He’d already been over to check the car park. If there was a new pair of jaffas keeping the car under surveillance, they probably wouldn’t recognise him like they would Caitlín. Even at seven in the morning, the car park had a steady stream of traffic coming and going, mostly for fuel, but there were no black BMWs or any other suspicious looking cars with two or more suspicious looking men inside. He toured the rows of cars twice before being satisfied, then texted her to come across.
He watched her cross the bridge and walk towards the main doors of the services as agreed, before turning back and making her way towards the Range Rover. No one approached her or took any notice, as far as he could tell. He blipped the remote and the lights flashed. They threw their bags in the back and climbed in; he started it up and flicked on the heated seats. The leather was cold and the windows steamed up but after thirty seconds, everything was clear and the seats comfortably warm.
“You ready?” She nodded. She’d uttered barely a word over breakfast in the diner and not much since last night when she’d brought the conversation to an end. “You sleep on it and tell me where we’re goin’ in the mornin’. We’ll talk then.”
“So, what’s with all the names?” he asked her for the second time, as the car pulled out into the steadily building rush hour traffic.
“Sineád O’Callaghan is the name on my passport and drivin’ license, but I was born Caitlín McConnell. I changed it by deed poll to help me disappear. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but it’s blown now.”
“When was that?”
“Six months ago.”
“And Siobhán?”
“I just use that now and again when I meet people I’m not goin’ to see again.”
“Like me?” He glanced at her and she gave him a rueful smile. She wore a pale blue sweater with a chunky rollneck and buttons down one side. “Did you know those guys?”
“The jaffas? I recognised one of them, but I could tell by the uniform who they were.” He pressed a few buttons on the display screen and several icons marked JLR appeared on the map. “Where are we goin’?”
“They know which car we’re in and they’ll track us down eventually. We need to change it.”
***
The Jaguar Land Rover showroom on a retail park south of Carlisle was packed with expensive, shiny cars, carefully positioned so customers could swagger around the highly polished floor ogling them like exhibits at an art gallery.
They sat in the ‘Customer Comfort Zone’ drinking complimentary coffee when a sharp-suited young man approached them. His name badge read ‘Alan Jones’.
“Mr Fleming? I understand you are interested in one of our pre-owned Range Rovers.”
“Yes Alan. The blue one outside. We haven’t got much time so if you can do the paperwork asap, we’ll be on our way.”
“And when would you like to take delivery of the vehicle?”
“In about ten minutes?”
Alan Jones gave him a patronising smirk that indicated the customer was clearly a fool and had no idea how complicated the process was. “I’m afraid it will take a little longer than that.”
Jack was in no mood to waste time. “Listen. The blue one is priced at £55k. I’ll give you £60k cash plus my car.” He tossed him the keys. “You work out the value and send me back the trade-in price at your convenience.”
It took them an hour to prepare the car, check over his own, sign all the paperwork, transfer the money and get the keys. The car was a year younger but virtually identical to his own bar the colour. They were just leaving the showroom when Jones came running towards them, his shoes squeaking on the shiny floor.
“Mr Fleming? Workshop have been examining your old vehicle.” He handed Jack a small black box. “Would you like to take your tracker device with you?”
***
“I should have known,” he said shaking his head. “I thought I was being clever disabling the virus on the phone but it was too late. They already worked out where I lived and stuck the box under the car.”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a bomb.” It sounded like a joke but it was true and it gave him a chill. He’d been careless and it had almost cost them dearly. It was another reason he couldn’t go back to Milton even if he wanted to. “So now we’re both on the run. Welcome to the homeless club. What did you do with the box?”
“Stuck it under the rails of a car transporter. Better they keep chasing after it than believe it’s been found.” But she was right. They were both effectively homeless and he would have to work out where they were going to spend the night.
“Is that cottage in Scotland your own?”
“Rental. But I’m hardly there. I just use it when I’m not house sittin’.”
“And what’s all that about?”
“House sittin’? Keeps me on the move. I figured if I stayed in the same place too long they’d find me, so I just camp out in other people’s houses most of the time and go back to Scotland when I don’t have a job and to see if there’s any mail.”
“I looked up the House Minder website but couldn’t find you listed.”
“I had to buy a new phone so I could delete my profile. The photo didn’t look like me anyway but now they know they’re lookin’ for Sineád, I’ll have to recreate one with a new name. It’s like startin’ from scratch.”
“I don’t think you want to go house sitting anymore.”
“How would you know?”
“That’s no solution.”
“Then you tell me what the solution is.”
“As soon as you tell me the problem.”
***
They left the M6 south of Manchester and drove east towards the Peak District. There was no point going further south; the further away they got from Caitlín’s last known address the closer they got to Milton Aston and if the UVF boys were going to wait anywhere, it was there. The new car was clean as were all four phones, so they couldn’t be tracked, but they still needed to work out a strategy or else they’d both be doomed to a life on the run and as she had discovered already, she couldn’t hide forever. He stopped asking questions because she was still being evasive, insisting he told her where they were going and suggesting on more than one occasion, he simply drop her off somewhere and she’d find her own way. She’d done it before, and she could do it again.
They passed a road sign advertising Buxton Manor, a 5-star country hotel, and he pulled off the main road, following a winding drive through a dense forest and after a mile, it opened out to reveal a splendid Georgian Manor House. She’d been dozing on and off for the last hour but woke up when she sensed the car slowing down.
“Where are we?” she said, stretching her arms and pointing at the grandiose building in front of them. “Is this where you live?”
He was about to laugh at the joke but realised it was a genuine question. “I may have a few quid but I’m not that flash.”
“Flash enough to spend sixty grand on a car without blinkin’.”
“One night, okay? I’ll buy you a nice dinner, bed and breakfast and you can tell me your life story. Then we decide whether I come with you or drop you at the nearest bus stop.”
“You’ll regret it, so you will.”
“Regret what?”
“Regret knowin’ me. It’ll bring you nothin’ but trouble.”
He laughed. “I have a mate who told me you’d be trouble.”
“You told someone about me?”
“Yeah. He’s a copper.”
“Jesus, that’s all I need.”
“Relax. I couldn’t tell him anything because I didn’t know anything. Now we’re going to put that right.” He could tell she was still unconvinced. “If you’re still worrying about me, don’t. Those goons know where I live, probably know my name and will assume you’ve already told me everything. I’m as much of a target as you are now and even if we go our separate ways tomorrow, they’ll still come after me. And it was all my own doing, chasing after trouble.”
She grinned. “I’d rather you chasin’ me than a feckin’ jaffa.”
***
The car park was full of expensive hardware, the Range Rover looking uncharacteristically mundane amongst the Bentleys, Ferraris and other assorted exotica. The rooms had prices to match, but he didn’t care; they had two adjoining rooms available, and dinner was served from seven until ten.
He knocked on her door at seven thirty and she appeared in crisp white blouse and black trousers, her hair washed and dried and her face with a light application of make-up. He was wearing a clean shirt but his crumpled chinos were scruffy and worn and made him feel underdressed.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said taking his arm. “In places like this, the scruffier you look the wealthier you are.”
“Is that right?”
They sat in the bar and had a drink before dinner. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and noticed she was again distracted by all the other people coming and going. He raised his glass. “How do you do madam? My name is Jack Fleming. May I ask yours?”
She clinked his glass. “Nice to meet you Mr Fleming. My name is Caitlín McConnell.”
“Now are you sure about that?”
“For the moment.”
It was a light-hearted opening, but he knew he’d have to get serious at some point soon. They might only have a few hours left.
“There’s something that’s been puzzling me. There you are on the Isle of Wight, trying to keep your head down and avoid anyone who might be a threat and then you go and pick up a complete stranger and invite him back to your house for coffee and alcohol. Why would you do that, if you want to remain under the radar?” She studied the contents of her glass the way she had in the kitchen of the timber-clad house on the cliff, as if she knew what she was about to say but unsure of whether to say it.
“I liked you. You had a kind face. The tennis ball thing, that was a genuine accident and if you’d shouted at me or been in the least bit angry, we wouldn’t be sittin’ here now.” It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. He’d expected her to brush it off or try to make out it was he who’d been pushy by asking her where he could get coffee. Maybe she did have a sensitive side. Only yesterday she’d clung to him as if her life depended on it and he could still feel the heat of her body next to his. It was a treasured moment, if short-lived. “I was lonely and I wanted company, so I took a chance, gave you a false name. All I wanted was to engage with another human being for a short while before crawlin’ back into my hole to hide.”
“You never once thought I might be a threat?”
She looked at him intently. “Are you?”
He shook his head. “Do you not have any family?”
It was her turn to shake her head and just like the day before when she’d thrown herself at him, she looked vulnerable. “I was adopted at birth. I never knew my real mammy and daddy. I was brought up on a farm near Carranleigh, County Donegal, by Patrick and Margaret McConnell. They never had any children of their own and I was somebody’s accident, an unwanted child. We’re all over the place, so we are.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I never found out until they were dead.”
“When was that?”
“When I was twelve.”
“What? What happened?”
“They were murdered by loyalists. They kicked in the door one night while we was havin’ supper and shot them both, so they did. They were only after my daddy but my mammy got in the way tryin’ to protect him.”
“While you were there?” She nodded. He couldn’t imagine the horror, a child watching her parents being shot dead in front of her very eyes. “Jesus. But you survived?”
“They tend not to shoot weans, bad for their image. They said my daddy was an IRA sympathiser and it was retribution for the IRA killin’ a protestant farmer and his son over in Derry. He was a staunch Republican so he was, but he wasn’t IRA; it’s not the same thing. He never did anyone any harm. You had to be on one side or the other, you couldn’t be neutral. I found all that out afterwards from the neighbours who took me in.”
“So, you lived with a second foster family?”
“Only for a wee while. They had seven weans of their own and one on the way and didn’t really want me, so the Charity took me in.”
“I don’t get you, what charity?”
“The Sisters of St Mary the Virgin.”
“Sounds like a convent.”
“Aye, sort of. But not like the kind you see in all the movies. Not the tranquil, serene, God lovin’ paradise full of pious nuns prayin’ and bein’ nice. Have you heard of the Magdalene laundries?” He hadn’t. He knew very little about Ireland, north or south and even less of its history. “Named after Mary Magdalene, you know, from the bible. They go back to the 18th century and were institutions set up by Catholic religious orders to shelter what they called ‘fallen women’; women who were on the street, destitute, surplus to requirements you might say, and stop them fallin’ into prostitution; that is, the ones who weren’t already in it. Gave them shelter and food and work. They also took in orphans and discarded children like me. All very well meanin’.” She sounded mildly cynical about it. “They’re still operatin’ to this day; except they’ve cleaned up their act since they got found out.”
“What do you mean, found out?”
“They started off as real laundries, gave the women somethin’ to work at, but they turned into prisons, many of the women were badly treated, used as slaves, often abused. None of them had any relatives so they were forgotten, so they were. Many got ill and died and they just got stuck in the ground. There was a big scandal when they dug up a mass grave and then the government got involved and there was a big fuss. I try not to think about it.”
He couldn’t believe such a place existed in a modern, forward thinking European state. It sounded mediaeval. “And The Sisters, whatever you call it, was one of these?”
“Aye. But I got out of there. As soon as I found out what they were up to I made a run for it.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen?” He almost choked on his drink. “Where does a fourteen-year-old orphan run away to?”
“Dublin. Where else? I hitch-hiked there and got a job in the pubs, collectin’ glasses and sweepin’ up and one of them let me stay and sleep on the floor. And then they started payin’ me and I worked the bar and by the time I was eighteen I was runnin’ the place.” It was all too much for him to take in; so far removed from his own life experience. It didn’t seem possible a kid could have survived an ordeal like that, but he believed her. She was a formidable character; life had made her what she was. A senior waiter in a black tailcoat and a white napkin draped over one arm approached them and bowed.
“Your table is ready sir, madam.”
They followed him into the dining room. It was oak panelled, had a thick maroon carpet on the floor and stained-glass windows set into limestone walls that rose to a ceiling height of almost thirty feet. The tables were laid with the best linen and crystal and generously spaced so diners could be assured their conversations would remain private. The atmosphere was formal and hushed, the twenty or so guests already seated emitting little more than a faint murmur while Vivaldi played discreetly in the background.
“This is real posh, so it is. Right up its own arse,” she said looking around, taking in the opulent surroundings. But he was still thinking about convents and nuns and destitute women used as slaves.
“I can’t equate the image of God and Jesus and piety and prayer, all the stuff you associate with nuns and convents, with slavery and abuse of women.”
“Well, it wasn’t the feckin’ Sound of Music, I can tell you. Those feckin’ nuns were just a bunch of freaks so they were. I try not to think about it.”
“You swear a lot.”
“I feckin’ don’t!”
“You just did!” He meant to be humorous but her face registered insult, anger at the affront.
“What do you mean? Feck?” He nodded, grinning widely but she was having none of it. “Feck isn’t swearin’. Feck’s just language; common parlance. It’s a polite way of sayin’ fuck. Now fuck’s swearin’, so it is. I don’t say fuck.” He put a finger to his lips, noticing an elderly couple at a table twelve feet away looking at them with disdain.
“Ssh.”
“Don’t ssh me. I don’t say fuck!”
“You just did,” he whispered at her and she yanked open the leather-bound menu, bristling. “By the way, I love the way you talk.” She gave him a look like a recalcitrant child and then winked at him.
“I’ll try and be a lady, so I will. So’s you’re not embarrassed.”
***
Father Donal Byrne was alone in the rectory at his kitchen table, mopping up the last of the gravy on his plate with a hunk of soda bread. Oona had brought him lamb stew and dumplings to have for his dinner, something she did three times a week to make sure he had a nutritious meal every other day. Left to his own devices he’d live off bread and cheese or tatties and mince, the latter being the extent of his culinary prowess. The Father needed strength to continue the fight and serve the community, she’d told him, and he had no desire or incentive to argue. Oona would have made some man a wonderful wife, he often thought, and if he had not chosen the priesthood and his lifelong commitment to God, he might have been that man. Thankfully, she had never married, her commitment to Father Donal and the Church absolute and irrefutable.
He thanked the lord for the gift of food and for the gift of his servant Oona who had brought it to him and retired to his cosy sitting room where the log fire burned brightly. He sat himself down in his favourite armchair with a glass of whiskey and picked up his leather-bound Douay–Rheims Bible that Oona had bought him last Christmas. He turned to the book of Jeremiah and was reading the confession-like passages in which Jeremiah prays to the Lord God to take revenge on his persecutors, when he was interrupted by the telephone.
“Father Donal, good evenin’ to you, it’s Cormac McKenna.” Father Donal sat up in his chair immediately. “Yes, Your Grace, a very good evening to you.” It was rare to get a call from the bishop on a weekday and in the evening at that, but he was not surprised and knew instinctively what it was about.
“It’s a terrible business about that young journalist. What in God’s name do we have to do to stop these most heinous of crimes being committed?” The question was clearly rhetorical, but Father Donal elected to answer anyway.
“I don’t know Your Grace. I would like to think that one day, we can all pray together, put the divisions of the past behind us and live in peace.”
“But Donal, these are not the actions of principled men, however disturbing or objectionable we find their views. These are the actions of criminals, no less.”
“Yes, Your Grace, the newspaper report questioned whether the motives were sectarian. I suspect that, in pursuit of her story the young lady simply strayed too far into the devil’s domain.”
“If only she had known the real truth and not been cruelly misled by that deranged young man. His soul must bear the responsibility. It shows does it not Donal, that lies will always be exposed for what they are and that those who perpetrate them invariably face the wrath of God?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. I’m plannin’ to include a eulogy to the young woman in Mass on Sunday, if you think it appropriate?”
“I do, I do,” said Bishop McKenna “You read my mind Donal, which is why I was calling you. I think we should take the opportunity to say that The Sisters of St Mary the Virgin are overcome with grief and they’ll be praying for her and her family.”
“Aye, Your Grace. That’s exactly what I was thinkin’. I believe I should also take the opportunity to rail against the corrosive influence of fundamentalism and the inherent failures of Calvinist doctrine which drove these evil men to commit such an unspeakable act.” Father Donal’s voice rose as if delivering his sermon.
“I think that’s very wise Donal. The finger of blame must be pointed in the right direction, so there is justice for all. I have every confidence you will impart the right message on Sunday. I regret I shall not be there to see it in person.”
“I shall do God’s work, as ever, Your Grace.”
“God bless you Father.”
“And you Your Grace.”
***
Two uniformed waitresses wearing white gloves, each bearing a plate covered by a stainless-steel cloche, arrived at the table, placed them down and stepped back in perfect synchronicity. Two waiters in black tailcoats then stepped forward, each grasping the handle of the cloche and on some unspoken command, removed them with a theatrical flourish. Jack felt the only thing missing in this culinary pantomime was the accompanying fanfare.
“Enjoy your meals,” said the elder of the two waiters as all four marched back to the kitchen in single file. They leaned forward to examine the contents of their plates before exchanging looks of surprise and amusement. The plates were huge, but the guinea fowl occupied no more than ten percent of the surface area, the dish looking like a modern work of art with its microscopic accompaniments and spots of jus and foam.
“Is there a kebab shop nearby?” she said winking at him.
“There’s always dessert.”
He noticed she was still distracted by everyone who came in or out of the restaurant; each of them observed, assessed and categorised. There could be no thugs or terrorists of any persuasion at Buxton Manor, but he realised for the first time how it must feel to be constantly looking over a shoulder, waiting for the inevitable; a new threat that signalled it was again time to take flight and hide. He guessed she had lived most of her life in the shadow of danger, in one form or another. In contrast and despite his personal difficulties, he had had it easy. Now though, he was in the club and they would have to find a way out of it together.
“So, you ended up running a pub? That’s a national pastime in Ireland isn’t it?” He knew it was a risk to joke about it. He desperately wanted her to feel at ease but had learnt enough about Caitlín McConnell to know a misplaced remark could set her off. He needn’t have worried.
“What, runnin’ one or boozin’ in one?”
“Both! I’ve been in a few myself, mainly Belfast and Derry. Northern Ireland has a thriving aerospace industry and I was over there a lot in the noughties dealing with customers and agents, but I never got to Dublin.”
“I ran a few, so I did. Soon as I had enough money to rent a wee flat, I moved jobs. I’d managed four pubs by the time I was twenty.”
“But you’re not still doing that?”
“No. I never saw it as a career. It’s 24/7 so it is, and the pay’s never goin’ to be very good unless you own the place and even then, it’s risky; even in Ireland!” She glowed, reminiscing about her time in the pub business, possibly wishing now she’d never left.
“So what did you do?”
“You’re goin’ to laugh,” she looked embarrassed, suddenly unsure of herself for the first time. “I trained as an accountant.”
“What’s funny about that?” He was surprised at the self-deprecatory remark. It wasn’t the woman he had got to know so far. He was also surprised, because when he thought of the accountants he knew, humour wasn’t the first thing that sprang to mind. Given her previous background, it would have been a major achievement; testament to her intelligence, something he’d already identified.
“Some people think accountancy is borin’, as are the people who do it.”
“Caitlín McConnell, if there’s one thing you are not, it’s boring.” She grinned and took a sip of wine.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Please do.”
“I got a lot of business experience in the pubs and got into the numbers side of things and found them interestin’. So I left the pub, got a minor clerical job and did a correspondence course. Less money, but nine to five, five days a week and I could carry on studyin’. Got my qualification when I was twenty-six.”
“Good for you!” Jack was genuinely impressed, not so much that she had the intellect to do it, but the determination and graft to do it all herself. “How long ago was that?” He kept his head down, appearing to scrape up every last morsel of his paltry meal, but they both knew what he was up to. He looked up and saw her eyeing him up, wagging a finger in mock admonishment.
“You should never ask a lady her age.”
“Better than taking a guess.”
“How old are you?” The directness he expected from her was suddenly back and he loved it.
“Forty-eight,” he answered without hesitation, then raised an eyebrow, challenging her to respond.
“Thirty-five.” She matched his expression and waited, but he wouldn’t be lured into making a comment.
“So who did you work for?”
“I had a few jobs, all in and around Dublin; publishin’, retail, healthcare but then I got a job with an agricultural supplies business near Derry. “I was sad to leave Dublin which had become home.” He saw her expression change. “But I was in an abusive relationship and had to get away. I met him in a bar, where else, but he had a problem with the booze. When he lost his job he hit the bottle big time and got violent. Time for a new start.”
She’d had to battle through life and whatever she was involved in now was just the latest chapter. He tried to compare it with his own situation, and he realised how lucky he’d been. He’d been through bad times himself, but nothing as bad as she had. She’d found him wandering around aimlessly on a beach trying to think of something to do with the rest of his life when he had all the financial resources to do anything he chose. That was the sum total of the challenge that lay before him, making a decision about what he wanted to do.
“So, by now you’re a qualified bean-counter in a substantial business?” He could only guess whether her company had been big, small, struggling or set to conquer the world. Whatever it was, her life would soon change dramatically.
“Aye, we had a hundred million turnover and exported to most of Europe. I worked my way up to be financial controller.”
“Wow, a long way to go for a convent girl.” He hadn’t meant to make a point of it, he was just enjoying the conversation, but he immediately sensed an icy chill.
“I was never a convent girl.” Her demeanour switched in an instant. She’d seemed relaxed talking about herself and now he’d obviously struck a nerve. He’d seen the look before; it was resolute and formidable.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant.”
“Sure you did. You just don’t know the half of it.”
She was right. It wasn’t for the lack of trying, yet all it seemed to do was provoke her. He needed to defuse the tension. “Shall we have dessert?”
***
Rowan Maguire’s hand was raised high in the air in readiness to smash another phone into the marble fireplace. He’d called Michael and Jerry and told them to track the Range Rover rather than head for Stranraer and get the ferry, which was their original intention. They’d tracked it all the way to Carlisle before it started going north again and after a lot of head scratching and cursing, they eventually worked out they were following a car transporter to Edinburgh.
Maguire strained every sinew to control his anger. He couldn’t destroy the phone because he hadn’t finished the conversation and he needed to give the boys new instructions. He lowered it to his ear and took a deep breath.
“Right. You two get your feckin’ arses down south. You’re not goin’ to find the hoor up in Scotland. Find the man who’s helpin’ her.”
“Aye Mr Maguire,” said Jerry. They were back on the M74 and had been hoping to head west to the coast and home, but now their plans were being changed.
“He lives near Oxford in a place called Milton