Present Danger

9

The camera at the gatehouse had been busy. There were photographs of walkers, and several of a black Toyota hybrid car which came and went and had been identified by Phil Robinson as belonging to the holiday tenants who had taken a fortnight’s let. But Liz was staring at several pictures of a red Vauxhall.

‘The owner is called Malone,’ said Dave Armstrong, standing behind her and looking over her shoulder. ‘That’s him driving. He has form.’

‘What kind of form?’ asked Liz, still looking at the photographs of the car.

‘Six years in the eighties for the attempted murder of an RUC officer. He left his fingerprints all over a bomb that didn’t go off underneath the policeman’s car. After that he was more careful. We couldn’t get him on terrorism, but he’s got a list of convictions for violence. A GBH charge when he worked as a doorman in a nightclub in Cookstown, a couple of domestics when his wife got fed up and rang the police. Lately he’s calmed down. He’s middle-aged, like we’ll all be soon.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Liz.

She looked again at the photographs. She could see the two figures in the front seat clearly but the back seat passenger was not identifiable.

‘Who is the other guy in the front seat?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Dave.

‘What do you think’s going on down there?’ she asked.

Dave shrugged. ‘Hard to say. But I doubt it’s above board.’

‘Do we know who really owns the farmhouse?’ asked Liz.

‘It’s a company in Belfast. I’ve got the directors’ names, but none of them has a trace in the files.’ His face brightened. ‘I was planning to go out there this morning to have a snoop around. Why don’t you come too? It will give you a chance to see a bit of the country around Belfast and get yourself orientated.’

‘Are you talking about trespassing on private property?’

‘Of course not,’ he said, though from the glint in his eyes Liz was sure that was exactly what he was proposing. ‘There’s a public track that runs from the gatehouse up to a small parking place, then a footpath leads round the headland. It’s used quite a lot by dog walkers. We should be able to get a good look at the farmhouse from there.’

She was surprised how quickly they moved out of the city into countryside. A dreary grey sky hung like a lead lining above them. A gusty wind was throwing rain against the windscreen in short, erratic bursts and as Dave came up behind a slow agricultural truck, spray from its wheels engulfed them.

‘Not a great day for a stroll in the country,’ said Liz, ruefully contemplating her walking shoes and wondering if they really were waterproof.

Yet half an hour later when they had reached the Irish Sea and were driving along a shoreline that seemed entirely deserted, a watery sun had broken through and was sparkling on the waves. ‘Pretty?’ asked Dave mildly.

Liz nodded. ‘I hadn’t realised how beautiful the countryside round here is,’ she said.

‘Neither had I. I thought it would be all council estates with “Up the IRA” and “Brits Out” painted on the walls.’

Through the long thin village street, Dave turned sharp left round the bay, along the lane and over a narrow bridge from where they could see the closed gate into the National Trust estate.

‘How are we going to get in?’ said Liz. ‘Don’t we need a gadget to open the gate?’

‘Got one,’ said Dave, slowing down and fishing in his pocket. ‘Ted made a copy of the one Phil Robinson lent us.’

They passed in front of the stone gatehouse, with its high pitched gable. The black car was parked outside, indicating that the paying visitors were at home.

‘Do we know who lives in the farmhouse?’ asked Liz.

‘Phil Robinson thought an old lady leased it, presumably from the company in Belfast.’ He paused. ‘I wonder if anyone’s there now.’

The wind had picked up and now that the rain had passed the temperature had fallen. Liz, shivering in her city raincoat, resolved to go shopping for some outdoor clothes as she followed Dave, warm in his fleece-lined parka. The footpath ran from the small car park through a stand of pine trees towards the sea. Seagulls were swooping over the water and a flock of small birds was picking something off the low bushes, keeping just ahead of Liz and Dave as they walked. The path led parallel to a dry-stone wall that had crumbled over the years. Beyond the wall Liz could see the foundations of what must have once been an enormous house, the centrepiece of the estate. The path stopped at the corner of the stone wall, but Dave kept walking on.

‘Are we still on the public footpath?’ queried Liz.

‘As far as I know,’ said Dave, as they crested a mound and suddenly faced a farmhouse, less than a hundred yards away. It was a long two storey-structure with neatly painted stucco sides. The roof tiles had been re-laid recently and had yet to lose their gloss. Behind the house at one side was an outbuilding, a squat windowless brick structure about the size of a double garage.

Dave took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket but suddenly swung round and faced the sea, still with his binoculars to his eyes. Then quickly dropping them back in his pocket he turned towards Liz, threw both arms around her and kissed her full on the lips. Before she could begin to object he kissed her again.

What the hell was Dave up to? Furious, Liz was about to dig an indignant fist into his ribs, then slap his face for good measure, when Dave disengaged just enough to whisper, ‘Someone’s coming.’

She understood, and hugged him back fiercely, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

Then a voice rang out. ‘This isn’t a Lover’s Lane.’

Dave and Liz let go of each other and turned together to face a man in a long waxed coat. He was tall and lean, with short greying hair, square features and rimless glasses. Behind him stood a shorter, dark-skinned man in a black leather jacket. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he was looking at them with dull, expressionless eyes. Liz felt pretty sure she knew what was in the pockets, and her backbone crawled.

‘Sorry,’ said Dave, in an uncanny approximation of an Ulster accent. ‘The footpath just seemed to disappear.’

The man looked at Dave, then moved onto Liz, giving her a probing stare, a soulless once-over that had nothing to do with her being a woman – she might as well have been a piece of machinery for all the emotion in the man’s eyes.

The man pointed sharply in the direction from which they’d come. ‘The footpath’s there. This is private. Didn’t you see the notice?’ There was no trace of an Ulster or an Irish accent, but something flat about his pronunciation didn’t sound English. The man looked back at Dave. ‘You’re on my land.’

‘Not for long,’ said Dave. ‘Our apologies.’ He took Liz’s arm and started walking quickly back towards the corner of the wall.

They went along in silence until they were well down the path towards the beach. Then Dave stopped and looked behind them. ‘That shorter, heavy-set guy followed us to make sure we left,’ he said. ‘Did you recognise him? He’s the man in the front seat in a couple of those pictures.’

‘Not exactly a pleasant encounter.’

‘I’ll say. But what does he expect? If there is a sign, I didn’t see it.’

As they retraced their steps to the car park, Dave said, ‘Still, it had its upside.’

‘You mean we got a sight of the inhabitants?’

Dave shook his head, then gave a grin. ‘No. I was thinking of our clinch. Wait till I tell them back in Thames House. My stock will go through the roof.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said Liz. She added with a smile, ‘That was strictly business and don’t you forget it, Dave Armstrong.’