only two or three minutes later that they heard the outboard motor start up.
“WHAT DO WE do?” Hannah asked.
“Simple,” Dillon told her, “now that she’s gone. These things have a forward deck hatch, always do. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He went out into the galley and saw the hatch at once above his head, stood on a stool, unclipped it, and pulled himself through. A moment later, Hannah heard him on the companionway and the door opened. She followed him out on deck and they saw the green inflatable disappearing into the mist. Dillon went into the wheelhouse and switched on the engines. He turned back toward Scotstown.
“Here, you take the wheel and I’ll go and change.”
When he returned, Hannah said, “She’s crazy, Sean, over the edge.”
“She always was a bit that way,” Dillon said. “Something there, something really heavy, and I never knew what. Now she thinks she killed her uncle. By the way, is that Jack Barry’s raincoat on the peg there? If so, I might just find those two Walthers he took off me.” He searched the pockets and turned. “There you are, one for you and one for me. I’ll take the wheel.”
“What did she mean that the gold wasn’t there in the first place?”
“Remember I told you I felt there was something wrong when I went through the files and the newspaper clippings.”
“Yes.”
“Now I know what it was. Michael Ryan had a replica truck at Folly’s End and Benny was to dump it on the coast road to put the police off for a while.”
“So?”
“It didn’t strike me at first, but there wasn’t a single mention of that truck in any police report or newspaper file. Now why would that be?”
“Oh, my God!” Hannah said.
“Exactly. After the robbery I took off for the
“Which it wasn’t.”
“Of course not. He was late because he called at Folly’s End and switched trucks. The bullion never went down with the
THE LAKE DISTRICT
1995
FIFTEEN
KATHLEEN RYAN COASTED in out of the mist and grounded on the slipway beside the jetty. She didn’t bother tying up, simply left the inflatable where it was, and went up to the quayside and crossed to the Loyalist. She went round to the yard at the rear and found Barry’s station wagon. When she tried the door it was locked. She stood there thinking about it. She had to get out of it, had to keep moving, so she crossed to the back door.
Kevin Stringer sat at the table drinking tea and reading yesterday’s newspaper. He looked up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Jack Barry’s keys for the station wagon, where are they?”
“On the sideboard.”
She reached for them and put them in her pocket. “I need my shoulder bag. I left it in the bedroom. I’ll go and fetch it, then I’ll be off.”
She went out and left Stringer there, very disturbed. It was quiet, no staff due in for a couple of hours, and for some reason he knew fear.
He heard her coming down the stairs and she came in. She’d got rid of the reefer coat she’d worn on the boat, was wearing a long raincoat and her old black beret. The bag hung from her left shoulder.
“Do you know where Ladytown is?”
“It’s on the far side of Newcastle on Dundrum Bay. You just follow the coast road.”
“How far?”
“Twenty miles.”
“Good, I’ll be away, then.” It was noticeable that the American accent had disappeared and now she had reverted to the hard Belfast accent of her youth.
Stringer got up and moved to block her way. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Jack?”
“Dead. Martin killed him, Martin Keogh. He killed Sollazo and the other fella, too. He’s still on the boat with that woman. I locked them in the cabin and came back in the inflatable.”
Her voice was flat and monotonous and Stringer felt strangely light-headed. “Not Keogh – Dillon. Have you lost your wits, girl? They can’t all be dead, not all three.”
“Oh, yes they are. Anyway, I’ll be off.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” He put his hands on her shoulders.
Her eyes seemed to burn in that pale face and she cried out, “Don’t put your hands on me, you Taig bastard.” She pulled the Browning from her right-hand pocket, jammed the muzzle against his side, and fired.
He gave a terrible groan and staggered back. “Damn you, you’ve done for me.”
She shot him again and he fell against the table and dropped to the floor. “Good riddance,” she said. “If I had my way I’d shoot the lot of you.”
She put the Browning back in her pocket and went out. A few moments later she drove away in the station wagon.
DILLON EASED THE
“Right, let’s get moving.”
He took Hannah’s hand and they ran across the street in the rain going round the side to the yard at the back. Hannah peered cautiously in through the kitchen window.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone there,” she said, “and I see the station wagon has gone.”
“All right, in we go,” Dillon told her and took out his Walther.
There was the immediate pungent smell of cordite and then, of course, Stringer’s body. Hannah dropped to one knee and searched for a pulse. She looked up and shook her head.
“He’s quite dead.” She stood. “She doesn’t take prisoners, that girl. I wonder where she’s gone?”
“Look, she gave her uncle those pills to get him away from Barry and Co. to a hospital from where they thought they’d be able to do a runner. He died and she blames herself, but she is running and on her own now,” Dillon said.
“To the Lake District in England?”
“Where else, but how to get there?”
“Fly to Manchester and hire a car.”
“A possibility or maybe a private flight. Several old airstrips on that coast from the Second World War. You only have to look in
“It’s a possibility.” Hannah nodded. “And there was that strange remark she made back there on the boat. It’s there waiting for me…”
“And I’ll fly in out of the sea to get it,” Dillon said.
“She’s mad, Dillon, you do realize that? Did you notice she didn’t sound American anymore?”
“I know. She was talking pure Belfast just like the sixteen-year-old girl I saved on a dark street ten years ago, but never mind that now. We’ll go in the office and call Ferguson.”
