Confessional - Devlin 03 (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  There was a commotion and Hardy appeared at the door, Moira McGregor behind him. 'I came as soon as I could,' the foreman said. 'I just heard.'

  'You can't come in here,' Brodie told him.

  Hardy ignored him. 'Look, I don't know what this is about, but if there's anything I can do.'

  On the platform, the guard blew his whistle. Cussane said, 'Nothing anyone can do. How is Tisini?'

  'Looks like a broken leg.'

  'Tell him his luck is good.'

  There was a lurch as the train started. 'It suddenly occurs to me that if I hadn't drawn you in to help, you wouldn't be here now,' Hardy said.

  He moved out to join Moira on the platform as the guard jumped inside. 'Luck of the draw,' Cussane called. 'Don't worry about it.'

  And then Hardy and the woman were swept away into the past as the guard pulled the sliding door shut and the train surged forward.

  Trent couldn't resist phoning Ferguson in London and the Directorate-General patched him in to the Cavendish Square phone. Fox and Devlin were out and Ferguson answered himself.

  'Trent here, sir, Chief-Inspector, Special Branch, Glasgow. We think we've got your man, Cussane.'

  'Have you, by God?' Ferguson said. 'What shape is he in?'

  'Well, I haven't actually seen him, sir. He's been apprehended in a village some miles south of here. He's arriving by train in Glasgow within the hour. I'll pick him up myself.'

  'Pity the bugger didn't turn up dead,' Ferguson said. 'Still, one can't have everything. I want him down here on the first available plane in the morning, Chief-Inspector. Bring him yourself. This one's too important for any slip-ups.'

  'Will do, sir,' said Trent eagerly.

  Ferguson put down the receiver, reached for the red phone, but some innate caution stopped him. Much better to phone the Home Secretary when the fish was actually in the net.

  Brodie sat on a stool, leaning back in the corner watching Cussane and smoking a cigarette. The guard was checking a list on his desk. He totalled it and put his pen away. 'I'll make my rounds. See you later.'

  He went out and Brodie pulled his stool across the baggage car and sat very close to Cussane. 'I've never understood it. Men in skirts. It'll never catch on.' He leaned forward. 'Tell me, you priests - what do you do for it?'

  'For what?' Cussane said.

  'You know. Is it choirboys? Is that the truth of it?' There were beads of perspiration on the big man's forehead.

  'That's a hell of a big moustache you're wearing,' Cussane said. 'Have you got a weak mouth or something?'

  Brodie was angry now. 'Cocky bastard. I'll show you.'

  He reached forward and touched the end of the lighted cigarette to the back of Cussane's hand. Cussane cried out and fell back against the mailbags.

  Brodie laughed and leaned over him. 'I thought you'd like that,' he said and reached to touch the back of the hand again. Cussane kicked him in the crutch. Brodie staggered back clutching at himself and Cussane sprang to his feet. He kicked out expertly, catching the right kneecap, and as Brodie keeled forward, raised his knee into the face.

  The police sergeant lay on his back moaning and Cussane searched his pockets, found the key and unlocked his handcuffs. He got his bag, checked that the contents were intact and slipped the Stechkin into his pocket. He pulled back the sliding door and rain flooded in.

  The guard, entering the baggage car a moment later, caught a brief glimpse of him landing in heather at the side of the track and rolling over and over down the slope. And then there was only mist and rain.

  *

  When the train coasted into Glasgow Central, Trent and half-a-dozen uniformed constables were waiting on platform one. The door of the baggage car slid open and the guard appeared.

  'In here.'

  Trent paused at the entrance. There was only Lachlan Brodie nursing a bloody and swollen face, sitting on the guard's stool. Trent's heart sank. 'Tell me,' he said wearily. Brodie did the best he could. When he was finished, Trent said, 'He was handcuffed, you say, and you let him take you?'

  'It wasn't as simple as it sounds, sir,' Brodie said lamely.

  'You stupid, stupid man,' Trent said. 'By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be lucky if they put you in charge of a public lavatory.'

  He turned away in disgust and went back along the platform to phone Ferguson.

  Cussane at that precise moment was halted in the shelter of some rocks on top of a hill north of Dunhill. He had the ordnance survey map open that he'd purchased from Moira McGregor. He found Larwick with no trouble and the Mungos' farm was just outside. Perhaps fifteen miles and most of that over hill country, and yet he felt cheerful enough as he pressed on.

  The mist curling in on either hand, the heavy rain, gave him a safe, enclosed feeling, remote from the world outside, a kind of freedom. He moved on through birch trees and wet bracken that soaked his trouser legs. Occasionally grouse or plover lifted from the heather, disturbed by his passing. He kept on the move, for by now his raincoat was soaked through and he was experienced enough to know the dangers of being in hill country like this in the wrong clothing.

  He came over the edge of an escarpment perhaps an hour after leaving the train and looked down into a valley glen below. Darkness was falling, but there was a clearly defined man-made track a few yards away ending at a cairn of rough stones. It was enough; he hurried on with renewed energy and plunged down the hillside.

  Ferguson was looking at a large ordnance survey map of the Scottish Lowlands. 'Apparently he got the coach in Morecambe,' he said. 'We've established that.'

  'A neat way of getting to Glasgow, sir,' Fox said.

  'No,' Ferguson said. 'He took a ticket to a place called Dunhill. What in the hell would he be doing there?'

  'Do you know the area?' Devlin asked.

  'Had a week's shooting on some chap's estate about twenty years ago. Funny place, the Galloway hills. High forests, ridgebacks and secret little lochs everywhere.'

  'Galloway, you said?' Devlin looked closer at the map. 'So that's Galloway?'

  Ferguson frowned. 'So what?'

  'I think that's where he's gone,' Devlin said. 'I think that's where he was aiming to go all along.'

  Fox said, 'What makes you think that?'

  He told them about Danny Malone and when he was finished, Ferguson said, 'You could very well have something.'

  Devlin nodded. 'Danny mentioned a number of safe houses used by the underworld in various parts of the country, but the fact that he's in the Galloway area must have some connection with this place run by the Mungo brothers.'

  'What do we do now, sir?' Fox asked Ferguson. 'Get Special Branch, Glasgow, to lay on a raid on this Mungo place?'

  'No, to hell with that,' Ferguson said. 'We've already had a classic example of just how efficient the local police can be; they had him and let him slip through their fingers.' He glanced out of the window at the darkness outside. 'Too late to do anything tonight. Too late for him as well. He'll still be on foot in those hills.'

  'Bound to be,' Devlin said.

  'So - you and Harry fly up to Glasgow tomorrow. You check out this Mungo place personally. I'm invoking special powers. On this one, Special Branch will do what you want.'

  He went out. Fox gave Devlin a cigarette. 'What do you think?'

  'They had him, Harry, in handcuffs,' Devlin said, 'and he got away. That's what I think. Now give me a light.'

  Cussane went down through birch trees following the course of a pleasant burn which splashed between a jumble of granite boulders. He was beginning to feel tired now in spite of the fact that the going was all downhill.

  The burn disappeared over an edge of rock, cascading into a deep pool as it had done several times before and he slithered down through birch trees through the gathering dusk rather faster than he had intended, landing in an untidy heap, still holding on to his bag.

  There was a startled gasp and Cussane, coming up on one knee, saw two children crouched at the sid
e of the pool. The girl, on a second look, was older than he had thought, perhaps sixteen, and wore wellingtons and jeans and an old reefer coat that was too big for her. She had a pointed face, wide dark eyes, and a profusion of black hair flowed from beneath a knitted Tam O'Shanter.

  The boy was younger, no more than ten, with ragged jersey, cut-down tweed trousers and rubber and canvas running shoes that had seen better days. He was in the act of withdrawing a gaff from the water, a salmon spitted on it.

  Cussane smiled. 'Where I come from that wouldn't be considered very sporting.'

  'Run, Morag!' the boy cried and lunged at Cussane with the gaff, the salmon still wriggling on the end.

  A section of the bank crumbled under his foot and he fell back into the pool. He surfaced, still clutching the gaff, but in an instant, the swift current, swollen by the heavy rain, had him in its grasp and carried him away.

  'Donal!' the girl screamed and ran to the edge.

  Cussane got a hand to her shoulder and pulled her back, just in time as another section of the bank crumbled. 'Don't be a fool. You'll go the same way.'

  She struggled to break free and he dropped his bag, shoved her out of the way, and ran along the bank, pushing through the birches. At that point the water poured through a harrow slot in the rocks with real force, taking the boy with it.

  Cussane plunged on, aware of the girl behind him. He pulled off his raincoat and threw it to one side. He cut out across the rocks, trying to get to the end of the slot before the boy, reaching out to grab one end of the outstretched gaff which the boy still clutched, minus the salmon now.

  He managed it, was aware of the enormous force of the current and then went in headfirst, a circumstance impossible to avoid. He surfaced in the pool below, the boy a yard or so away and reached out and secured a grip on the jersey. A moment later, the current took them in to a shingle strand. As the girl ran down the bank, the boy was on his feet, shook himself like a terrier and scrambled up to meet her.

  A sudden eddy brought Cussane's black hat floating in. He picked it up, examined it and laughed. 'Now that will certainly never be the same again,' and he tossed it out into the pool.

  He turned to go up the bank and found himself looking into the muzzle of a sawn-off shotgun held by an old man of at least seventy who stood at the edge of the birch trees, the girl, Morag, and the young Donal beside him. He wore a shabby tweed suit, a Tam O'Shanter that was twin to the girl's, and badly needed a shave.

  'Who is he, Granda?' the girl asked. 'No water baillie.'

  'With a minister's collar, that would hardly be likely.' The old man's speech was tinged with the soft blas of the highlander. 'Are you a man of the cloth?'

  'My name is Fallon,' Cussane told him. 'Father Michael Fallon.' He recalled the name of a village in the area from his examination of the ordnance survey map. 'I was making for Whitechapel, missed the bus and thought I'd try a short-cut over the hill.'

  The girl had walked back to pick up his raincoat. She returned and the old man took it from her. 'Away you now, Donal, and get the gentleman's bag.'

  So, he must have seen everything from the beginning. The boy scampered away and the old man weighed the raincoat in his hand. He felt in a pocket and produced the Stechkin. 'Would you look at that now? No water baillie, Morag, that's for sure, and a damn strange priest.'

  'He saved Donal, Granda?' the girl touched his sleeve.

  He smiled slowly down at her. 'And so he did. Away to the camp then, girl. Say that we have company and see that the kettle is on the fire.'

  He put the Stetchkin back in the raincoat and handed it to Cussane. The girl turned and darted away through the trees and the boy came back with the bag.

  'My name is Hamish Finlay and I am in your debt.' He rumpled the boy's hair. 'You are welcome to share what we have. No man can say more.'

  They moved up through the trees and started through the plantation. Cussane said, 'This is strange country.'

  The old man took out a pipe and filled it from a worn pouch, the shotgun under his arm. 'Aye, the Galloway is that. A man can lose himself here, from other men, if you take my meaning?'

  'Oh, I do,' Cussane said 'Sometimes we all need to do that.'

  There was a cry of fear up ahead, the girl's voice raised high. Finlay's gun was in his hands in an instant and as they moved forward, they saw her struggling in the arms of a tall, heavily-built man. Like Finlay, he carried a shotgun and wore an old, patched, tweed suit. His face was brutal and badly needed a shave and yellow hair poked from beneath his cap. He was staring down at the girl as if enjoying her fear, a half smile on his face. Cussane was conscious of real anger, but it was Finlay who handled it.

  'Leave her, Murray!'

  The other man scowled, hanging on to her, then pushed her away with a forced smile. 'A bit of sport only.' The girl turned and ran away behind him. 'Who's this?'

  'Murray, my dead brother's child you are and my responsibility, but did I ever tell you there's a stink to you like bad meat on a summer day?'

  The shotgun moved slightly in Murray's grasp and there was hot rage in the eyes. Cussane slipped a hand in his raincoat pocket and found the Stechkin. Calmly, almost contemptuously, the old man lit his pipe and something went out of Murray. He turned on his heel and walked away.

  'My own nephew.' Finlay shook his head. 'You know what they say. "Our friends we choose ourselves, but our relations are chosen for us."'

  'True,' Cussane said as they started walking again.

  'Aye, and you can take your hand off the butt of that pistol. It won't be needed now, Father - or whatever ye are.'

  The camp in the hollow was a poor sort of place. The three wagons were old with patched canvas tilts, and the only motor vehicle in view was a jeep of World War Two vintage, painted khaki green. A depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes of the three women who cooked at the open fire, to the bare feet of the children who played tig amongst the half dozen horses that grazed beside the stream.

  Cussane slept well, deep, dreamless sleep that was totally refreshing, and awakened to find the girl, Morag, sitting on the opposite bunk watching him.

  Cussane smiled. 'Hello there.'

  'That's funny,' she said. 'One minute you were asleep, the next your eyes were open and you were wide awake. How did you learn to do that?'

  'The habit of a lifetime.' He glanced at his watch. 'Only six-thirty.'

  'We rise early.' She nodded outside the wagon. He could hear voices and smell bacon frying.

  'I've dried your clothes,' she said 'Would you like some tea?'

  There was an eagerness to her as if she desperately wanted to please, something infinitely touching. He reached to pull the Tam O'Shanter down more over one ear. 'I like that.'

  'My mother knitted it for me.' She pulled it off and looked at it, her face sad.

  'That's nice. Is she here?'

  'No.' Morag put the Tam O'Shanter back on. 'She ran away with a man called McTavish last year. They went to Australia.'

  'And your father?'

  'He left her when I was a baby.' She shrugged. 'But I don't care.'

  'Is young Donal your brother?'

  'No. His father is my cousin, Murray. You saw him earlier.'

  'Ah, yes. You don't like him, I think.'

  She shivered. 'He makes me feel funny.'

  Cussane was conscious of the anger again, but controlled it. 'That tea would be welcome, plus the chance to get dressed.'

  Her reply, cynical and far too adult for her age, surprised him. 'Frightened I might corrupt you, Father?' She grinned. 'I'll fetch your tea.' And she darted out.

  His suit had been thoroughly brushed and dried. He dressed quickly, omitting the vest and clerical collar and pulling a thin black polo neck sweater over his head instead. He pulled on his raincoat because it was still raining and went out.

  Murray Finlay leaned against the side of a wagon smoking a clay pipe, Donal crouched at his feet.

  Cus
sane said, 'Good morning,' but Murray could only manage a scowl.

  Morag turned from the fire to offer Cussane tea in a chipped enamel mug and Murray called, 'Don't I get one?'

  She ignored him and Cussane asked, 'Where's your grandfather?'

  'Fishing by the loch. I'll show you. Bring your tea.'

  There was something immensely appealing, a gamine quality that was somehow accentuated by the Tam O'Shanter. It was as if she was putting out her tongue at the whole world in spite of her ragged clothes. It was not pleasant to think of such a girl brutalized by contact with the likes of Murray and the squalor of the years to come.

  They went over the rise and came to a small loch, a pleasant place where heather flowed down to the shore-line. Old Hamish Finlay stood thigh deep, rod in hand, making one extremely expert cast after another. A wind stirred the water, small black fins appeared and suddenly, a trout came out of the deep water beyond the sandbar, leapt in the air and vanished.

  The old man glanced at Cussane and chuckled. 'Would you look at that now? Have you noticed how often the good things in life tend to pop up in the wrong places?'

  'Frequently.'

  Finlay gave Morag his rod. 'You'll find three fat ones in the basket. Off with you and get the breakfast going.'

  She turned back to the camp and Cussane offered the old man a cigarette. 'A nice child.'

  'Aye, you could say that.'

  Cussane gave him a light. 'This life you lead is a strange one and yet you aren't gypsies, I think?'

  'People of the road. Tinkers. People have many names for us and some of them none too kind. The last remnants of a proud dam broken at Culloden. Mind, we have links with other road people on occasion. Morag's mother was an English gypsy.'

  'No resting place?' Cussane said.

  'None. No man will have us for long enough. There's a village constable at Whitechapel who'll be up here no later than tomorrow. Three days - that's all we get and he'll move us on. But what about you?'

  'I'll be on my way this morning as soon as I've eaten.'