Rain on the Dead

‘What are you saying?’ she asked.

He showed her the photo on his phone. She examined it, frowning. ‘Who on earth are these two?’

‘Supposedly their names are Jackson and Hawkins, two Americans visiting Nantucket in a sport-fisherman out of Long Island. I got that photo of them from a nice kid named Henry working out of the harbourmaster’s office. Remember I went for a walk on the beach down to the harbour? I found Henry checking boats and showed him the Chechen photos. He recognized them as having had a row with Jackson and Hawkins the previous evening, told me he was surprised to find that they had already left in their boat, which was booked to stay until Friday.’

‘Are you trying to say you know these men?’

‘I certainly don’t recognize them, but beards and bushy hairdos are a very successful disguise, so I’ve always found. But some things can’t be disguised. What if I told you that Henry’s a jazz enthusiast and heard Hawkins, the one with the white hair, playing the finest clarinet he’d ever heard but didn’t recognize the music. When he asked what it was, Hawkins told him it was an old Irish folk song called “The Lark in the Clear Air”, which he’d played in the style of George Gershwin.’

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, stunned. ‘Oh, my God!’

‘Yes, my love, my cousin and Tim Kelly can disguise themselves as much as you like, but no one could disguise that music from me, wouldn’t you agree after hearing my story?’

‘But what would they be up to?’

‘Obviously I don’t know, but what I do is that they were both released from the Maze Prison during the peace process. I heard some talk of them being in the security business, so called. As we know, that could mean anything. It gave me the greatest shock of my life when Henry spoke to me. It was so strange, brought everything back. My first thought was that I’d have to turn them in. I couldn’t face that, but I’ve got my head round it now. I’ll have to tell the General and face the consequences.’

There was a stirring up in front of them and Ferguson looked around. ‘No need, Dillon, I heard the whole bloody saga – taped it, as a matter of fact. How lucky for me that my pill box was empty so I hadn’t been knocked out as I usually am on these flights.’

‘So it’s the Tower of London, next stop?’ Dillon said.

‘You certainly deserve it. You’ve given me all sorts of problems now. What do I do about the CIA, what will the Prime Minister have to say? I’m going to send it all on for Roper to digest. In the meantime, we have another four hours to Farley. May I suggest we dim the lights and try to get some sleep?’

At the Holland Park safe house, Roper, seated in his dressing gown in his wheelchair in the computer room, was ecstatic and laughing to himself as he reached the end of the recording. He reached for the Bushmills Irish whiskey bottle and poured a large one.

He tossed it back, broke into laughter, and said, ‘God bless you, Sean Dillon. When my day is dull, I can always rely on you to brighten it up.’

Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, had just pushed in a trolley with bacon sandwiches and a tea urn, his bomb-devastated boss being unable to drink coffee any longer.

‘You’re a happy man, Major, what’s caused that? Have there been developments?’

He had been in the computer room the previous night with Roper when Ferguson had come on screen from Nantucket to mention the assassination attempt and Dillon and Sara’s part in it. The Holland Park safe house operated outside the normal security services such as MI5 and 6, who hated the fact that, thanks to Roper’s genius, a great deal that passed through his coded computers stayed private except to Ferguson and his people, all sworn to secrecy.

Roper said, ‘You’ve got to hear this, Tony, fresh from the Gulfstream. Pass me a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. No pictures, just audio.’

When it was finished, Tony Doyle shook his head. ‘That was a bad thing some bastard did to Father Murphy.’

Roper, taking a more sober attitude now, agreed. ‘The Troubles were not only hell on earth, they were disgusting morally.’

‘Yes, but you only realized that by being there,’ Doyle said. ‘Take me. A Jamaican Cockney born and bred in London. I wanted to see the world, so I joined the British Army, and what did I get?’

‘Seven tours of duty in Northern Ireland.’ Roper took another sandwich. ‘And what did I get out of it? This wheelchair.’ He switched on multiple screens. ‘Let me see if there’s anything interesting I can find about the Flynn clan.’

Doyle said, ‘Yes, Major, you really are a casualty of war.’

‘So are you,’ Roper told him, not looking at him but scanning the screens. ‘And so were Dillon and Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly, who marched to the beat of the wrong drum. Hmm. Apparently, the only person in this affair who showed good sense was Tod’s elder brother by ten years, Peter. He avoided the Troubles by moving to the Republic to work for a distant relative on his horse farm and stud at a place called Drumgoole.’

‘A sensible option, I’d say.’

‘I’d agree, especially as seven years later, the relative died of a heart attack and left the farm to Peter and his wife, on the condition that they gave a home to his widowed sister, Margaret Flynn, known to the family as Aunt Meg.’

‘Some people have all the luck,’ Doyle said.

‘Especially when Tod and Kelly were released from the Maze and he was able to offer them a home.’

‘To work on the farm?’

‘Some of the time. It’s also the address of a security firm. Obviously, it didn’t take them long to get down to business.’

‘So you think Nantucket was part of their agenda?’

‘I don’t know.’ Roper was frowning, manipulating his control. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘That was unfortunate. There’s a daughter, Hannah, who was eighteen in June. Four years ago, on a trip to Belfast, she lost her parents to a car bomb. She was badly injured and in hospital for months. Her father died intestate.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘No will. She inherited everything, but as she was only fourteen, the court appointed Tod and Aunt Meg as joint guardians.’

‘Well, as I wouldn’t trust that Provo bastard an inch, I’m happy the aunt’s around to keep an eye on him,’ Doyle said.

‘There’s some personal stuff here on her Facebook page,’ Roper said. ‘Good news. She must be a real hotshot on the piano. She’s just been accepted as a student at the Royal College of Music.’

‘Sounds like you’re taking a personal interest.’

Roper switched off most of the screens, leaving only one, the emergency cover. ‘Enough already. I could do with a steam, shower and shave and fresh clothes, then I’ll doze until our lord and master appears.’ He was very cheerful. ‘Can you assist me, Sergeant?’

‘That’s what I’m here for, Major,’ Doyle told him, and followed as Roper switched on his wheelchair and led the way out.

And in Ireland, high on a hill that loomed above Drumgoole Place, Hannah Flynn reined in a mare named Fancy as she saw the Land Rover approaching the house in the far distance. It was raining lightly, evening drawing in, and she wore an Australian drover’s coat, a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over auburn hair that framed a calm and serious face. She spoke into a cell phone.

‘They’re here, Aunt Meg.’

Margaret Flynn took the call in the kitchen. At seventy-six, she was a handsome woman still, in jerkin and riding breeches, hair white, face tanned. There was still a hint of the actress she had been in her youth.

‘Wonderful, but when your uncle Tod called from Dublin Airport, he said they wanted to change as soon as possible.’

‘More cloak and dagger again,’ Hannah said. ‘When are they going to learn that the IRA is past its prime and nobody wants to know any more?’

‘Of course, love, Tod and Kelly know that. It’s just security work they do these days. Anyway, I’ve given the stable hands the night off, so you get here when you can. We’ll have dinner a little later.’

There had long been a dark suspicion that the car bomb which had killed Hannah’s parents and injured her so badly had been meant for Tod. Perhaps someone was settling an old score? Hannah frequently remembered that possibility with some bitterness.

She sat there for a moment longer, stroking and patting the mare. ‘That’s men for you, Fancy, still playing games in the schoolyard and then never seeming to learn that sometimes people get hurt.’ She shook her head. ‘Security, my arse,’ and she rode away.

Tod and Kelly showered in the wet room on the ground floor of Drumgoole Place, then set about shaving their beards, which took quite some time. After that, they sat side by side and Meg cut their hair in turn.

‘Will ye watch what you’re doing, woman?’ Tod said.

She cuffed him. ‘You’re in good hands. I learned everything there is to know about hairdressing in my theatre days. I’ll see to the cuts first, then use the right solvents to treat the colour.’