The Violent Enemy. Jack Higgins

the courage showed in the tilt of the chin, the sureness of those competent hands. The pity of it was that she would never let anyone get close to her again and that was the real tragedy.

      Her voice cut sharply into his musing. ‘You’ll know me next time?’

      ‘And would that be a bad thing?’ he grinned lightly. ‘Liverpool-Irish?’

      ‘Is it that obvious?’

      ‘No accent like it in this world or out of it.’

      She smiled in spite of herself. ‘You needn’t think you sound like any English gentleman yourself.’

      ‘And why would I be wanting to?’

      ‘You were a major in their army, weren’t you?’

      ‘You seem to know.’

      ‘I should do. At one time, I used to get the great Sean Rogan for breakfast, dinner and supper and precious little else.’

      They were now on the outskirts of the town and she pulled in beside a low stone wall topped by iron railings. A little farther along there was an open iron gate and a sign which read Church of the Immaculate Heart with the times of Mass and Confession in faded gold letters beneath.

      ‘Do you mind?’ she said. ‘I don’t get in very often.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’

      He watched her pass through the gate, a small girl with a ripe peasant figure and hips that were too large by English standards. So, she still kept to the Faith? Now that was interesting, and proved she wasn’t an active member of the I.R.A. which carried automatic excommunication.

      On impulse he opened the door and followed her along the flagged path. It was warm inside and very quiet. For a little while he stood there listening intently and then he sat down in a pew at the back of the church.

      She was on her knees by the altar. As he looked down towards the winking candles it seemed to grow darker. He leaned forward and rested his head on a stone pillar. All the strain and excitement of the past twelve hours catching up on him. In some strange way it was as if he were listening for something.

      He pushed the thought away from him and sat back and watched as she got to her feet and walked back along the aisle. She became aware of him there in the half darkness and paused abruptly.

      ‘That was foolish of you. You could have been seen.’

      He shrugged, stood up and took her arm as they went to the door. ‘If you think like that you act suspiciously; if you act suspiciously, you get caught. I’m an old hand at being on the run.’

      They stood on the step and the wind blew a fine drizzle of rain into the porch as she looked up at him searchingly. She smiled and it was as if a lamp had been turned on inside.

      ‘Hannah Costello, Mr Rogan,’ she said and held out her hand.

      He took it and grinned. ‘A fresh start makes old friends of bad ones,’ he said. ‘A proverb my grandmother was fond of. Would it be too much to ask where you’re taking me?’

      ‘The other side of the lakes. On the coast, near a place called Whitbeck.’

      ‘Is Colum O’More there?’

      ‘Waiting for you.’

      ‘In the name of God, let us go then. There’s a farm in Kerry my father’s growing too old to cope with. It’s time I was home again.’

      The smile vanished from her face and she gazed up at him searchingly. She seemed about to speak, but obviously thought better of it and turned and led the way back to the car.

      Dick Vanbrugh was tired, damned tired, and the heavy rain driving against the bathroom window wasn’t calculated to improve the way he felt. He finished shaving and was towelling his face tenderly when the door opened and his wife looked in. ‘Phone, darling. The Assistant Commissioner.’

      Vanbrugh stared at her, a deep frown creasing his forehead. ‘You’re joking, of course.’

      ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll get your breakfast on the stove now. From the sound of him, you’ll be moving off in a hurry.’

      Vanbrugh pulled a shirt over his head, tucking it into his trousers as he went downstairs. His tiredness had vanished completely. Whatever this was, it was something big. You didn’t get the Assistant Commissioner on the phone at seven thirty in the morning just because somebody’s warehouse had been turned over.