When Shadows Fall (48 page)

A vicious ache seeped through his shoulder from the impact of the crash, and there was a bloody rent in his arm, but otherwise he’d escaped serious damage. And he was fit enough to run, he reckoned. He’d have to do that now, before a fresh batch of hounds was put to his trail.

Ducking low, he moved across the field to a fast-moving stream. He crossed on the boulders to a wooded bank where he found a mill wheel adjoined to a stone building. With no coat he felt the effects of the rain-chilled night, and he crept towards the mill to seek a minute’s shelter and consider his next move.

The mill must have been a long time disused, for the doors were unlocked and hanging off their hinges. Inside, it stank of mouldering hay and slurry—probably used for housing cattle. On the beams above, roosting pigeons moved nervously at his entrance.

If there were animals kept here, there must be a farmhouse. Inevitably the first calling-point for the police. Adam had to move before them. It was a hefty hike back to the city centre, several hours at least. He needed transport if he was to make it.

He left the mill and found a track that wound between gorse thickets and rustling groves, twice tripping in the darkness over logs of wood. After some minutes he heard a dog give a yelp, and then a warning bark. There was a light visible through the trees. When he reached it, he found a small cottage with a thatched roof, but he hesitated. The dog was still barking somewhere, and he didn’t relish being charged by some great shaggy brute from the shadows.

As he waited, the dog’s noise eventually disturbed the house. The door opened and a man appeared, wearing an old coat over his nightclothes, holding a lantern. He gazed around, scowled, and turned to blaspheme at the dog tethered nearby.

Adam took his chance.

“Hello, sir,” he called, marching confidently across the yard. “Sorry to trouble you of an evening.”

“Who’s that?” The old man squinted and lifted the lantern higher.

The dog almost strangled itself as it tried to spring to action. Adam stepped into the light and smiled. “Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you like this.”

The man silenced the dog with a gruff reprimand and stared at Adam in wonder, at the blood on his shirtsleeve. “Good God, son. Have you been shot?”

“No, no,” Adam laughed foolishly. “No such business. No, I had an accident with my motor back on the main road. I’ve been looking for some help.”

The man blessed himself. “Come in, come in. Let us have a look at you.”

“No need, just a few bumps and bruises. I’m actually more in want of a favour, if you can manage it.”

The old man waved him on. “Come in for a tot of brandy, you poor devil, and ’twill take the shock off you.”

“No, honestly. I’m in rather a hurry to get to the city. You don’t by any chance have transport here, do you?”

“Transport?” He rubbed his jaw. “I can get you a ride on the creamery truck in the morning. It goes all the way to the city.”

“No car?”

“Car? Christ, no. Dangerous things. But hold on now . . . ”

Adam waited.

“My brother keeps a motorcycle in the shed, a Bradbury something-or-other. A dirty, noisy yoke, I can’t stand its—”

“I need it,” Adam interrupted. “Please, I’d be very grateful. I simply have to get to the city.”

“Hmm.” The man looked doubtful. “It’s not really mine to offer.”

The police hadn’t yet relieved Adam of his personals. He fished in his pocket and drew out a ten-pound note.

The man’s eyes widened. “Well, I suppose, he’d hardly miss it for the night or two, would he? But you’ll return it?”

“I will.” Adam handed him the money. “You’d never throw a coat into the bargain, would you?”

“Jesus, take mine. But hold up now, you said you’re going into the city?”

“That’s right.”

“But the curfew—you’ll never make it on time.”

“Perhaps.” Adam shrugged on the woollen coat. “I guess I’ll just have to be discreet, won’t I?”

James paced up and down the road, swearing in frustration. It had taken over an hour to move the wrecked truck and lift the injured into ambulances.

“For the last time, I’m fine,” he growled, brushing away the hand of a concerned police sergeant. “Where’s my bloody transport? I sent for another damned truck, didn’t I?”

“Shouldn’t be much longer, sir.”

Finally it arrived with a new squad of constables. James immediately climbed inside. “Back the way you came,” he ordered the driver, pointing in the direction of the city. “I’ll tell you exactly where to go.”

Adam Bowen would have long disappeared into the surrounding fields and back roads by now. James knew there was little point in a nighttime pursuit.

But it didn’t matter.

He had a new lead to use.

She could be asleep by this time, but she could damn well wake up fast. And start answering questions.

“Wilton Row, Kilmainham,” he told the driver. “There’s somebody I need to say hello to.”

The motorcycle was a four-horsepower Bradbury with Dunlop tyres and a padded seat, but it proved rickety on the roads. Adam doubted its ability to stay in one piece, much less get him all the way to the city. But it puttered along, slowly eating up the miles, though he had to pull in several times when he saw oncoming patrols.

He made the city lights with twenty minutes to go before curfew. He thought of Vaughan’s in Parnell Square, as he desperately needed a safe haven and returning to his flat was impossible. Yet Vaughan’s was risky too. Everywhere was risky, in fact. They would have thought of all the likely locations, no doubt assisted by Allister in all his helpfulness.

He braked and pulled into a trash-choked alleyway. The wind whistled and gnawed at his ears, and he rubbed his eyes to clear away the grime.

There was one address even Allister couldn’t know about.

He checked his watch.

How the hell am I going to explain this?
he wondered.
Where will I even begin?

And yet he simply had nowhere else to turn now.

So he moved on again, took the long route around Dublin’s northside, through Clonliffe and Phibsborough, and crossed the river at Queen Victoria bridge. Kilmainham was a short journey along the south quays. Traffic was diminishing with the onset of the curfew and honest citizens scurried towards their homes. Bands of Auxiliaries rode through the streets, predators of the night, and once a flashlight was turned upon him as he passed, but he wasn’t challenged.

With relief, he found the sign that said Wilton Row.

At that very moment Tara was putting on her dressing gown. She’d had the fire lit earlier but now it burned low. The milk was warmed off the stove, and she slipped a spoon of honey into the cup and sipped it by the dying embers.

There was a loud bang on the door.

She froze.

It was after ten o’clock. The curfew had started, and it couldn’t be Adam, who had spoken of a family get-together tonight.

Larry Mulligan.

The image of his face flashed through her mind, a dreadful thing. Had he found her? The gun—it was upstairs. Hardly time to even reach it.

Another pounding on the door, louder this time. She turned off the lamp and crept into the sitting room, nudging the curtains aside.

Her visitor was not alone. There were men gathered on her pathway and on the road outside. She heard a voice calling her name.

The sense of relief was tremendous.

Unlocking the front door, she gaped at him. “James, I thought—I thought you were Mulligan.”

“I’m not here about Mulligan.” He brushed boldly inside. “Hope you don’t mind, Tara. And you lot, disappear.” He gestured to the constables behind him. “Stay close, but out of sight.”

“James?” she asked in bewilderment.

He closed the door. “We need to talk.”

She followed him into the kitchen. “What’s happened?”

He went to the stove and peered down at it. “I’d like some coffee. If you’ll permit it.”

“I’ll boil some water.”

“Thank you.”

When it was done, he mixed a strong cup and leaned against the kitchen counter. Tara sat and waited.

“James? Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

He blew on the coffee. “I had rather hoped you would tell me.”

“But I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I had a somewhat eventful evening, Tara. I was in Howth. I arrested somebody. IRA. Or actually I
had
him arrested, until the scoundrel got away from me. And I’d like to find him again, as soon as possible.”

She shrugged. “If it’s not Mulligan, then I fail to see what it has to do with me.”

“Oh, really?” He gave a grim chuckle. “I’d like to believe you.”

“James.” He was starting to frighten her. None of this made any sense. “James, if there’s something wrong, please, tell me.

For several long moments he held her gaze. Then he sniffed and nodded. “All right, Tara, I’ll hold my faith in you. For now. But the fact remains, you see, that my IRA suspect is a man known to you.”

She began to wonder if he was drunk. But he didn’t look drunk. He looked tired.

He walked towards the window and checked outside. “I had to rack my brains, of course. I knew I’d seen the blighter’s face before, I just couldn’t remember where. Then it came to me.” He turned to her. “The Gresham Hotel. The lobby, to be exact. The brawler from the bar.”

Still confused, she shook her head. “James, you’ll have to be clearer. What are you—”

“He hit me.” James chuckled again, recalling it. “Caught me a nasty blow, too. I’ve been wanting to redress that ever since. Yet when I found him, I didn’t even know who he was.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

Before he could reply, there was a tap on the window. James put a finger to his lips and went to open it.

The constable in the back garden whispered, “A chap has just parked a motorcycle on the road, sir. Looks like our man.”

“A motorcycle?” James smiled. “Resourceful fellow. All right, stay out of sight until he comes in.” He closed the window again.

Seconds later, somebody knocked on the front door. James looked across at Tara. “Answer it.”

“Who is it?” she pleaded.

“Answer it.”

Adam waited, his heart thumping. This was a safe haven, but he’d have to tell her everything if it was to remain so. He owed her, in any case. She deserved to know.