by Hilary Green
Stone looked at Pascoe, ‘You mean Donelly is a Lesbian.’
‘According to our sources.’
Once again Stone and Nick exchanged glances. Then Stone rose abruptly and moved away to the window.
‘And you expect Leo to go along with that?’
‘Leonora is a very clever woman. She can take care of herself.’
‘Yes?’ Nick put in. ‘What about this hunger strike?’
For the first time Pascoe looked slightly uneasy. ‘That was not part of the original plan, and I haven’t yet been able to discover how it started. However, you can be assured that Leo will be instructed to call it off at once.’
‘You’re in touch with her then?’ Nick asked.
‘Naturally. Her solicitor is one of our own men. He’ll see her tomorrow and put a stop to it.’
Stone came back to the table. ‘You mean he’ll try. You know as well as we do that Leo has no equal when it comes to sheer bloody-mindedness. She’s just as likely to carry on to prove that she can stick it as long as the other woman!’
‘In that case,’ Pascoe said imperturbably, ‘Donelly will have to be persuaded to come off it too. I may have to arrange for a few cosmetic concessions to enable them to save face and to retain Leo’s credibility. But Leo knows that we need her on top form for the next phase. She’ll see sense.’
‘And the next phase is…?’ Nick prodded.
‘I’m sure you will both be delighted to hear that the next step is to get Leo out of prison again.’
Stone grinned broadly. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all evening – even considering all the trouble I went to to get her in.’
'You went to!’ Nick exclaimed.
‘That water was very cold – and extremely dirty,’ Stone returned, looking injured.
‘Does this mean that Leo’s got the information we want already?’ Nick asked.
Pascoe shook his head. ‘Far from it, I’m afraid. We never imagined it was going to be that easy. You will be freeing not only Leo but Donelly as well.’
For a long moment Stone and Nick regarded Pascoe in silence. At length Stone said,
‘You mean spring them?’
‘If that’s the term you want to use.’
‘Great!’ said Nick. ‘Then we can all go to jail.’
‘You do know,’ Stone pointed out, ‘that contriving the escape of a prisoner charged with murder is a very serious offence?’
‘Of course I know!’ said Pascoe tetchily. ‘Believe me, it is not something I would advocate except in very exceptional circumstances. And it has been cleared at the very highest level.’
‘Ah,’ Stone looked relieved, ‘then we can rely on the tacit cooperation of the local police.’
‘I’m afraid not. I said the operation had been cleared at the very highest level. That does not mean that it has been discussed with the copper on the beat – or with his Chief Constable, for that matter! This is strictly a Triple S affair. You can have any resources in terms of manpower or materials you want from the Department, but apart from that the whole thing is down to you. Just don’t let it go wrong!’
‘I don’t get it,’ Nick said. ‘What, exactly, is the idea?’
‘Hopefully, that Donelly and Leo will go on the run together and that Donelly will eventually take Leo back to a safe house somewhere where they can link up with the rest of the group.’
‘But who is Donelly supposed to think is behind the rescue?’ Stone asked. ‘Obviously, she’ll know it isn’t her own lot.’
‘Quite,’ Pascoe nodded, ‘but that is why we have built up this imaginary revolutionary group of Leo’s so carefully. Although it is primarily a women’s organization, it does have male members too and it has been secretly preparing for armed struggle. In other words, it has the arms and the command structure to stage a rescue attempt. This is what Leo will have been telling Donelly. In fact, she will have told her that the solicitor is working for them and will warn her when the attempt is to take place – as in fact he will.’
‘So, as far as Donelly is concerned, we are members of the “Daughters of the Sunrise”,’ Nick said.
‘Well,’ Pascoe permitted himself a small smile, ‘associate members, perhaps.’
‘In that case,’ Stone objected, ‘surely we would have arranged a safe house of some kind, or transport out of the country.’
‘Of course, you will have done,’ Pascoe agreed, ‘and you will endeavour to persuade Leo – or Elizabeth, as we must call her – to fall in with your plans. She, however, will insist that she is going to stick with Donelly. Apart from any – emotional – bond which they may have formed she will have allowed Donelly to convince her of the rightness of her cause and she will evince an ardent desire to work for the IRA. You will probably have quite an argument with her, but ultimately she will go with Donelly.’
‘Provided Donelly will have her,’ Stone said.
‘You need not worry about that. Leo has already indicated that she is pretty sure on that point – otherwise I should not have initiated phase two.’
‘But surely Donelly will head straight back for Ireland,’ Nick said.
‘We shall make very sure that there is heavy surveillance on all ports and crossings,’ Pascoe told him. ‘And Leo will be quick to point out that that is the quickest way to get picked up again. Their best bet will be to lie low – and we want to know where, and with whom. From the moment that the break takes place they will be under surveillance, both on the ground and from the air. Stone, you had better handle that end of it. I want you airborne, controlling the surveillance teams.’
‘We’ve got to get them out first,’ Nick pointed out.
‘They are taken every Thursday from Risley to Liverpool to appear in court. The road in places is very quiet. I should say that that would be your best bet. The details are up to you.’ Pascoe looked at his watch. ‘I have to get back to London. Mrs Fitch will serve you dinner in half an hour. You will find all that you are likely to need in the way of maps in the drawers of that bureau and, of course, for any other information you have access to the central computer at Control via the terminal in the next room. Work out your plan, and what personnel you require, and let me know as soon as you can.’
They accompanied Pascoe to the door and watched him drive away. As they turned back into the hall, Stone looked at Nick.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked. ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to be dead, but you look like the one who’s been buried for ten days!’
*
It was around midnight that Stone exclaimed, ‘What we want is more security, not less!’
‘Come again?’ Nick said sleepily.
They had talked through dinner and on over pot after pot of coffee. Nick was dog tired, but he knew that he would not sleep until they had at least the germ of an idea about how to release Leo and her fellow prisoner.
‘Listen,’ Stone said. ‘We’ve agreed that the attempt has got to be made during the drive from Risley to court, or back again. The prisoners travel in a special van, each one locked into a separate cell inside. There’s a driver and another officer in the front, who are in radio contact with the prison. If the van is stopped for any reason all they have to do is lock the doors and radio for help, unless…’
‘Unless?’ Nick prompted.
Stone grinned at him. ‘Can you still fit into that copper’s uniform of yours?’
‘About as well as you fit into your RAF uniform, I should think,’ Nick returned. ‘What am I supposed to do, climb into a panda car and flag them down for speeding?’
‘Jam butty,’ Stone said.
At this time of night?’
‘No, idiot. That’s what they call panda cars in Liverpool – jam butty cars.’
Nick put his head in his hands. ‘I’m lost,’ he moaned.
Stone tapped him on the knuckles with his pen.
‘Pay attention, you’re dozing off! We need to find a way of stopping the van that won’t arou
se their suspicions. Suppose they were told to expect a police escort? They wouldn’t know that you aren’t a Liverpool copper.’
As long as I don’t open my mouth,’ Nick muttered.
Stone sat back, chewing the end of his biro. ‘It’s not the whole answer, though. We not only need to stop them, we need to get them out of the van. How do we do that?’
There was no response. He prodded the mop of tousled curls with the end of the pen but there was no reaction. Nick was dead to the world.
Chapter Three
Three days later, in a pub in Knowsley on the outskirts of Liverpool, a frail, bird-boned little man accepted a pint of Guinness from a larger man in a dark raincoat.
‘Well, Michael?’ the large man asked. ‘What’s it all about?’
The little man took a long pull at his stout and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘It’s not much, you know,’ he murmured, leaning towards his companion and projecting a halitosis as lethal as a ray gun in his direction. ‘It’s only a rumour.’
‘A rumour about what?’ The big man controlled the urge to turn his head away.
‘This girl you’ve got in Risley – the Irish girl…’
The big man’s eyes narrowed and he forgot the halitosis.
‘What about her?’
‘The word’s out that they’re after getting her away.’
‘Springing her – from Risley?’
‘I can’t give you any details. Like I said, it’s just a rumour.’
The policeman put his hand into his pocket and then laid it casually on the table between them. The edges of several notes were just visible beneath his fingers.
‘You have to bring her into the city once a week, don’t you?’ The little man watched the hand like a cat waiting to pounce on a bird. ‘I don’t know – I can’t be sure – but I should look out for trouble on the drive.’
The hand on the table was lifted and another, like a quick paw, snatched up the notes. The little man drained his glass, apparently without pausing to swallow, and was gone, scuttling away between the tables. The policeman watched him go and then settled back into his seat to finish his own drink and scan the copy of the Echo which was tucked into his raincoat pocket. The article which immediately attracted his attention was about half-way down the front page.
RISLEY WOMEN END HUNGER STRIKE.
‘The two women accused of murder who are being held at the Risley remand centre gave up their five-day old hunger strike today after being visited by a Catholic priest…’
The big man read the report through carefully, finished his beer and made his way out into the grey city dusk.
The rumour was duly reported and the report passed from desk to desk until eventually a memo returned to the chief inspector to the effect that the Government was anxious not to attract too much public attention to the case of Margaret Donelly, who was obviously intent on manipulating the media, probably for the benefit of IRA sympathizers in the United States. Any extra precautions should therefore be as low key as possible. It was decided that on its next journey the prison van should have the benefit of an escorting police car, to clear the way and ensure that it had no need to stop for any reason.
The man given the job of driving this escort vehicle was Bill Lithgow, a sergeant with nearly twenty years’ service behind him. His companion was Constable Stephen Carney, a well-built, hard-looking young man who prided himself on being ‘useful’ in a fight.
‘What d’you reckon, Sarge?’ he asked as they set off. ‘What do we do if the micks try to jump us?’
‘Listen,’ the older man returned, ‘forget the heroics. All we have to do is drive to Risley, pick up the van and then head back here without stopping for anybody.’
‘Suppose they blow us up?’ Carney demanded. ‘How do we know they haven’t put a bomb in a culvert or something?’
‘Wouldn’t do them any good. They don’t want to risk damaging the van, do they? They might end up killing their own girl. If anything happens to us all the two officers in the van have got to do is sit tight, keep the doors locked and radio for help.’
‘Well, what do you think they are going to do, then?’ Carney seemed quite disappointed by his companion’s sanguine attitude.
‘Nothing,’ retorted Lithgow. ‘That’s my bet.’ He glanced sideways at the constable’s eager profile. ‘Anyway, if anything does happen it’ll be on the way back, after we’ve collected the van; so relax, can’t you. You’re making me feel uncomfortable.’
They were within about five miles of their destination when they saw a man come out of a side turning and start running along the road towards them. He paused for an instant on the kerb as if intending to cross the road to a phone-box on the other side, then saw them and stepped out, waving his arms for them to stop. Lithgow was forced to break sharply to avoid hitting him.
‘Now what?’ he muttered, as the car came to a standstill.
The man darted round to the front passenger window and leaned in. He was about 30, dressed in jeans and a donkey jacket, his face red with exertion.
‘Thank Christ you came along, mate!’ he panted. ‘I was heading for that phone-box to call you.’
‘What is it?’ Lithgow asked long-sufferingly. ‘Wife gone into labour unexpectedly, has she?’
The man looked slightly put out. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. There’s only a bloke down there with a shotgun, threatening to blow himself and his two kids to kingdom come, isn’t there.’
Lithgow sat forward sharply. ‘Down there? Where?’
‘In a house down the lane there – Willow Cottage. He lives there.’
‘Who is he? Do you know him?’
‘Yeah. His name’s Askew – Ron Askew. Look, hadn’t we better get down there? He sent me to call the police, but he said if I wasn’t back in ten minutes he wouldn’t answer for the consequences.’
Lithgow leaned over and unlocked the rear door. ‘Get in.’
The man climbed in but Lithgow did not immediately start the engine.
‘You say he’s threatening to shoot the kids, and himself? Why?’
‘’Cos his wife’s left him. He works nights, see. Apparently, he came home this morning and found the kids tucked up in bed asleep and a note from his wife saying she’d gone off with another bloke and he’d never see her again.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Carney, who had been itching to get a word in.
‘I live up the road a bit, see,’ the man answered. ‘I was walking down this morning to get the bus to work and just as I was passing his place, he yells out to me from the bedroom window. To start with I thought perhaps one of them was ill or something, but when I got inside the garden gate he points this shotgun at me and tells me not to come no nearer. Then he told me about Gillian – that’s his wife – and said to come and phone for you boys.’
‘Why?’ asked Lithgow. ‘What does he want us for?’
‘What he said was – call the police, call the Echo, call Radio City and Radio Merseyside, and Granada TV. I want them all here. Tell them unless my wife’s back here by ten o’clock tonight I’m going to blast the kids’ heads off and then my own. I don’t know where she’s gone, he says, but I want to make sure she sees the reports. That’ll get her back here. Look, can’t we get moving? He’s in a right state, I can tell you. If he thinks I’ve pushed off and left him to it God knows what he’ll do.’
‘D’you know him – personally, I mean,’ asked Lithgow. ‘Is he the sort of man who might do a thing like that, or is it all bluff?’
The man pursed his lips. ‘Hard to say, isn’t it. I mean, I never thought of him as a nutter, like. But he can be violent, I know that. And he’s always been terrible jealous of Gillian. The wife and me used to go out with them sometimes, but we give it up ’cos he used to make these awful scenes if another man so much as looked at her. No telling what he might do now.’
Lithgow sighed. ‘All right. We’d better go and hav
e a look. Down to the left, is it?’ He started the engine. ‘Call in, Steve. Tell ’em what’s going on and ask them to send someone out to take over.’
Carney pressed the transmit button on the microphone.
‘Tango Able Foxtrot to Control. Am investigating a report of a man with a shotgun holding children hostage in Willow Cottage, Moss Lane. Request another car to take over from us. Out.’
*
In a large barn, some two hundred yards further along the main road, Nick Marriot heard the message over the radio in a white Rover painted with the broad red stripe and the crest of the Merseyside police.
‘Did you get that, Vince?’ he asked of the man beside him.
‘No problem!’ Vince replied. ‘Tango Able Foxtrot to Control – you have just been had!’ The voice was an exact reproduction of the flat, nasal scouse which was Carney’s normal speech.
Nick grinned and wondered whether Pascoe made a habit of recruiting his agents from the world of showbusiness. He shifted his position, aware that the waistband of his uniform suit was a little tighter than when he had last had it on some four years back.
‘Tango Able Foxtrot,’ came Carney’s voice over the radio. ‘Have reached Willow Cottage. No sign of trouble from here. Off watch to investigate. Out.’
‘Give them five minutes,’ said Nick.
*
The police car was stopped a short distance from the cottage, partly concealed by a hedge. Lithgow peered up at the top windows.
‘Which room did you say?’
‘The bedroom. Top right-hand window.’
‘No sign of movement there at the moment.’ ‘He’s probably keeping his head down,’ said Carney.
‘You stay here, Mr … What is your name, sir?’ Lithgow inquired.
‘Fenton – Harry Fenton.’
‘Right, Mr Fenton. You stay here and we’ll go and have a word with him.’
‘OK,’ the man replied. ‘But go careful. I’ve told you, he’s in a right state.’
The two policemen approached the gate cautiously. There was still no sign of movement in the upper window.
