“I’m needing the address of the Polish fella that teaches the violin…”
“You mean Professor Lomza. Stefan Lomza?” she queried, looking him up and down. “What on earth for?”
“Got a delivery,” Quayle replied.
“Well, we don’t give out faculty addresses.”
“Suit yourself darling, I’ll dump it in front there.” he indicated the immaculate lawns in the main square.
“Dump what?” She rose up another inch, ready to defend her beloved Trinity to the death.
“Two tons of manure,” Quayle replied.
“What?”
“Horse shit,” he replied loudly, like she was deaf.
“You will not! Wait here. I’ll get his address. Dump it there!”
“Make up your mind woman,” he said wearily.
Now, with the chill of the evening settling down over the city, he made his way up towards Rathgar, pulling the coat up over his aching shoulder. Another month and he knew Dublin’s ancient stone streets would be shrouded in damp fog, laden with petrol fumes and smog. Walking slowly up Grafton Street amongst the last minute shoppers, he realised he was too early. He wanted to be at the Rathgar address after dark, so he settled himself into a pub near Stephens Green and nursed a glass of Guinness. He’d taken a room at a small hotel near the old railway station and, as he sat and sipped his drink, he wished he’d taken the time to sleep. He hadn’t had a decent rest since the passage to Newcastle – and he knew, only too well, that fatigue was the cause of most covert operational problems. Tired men make mistakes.
Then he mused, with some bitterness, that he hadn’t slept so well in the last few years anyway, not until Holly came along: wonderful warm Holly, her smell on the pillow and her body curled into his back, her soft murmurs as she dreamed beside him.
Look after her Marco, my friend, for without her I have nothing.
Finishing the drink, he returned to the road, the street lights bright in the night. Taking a bus as far as Rathgar Road, he got out and walked up to the turning he wanted, then moved way from the traffic and along the narrower residential street.
The address was half way up on the right, a solid Georgian building with columned portico. The street was devoid of movement and he moved round the back. Still making sure that he was unobserved, he took up position to watch the windows. He had never met Gabriella Kreski, but knew her age and her background and was pleased to notice that every curtain in the house was drawn. While it meant that he couldn’t see in, it was a good sign. It meant she was probably there – and, what’s more, was observing some basic security procedures.
After half an hour had passed, he used a pool of darkness to climb the back wall until he was on the first floor. Then, pulling a small battery-operated audio enhancer from his pocket, he placed it on the glass of a window and began to listen. He was rewarded on the fourth window with a woman’s voice, old but strong, and speaking fast Polish. The other voice was a man’s and, as they argued about the merits of some obscure composer, he used her name. ‘Gabriella…’ Quayle smiled to himself and eased back down to the ground. Then he made his way back to the hotel.
Tomorrow he would make contact.
He slept lightly, the cough of the man next door harsh and grating through the thin old walls, and he was back watching the Georgian House by seven the next morning. It was almost ten by the time Gabriella Kreski stepped onto the road, a sensible green coat over her shoulder and a string shopping bag in her hand. Three hundred feet away, Quayle watched her from the back of a hired van and was about to get out and follow when he noticed two men in a parked car, one climbing out onto the pavement as son as Gabriella appeared.
He had seen the car arrive just before eight and had thought nothing of it. Now, however, everything had changed. He swore silently to himself, thinking fast. They were here when Lomza left for work, so they knew she may well have been alone in the house. If they were going to take her it should have been then. So perhaps they did not know she was alone? They may have just arrived and been incredibly lucky to get a live sighting within a couple of hours of finding a potential hidey-hole.
Quayle watched her walk a few paces. Then blue exhaust fumes rose from up behind the watcher’s car. He switched his gaze to the walking tag and saw him put his hand up to his ear.
Ear piece receiver. That meant the tag car could follow or give instructions. They might well be calling in help. If they knew Kreski’s background, they would know she would spot a lone walking watcher very quickly.
She would be taking the bus, that much he knew. Starting the van, he drove in the other direction to take the first right turn then right again, doubling back on himself to end up back on Rathgar Road, hopefully in sight of the bus stop. She must have had a timetable because, almost immediately, a big orange double decker pulled into the stop and she climbed on board with several other people.
He tagged at a distance most of the day, following her from the supermarket to the post office and finally the library, where she sat for three hours. The watchers were still there, joined now by two others. All day long they switched positions, the walker following her into buildings and then re-appearing, changing his coat often or wearing a hat.
Finally, when she walked up to Bewleys in Grafton Road, Quayle saw his chance. He didn’t
