could feel the whisky burning away at the lining of his empty stomach and he knew that he should eat something, but he had no appetite. A shower of soot fell down the chimney, startling him. The flue probably hadn’t been swept in years, though the fire burned well enough.
He looked at his wristwatch, more out of habit than because he wanted to know the time. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go. It was almost midnight. He sat back in the old armchair. It was comfortable and seemed to mould itself to his shape like a living thing. He’d moved it so that he could see the front door and the window and keep his back to the wall — though he was still close enough to the fire to feel its warmth. Cramer rolled his head from side to side. He could feel the tension in his neck, the muscles taut and unyielding. He yawned and his jaw clicked, another sign of the strain he was under. He got to his feet and climbed the stairs.
He hadn’t been able to buy fresh sheets or a pillowcase in the village so he’d made do with the rough blankets and the stained pillow. He’d spent the night in worse places, and he had no qualms about sleeping in a dead man’s bed. Cramer was well past the stage of believing in ghosts. He smiled to himself. Famous Grouse was the only spirit he had any faith in these days. He put the bottle on the floor by the bed and then took the Browning Hi-Power 9mm automatic from his shoulder holster and placed it under the pillow. It was Cramer’s fifth night in the cottage. He didn’t think it would be much longer.
Thomas McCormack was putting the final touches to a bright red-feathered trout fly of his own design when the phone on his workbench rang. He sighed and stopped what he was doing. It was Aidan Twomey, an old friend and colleague, but after the bare minimum of pleasantries McCormack realised that it wasn’t a social call.
‘There’s a Brit here, Thomas,’ said Twomey, whispering as if he didn’t want to be overheard. ‘Looks like a Sass-man to me. Living in old man Rafferty’s cottage.’
McCormack pulled a face as he studied the half-finished fly. ‘Sure he’s not a relative?’
Twomey snorted down the phone. ‘Rafferty related to a Sass-man? You’ll have him spinning in his grave, Thomas. Nah, Rafferty didn’t have any relatives over the water. He was the last of his line. No kids and his wife died a few years back. A local solicitor sold the cottage, lock, stock and barrel. Then this Brit moves in.’
‘And you think he’s SAS?’
‘I’d bet my life on it, Thomas. He’s definitely army, that’s for sure. I’ve seen enough of the bastards in my time, you know that. He was in the pub, on his own, drinking. And he’s been taking long walks, like he was waiting for something.’
‘Doesn’t seem to be keeping a low profile, then?’ said McCormack impatiently. He wondered why Twomey was bothering him with such a trivial matter. If the SAS were conducting an undercover operation in Howth, the man would hardly be drinking in the local pub.
‘I was wondering if maybe the boys had anything going in Howth. Anything they’d rather keep to themselves.’
‘Not a thing, Aidan. Take my word for it.’
‘Aye, right enough, right enough. But it’s the way he’s carrying on. Like he was waiting for something to happen.’
McCormack clicked his tongue in annoyance. Initiative was all well and good, but he didn’t appreciate having his time wasted. ‘Well, thanks for the tip, Aidan. I’ll make a note of it.’
‘Cramer,’ said Twomey. ‘Mike Cramer. That’s his name.’
McCormack’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Mike Cramer. That’s his name. That’s what he told Padraig in the pub. I checked with the solicitor, too, and that’s the name on the deeds of the cottage.’
‘This Cramer. Describe him.’ McCormack sat hunched over the phone as he made notes on a sheet of paper, the fly forgotten.
‘Just over six feet tall, thin but looks like he can take care of himself, you know. Deep-set eyes, his nose is sort of hooked and looks like it might’ve been broken. Brown hair, a bit long. His accent is all over the place, but he’s definitely not Irish. He told Padraig he was from Scotland originally.’
‘Did he tell Padraig what he was doing in Howth?’
‘Enjoying the sea air is all he said. What do you think, Thomas? Did I do the right thing calling you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said McCormack. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you did the right thing all right. Now listen to me, Aidan, and listen well. Stay where you are. I’ll have someone down there as soon as possible. Make sure no one goes near him, I don’t want anyone asking him questions. I don’t want him frightened off, okay?’
‘Sure. But I don’t think your man’s going anywhere. He’s well settled in at the cottage.’
McCormack replaced the receiver and sat staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Cramer the Sass-man back in Ireland, sitting in a pub as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense at all.
The young man slowed the blue Citron to a walking pace as he scrutinised the numbers on the houses. ‘There it is,’ he said to his passenger. ‘Number sixteen.’
‘What’s the guy’s name?’ asked the passenger, a redhead in his late teens, pale skinned with watery green eyes.
‘Twomey. Aidan Twomey.’
‘Never heard of him.’
The driver stopped the car and turned to look at his passenger. ‘Yeah, well he’s probably not heard of you either, Paulie. The difference is, Aidan Twomey did a tenner in the Kesh for the Cause and he’s got McCormack’s ear, so I’d be careful what you say, you hear?’
Paulie held his hands up in surrender. ‘I hear you, Davie. Jesus, you’re touchy today.’
Davie shrugged. He was a couple of years older than Paulie and since their father had died he’d become accustomed to being the man of the family. He ran his hand through his thick, sandy hair. ‘This is important, Paulie. We can’t afford to fuck up.’
‘We won’t,’ said Paulie. He opened the glove compartment and took out a revolver, checking that all the chambers were loaded. It was an old gun and had once belonged to their father, though it had never been used in anger. For the last five years it had lain under the attic floorboards, wrapped in an oiled rag.
‘What the hell are you doing with that?’ hissed Davie.
‘We might need it.’
‘McCormack said we were to watch and report on this guy until the boys get here.’
‘So?’
‘So the word was watch, not shoot. We won’t be needing a gun, Paulie.’ He took it from his brother and shoved it under the front seat. ‘McCormack would have your balls if we got caught with that.’
‘Who’s gonna catch us? This isn’t the North.’
Davie glared at him. ‘Just do as you’re told, will you? We watch, we wait, and that’s it.’
‘Then the boys from Belfast get the glory?’
‘That’s the way it goes. Don’t you worry, our turn will come.’ He climbed out of the car and walked down the path to the front door of the pretty bungalow with its views of the sea below. The garden was well-ordered, the grass neatly clipped and there was a stone bird bath in the centre of the lawn. Paulie followed him, glowering resentfully.
Davie rang the doorbell and the front door opened imamediately. Twomey squinted at his two visitors as if he needed spectacles. ‘Hello, boys, your dad’s in the car, is he?’
‘No, we’re. .’ began Paulie, but Davie silenced him with a baleful stare.
‘Thomas sent us,’ said Davie.
‘Oh, it’s Thomas is it, not Mr McCormack?’ said Twomey. He grinned impishly. ‘I’m only messing with yer, lads, come on in.’
He ushered them into his sitting room and poured them large measures of whiskey without asking. He handed them brimming glasses and sat down on a flower-printed sofa. ‘Is it just the two of you, then?’ he asked.
‘There are four coming from Belfast,’ said Davie.
‘Do you know their names?’
Davie shook his head. He felt his cheeks redden as he realised it was a sign of how low down he was in the
