by Jack Higgins
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Garvald said in disgust. ‘It wasn’t him. What time is it?’
Reuben checked his watch. ‘Just on nine. He should be here any moment.’
If they had but known it Devlin was, in fact, already there, standing in the rain at the broken rear window which had been roughly boarded up with planks. His vision, through a crack, was limited, but at least covered Garvald and Jackson beside the fire. And he’d certainly heard every word spoken during the past five minutes.
Garvald said, ‘Here, you might as well do something useful while we’re waiting, Sammy. Top up the jeep’s tank with a couple of those jerrycans so you’re ready for the run back to Brum.’
Devlin withdrew, worked his way through the yard, negotiating with caution the wrecks of several cars, regained the main road and ran back along the verge to the lay-by, a quarter of a mile away where he had left the BSA.
He unbuttoned the front flap of his trenchcoat, took out the Mauser and checked it in the light of the headlamp. Satisfied, he pushed it back inside, but left the flap unbuttoned, then he got back in the saddle. He wasn’t afraid, not in the slightest. A little excited, true, but only enough to put an edge to him. He kicked the starter and turned into the road.
Inside the workshop, Jackson had just finished filling the jeep’s tank when Reuben turned from the judas again excitedly. ‘It’s him. Definitely this time. He’s just turned on to the forecourt.’
‘Okay, get the doors open and let’s have him in,’ Garvald said.
The wind was so strong it caused a massive draught when Devlin entered that had the coke crackling like dried wood. Devlin switched off and shoved the bike up on its stand. His face was in an even worse state than it had been in the night before, plastered with mud. But when he pushed up his goggles he was smiling cheerfully.
‘Hello there, Mr Garvald.’
‘Here we are again.’ Garvald passed him the half of brandy. ‘You look as if you could do with a nip.’
‘Did you remember my Bushmills?’
‘Course I did. Get those two bottles of Irish out of the van for Mr Murphy, Reuben.’
Devlin took a quick pull at the brandy bottle while Reuben went to the van and returned with the two bottles of Bushmills. His brother took them from him. ‘There you are, boy, just like I promised.’ He went across to the jeep and put the bottles down on the passenger seat. ‘Everything went off all right last night, then?’
‘No problems at all,’ Devlin said.
He approached the jeep. Like the Bedford, its coachwork was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise it was fine. It had a strip canvas roof with open sides and a mounting point for a machine gun. The registration, in contrast to the rest of the vehicle, had been freshly painted and when Devlin looked closely he could see traces of another underneath.
There’s a thing now, Mr Garvald,’ he said. ‘Would some Yank airbase be missing one of these?’
‘Now, look here, you,’ Reuben put in angrily.
Devlin cut him off. ‘Come to think of it, Mr Garvald, there was a moment last night when I thought someone was trying to follow me. Nerves, I suppose. Nothing came of it.’
He turned back to the jeep and had another quick pull at the bottle. Garvald’s anger, contained with considerable difficulty, overflowed now. ‘You know what you need?’
‘And what would that be?’ Devlin enquired softly. He turned, still holding the half of brandy, clutching one lapel of his trenchcoat with his right hand.
‘A lesson in manners, sweetheart,’ Garvald said. ‘You need putting in place and I’m just the man to do it.’ He shook his head. ‘You should have stayed back home in the bogs.’
He started to unbutton his overcoat and Devlin said, ‘Is that a fact now? Well, before you start, I’d just like to ask Sammy boy, here, if that shotgun he’s got under the sacking is cocked or not, because if it isn’t, he’s in big trouble.’
In that single, frozen moment in time, Ben Garvald suddenly knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he’d just made the worst mistake of his life. ‘Take him Sammy!’ he cried.
Jackson was way ahead of him, had already grabbed for the shotgun under the sacking—already too late. As he frantically thumbed back the hammers, Devlin’s hand was inside his trenchcoat and out again. The silenced Mauser coughed once, the bullet smashed into Jackson’s left arm, turning him in a circle. The second shot shattered his spine, driving him headfirst into the wrecked car in the corner. In death his finger tightened convulsively on the triggers of the shotgun, discharging both barrels into the ground.
The Garvald brothers backed away slowly, inching towards the door. Reuben was shaking with fear, Garvald watchful, waiting for any kind of chance to seize on.
Devlin said, ‘That’s far enough.’
In spite of his size, the old flying helmet and goggles, the soaking-wet coat, he seemed a figure of infinite menace as he faced them from the other side of the fire, the Mauser with the bulbous silencer in his hand.
Garvald said, ‘All right, I made a mistake.’
‘Worse than that, you broke your word,’ Devlin said. ‘And where I come from, we have an excellent specific for people who let us down.’
‘For God’s sake, Murphy…’
He didn’t get any further because there was a dull thud as Devlin fired again. The bullet splintered Garvald’s right kneecap. He went back against the door with a stifled cry and fell to the ground. He rolled over, clutching at his knee with both hands, blood pumping between his fingers.
Reuben crouched, hands raised in futile protection, head down. He spent two or three of the worst moments of his life in that position and when he finally had the courage to look up, discovered Devlin positioning an old plank at the side of the jeep. As Reuben watched, the Irishman ran the BSA up and into the rear.
He came forward and opened one half of the garage doors. Then he snapped his fingers at Reuben. ‘The delivery licence.’
Reuben produced it from his wallet with shaking fingers and handed it over. Devlin checked it briefly, then took out an envelope which he dropped at Garvald’s feet. ‘Seven hundred and fifty quid, just to keep the books straight. I told you, I’m a man of my word. You should try it some time.’ He got into the jeep, pressed the starter and drove out into the night.
‘The door,’ Garvald said to his brother through clenched teeth. ‘Get the bloody door closed or you’ll have every copper for miles turning up to see what the light is.’
Reuben did as he was told, then turned to survey the scene. The air was full of hazy blue smoke and the stench of cordite.
Reuben shuddered. ‘Who was that bastard, Ben?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t really care.’ Garvald pulled free the white silk scarf he wore around his neck. ‘Use this to bandage this bloody knee.’
Reuben looked at the wound in fascinated horror. The 7.63 mm cartridge had gone in one side and out of the other, and the kneecap had fragmented, splinters of white bone protruding through flesh and blood.
‘Christ, it’s bad, Ben. You need a hospital.’
‘Like hell I do. You carry me into any casualty department in this country with a gunshot wound and they’ll shout for the coppers so fast you’ll think you’re standing still.’ There was sweat on his face. ‘Go on, bandage it for Christ’s sake.’
Reuben started to wind the scarf round the shattered knee. He was almost in tears. ‘What about Sammy, Ben?’
‘Leave him where he is. Just cover him with one of the tarpaulins for the moment. You can get some of the boys over here tomorrow to get rid of him.’ He cursed as Reuben tightened the scarf. ‘Hurry up, and let’s get out of here.’
‘Where to, Ben?’
‘We’ll go straight to Birmingham. You can take me to that nursing home in Aston. The one that Indian doctor runs. What’s his name?’
‘You mean Das?’ Reuben shook his head. ‘He’s in the abortion racket, Ben. No good to you.’
‘He�
��s a doctor, isn’t he?’ Ben said. ‘Now give me a hand up and let’s get out of here.’
Devlin drove into the yard at Hobs End half an hour after midnight. It was a dreadful night with gale-force winds, torrential rain and when he had unlocked the doors of the barn and driven inside, he had all on to get them closed again.
He lit the Tilley lamps and manoeuvred the BSA out of the back of the jeep. He was tired and bitterly cold, but not tired enough to sleep. He lit a cigarette and walked up and down, strangely restless.
It was quiet in the barn, only the rain drumming against the roof, the quiet hissing of the Tilley lamps. The door opened in a flurry of wind and Molly entered, closing it behind her. She wore her old trenchcoat, Wellington boots and a headscarf and was soaked to the skin so that she shook with cold, but it didn’t seem to matter. She walked to the jeep, a puzzled frown on her face.
She gazed at Devlin dumbly. ‘Liam?’ she said.
‘You promised,’ he told her. ‘No more prying. It’s useful to know how you keep your word.’
‘I’m sorry, but I was so frightened, and then all this.’ She gestured at the vehicles. ‘What does it mean?’
‘None of your business,’ he told her brutally. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can clear off right now. If you want to report me to the police—well, you must do as you see fit.’
She stood staring at him, eyes very wide, mouth working. ‘Go on!’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want. Get out of it!’
She ran into his arms, bursting into tears. ‘Oh, no, Liam, don’t send me away. No more questions, I promise and from now on I’ll mind my own business, only don’t send me away.’
It was the lowest point in his life and the self-contempt he felt as he held her in his arms was almost physical in its intensity. But it had worked. She would cause him no more trouble, of that he was certain.
He kissed her on the forehead. ‘You’re freezing. Get on over to the house with you and build up the fire. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
She gazed up at him searchingly, then turned and went out. Devlin sighed and went over to the jeep and picked up one of the bottles of Bushmills. He eased out the cork and took a long swallow.
‘Here’s to you, Liam, old son,’ he said with infinite sadness.
In the tiny operating theatre in the nursing home at Aston, Ben Garvald lay back on the padded table, eyes closed. Reuben stood beside him while Das, a tall, cadaverous Indian in an immaculate white coat, cut away the trouser leg with surgical scissors.
‘Is it bad?’ Reuben asked him, his voice shaking.
‘Yes, very bad,’ Das replied calmly. ‘He needs a first-rate surgeon, if he is not to be crippled. There is also the question of sepsis.’
‘Listen, you bleeding wog bastard,’ Ben Garvald said, eyes opening. ‘It says physician and surgeon on that fancy brass plate of yours by the door, doesn’t it?’
‘True, Mr Garvald,’ Das told him calmly. ‘I have degrees of the Universities of Bombay and London, but that is not the point. You need specialist assistance in this instance.’
Garvald pushed himself up on one elbow. He was in considerable pain and sweat was pouring down his face. ‘You listen to me and listen good. A girl died in here three months ago. What the law would call an illegal operation. I know about that and a lot more. Enough to put you away for seven years at least, so if you don’t want the coppers in here, get moving on this leg.’
Das seemed quite unperturbed. ‘Very well, Mr Garvald, on your own head be it. I’ll have to give you an anaesthetic. You understand this?’
‘Give me anything you bleeding well like, only get on with it.’
Garvald closed his eyes. Das opened a cupboard, took out a gauze face mask and a bottle of chloroform. He said to Reuben, ‘You’ll have to help. Add chloroform to the pad as I tell you, drop by drop. Can you manage it?’
Reuben nodded, too full to speak.
Twelve
IT WAS STILL RAINING on the following morning when Devlin rode over to Joanna Grey. He parked his bike by the garage and went to the back door. She opened it instantly and drew him inside. She was still in her dressing gown and her face was strained and anxious.
‘Thank God, Liam.’ She took his face between her two hands and shook him. ‘I hardly slept a wink. I’ve been up since five o’clock drinking whisky and tea alternately. A hell of a mixture at this time in the morning.’ She kissed him warmly. ‘You rogue, it’s good to see you.’
The retriever swung its hindquarters frantically from side-to-side, anxious to be included. Joanna Grey busied herself at the stove and Devlin stood in front of the fire.
‘How was it?’ she asked.
‘All right.’
He was deliberately noncommittal, for it seemed likely she might not be too happy about the way he had handled things.
She turned, surprise on her face. ‘They didn’t try anything?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘But I persuaded them otherwise.’
‘Any shooting?’
‘No need,’ he said calmly. ‘One look at that Mauser of mine was enough. They’re not used to guns, the English criminal fraternity. Razors are more their style.’
She carried the tea things on a tray across to the table. ‘God, the English. Sometimes I despair of them.’
‘I’ll drink to that in spite of the hour. Where’s the whisky?’
She went and got the bottle and a couple of glasses. ‘This is disgraceful at this time of day, but I’ll join you. What do we do now?’
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the jeep to fix up, but that’s all. You’ll need to squeeze old Sir Henry dry right up to the last moment, but other than that, all we can do is bite our nails for the next six days.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We can always wish ourselves luck.’ She raised her glass. ‘God bless you, Liam, and long life.’
‘And you, my love.’
She raised her glass and drank. Suddenly something moved inside Devlin like a knife in his bowels. In that moment he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the whole bloody thing was going to go about as wrong as it could go.
Pamela Vereker had a thirty-six-hour pass that weekend, coming off duty at seven a.m., and her brother had driven over to Pangbourne to pick her up. Once at the presbytery, she couldn’t wait to get out of uniform and into a pair of jodhpurs and a sweater.
In spite of this symbolic turning away, however temporarily, from the dreadful facts of daily life on a heavy bomber station, she still felt edgy and extremely tired. After lunch she cycled six miles along the coast road to Meltham Vale Farm where the tenant, a parishioner of Vereker’s, had a three-year-old stallion badly in need of exercise.
Once over the dunes behind the farm, she gave the stallion his head and galloped along the winding track through the tangled gorse, climbing towards the wooded ridge above. It was completely exhilarating, with the rain beating in her face, and for a while she was back in another, safer place, the world of her childhood that had ended at four forty-five on the morning of 1 September 1939 when General Gerd von Rundstedt’s Army Group South had invaded Poland.
She entered the trees, following the old forestry commission track and the stallion slowed as it approached the crest of the hill. There was a pine tree across the track a yard or two further on, a windfall. It was no more than three feet high and the stallion took it in its stride. As it landed on the other side, a figure stood up in the undergrowth on the right. The stallion swerved. Pamela Vereker lost her stirrups and was tossed to one side. A rhododendron bush broke her fall, but for a moment she was winded and lay there fighting for breath, aware of voices all around.
‘You stupid bastard, Krukowski,’ someone said. ‘What were you trying to do, kill her?’
The voices were American. She opened her eyes and found a ring of soldiers in combat jackets and steel helmets surrounding her, faces daubed with camouflage cream, all heavily armed. Kneeling beside her was a large rugged Negro wit
h a master sergeant’s stripes on his arm. ‘You all right, miss?’ he asked anxiously.
She frowned and shook her head, and suddenly felt rather better. ‘Who are you?’
He touched his helmet in a kind of half-salute. ‘Name’s Garvey. Master Sergeant. Twenty-first Specialist Raiding Force. We’re based at Meltham House for a couple of weeks for field training.’
A jeep arrived at that moment, skidding to a halt in the mud. The driver was an officer, she could tell that, although not sure of his rank, having had little to do with American forces during her service career. He wore a forage cap and normal uniform and was certainly not dressed for manoeuvres.
‘What in the hell is going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Lady got thrown from her horse, Major,’ Garvey replied. ‘Krukowski jumped out of the bushes at the wrong moment.’
Major, she thought, surprised at his youth. She scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m all right, really I am.’
She swayed and the major took her arm. ‘I don’t think so. Do you live far, ma’am?’
‘Studley Constable. My brother is parish priest there.’
He guided her firmly towards the jeep. ‘I think you’d better come with me. We’ve got a medical officer down at Meltham House. I’d like him to make sure you’re still in one piece.’
The flash on his shoulder said Rangers and she remembered having read somewhere that they were the equivalent of the British Commandos. ‘Meltham House?’
‘I’m sorry, I should introduce myself. Major Harry Kane, attached to the Twenty-first Specialist Raiding Force under the command of Colonel Robert E. Shafto. We’re here for field training.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘my brother was telling me that Meltham was being used for some such purpose these days.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Sorry, I feel a little faint.’
‘You just relax. I’ll have you there in no time.’
It was a nice voice. Most definitely. For some absurd reason it made her feel quite breathless. She lay back and did exactly as she was told.