The Violent Enemy, page 14
Vanbrugh studied the map for a moment and pointed to the two dotted lines that marked the course of the Long Cut under the mountain. ‘What’s this? A canal?’
‘It certainly looks like it. Probably used to ship ore through to the next valley in the old days.’
‘If it were still navigable, it would make a convenient back door. The sooner it’s plugged the better.’
Gregory moved to the nearest car and contacted headquarters on the radio. Vanbrugh looked up at the mountainside. The half dozen policemen were just below the ridge and they went over one by one as he watched.
And a fat lot of good it’ll do them, he told himself. He’ll be half a mile down the other side of the mountain by now and still running.
Dwyer moved to join him. ‘Anyone we know down there, sir?’
‘Jack Pope,’ Vanbrugh said. ‘I couldn’t identify the other two. One of them was burned to a crisp anyway.’
‘It couldn’t have been Rogan, then?’
‘I don’t think so. Too small.’
Gregory came back from the patrol car. ‘They’re giving us every spare car and man they’ve got to cover the immediate area.’
‘What about the other valley?’
‘There are two cars on the way there now.’ Gregory wiped rain from his face and smiled confidently. ‘We’re bound to get them, you know. This isn’t the big city with a maze of back streets to hide in. There are damned few roads round here. We can seal them all with no trouble at all.’
‘Then we’ve nothing to worry about,’ Vanbrugh said. ‘I’d like to take a quick look over the farm now if that’s all right with you.’
‘What about this fellow Soames? Should I have him brought up here? Perhaps we could squeeze something useful out of him.’
‘A damned good idea,’ Vanbrugh said. ‘At least we might get a few answers to some rather puzzling questions,’ and he turned and followed Dwyer through the heavy rain towards the patrol car.
Soames’ agile brain was working overtime, seeking a way out of the predicament in which he found himself as the patrol car turned off the Ambleside road and moved up the track towards Scardale.
His wrists were handcuffed together and a constable sat on either side of him. As they came to the place where the accident had occurred, the driver slowed to ease past the parked vehicles and several men staggered over the edge of the road carrying a stretcher.
Soames stared out at the shapeless form beneath the blanket. An arm hung down to the ground, flesh peeling from the fingers and he shuddered as the wind carried the sickly sweet smell through the open window.
The young constable on his right turned and looked at him coldly. ‘You’ll be lucky to get away with fifteen years for this little lot.’
Soames felt suddenly sick. Only once in his career had he been stupid enough to step just too far over the shadow line between what was legal and what wasn’t. The subsequent experience had not been pleasant.
It came to him, with a thrill of horror, that this time he had gone in over his head and his mouth went dry. The car turned in through the gate and braked beside another which stood outside the farmhouse door.
The two policemen pulled him out and he followed them inside and along the narrow whitewashed passage. It was like something out of a bad dream and the look on the faces of the three men who waited for him in the sitting room didn’t make him feel any better.
Vanbrugh examined him briefly. ‘Henry Soames?’
Soames moistened dry lips. ‘That’s right. I’d like to know why I’ve been brought here.’ He added feebly, ‘I have my rights. I demand to see a solicitor.’
‘A short while ago, a young policeman was shot by one of your pals,’ Vanbrugh cut in coldly. ‘A man with red hair. If that boy dies, I’ll see you in the dock as an accessory to murder.’
Soames struggled for breath as fear turned his bowels to water. Finally he managed to speak. ‘Morgan, that’s the man you want. Harry Morgan. He’s the one with red hair.’
‘Who else was in on this?’
Soames stumbled over his words in his eagerness to get them out. ‘Jesse Fletcher. He and Morgan came up together from Manchester. And there was the man who owns this farm, Costello.’
‘And his niece?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What about Jack Pope?’ Dwyer put in.
Soames turned to him eagerly. ‘Oh, yes, he was in on it, too.’
‘When you visited Sean Rogan in prison, it was to arrange details of his escape?’ Vanbrugh demanded.
‘That’s right. On the night he got out, Pope was waiting with a car and a change of clothes.’
‘Who laid everything on?’
‘A man called Colum O’More.’
Gregory frowned and looked at Vanbrugh. ‘That’s a familiar name.’
‘It should be,’ Vanbrugh said. ‘He was a big man in the I.R.A. in the thirties and during the early part of the war.’ He turned back to Soames. ‘So the I.R.A. are in this after all? Funds for the Organization, I suppose?’
‘That’s what Rogan believed.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Vanbrugh said. ‘Morgan and Fletcher were working for wages, right?’
‘Five thousand apiece. Rogan was just working off a debt. O’More persuaded him that he owed the Organization one last favour for breaking him out.’
‘So the rest of the haul goes to I.R.A. funds?’
‘That’s what O’More told Rogan.’
‘But you know different?’
‘You’re telling me. The old spider wants the bloody lot for himself.’
Vanbrugh shook his head. ‘It won’t wash, Soames. I know Colum O’More, everything about him. He isn’t the type to pull a stroke like that.’
Soames shrugged. ‘He’s a sick man, cancer or something. That kind of thing changes people.’
Gregory looked at Vanbrugh quickly. ‘I’ll buy that.’
Vanbrugh nodded. ‘Where’s O’More now?’
Soames moistened his lips. ‘Can we make a deal?’
‘I wouldn’t cut you down if you were hanging,’ Vanbrugh said calmly. ‘Now tell me where O’More is or I’ll kick you from here to the door and back again.’
‘He’s at an old farm just off the coast road near Whitbeck,’ Soames said sullenly. ‘Marsh-End, it’s called.’
‘Anyone with him?’
Soames shook his head. ‘He’s on his own. Rogan was supposed to drive over tomorrow with the money.’
‘But you and your friends had ideas of your own about that?’ Vanbrugh turned to Gregory. ‘At least that gives us some sort of explanation for the shooting that’s been going on here. They probably tried to get their hands on the loot and Rogan objected. Do you know this place, Marsh-End?’
‘No, but I know Whitbeck. It’ll take us about forty-five minutes to get there in weather like this.’
‘Then let’s get moving.’
Vanbrugh walked out quickly and Gregory and Dwyer went after him. Soames looked around him hurriedly for a possible exit and a middle-aged police sergeant came through the door, a broad grin on his face.
‘Didn’t think we’d forget you, did you?’
In that moment the full realization of what had happened to him hit Soames with sickening force. Outside the patrol car moved away carrying Vanbrugh, Gregory and Dwyer. As he stood there listening to the sound of the engine fade into the distance, he felt more lonely than he had ever felt in his life before.
The ditch was half-full of water and Morgan waded along it for some fifty yards, then darted across to the shelter of the fir trees on the other side. A few moments later, a police car swept by, followed by another.
By now, they would have sealed every main road through the mountains, that much was obvious. It would take a miracle to get through and yet he had to reach the coast. His one chance of escape lay at Marsh-End with Colum O’More.
As he started to work his way through the plantation of firs, a motorcyclist passed along the main road and slowed to a halt thirty or forty yards further on. Morgan went forward cautiously and paused behind a bush.
A police motorcyclist stood beside an A.A. box, his machine parked a few feet away. He was examining a map. As Morgan watched, he slipped a cigarette into his mouth and flicked a lighter.
Morgan didn’t even think about it. He gripped his revolver by the barrel, jumped forward and struck hard at the nape of the neck. The policeman gave a stifled cry and slumped to his knees. Morgan grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back into the bushes. Then he ran out into the road, kicked the stand from under the motorcycle and pushed it under cover in the plantation.
It took him five minutes to strip the policeman and dress in his uniform. When he was ready, he fastened the man’s wrists behind him with his belt and moved towards the motorcycle.
At that moment, another patrol car swept by. He waited until the sound of its engine had faded into the distance, then ran the machine out into the road, mounted it and kicked the starter. As the engine roared into life, he pulled down the goggles and rode away.
Half a mile further on he came to a bridge. On the other side a police car was parked half across the road leaving room for single line traffic only and two constables blocked the way. Morgan changed down and started to slow, at the same time getting ready to accelerate.
There was no need. As he went over the bridge, the two constables moved out of the way and one of them waved a hand casually. It was as easy as that. Morgan changed into top gear and sped away into the rain.
18
When Rogan cut the engine and jumped out of the shooting brake, there was no sign of Brendan and the rain hissing down into the water of the dam was the only sound.
Hannah moved around the brake to join him. ‘I wonder where he is?’
‘God knows, but we’ve got to get moving. If we don’t get through the tunnel and down to Ambleside road within fifteen minutes, we’ve had it.’
There was a sudden restless baaing and several sheep ran between the ruined houses, scattering to avoid Brendan who raced after them brandishing a stick. They plunged up the mountainside and he paused, slightly out of breath, and grinned.
‘I thought I’d better set them free.’
‘Never mind about them now, we’ve got to get going. Where are the mailbags?’
‘I put them in the punt, Mr Rogan.’
They hurried round the side of the dam and through the clump of trees that masked the old landing stage. Brendan had moored the punt to a rusty iron ring and several inches of water slopped in the bottom. The mailbags were in the prow where it was dry, and Hannah sat down on them. Rogan crouched in the centre and Brendan shoved off from the rear.
The sound of the rain faded as they moved into the cold darkness and he looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock and it wasn’t dark till seven thirty, which didn’t help. It wouldn’t take the police long to work out what had happened when they found the shooting brake. One fast patrol car to block the end of the other valley was all that it would take. Certainly, if Dick Vanbrugh was in on things, the hunt was up with a vengeance.
And what happened if the jeep wasn’t there? But he pushed that thought away from him. If they could get down to the Ambleside road and reach the track that led between Rydal Water and Grasmere to Elterwater they might stand a chance. Beyond was the lonely road over Wrynose and old packhorse tracks that crossed over the fells to the coast, places where only a jeep or a similar vehicle could go.
They drifted out into the heavy rain and bumped against the side of the stone landing stage. Brendan scrambled up and fastened the line, then gave Hannah a hand and Rogan passed up the two mailbags.
Brendan ran on ahead through the trees and Rogan and the girl followed. When they reached the old stable, the boy had already got the doors open, revealing the jeep.
He opened the rear door and Rogan heaved the two mailbags inside. ‘All right, let’s get moving.’
Brendan scrambled into the rear, Hannah got into the passenger seat and Rogan slid behind the wheel. He pulled out the choke and pressed the starter and the engine turned over at once. In one smooth movement he reversed out of the stable, swung the wheel, moved into first gear and roared down the track towards the mouth of the valley.
‘We’ll try that route you told me about on Wednesday,’ he said to Hannah.
‘Do we stand a chance?’
‘All depends on how quickly they get a car round to this side. If we can reach that track you told me about leading across to Elterwater and get off the main road, we might surprise them yet.’
He drove very fast, his foot hard against the boards and the jeep responded magnificently. Five minutes later, they turned up through a clump of fir trees and reached the main road.
Rogan barely paused, swung the wheel to the right and drove along the road towards Rydal. ‘How far?’ he shouted above the roaring of the engine.
‘Half a mile, no more.’
Rain hammered against the windscreen so hard that the wipers had difficulty in coping. He leaned forward anxiously as a truck passed them going the opposite way and then Hannah was tugging at his arm.
He saw the gate in a clump of fir trees in the same moment and braked, skidding a little. As he swung the wheel and stopped, the girl jumped down and opened the gate. Rogan drove through and waited for her to close it again. A moment later, they were moving on through the trees and when he looked in the mirror, he could no longer see the road.
His throat was dry and there was sweat on his forehead. His hand trembled slightly when he raised it to brush away the sweat.
‘Would you look at that, now? I’ve got the shakes.’ He gave her a quick grin. ‘Maybe I’m getting too old for this sort of caper.’
‘That’ll be the day.’
She produced matches and cigarettes from one of her pockets, lit one and put it in his mouth. Rogan inhaled deeply and sighed. ‘I needed that.’
‘First hurdle over safely,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it. How do you feel?’
‘As if I’m really crashing out of something for the first time in my life.’
‘Keep on believing that and it’ll come true.’
They crossed the bridge and he changed down and drove along the narrow track between the trees. It took them no more than three or four minutes to reach the Elterwater road, another five to reach the village itself. The streets were deserted in the heavy rain and he drove quietly through, following Hannah’s directions until, at Eltermere, he turned into a side road that skirted Little Langdale village. A quarter of an hour after leaving the Ambleside road, they were moving alongside Little Langdale Tarn and starting the long climb up to Wrynose.
The road lifted steeply before them, mist crowding in across the mountains, and the jeep climbed steadily, its engine deepening to a full-throated roar as he changed down through the gears.
Gradually, the mist enfolded them, and when they reached the top of the pass visibility was down to twenty or thirty yards. Rogan stayed in a low gear on the way down the steep hill to Wrynose Bottom and they followed the course of the Duddon River. Ten minutes later, they came to the place where the road forked, one arm climbing to Hard Knott, the other following the valley to Seathwaite and Ulpha.
‘Give me another cigarette,’ he said.
The girl lit one and put it in his mouth and Brendan leaned over the back of the bench seat. ‘H-how are we doing, Mr Rogan?’
‘So far, so good, son.’ Rogan pulled in at the side of the road. ‘Let’s have another look at that map.’
He examined it quickly, a slight frown on his face. ‘No way round Seathwaite and Ulpha from the looks of things.’
‘Are you expecting trouble?’ Hannah said.
‘It’s possible. They’ve had plenty of time to pass the word around by now.’
She had another look at the map and traced a line across the fells. ‘There’s an unfenced road here. It won’t be very good but it runs across Thwaites Fell to the coast. We’d still have to go through Ulpha, but it would cut out the other places.’
‘Where does it start?’
‘Beckfoot, a couple of miles on the far side of Ulpha.’
‘Good enough.’
He drove away quickly, and as they passed through the little village of Seathwaite the mist seemed to be thinning a little, but the rain continued to fall relentlessly as they dropped down through the pleasant wooded valley.
The main street was deserted, but as they approached the village inn, Hannah clutched Rogan’s arm tightly. A police sergeant in peaked cap and heavy blue raincoat stood on the steps talking to a middle-aged woman.
Rogan drove steadily past, but when he glanced in the mirror, they were both watching the jeep as it moved away along the main street. The sergeant turned and said something to the woman and they went into the inn quickly.
‘Did you see that?’ Hannah said.
Rogan nodded grimly. ‘We’ll have to take that unfenced road over the top now. No choice.’
He pushed his foot down hard until the needle flickered on sixty and the old jeep roared along the road, spurning the gravel. It took them no more than two or three minutes to reach Beckfoot and he braked, and flung the jeep into the side turning.
They climbed into another world, grey and sombre, dark crags, dripping with moisture, looming out of the mist on either hand. The road stretched before them, unfenced, but surprisingly well surfaced and the jeep slowed as the slope lifted before them.
The roaring of the engine in low gear was almost unbearable and the old aluminium body rattled alarmingly. Rogan checked the petrol gauge and saw they were down to the last gallon.
‘How far have we got to go?’ he shouted.
Hannah had another look at the map. ‘About six miles to Bootle, but we don’t need to go right in. There’s a track branching down to the coast road. A mile, maybe two, to Marsh-End. Have we enough petrol?’
He nodded and changed into top gear as they breasted the slope and moved past Mere Crags across a jagged plateau, shrouded in fog.
