Run Before the Wind (28 page)

"Hello, Will, it's MacAdam."

"Bloody Tarmac, how are you, mate?"

"Getting by. Actually a bit better than that these days. Listen, I'm doing something private, and what I'm working on might be to do with what you're working on. Thought we might trade a bit of knowledge."

"You'll want my knowledge first, if I know you."

"Too right. Besides, I've only a hunch at the moment."

"What do you need?"

"I want to know about a mick named Patrick Fitzgerald Pearce.

Seems to have a fairly straight background in accountancy, but word is he has a brother who's high with the rebels."

"I think I know the one. I'll run him on the computer now, if you've got a moment."

"I've got a moment." MacAdam fed more coins to the telephone. He heard the clicking of typing and the rapid spitting of an electronic printer.

"Here we are, Blackie. The brother's Michael Pearce, forty-nine.

Thought to have been involved in a dozen assassinations and army ambushes. For certain, though, in sixty-nine he bombed a police station in Deny, killed eight coppers, and brought the wrath of God down on the local Proves, for which they didn't thank him. He's been something of an outcast since, thought to be uncontrollable.

He's gathered about him a dozen of them like himself and called them the Irish Freedom Brigade."

"They the ones who did the Berkeley Square thing last autumn?"

"Right. They were after Thrasher, the financier, for a bit, but he was too hard to track down. That seems to be the way it was, anyway. They'd try again if they had the chance."

"What about Patrick?"

"He's forty-one, the baby brother and mammy's boy. He was thought to have been in on the police station but had an alibi.

Settled in England with his mother, who lived in London, worked as a domestic. Last address, Sebbon Street, Islington."

"No activity since?"

"Not that we know about. We thought he kept in touch with Michael, and we kept somebody on him for a while, but with no results, and we didn't have the manpower to keep on him. It's a nasty family, though, going back to the twenties, so if you've anything to do with any of them, watch yourself. Now what've you got for me?"

"Nothing just yet, but I might be able to give you Patrick on something pretty good in a few days."

"I knew it. You've bled me dry, and I've nothing to show for it."

"Patience, Will, I'll be able to give you something before long, a new address for Patrick, at least, and maybe some charges.

Thanks, now." He hung up and heaved a satisfied sigh. Now he had something that might get him a hell of a lot more business out of Thrasher and his people. He could milk this for weeks at a hundred a day. The pubs were just opening, and there was one across the street. He could afford to relax a bit, now.

On Tuesday morning Pearce waited in a cafe across from MacAdam's flat. When the man left, he would follow him until he got his chance. When it was nearly noon, Pearce had become nervous; perhaps MacAdam had already left. He crossed the street, let himself in through the unlocked downstairs door and climbed the stairs, keeping near the wall. If MacAdam were out, then he might get a look at the flat if the lock weren't too much. As he reached the top of the stairs he heard a telephone ring on the other side of the single door. Now, at least, he would know if the man was home.

MacAdam was on hair of the dog all morning, but he held it in check, knowing that he had to report. At precisely noon, the telephone rang.

"MacAdam here."

"Mr. MacAdam, this is the gentleman with whom you spoke in Paris last week. May I have your report, please?"

"Of course, sir. I believe I have me information you want.

Pearce is the son of one Bridey Pearce, an Irish domestic who owned a small house in Sebbon Street, Islington. Some years ago, the house was purchased from the woman by TM Properties, with which I believe you might be familiar. Pearce believed that his mother had been cheated in the transaction and has borne a grudge against the proprietors of TM since that time. It seems likely that Pearce became employed at Avondale in the normal way of things, and afterward, discovered that Avondale and TM shared an ownership. Since holding a grudge is one of the principal talents of the Irish, he decided to do what he could to cause the owners discomfort. You would be a better judge than I as to how successful he was."

"Indeed. Were you able to ascertain whether he has any political affiliations?"

"There are indications that he may have, sir, but I hope you can appreciate that such matters require a much more complex sort of investigation than the more rudimentary one I have just completed.

If you wish to engage me farther, I should be glad to take on the assignment, which I imagine could run to some weeks."

"I will let you know about that, Mr. MacAdam."

"Oh, sir, I should mention that if that investigation should bear fruit I might very possibly be in a position to have Pearce arrested on rather serious charges, and in such a manner as to in no way reflect your interest in the matter."

"I see. The remainder of your fee will be delivered within the hour, Mr. MacAdam. Thank you for your assistance."

"Not at all, Mr. Muldah, please let me know if I can be of further help to you and Mr. Thrasher."

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

"Goodbye, Mr.

MacAdam."

MacAdam put the phone down laughing and reached for a bottle.

"That should put the hook into the bastards," he said aloud, nearly shouting.

"They'll want Pearce put away; I'll hear from them before the day is out, I'll wager." He laughed again and knocked back a large whisky.

Outside, his ear to the door, Pearce was trembling and sweating heavily. He could wait no longer, not a minute. He knocked on the door.

"Who's there?" MacAdam shouted without getting up.

"Express post for Mr. MacAdam," Pearce called out.

"Someone'll have to sign." He braced himself. He could hear MacAdam lumbering toward the door, hear him curse as he apparently knocked over a bottle.

MacAdam yanked open the door, and before he had time to focus on who was standing there, Pearce came up hard with both hands, driving the knife upward and in. MacAdam reflexively grabbed Pearce's wrists, pushing down, going up onto his toes. Pearce walked him backward, still shoving upward as hard as he could, until MacAdam struck the desk and fell back. Pearce was quickly on top of him, gouging in and out an inch or two, but never letting the blade leave the man's chest. MacAdam, wide-eyed, fought on, but more and more feebly, until finally he went limp. Pearce twisted the blade and yanked out the knife, then plunged it in again--once, twice, and a third time, making sure there was nothing but mince left of the heart. When finally he pulled back there was a lot of blood. At least it had been quiet. He kicked the door shut.

He went to the kitchen and cleaned himself up. His mackintosh was ruined; he took it off and cleaned out the pockets, stuffing the contents into his jacket pockets. He went to MacAdam's sleeping area and found a pair of clean socks in a drawer. He drew them onto his hands, then went carefully through the flat, taking what cash and valuables would fit into his pockets, making a burglary of it. When he had tossed the place adequately, he dragged MacAdam's body to the kitchen, threw the bloody mackintosh over it, and found a can of paraffin, used for a portable heater. He doused the body thoroughly, then the desk and whatever else would burn quickly. He found a packet of cigarettes and a book of matches. He lit a cigarette and folded the matchbook closed over it, then placed it in a pool of the paraffin. The glow of the ash wouldn't ignite the kerosene, but when the cigarette burned down enough the matchbook would go, and there would be a fine blaze.

He forced himself to stand for a moment and think, just to keep from doing anything stupid. As an afterthought he blew out the pilot light on the cooker and turned all the jets on. Satisfied, he put the latch on and closed the door behind him.

At the bottom of the stairs he took a good look up and down before stepping out into the street and walking unhurriedly toward South Ken tube station. He was in Piccadilly before the explosion went and by the time the fire engines arrived in South Kensington he had knocked over and smashed an expensive bottle of port at Fortnum & Mason, an incident the staff would remember well. He treated himself to a new mack at Burberry's before catching the bus for Streatham.

I WOKE ON A SUNDAY MORNING in late May with such a heightened feeling of well-being that I should have known I could not sustain it through the day. For months, through the winter and now into spring, we had enjoyed a peace so thorough that we could hardly believe it. Nothing whatever had been heard from Denny O'Donnell and Maeve, although Denny was, presumably, still being sought for Donal's murder, and once Major Primrose and Lord Coolmore had intervened on our behalf, we had gone unmolested by their local friends. The yacht was on schedule and due for launching in a couple of weeks, and she was living up to all our expectations. We would have time to try her extensively at sea before the race to the Azores, as we had planned.

Things had not gone as well in the interim for Derek Thrasher, though. Although charges had not been brought against him and he was, thus, not actually a fugitive from justice, the circumstances of his problems with the public prosecutor made it advantageous for him to stay out of Britain, and he had. I had spent another Rabelaisian weekend in Paris at Easter, and Jane had told me that his enforced absence had caused a number of harassing lawsuits to be filed against him by business competitors, and since he could not be present to answer them, he was faring badly.

Mark and Annie had had another couple of spats, and Annie had pulled her by now accustomed disappearing act for a week or so on each occasion, but all had been made up. Only my relationship with Concepta Lydon did not go well--in fact, was not going at all. She had declined to see me since New Year's, and when we did meet accidentally she was cool and uncommunicative. She was polite, not even admitting annoyance with me, but she would not enter into a discussion of anything personal. Since I was congenitally a negotiator, this attitude drove me mad. On this Sunday morning Mark and Annie were out for a day sail in Toscana, and I had slept very late. Now, as I showered and shaved, the thought of the situation with Connie began to dissipate my feeling of wellbeing, and by the time I was dressed it was completely gone. I wanted a showdown, to thrash this business out once and for all.

My visits to Jane Berkeley were fun but curiously unsatisfying; they did not displace my yearning to be with Connie. I missed her.

Determined to adopt a direct assault, I drove to Kinsale, intending to beard the lioness in her den, but as I passed the Spaniard, I saw her car parked out front. The pub was filled with Sunday brunchers, most of whom had just fled mass and were now making a joyful noise unto the pint. I saw Connie sitting, alone, at a small table across the room; I headed for her. She did not look up until I had nearly reached her, and then someone else reached her a tiny moment sooner. He was tall and slender and had a shock of carrot-red hair; he sat down next to her, and then I noticed that there were two drinks on the table. I stopped short but too near to change my direction.

"Hello, Connie," I said, as bravely as I could. I had a terrible, hollow sensation.

"Hello, Will." There was a slight, polite smile; nothing more.

"Have you met Terry? Terry, this is Will Lee."

"How are you?" I stuck out my hand.

"Very well, thanks." He took it.

I knew immediately that he not only knew who I was but a great deal more about Connie Lydon and me. I had a flash of them curled up before the fireplace in her cottage on long, winter nights, Connie telling him about the American who had treated her so shabbily. I knew, of course, that she must have been seeing other people, but now, confronted with the fact, I was shocked. I felt as though I had just gotten a Dear John letter.

"Are you all right these days?" I asked feebly.

"Very well, thank you." She paused and took a sip of her drink.

"How's the boat?"

"It's going well. We launch in a couple of weeks."

"Good." She didn't seem to want to say anything further.

"Nice to have seen you," I said and turned away. I walked to the bar, found a stool and ordered a pint. I wanted to flee the pub, but I could hardly walk in, say a few words to her and walk directly out. I was trapped there, and I had to make the best of it. I wasn't doing it very well. I held onto the cool pint with both hands, afraid they would tremble if I removed them. I stared fixedly ahead, but I could still see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. They chatted amiably. I shrank inside, and the cool lager didn't seem to help. I felt mildly nauseated. I put my hand to my face and it came away cold and wet. I drank more of the lager. This was my first experience with serious jealousy. I seemed unable to form a coherent thought; my mind was one damp, squishy, emotional sponge; I wrestled to squeeze some rationality from it.

I finally was able to ask myself a question. Why was I so upset?