Dancing With Mortality (20 page)

‘Don’t tell me where, Harry. Keep your receipts for car hire
and accommodation. We will reimburse you, and over the weekend I’m going to see
about getting you a slot on the TV news. In the meantime keep a low profile.’

He told the girl on hotel reception that this would be his
last night and then arranged a car for the following morning.

The Friday dawned, cold and overcast, with a bitter gusting
breeze that made him bow his head as he wheeled his case out of the Harcourt
and set a vigorous pace to the Avis pick up point ten minutes walk away. He
stopped briefly to pick up a copy of the Times, and there it was – ‘Second Man
Names Fitzpatrick as British Informer.’ There was a paragraph on the front page
with his name and a mention of his association with SIS and then the reader was
directed to ‘the full and comprehensive story’ on page 5.

I’ll read it later, he thought, stuffing the paper into the
zip pocket on the side of his case. He found the Avis office and, after
browsing the cars on offer, settled for a Peugeot 307. He pored over the map in
the glovebox and decided to try Kilkenny, about an hour and a half away. He
would have liked to go further, but if they needed him for TV he should stay
reasonably close to Dublin.

He switched off the phone. This time he’d pick up a cheap pay-as-you-go
model and use that to talk to O’Neill. He still had no idea if his
indiscretions with his phone in Sweden had been noticed by Jack Hudson, but he
wasn’t going to chance it a second time in Kilkenny, where he definitely wanted
to stay ‘out of sight’.

Being a popular tourist destination meant Kilkenny did not
lack for hotels, and with it being the off season he had no trouble getting a
room right in the centre of town. He had a late lunch in a nearby pub, made his
phone purchase and then retired to review O’Neill’s article.

It was all there, much as he’d recounted it on tape. The
full story, from his employment with SIS (naming Litchfield but not Jack),
their suspicions of O’Reilly, Nat’s death, and right up to the point where he
identified O’Riordan and Fitzpatrick as the same man in Sweden. He used the new
phone to call O’Neill.

‘Harry, I’ve been trying to call you.’

‘I’ve switched phones. Use this number from now on if you
don’t mind.’

‘What do you think of the article?’

‘Very good, certainly accurate. What now?’

‘There will be a TV crew trying to get a reaction from
Fitzpatrick over the weekend. And I’d like you to come back to Dublin on Sunday
afternoon. We want to record some footage with you that we’ll release on
Monday.’

They agreed a time and place. On the Sunday at the Dublin
studio, O’Neill showed him a clip of Fitzpatrick, who had been ambushed by the
news team outside his home the previous evening. He continued to deny the
allegations against him, but Harry thought he looked shaken nonetheless. In the
end he’d pushed the camera away and climbed into a car, which rapidly pulled
out of camera shot.

‘He’s reeling I think,’ O’Neill pronounced.

Harry’s own interview was condensed into a two minute
soundbite, which consisted of him essentially stating his allegations and
saying that he was quite willing to repeat them in a court of law or at a
public enquiry if necessary.

‘Are we done now?’ he asked O’Neill.

‘Yes. Your face will be known after tomorrow, remember that.
I don’t know where you’re staying, but I recommend getting right out of
circulation now. How long can you stay in Ireland?’

Harry considered. He had money in the bank and no gainful
employment. ‘For as long as I need to.’

‘I have a suggestion then.’ He passed Harry a sheet of
paper. ‘This is the address of a cottage friends of mine own on the Dingle
Peninsula. There’s no one around for miles. You can have it for a nominal
charge for the next month if you need it. If you want it, let me know and
they’ll fix it up with fuel and food for you.’

‘Ok, thanks. I’ll take it. Tell them I’ll be arriving Monday
night.’

In the final hour of his journey,
rain and wind lashed the car incessantly. It was dark now, and even with the
wipers on top speed the sheets of water clinging to the windscreen would only
clear for a split second at a time. He slowed right down and was glad that
traffic was light tonight. O’Neill had given him a phone number and a name,
Deirdre Brennan. He was to meet her at 7pm at a bar in Dingle and then follow
her to the cottage.

The rain eased off as he reached the town. He found a place
to stop and phoned Deirdre to find out exactly where the bar was. He was half
an hour early, so he found ‘The Shamrock’ and settled down with a pint of lemonade
to await her arrival. The place was quiet; perhaps the weather was keeping
everyone indoors tonight. Or perhaps this assortment of elderly men sitting
alone reading newspapers, and the odd groups of younger people chatting and
laughing in a convivial yet almost circumspect manner, were a typical Monday
evening crowd.

She’d given him a brief description of herself on the phone,
so when he saw a blonde wearing a grey windbreaker come in he raised his hand.
She spotted him, walked across and introduced herself. She was in her mid-thirties
and tall. When he stood up to greet her they were almost eye to eye. Her hair
fell in tangled waves to her shoulders around a narrow face with strong
cheekbones and a prominent nose, and her eyes were brown and steady.

‘You found your way then?’ Her voice had a soft southern
accent that was easy on the ear.

‘When I could see the road. Does it always rain here?’

She laughed. ‘Quite often. This is the West Coast you know.’

She accepted his offer of a drink and they chatted. She
lived with an older sister in the town and worked at a crafts shop. She knew
David O’Neill through her brother in Dublin. The cottage belonged to the family
and was let out in the tourist season.

‘It’s quite remote, almost on a cliff top,’ she said.
‘There’s a little beach within walking distance, which you’ll probably have all
to yourself.’

He followed her car as they drove out of town along the
coast. She turned onto a single-lane, unmarked road about 20 minutes later,
which wound up a steep hill then dropped down to a plateau on the other side.
The stone-built cottage had been constructed on this flat area and was bordered
by a stone wall. Deirdre opened a wide, farmyard-style gate and they drove in,
parking at the rear. Sighing gusts of wind blew in from the sea, and he could
hear the rumble of waves breaking in the distance. He got out of the car and
followed her inside.

She showed him around. There was a kitchen, dining room, and
a living room with a large fireplace downstairs, and two bedrooms and a
bathroom upstairs. The fireplace had been cleaned and stocked with logs, and
Deirdre talked as she kneeled in front of it and struck a match to coax it into
life.

‘We have electric storage heaters which come on at night.
They’re ok, but you need the fire really at this time of year. There’s plenty
of wood in the outbuilding. The fridge is full, there’s some booze in the
cupboard if you want it, and the TV works.’

‘No internet?’

‘No, sorry about that. And the phone signal can be erratic
too. There’s a landline here though. Call me if you need anything.’

He thanked her and shortly afterwards she left, saying she’d
drop in one evening during the week to see how he was doing. She’d shown no
curiosity about his visit and he wondered what O’Neill had said about him, if
anything.

The fire was burning nicely now and he pulled up a chair,
warming his hands. The heat soon permeated the room and he found himself
drifting off as he gazed into the flames. He shook himself awake and went into
the kitchen to investigate the contents of the fridge. It was well stocked with
frozen meat and a selection of vegetables and juices, with plenty of milk and
eggs. He found a tin of vegetable soup and heated that up then followed it with
an omelette. There was a cupboard with bottles of red wine and even a bottle of
Jameson’s Whiskey, which he looked at longingly. Tea would have to suffice. He
thought about ringing O’Neill but when he checked the phone there was no signal
and he didn’t want to use the landline. He decided to simply sit in front of
the fire for a while and then have an early night.

He’d been sitting about 15 minutes, enjoying the heat and
the play of the flames, when he began to feel an unaccountable sadness creeping
over him. It started as an ache in his gut and then spread to his chest, and
for a moment he thought he might be sick. Then suddenly he was crying. What the
hell? he thought. He realised that a split second ago he’d been thinking about
the night Natalie was killed, and then the dam had burst, releasing the guilt
he’d always felt but never allowed himself to express. He put his head in his
hands and let the tears flow. The intensity and unexpectedness of it all surprised
him. Then he found he was berating himself: he should have been driving, he
should never have been so stupid as to accept the loan of the vehicle in the
first place, he should never have accepted the job with SIS. He was a fool, and
he was responsible for Nat’s death. What gave him the right to go on living
when he’d effectively murdered his own wife?

In spite of the fire he was shivering, and now he felt a
deep self-loathing and disgust displacing his guilt. He went upstairs to the
bedroom and retrieved the shoebox from his luggage and then sat again in front
of the fire, cradling the Walther in one hand. Perhaps he could play a little
Russian Roulette to pass the time. He laughed, and there was a touch of
hysteria in it. Difficult to play Russian Roulette with a semi-automatic, the
next bullet was always available. Made it easier really.

The landline rang and he jerked upright in his chair. It was
Deirdre.

‘Sorry, Harry. I forgot to tell you, the switch for hot
water is under the sink. Put it on for an hour or so before you want a bath or
whatever.’

He mumbled his thanks and hung up. He was breathing heavily,
and his body felt heavy, almost immobile. He stumbled back to the chair. The
phone call had interrupted the emotional turmoil, snapping him out of what he
realised had been a frightening downwards spiral that could have proved fatal.
For a moment there he’d lost all control. He’d never felt suicidal before, but
he realised now that over the past few days he’d been a little depressed. He
could only put it down to the medication. If that was the case then giving a
gun to a depressed man was a recipe for disaster. He’d need to be very careful
about his moods while he was here if he wanted to avoid a repetition of what
had just happened. At least he knew the warning signs now.

He shook his head. How ironic. The drugs that were supposed
to cure him might kill him instead, however indirectly. No, sod it, he thought.
He hadn’t come all this way for nothing, whatever he was or wasn’t responsible
for, he knew he wanted to go on living. There was too much left to be done.

He replaced the Walther in its shoebox and stashed it in a
kitchen cupboard, thinking that if he woke up in the night determined to top
himself he might regain his senses on the way downstairs. The whole episode had
frightened him, but he seemed to have his sanity back, at least for the moment.
He sighed loudly. He’d had enough excitement for one night. It was time to get
some sleep.

There was still no signal in the
morning. The heating had come on so the upper part of the cottage was a lot
warmer now. The curtains in his bedroom had been partially drawn when he went
to bed, and it wasn’t until he parted them to let in the morning light that he
first saw the sea.

The land around the house was green and treeless, dropping
away from the plateau on which the cottage stood in a gentle slope that
extended for some 300 metres before levelling out again near the cliff edge.
The coast on both sides stretched in long jagged curves into the distance, with
no houses in sight. He could see a few sheep faraway to the right, otherwise
the place was deserted.

Straight ahead was the Atlantic, looking grey and ominous
under the black clouded sky, filling his eyes and his mind with its sheer size
and majesty. Now that the wind had subsided, the sound of the waves was
constant, and he realised that even as he’d slept he’d been aware of that
sound. He stood and watched for a while, letting the sight and sound heighten
his senses and clear his head. Then it started to rain, and he yawned and came
out of his meditation. He was hungry.

He knew he couldn’t stay here much longer; he needed to get
back to London to collect his next batch of drugs. His thought processes had
become a little muddled; he’d blithely told O’Neill he could stay as long as he
needed to. He was becoming absent-minded as well as depressed. Well, for as
long as he was here he needed a routine. He would visit Dingle town once a day
and pick up reading material, and call O’Neill for an update. Then, whatever
the weather, he would get some exercise walking the clifftops. Maybe Deirdre
would consent to have dinner with him. He wasn’t accustomed to a solitary
existence and would welcome the company. He could hardly have stayed
indefinitely anyway. If there was a public enquiry it might not get underway
for months. And bringing a civil case against Fitzpatrick for murder would come
down to Harry’s word against his. There was no prospect of a conviction.

He had a week to play with. He wondered if Sabine was ok,
she didn’t as yet know where he was and what he was doing. And since turning
off the phone three days ago he hadn’t seen her daily texts. He wanted to know
how she was.

He had breakfast and then rummaged through his luggage for
the same jacket he’d worn in Sweden. It had a hood and should keep out the
Irish weather. The rain had stopped, so he ventured outside. He checked the
outbuilding, which was full of logs, then walked directly down from the cottage
to the cliff, looking for the beach Deirdre had told him about. He could see it
easily enough, and the cliff wasn’t sheer. At this point it was more of a steep-sided
hill, and someone had dug out a pathway, with a handrail arrangement made up of
posts hammered into the ground and joined with rope. The beach itself, a sandy
cove about 200 metres wide, was about 50 metres below him. He wasn’t sure if
the tide was in or out, so he decided to pick up a tide table when he got to
town and then wandered along the cliff top for an hour until the rain returned
and drove him back to the cottage.

It was late afternoon when he got into Dingle. He called
O’Neill first.

‘There is a development,’ said O’Neill. ‘Fitzpatrick has
been suspended from his position while RSF hold some sort of internal enquiry.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It means that your story has got them wondering. They will
ask him a lot of difficult questions about his past, and if they start
believing he might even conceivably be working for British Intelligence, he’ll
never be trusted again.’

So the best I can do is ruin him politically, Harry thought.
Still, it was never going to get any better than that.

‘Oh, and I have a message for you,’ O’Neill continued,
‘Someone called me trying to get hold of you, wants you to call him.’

‘Really – who?’

‘A Jack Hudson, said you had his number.’

Harry felt a stab of alarm. ‘Did you tell him where I was?’

‘Course not, you do know him I take it.’

Harry suddenly felt unexpectedly calm. ‘Yes, I know him.
Tell me, did he call you on your mobile?’

‘Yes he did actually.’

After mentioning his phone signal problems and promising to
call again same time the next day, Harry rang off. Then he tried Sabine, but
got her voicemail. He left a long message bringing her right up to date with
his activities, and said he’d try to call again tomorrow. Then he picked up a
tide table, a couple of books and some assorted newspapers, and went back to
the cottage.

The next day the rain had gone. The
sea had transformed from grey to blue, and the white billowy clouds parted,
allowing a sprinkling of sunshine which brought a sparkle to the water. It was
still cold, though, and Harry made his way down the track to the beach with his
jacket zipped tightly around him. He walked the length of the tiny inlet,
watching the surf breaking on the rocks offshore or swirling in little pools of
white foam at the waters edge. The only company came from the seagulls crying
and circling overhead.

He’d brought a cardboard box from the cottage and he rigged
it up with a broom so the brush end supported the box at chest height, with the
handle dug into the sand. Then he stepped back ten metres and took the Walther
from his jacket. He’d decided to use one clip of ammunition on target practice,
and he took his time, remembering the stance, the two-handed grip, and the
sighting before squeezing off the first shot. It was loud, but not loud enough
to worry about in this remote location, and he discharged the rest of the
magazine in quick succession. The box had been blowing sideways a little in the
wind, but most of the bullet holes were close to centre, with two bullets going
into the wood of the brush. He grimaced and hoped Deirdre wouldn’t notice the
damage next time she swept the place. He had satisfied himself that he could
still fire a gun and probably hit what he was aiming at, should it become
absolutely necessary.

He retrieved the spent cartridges, and broke up the box so
he could flatten it out and use it as a cushion on the damp sand. He sat cross
legged with the gun still in his hands, watching the sea rise and fall and
wondering about Jack’s intentions. It made no sense for SIS to harm him, after
Michael’s death a repeat performance would only cement any doubts anyone might
have about Fitzpatrick. Still, if anyone other than Deirdre knocked on the door
he wanted to be ready.