The Armada Legacy

Chapter Nineteen

Ben looked at her and saw she was totally earnest. The revolver was uncocked now, and pointed at the floor rather than at him. He took a step closer to the old man’s chair, softly so as not to wake him, and ran his eye over the collection of medicine bottles that littered the table. Among them was a doctor’s prescription. He picked it up, held it in the light of the lamp and saw the name on it: Fergus R. Doyle, with his date of birth.

‘Satisfied?’ Tara asked.

Ben replaced the slip of paper on the table and peered more closely at the old man. Under the mass of wrinkles was the same ugly, mean-looking face he’d studied in the photos earlier that evening. It was Doyle, for sure. He wasn’t seventy yet, but he looked well over ninety. Whatever disease had struck him down had caused terrible ravages, and judging from the quantity of painkillers on the table his waking hours must have been filled with agony.

‘All right,’ Ben said.

‘Now you see him,’ Tara said. ‘You can see how harmless he is. You can see how stupid and impossible it is that he could ever be a threat to anyone any more, and how he couldn’t have taken anything from you. You can see it, can’t you?’

Behind the old man’s chair was a shelving unit crammed with books. Ben noticed several titles about multiple sclerosis, and another called Stroke Recovery: A Patient’s Guide. But the majority of Doyle’s reading material was composed of evangelical Christian literature. The nearby sideboard was covered with more pamphlets and leaflets, as well as a copy of the Bible so well thumbed that its cover was mostly tape.

‘He’s peaceful,’ Tara said. ‘I don’t want to wake him.’ She motioned towards the door. ‘We can talk in the other room.’

The other room was a tiny kitchen. The table was blue Formica and the linoleum was ridged and cracked, but everything was clean and tidy. ‘I come here to look after him,’ she explained. ‘A nurse visits a couple of times a week, but I do the cleaning and stuff, see to it that he eats properly.’

‘What happened to him?’ Ben asked, still trying to understand.

‘The multiple sclerosis was diagnosed more than fifteen years back. Then about six years ago he had his stroke. Since then, he’s done little but sit in that chair and watch TV. I don’t even think he understands much of what he’s seeing any more.’

Ben was silent.

‘I know he was a bad man once,’ Tara said. ‘Like, really really bad. I’ve heard the stories. But he’s not like that now. I was still just a wee girl when he turned his back on violence and found God. Please believe me. He wouldn’t harm a fly, even if he could. He’s my uncle and I love him.’

‘This isn’t the kind of story I’d have expected from someone who was just pointing a Smith and Wesson at me,’ Ben said.

Tara looked at the gun in her hand, then flipped out the cylinder, dumped the six tarnished hollowpoint cartridges into her left palm and slipped them in the pocket of her jeans. She set the unloaded revolver on the tabletop with a clunk. ‘It was his, from years ago. I found it among his stuff once while I was cleaning. I’ve always been scared that one day someone would come looking for him. You know, to settle an old score, ancient history that ought to have been laid to rest. That’s why I need to protect him. Anyone starts poking around asking about my Uncle Ferg, believe me, I’ll hear about it. It was Michael O’Rourke, the barman at the Spinning Jenny, who called me earlier, told me there was someone nosing about asking questions. I went over straight away. Then I heard the shots.’

‘Seems you’re not the only one protecting your uncle.’

She shrugged. ‘If you got yourself in trouble back there, it was nothing to do with me. What did you expect, going into a pub like The Spinning Jenny and stirring folks up with a lot of questions? This is Belfast. The past doesn’t die here. These guys think they’re still fighting for the cause. Fergus Doyle is a legend to them. They don’t see what I see. They don’t know him like I do. They’re just cowboys. But it’s not their fault that there’ll never be real, proper peace in Ulster, not for a hundred more years. It’s thanks to you lot. Thanks to the English who started this whole frigging mess of shite in the first place.’

‘I’m half Irish,’ Ben said. ‘Just so you know.’

She snorted. ‘Well whoopee-doo. You want a medal or something?’

‘I’m glad you brought me here, Tara.’

‘I could have shot you. I’ll kill anyone who tries to harm him.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘I still could.’

‘I appreciate that too.’

‘But it’s not what I want,’ she said. ‘What I want is for all this to be over, for people to understand that Fergus Doyle is just this poor old man who wants to be left alone so he can die in peace. It won’t be long before he goes.’ A tear began to form in the corner of her eye. ‘I wanted you to see him and know how wrong you were.’

Ben said nothing.

‘The person you said was missing,’ Tara said. ‘I think I saw it on TV. Is it anything to do with that sunken treasure guy, Forsythe?’

Ben nodded. ‘Forsyte. Roger Forsyte.’

‘They said there were women in the car with him. She was one of them, wasn’t she? They took her too?’

Ben nodded again.

‘You love her a lot, don’t you? I can see it in your face. Is she your wife? Girlfriend?’

‘She was,’ Ben said quietly. ‘We split up.’

‘I hope you find her. I hope she’s okay. I really do mean that.’

‘I hope so too,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Tara. You’re the sweetest girl that ever pointed a loaded revolver at me.’

She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s not important,’ he said.

‘S’pose I should give you a lift back into town.’

‘If you could take me back to my car. I need to get moving.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I don’t know that yet,’ he admitted. He was only just beginning to realise how lost he felt now that his one and only lead had vapourised before his eyes.

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? Where Uncle Fergus is, I mean. In case anyone might …’

‘Not a living soul.’

By the time Tara drove Ben back to his car, the police had long since disappeared from the scene of the shooting. There would be a few interrogations going on now, but none of the men Ben had left behind him in the alleyways could have any notion of who he was.

Tara left him with a few last words that he barely heard. He climbed into the BMW and watched the Honda vanish into the distance.

Then he was alone again, alone with the pressing knowledge that the trail had gone cold under his feet. He’d never felt so alone; so desolate; so weary.

It was 2.38 p.m. Brooke had been missing for forty hours and thirty-three minutes.

He didn’t think he was ever going to see her again.