‘Good-day to you, Mr Tyroll! And to you, miss.’
I turned to Sheila. ‘Dr McKenna,’ I said, ‘permit me to introduce Mr Patrick Murphy, traveller, tarmac-layer, scrap-dealer and singer. Good-day to you, Paddy.’
He nodded to Sheila and looked us over, narrowly.
‘You’ll be wanting to get dry,’ he said, ‘and to be out of sight before them fellas find out you’re not up there.’
He turned away through the gate and we followed him as he ambled along the road. A hundred yards or so ahead there was a stretch of ground between the road and the lake, and there we could see a clutch of trailers and lorries parked. The little black chimneys of the caravans revealed that they belonged to travellers, not holidaymakers.
In the middle of the camp a fire burned and a handful of Paddy’s companions, male and female, were sitting about it on upturned boxes, picnic chairs and, in one case, an old-fashioned wooden rocking-chair. Children of all ages from toddlers to early teens played around the group and between the trailers. Many of the adult faces I recognised and several of them smiled at my appearance.
‘Hello there, Mr Tyroll,’ one young man called. ‘Are you having a spot of bother with the police, then?’
I grinned back at him and Paddy responded. ‘They’re not the police,’ he said. ‘They’re private guards. Now then, Mr Tyroll and the young lady need some dry clothes, can you find some out for them?’
He turned away to a trailer and we followed him into it. Sheila gaped at the interior. Travellers’ trailers are made by the firms that build holiday caravans, but the travelling people have them made to order, paying for a number of extras that they consider essential.
To our right as we stepped on board was an elaborately fitted kitchen, filling the wide, bowed end of the vehicle. Upholstered seats ran along from the kitchen, interrupted on one side by a squat coke stove. Beyond the stove were more seats, opening out into the far end, where a richly decorated seat, heaped with embroidered cushions, ran round under the windows. Every horizontal surface was covered in Formica and most of the vertical surfaces were concealed behind tinted mirrors with cut-glass decoration at their edges. Bobbled curtains dressed the windows and a narrow shelf ran round the whole interior, filled with Royal Doulton china and items in red and blue cut glass.
Our host showed us into the far bay, pulled an old mackintosh from a cupboard and flung it over the seats.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Sit yourselves on that while we get you something to wear. You must be dropping,’ and he went out again, beckoning his son after him.
I spread the old mac wide and both of us dropped our wet, exhausted persons gratefully on to the couch. I wrapped an arm around Sheila and pulled her to me. She chuckled, quietly.
‘I just don’t believe any of this,’ she said. ‘Who are Paddy and the boy and those people? They live like gypsies, but they don’t look like them.’
‘They’re Irish travellers,’ I explained. ‘All over Britain you’ll find travellers. The gypsies are latecomers, they got here from India about five hundred years ago, but Paddy’s people were already here.’
She shook her head, wonderingly. ‘What do we do now?’ she said.
‘It’s Paddy’s show,’ I said. ‘He seems to have something in mind. We can’t run and we daren’t fight, so I guess he’s thinking of a way to hide us again.’
Paddy returned with an armful of clothing and towels. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You can put them on. Do you need a separate place, miss, to dress?’
‘What? Oh, no,’ said Sheila. ‘He’s already seen anything I’ve got to show.’
‘I thought that might be it,’ said Paddy, and winked at me. He pulled a folding partition across the trailer which cut off the end we were sitting in, and left us to it.
When he tapped the partition a few minutes later we had rubbed ourselves dry and changed clothes. He looked us over critically. Both of us were in jeans that fitted well enough. I had a check shirt and Sheila wore a tight purple sweater that did wonders for her figure. Both of us were barefoot and our own footgear was sopping wet.
Paddy rummaged in a cupboard and passed me a pair of battered gumboots, then peered closely at Sheila’s feet.
‘Martin,’ he called to his son, ‘come here and give us your boots!’
The boy ducked past his father, dropped on the couch and kicked off his gumboots, exposing bare brown feet. Paddy picked up the boots and passed them to Sheila.
‘Try them,’ he commanded.
Without batting an eyelid, Sheila pulled them on, rolled the tops down and tucked her jeans into them. Paddy eyed us again, then dipped his hand into a drawer and pulled out a handful of bangles and necklaces.
‘There’s some of the missus’ stuff,’ he said to Sheila. ‘You need a lot to look like a traveller woman.’
When she had hung herself about with the decorations he gave us his final inspection.
‘You’re fair enough to pass for a traveller,’ he said to Sheila. ‘You,’ he said to me, ‘are too dark for a traveller. You’re black enough to be a Romany, but they wouldn’t know the difference.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You need a hat,’ he said, and another plunge into a cupboard produced a snap-brim brown felt which was only slightly too big.
‘That’s it,’ he said, at last.
‘What next?’ I asked.
‘Well now, I don’t know who them fellas as was chasing you are, but they seemed like hard men. When they find you’re not up on that hill they’ll come looking for you and the first place they’ll come is here. Now they won’t be looking for you, ’cos they wouldn’t think we’d take you in, but. they’ll ask if we’ve seen you.’
‘Are all your people OK, Paddy?’ asked Sheila.
‘My people know Mr Tyroll well,’ he said, ‘and he’s always been for us when others was against us. They know what to say.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ I asked. ‘Stay in here?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘They might start poking about and it’d look bad. Come outside and join in with the people. Just remember — if they come here, don’t lift your eyes to them. Travellers don’t look police and their like in the eyes.’
He led us out of the trailer, to a chorus of friendly chaff from the people standing about and wide-eyed stares from the children.
A young man I recognised grinned at me and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I always thought you was one of us at heart, Mr Tyroll!’
Paddy was still directing the performance. He borrowed a baby for Sheila to hold and sat her down among the women and girls by the fire, then took me to a battered van that had its bonnet up, calling its owner over.
‘You two just look as if you’re fixing it!’ he commanded and left us.
He had set the scene just in time. A column of vehicles, the familiar blue car at the front, came down the hill and drew up on the road above us. Twenty or so of the uniformed men dropped out of two vans and our two civilian friends emerged from the car. They advanced purposefully towards the camp and Paddy, a small dog snuffling at his heels, strolled up towards them.
The tall fair man spoke to Paddy, though I couldn’t hear what was said. While he did so the uniformed men spread past them and came among the travellers. The travellers were completely passive, simply stepping aside to let them pass and only turning to watch silently as the uniforms went from trailer to trailer, opening doors and peering inside. Paddy’s people had a lifetime of experience in this kind of situation.
I kept my head well down over the van’s exposed engine and prayed silently. Suddenly I felt that uneasy prickle that tells you you’re the subject of someone’s attention.
I risked a cautious glance upwards under the brim of my hat. Two uniformed men stood at the centre of the camp, looking around, and one of them had fixed his gaze on me and my companion. They began to walk towards us.
‘Look down!’ my traveller friend hissed, and pointed into the engine.
&n
bsp; It took all the nerve I had to drop my eyes to the engine again, but as I did so I heard a noise. It was the sound of a car, coming down the hill at high speed.
One of the uniforms shouted and now I did look up. Everyone, travellers and intruders, was looking towards the road and I followed their gaze.
The car which we had left parked by the burnt-out cottage was coming down the hill, barrelling down the narrow road. At the junction of the dam road it swung into a sliding, screeching turn and hurtled out along the dam, trailing blue smoke.
The spell broke. Orders were shouted and our visitors raced for their vehicles. In seconds all of their vehicles were tearing out on to the dam in hot pursuit, but their quarry was already almost out of their sight on the far side.
I wiped my sweating face with my forearm and felt the tension drain out of me. Paddy strolled across and, lifting his hat, scratched his balding head with the same hand.
‘I think that’s the last we’ll be seeing of the queer fellas,’ he remarked, conversationally.
‘Who the blazes was in the car?’ I asked.
‘That was my eldest, Miley and his girl.
He’s always taking motors for the devilment, so I told him to make himself useful for a change.’
‘They’re dangerous men, Paddy,’ I said. ‘I hope he’ll be all right.’
‘Ah, he’ll be just fine. He’s run most of the police in England and Wales and the army in Belfast so I doubt these fellas will do any good with him. Now then, you’ll be wanting something to eat.’
17
‘Right then, Paddy. We’ve told you our end of the story — now how come you knew where we were and what was happening, and anyway, where’s Cathleen?’
We had dined, crudely but extremely satisfyingly, on huge sandwiches of boiled bacon and mugs of bright orange tea liberally splashed with Jamesons. With food and security, however temporary, the fears from the firebombing and the hunt through the woods were receding and curiosity was taking their place.
Paddy smiled his slow, toothy grin at my question.
‘Well now,’ he said, ‘Cathleen’s Mammy is sick in Manchester and she’s away down to see her and she’s got the young ones with her, so there’s just me and Miley and Martin and I thought I’d come into Wales and have a bit of hunting and fishing.’
‘Poaching!’ I accused.
‘So you say,’ he said. ‘We was on the way up here yesterday and I saw you two in a car that passed us. Then, when we set our camp here I went for a bit of a stroll after dark, just taking the air like. I saw your car again, up by the little house, and I thought it was handy in case I was needing a lawyer. I was up in the woods there, just minding my business and enjoying the fresh air, when them queer fellas came along and did their dirty business.’
He paused and splashed more whiskey into his tea before taking a long draught.
‘When I saw that fire, I thought you was gone, so I did, Mr Tyroll. I didn’t stay there after that. There’s nothing scares a traveller like fire, you know.’
‘Travellers aren’t the only ones,’ Sheila remarked.
‘Then,’ said our host, ‘I got to thinking this morning that I just ought to find out what had happened to you, so I sent young Martin up to look. He said you was both on the run up the hill and the queer fellas was behind you, so I sent him to go back and find you and show you that little hidey place under the water.’
‘You’ve saved us twice today,’ I said. ‘I owe you, Paddy.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been a help to me and my people. You’ve stood up for us when no one else would do anything but spit on us. You owe me nothing.’
There was an embarrassed silence for moments and we all drank to cover it, then Paddy said, ‘And you really don’t know who them fellas are?’
We shook our heads.
‘They’re not wobs,’ he said.
‘Wobs?’ repeated Sheila.
‘Coppers,’ I translated, ‘scuffers, fuzz, filth, the Old Bill, whatever you call them. The travellers call them ‘wobs’. It’s back-slang for Bows — Bow Street Runners.’
She stared at me as if she couldn’t believe she was drinking with a man who used Regency street-slang. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we call them ‘blue-heelers’ — for Peelers. But if they’re not coppers, what are they?’
‘Miley says they’re private guards from some big company,’ said Paddy.
‘Private security!’ I exclaimed, then a thought struck me. ‘I suppose they might be from Kerrenwood’s. Their plants have their own security men and they’re all over the country. No wonder they could whistle up reinforcements in Wales.’
‘Why Kerrenwood’s?’ demanded Sheila. ‘When I suggested them before, you put it down.’
‘I didn’t know there was private security involved then,’ I said. ‘I thought it was only two men.’
‘Do you have private security firms in Britain who kill people?’ she asked. ‘I’ve read ’ about your nuclear police, but I thought Kerrenwood’s security boys would just be guarding their factories and stopping thieving.’
‘Mac mentioned an old lady in Shropshire who was murdered a few years ago. There’s a strong suspicion that she was killed by a private firm under contract to some secret branch of the government. It can happen,’ I said.
‘But what’s the connection between Kerrenwood’s and the funnies?’ she asked. ‘Why’re they doing the dirty work?’
‘It looks like whatever your grandfather was looking into means a lot to Kerrenwood’s. It can damage them badly in some way. Lord Kerrenwood’s a pal of those in power — an old, valuable pal, with pots of money. If Walter Brown looked like making trouble for Kerrenwood’s then there’s been a trading of favours.’
‘But what the blazes did Grandpa and Francy Cassidy know that’s such a threat to Kerrenwood’s?’
The spirit was rapidly eating into my tired brain. ‘Just now I haven’t the least idea,’ I said. ‘Ask me tomorrow.’
‘You’ll be wanting to turn in,’ said Paddy. ‘Use this place for your own.’
‘We can’t turn you out,’ Sheila protested, but he grinned.
‘I’ve three trailers,’ he said. ‘One for the young ones, one for cooking and that, and this one for best. I’ll squeeze in with the boys. Goodnight to you,’ and he was gone.
The couch in the bay converted into a magnificent double bed and in minutes we were under a pile of quilts. I had just closed my eyes when Sheila said, ‘Chris?’
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
‘I think I love you,’ and she kissed me long and softly as I slid away into a dreamless sleep.
We woke as soon as the sun lit the windows just above our heads. Martin must have been on orders to watch for our rising because, minutes after we had dressed, he was at the door with large breakfasts and more mugs of strong tea. His father was not far behind and I was relieved to see that he was accompanied by a grinning Miley.
‘They didn’t catch you, then?’ I said to the older lad.
‘Me? Not a chance!’ he said. ‘We gave them a runabout in the hills for a bit, then we went to a station and left the car there. We got a train for Shrewsbury, got off it there and hitched a ride back. They’ll be thinking you’ve gone home.’
‘That was clever,’ I said. ‘I was worried about you.
‘Not at all,’ he scoffed. ‘I’ve had it away from them fellas more than once.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Who do you think they were?’
‘I know who they are,’ he said. ‘I’ve run them a time or two. They was private guards — you know, security men.’
‘So it is private security,’ exclaimed Sheila.
‘Warren said that the man who blackmailed him to find you was official,’ I recollected. ‘What’s he doing using a private army? Why isn’t he using Special Branch? They’re supposed to back up the security service when there’s mayhem afoot.’
‘Perhaps the Special Branch have a rule about not murd
ering people in their beds,’ she said, sarcastically.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, and maybe she was, but I wasn’t best pleased to learn we were up against some kind of unofficial unholy alliance.
After breakfast we split up. I needed to contact the office but the mobile phone had been incinerated and, in any case, it had occurred to me that it was the way in which we had been traced. My call to Jayne had given the hunters our location. I got Paddy to drive me to a phone box, well away from the camp in case they’d taken the precaution of bugging the local ones. For the same reason I couldn’t call the office direct, but I reckoned it was safe to speak to Claude the Phantom. He could carry my messages in and out of the office without attracting attention.
Sheila stayed behind and set to work listening to her tapes of Sergeant Reynolds’ ramblings. When Paddy and I got back she had nearly completed the task and was taking a tea break. She had set out on the table the contents of her grandfather’s tin and was gazing at them reflectively. Martin sat on the floor by her, watching her with wide brown eyes.
I kissed the top of her head and murmured, ‘The boy’s in love with you and I don’t blame him.’
‘Nonsense,’ she whispered. ‘He’s just making sure I don’t make off with his gumboots!’
Paddy joined us and looked at the display on the table. He picked up one of the cards.
‘I haven’t seen one of them for a day or two,’ he said and showed it to Martin. ‘Look there,’ he said, ‘that’s an identity card. When the war was on you all had to have one of them to prove you wasn’t a German spy.’
‘Were you around then?’ I asked, because Paddy’s age was a matter of conjecture and his stories went back to prehistory.
‘Oh, yes,’ he replied. ‘I was here. Of course, I was only a bit of a tiddler then, but I remember those cards, and the ration books. I remember one time me daddy had a fella staying with us who hadn’t a card or a ration book. Something to do with him not wanting to be a soldier or something like that. They was going along one day, me daddy driving and this fella alongside him, and they run into the soldiers with guns. They had the road blocked and was checking people’s cards.’
The Victory Snapshot (A Chris Tyroll Mystery Book 1) Page 11