down.

“Now what?” Dillon asked.

She filled him in quickly. When she was finished, she said, “What about Stringer?”

“Let the staff find him. Ferguson will handle the RUC later. Let’s get moving, girl dear,” and he opened the door and led the way out.

KATHLEEN RYAN FOUND Ladytown with no difficulty and she pulled over in the village square, got out and spoke to an old woman who was walking by with a poodle on a lead.

“Would you be knowing where there’s an airfield near here?”

“I would indeed, love. That would be Tony McGuire’s place.”

“And how would I get there?”

“About two miles on. Let me explain,” and the old woman went into detail.

IT WAS A sad sort of place, obviously run down and neglected. The sign on the gate said McGuire’s Air Taxis and the paint was peeling. The tarmacadam of the drive was pitted with holes, and she bumped along toward the administration buildings. There was a tower and two hangars and no sign of any planes.

She parked outside what looked like a World War Two Nissen hut and the door opened and a small, wiry man in jeans and an old black leather flying jacket appeared. His gray hair was close cropped and there was a watchfulness to him.

“Can I help you?”

“Would you be Tony McGuire?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Michael Ryan’s niece, Kathleen.”

McGuire said, “I haven’t heard of Michael in years. I thought he was dead.”

“Alive and well and waiting for me over in the English Lake District, and the thing is he told me that if I needed a quick trip over there the man to see was Tony McGuire.”

“Did he indeed?”

“Oh, yes, told me he’d used you often in the old days.”

He stood there looking at her, a slight frown on his face, and then he said, “You’d better come in.”

THERE WAS A stove in the office, the pipes going up through the ceiling, a camp bed in one corner, a map desk, and an office desk cluttered with papers. McGuire lit a cigarette.

“So what do you want?”

“A quick trip to the Lake District.”

“And when would you want to go?”

“Now.”

He stared at her, shocked. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

“You do have a plane, don’t you?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Just one at the moment. The bank foreclosed on me and took my best plane, the Conquest, in lieu of debts, but I do have a Cessna 310.”

“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.”

HE 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.

AT 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.

TONY MCGUIRE 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.

IN 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?”

MARY POWER 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.

THE CESSNA 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.

AT FOLLY’S END, 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.

IT 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.

MARY POWER 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.”

Ferguson said, “I gave the Sea King an hour. He’ll be back soon. Are you all right?”

“Of course I am, Brigadier.” Dillon found a cigarette and lit it. “End of a perfect day, wouldn’t you say?” and he turned and walked out.