The Eagle Has Flown

‘The wonders of modern technology allow them to tell when that’s been done.’

‘I know. Anyway, I resealed the file and took it back this morning.’

‘And how did you manage to return it?’ I asked.

‘Checked out the same file yesterday. Took the Munro file back to the desk and told the duty clerk there’d been an error.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, why wouldn’t he?’

‘The same clerk?’

‘No – an older man.’

I sat there thinking about it, feeling decidedly uneasy. Finally I said, ‘Why don’t you make us some fresh tea while I have a go at this?’

‘All right.’

She took the tray and went out. I hesitated, then opened the file and started to read.

I wasn’t even aware that she was there, so gripped was I by the events recorded in that file. When I was finished, I closed it and looked up. She was back in the other chair watching me, a curiously intent look on her face.

I said, ‘I can understand the hundred-year hold. The powers that be wouldn’t want this to come out, not even now.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Can I hang on to it for a while?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Till tomorrow if you like. I’m going back to the States on the evening flight. Pan Am.’

‘A sudden decision?’

She went and got her raincoat. ‘That’s right. I’ve decided I’d rather be back in my own country.’

‘Worried?’ I asked.

‘I’m probably being hypersensitive, but sure. I’ll pick the file up tomorrow afternoon. Say three o’clock on my way to Heathrow?’

‘Fine.’ I put the file down on top of my coffee table.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, seven thirty, as I walked her to the door. I opened it and we stood for a moment, rain driving down hard.

‘Of course there is someone who could confirm the truth of that file,’ she said. ‘Liam Devlin. You said in your book he was still around, operating with the Provisional IRA in Ireland.’

‘Last I heard,’ I said. ‘Sixty-seven he’ll be now, but lively with it.’

‘Well, then.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’

She went down the steps and walked away through the rain, vanishing in the early evening mist at the end of the street.

I sat by the fire and read the file twice, then I went back into the kitchen, made myself some more tea and a chicken sandwich and sat at the table, eating the sandwich and thinking about things.

Extraordinary how events coming right out of the blue can change things. It had happened to me once before, the discovery of that hidden memorial to Steiner and his men in the churchyard at Studley Constable. I’d been researching an article for an historical magazine. Instead, I’d found something unlooked for that had changed the course of my entire life. Produced a book which had gone round the world from New York to Moscow, made me rich. Now this – Ruth Cohen and her stolen file, and I was filled with the same strange, tingling excitement.

I needed to come down. Get things in perspective. So, I went to have a shower, took my time over it, shaved and dressed again. It was only eight-thirty and it didn’t seem likely that I’d go to bed early, if I went at all.

I didn’t have any more whiskey as I needed to think, so I made even more tea and settled on the chair again by the fire, lit a cigarette and started to work my way through the file again.

The doorbell rang, shaking me from my reverie. I glanced at the clock. It was just before nine. The bell rang again insistently and I replaced the file in the folder, put it on the coffee table and went out into the hall. It occurred to me that it might be Ruth Cohen again, but I couldn’t have been more wrong, for when I opened the door I found a young police constable standing there, his navy-blue mac wet with rain.

‘Mr Higgins?’ He looked at a piece of paper in his left hand. ‘Mr Jack Higgins?’

Strange the certainty of bad news so that we don’t even need to be told. ‘Yes,’ I said.

He stepped into the hall. ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’m making an enquiry relevant to a Miss Ruth Cohen. Would you be a friend of hers, sir?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I’m afraid the young lady’s dead, sir. Hit-and-run accident at the back of the British Museum an hour ago.’

‘My God!’ I whispered.

‘The thing is sir, we found your name and address on a card in her handbag.’

It was so difficult to take in. She’d stood there at the door where he was such a short time before. He was no more than twenty-one or -two. Still young enough to feel concern and he put a hand on my arm.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

I said, ‘Rather shocked, that’s all.’ I took a deep breath. ‘What is it you want of me?’

‘It seems the young lady was at London University. We’ve checked the student accommodation she was using. No one there with it being the weekend. It’s a question of official identification. For the Coroner’s Office.’

‘And you’d like me to do it?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. It’s not far. She’s at Kensington Mortuary.’

I took another deep breath to steady myself. ‘All right. Just let me get my raincoat.’

The mortuary was a depressing-looking building in a side street, more like a warehouse than anything else. When we went into the foyer, there was a uniformed porter on duty at the desk and a small dark man in his early fifties standing at the window looking out at the rain, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wore a trilby hat and trenchcoat.

He turned to meet me, hands in pockets. ‘Mr Higgins, is it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets and coughed, ash falling from the tip of his cigarette on to his coat. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Fox. An unfortunate business, sir.’

‘Yes,’ I said.