He was tugging at his cincture as though it was cutting him in half. ‘It was Patrick’s lowest moment. It drove him mad. Slattery wanted a scapegoat, someone who’d take the blame for the missing boys. Donovan was a drug addict. He depended on Gerrit to supply him. Gerrit saw Donovan with the boy and had the boy picked up. Then he arranged for the evidence to be planted.’
He saw the look of contempt on my face.
‘Donovan’s life was meaningless compared to Patrick’s work. You must see that!’
The fury rose in me like bile. ‘I thought your God took those sort of decisions?’ My gun came up and I aimed at O’Brien’s head. ‘Who planted the evidence?’ I asked quietly.
The priest stared at me as if I really was the avenging angel. Perhaps he hoped I was.
‘Who planted it?’
He swallowed. ‘Father Cassidy.’
The wind whipped in from the hole in the window. It stirred the folds of cloth on the pulpit and sent the candles fluttering and waving. I lowered my gun, turned and walked away, my heels clicking on the wood floor.
‘What are you going to do?’ he called after me. I didn’t turn.
‘What shall I do?’ he screamed.
I opened the chapel door and stepped out into the cool of early evening.
FORTY-FIVE
I drove slowly into the tiny village of Kildonan, letting my anger cool, trying to find that still calm centre I needed before action. It was illusive. I felt the mounting pressure in my head that presaged headaches and despair, as though my life force was draining away, leaving me bereft. O’Brien’s forced confessions had depressed me more than I expected. Was nothing untainted? I thought I could trust him when I first met him. It seemed like I’d lost my ability to judge folk. I wasn’t too surprised about his revelations about Cassidy. But their relationship…
I was getting more naive as I get older, not less. I thought I’d seen and heard the worse of mankind in the eyes and from the mouths of the SS officers I’d interrogated. I’d seen their handiwork in the camps near Bremen and put it all down to an aberration of the Hitler inspired Reich. That he’d been a messiah to the minority: the loonies and fanatics, the psychopaths and criminals, the inhabitants of the seventh and eighth circles of hell. That while the rest of the nation had been asleep in the back seat the fiends had grabbed the wheel and driven Germany over the Rheinfalls. I truly hadn’t expected evil to be a commonplace. That I’d find it here in the soft hills and sandy shores of my own country.
*
I stopped the car, rolled down the window and lit a fag. The views drew the eye. Away to the east was the mainland of Ayrshire. To the south, about half a mile out in the bay, was a small wedge of an island. A lighthouse jutted phallically from its midpoint. Far out to the south east sat Ailsa Craig, the peripatetic lump of granite. Beyond that but out of sight, lay Ireland.
Kildonan itself was a scattering of white houses and a fine beach. It would be a pretty place to spend a few days; a bit of fishing perhaps, paddling, and reading a good book in a deckchair on the sliver of fine sand. Was it a good place to die? As good as any. The odds were probably worse here than Lisnaskea. And I’d given up on finding Sam alive. I was weary of it all, sickened by endemic wickedness, careless of life. I was ready to trade it for taking Gerrit Slattery with me.
So, did Kildonan have what I needed today? It was early in the year and they might not have geared up for tourists. There was a hut on the beach and in front of it, lying tipped in the sand, were four wooden boats each with a two-stroke engine strapped to its stern. I drove forward and drew up opposite the hut. The boats would take three or four people each for a spot of light fishing. A chain linked each of them through a ring on their prow. The chain was tethered to boats one and four by padlocks. A sign offered them for sale by the hour for 9d or, for the day, 2/6d. Fishing gear could be hired separately. Trips to the island of Pladda could be arranged with tours of the lighthouse. There was no sign of the boat owner. It was nearly six o’clock. Perhaps two more hours before sunset.
The village was quiet, teatime quiet. I drove on and out, looking for a turn-off about a mile outside. The coast dipped in and out at this point. Past the bay of Kildonan the land cut back in and the road followed it. To my right a second bay opened up, much smaller than Kildonan. On the promontory partly obscured by trees was a white house, a two-storey job with windows all round. A jetty extended into the sea. A good-sized yacht stood alongside rocking gently in the waves. It was two masted, with the mainmast forward. The sails seemed to be lying folded along the booms. The hull had a simple beauty of line that suggested effortless speed. No bulking cabin cluttered the deck. In the driveway leading to the house stood a car. Its distinctive sloping rear suggested a Standard Twelve. There was no sign of activity.
It was all still, until I saw a figure walk past a downstairs window. If my sums were right, Gerrit Slattery would have three of the remaining gang members with him. And one of them would still be nursing a hole in his foot. But that wouldn’t stop him from firing a gun at me. I had to assume they were armed at least as well as Dermot’s team. I checked the line of fire in front of the house from the driveway leading up to it. No cover, simple to defend, permitting good triangulation of fire on attackers. My old unit had a term for it: Victoria Cross Posthumous – VCP. It would be VCP level of futility to make a full frontal. It wasn’t that I was scared to die this day; it would just be such a waste to go without having a fair crack at Slattery.
I toyed with the idea of driving the Riley full tilt at the house, maybe aiming to put the front through the downstairs lounge window. But the walls looked solid and I’d likely end up sailing through the windscreen and smearing myself on the white walls like a giant dead fly. It was definitely plan A, the sea. Or was that what I was supposed to think?
I turned the car around and headed back into Kildonan. I parked about a hundred yards from the hut. I armed myself as before: revolver in my waistband, knife tucked down my sock and shotgun held pointing down inside my jacket. It wasn’t hidden but only obvious if you got up close. There was no one around to examine me. I dropped down on to the sand and walked to the hut. I kept it between me and the village as I walked over to the first boat. I made short work of the padlock and slid the chain out on to the sand. I walked round to the outboard motor and looked in the tank. Empty. I walked along all four, all empty. Damnation.
I propped the Dickson in the first boat and trudged back to the hut. Same padlock type and just as simple to open. I stepped into the dark interior and waited for my eyes to adjust. On a shelf was a ball of fishing twine, finest catgut: could be useful. I pocketed it. There in the corner was a pair of cans. I opened them and savoured the sharp stink of petrol. I lifted one and turned to go out when a shadow fell across the floor, a giant shadow.
‘A bit of night fishing, is it?’ asked the man, about my age, big red beard and corduroys, as if he’d left his fiddle somewhere.
I placed the can back down. ‘Are you the owner?’ I felt for my revolver.
‘Of the boats, the hut, the can in your hand? All three.’
‘Look, this is an emergency. I can pay you.’
‘An emergency fishing trip? Caught sight of a big one out there, have you?’
‘Look, I’m really sorry, pal, but I don’t have time for the sarcastic chit-chat. Fun though it is. There’s a woman’s life at stake and I need a boat.’ I pulled my gun out my belt and levelled it at him.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he said, looking down at the muzzle and calmly holding his hands up.
‘Oh, put them down for God’s sake.’ I stuffed the gun back in my belt, disgusted at my antics.