TONY MCGUIRE CAME into the office and found her sitting by the stove.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Your five thousand dollars are on the table.” He went and picked them up, a bundle in each hand. “Count them if you like,” she said.
“What the hell, I trust you.” He went and unlocked an old-fashioned safe in the corner and put the money inside.
“Can we go now?” she said.
“I don’t see why not.”
He turned and led the way out. As they walked across to the hangar, she said, “Can we get away with it?”
“Oh, sure,” McGuire said. “There’s more unrestricted air space out there than people realize, and if I approach the coast of the Lake District at under six hundred feet I won’t even show on radar.”
“I see.”
They went into the hangar, she climbed over the wing, and took the seat directly behind the pilot’s. McGuire climbed in and closed the door. He fired one engine, then the other and turned.
“Okay?” She nodded. “Here we go, then.”
He taxied out onto the runway, bumping over holes, and turned into the wind at the far end. There was a slight pause and they moved forward. He boosted power and they lifted up into the mist and rain.
IN THE OFFICERS’ mess at Whitefire, Dillon and Hannah were having a cup of tea when Lieutenant- Commander Murray came in with Ferguson.
“Here you are, Brigadier,” he said.
Ferguson gave him his best smile. “I’d appreciate a word with my people, Commander. Ten minutes? After that we’ll leave in that Sea King for the destination I’ve indicated on the map.”
“As you say, Brigadier.”
Murray saluted and withdrew. Ferguson turned and smiled. “Is that tea? I really would appreciate some, Chief Inspector.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hannah found a clean cup and poured. Ferguson said, “You have been having a ball, Dillon, haven’t you?”
“Well, it’s been complicated, I’ll say that.”
Ferguson accepted the cup of tea from Hannah. “And your usual kill ratio I see. Barry, Sollazo, and Mori. Really, Dillon, you constantly remind me of the tailor in the fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm who boasted of having killed three at one blow, only in his case it turned out to be flies on a piece of jam and bread.”
“Jesus, Brigadier, have I disappointed you again?”
“Don’t be silly, Dillon. What about the girl?”
“She’s quite mad,” Hannah Bernstein said. “Whatever mental state she was in before is one thing, but this business of the death of her uncle has put her right over.”
“So you think she’ll turn up at Folly’s End?”
“She doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” Dillon told him.
“All right, calm down.” Ferguson put his cup on the table. “Let’s go and see, shall we?”
MARY POWER WAS feeding the chickens at her back door, a black and white sheepdog at her side. It was late afternoon, darkness tingeing the sky on the distant horizon. She finished with the chickens, then went in search of Benny and found him in the barn sitting at the tackle table cleaning the barrels of a shotgun.
“There you are. Did you see to the sheep in the north meadow?”
He nodded eagerly. “I brought them down,” he said in his slow pedantic way. “And put them in the paddock.”
“You’re a good lad, Benny.”
He reached for an ammunition box, took out two cartridges, loaded the gun, and snapped the barrels up. For a moment it pointed at her and she cuffed the side of his head and pushed the shotgun to one side.
“I’ve told you before. Never point it at anyone. Guns are bad.”
“But the fox might come again,” Benny said slowly. “Last time he killed twelve chickens.”
“Well, you get the bastard when he comes, but don’t shoot me,” she said. “Now come and have your break. Cup of tea and that nice fruit cake I made.”
He put the shotgun on the table and followed her out.
THE CESSNA 310 came in from the sea at four hundred feet and banked to starboard. A few moments later it dropped in at the end of the runway at Laldale and taxied toward the far end. McGuire turned into the wind and switched off the engines. Kathleen reached for the door handle.
He said, “I’ll get that for you,” and opened it. “You first.”
She went out over the wing, put a foot on the little passenger ladder, and reached the ground and McGuire followed her. The mountains were shrouded in mist, and the rain was a persistent damp drizzle.
“You know where you’re going?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I can walk.”
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“It’s just three or four miles.”
“Only I was thinking about all that money in your shoulder bag. I mean, anything might happen.” He reached and grabbed it from her.
He stood there beside the plane scrabbling in the bottom of the bag and found the rest of the dollars. “Jesus Christ!” he said.
“Bastard,” Kathleen Ryan told him. “You’re all bastards,” and she took out the Browning and shot him twice in the heart.
McGuire bounced against the wing and fell to the ground. She picked up the bag, slipped the strap over her shoulder, turned, and walked away.
AT FOLLY’S END, Benny was forking hay in the loft of the barn when Mary Power went in search of him. “I’ve done lamb stew. Do you want dumplings?”
Benny nodded eagerly. “I’d like that.”
Suddenly the air was filled with noise, an incredible roaring. Mary turned in alarm and ran into the yard, Benny following her, and the Sea King helicopter descended into the meadow beside the farm. The rotors stopped and Charles Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon got out.
Dillon ran forward and Mary said in amazement, “Martin? Martin Keogh, is that you?”
“As ever was, Mary. Has Kathleen been here? Kathleen Ryan?”
She looked bewildered. “No, should she be?”
Dillon turned and shook his head to Ferguson, who still stood by the helicopter. Ferguson leaned in and spoke to the pilot, then stood back and the Sea King rose into the air and banked away.
Ferguson came forward and smiled at Mary Power, who stood outside the barn door, Benny at her shoulder.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
“Brigadier Charles Ferguson, Mrs. Power. Is the truck still in the barn?”
She went very pale. “The truck?” she whispered.
“Yes, is the truck still in the barn?” he said patiently.
It was Benny who answered. “Oh, yes, truck in the barn till Uncle Michael come back. Benny show,” and he turned and ran inside.
IT WAS RAINING hard now as Kathleen Ryan tramped along the Eskdale Road, a strange forlorn figure in her raincoat and beret, hands thrust into her pockets. She reached the gate with the sign
It was almost dark, fading fast, and there was no light in the house. She stood there in the yard remembering
