One of non-believers could hold his candour no longer. ‘Bloody stupid plan anyway, don’t know why I even signed up to it.’ Before he could spout more, Oisín had grabbed him by the coat collar. Nose-to-nose and with anger in his voice he said, ‘Patience, Eugene, patience, OK?’
At regular intervals, almost by rota, each of the men, night binoculars in hand, would be despatched down towards the inlet entrance to scan the wide bay for the overdue craft. Further away, and on a patch of higher ground which was out of sight to the gang, a blacked-out Jeep was parked up. Its solitary occupant was also scanning, and not only the bay.
Down on the quay the gang’s two Transit vans had been parked side by side, their rear doors still locked. The sounds of muffled animal yapping heightened the tenseness. Finally, another member of the gang spoke out.
‘Fuck this for a carry-on. Feckin useless youse O’Rourkes. Ye couldnae organise a piss-up in a brewery. I knew that this was an arse of a plan, right from the outset. Just a typical old Fergal fuck-up. It’ll do friggin’ rightly. That’s him, same-old same-old.’ With that, he concluded his rant. Oisín, the target of his outburst was rendered motionless, but inside he was seething.
As he panned the semi-circle of silent staring faces, some of which were illuminated by the glow of cigarettes, the same man re-ignited his frustration. This time though it was with the addition of a pointing finger and a mouthful of venom. It was aimed directly at the young O’Rourke.
‘We’ve been led-on by that auld shite Fergal and them, his bone-headed sons. You should have listened to me and despatched these pups the usual way. Feckin plan was crazy.’ He turned away, but like a boomerang had spun straight back. Hardly taking a breath his temper was even further on the rise. After he had fired off another rant, he issued instructions. ‘Right, come on everyone. Out…now. We’re standing down. You can do whatever you like O’Rourke. Aye and as well,’ He paused, ‘make sure that your Da’s wallet has been unlocked. ‘Cause we’ll be looking compensation for this whole carry on. De’ ya hear? DO YE?’
As they duly shuffled their way towards their vehicles none of them had the slightest inkling that they had company.
A group of figures dressed in black combat gear and holding automatic weapons, broke cover. With military precision they surrounded the gathering. On cue, a small convoy of liveried police vehicles, minus blue pulsing lights, proceeded to block any escape route.
Other than the unidentified driver of the black Jeep which had slipped away into the night, all of the gang had been apprehended. For the authorities on both sides of the Irish border, and in Scotland, another arm of a surprisingly lucrative puppy smuggling trade had been effectively shut down. All that was left to do was to locate the overdue cabin-cruiser, and the equally overdue father and son O’Rourke.
Their smuggling activities had held few boundaries. Everything from diesel to cigarettes, guns to migrants but, for whatever reason, not hard drugs. The O’Rourke family had been the subject of joint Garda Síochána and RUC scrutiny for some time. Given the frequently fractious nature of the two police forces during the Troubles, a cross-border operation was rare. A successful one, even rarer. The gang had been infiltrated at a high level; covert information gathering operations had paid off.
* * *
Ruane’s geography had been spot on. Most of the holiday lets remained unoccupied. Gaining access had been a straightforward affair. He quickly found the electricity meter board and the stop-cock. However, switching on the power revealed that the previous occupants had not switched off several of the house lights. In full panic mode Ruane swiftly rectified the situation. Even though the curtains had been closed he remained concerned that any flash of escaping light could have alerted someone to his occupancy.
Next on his list of priorities was to rid himself, not only of his salt-incrusted damp and torn clothing, but of the North Channel’s imprint on his skin together with the grime from the clamber up the cliff face. The cold shower provided an invigoration that he didn’t need, but the fresh water was nevertheless welcome.
Other than a few abandoned tins the cupboards were bare. It confirmed that the property had not been used for some time. Then a stroke of luck; a rifling of wardrobes revealed a selection of suitably sized clothing. After some sampling, he had created a new look – a tweed jacket to be worn over a pale coloured shirt, plus corduroy trousers. He tried to knot a tie but eventually opted for the open neck look. He had even found a heavy coat, a well-worn Barbour but alas, no underwear. For footwear his new Dubarry boots had to be called back into play. After a wash in fresh water, most of their salt crust was removed.
He gained confidence that his new image would buy him much needed time. For the moment he needed to rest and continue to lie low while attending to his wounds. The time would also allow him to plan his escape; to where was as yet, unknown. Nearby Donegal seemed his best bet. An early night ensued.
Ruane O’Rourke was woken by the piercing drumming of helicopter blades. Time, he thought, was about to run out for him. He peeked through the drawn curtains. The chop of the blades moved off. Perhaps he still had time left and anyway, there was no point in making a run for it, certainly not in daylight. He sat tight...
* * *
The clock on the mantle together with a fast falling dusk indicated that it was finally time to move. He had spent much of the day reflecting. He thought about his father. He thought about the grand plan on how they would have transported the crates of pedigree pups across the North Channel towards the Mull of Kintyre, to an equally remote landing place and, right under the unsuspecting eyes of the law.
His father, who had hatched the plan had not only convinced his sons, but sold the concept to other gang members too. He said that by using a humdrum cabin-cruiser to transport their cargo, it would not attract the attention of the water-borne authorities as perhaps a big sleek fast stereotypical drug-dealing type vessel would. Overall it would be much cheaper, and safer that transporting their cargo via either the P&O or Stena ferries.
He thought of the LadyJac engine failure. At once he had figured that it had been them, him and his father, who had been sold a pup; duped even. A temper tantrum enveloped him. He fired his mug across the kitchen. Then immediately, he got down onto his knees to clear away the fragments of pottery and spillage. More thoughts raced.
For sure, one person topped his blame list; blamed for the death of his father. He had singled out the seller of the late LadyJac. He had decided that revenge would be sought; an eye for an eye!
Ruane O’Rourke had become a man unhinged. He had become a person who needed to disappear to self-created oblivion. For the present, he was content to have become just another sailor, lost at sea. He had no thoughts on how he would survive: finance, food, shelter? Contacts? He had a few, but could they be trusted? Where the fuck is Oisín?
Revenge could wait. No trace of his, albeit brief stay on terra firma could be left for the dwelling’s owners to find. Rooms were vacuumed, floors scrubbed and the shower enclosure, among other chores, wiped dry. He even stuffed his old clothes into an M&S plastic bag for dumping elsewhere. Finally, with power and water shut off he was ready to make his move.
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
The wreck of the LadyJac had been found. A lone lobster fisherman had navigated in close and proceeded to board her. The poor man took some time to recover from his grizzly find.
By that afternoon the beach was crawling with Coastguard and RUC personnel. Standing offshore was a Waveney class lifeboat. She was joined later by a Naval vessel which had been exercising in the area. An RNLI D-class Rigid Inflatable Boat, together with an imposing black police RIB, searched the shoreline.
Just like the other teams they too drew a blank. Although it had been documented that two persons were on board LadyJac when she sailed from Quarry Haven Marina, one key question remained unanswered; where was Ruane O’Rourke?
* * *
The unexpected visit by the Police to the Cardina
li household had shed little light on the situation. The early indications they suggested, were that the apparent engine failure was probably due to the vessel’s water cooling intakes being seriously blocked with mussels and other under-water crustaceans. ‘It was a miracle that they got so far before the engine seized,’ one of the police had said.
Curtis refrained from comment. Thereafter, he found himself in a terrible state attributing self-blame for failing to have LadyJac lifted out and scrubbed prior to the sale.
But as days drew on he started to review the situation with a clearer mind. It had been after a further police visit, one in which a pernicious wise-crack by one of the detectives pressed an inappropriate button for Curtis. The detective, a middle aged tubby man exhibiting a strong country accent, had suggested that the blocking of that water intake was divine retribution. ‘God’s way of evening up the odds, so to speak.’
‘What?’ Curtis had reacted instantly. He demanded that the officer explain how he could justify the deaths of two men. Even if they were evil men? Jacqueline stepped forward, principally to calm her husband but to advise that perhaps any ongoing conversation could be convened on another day.
‘And please,’ she said, showing the police to the door. ‘Let’s leave any divine interventions in the house where they belong. Good day gentlemen.’
Chapter 31 : Purple Ink
One month later.
At Cardinali Industries the agenda for this particular in-house ‘first Friday’ meeting was uncharacteristically compact. The main business was the delivery of the much awaited report of a recent European sales exercise. Under the flag of a Government sponsored Trade Mission, Curtis and his team had been showing at a huge exhibition. Thereafter, a significant number of sales leads were in the process of being followed up. Early indications, according to Gerald Fox, looked encouraging.
It had therefore, been a jubilant Curtis Cardinali who had skipped the bought-in lunch – excusing himself ‒ as if he needed another sandwich ‒ settling instead, for the privacy of own his office. Other than tackling what seemed to be a mountain of mail, his work for the day was done
Whilst his secretary Alice and her understudy, advised him that that could be dealt with by staff, the remaining mail had been laid out in separate piles. A business pile, the various factory reports pile, the sponsorship requests pile and, the private pile.
He started with the ‘private’ pile because it was the smallest. It contained four opened and one unopened envelopes. In that instant a shiver ran the length of his spine, it was as if someone had walked over his grave. He found himself being transported back through time and the opening of that infamous, ‘Dear John’ letter. Next, he recalled the incident involving his collision with a tow hitch and a shopping trolley. As he examined the envelope, even after so many years, he still had no problem recognising the hand written script. To add to the intrigue it was marked – “Private and confidential”.
Bemused, he was ninety nine percent sure who the sender was. The writing, the signature purple ink, a key clue. Philippa Furey! It has to be? But why are you writing to me? He stared at the mauve envelope for a time. It almost appeared to float up towards him, as if rising from the glass-topped executive desktop. It demanded to be opened, it shouted at him, ‘You can’t ignore me, Curtis’.
Memories of their ‘first time’ and the many good times that he had once shared with the classy Philippa brought a thin mischievous smile to his face. He also remembered her psychopath of a father, which quickly wiped away the smile. Then there was the manse’s imposing black door, and of course… yes, the Dear John. He suddenly felt empty as a wave of sadness engulfed him.
He reclined back into the depths of his red leather chair, elbows on the sides, his chin resting on steepled index fingers, eyes focused on the envelope. Contrary to how he had made a success of himself, and created a good life for his family, perhaps for Ms Furey life had not been so kind.
In remembering the few minutes that they conversed on that mortifying morning in the supermarket car park he couldn’t help but notice her strained demeanour. Greyed hair pulled into a tail and sans make-up, she had looked old. For him, it suggested that she had encountered hard times. It was a far cry from the classy, posh, verging on pompous girl he once knew, once fancied like hell, almost loved.
The envelope remained untouched. That emotion of triumphalism had given way to guilt. His fingers clasped into a fist. How dare you cast aspersions on anyone. While life was indeed good for Curtis Cardinali he was acutely aware that he could easily have fallen by the wayside if he hadn’t been fortunate enough to meet Toni Russo, but more so, the woman with whom he now shared a lifetime of, mostly, wedded bliss.
Picking up the envelope he moved towards his office window Pulling a pen from his breast pocket he slid it under the flap. Perhaps it was in anticipation of what would spill out, but he delayed. Finally, and with a single swipe it was torn open. With intermittent sunlight illuminating the scene, he proceeded to timidly slip out the contents. He unfolded the single page.
It read, ‘Dearest Cu—’
He stopped reading.
He re-folded the letter and in several strides had set it back on his desk. Then after another resolute moment, he resumed operations. But first, the envelope got torn into four pieces and despatched to the bin.
He adjusted the spectacles on his crooked nose. He took a breath and read slowly. He stopped once or twice to ask himself why? Where the hell is this leading?
Dearest Curtis.
First of all, please forgive my hurried exit after your spectacular entrance those few weeks ago!
I have been trying to write you since then, but the words don’t come easy, even after all this time. Also, I had no idea where you lived. Please therefore forgive me for inflicting myself on your busy business life. You have obviously done well for yourself since those heady Rose Bud Café times.
I know that I seemed a little distant, but honestly, I was delighted, if not a little taken aback, to see you after so many years. I’ve often thought about you, you know. To this day I regret having had that ‘letter’ delivered to you. Even more, I regret not having the guts to break off with you in person. The truth is that I never wanted to leave you at all. I was sooo happy. That was until things started to fall apart at home. Things which I’m sure you later heard about?
Those kids that day, they are my daughter’s children. Yes, my daughter, and the ending of my university career. Everything fell apart in my first year there. Pregnant! As for the rest of my story, well, I married the father, but things went awry. The whole scandal at home came to a head. Although we followed father as he ‘bolted’... the law caught up with him.
Not great times I’m afraid Curtis. You’ll never know how ‘bumping’ into you has lifted my spirits. Oh, and by the way. That pompous prat, Julian James. I couldn’t stand him, but did enjoy winding you up back then!
Curtis, you have a wonderful life. You’re a lucky man.
Yours sincerely
Philly
PS. You’ll not hear from me again.
Curtis abruptly rose to his feet sending his chair rolling back into the office wall. At the same moment he said to the empty room, ‘Holy shit.’ Without thinking, he called his secretary. As she entered the office he reneged. ‘No, no Alice, it…it doesn’t matter.’
Noticing that he was agitated, flustered, she asked, ‘Curtis, are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Oh Alice, you... You’ve probably hit the nail on the head.’
‘Is it something I can help you with? A glass of water maybe, more coffee?’
‘No no,’ he said, waving the letter. ‘I can assure you that this is something that only I can deal with. The past, my dearest Alice, really does have a habit of coming back, when you least expect it.’
‘So?’ She asked with her head tilted and eyebrows furrowed, ‘You’re sure I can’t help with whatever you obviously need help with?’
> ‘No, no. Hey, look at the time. Time you were off and into the loving arms of that family of yours. How’s the auld fella, still footering with bikes?’
‘Yes, he always does. No fool like an old one.’
‘I’ll lock up,’ Curtis said. ‘You have a great weekend. Any plans?’
‘None. Well other than looking after the grand kids. Daughter number two and her hubby are off to some posh spa cum hotel for the weekend. Bye then and you too Curtis, you have a good one, if you ever get there. See you Tuesday. You’re still taking Monday off, yes?’
Curtis nodded and smiled as she gently closed his office door. He remembered all the years before when his mother had recommended Alice to him. ‘A great girl is Alice Underwood, well she’s Mrs Black now. You’ll thank me for it.’ And he had, many times over.
In the renewed quiet, he read the letter again. He folded it, and slipped it into his hip pocket. With that, he locked the office and checked the suite for any lights left burning. He popped onto the shop floor, had a chat with the nightshift foreman then drove off towards the gate house. A few words with the security staff, and finally he was away. His long weekend finally at the forefront of his thoughts...
Chapter 32 : Prodigal
Two months later.
In a rush Curtis was descending the home stairs two at a time. He was late for his golf outing with Bob, his bank manager. In passing he had noticed an envelope lying in the porch. Scooping it from the mat he saw his name scrawled across it. There was no address just, ‘F.A.O. C. Cardinali’. He looked at it, puzzled. He opened the front door as if the person who had delivered it would still be there. What stumped him further was that he had not heard any tyres or footsteps crunching into the gravel or indeed, the slap of the letterbox closing. Priorities had however kicked in. He left it on the hall table, and was gone to golf...
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 23