No Enemy but Time (44 page)

‘Now, Mrs Arbuthnot, you be sensible and take two of these little yolks with a nice cup of hot tea, and stay in your bed. You've had a terrible shock, remember.'

Claudia reluctantly held out her palm for the yellow and red tranquillizers. Dr Simons was a dear and he'd looked after the family for twenty years, but she hadn't the slightest intention of swallowing any pill. Claudia considered taking more than two aspirins for a headache as little short of drug addiction. He was right about the shock, of course. She couldn't stop herself shaking. It was a continuous tremor, as if she were rattling inside. The tea and the stiff lacing of whiskey had helped her. It gave the illusion of warmth; she'd been hurt often enough out hunting to know that it was an illusion. She'd stopped feeling sick, which was a mercy. She had in fact been sick, outside Billy's cottage, holding on to the door and retching with horror after finding his body. And the poor dead dogs lying there in their pen, with their brains spattered everywhere.

The Gardai had been very considerate. Of course she knew them all so well. They were so kind, and protective. And so shocked and enraged at what had happened. There'd been tears in the eyes of the old Gardai who'd just left her, shaking her by the hand and saying over and over, ‘Don't ye worry yerself, ma'am. We'll get the dirty bastards that did it … we'll get them …'

‘I know you will,' she'd said.

‘Curse o' God on them,' he muttered, and after all these years there was still something that chilled the blood in that old Irish malediction.

‘I can't believe it,' she said. ‘I can't believe anyone would hurt Billy.' A tear welled up and trickled down her face.

Doctor Simons shook his head. ‘It's terrible times we live in,' he said. ‘First that unfortunate poor devil Donny, and now this. God knows what's happening to Ireland.'

He'd been called to that murder, since his surgery was within a hundred yards of the railway bridge where the Sallins idiot stood to watch the trains. There'd been eight deep knife wounds in the chest and lungs. It had taken him a long time to forget the face of the dead man. There was a half-eaten sweet still in his mouth. The pink, sticky kind sold to the local children at a penny each.

‘They never caught them,' Claudia said. ‘They won't catch whoever did this to Billy. He'd been beaten, the Gardai told me. I can't believe it. I can't believe he'd been mixed up in something, but they found these car number plates in the shed … It doesn't make sense. All he wanted to do was have his dogs and do a bit round the place here. I've been trying to get through to Claire, but I can't get hold of her. She'll be broken-hearted.'

Doctor Simons stood up. ‘I'll call Sheena. Go on up to your bed now, and take two of those. Another two in the middle of the night if you wake. And don't hesitate; give me a call any time, never mind the hour. I'll come right over if you don't feel too grand.'

He went off and she let Sheena help her up the stairs. She had tossed the pills into the fire as soon as his back was turned. But she felt terribly unsteady and the shaking persisted. A hot-water bottle, she told Sheena, and a good hot toddy. That'll do the trick.

As the girl arranged her pillows and covered her against a chill, Claudia thought suddenly, they're the kindest people in the world. She couldn't be kinder if she were tending her own mother. Yet they can be so cruel, so wild. There are people in the two villages so close to us who know who killed old Gorman. People know who killed poor Donny – and why. But they'll never tell. If this child fussing over my comfort knew who'd shot that old man after knocking him about, she wouldn't tell either. That's the legacy of our long rule over them. She turned her head to watch Sheena go out closing the door very carefully behind her.

‘I'll be downstairs, ma'am. If you want anything, just press on the bell.'

Macbride told them to spread out when they reached Cloncarrig. He sent Willie to scour the fields, the silent Pat stayed by the Fraser woman's hidden car, and he elected to search the ruined house and the buildings.

He moved through the ground floor, his gun in his hand, stepping carefully over the rubble that littered the rooms. He cursed the birds that took fright and flew calling in alarm as he disturbed them. A large notice had been nailed to the banisters by the local authority: ‘This building is dangerous'. It was an old notice, defaced by time, weather and the graffiti of the local children. No one could go upstairs, because the staircase had collapsed before it reached the first landing. He made a slow, careful search of the kitchen quarters after he'd been through the reception rooms. No sign of anyone having been there. There were no footsteps in the dust but his own.

Then he made his way down to the fetid basement, sloshing in rain water and rubbish. He knew that she and Arbuthnot were not there. He had a nose for people in hiding. When he started to look round the outbuildings he opened the one door that was heaved shut, and through the gloom he saw the outline of Michael Harvey's car. They weren't in the house, or in the garages and stables. Willie was looking for them in the open, Pat poised to take them if they tried to reach her car in the coppice of trees. And he would stay by this new discovery and wait for the man who had gone ahead of them to Loughlin's lounge and asked the way to the same abandoned house. Macbride had a good idea what kind of a man he might be and what he was doing there. They weren't the only ones looking for the British Cabinet Minister's wife.

It was Willie who saw her. He stopped and stared at the little figure hurrying along the rise on the next field, too far away to identify, but clearly not a man. He gave a grunt of excitement, checked his gun and set off. He couldn't move very fast because he was a heavy man, with a Guinness belly on him. He could fight like a bull at close quarters, but he wasn't made for running. He was over the rise himself and scrambling through the muddy, overgrown ditch, when he saw the tower and the woman set on the side of it like a fly. Then she was gone, and he knew that all he had to do was get there, and he'd have the both of them.

It was dark and she could scarcely see her brother's face. It was a pale blur against her breast. She stroked his hair. His body was heavy in her arms.

‘I knew you'd come,' he said. ‘I wouldn't let go because I knew you'd find me.'

‘I'll get help,' she promised. ‘I'll get you out of here.' She was weeping and her tears fell on him.

‘Don't be silly,' he smiled up at her. ‘I'm not going anywhere. I was shot … I can't remember much about it. I think it was Marie … or maybe it was my own fault. It doesn't matter now.'

‘Oh Frank, Oh God, what can I do? Does it hurt terribly?' He didn't hear the anguish in her voice because at times it faded. Only the last question was a murmur and he tried to reassure her.

‘No, no, I don't feel anything. Just tired, Clarry. She was so jealous of you – that's what made her do it. She knew I loved you the best …' He was wandering, and Claire held him close and went on stroking the damp hair, her fingers brushing against his cold cheek.

‘I loved you the best.'

‘As I've loved you,' she whispered. ‘Better than anyone in the world. And always will. If I could, I'd die here with you.'

He moved in sudden agitation, his mind clear. Fear for her had brought everything into focus again.

‘You've got to get away, they mustn't find you … it was you they wanted. I was just the bait. You must go home where you'll be safe. Back to England.'

‘I will, I will,' she promised, trying to soothe him.

‘Go to the Garda,' he insisted. ‘They'll protect you. Whatever you do, don't try to do anything on your own … You promise me, Claire?'

‘I promise.' She bent and kissed him.' Just be quiet now, and don't worry.'

It was so tempting. But he mustn't. He mustn't let himself sleep, not yet. There was so much he wanted to say to her, and so little time left to him. ‘I always worried about you,' he said. There was no sunlit sky in the opening now, just clouds bringing the darkness closer to him. ‘It's funny … I kept dreaming about us when we were children. We had such happy times, didn't we?'

‘The best times in my life,' Claire said.

His hand came up and groped for hers. Their fingers intertwined, and she felt how cold he was.

‘I'm so glad you came,' she heard him whisper. ‘I don't mind anything now. It was bad luck on us, right from the start …'

‘Yes,' Claire answered, knowing it was their common blood tie that he meant. ‘It was. Rotten luck. My darling brother.'

She held him close, waiting for the end. The pain of truth mingled with the pain of loss. She felt his spirit leave him with a little sigh. She stroked his hair once more and held on to the lifeless hand. She thought she saw a heap of whitened bones in the corner and remembered the fox of long ago.

And then she heard the savage shout below.

‘Come on out of there! Come on down or I'll come up and blast the two of ye!'

She froze in terror. She held her breath. They'd found her. She eased away from her dead brother, and felt for the heavy revolver with its clip of ammunition that she'd brought from Riverstown. She lifted it and loaded it.

‘Are ye comin' out?' the bellow came again.

Claire braced herself against the wall, holding the gun in both hands. Frank had taught her to shoot when they were children. She thought, I'm not going to shake, I'm going to pull the trigger.

She heard a scratching noise and animal grunts as the man began to pull himself up. He'd have a gun too. If she hesitated, there'd be no second chance. They'd killed Frank … As his head came above the level of the little opening she fired.

As Willie saw Claire, so Michael Harvey saw him. He could see the clumsy figure lumbering along the field, and his easy lope became a run. He eased the automatic off his shoulder. He gained rapidly on the slow-moving target. There was the last of the three towers looming ahead, bathed in brilliant sunshine, and the man was at the base of it. His shouts floated back to Harvey. Claire Fraser was inside the folly. He stopped. The man was climbing. He brought the automatic rifle up to his shoulder and took aim. The crack of a shot split the silence. But the man fell backwards before he had time to fire. The brother was there, Michael Harvey thought. And armed, thank God.

He ran. And as he came close he saw the dead man lying face upward, his head a bloody pulp, and Claire Fraser slid to the ground and stood for a moment. She had a heavy old-fashioned army revolver in her right hand. When she saw him she raised it.

He shouted, ‘Claire – it's me! It's Michael Harvey!'

She lowered the gun and he caught up with her and stopped her falling over the ugly corpse lying at her feet.

Pat heard the distant gunshot. He lifted his head and sniffed like a dog scenting prey. He was hidden behind the hired car under the beech trees. The one with the Irish number plates the dirty old bastard had put instead of the English ones. He'd paid the price, so Willie told him. His orders were so precise he didn't dare to disobey and move out of cover to see what was happening. He didn't want to be in the wrong place with someone like Macbride. The shot pleased him. That would take care of Arbuthnot maybe. He didn't think of the man who'd asked directions in Kells. It was only Macbride who'd been bothered about him. Pat was too stupid to imagine anything for himself. He lived for his hatred and the expression of it in killing the enemy. In Sean Filey's judgement, he was the classic psychopath who had a compulsion to murder. He stayed at his post, hidden among the trees.

There wasn't time for Claire to feel faint or heave at the sight of the dead man. Harvey bundled her to the perimeter of the field, trying to keep in the shelter of the hedges. He asked one question only: ‘Did you find your brother?' and heard her answer as they hurried, bent low, Claire stumbling under his relentless urging.

‘Yes. He was there. He's dead.'

He saw the tears streaming down her face. He wouldn't let her stop, or rest.

‘There's more than one of them,' he threatened. ‘They'll have heard that shot … Keep going, come on.'

He was brutal. He pushed and dragged her, and swore when she faltered. Both their lives depended upon keeping the impetus going. If he let her collapse on him, they'd never get moving again. He knew how to use cover; it took longer than the direct way across the open fields, but no watcher would have seen them. He asked one other question. Where had she left her car? The answer made him decide to go back to where his car was hidden.

Her car was in a clump of trees, far over to the left, just off the road. No doubt it had been seen and reported. That was what had brought the pursuers there. If he knew the form there'd be a man waiting by that car in case she went back to it.

When they reached the house itself, he kept close to the outside wall, hissing at her to keep flat in the shelter of it. He had his automatic rifle at the ready. They skirted the building. It was very quiet. The sun had gone behind a heavy rain cloud and a few spots fell on them. Harvey kept moving steadily, walking like a cat. Claire trod on some loose stones and he swung on her furiously. Then he moved on, rounding the rear of the old mansion. The stable block and garages were through the archway.

He caught her arm. ‘Through there,' he whispered. ‘So far so good. Watch your feet. Not a sound, remember!'

Macbride looked at his watch in the darkness. The dial glowed at him. He'd been an hour waiting in the dark beside the car. He'd checked it. A change of clothes in the back. English clothes. As he thought: they'd sent someone over to find her. He waited with his gun in his hand, ready when the door opened and the man was silhouetted against the light. If he had the woman with him, too bad. Macbride knew that breed. He wasn't taking any chances.