Drink With The Devil

THREE

THE GLASGOW EXPRESS wasn’t particularly busy. Keogh sat opposite Kathleen at a corner table. Ryan took the one opposite. Almost immediately he opened his briefcase and took out a file. He started to work his way through it, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

The girl took the copy of The Midnight Court from her carrying bag and an Irish dictionary, which she put on one side. A strange one, Keogh thought, a strange one, indeed. He sat there gazing out of the window, wondering what she would say, what her reaction would be if she knew he was everything she hated – a Roman Catholic and an IRA enforcer. God, but the fat would be in the fire the day that got out.

About an hour out of London an attendant appeared pushing a trolley with tea, coffee, sandwiches, and newspapers. Ryan stopped working and took a coffee. The girl asked for tea and so did Keogh. He also bought the Times and the Daily Mail and spent the next hour catching up on the news.

There wasn’t much on the Irish situation. A bomb in Derry had taken out six shops in one street – a tit-for-tat killing of two Catholics on the Falls Road in retaliation for the shooting of a Protestant in the Shankill. An Army Air Corps helicopter flying in to the command post at Crossmaglen had come under machine gun fire as well. Just another day, they’d say in Ulster.

And then, halfway through the Times, he came to an article entitled “How long, oh Lord, how long?” It was written by a retired Member of Parliament, once a Minister at the Northern Ireland Office, who not unreasonably felt that sixteen years of bloody war in Ireland was enough. His preferred solution was an independent Ulster as a member of the British Commonwealth. Incredible how naive on the subject even politicians could be.

Keogh closed the paper, lit a cigarette, and sat back, watching the girl. To his amusement, he saw that she frequently consulted the dictionary. She glanced up and saw him smile.

She frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Not much. You just seem to be having some difficulty with that.”

“It’s not easy. I only started learning three months ago. There’s a phrase here that’s damned difficult to work out.”

Keogh, a fluent Irish speaker, could have helped, but to disclose the fact would have been a serious error. People who spoke Irish were Catholics and Nationalists, it was as simple as that.

Ryan had finished the file, put it back in his briefcase, and leaned back in the corner, closing his eyes.

“He seems tired,” Keogh observed.

“He does too much, almost burns himself out. He’s a believer, you see. Our cause is everything to him. Meat and drink.”

“You too, I think.”

“You have to have something to believe in in this life.”

“In your case, the death of your family gave you that?”

“The murder of my family, Martin, the murder.”

There was no answer to that, could never be. Her face was white and intense, eyes filled with rage.

Keogh said, “Peace, girl dear, peace. Go on, read your book,” and he picked up the Daily Mail and started on that.

ANOTHER HALF HOUR and the attendant returned. They had more tea and ham sandwiches. Ryan was still asleep.

“We’ll leave him be,” the girl said.

They ate in companionable silence. When they were finished, Keogh lit another cigarette. “Sixteen, Kate, and the whole of life ahead of you. And what would you like to do with it if peace ever comes to Ireland?”

“Oh, I know that well enough. I always wanted to be a nurse, ever since my time in the hospital after the bomb. I was at the Royal Victoria for three months. The nurses were great.”

“Nursing, is it? Well, for that you need to pass your exams and you not even at school.”

She laughed that distinctive harsh laugh of hers. “You couldn’t be more wrong, mister. Most people do their ordinary level exams at sixteen. I did mine at fourteen. Most people do the advanced levels at eighteen. I did mine four months ago in English Literature, French, and Spanish. I have a thing for languages, you see.” There was a kind of bravado in her voice. “I’m qualified to go to University if I’m so minded and I’m only sixteen.”

“And are you?”

She shrugged. “I’ve more important things to do. For the moment, our struggle is all that matters. Now shut up, Martin, and let me get on with my book,” and she returned to The Midnight Court.

THEY GOT OFF the train at Carnforth. It was desolate enough, hardly anyone about, rain drifting across the platform.

Ryan checked his watch. “There’s a local train to Barrow-in-Furness leaving in forty minutes. We’ll get a cup of tea. I need to talk to you both.”

The cafe was deserted, only an aging woman serving behind the bar. Kathleen Ryan went and got the tea and brought it back on a tray.

“I mind the time when this station was open for business twenty-four hours,” Ryan said. “Steam engines thundering through one after another.” He shook his head. “Everything changes.”

“You know the area well?” Keogh asked.

“Oh, yes, I’ve visited the Lake District a number of times over the years. I was up this way only four weeks ago.”

His niece said in genuine surprise, “I didn’t know that, Uncle Michael.”

“You thought I’d gone to Dublin,” Ryan said. “Well, I didn’t. I was up here arranging things, and there’s a lot more you don’t know and now is the time for the telling.”

“Go on,” Keogh told him.

Ryan produced the Ordnance Survey map of the area, which they had consulted in London, and unfolded it.

“There’s Ravenglass on the coast. A bit of a winding road from Barrow to get there. Maybe twenty-five miles. Marsh End is about five miles south of Ravenglass.”

“So?” Keogh said.

“See here, to one side of Ravenglass, the valley running up into the mountains? Eskdale it’s called. I’ve got what you might call friends there.”

“But you never told me that,” Kathleen said in astonishment.

“I’m telling you now, am I not? Now, this is the way of it. My own cousin, Colin Power, had an English wife named Mary, a farmer’s daughter from Eskdale. Colin was a tenant farmer in County Down, but when her parents died, the farm in Eskdale was left to her.”

“So they moved over?”

“Exactly. This was twenty years ago. They brought with them a young boy, Colin’s nephew, Benny. He had brain damage from birth. His parents wanted to put him in a home, but Mary, having no child of her own, took him on and raised him.”

“And they’re up there now in Eskdale?” Kathleen demanded.

“Right at the head of the valley. A remote, desolate place. Folly’s End it’s called, and that’s an apt name for it. Too much rain, too much wind. The sheep don’t thrive.” Ryan shrugged. “It was too much for Colin. He died of a heart attack five years ago. Only Mary and Benny to run the place.”

“A lot of work for two people, I would have thought,” Keogh said.

Ryan laughed out loud. “Just wait till you see Benny.” At that moment the local train pulled in at the platform and he glanced through the window. “That’s us. Let’s get moving,” and he stood up and led the way out.

THERE WERE ONLY a handful of passengers getting off the train at Barrow-in-Furness. They went through the ticket barrier, passed into the concourse, and stood outside.

A voice called, “Uncle Michael, it’s me,” the words heavy and slurred.

There was an old Land Rover parked on the other side, and the man standing beside it was quite extraordinary. He was at least six feet four in height and built like an ox with enormous shoulders. He wore a tweed cap and a shabby tweed suit with patches on the elbows. He rushed forward eagerly, a childlike expression on the fleshy face.

“It’s me, Uncle Michael,” he said again.

Michael gave him a brief hug. “Good man yourself, Benny. Is your aunt well?”

“Very well. Looking forward to seeing you.”

The words came out with difficulty, slow and measured.

Ryan said, “My niece, Kathleen. You and she will be cousins two or three times removed.”

Benny pulled off his cap revealing a shock of untidy yellowing hair. He nodded, beaming with pleasure. “Kathleen.”

She reached up and kissed his cheek. “It’s good to meet you.”

He was overcome, nodding eagerly, and Ryan introduced Keogh, who held out his hand. Benny’s grasp was so strong that Keogh grimaced with pain.

“Easy, son – easy does it.” He turned to Ryan. “I see what you mean about running the farm. This lad must be up to the work of ten men.”

“At least,” Ryan said. “Anyway, let’s get going.”

Benny took Kathleen’s suitcase and Ryan’s and raced ahead to the Land Rover. Ryan said to Keogh and Kathleen, “He could beat five men in any barroom brawl, but in the heart of him he’s a child. Mind that well and give him time when he speaks. Sometimes he has difficulty getting the words out.”

Benny put the luggage in the back and Keogh slung his duffle in. Benny ran round to open the front passenger door. He pulled off his cap and nodded eagerly again to Kathleen.

“In you go, Kate,” Keogh told her. “Make the big fella’s day. We’ll sit behind.”

They all got in and Benny ran round and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine and Ryan said, “A great driver, this lad, make no mistake.” He patted Benny on the shoulder. “Away we go, Benny. Is the truck all right?”

Benny nodded. “Oh, yes.”

He turned into the main road and Ryan’s niece said, “What truck would that be?”

“Later, girl, later. Just sit back and admire the scenery. Some of the best in England.”

WHEN THEY REACHED the coast road it started to rain. Ryan said, “It does that a lot up here. I suppose it’s the mountains.”

They lifted up on the right, a spectacular sight, the peaks covered by low cloud. On the left the sea was angry, rolling in fast, whitecaps everywhere, a heavy sea mist following.

“The Isle of Man out there and then dear old Ireland,” Ryan told them.

Keogh said, “I don’t know whether you’ve had a forward weather forecast for Friday, but one thing’s for sure. If it’s rough weather, that Siemens ferry is in for one hell of a ride.”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Ryan told him.

About forty-five minutes out of Barrow they came to an area where there were marshes on their left stretching out to sea, vanishing into the mist. There was a sign up ahead and Ryan touched Benny on the shoulder.

The big man slowed down and Ryan said, “Marsh End. Let’s take a quick look, Benny.”

Benny turned down a track and drove slowly along a causeway through a landscape of total desolation, reeds marching into the mist. There was an old cottage to the right and then a jetty about one hundred yards long stretching out into the sea. Benny cut the engine.

“So that’s it?” Keogh said.

“That’s it.” Ryan nodded. “Only something like the Siemens with its shallow draught could get in.”

“You can say that again. When the tide’s out, I’d say it’s nothing but marsh and mud flats.”

Ryan tapped Benny on the shoulder. “Off we go, Benny,” and the big man nodded obediently and reversed.

TOWARD THE UPPER end of Eskdale Valley, mountains rearing before them, Benny turned into a broad track and dropped down into a low gear. There were gray stone walls on either hand, sheep huddled together in the rain.

“A desolate sort of place,” Keogh said.

Ryan nodded. “A hard way to make a living.”

They came to a wooden sign post that bore the legend Folly’s End. “And that just about sums it up,” Ryan observed.

A moment later and they came to farm gates wide open, and beyond it the farm, two large barns, the farmhouse itself, all built in weathered gray stone. Benny turned off the engine and got out. As they followed, the front door opened and a black and white sheepdog bounded out. A moment later a woman appeared. She wore a heavy knitted sweater, men’s trousers, and green Wellington boots. Her hair was iron gray, the face strangely young looking. Ryan went forward as she held her arms open. They embraced warmly and he turned.

“Here you are then, my cousin, Mary Power.”

THE BEAMED KITCHEN had a stone-flagged floor, a wood fire burning in an open hearth. She served them herself, ladling lamb and potato stew from a large pot, moving round the table, then sat at the end.

“It’s good to see you, girl,” she said to Kathleen. “When you reach my age relatives are hard to come by.”

“And it’s good to meet you,” Kathleen told her.

“And you, Mr. Keogh, what would your speciality be?” Mary Power asked.

“Well, I like to think I can turn my hand to most things.” Keogh spooned some stew to his mouth and smiled. “But I’ll never be the cook you are.”

Ryan pushed his plate away. Mary Power said, “More?”

He shook his head. “Tea would be fine.”

She got up and started to clear the plates and Kathleen helped her. Keogh said, “Could we all know where we stand here?”

“You mean where Mary stands?” Ryan said. “Simple. She’s backing me to the hilt on this. If things go well, she gets a hundred thousand pounds. That means she can kiss this place goodbye and go back to County Down.”

She showed no response at all, simply took plates to the sink, then reached for the kettle and made tea. “Everything’s in order. The truck is in the back barn. I’ve aired the cottage at Marsh End and there’s a fire in the stove. Somebody will have to stay there.”

Ryan nodded and accepted a mug of strong tea. “Perhaps Kathleen could stay with you, and Martin and myself could make out at the cottage.”

“Fine.” She opened a tin box and took out a cake. “Try this. I made it myself,” and she reached for a knife and cut it into slices.

THERE WAS A motorcycle on its stand just inside the barn, a black leather biker’s jacket draped across it, and there was a helmet. Keogh recognized it at once. “Heh, where did you get this beauty, Benny, a Montesa dirt bike?”

“You know this model?” Ryan asked.

“Of course. Spanish. They’ll do half a mile an hour over rough ground if you want them to.”

“And is that good?” Kathleen asked.

“It is if you’re a shepherd operating in hill country,” Keogh told her. “These things will go anywhere.” He turned to Ryan. “You bought this for Benny?”

“Not really. A bit small for him. I thought it might suit our circumstances. I’ll explain later.” He said to Mary, “Let’s have a look at the truck.”

She turned to Benny. “Show us, Benny.”

He nodded eagerly, almost ran to the back of the barn, tossed some bales of hay to one side, then felt for a hidden catch. The wooden wall swung open. Inside in an extension of the barn stood a large truck painted green and white.

THE LEGEND ON the side of the truck read Shelby Meat Importers. Keogh said, “Is this what I think it is?”

“An exact replica of the truck we’re going to heist.”

“So what’s the point?”

“A decoy, that’s all. Benny will dump this down on the coast road, all doors locked and so on. That should hold the police up nicely while they try to get inside. It’ll give us extra time, if we need it, to get away with the real McCoy.”

“Very ingenious. And Benny can handle this?”

“Benny can handle anything with an engine like you wouldn’t believe. Benny should be a Formula One driver only he’s too big.” Benny nodded delightedly.

“Right, let’s go back inside and have a cup of tea and then Benny can take us to the front line, so to speak.”

THE COAST ROAD was down below, a secondary road joining it at the side of a wood. The Land Rover pulled in and Ryan got out with Keogh and Kathleen and Benny followed.

“So this is it?” Keogh asked.

“That’s right,” Ryan told him. “Four o’clock, Friday afternoon, give or take fifteen minutes, and the transporter reaches this junction. Take my word for it, all carefully checked.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Keogh said. “It’s all right saying the Howler takes out the truck’s security system, but how do you get the damn thing to stop in the first place?”

“A good point, but that’s where Kathleen comes in.” Ryan put an arm around her. “I’ll explain when we get back.”

THE SECOND BARN was filled with farm machinery. There was also an old Ford van.

Ryan said, “Now if you were driving along a country road and you saw that van burning and a young girl lying in the road, blood on her face, would you stop?”

“I’d have to say I would,” Keogh said.

“And so will they.” Ryan put an arm around Kathleen. “A chance to earn your Oscar, girl.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. Now let’s go in and we’ll take it step-by-step.”

“AS I TOLD you, the transporter reaches the junction at approximately four o’clock on Friday.”

They were all there in the kitchen. Mary and Kathleen at the table with Ryan, Benny at the door, and Keogh by the fire.

Ryan said, “Kathleen and I will drive to the scene of the action in the Ford van. You follow on the Montesa. I’ve got a couple of two-way radios in the case. You’ll have one with you. You’ll carry on a couple of miles and wait for the transporter. When you see it, you call me. Use Eagle One as a call sign, I’ll use Eagle Two.”

“What do I do then?”

“Overtake the truck and join us. We’ll set fire to the Ford and Kathleen lies down in the road and does her thing. I’ve some of that false blood actors use. She’ll put it on her face.”

“Then they stop, or we hope they do, and you use the Howler to screw up the transporter’s whole security system.”

“They’ll be cut off from the world.”

“And if they fight?”

“No problem. I’ve got two AK rifles in my case, stun grenades, and gas grenades. Even Semtex and pencil timers, but the doors will be unlocked anyway thanks to the Howler. Fifteen minutes after we leave the farm, Benny will drive the replica transporter down to the coast road where he’ll dump it and clear off back to the farm on foot.”

“So, we neutralize the guards. What then?”

“You and Kathleen get the hell out of it on the Montesa, all the way to the jetty at Marsh End. I’ll follow in the truck.”

“But why can’t we all go together in the truck?” Keogh asked.

Ryan put an arm around Kathleen again. “Because the truck’s the vulnerable end of things. If anything goes sour, that’s where it will. I want her out of it. If things do go wrong, then as long as you and Kathleen get to the Irish Rose, there’s always the chance of getting away.”

Kathleen said, “What do you think, Martin?”

Keogh said, “That it’s going to be one hell of a Friday.”

IN KILBURN, JUST before evening, Hugh Bell was sitting at the desk in his office when the door opened and the barman looked in.

“Some gentlemen to see you, sir.”

He was pulled to one side and a very large man in a navy blue raincoat entered, hands in pockets.

“So there you are, you old bastard.”

“Scully. What do you want?” and Bell knew fear.

“I’ve brought an old friend to see you.”

He stood to one side and a small man entered. His face was thin and wasted, he wore wire spectacles beneath an old trilby hat and a fawn raincoat.

“Mr. Reid,” Bell said, his mouth dry.

“Nice to see you, Hugh.” The Belfast accent was very pronounced. “A word would seem to be in order.”

“A word?” Bell said. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t?” Reid took off his hat and sat at the table. “And me all the way from Belfast on behalf of the Army Council.”

“But what would they want with me?”

Reid took out an old silver case and selected a cigarette. Scully lit it for him with his lighter. “Don’t fence with me, Hugh. The other year Michael Ryan put up a hare-brained scheme to knock off some bullion truck up in the northwest of England. Don’t deny it because you were involved. The Army Council turned it down.”

“That’s true,” Bell said lamely. “I do recall something of that.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Hugh. Things get out as things always do, and the whisper is that Michael is going ahead with this job on his own initiative, right now.” He smiled thinly. “It would seem obvious that you would be the man to know the truth of the matter.” He turned. “Wouldn’t you agree, Scully?”

“Oh, I would indeed, Mr. Reid.” And Scully’s smile was terrible.

He was in deep trouble, Bell knew that, but he also knew that disclosing what he did know would do him no good at all. When Scully was brought in, it always meant a bad end to things. He was not known as the Shankill Butcher for nothing. Bell made his decision and took a deep breath.

“Sure, I can’t deny I know something of the matter, Mr. Reid. Michael did come to me the other day and discuss certain aspects.”

“The word I got was that a bullion truck would be heisted, is that true?”

“Well, it was in the original plan submitted to the Army Council.”

“And trans-shipped to somewhere in County Down. Do you know where?”

“God save us, but I don’t.”

“Scully!” Reid said.

The big man took a Browning from his pocket and advanced. Bell said hurriedly, “No need for that. I know where Ryan is staying here in London. I’ll take you there now.”

Scully relaxed and Reid smiled. “Very sensible, Hugh.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

Bell went into the bedroom, picking up his jacket, put it on, then quickly opening the opposite door, darted along the corridor, exited into the alley at the side of the pub, and ran for the main road.

WHEN THE PHONE in the hall rang at Folly’s End it was Mary Power who answered it. She came into the kitchen and said to Ryan, “It’s for you. Mr. Bell.”

Ryan went out to the hall and picked up the phone. “Yes, Hugh?”

“We’re in trouble. Reid turned up from the Army Council with that sod Scully. They know, Michael, they’ve heard a whisper.”

“Did you tell them anything?”

“Did I, hell. I ran for my life, but they knew the plan. I mean, they would, wouldn’t they? You submitted it to them originally.”

“The original plan was sketchy, Hugh. No mention of Folly’s End or the precise target, and at that stage the boat was only an idea. Did you tell them about the Irish Rose? Did you tell them we’d be putting in at Kilalla?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then we’ll get on with it. Keep your head down and mind your back, Hugh. Go to ground for a while.”

After replacing the phone he stood there in the hall, lighting a cigarette and thinking about it. No point in alarming anyone. No point at all.

He returned to the kitchen. “Hugh Bell. Nothing important.” He smiled at Keogh. “I’ll stay up here in case there are any more calls from Hugh. You’ll have to spend the night at the cottage down at Marsh End on your own. No room here. Take the Ford van.”

“I’ll be on my way, then.” Keogh swallowed his tea and got up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

BELL DIDN’T KNOW where he was going. He hesitated and started across Kilburn High Street. At that moment, an old Mercedes limousine turned out of a side street, Scully at the wheel, Reid beside him.

“He’s there,” Reid said, “crossing the road. Get him.”

Scully gunned the motor. Bell, alarmed at the sound, turned. He tried to run and slipped in the rain. The Mercedes hit him at fifty miles an hour, bounced him into the gutter, and moved on.

A woman screamed as a crowd converged, a uniformed Woman Police Officer pushed her way through, but by the time she knelt down beside Hugh Bell he was very dead indeed.