Confessional

by Jack Higgins

  'What shall we do?' she whispered.

  'Wait and see.'

  The driver stayed behind the wheel, the other policeman got out and went in the cafe. They could see him clearly through the plate glass windows. There were perhaps twenty or thirty people in there, scattered amongst the tables. He took a good look round and came out again. He got back in the car and was speaking on the radio as it drove away.

  'They were looking for us,' Morag said.

  'What else?' He took the Tarn O'Shanter off her head and stuffed it in a nearby waste bin. That's better. Too much like advertising.' He fumbled in his pocket and found a five pound note which he gave to her. They do take-outs in these places. Get some hot tea and sandwiches. I'll wait here. Safer that way.'

  She went up the ramp and into the cafe. He saw her hesitate at the end of the counter, then pick up a tray. He noticed a bench against a low wall nearby, half-hidden by a large van. He sat down and lit a cigarette and waited, thinking about Morag Finlay.

  Strange how right it seemed to think of her. It occurred to him wryly, with the usual priest's habit of self-doubt, that he should not be doing so. She was only a child. He had been celibate for more than twenty years, had never found it in the slightest degree difficult to manage without women. How absurd it would be, to fall in love at the end of the day with a little sixteen-year-old gypsy girl.

  She came round the van with a plastic tray and put it on the bench. 'Tea and ham sandwiches and what do you think of this? We're in the paper. There was a stand by the door.' He drank the scalding hot tea carefully from one of the plastic cups and unfolded the paper on his knee, reading it in the dim light falling across the carpark from the cafe. The newspaper was a local paper, printed in Carlisle the previous evening. They had Cussane on the front page, a separate picture of Morag beside him. 'You look younger,' he said.

  'That was a snap my mother took last year. Granda had it on the wall in his caravan. They must have taken it. He'd never have given it to them.'

  'If a local paper had this last night, I'd say we'll be in every national newspaper's first edition later on this morning,' he said.

  There was a heavy silence, he lit another cigarette and sat there smoking it, not saying anything.

  'You're going to leave me, aren't you?' she asked. He smiled gently. 'My God, you're about a thousand years old, aren't you? Yes, I'm going to leave you. We don't have any choice.'

  'You don't have to explain.'

  But he did. 'Newspaper photos can be meaningless to most people. It's the unusual that stands out, like you and me together. On your own, you'd stand a very good chance of going anywhere you want. You've got the money I gave you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then go in the cafe. Sit in the warm and wait. The express buses stop in here. I should know. I came up on one the other day going the opposite way. You should get one to Birmingham and on to London from there with no trouble.'

  'And you?'

  'Never mind about me. If they do lay their hands on you, tell them I forced you to help me. Enough people will believe that to make it true.' He picked up his bag and put a hand to her face. 'You're a special person. Don't ever let anyone put you down again. Promise me?'

  'I will.' She found herself choking, reached up to kiss his cheek, then turned and ran away.

  She had learned, in a hard school, not to cry, but there was a hot prickly feeling at the back of her eyes as she went into the cafe. She brushed past a table. A hand caught her sleeve and she turned to look down at a couple of youths in motor cyclists' black leathers, hard, vicious looking young men with cropped hair. The one who had her sleeve was blond with a Nazi Iron Cross on his breast.

  He said, 'What's your problem, darling? Nothing a ride on the back of my bike wouldn't fix.'

  She pulled away, not even angry, went and got a cup of tea and sat at a table, hands wrapped around its healing warmth. He had come into her life, he had gone from it and nothing would ever be the same again. She started to cry, slow bitter tears, the first in years.

  Cussane had two choices: to take his chance on thumbing a lift or to steal a car. The second gave him more freedom, more personal control, but it would only work if the vehicle wouldn't be missed for some time. There was a motel on the other side of the motorway. Anything parked there would belong to people staying overnight. Three to four hours at least before any of those would be missed, and by then he would be long gone.

  He went up the steps to the flyover, thinking about Morag Finlay, wondering what would happen to her. But that wasn't his problem. What he had said to her made perfect sense. Together, they stuck out like a sore thumb. He paused on the bridge, lit another cigarette, trucks swishing past beneath him on the motorway. All perfectly sensible and logical, so why did he feel so rotten about it?

  'Dear God, Harry,' he said softly, 'you're being corrupted by honesty and decency and innocence. It's not possible to soil that girl. She'll always remain untouched by the rottenness of life.'

  And yet…

  Someone moved up beside her and a soft voice said, 'You okay, kid? Anything I can do?'

  He was West Indian, she knew that, with dark, curling hair, a little grey at the edges. He was perhaps forty-five and wore a heavy driving coat with fur collar, all much stained with grease, and carried a plastic sandwich box and a thermos flask. He smiled, the kind of smile that told her instantly that she was okay, and sat down.

  'What's the problem?'

  'Life,' she said.

  'Heh, that's really profound for a chick as young as you.' But the smile was sympathetic. 'Can I do anything?'

  'I'm waiting for the bus.'

  'To where?'

  'London.'

  He shook his head. 'It's always London you kids make for when you run away from home.'

  'My grandmother lives in London,' she said wearily. 'Wapping.'

  He nodded and frowned as if considering the matter, then stood up. 'Okay, I'm your man.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I drive a freighthner and London is my home base. The long way round, mind you, 'cause when I hit Manchester, I've got to take the Pennine motorway to Leeds to drop something off, but we should be in London by the early afternoon.'

  'I don't know.' She hesitated.

  'Bus won't be through here for another five hours, so what have you got to lose? If it helps, I've got three girls of my own, all older than you, and my name is Earl Jackson.'

  'All right,' she said, making her decision, and went out at his side.

  They walked down the ramp and started across the carpark. The freighthner also towed a huge trailer. 'Here we are,' he said. 'All the comforts of home.'

  There was a footstep and as they turned, the blond biker from the cafe moved round from behind another truck. He came forward and stood there, hands on hips. 'Naughty girl,' he said. 'I told you you'd be better off on the back seat of my bike and what do I find? You're flying off into the night with Rastus here. Now that's definitely out of order.'

  'Oh, dear,' Earl Jackson said. 'It talks and everything. Probably wets if you give it water.'

  He leaned down to put his sandwich box and thermos on the ground and the other biker ducked from under the truck and booted him so that he staggered forward losing his balance. The blond one lifted a knee in his face. The one behind pulled Jackson to his feet, an arm round his throat and the other flexed his hands, tightening his gloves. 'Hold him, Sammy. He's my meat now.' Sammy screamed as a fist swung into his kidneys. He jerked in agony, releasing his grip on Jackson and Cussane hit him again, sending him to his knees.

  He slipped past Jackson to confront the other biker. 'You really should have stayed under your stone.'

  The youth's hand came out of his pocket and, as Morag cried a warning, there was a click as a blade sprang into view, flashing in the pale light. Cussane dropped his bag, swayed to one side, grabbed for the wrist with both hands, twisted it round and up, locking the arm, and ran the blond headfirst into the side of the t
ruck. The youth dropped to his knees, blood on his face, and Cussane pulled him up and reached for the other, who was now standing. He pulled them close.

  'I could put you on sticks for a year, but perhaps you'd just rather go?'

  They backed off in horror, turned and stumbled away. Cussane was aware of the pain then, so bad that it made him feel sick. He turned, clutching at the canvas side of the trailer, and Morag ran forward and put an arm around him.

  'Harry, are you all right?'

  'Sure, don't worry.'

  Earl Jackson said, 'You saved my hide, man. I owe you.' He turned to Morag. 'I don't think I got the whole story.'

  'We were together, then we got separated.' She glanced at Cussane. 'Now we're together again.'

  Jackson said, 'Is his destination London, too?'

  She nodded. 'Does the offer still hold good?'

  He smiled. 'Why not. Climb up in the cab. You'll find a sliding panel behind the passenger seat. An improvement of mine. There's a bunk in there, blankets and so on. It means I can sleep in the carpark and save on hotel bills.'

  Morag climbed up. As Cussane made to follow her, Jackson caught his sleeve. 'Look, I don't know what gives here, but she's a nice kid.'

  'You don't need to worry,' Cussane told him. 'I think so too.' And he climbed up into the cab.

  It was just after 8 a.m. on a fine, bright morning when the Alitalia jet which had brought Pope John Paul from Rome landed at Gatwick Airport. The Pontiff came down the ladder, waving to the enthusiastic crowd. His first act was to kneel and kiss English soil.

  Devlin and Ferguson stood on the balcony looking down. The Brigadier said, 'It's at moments like this that I'd welcome my pension.'

  'Face facts,' Devlin said. 'If a really determined assassin, the kind who doesn't mind committing suicide, sets his sights on getting the Pope or the Queen of England or whoever, the odds are heavily in his favour.'

  Below, the Pope was welcomed by Cardinal Basil Hume and the Duke of Norfolk on behalf of the Queen. The Cardinal made a speech of welcome and the Pope replied. Then they moved to the waiting cars.

  Devlin said, 'What happens now?'

  'Mass at Westminster Cathedral. After lunch, a visit to Her Majesty at Buckingham Palace. Then St George's Cathedral at Southwark to anoint the sick. It's going to be all go, I can see that.' Ferguson was unhappy and it showed. 'Dammit, Liam, where is he? Where is that sod, Cussane?'

  'Around,' Devlin said. 'Closer than we think, probably. The only certainty is that he'll surface within the next twenty-four hours.'

  'And then we get him,' Ferguson said as they walked away.

  'If you say so,' was Liam Devlin's only comment.

  The yard of the warehouse in Hunslet, Leeds, quite close to the motorway, was packed with trucks. Cussane had the sliding panel open and Jackson said, 'Keep out of sight, man. Passengers are strictly verboten. I could lose my licence.'

  He got out of the truck to see to the disengagement of the trailer, then went into the freight office to get a signature for it.

  The clerk looked up from his desk. 'Hello, Earl, good run?'

  'Not bad.'

  'I hear they've been having fun over there on the M6. One of the lads rang in from outside Manchester. Had a breakdown. Said they'd had a lot of police activity.'

  'I didn't notice anything,' Jackson said. 'What was it about?'

  'Looking for some guy that's mixed up with the IRA. Has a girl with him.'

  Jackson managed to stay calm and signed the sheets. 'Anything else?'

  'No, that's fine, Earl. See you next trip.' Jackson moved outside. He hesitated beside the truck, then followed his original intention and went out of the yard across the road to the transport cafe. He gave the girl behind the counter his thermos to fill, ordered some bacon sandwiches and bought a newspaper which he read slowly on the way back to the truck.

  He climbed up behind the wheel and passed the thermos and sandwiches through. 'Breakfast and something to read while you eat.'

  The photos were those which had appeared in the Carlisle paper and the story was roughly the same. The details on the girl were sparse. It simply said she was in his company.

  As they entered the slip road leading up to the motorway, Cussane said, 'Well?'

  Jackson concentrated on the road. 'This is heavy stuff, man. Okay, I owe you, but not that much. If you're picked up…'

  'It would look bad for you.'

  'I can't afford that,' Jackson told him. 'I've got form. Been inside twice. Cars were my game till I got smart. I don't want trouble and I definitely don't want to see the inside of Pentonville again.'

  'Then the simplest thing to do is keep driving,' Cussane told him. 'Once in London, we drop off and you go on about your business. No one will ever know.'

  It was the only solution and Jackson knew it. 'Okay,' he sighed. 'I guess that's it.'

  'I'm sorry, Mr Jackson,' Morag told him. He smiled at her in the mirror. 'Never mind, kid. I should have known better. Now keep inside and close that panel,' and he turned the freightliner on to the motorway.

  Devlin was on the phone to the hospital in Dumfries when Ferguson came in from the study.

  As the Irishman put down the receiver, the Brigadier said, 'I could do with some good news. Just had advance notice that 2 Para under the command of Colonel H. Jones attacked some place called Goose Green in the Falklands. Turned out to be about three times the Argentinian troops there as anticipated.'

  'What happened?'

  'Oh, they won the day, but Jones died, I'm afraid.'

  'The news on Harry Fox is comforting,' Devlin said. 'They are flying him down from Glasgow this evening. But he's in fair shape.'

  'Thank God for that,' Ferguson said.

  'I spoke to Trent. They can't get a word out of those tinkers. Nothing helpful anyway. According to the old grandfather, he's no idea where the girl might go. Her mother's in Australia.'

  'They're worse than gypsies, tinkers,' Ferguson said. 'I know. I come from Angus, remember. Funny people. Even when they hate each other, they hate the police more. Wouldn't even tell you the way to the public toilet.'

  'So what do we do now?'

  'We'll go along to St George's to see what His Holiness is up to, then I think you can take a run down to Canterbury. I'm laying on a police car and driver for you, by the way. I think it will help for you to look as official as possible from now on.'

  Morag sat in the corner of the bunk, her back against the wall. 'Why did you come back at Penrith? You haven't told me.'

  Cussane shrugged. 'I suppose I decided you weren't fit to be out on your own or something like that.'

  She shook her head. 'Why are you so afraid to admit to kindness?'

  'Am I?' He lit a cigarette and watched her as she took an old pack of cards from her pocket and shuffled them. They were Tarot. 'Can you use those things?'

  'My grandma showed me how years ago when I was quite young. I'm not sure if I have the gift. It's hard to tell.'

  She shuffled the cards again. He said, 'The police might be waiting at her place.'

  She paused, surprise on her face. 'Why should they? They don't know she exists.'

  'They must have asked questions at the camp and someone must have told them something. If not your grandad, there's always Murray.'

  'Never,' she said. 'Even Murray wouldn't do a thing like that. You were different — an outsider — but me, that's not the same at all.'

  She turned the first card. It was the Tower, the building struck by lightning, two bodies falling. 'The individual suffers through the forces of destiny being worked out in the world,' Morag commented.

  'That's me. Oh, that's very definitely me,' Harry Cussane told her and he started to laugh helplessly.

  Susan Calder was twenty-three, a small girl, undeniably attractive in the neat navy-blue police uniform with the hat with the black and white checks round the brim. She had trained as a schoolteacher, but three terms of that had very definitely been enough. She had vo
lunteered for the Metropolitan Police and had been accepted. She had served for just over one year. Waiting beside the police car outside the Cavendish Square

  flat, she presented a pleasing picture, and Devlin's heart lifted. She was polishing the windscreen as he came down the steps.

  'Good day to you, a colleen, God save the good work.'

  She took in the black Burberry, the felt hat slanted across the ears, was about to give him a dusty answer, then paused. 'You wouldn't be Professor Devlin, would you?'

  'As ever was. And you?'

  'WPC Susan Calder, sir.'

  'Have they told you you're mine until tomorrow?'

  'Yes, sir. Hotel booked in Canterbury.'

  'There will be talk back at the station. Let's get moving then,' and he opened the rear door and got in. She slipped behind the wheel and drove away and Devlin leaned back, watching her. 'Have they told you what this is about?'

  'You're with Group Four, sir, that's all I know.'

  'And that is?'

  'Anti-terrorism; intelligence side of things as distinct from the Yard's anti-terrorist squad.'

  'Yes, Group Four can employ people like me and get away with it.' He frowned. 'The next sixteen hours will see the making or breaking of this affair and you'll be with me every step of the way.'

  'If you say so, sir.'

  'So I think you deserve to know what it's about.'

  'Should you be telling me, sir?' she asked calmly.

  It was one way of getting it all straight in his head.

  'No, but I'm going to,' he said and started to talk, telling her everything there was to know about the whole affair from the beginning and especially about Harry Cussane.

  When he was finished, she said, 'It's quite a story.'

  'And that's an understatement.'

  'There is just one thing, sir.'

  'And what would that be?'

  'My elder brother was killed in Belfast three years ago while serving there as a lieutenant in the Marines. A sniper hit him from a place called the Divis flats.'