The Violent Enemy

He stopped the car, took out the vacuum flask and stood at the side of the road looking out at the distant sea while he finished the coffee. It was difficult to believe, but he was out. For a brief moment, the strange, illogical thought crossed his mind that perhaps this was only some dark, hopeless dream from which the rattle of the key in the lock of his cell door would awaken him at any moment, and then a gull cried harshly in the sky and rain started to fall in a sudden heavy rush. He stood there for a moment longer, his face turned up to it, and then got back into the car and drove away.

He arrived in Kendal just after seven and found the place, like most country market towns at that time in the morning, already stirring. He located the Woolpack Inn in Stricklandgate without any trouble, pulled in the car park and switched off the engine.

It was a strange feeling waiting there in the car, like the old days working with the Maquis in France, and he remembered that morning in Amiens with the rain bouncing from the cobbles and the contact man who turned out to be an Abwehr agent. But then you never could be certain of anything in this life, from the womb to the grave.

He opened the packet of cigarettes Pope had given him, found it empty and crushed it in his hand. A quiet voice said, ‘A fine morning, Mr Rogan.’

She was perhaps twenty years old, certainly no more. She wore an old trenchcoat belted around her waist and, in spite of her head-scarf, rain beaded the fringe of dark hair which had escaped at the front and drifted across her brow.

She walked round to the other side, opened the door and sat on the bench seat beside him. Her face was smoothly rounded with a flawless cream complexion, the eyebrows and hair coal black and her red lips had an extra fullness that suggested sensuality. It was the sort of face he had seen often on the west coast of Ireland, particularly around Galway where there had been a plentiful infusion of Spanish blood over the centuries.

‘How could you be sure?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I had the number of the car and Colum showed me a photograph. You’ve changed.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ he said. ‘Where do you fit in?’

‘You’ll find out. If you’ll let me get at that wheel, we’ll move out.’

He eased himself across the seat. She slid past him. For a moment he was acutely conscious of her as a woman, a hint of perfume in the cold morning air, the edge of the coat riding above her knees. She pulled it down with a complete lack of self-consciousness and started the engine.

‘I’d like to stop for some cigarettes,’ Rogan said.

She took a packet from her left pocket and tossed them across. ‘No need. I’ve got plenty.’

‘Have we far to go?’

‘About forty miles.’

She was perfectly calm, her hands steady on the wheel as she took the brake with real skill through the narrow streets and the early morning traffic, and he watched her for a while, leaning back in the corner.

A fine, lovely girl this one, but one who had been used by life and not kindly. The story was there in the shadow that lurked behind the grey-green eyes. Hurt, but not broken – the courage showed in the tilt of the chin, the sureness of those competent hands. The pity of it was that she would never let anyone get close to her again and that was the real tragedy.

Her voice cut sharply into his musing. ‘You’ll know me next time?’

‘And would that be a bad thing?’ he grinned lightly. ‘Liverpool-Irish?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘No accent like it in this world or out of it.’

She smiled in spite of herself. ‘You needn’t think you sound like any English gentleman yourself.’

‘And why would I be wanting to?’

‘You were a major in their army, weren’t you?’

‘You seem to know.’

‘I should do. At one time, I used to get the great Sean Rogan for breakfast, dinner and supper and precious little else.’

They were now on the outskirts of the town and she pulled in beside a low stone wall topped by iron railings. A little farther along there was an open iron gate and a sign which read Church of the Immaculate Heart with the times of Mass and Confession in faded gold letters beneath.

‘Do you mind?’ she said. ‘I don’t get in very often.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He watched her pass through the gate, a small girl with a ripe peasant figure and hips that were too large by English standards. So, she still kept to the Faith? Now that was interesting, and proved she wasn’t an active member of the I.R.A. which carried automatic excommunication.

On impulse he opened the door and followed her along the flagged path. It was warm inside and very quiet. For a little while he stood there listening intently and then he sat down in a pew at the back of the church.

She was on her knees by the altar. As he looked down towards the winking candles it seemed to grow darker. He leaned forward and rested his head on a stone pillar. All the strain and excitement of the past twelve hours catching up on him. In some strange way it was as if he were listening for something.

He pushed the thought away from him and sat back and watched as she got to her feet and walked back along the aisle. She became aware of him there in the half darkness and paused abruptly.

‘That was foolish of you. You could have been seen.’

He shrugged, stood up and took her arm as they went to the door. ‘If you think like that you act suspiciously; if you act suspiciously, you get caught. I’m an old hand at being on the run.’

They stood on the step and the wind blew a fine drizzle of rain into the porch as she looked up at him searchingly. She smiled and it was as if a lamp had been turned on inside.

‘Hannah Costello, Mr Rogan,’ she said and held out her hand.

He took it and grinned. ‘A fresh start makes old friends of bad ones,’ he said. ‘A proverb my grandmother was fond of. Would it be too much to ask where you’re taking me?’

‘The other side of the lakes. On the coast, near a place called Whitbeck.’

‘Is Colum O’More there?’

‘Waiting for you.’

‘In the name of God, let us go then. There’s a farm in Kerry my father’s growing too old to cope with. It’s time I was home again.’

The smile vanished from her face and she gazed up at him searchingly. She seemed about to speak, but obviously thought better of it and turned and led the way back to the car.

Dick Vanbrugh was tired, damned tired, and the heavy rain driving against the bathroom window wasn’t calculated to improve the way he felt. He finished shaving and was towelling his face tenderly when the door opened and his wife looked in. ‘Phone, darling. The Assistant Commissioner.’

Vanbrugh stared at her, a deep frown creasing his forehead. ‘You’re joking, of course.’

‘I’m afraid not. I’ll get your breakfast on the stove now. From the sound of him, you’ll be moving off in a hurry.’

Vanbrugh pulled a shirt over his head, tucking it into his trousers as he went downstairs. His tiredness had vanished completely. Whatever this was, it was something big. You didn’t get the Assistant Commissioner on the phone at seven thirty in the morning just because somebody’s warehouse had been turned over.