The policeman gave a little nod, almost a greeting. He seemed to be expecting Daly to bring the car forward.
Hegarty tugged his seatbelt loose.
‘Wait,’ ordered Daly.
The detective hunched his shoulders and watched the policeman. As the seconds ticked by and the rain kept falling, the officer grew more alert and uneasy-looking. Two of his colleagues got out of the car and joined him. They were all in their early twenties. Daly sighed. The empty expressions on their faces did look familiar. He might be back at the new police headquarters, sitting in front of a group of eager trainees, all of them born in the dying shadows of the Troubles, a new generation of public servants, marching under the banner of inclusive policing, whilst their senior officers withdrew into the shadows, reconciling themselves with silence and secrecy.
The wipers swept back and forth like a metronome, roughly in time with Hegarty’s harsh breathing. The rain began to fall in earnest, welding them shut in a drum of noise.
Daly had made Hegarty wear a bright yellow raincoat, which made him look older than he had seemed in the cottage, a ghost bristling in the cold twilight. Suddenly Daly felt strangely protective of the spy. There was no simple way out for the old man. His life would always be hemmed in by checkpoints and suspicion, while those who had pulled his strings moved on in their careers, or retired on fat pensions.
The officers drew closer to the car. Daly stuck the gearstick in reverse and accelerated back towards the cottage, watching more police officers gather on the road from their hiding positions. The wheels bit into the verge, grinding against gravel and earth. He reversed the car hard into a hedge and told Hegarty to get out and run. On the road behind, there was a flurry of movement, police shouting instructions. Daly saw the lead officer advance towards them, running with the long strides of youth.
Daly glanced back at his cottage. From this perspective, his home place resembled a stubborn atoll of thorns and nettles, an untidy blot on the landscape. He pushed Hegarty by the shoulders into a gap in the hedge. They stumbled through a tunnel of hazel and blackthorn and emerged into a small meadow. He could hear the rumbling sound of cars moving off on the nearby road but apart from that, the only sound was the pattering of rain on the thick grass.
They ran together across the meadow, through a hedge and into another larger field. They followed the hedges of several more fields, wading through ditches that were filled with muddy water. They were careful not to entangle themselves in the briars and thorns as they hurried along the planned route. Their clothes were already soaked through, slowing their progress. Hegarty panted hard to keep up with the detective, spittle drooling from his mouth.
Soon they were crossing bogland along the ragged fringes of Lough Neagh. They dodged shadowy crevices that might have hidden bottomless bog holes. At one point, the bogland disappeared and they found themselves on an overgrown lane. It was clear it hadn’t been used by anyone in a long time. They were surrounded by silence but soon a noise, growing louder, made them look up. They came upon the bank of a fast-flowing river. Checking that they could not be seen, Daly took off his raincoat and handed it to Hegarty.
A grey stupor had overcome the spy, and Daly had to help free the yellow raincoat from his shoulders. This was what it meant to be on the run, thought Daly, relying on guile and the lie of the land, scuttling away into the wild corners of the Lough Neagh hinterland.
They kept moving. The rain eased off, and in its aftermath, a mist crept in from the lough. They crossed the expanse of several fields and came upon another bend in the river. There was a flurry of movement from a thicket and several sheep emerged, their black faces staring at them in mute surprise. Hegarty shouted ‘Baa’ at them, and they trotted back into the mist.
The sound of traffic grew louder. They must be nearing a road, thought Daly, but they could see very little ahead. He stopped and stared at the broken outline of trees, trying to get his bearings. They forced their way through a tangle of blackthorns and came out into another field. Hegarty was still panting heavily and struggled to keep up. There was a wild look in his eyes and he kept glancing all around as though he could see invisible enemies.
The reverberations of the cars faded away, replaced by something else, the drone of a helicopter hovering far above. The mist floated thickly around them as they pushed ahead. Daly urged the spy to run faster as they kept to the cover of a small wood, but the fog had caught up with them. The detective watched as an army of ghostly figures emerged from the trees and hollows. In that soundless flight of water droplets, he saw a stream of shapes pour around them, hundreds of ghosts entangling themselves in their flight.
What if there were more fugitives on the run? he thought. Hundreds more than anyone imagined, their secret paths intermingling? Not just fugitives from paramilitary organizations, but fugitive policemen and fugitive soldiers, fugitive lawyers, politicians and journalists, all desperately trying to hide their secrets, overcrowding this dark landscape with their restless fears of punishment and revenge. What if the fugitives outnumbered the searchers? What if the country was nothing but a long line of fugitives in flight from one end to the other?
30
The mist cleared and Daly emerged from the hedge on to an empty road. Ahead, he saw a crossroads, and Pryce’s car, the headlights on and the engine idling. He walked towards it, his eyes blinking in the full glare of the lights. He had almost reached the vehicle when a deafening roar erupted in the sky. A blur of deeper darkness hovered above him, the shape materializing into a low-flying helicopter. Daly hunkered down and hurried to the car. He barely had time to wipe the mud from his shoes and hands before climbing in. The helicopter flew off over the trees and disappeared.
‘What’s going on, Celcius?’ asked Pryce, staring in surprise at his yellow raincoat.
‘Just drive.’
She accelerated away.
‘There was a police checkpoint outside the cottage. They thought I was hiding Hegarty.’
‘And were you?’
‘Yes.’
She glanced at him, her look of surprise intensifying.
‘Are you insane? Running away in a luminous raincoat and arranging to meet me like this. No wonder you’ve attracted their attention.’
That was the plan, he thought. To draw danger towards him and away from Hegarty, at least for the vital hour or so until the spy had made his escape. He and Hegarty had parted ways before he had emerged on to the road. He had directed the spy to follow the river’s meandering route until he reached its mouth at Lough Neagh. Daly had given him the location of a small rowing boat hidden along the bank. The plan was that the spy would use it to ferry himself to Coney Island, where he could lie low for a few more days. In Daly’s imagination, the island had always been a place of final refuge, where only the sound of the wind and the waves reigned. If it came to it, he could join Hegarty there.
‘Don’t be surprised if we end up with a police escort,’ said Pryce.
‘Just drive towards the border.’
‘We should go back and get Hegarty,’ she said. ‘He can help us with the connections between the murders. It’s the only way to make the murder triangle measurable or real. Without him, the map is just a mess of lines.’
‘Hegarty’s already gone. Keep driving and I’ll tell you more.’
She pressed him several more times about the spy’s whereabouts.
‘I told you, I don’t know,’ he snapped. On a deeper level, it was the truth. He didn’t know what was going to happen to the spy, nor was he sure what exactly Hegarty was going to do. He took comfort and strength from the uncertainty. It meant no one following them could understand them; they were impossible to plot against.
With his directions, Pryce took them further into border country, driving at her usual reckless speed. The hedges swerved closer. They seemed to twitch at the corner of his eye, alive, squirming with darkness and loose bits of the past. He kept checking in the rear window, but the roads were empty.
‘It would be helpful to hear what you found out from Hegarty,’ said Pryce. Her voice was mellow – seductive, even. ‘Did he give you any clue about his plans?’
‘He told me he was leaving the country, and he wanted everyone to forget about him.’
She laughed.
‘No bloody chance of that happening now.’
They drove on.
‘Did he say anything about me?’
Daly turned to her in surprise.
‘Why would he?’
She flicked back her hair and flashed him a smile.
‘Just wondering. What impression did he make on you?’
‘He’s a man addicted to betrayal. He gets a thrill from risking his life. Reckless – suicidal, almost.’
Crossroads after crossroads opened up before them. Pryce ground the car through the gears, paying more attention to Daly and his body language.
‘You don’t like him.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I can tell from the tone of your voice. He disturbed you.’
‘Yes, of course. He’s a killer.’
‘Then why cover for him?’
‘I’m not covering for him. I have no idea what he intends to do. With all the money Special Branch gave him, he might be planning a trip around the world.’
‘You seem sure he’s out of harm’s way. You’re not telling me everything you know.’
‘Just concentrate on driving.’
They drove on. Some of the colour had left her face and apart from the movement of her hands on the wheel she sat completely immobile, concentrating on Daly’s instructions and the implications of what he had said.
‘What else did you find out?’
Daly glanced at his watch. By now, Hegarty should be well out on the waters of Lough Neagh.
‘Enough to question your real motivations in wanting to find Hegarty. He told me you tried to trap him the day after Walsh’s murder. In the Clary Lodge.’
Her hands gripped the steering wheel and her professional mask slipped for a moment.
‘I guessed it,’ she said with a voice that mingled triumph with contempt. ‘You know a lot more than you’re letting on.’
‘What about you? You never mentioned a single detail of Ivor McClintock’s murder. You met me at the hotel the next day, but never thought to bring it up.’
‘I’m a journalist. Sometimes that means holding on to information, working out the best person to share it with.’
‘But you knew I was trying to contact Hegarty. You never thought to warn me he was a killer.’
‘Where are you going with this, Celcius? What are you trying to get out of me?’
He had no choice now but to confront her with his suspicions. He was convinced that she would not lie without his noticing.
‘I’m trying to find out who you really are.’
She exchanged glances with him.
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘But who are you working for? More importantly, who are you working against?’
‘I work for no one but myself.’
‘That’s a lie. I’m putting my job and my personal safety on the line by trusting you.’
‘I give you my word. Your secrets are safe with me.’
‘That’s another lie.’ He stared through the windscreen at the road ahead. Her lies were buying him time, ensuring that Hegarty made good his escape.
She looked at him sharply.
‘If you had doubts you should have asked me these questions much earlier. Before you got into the car. Why now?’
‘I’m a detective. I decide when to ask the questions.’
Daly felt the momentum of her speed, shadows streaming by the window as if border country were flinging all its trees out of the darkness at them.
She grew agitated.
‘Where exactly are we?’
‘I have no idea. If I had a destination in mind don’t you think we’d have reached there by now?’
‘Then why have you brought me down these godforsaken roads?’
‘To throw Special Branch off the scent.’
She braked the car to a sudden halt. Her face was smeared with anger now, blotting out her usual self-possession.
‘I knew you had some ulterior motive. What have you done with Hegarty?’
‘Why are you so concerned with him? What other purpose does he serve for you?’
She didn’t answer. She stared back at him with eyes that were unrelenting and steady.
‘You’ve been helping Walsh research his murder triangle but in all that time you’ve been stalking your own demons,’ continued Daly. ‘Why do you want Hegarty? Is it to have him killed?’
She gave a bare monosyllable of a laugh.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Celcius. I’m a writer, not some sort of monster, in spite of what you might think.’ She hesitated. ‘Hegarty is another one of my little writing assignments.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m interested in him for creative reasons. Any man who kills another man right under my nose automatically earns the right to at least a chapter in my book.’
She was a dangerous woman, Daly realized. In the circumstances, he was glad he had steered her as far away as possible from the spy.
‘My journalistic instincts drive me towards men like Hegarty and Hannon,’ she continued. ‘Men like you, Celcius, and Father Walsh. Men whose destiny has been determined by acts of violence. I seek you out and put you in touch with each other because I’m interested in seeing the collision of truth that emerges from your encounters.’
‘So this is your mission. To entangle me with men like Hegarty and Hannon and write up the consequences?’
‘Correct. Think about it. Each of you occupies such different terrain. There is so much distance between the paths you have chosen. You might think of people like Hegarty and Ivor McClintock as monsters but they weren’t. They were like everybody else during the Troubles. They were just like you and me. Only they chose a certain path that took them beyond the realm of normal human behaviour.’
‘So that was why you brought me to Kenneth Agnew’s house that day. You were curious to see how I would react. Dear God, you even made sure I was carrying my service weapon.’
Daly now saw that the former policeman’s suicide had been a fortunate reprieve. Who knew how he might have reacted if Agnew had opened the door. And all of it would have been observed and recorded in detail by Pryce.
‘I wanted to see how you behaved when you looked your mother’s killer in the eye. A police detective who’d spent his life not wanting to see or know. For me you were the key, a symbol of this country’s blurred view of the past, its willingness to ignore the crimes committed during the Troubles and the stories of its victims.’
Daly was aghast. She appeared stupidly proud of her meddling, her series of blind dates between sworn enemies. He saw that the past week or so in her company had been a process of persuasion to involve him more deeply in her unfinished book, to draw him down towards all those leaden figures from the murder triangle, Hegarty and Hannon, Agnew and McClintock, and below them the ghosts who could never recount their stories. But instead of a flow of words, her actions had triggered a flow of blood.
‘Hegarty’s meeting with McClintock in the hotel room. You orchestrated that as well?’
‘Yes. Only I hadn’t envisaged it would end so badly.’
Daly understood the full horror of that year in the 1970s. Walsh’s interpretation had been incorrect. He realized that now. The image of a triangle was too naïve and plain, as if such darkness could be contained by simple geometry. There had been countless triangles of death operating in the year of his mother’s murder, so many interconnecting spheres of evil, perpetrated by violent men on both sides. Hegarty was right. One could never dispel the murk, only illuminate it.
She turned her glittering eyes towards him.
‘My only motivation was the creative impulse. You must understan
d that.’ Her eyes flicked a little, scouting the margins of his doubting face. ‘If it wasn’t for my involvement, these ghosts would never have come out into the light. They would have had no chance of meeting each other, connecting their stories. Don’t you understand? This country needs to coax its ghosts into full view, to see what they look like in the light.’
Daly stared back at her. She was so close he could feel the tingling warmth of her breath. What annoyed him the most was that she always seemed to be flirting with him, even now. However, in spite of the intimate setting of the car, he sensed a cold gap form between them. He felt a surge of physical energy much stronger than any creative impulse. Pure unadulterated anger.
‘You forget that we’re real people,’ he said. ‘Our lives are more than just words and punctuation.’ He flung open his door and climbed out. ‘Good luck with the rest of your book,’ he added. ‘I hope that you have your ending in sight, or that at least you have some idea how your book is going to finish.’
‘I thought you were going to give me the ending tonight,’ she said, leaning out of her seat. ‘But I was wrong.’ She looked genuinely sorrowful, as though her life depended on the completed book. ‘Can I call round tomorrow?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘When, then?’
‘When you’ve finished your book.’
‘Finished it or killed it?’ Suddenly she looked tired – bored, almost. ‘The story needs you, Celcius. Why should I continue with it if you walk away now?’
‘Because you owe it to Father Walsh. To the victims.’
The light went out of her eyes.
‘OK then, you have given me the ending. It ends like this.’ She reached across and slammed his door shut. The engine revved and she drove off into the darkness.
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