Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (28 page)

“Dark glasses no doubt?” I humoured without smiling.

“Designer too,” he added.

“How observant you were. What about the colour of her hair?”

“Blonde! No-let me think- more a reddish blonde, if such a colour exists. Short cropped too, boyish style.”

“Anything distinctive she was wearing?”

“A pair of tight jeans comes to mind.”

“How long ago was the letter delivered?”

“Quite recently, maybe fifteen not twenty minutes ago.”

“Is she still on the premises?”

“No, Mister Speed. I watched her leave.”

“Was that every step of the way?”

He frowned with uncertainty. “I’m sorry?”

“You followed her arse as she left,” I said casually.

“Guilty as charged, Mister Speed. It was just a discreet, gentlemanly glance, to watch poetry in motion.” His eyes lifted again. “Then spell bound, you ask yourself, how can-”

“Something so full of shit can look so beautiful!” I intervened.

Dream boy expressed his disgust in me for such a tasteless remark. “Not quite what I had in mind, Mister Speed.”

“Did you notice what direction she took when she left the hotel; right or left?” I was thinking of going after her.

“I was interrupted by a guest attending the counter at the time.”

I nodded my thanks and moved away from the reception desk, revolving the letter full circle, and thinking about its credibility. I wondered if I’d an admirer in the hotel. The woman the other night staring across at me while I was having dinner with Hamer came to mind. Perhaps the letter was an invitation for a rendezvous? But that was wishful thinking because I hadn’t seen the woman since.

I examined the envelope thoroughly because my instincts told me it might be a letter bomb. I stopped twirling the envelope around and held it more delicately and contemplated whether to throw it down to the floor and run like hell. I held my nerve, mainly because I remembered that letter bombs only explode when opened. The envelope was of quality paper, not the thin cheap brand that comes wrapped, twenty for a pound. The envelope had class, bought from an expensive store. I fingered the contents inside the envelope, feeling for any unusual lumps of putty like material, wires, bi-metal strips, things I would have expected if it were a bomb. But there was nothing lumpy or squashy and satisfied my fingers wouldn’t be blown off, I opened the envelope and removed the folded piece of paper I found inside. Again the quality of the paper signified upper class connections. I unfolded the paper. Nothing exploded but the words in the letter had the same effect as if a bomb had just exploded in my face.

Dear, Mister Shackleton Speed.

I write this letter of introduction in anticipation that you will do me the honour of accepting an invitation to grace my humble home with your presence. I would have dearly enjoyed the journey to the South of Ireland to meet you personally, but unfortunately due to illness I’m unable to travel. We have a lot to discuss about the past, about the crashed plane in Berkshire, which I should imagine will fascinate your appetite for the truth, because it is indeed the truth you seek. If you are wondering how I know so much about you and where you are staying it is because of the information I received alerting me to your presence in the Republic of Ireland. I will understand if you totally ignore this letter and do not make the journey. If you do decide to accept the invitation then you will not be disappointed. If it is the unknown you fear then let me stress that your safety will be guaranteed at all times. If I have calculated the kind of man you are, Mister Speed, I think the inquisitive side of you will not resist the challenge.

I do hope you will join me. Overleaf you will find a return ticket to Dublin and the time and place where my representative will meet you.

This is no hoax, I assure you, Mister Speed. Nor will there be any sort of entrapment if you do accept my offer. My intentions are honourable and sincere.

Yours sincerely

Chief Air Marshall Sir Dillon Deveron. (Retired)

My eyes lifted from the letter in sheer disbelief, staring ahead into nothingness, blanking everything that passed before me. The first thing that struck me was how the hell did Deveron know I was here in Baltimore? How would he have known I was looking for him? Hamer came to mind. That the crafty bastard had indeed located Deveron and had warned him I was looking for him; military men sticking together syndrome. Frigging hell! You can’t trust anybody to keep quiet. And Deveron mentioned Berkshire in his letter. I wondered if he knew that I was aware of his deadly past. How though? Only I and Billy Slade knew that deadly sin. Did he also think that I suspected him of being involved with the deaths of Tommy and Lens? If so, then the situation had reversed. Now the hunted had turned into the hunter and I didn’t know if that was a good omen or a bad omen and where it exactly left me now that my cover was blown sky-high.

I’d now become the prime target from all sides. I quickly weighed up the risks if I were to accept his invitation. I’d be heading into the unknown with the disadvantage of a blind person walking along a pitch black alleyway with cotton wool stuffed inside their ears, for starters.

Could I trust Deveron to keep his word and guarantee me the safe passage that he’d promised? I wasn’t sure. Was Deveron involved with McClusky’s operation? It pointed that way. And then there was Love and Hate and their connection with Deveron. And to really mix Deveron in the affray, didn’t Commander Harris Morgan suspect someone in Whitehall was stealing the files regarding the Berkshire wreck? Deveron was connected to Whitehall during his career and he probably still has a strong influence within the military. Deveron could have had an abundance of information placed in front of him with the click of his fingers.

Now Deveron openly wants to meet me.

The plot thickens.

It left me pondering on one serious question: could I really trust Deveron?

The answer was simple and clear: could I frigging hell as like!

If I’d any sense of self preservation I should have hotfooted out of Baltimore and proceeded to relocate my base camp elsewhere, and done in the next five minutes. But Deveron had been right about my curiosity never fails to get the better of me, and that carrot he’d dangled in front of my nose was a tempting offer. Then I’d to consider why I was here in the first place. It wasn’t just about finding Japanese gold. Deveron had to be dealt with firsthand. I couldn’t let Deveron weasel his way out from his evil past. He was a murderer on all accounts. He’d murdered Craven in 1944 and somehow he was connected to the deaths of Tommy and Lens. No. Deveron had questions to answer; incriminating, awkward questions that should make him squirm with guilt. Frigging hell, he owed me a huge explanation. He had the answers to the demons that were running havoc inside my head, and I didn’t care how old he was or what army he would have standing in front of him for protection, I’d still throttle the frigging bastard till he squealed the truth.

I rang mobile to mobile and contacted Shamus to explain that I wouldn’t need him tomorrow. By the sounds he was making when he mumbled down the line, ‘hullo’, he was obviously munching on a bag of his favourite dried pork pieces.

“Is there any particular reason, Shacks sir?”

I sensed he thought he might be losing a client, but I didn’t want to relay too much information to him for a number of reasons. I told him as much as he needed to know. “I’m going to see someone.”

He didn’t pressurize me for a name. “Will it be for long, Shacks sir?”

“I’m not sure. Don’t worry the payment meter is still running. If for some unforeseen circumstances that I don’t return, feel free to sell my diving gear.”

“O no, Shacks, sir, I couldn’t do that. What about the Hamer fella?”

“Sell him too!”

“No, Shacks sir, I meant what if he comes pestering me?”

“Why should he?”

“He’s a nosey bastard, isn’t he?”

“That’s true, Shamus.”

“Do you want me to tell him your business?”

“No. Let him sweat. Tell him I’ve disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“Won’t that make him angry, Shacks sir?”

“Naturally, but he operates better when he worries over me.”

“Yer can be a bit of a bastard when you want to, if you don’t mind me saying, Shacks sir.”

“Yes Shamus, I can be a real bastard when I want. And while you’re doing nothing and idling about on my time, you can find out information on the
Flying Fish
. I want to know what it’s doing in Baltimore.”

I dressed casual, nothing too impressive: driving jacket, round necked sweater, and a pair of slacks and comfortable shoes. I left a message at reception to say that if anybody came looking for me, I’d be away for the day and possibly the evening too, thinking I might stop at a hotel if I’m too tired to travel back.

I drove to the railway station at Cork and parked the Roadster on the long stay car park, used the ticket Deveron sent me and boarded the train for Dublin. There was plenty to think about during the journey. Hard thinking that produces the inevitable headache. Here I was hurtling towards Dublin not knowing what to expect and my only source for protection was a letter assuring my safety from a man who I had never seen before; a man I secretly despised for a number of reasons; a man who had escaped the gallows in 1944.

There was also the strong probability I was walking into a trap and the killers searching for me may even be waiting for me at the end of the line. Yes, it was hard to relax when knowingly going to a place with the same intention of raiding honey from a bee-hive and expecting not to get stung because you’re not wearing the appropriate protective clothing; mine should have been a military tank.

*

Somehow I slept for the latter half of the journey only stirring when the train approached Dublin. I sat up straight and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Within seconds I was focused again on the reasons for the train journey. And then I experienced my first concern of the day which actually frightened me.

I was calm. Some super cool character when I should have been twitching with nervousness. Not even a tingle in the stomach region. No apprehension whatsoever. I’d arrived at my destination with the accolade of a fearless warrior ready to take on whatever they threw at me. I’d no idea how I’d adopted such nerves of steel, though I probably had always possessed that toughness but had never really noticed before.

I stayed in my seat as the train pulled in at Tara Street Station. I didn’t rush to disembark. I carefully observed anyone who remotely appeared to be observing my presence. No one did. When I was the last person on the train I left the carriage, vacated the station and walked down towards the River Liffey, glancing back a few times to see if I had picked up a follower from the station. I turned left into Burgh Quay. I followed the river upstream. With another quick glance over my shoulder, I walked with pace onto Aston Quay until I had reached the painted steel construction of the Ha’penny Bridge arching over to the north side of the River.

I could see why Deveron had chosen this particular iron bridge construction as a meeting point, as it wasn’t the ideal place for me to spring a trap, if I had wanted to. They could watch me from a comfortable distance; the first sign of trouble and they could walk away unchallenged. I moved onto the bridge, made my way to the middle where I stopped, as instructed in the letter from Deveron, and waited for my contact.

I soon grew impatient after ten minutes had lapsed. I’ve never been a good waiter of time. I wasn’t clock watching intentionally, just sending myself daft as I glanced at every person that passed me by, half expecting one of them to approach me. I turned round and placed my arms through the gaps in the bridge railings and leaned lazily on them, staring down into the flowing river, focusing on the reflection of the bridge but still observing from the corners of my eyes the shadows of people passing by and still waiting for one to stop behind me.

The waiting game allows you to think and my thoughts drifted back to the rock face deep below Roaring Water Bay. I debated whether I should reconsider the use of air powered tools to dislodge the rock-face. And then I thought of the disadvantage of trying to handle heavy gear beneath the rampant sea without a full team and quickly dismissed the idea. It would be the manual effort or…

“Well, well, well, Shackleton Speed, your ass hasn’t changed a bit!”

I jolted upright. That voice? I spun round to face the woman’s beckoning voice and my heart bounced so irregular that it nearly popped out of my mouth. It was her again! The very same American terrorist I’d encountered at McClusky’s warehouse in London. It was the bitch herself and she was in cahoots with Deveron. She’d changed her hair colour somewhat to a strain of strawberry blonde. And by the description given at the hotel reception, I was looking at the very same short cropped strawberry blonde woman who hand delivered the letter from Deveron to my hotel. My eyes frantically scanned the bridge for her accomplices. She was quick to read my mind.

“Don’t worry yourself, I’m alone.”

I quickly recovered from the shock of meeting her again. “Aren’t you the confident one,” I scorned.

“I’m confident for a number of reasons, Buster! So don’t even consider threatening me for whatever you blame me for,” she warned me with acute calmness, so I assumed she wasn’t bluffing.

I’m not renowned for bullying women but I did found it hard to restrain myself from exploding in a fit anger right there on the bridge. In my opinion she deserved nothing less than to be thrown over my knee and have her arse spanked in public view, and that was being kind.

I said, “Every dog has his day.”

“You’ve lost me, Buster.”

“You’ve easily forgotten the rough reception I received when we first met. And you left me sexually frustrated. And I almost got killed at McClusky’s warehouse.”

“What have you to complain about, Buster? You came out in one piece didn’t you?”