When Shadows Fall (52 page)

“Get my coat and start the motorcycle, Billy,” Mulligan ordered. “I must be going now. I’ll be paying a little house visit upon two dear old friends of mine.”

Morning slid into afternoon. James and his constables searched the quays from Poolbeg to Kilmainham, then back along the north side of the river. They ransacked Tara’s house and Adam’s flat and even did a root-around in Bowen & Associates. They found no sign, no leads, no clues.

James’s eyes had dark circles of tiredness underneath them. “All right,” he snapped at the driver, “enough of this monkey hunt. Get me back to the Bowens’ place. Dalkey, isn’t it? Allister Bowen gave me the details. Can you find it?”

The driver glanced at the address on James’s note. “In Dalkey. Of course, sir, it’s not far.”

“Then get going. Let’s see if this delightful little family can’t cough up something more useful.”

When they found the house, he instructed the driver and other constables to wait inside the truck. He clanged the bell outside the front porch and waited impatiently as the rain poured from his hat onto his shoulders.

A girl in a linen cap and apron answered. “Sir,” she said, “may I enquire as to your name?”

“They already know me,” he answered and marched inside. “Please take my coat, young lady, for it’s wet. And show me to the Bowens.”

Marjorie, Quentin, Duncan, and Allister were all inside the drawing room. Duncan was first to rise.

“Well, sir,” he commenced his attack, “of all the damned cheek—”

“Duncan, sit down and don’t be so tiresome,” Marjorie sighed. She was seated in an armchair by the hearth, a barely touched sherry in front of her. “Detective, come inside. Where’s my son?”

James glanced enviously at the well-stocked fire. The rain had soaked right through to his skin. “I had rather hoped I might learn that knowledge here, ma’am.”

“Here?” She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t be so silly, young man. You took him from us last night. Or don’t you recall?”

“Yes, I know that, Mrs. Bowen. But Adam has,
ahem
, escaped our custody.”

Now Allister shot to his feet. “Escaped? But you—I thought—”

“You sit down too, Allister,” Marjorie snapped. He obeyed. She gazed wearily at her sherry glass. “You’re at pains to find my son, aren’t you, Detective? Is he really so high on your list? Is he really that bad?”

“He’s a fugitive from justice, ma’am. And,” James flushed at the real reason for his dogged pursuit of Adam, “and he has a colleague of mine with him. I need to find them both. To get answers.”

“Have you harmed my son?”

“No. Not really. A little. But he’s a big boy.”

“I’ll have your head!” Duncan’s temple was bursting with angry veins. “And I’ll have Adam’s too! All of you, you’re a damned scandal.”

James nodded. “Indeed, sir. Now if I may cut to the point. I can’t find Adam in any of the locations known to me. He’s gone to ground somewhere, and unless you have any ideas, it’s unlikely I’ll find him soon.”

“You’ve tried his flat?” Allister ventured.

“Just like I said, Mr. Bowen, I’ve tried everywhere I know. But if there’s anywhere else you can think of . . . ”

“He could be hiding with his rebel friends.”

“He could be, Mr. Bowen. I don’t expect you can help me there. But—”

“Wait,” Allister said, thinking. “What about Uncle Mortie’s house in Clontarf? My uncle Morton is long dead, Detective. Adam may have thought to use his house.”

Both Marjorie and Duncan turned their eyes on Allister. James ignored the look of disgust on their faces. “Actually, that’s more like it. Give me a moment.” He retrieved a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Clontarf? Where exactly?”

Allister detailed the location. “And what about your summer house, Mother? It’s near Kilmore Quay, Detective.”

“Allister,” Marjorie warned.

“Kilmore Quay?” James scribbled on. “Where’s that?”

“Wexford, Detective.”

James sighed. “County Wexford? A bit of a drive. I hope he isn’t that far.”

Allister leaned forward, thinking furiously. “And Bowen Hall. There’s Bowen Hall.”

“Very good. Location?”

“It’s an old family property,” Allister explained, “but it hasn’t been used in over fifty years. You’ll find it on the Rathmichael Road, near Shankill. He’d hardly hide out there, though. It’s a ruin now.”

Duncan pounded his paw on the mantle. “Allister, why don’t you shut up? Why don’t you just damn well
shut up
!”

James glanced through the window at the darkening afternoon, the teeming rain. “We’ll take a look at it.” He finished writing and then smiled. “Well, thank you. This has been most helpful. If you think of anything else,” he inclined his head towards Allister, “you may telephone Dublin Castle or Great Brunswick Street. Ma’am, sirs, you’ll excuse me.”

Marjorie waited until she heard Lizzie close the door behind him. Then she picked up her sherry glass and drank.

Allister approached her. “You see,” he insisted, “you were wrong about him. I was right. I told you. Duncan? I told you.”

“Duncan,” Marjorie said, without looking at either of them. “Speak to Allister.”

Duncan was breathing heavily, and it seemed to take him a considerable effort to force composure upon himself. He cleared his throat and turned to Allister. “Adam has shamed me. Shamed this family. Shamed our name.”

“Yes, he has.” Allister bowed. “But don’t worry, he’ll be brought to justice, and people will know that he’s not one of us.”

“And you . . . ”

Allister frowned.

“
You
, Allister. You have shamed us also. Disgraced us. You and your treachery.”

“Treachery?” Allister blinked. “Duncan, have you gone mad? Why, Adam is the one who—”

“Damn and blast you,” Duncan roared. “Adam is in trouble with the law. And I’ll see him dealt with as he deserves. But you!” He clenched his fist. “You sold out your own brother to his enemies. Your own blood.”

“But he’s a terrorist.”

“He is blood! Blood and family count above all things. That’s how our lineage was built. You are the first ever, damn your eyes, the first Bowen ever to turn upon his own.”

Allister’s eyes creased into tears. “But it’s my very family that I did it for! He was never one of us. You know that.”

“You’re a weasel, Allister. I never thought I’d say it of you. But you’re a weasel.” Duncan walked towards the fire and stared into it. “You have let your family down—badly. And I don’t know if I can stomach a Bowen who’ll sell out another Bowen. I certainly don’t know that I can work with one.”

Allister’s face turned white. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean—”

“Boys.” Marjorie rose from her chair. Quentin went immediately to assist her, and for once she didn’t refuse his hand. “Boys, I am tired. I am retiring to my room awhile. You may continue your discussion. And Allister, remember that Duncan is the head of the firm. He will make his decision, and you will abide by it. We all shall.”

“But, Mother,” Allister swallowed, looking nauseous with confusion. “But I’m the good one, aren’t I? I always tried to be right.”

“Good evening, boys. If my son is found, please be kind enough to let me know.”

Quentin helped her along. They closed the door behind them.

Uncle Morton’s house in Clontarf proved a dead lead. There was a smashed window and three drunken hobos inside, squatting in their own filth. James was tempted to shoot them out of spite.

“That was a bloody waste of time,” he growled as they marched back outside to the truck. “Next one is Kilmore Quay.”

“Wexford?” the driver groaned. “That’ll take us all night, sir.”

“I don’t care,” James retorted. “All night it will take us, if it has to. I want them found. Wait,” he checked his notes again. “There’s another place. Bowen Hall, Rathmichael. That’s on the way. We’ll check that first and then on to Wexford.”

The truck pulled out of the unkempt avenue of Morton’s house and drove down the coast road, through Killiney and then branching off towards Rathmichael. Night loomed. The rain was a relentless downpour, flooding the roads, the sea wind jostling the truck as it picked up speed.

“Hurry up.” James fingered the pistol in his belt. “Let’s get this damned business finished with. Once and for all.”

They walked the last quarter-mile after the hackney driver dropped them. Tara gave him the remnants of her purse and apologised that there wasn’t enough.

“It’s a hospital that that man needs,” the driver warned her and turned his car back to Dublin.

Adam was barely able to stand now. But he could point. “It’s up there. Between those oaks. I’ll get a fire going, I’ll—”

“You need to lie down, Adam.” She coaxed him gently, lifting his arm over her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll light the fire.”

It was a splendid old limestone building, a proud ornament of the eighteenth century. Phineas Bowen. Back when times were good. The long avenue ran with rainwater and the roof was gone, but old buttresses and balustrades still stood proudly.

Tara hefted Adam as he began to sag.

“You should sleep. Your big fellow friend will send a doctor. Where shall we go?”

He wheezed. “The old drawing room is still roofed. I’ve got matches in my pocket, old soldier’s habit. I’ll show you.”

She led him hobbling into a black room. Using the remnants of ancient furniture and collapsed beams, she managed to light the fire, just how her father had taught her. And with her father’s protective hand now upon her own, she lay Adam down and found a rug to wrap him in. The wind howled through the open windows. The fire crackled to life. Adam breathed hoarsely.

“We’ll be all right now,” he said once more.

“I know.” She wiped her eyes. “I know.”

Larry Mulligan rode out the Shankill Road but could barely see through his rider’s goggles in the ever-intensifying storm. Winds lashed the trees either side of him and pulses of lightning streaked across the sky. He began to fear that he’d taken a wrong turn, but as soon as he pulled into the verge to check his bearings, he spotted a shape ahead, moving faintly through the tumbling sheets of rain.

It was a man in a sodden coat and cap, pulling a donkey harnessed to a tarpaulin-covered cart. When he saw Mulligan he gave a wave and a wide, toothless smile.