

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

### By

RICHARD F JONES

### Smashwords Edition

To my wife Meg and our friends Ken and Dee whose tireless efforts made the publication of this book possible.

© 2009 Richard F Jones. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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* * * * *

### CHAPTER ONE

I got to know Deadly Dancing whilst holidaying on the Isle of Mallorca in the 1990's. His name wasn't really Deadly, his name was David, but everybody who knew him well referred to him as Deadly, mainly because of his success with women. An ex-pat, he'd moved out there to escape from the jaws of the Inland Revenue. At the time he worked as a Financial Consultant and lived above his office, by the harbour wall, in Puerto Andraixt, a little fishing port on the west coast.

'Women have always been my downfall,' he said to me once. For a time his business thrived. Mainly he sold investments to the other ex-pats. He drove an open-topped Mercedes and wore clothes as garish as his character; usually bright and gaudy.

'In this business they've got to remember you,' he would say. When I stayed on the island we would meet up for golf and afterwards, over a couple of drinks in the bar, he'd regale me with tales of his conquests.

I didn't see him for a couple of years. Then, when I was next there, I found his office and the apartment were closed up. I asked at the golf club. They said he'd moved to a small village further up the coast. At the end of a narrow, twisting, tortuous, downhill track I found a tiny hamlet around a fishing jetty. Nestled on the edge of the beach was a ramshackle taberna, with a grass roofed loggia, called the Ra-ha Bar. The proprietor Luis Rodriguez, a big, dark, hairy-chested Mallorquiene sporting a gold medallion and tooth fillings to match, knew Deadly all right.

'He is living at the other end of the beach, with an Irish woman called Jenny McGuire. She is an artist,' he said, in between sucking on a big cigar and coughing. 'I show you where,' he added and took me outside. He pointed in the direction of a small bungalow on a rocky peninsular overlooking the sea. I drove that way and knocked loudly on the front door. A dog began barking and then a white haired terrier came running around from the back, still exercising its lungs.

'Sophie, come here. Be quiet,' a man's voice croaked. Suddenly I was looking at Deadly, or at least a pale imitation of the man I knew.

'David, it's me, Hugh,' I said, still shocked by his appearance.

'Hugh?' he questioned. His eyes looked bleary. He'd lost at least two stone in weight. His hair looked different. His face was gaunt and unshaven. He wore a food stained t-shirt and a scruffy pair of fawn shorts. He was barefoot. 'Hugh. Thank heaven you're here.' He guided me round to the patio. Sophie followed, sniffing at me as we walked. There were two rickety deckchairs looking out to sea and, after we'd exchanged some pleasantries, he poured two large Scotches and beckoned to the chairs. 'They're after me dear boy,' he said, as we sat down.

'Who? The Inland Revenue?'

'No, the IRA. This woman I live with is one of them. In the past I've been involved.' 'Good God.'

'She's away at the moment and I'm looking after the bungalow and the dog.' What Deadly told me that day is a twisted tale, so I think it best if I let him tell it. Occasionally, I may have to butt in, to fill in a few background details, so you get the whole picture, but this is how he related it to me, while we finished off the bottle of whisky.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWO

Wales had been Deadly's home, prior to settling in Mallorca. South Wales in fact. An area inhabited by people of similar Celtic origins. He had also worked there as a Financial Consultant, a good one too, until the tentacles of the devil started to claw at his soul. For a year or so, the Puerto Andraixt venture went well. Then the stock market crashed and he had to move out. Afterwards he settled in a small terracotta roofed bungalow in the village near the Ra-ha Bar. Rodriguez helped him with the arrangements. It belonged to one of his builder friends, Ramos, who was serving a prison sentence for misappropriating council grants. I'll let him take up the tale from here.

* * * * *

One evening I was in the Ra-ha Bar, playing stud poker and drinking whisky with three recalcitrant old lags. I remember football was on the television, the verbose gabble of the commentator caused me to lose another hand, not to mention five hundred pesetas. A Royal Flush had been a possibility if I had been concentrating. 'Sod it,' I cursed. My playing companions laughed. When I looked up I noticed the bar door open and Isabel walk in. Isabel Moreno had been my girlfriend, or at least that's what I thought. Briefly our eyes met, then she strutted off to the far end of the bar ignoring me.

'Deal me out,' I said to my pals and flicked a five hundred peseta coin onto the table. They all groaned, but I was used to their barbs of sarcasm and wandered over to where Isabel had sat. Some of the young men of the village were gathered around her. 'I was wondering if I could have a word?' I said. Dark brown eyes flashed up at me. Jet black hair, silver earrings, coupled with a raunchy body, fashioned an innate sexuality.

'David I'm busy right now,' she replied indolently. Her words took me by surprise, but I continued.

'I've got a video of the latest tear-jerker back at the bungalow,' I ventured. 'Thought we could watch it together afterwards?'

'David, I said I'm busy. Another time maybe,' she said sharply. I stared in disbelief. One of the young village turks, John Fernando, had his arm resting on the back of her chair. A tall muscular young man, he ran a building company in the village and drove a four wheel drive Frontera. His work seemed to consist mainly of talking into a mobile phone.

To avoid any loss of face I indulged in a bout of verbal jousting with the other lads and then withdrew. I was angry, hurt and angry. For a while I wandered around the bar talking aimlessly to anyone who would listen. A muzzy feeling filled my head, probably from the whisky. Atletico were leading Barcelona on the television, but I wasn't that interested, so I decided to make tracks for home. The beach route was the longer way, but it involved negotiating the rocks at the end of the bay, however, fresh air and clearing my head were at that moment more of a necessity.

Outside I felt better. The night was clear, the air chill; there were a million stars and in amongst them I could see the big jets heading for Palma. On the beach I decided to jog. The rocks at the bay's end were still wet from the receding tide. I must have taken one step too far, too quickly in the dark. Salt air, bad whisky and a middle aged body were a cocktail for disaster. Suddenly, everything went upside down. For a brief moment I was looking again at the stars. Then for a long time I imagined I was dead. Sometime later I could hear the sea. Pain seared around my head. Running my hand through my hairline I felt dampness. When I looked at my fingers, they were sticky with blood. Much later I could hear snuffling. Whiskers tickled my face, then something was licking me. It barked and ran away. A dog, maybe a lifeline, I thought. I could still hear it barking and a woman's voice was calling, 'Sophie, Sophie, come here.'

* * * * *

Van Morrison's voice was clamouring from a radio when I came around. I was lying on a sofa with a multi coloured blanket draped over me. Outside on a veranda, a tallish woman with pale blonde, shoulder length hair was cooing to a canary in a cage. She must have seen me move, for she stopped cooing, came into the room and switched off the radio.

'I thought you were never going to wake,' she said. 'How do you feel?' An Irish accent was laced with a North American twang.

'I'm not sure,' I replied. 'What time is it?'

'Coming up to midday.' Her words formed slowly in a pert, rounded mouth. Sharp blue eyes bore down on me. A yellow jumper struggled to contain her breasts. Slinky slacks hugged her hips. She was barefoot.

'Good God. Have I been here all night?' I said. Movement reawakened the pain. Touching my head revealed a bandage, wrapped round and round like a turban.

'I expect you're still suffering from concussion,' she said. 'I'll make some coffee. Do you live in the village?' The blue eyes were quite piercing.

'Yes, I rent a little bungalow off the square. I hope I haven't disturbed your day?'

'You haven't disturbed anything. There's only me and Sophie and that thing,' she added, pointing to an easel by the patio door. 'And I don't have to go out for that to bother me.'

'You paint?' I asked stupidly.

'I try,' she replied on her way to the kitchen. Somehow, I managed to prop myself up on my elbows. That hurt even more. The room looked comfortable with chunky furniture and lots of big cushions. A wood burning stove with a canopy chimney was a feature. The woman returned with two coffee mugs, setting one down on a small table beside me.

'Having you here has been quite useful really,' she said, whilst adding honey to the coffee. 'For days I've been trying to finish that man's face.' She pointed the spoon at the easel. 'Keeping an eye on you has forced me to get on with it.' Trying to lift my head to look hurt, so I concentrated on the coffee. It was black and very strong, but the honey took away the bitter taste.

'Did you bring me here and do all this?' I asked touching the bandage.

'Sophie's the one who found you,' she said. 'She's always picking up strays.' Looking into the sharp blue eyes told me nothing. 'When you feel like moving I'll drive you to the village,' she continued. 'I've got some shopping to do.'

Getting up off the sofa was agony. I lurched when I was upright. Then the room spun. My arm went out, she held on. We were frozen like that until my legs began to obey my brain. Slowly, I made it to the easel. The gnarled face of a fisherman, mending nets, stared back at me from the canvas.

'This is very good,' I said. 'Tell me how did I get here?'

'You must have cracked your head on the rocks,' she said pointing towards the shoreline. 'We were on our last walk. I don't know where you would be now if Sophie hadn't found you.' The dog, a Catalan sheepdog, a mutt of Spanish origins, had been sitting on the veranda, watching me with suspicion. 'Come on Sophie, we're going out,' the woman called. Cautiously the dog padded in, inspecting me all the time with questioning eyes, sniffing at me when she got close. Bending to stroke her brought back the dizziness. Her lick on my hand was light and affectionate. 'You managed to get up here by leaning on my shoulder,' the woman said while putting on her shoes. 'We got you inside, then you passed out.' An impatient look told me she was ready to go.

'Well I'm very grateful to you both,' I said. 'I'm afraid I don't know your name?'

'Jenny McGuire,' she replied and headed for the door. The dog followed. On my way out, I noticed in the passageway by the toilet, wooden boxes sealed with lots of packing tape and stacked in neat rows. Somehow, they looked strangely out of place, something not in kilter with the surroundings. Something sinister. At the time I thought nothing more about it. Later on they were to prove instrumental in my troubles. Parked by the back door was an old stand-up, red Renault. It was covered in sand but it started first time. Sophie jumped in the back.

'My name is David Dancing,' I said after I had struggled into the passenger seat. 'Perhaps I could buy you dinner one evening, to thank you?' She didn't reply and we travelled to the village in silence. Her driving was full of erratic petulance. Constant pumping of her feet on the brake pedal reactivated my headache. I was deposited in the square, then I watched her park further down by the supermercado. On my way up the hill to my bungalow, I stopped and looked back. She was bending into the hatchback for her shopping bag. A long slow whistle emitted from my lips.

### CHAPTER THREE

'The island of Mallorca can be a balmy paradise,' Deadly said to me on the patio, when we were into our second Scotch. 'Certainly there are warm, sunny days when mind, body and climate appear in unison. Days when your bio-rhythms harmonise with the temperate environment,' he looked up to the sky wistfully. 'Being an island though, the prevailing wind can just as quickly change, bringing in storms and gales to dispel the illusion. That's how it is with Jenny McGuire,' he said, then continued with his story.

* * * * *

After she'd dropped me off in the village, I walked up to my bungalow. The temperature was high for that time of the year. My head was still hurting from my fall. Really, I was just looking forward to the siesta, when something in the resident's car park made me stop and stare. Taking up two of the spaces was a huge, red Cherokee Jeep. None of my neighbours owned anything like that. Tinted windows only revealed two shadowy figures in the front seats. I moved on. When I reached my door the Jeep's engines fired into life. There was a screech of tyres and it hurtled down the hill behind me. At the time I remember thinking it was probably nothing, but it gave me a funny feeling.

Inside the bungalow mail was scattered across the hall floor. The letters were mostly circulars, but on one of the envelopes I recognised Geoffrey Cahill's handwriting. What now I thought? Before leaving Wales for the island I had been involved in a drug smuggling incident. Geoffrey Cahill was my solicitor back home. I was completely innocent and there was a court case at which I was acquitted. However, an Irishman named Rory McCandlass, who'd been instrumental in the crime, still hadn't been sentenced and for some strange reason the Crown Prosecution Service, back home, continually wanted me to reappear as a witness. Repeatedly I said I wasn't interested, so at first I read Geoffrey's missive with a cursory air of disinterest. I thought I'd heard it all before, until I came to his second paragraph.

'I am aware of your wish not to get involved further in this case,' the paragraph began, 'however, the Crown have come up with something that may be of interest. Vijay Patel, who is their main man on this case, telephoned me last week. It seems they are still desperate to get a conviction on the Irishman, McCandlass. They now inform me he is a notorious activist for the IRA and was involved in the assassination of a well known politician. Patel mentioned you still owe the Revenue a hefty sum in back taxes and he implied that immunity from this debt may be considered if you are willing to give evidence in Court. Anyway, I thought you should be made aware of their offer. If you wish to consider taking it further, please get in touch. Your desire for purdah remains in tact, as you will see from the hand written envelope.

Trusting the women are kind to you out there and the sun hasn't inhibited your drinking activities. Save one for me.

Best wishes, Geoff.'

Geoffrey Cahill is a stickler for correctness, but in a secret sort of way, I think he envies the deviousness of my life, hence the little quip in the last paragraph.

My troubles usually occur through taking one step too far, every time. I suppose being an only child doesn't help. Losing my parents in a car crash when I was seven added to the problems. I was raised by my widowed Aunt Gwen in a village near Swansea. She provided shelter and comfort but no parental guidance. There was never a firm hand to control me, no one to tell me what was right from wrong and from an early age I was left mostly to my own devices.

At sixteen I found a job and moved into a flat on my own. From then onwards, apart from the odd live-in girlfriend, I continued to live solo. Work was my solace. Financial reward and the trappings that went with it were my only goal. Taking shortcuts seemed the quickest route to that end. Nobody told me there was any other way.

My first job in the offices of an estate agent taught me how to sell. How to hold onto a client, how to make the most of an opportunity, how to wheel and deal. I found my true vocation though when I joined a firm of financial consultants. An agile mind, a head for figures and a nimble brain were prerequisites. But I could charm as well. Oh, I was good at that. Soon I discovered the customers liked me. I used to second guess the market. Move in quickly and out again while there was a profit. The clients made a lot of money and so did I. Then I set up on my own. Word got around, the clients flooded in and we all became rich. Thinking back, those were the best days. There were no distractions, no tangled relationships, just work. The thrill of a deal, the look of joy on a clients face when I made them some money. I did nothing underhand, nothing dishonest. Quickness of mind was my style. Then the nonsense set in. Perhaps success went to my head. Troubles began to arrive like winter rain.

I re-read Geoffrey's letter and mulled over the consequences of going back. The offer to clear my debt was tempting, but there were other problems I had escaped from in South Wales. About that time the financial services industry became far too complicated, too fraught with legislation for a one man band, so I went into partnership with Ben James, an old school chum. At least he was someone I could trust, someone I could bounce ideas off and to begin with it worked. Unfortunately though, in time, our relationship disintegrated, firstly, as a result of my affair with Ben's wife June and finally, as a consequence of the fiasco of the drug smuggling trial. By then most of my clients had become convinced I was a criminal. After reading Geoffrey's letter two or three times I decided going back to the UK would serve no useful purpose. At that particular moment I was relatively happy in Mallorca, albeit poor. To have miles of sea separating me from all those other problems suited me fine. So I tossed Geoffrey's letter onto the kitchen worktop.

Suddenly I felt hungry. I hadn't eaten since the previous day. My head continued to ache and cooking seemed too much like hard work. If I could make it down to the Ra-ha Bar Rodriguez would make me some bacon and eggs. I decided the bandage around my head made me look ridiculous. Unwinding it hurt like hell but at least the bleeding had stopped. I cleaned up the cut and put on a plaster. The bathroom mirror revealed two black eyes, giving me the appearance of a prize fighter. Stumbling along the pot holed track that led to the Ra-ha Bar added to my discomfort. Inside, Rodriguez was behind the bar reading his newspaper and puffing on a cigar. Fortunately the place was empty but the radio was turned up loud. Waves of thumping music pounded through my head as I opened the door.

'Can't you turn that racket down?' I shouted. A look of astonishment crossed Rodriguez's face.

'Well, my God, what has happened to you?' he said and began laughing. 'Some woman's husband caught up with you at last, eh?' He continued laughing. He laughed so much he choked on his cigar and I had to endure a mouthful of his spittle in my face.

'No, nothing like that. I had a fall. If you want me to spend some money in here, turn that racket down.' Still guffawing he reached for the radio.

'I know, I know,' he said. 'You and John Fernando had an argument over Isabel. Now he has Isabel and you are like this.' The gold fillings in his teeth sparkled as he spoke.

'I tell you it was nothing like that.' I said and explained about my fall.

'Oh that is very funny,' he replied when I'd finished, 'very funny indeed. Best laugha I've had for years,' he continued in his broken English. 'Even better than when the dustcart got stuck in the drive and the council had to pay me compensation. That is very good. Very good indeed.'

He reached up to the shelf behind him for a bottle of whisky.

'No. No more of that,' I said. 'What's in that poison anyway?'

'What it says on the label, 'Genuine Highlanda Creama. Bonnie Prince Charlie!'' he said, wiping the dust off the bottle and thrusting it towards me. He had hefty shoulders that heaved up and down when he laughed. His moustachioed face was filled with the pits and craters of his life. His greying hair was quiffed at the front like an ageing teddy boy.

'Tastes more like Scotch mist to me,' I said. 'Give me some of that French brandy and I'll have some bacon and eggs if you can manage to stir yourself.' He left me with the bottle and his newspaper and moved off to the kitchen area which was at the far end of the bar. I heard him continue to chuckle about my predicament as the eggs fried.

Rodriguez was a rogue. Not a particularly nice rogue either. He charged over the top for the drinks and he watered the gin. The whisky I had been drinking was probably some cheap poteen purchased at a discount and poured into labelled bottles, for that was the sort of thing he would do. Fishing used to provide his living, until that industry became too much like hard work. He sold his boat and built a glass extension on the front of his bungalow, as a bar. Later on he added the grass roofed loggia. Now it's the focal point of the villagers' social life. Which means Rodriguez is privy to all the gossip.

'The woman who lives on the edge of the beach. Is there a Mister McGuire?' I asked when he returned with my bacon and eggs.

'Blonde woman, with a dog?' he said.

'That's her.'

'Don't think so.'

'How long has she lived there?'

'About three years I think. Haven't seen anybody in that time. She's an artist. Goes awaya quite a lot. Did she give you that?' he said pointing to my face. 'Did you try it on with her?'

'No! I keep telling you I had a fall, but she helped me up the beach afterwards.' He puffed on his cigar, guffawing as he exhaled.

'When she goes awaya, there is another woman who looks after the dog,' he said. 'I think she takes her paintings to Palma. Sells them in a gallery off the Avinguda du Jaume. Apart from that nobody knows much about her.' While I ate he continued to make asides about my misfortune, but for once something he cooked tasted quite good.

'What do I owe you for this Rodriguez?' I said when I finished.

'For you my friend, I charge a special price. Eh, you give me five hundred pesetas and we call it quits.'

'Five hundred pesetas! Special price! Daylight robbery.' He laughed. I threw a handful of coins on the bar and headed for the door, but his words stopped me halfway there.

'I ama sorry to worry you when you've hada bada tima, but this arrived today,' he said.

In his outstretched hand he was holding out the second reminder for the electricity bill. It was in Ramos's name, but my agreement was to pay it in cash. 'You had better settle it soon, my friend, or the company will cut you off,' he said.

'Yes, yes, give it to me, I'll go into Andraixt tomorrow and pay it.'

That evening I reread Geoffrey Cahill's letter. The business with the electricity bill had concentrated my mind on money. I wasn't broke but there wasn't a lot to go around and perhaps their offer would be a way to clear my name. Make a new start?

Next morning I cranked up my old Mercedes and negotiated the twisting road to Andraixt. I stopped for cheap petrol by the harbour and from there I walked to the bank and paid the cash for my electricity bill to a disgruntled looking clerk. On my way back I window shopped through the narrow streets of the town. Suntanned women in their loose-fitting dresses made the stroll rather pleasant. By the harbour wall a little old lady, dressed in black, was selling flowers in plastic buckets. Sprays of mimosa, lily of the valley and bunches of lilium regale smiled up at me. I decided to buy a posy of them all for the artist, to thank her for the other night.

Sophie was outside the front door, barking and wagging her tail at the same time, when I drew up at the beach bungalow. It was a while before the artist appeared from around the side.

'Sophie will you come away,' she called out. A polka dot scarf held the blonde hair in a tight bun. She was wearing a floral artist's smock. A paint brush was in her hand, but there was no greeting for me.

'For you,' I said, holding the posy out like a peace offering. 'To thank you for the other night,' I added.

'Well you needn't have,' she said.

'But you have to allow me to show my appreciation,' I responded handing over the posy. There was a cold stare in her eyes. In time I was to become used to its bleakness, but I remember it unnerved me. Then I felt stupid and wished I hadn't bothered.

'I'm in the middle of a difficult bit in my painting, as you see,' she said holding up the paint brush. 'I have to get it right before the light changes.'

'Would you allow me to watch?'

'Certainly not.'

'Perhaps I could buy you dinner tonight then?' I watched the blue eyes searching my face. For a second I was tongue tied, then her head bent to sniff the posy. The stamens of the lilium brushed her nose leaving a streaky red mark. There was an awkward silence. The breeze off the sea fluttered the few strands of blonde hair that peeped out from under the scarf.

'That would be very nice,' she eventually replied.

'Shall I pick you up?' I asked.

'No, I'll meet you in the village. Where have you in mind?'

'The Marrakesh Restaurant is as good as any. Shall we say seven o'clock in the bar?'

'Can we say seven-thirty. That'll give me time to remove the smell of turps and paint.'

'Seven-thirty it is then.'

### CHAPTER FOUR

When I got home the lounge in my bungalow felt cold. I sat down on the sofa to watch the TV news, but could feel a draught. Investigating further, I discovered the sliding window behind me was open. Only by an inch or so, not enough to notice if I hadn't looked. Strange I thought, I usually check that sort of thing before going out. We didn't go in for bars on the windows around the village, but in recent times burglaries weren't unknown. I slammed it shut and continued with the news. Halfway through the bulletin my mind was distracted again. A featured item showed filmed footage from a war zone, somewhere in Africa I think. In one of the scenes wooden boxes of cartridges were stacked against a wall. The boxes looked exactly like the ones I had seen stacked in the passageway, at the artist's bungalow.

When the news was over I searched for Geoffrey Cahill's letter. The electricity bill had caused me to think further about my financial situation. I thought I had left the letter on the kitchen top, but it wasn't there.

'Bollocks,' I cursed. My eyes flashed across to the window that had been open. Had I been burgled? There were no obvious signs of entry. No footprints on the sill, no finger marks on the pane. I dashed to check on my passport and personal papers. Fortunately they were still where I'd hidden them. How silly I mused. I must have put the letter in the bin with the bandage, but it was unlike me to mislay something like that.

* * * * *

The small horseshoe shaped bar in the Marrakesh Restaurant provided a convenient spot for me to sit at and wait for the artist. A log fire glowed in the corner. From the bar stool I could see the road. While I waited I supped on a whisky and glanced through the menu. By ten to eight I was beginning to get annoyed, then I spotted the Renault pull up. A figure with a headscarf emerged and ran towards the door.

'Sorry I'm late,' she said breathlessly. 'The rain started just as I was leaving. I had to go back and put a cover over the canaries.' When she sat down a white laced shawl was allowed to slip off her shoulders. A shimmer effect ivory vest underneath made a bold statement.

'What'll it be?' I asked.

'Oh something stimulating. A bacardi and coke?' She shook her head and the blonde hair spilled out like soda. The resultant aroma of perfume made the wait worthwhile.

'I've already decided on the avocado and prawns,' I said handing her the menu. 'But there's quite a choice.' While she studied it I was able to take a proper look. Made up, she was quite stunning. Long slender fingers held the menu. This wasn't going to be easy. I hadn't bargained for such bedazzlement.

'I think I'll have the grapefruit with maraschino,' she said eventually. After we had ordered and when we were settled at a table, I asked.

'Is there a Mister McGuire?'

'There was,' she said. 'But he's in Canada, which is where we lived before we split up.'

'How about you?'

'No. No Mrs Dancing I'm afraid.' Our eyes fenced, looking for clues. She frowned.

'A man like you should be married with children. Have responsibilities,' she lectured.

'Never found a woman who'd stay with me long enough. Or perhaps I never had the courage to ask.'

'What is it you do?' she continued. Her directness took me by surprise, so I sipped at my Frascati before replying.

'At the moment nothing. I used to run a Financial Consultancy business in Puerto Andraixt, but it ran out of steam when the recession came.'

'Difficult to run a Mercedes when the going gets tough?' she said. A steely look pinned me back.

'Something like that I suppose. But when the investors stop coming and the rent goes up, you get into debt. On your own it's not easy to organise a regular flow.'

'I'm not criticising,' she said. 'I'm only asking. Am I too direct for you?' The eyes sparkled again, making it difficult for me to concentrate.

'No, I'm getting used to it. Anyway the Mercedes accompanied me from the UK. It had been part of my business over there.'

'A prudent financial advisor. I am impressed.' Her lobster thermador arrived. I had to wait a few minutes for my lamb. It was being cooked in a sauce with olives and onions.

'Did you paint when you lived in Canada?' I asked, trying to change the subject.

'I used to be an art teacher.' The waiter was fussing around. When he'd finished she continued.

'That was when I was with my husband. After we split up, we divided the proceeds of the house and I moved out here to paint. The light on the island is so brilliant for that.'

'But your accent isn't Canadian?'

'Oh no, I'm from Ireland, Wexford actually. Have you been there?'

'No I haven't.'

'Oh it's a grand place David.' That was the first time she used my name. My pulse rate quickened. 'The train runs along the sea front,' she added.

'What took you to Canada?' I asked.

'My husband. He's from there. We met at University in Dublin.' Each time she looked at me I became more entranced.

'Any children?'

'Yes, a daughter. Kirsty, she's thirteen now.'

'Does she live with you?'

'No, she's in boarding school in England. My sister lives nearby. She keeps an eye on her in term time. In the holidays, Kirsty commutes between Martin, that's my husband, and me.'

'Mallorca and Canada eh. Two nice places to holiday in.'

'I suppose, but it's not much fun being part of a broken home.'

'No I guess not.' She looked down at her plate, then quickly back up at me. The sparkle in the eyes had gone. 'I try to visit at least once during term time,' she said, sounding almost guilty. 'In fact I'm due to go over there shortly.'

When I finished my lamb I was able to watch more closely. Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. Unfortunately that wasn't often. The eyes dominated her expressions. When they hardened on a subject they became cold and menacing.

'Do you miss Ireland?' I asked.

'Yes, very much.'

'Couldn't you paint there?'

'Maybe, but there are problems that prevent that.' The cold menacing look was there then. We both decided against desserts.

'I could make coffee back at my place?' I said.

'Oh no, you look far too racy to me for that. I wouldn't trust you or me at this late hour.'

We both laughed at the same time. The sparkle returned.

'Well then you'll have to put up with me looking at you, while I drink mine,' I said.

'I can cope with that,' she replied. We both ordered cappuccino, then moved to sit by the fire in the bar. Her skin glowed in the radiance of the logs.

'Perhaps I could call in the daytime?' I ventured. 'You could show me the beach and your paintings.'

'The beach perhaps. The paintings at the house are in an unfinished state. I won't show anybody those. The ones for public view are in a gallery in Palma.' Her jawbone hardened and the steely look was back.

'Well at this stage I'll content myself with the beach. Shall I phone first?' She hesitated before replying. Then the face broke into a smile and I wanted to kiss her.

'I'm sorry about today,' she said, giggling. 'When I'm switched into work, I don't like to be disturbed. Perhaps you had better phone first, but I would like you to call.'

'Good,' I said. 'A telephone call and a walk on the beach. Couldn't think of anything nicer.' It was her turn to look unsure. I grinned and she stuck out her tongue. I enjoyed that. We whiled away another half hour talking of this and that. The subject of my lack of marital status came up again. I was able to scotch over it, but it was something she seemed to want to pursue. Afterwards I settled the bill, then accompanied her to the Renault.

'David I have enjoyed our meal and I really would like you to phone,' she said. We were standing by her car. Rain was still falling heavily. I enjoyed watching her long legs ease into the driver's seat and then she was gone. After she'd driven away, I turned up my collar and hurried up the hill. I was halfway along the cobbled path when I heard the roar of a V8 engine. I turned around and saw a red Cherokee Jeep winging its way out of the square. Somehow I had a feeling we'd been watched since coming out of the restaurant.

Back in my bungalow I poured a brandy, sat in my armchair, and pondered on the artist's remarks about my failure to marry. In the restaurant I had tried to make a joke of it, but she'd touched a raw nerve. It was a subject I rarely discussed, partly because it rankled. In my life there had been plenty of girl friends. I'd even lived with one or two, for brief periods. None of them however, had resulted in anything even near marriage. Usually it was a physical thing. Early on in life I discovered that women liked me. Don't ask me why, I don't know. Out in the big wide world, they seemed to provide the key to what I wanted to achieve. Through women who were attracted to me, I acquired jobs. They gave me leads, introduced me to clients, provided the investments, indulged my fantasies. Marriage therefore, was neither a requirement nor a necessity. In fact it would have been a hindrance. Being committed to one woman would have held back my career, restricted my activities, curtailed the way forward. Marriage was something I managed perfectly well without, but it still rankled.

### CHAPTER FIVE

Next day dawned a real Mallorcan morning. Cobalt seas ringed the coastline, luminous skies filled the air. Its euphoric effect and the thought of all that blonde hair resulted in me telephoning the artist. Sophie was barking in the background when she answered. Once again I had interrupted her painting, so our conversation was brief and to the point. My instructions were to call that afternoon. The heat of the sun had passed its zenith by the time I arrived at her bungalow. We sat on her veranda and watched oystercatchers paddle along the tide line. She was wearing a blue beach dress with a slit skirt that tantalised my senses.

'You have it very nice here,' I said. 'But don't you ever feel lonely?'

'I felt lonely in a city, when my marriage broke up,' she replied. 'This is much nicer than that. Would you like some tea?' If it suited her she had an abrupt way of ending a dialogue. When she returned with a tray of tea things her words caught me unawares.

'I'm going to Deia this evening, to catch a sunset. Would you like to come along?'

'I thought you didn't like people watching you paint?'

'I shan't be painting as such. I need to sketch it first, then try and get the colour right. I shall photograph it as well. The real scene will come later, when I'm satisfied I've got the sunset.' I must have looked surprised for she continued to explain. 'I have a friend at Deia with a flat. From her balcony I can work until the sun disappears.'

'Will your friend be there?'

'Oh no, Lisa's in France. But I have a key to her apartment and her permission to use it.' She sat down opposite me and poured the tea from an ornamental Japanese teapot. Sophie slumped at our feet and washed her paws.

'Would you ever go back to Britain to work?' she said while she poured.

'I don't think so. Why do you ask?'

'Oh, I just wondered if a man of your intelligence would get bored, doing not very much around this island.'

'If I went back into business, I'd prefer to do it over here.'

'What's wrong with Britain?'

'I had a spot of bother there that makes the thought of going back unpleasant. Anyway, everything's so much hassle these days, there seems little point.'

'Sounds to me like there's something there you're running away from?'

'Not exactly. The spot of bother caused my business there to flounder, then I owed the Revenue. The pressure all got too much so I came out here for a change. Thought I could do the same work here, earn enough to pay off my debts, while I enjoyed a little bit of sun. But the recession spoiled that.'

'Oh dear. Oh well David, it seems we're both refugees in a foreign land. We have that in common at least,' she said and began clearing up the cups.

'Would you like me to drive you to Deia?' I asked.

'Oh I hoped you might say that. I've never been in a Mercedes before. Well, not one quite as decadent as yours anyway,' she grinned. When she looked like that it dispelled all my doubts.

The west coast road to Deia meanders between the Mediterranean and the mountains. My Mercedes had an electrically operated roof and we travelled with it down, the artist's blonde hair flowed spectacularly in the slipstream. A halter top and jeans had replaced the beach dress. On the back seat she had packed her easel, a box of paints and a picnic hamper. Through the little town of Estellencs the road narrows. Cosy buildings crowd in. I eased off the accelerator and it was then I noticed the grill of a red Cherokee jeep in my rear view mirror. It was keeping well back but I was sure it was following us.

Most of Deia nestles on a hill, a little church sits on top. The apartment was in the area they call the Puig, its red sandstone structure glowed warmly in the evening light. Following the artist up three flights, carrying the easel and a box of paints, I was puffing by the time she unlocked the door.

'I don't want them there,' she said when I began to unload. 'I'll have them on the balcony please.' Louvered doors led to a small stone balcony. The view was due west. Then I knew what she meant about the light being special to paint in. 'I hope you can amuse yourself for a while,' she said. 'There's some chicken, wine and cheese in the hamper. Lisa's got lots of CDs. I don't mind what you do as long as you don't expect me to talk.' I uncorked the wine and watched while she set up her easel. When it was in place I took a glass outside for her.

'I'll be about an hour,' she said, dismissing me with a wave of her arm.

The apartment was well kept. The furniture was mostly dark oak and Spanish orientated. Lisa obviously had a musical leaning. Music stands, violas and a cello lay around the room. CDs, mostly classical, filled shelves on one wall. I chose Vivaldi, settled back with the Chardonnay and watched the artist at work on the balcony. All the time she was bending, leaning, posturing, firstly while she sketched, then to photograph. When she took a paintbrush in her hand she was like the conductor of an orchestra. The performance continued until the sun dipped over the horizon. By then I was entranced.

'Some view,' I remarked when she re-entered the room.

'You know David it really turns me on painting something like that. The wine helps as well. I'll have another one please.' I poured a refill which she gulped down in one.

'Besides being a wine waiter, is there anything more I can do about the turning on bit?' I said, more in hope than anticipation. Her blue eyes stared at me and I watched the pupils expand, drawing me in, deeper and deeper, before she spoke again.

'Lisa has a good size bed in the spare room. We can try it out if you like?'

It all sounded too easy, but I suppose I was hooked by then. Infatuated I guess, by her every move. Before I had a chance to think she was in my arms. Willingly I succumbed. Our lips met. Softly at first, a gentle exploration, the beginning of a journey that soon became probing, demanding, all consuming. One step too far again I'm afraid. Our time inside Lisa's spare bedroom was an adult dose. For an hour or more the curves and contours I had admired provided me with sublime pleasure. Afterwards, we devoured the chicken and what remained of the cheese and wine. I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I remember was a cold, wet flannel slapping on my stomach.

'Come on we have to go,' she said, she was dressed and standing over me. 'I promised Lisa I'd never stay the night. The concierge will think she's running a bordello.'

'He'd be on the right track,' I said. A sassy grin spread across her face. Outside it was dark. On our way back down the coast road an eerie moon, hovering over the pine trees, accompanied us most of the way. Outside Banyalbufar, a set of headlights settled on my tail. They remained with us all the way back to the village.

After that evening we settled into a sort of pattern. Most afternoons, after she had finished painting, I would visit the beach bungalow. A big brass bed filled a room in the apex of the roof and we made love on its soft mattress. Through the open skylight I used to hear the breakers crashing in on the rocks below. There were times when it was sublime. Often I would wake with her head on my shoulder and her breath on my skin was like the light wind of a June day. But then there were other times when she would clam up on me and I wouldn't know what she was thinking. I asked her once what her husband, Martin, did for a living.

'He's a lawyer,' she said.

'What caused you to split up?' She looked at me coldly.

'We had a difference of opinion.'

'That happens all the time,' I said. 'But you have a daughter, a little girl. Wasn't that more important than your opinions?'

'Maybe, but Martin couldn't live with mine.' I stared at her, the steely look was back, the jawbone was hardening.

'What opinions have you got then that are so awful,' I scoffed.

'It's something I don't want to talk about David. It's history. My marriage is in the past, let's forget it.' There was another occasion when I'd told her about my parents' death and the car crash.

'Are yours still alive?' I asked.

'No, they're both dead as well.' she said.

'Oh, I am sorry. How did that happen?'

'They died David. You know, finito, dead,' she said and stormed out of the room. Another time, we were on the beach pitching stones into a pool for Sophie to chase.

'I'm off to London next week,' she said. I stared at her incredulously.

'Thanks for letting me know,' I replied sarcastically.

'It's my term time visit to my daughter.'

'How long will you be gone?'

'About ten days,' she said. 'Lisa's having Sophie.'

### CHAPTER SIX

'Can you put me through to Geoffrey Cahill quickly please, I'm in a call box in Mallorca and I haven't got much change.'

Shouting to make myself understood, I was also trying to keep my voice low to prevent the whole village from overhearing. The phone kiosk in the village square was only a plastic hood on a pole. Geoffrey was a long time coming through.

'Deadly how are you? It's great to hear your voice again.' I smiled, for I hadn't been referred to by that name in a long time.

'I'm fine Geoff but I'm going to have to be snappy with this call, as I'm running out of change. I received your letter and I think I should come over and see you.'

'When can you make it?'

'I hope to be on a plane sometime next week. Will you be around?'

'For you I'll make sure I am.'

'Geoff, can we meet somewhere inconspicuous? I want to keep a low profile on this.' Geoffrey's office was in Walter Road in Swansea. He was a partner in Burton, Evans and Cahill, an old established West Wales firm. While we talked I could visualise him sitting in his stuffy, untidy room surrounded by files and sucking on his pipe. He had a dry laconic sense of humour but I had a lot to thank him for.

'Certainly I'll find a little hotel somewhere quiet, out of town. Let me know the day you're arriving and I'll arrange it.'

At our next tryst, I broached the subject with the artist. It was late in the afternoon, we were sitting on her veranda, sipping wine.

'You mentioned you may be travelling to London next week?' My words received a cold blank stare. Any intrusion into her affairs was always treated as an imposition. Undeterred I continued, 'I was wondering if I could accompany you on the flight? There's something I have to sort out.'

'Is it to do with the matter I suggested you were running away from?'

'I didn't run away, but it has a relevance, yes.'

'David I don't know. I have so much to do when I get over there. I need to be on my own to sort things out.' The steely look had been reinstated. Unfortunately I lost my temper.

'I'm only talking about travelling together on the plane. When you get there you can do what the hell you like. I'm going on to Swansea anyway.' She stalked off to the kitchen in a huff. We said no more about it until we were in bed together, a couple of days later.

'I've booked to fly out next Tuesday,' I was informed. That was about as much tacit agreement as I was likely to get, so later in the week I arranged a seat on the same flight.

The day before we were due to go she mentioned that her friend Lisa, who owned the flat at Deia, would drive us to the airport. On the morning of the flight they pulled up outside my bungalow in a long green Peugeot Estate.

'I understand you enjoyed my view,' Lisa said as I ducked into the back seat. The Irish accent was more pronounced than the artist's.

'Very much,' I replied. 'You're obviously a music buff?' She had wild red hair. The rear view mirror revealed green eyes and freckles.

'I am that,' Lisa replied. 'The cello is my bag of tricks. I play in a concert orchestra. That's why I'm away a lot. Now that I've seen you, I'll be putting a stop to Jenny using the flat.' We all laughed as the car pulled away. Lisa appeared younger than the artist, or maybe it was just her attitude that was more refreshing. Her voice and her laugh resonated with a timbre that reflected her every mood. In the weeks to come I would become more familiar with its gaiety and her impish grin.

'Lisa's going to keep an eye on the bungalow while I'm away,' the artist said. She looked sophistication personified. Dark glasses rested in her hair, which was bleached and combed out. Eyeliner and foundation dressed her face. A canary yellow jumpsuit flattered her figure, I was impressed.

'That's what I do in Deia, when I'm not wanted by the orchestra,' Lisa said and from the dashboard pocket passed a business card back to me. LISA ALICE McWILLIAM - MUSIC TEACHER was in Roman style letters on the card, with her address and telephone number. Why she had given it to me I couldn't think, but I put it in my jacket pocket anyway. For the journey into Palma I sat back and listened to the two of them chatter. On the Via de Centura, I spotted something in the wing mirror of Lisa's car that spoilt the morning. Keeping pace, about four cars back, was a red Cherokee Jeep.

Check-in at the airport was brief, as we both only had holdalls. Having half an hour to kill, I decided to stock up on some liquid sustenance for the journey.

'You go ahead,' the artist said. 'I need to powder my nose and buy a few things for Kirsty. I'll meet you at the boarding gate. It's gate twenty three I think.' I bought two bottles of Talisker and a newspaper, then strolled nonchalantly to gate twenty three. The flight had been called, people were milling around, beginning to board, but there was no sign of the artist. Ten minutes went by and I was getting impatient. A pretty red haired assistant approached. Olive skin and big brown eyes proclaimed her Iberian origins.

'Are you travelling on this flight sir?'

'Yes, but I am waiting for my companion,' I said. 'A Jenny McGuire hasn't gone on board has she?' She went over to the computer terminal then bustled back to me.

'Not as yet sir. If you wish to travel on this flight you will have to board now. The Captain is ready to go.'

'I can't go without my companion,' I said. 'Is it possible to put out a call?' She looked annoyed, returned to the desk and spoke into a telephone. A few minutes later a call went out over the tannoy.

'Will passenger McGuire, on flight BL11526 for London Gatwick please go to boarding gate twenty three, the flight is ready for take off. This is the last call for flight BL11526 for London Gatwick.'

I hung around for another few minutes; everybody else had gone on board. The staff were becoming agitated. Then, the senior looking male one with close cropped dark hair came over.

'Sir, if you wish to travel on this flight you are going to have to board now,' he said.

'There must be a problem with my companion. Can someone check the toilets. She said she was going to the toilet.' He held his arms out wide.

'Sir, it is a big airport, there are so many toilets. It is up to you, but if you don't take your seat now the plane will fly without you. We are closing the gate.' Reluctantly I hurried down the gangway. On board I was greeted with frosty glares. I stowed my holdall above 34E , but when we took off there was a vacant seat in 34F and no Jenny McGuire.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

'Deadly old chap, over here,' Geoffrey Cahill called out as I walked from the railway station at Swansea. I looked up and saw him waving at me from the other side of the road. Half moon glasses and the double breasted overcoat were familiar. The hair had become greyer, maybe he'd put on a little weight, yet somehow I felt secure again in his presence. The artist's disappearance had unsettled me. During the journey elements of doubt and insecurity had crept into the susceptible corridors of my mind.

'David it's good to see you again,' he said as we shook hands.

'It's good to see you too,' I replied. 'Have you been able to fix a place for me to stay?'

'Yes dear boy. A little hotel on the Mumbles, you'll like it there, they're clients. Did you have a good flight?'

'Well I have a tale to tell about that.'

'You can tell me while we drive. My car's just over there.' He pointed to a white Rolls Royce, which he drove sedately through the streets of Swansea like an incumbent Lord Mayor. On route to the Mumbles, a pretty peninsular jutting out into the Bristol Channel, he rambled on about the arrangements for the following day.

'This chap Patel we are seeing tomorrow, is Indian by birth. He's highly respected and quite high ranking I think.'

'He wasn't around for my case.'

'No. He only came on board when they discovered what a big catch Rory was. He says he needs to try and establish a relationship between McCandlass and the two Mallorcans you were involved with. You haven't come across them on your travels have you.'

'No. I've mentioned their names, but every time I do, people just shrug their shoulders. I only knew them as Carlos Lopez and Luigi Ruiz, which of course could have been fictitious.' He puffed on his pipe, while steering the car with his right hand.

'You see, I don't think it's enough for you just to identify McCandlass,' he said.

'Everybody knows he was on that boat with you, even he doesn't deny that. But if they can't tie up his involvement to Carlos and Luigi, the case won't hold. Without that he's just an accessory to drug smuggling, in the same way you were.'

'You know Geoff, I've wondered ever since if they all weren't part of a small terrorist cell, lying low on the island.'

'That's an interesting theory, go on.'

'Well, you tell me now that Rory was a member of the IRA. Thinking back, I wonder if Carlos and Luigi were part of ETA. You see they didn't speak with the Mallorcan dialect.

When they were with me they didn't speak much Spanish, but it wasn't Mallorquiene. If anything it was Basque.'

'H'm,' Geoff said and drew again on his pipe.

'Geoff, the IRA were associated with ETA and they have cells, as they call them, which lie dormant, until they are required for a big job. Mallorca's only a small island. If the people there knew about Carlos and Luigi, they'd be too scared to identify them to someone like me.'

'Well I suppose that's possible,' he said.

'You know the more I think about it, the more worried I get. I mean ETA and the IRA are blood brothers, they don't mess about.'

'I know old chap. Patel says, if it goes to a trial, they may have to create another identity for you afterwards.'

'That really makes me feel a whole lot better,' I chuckled falsely.

'If it gets too much you can call it a day. The Crown has no hold on you. I have that in writing.'

'I know that. But I'd like to clear my debts, make a new start and I suppose what annoys me most is being hoodwinked by two comedians like Carlos and Luigi. I'd feel a whole lot better about life if I could get even with those two bastards.' We chattered so much there wasn't time to tell him about the artist's disappearance and by the time we reached the hotel it didn't seem that important.

'I think you'll find this place quite comfortable,' he said. 'If you have any problems you must let me know.'

'You're very good to me Geoff. I'm sure I don't deserve you.'

'Nonsense, dear boy. Have to get you settled somewhere nice. I expect this country looks pretty grim after the island?'

'London was very grey, but things look a little brighter down here.'

At the end of a narrow road, perched on a hill, overlooking the channel, was my Hotel, a turreted nineteen twenties creation. The gutters looked as though they leaked, the paint on the bargeboards was peeling, but inside it was comfortable enough. I was introduced to the proprietors, a Mr and Mrs Wilcox.

'Now if there is anything you want, you must ask me or the wife,' Wilcox said. The accent was from somewhere north of Glasgow. 'Dinner is at seven. The wife's quite good with the local fish,' he added. A smell of disinfectant permeated the corridors as he led the way to my room.

When he'd gone, I reached for the Talisker and switched on the TV. I was tired and very lonely. The news headlines didn't help. A bomb had gone off in a motorway service station on the M6. 'The IRA has claimed responsibility,' the newscaster said. I pressed the off switch. Looking out of the room's only window, across the bay, I could see the high rise buildings of Swansea; the scene of my former triumphs and some of the disasters. The office lights flickered in the evening haze, like candles on a Christmas tree. I looked at my watch. Five thirty. Businesses would be packing up, people would be getting ready to go home. Bus queues would be forming, traffic increasing. Rain coming in with the tide. It was on just such a night I first met June James. I remember it well.

* * * * *

There was the sound of a kerfuffle out in reception. I knew that Barbara, our receptionist, was about to go home.

'You promised to tell him I'd meet him here,' I heard a woman's voice say.

'He hasn't been back Mrs James,' Barbara replied.

'Well can't you contact him.' The voice was becoming shrill.

'He's gone to play golf. He doesn't have his phone on when he plays golf,' Barbara said.

'Men!' I heard the other woman say, disgustedly.

At the time, Ben and I had only been partners for a few months. Prior to that we hadn't actually seen each other since school. We'd met up again at a hospitality bash in town. He wasn't quite the gung-ho character from our school days, but who was? He'd definitely become more pedantic and developed what seemed like odd traits, but that didn't matter. He was on his own in business, like me, and struggling with the pressures. Having pooled our resources, we agreed at the start that business and pleasure don't mix, so socially we went our separate ways and up until that moment I hadn't met his wife. I tidied my desk, walked out into reception and came face to face with five foot two inches of female dynamite, surrounded by shopping bags.

'Mrs James, I'm sorry you've been inconvenienced, I'm David Dancing, Ben's partner. Can I help?' She had dark closely cropped hair, huge brown eyes, a slender neck and wore a pink tight fitting suit that ended a good three inches shorter than was decent. For a moment I had to catch my breath.

'Well I'm really annoyed. Ben said this morning he'd meet me here.'

'Come and have a sit down in my room,' I said. 'It's all right Barbara, I'll deal with this. You can get off home.' She looked relieved. June James followed me into my room. I could sense the electricity bristling in her body. I offered her the armchair opposite my desk. She sat down and crossed one leg over the other. They were both delectable.

'Ben had a client this morning that went on into the afternoon,' I said. 'I think he was in a bit of a flap afterwards and late for his golf. They were clients as well,' I added, trying to cover up for my partner.

'Well I just wish he'd think about me for once,' she said. 'I've taken my car in for a service. They need it for a couple of days and he was going to take me home after I'd finished shopping.'

'Well that's not a problem,' I said. 'I can drive you out that way.'

'I don't want to impose. Ben's impossible sometimes.' I smiled.

So that's how it began. They lived at Langland Bay. A wealthy seaside suburb on the edge of the Gower peninsular. It was out of my way, but worth the trip to see their home, a large, pre-war, detached house of style and elegance. I wondered how such opulence could be obtained on the income of a financial consultant. June James was about to enlighten me when I pulled up outside the front door.

'I am grateful David,' she said. 'I'm still annoyed with my husband though. He said if I came into the office, he'd have another look at my mother's investments.'

'I'll remind him in the morning,' I said.

'Time's of the essence,' she snapped back. 'A lot of the money is tied up in Japanese investments. They've done very well up to now, but I'm beginning to get worried. It can't go on for ever.'

'You may be right,' I said.

'Is your mother's account with the partnership?' I asked.

'Yes, Mrs Elaine Thomas.' Suddenly the penny dropped. Elaine Thomas was the widow of Dan Thomas, of Dan Thomas Engineering, one of the country's biggest producers of medical equipment. When Ben and I merged we kept our own clients, but amalgamated the computer systems. Often, when flicking through the accounts, I'd seen and envied the balances held in the Thomas's name. Up until that moment I hadn't realised they were members of his family.

'I'll remind him to have a look in the morning,' I repeated.

'You've been very kind,' she said. I helped with the shopping bags, then drove home, with the remnants of her perfume lingering in the car.

In the morning I mentioned to Ben about our meeting and June's concern regarding her mother's investments. He shrugged his shoulders.

'I don't know what she's fussing about, they're making a lot of money,' he added.

'But it won't go on for ever,' I said. 'Anyway they're your clients,' I added.

'H'm,' he said and began to walk out of the room. He was almost at the door when he turned to face me. 'Well what would you do then?'

'How much have you got in Japan?' I asked.

'About a hundred thousand I suppose.'

'What growth has it made?'

'About thirty per cent.'

'That's pretty good,' I said. 'You know my philosophy. Get in and get out while you're winning. Look for another emerging market. Chile looks promising, Argentina could be good. Split it up. Hedge your bets with some zero dividend preference shares. Japan's not going to do much better than thirty per cent.'

'H'm. Ok maestro,' he said and walked off. When he knew he wasn't going to win an argument with me, he'd always called me 'maestro'. I was never quite sure if it was meant as a compliment or sarcasm.

I thought nothing more about it all for a week or so, until I heard June James's voice rage. They were together in his office, three doors down the corridor from mine.

'I told you this would bloody well happen,' her voice clamoured. There were more raised voices until Ben burst into my room.

'There's been an earthquake in Japan,' he said. He was in his shirtsleeves, his brow was moist, he looked flushed. I could see June in the passageway behind him. 'Have you got anything invested there?' he asked me.

'No, I got most of it out a week or so back.'

'Fucking hell,' he said. The next day the Japanese markets dived and Mrs Thomas's investments dived with them.

'Cut your losses, get out now,' I said to him when he mentioned the subject a few days later. Things at home had obviously been difficult. His forehead had been creased for days, his temper was thin.

'I might as well sit tight now,' he replied. 'The market will come back up again, it always does.'

'I wouldn't bet on it this time.' I said. 'The Japanese banks are under a lot of pressure. They've never really been through a recession, not since the war anyway.'

'They won't have a recession with all that technology. It's the second best economy in the world.' A few week's later, terrorists launched a gas attack on the Tokyo Underground and after that Japan crashed.

One day, later in the week, again at going home time, Barbara knocked on my office door. Ben had gone out for the day.

'David, Mrs James is outside. She's wondering if she can have a word.' I nodded. Barbara opened the door wide and June breezed past her into my room and into my life. She was wearing a short blue dress, with another skirt that was nothing more than a pelmet. She wobbled in on stiletto heels at least four inches high. It may have been a trick of the light but I'm sure there was glitter sparkle around her eyes.

'David could I trouble you for a lift home,' she said, 'my car's in dock again. The garage would take me home, but I'd much prefer your company.'

* * * * *

At that moment the telephone ringing beside the bed, in my hotel room, interrupted my reminisces. It was Wilcox.

'Dinner's nearly ready, Mr Dancing,' he said. When I got downstairs the dining room was desolate. An attempt at subdued lighting made it dark and gloomy. I was the only occupant. Mrs Wilcox's Salmon Mornay relieved some of the despair and I settled into a decent Chardonnay. I was well into my third glass before two men, who I took to be commercial travellers, came in, and sat at a table on the other side of the room. No acknowledgement passed between us but I had a feeling they were watching me. They talked in hushed tones, I'm sure I detected an Irish accent. When I glanced across they both looked away simultaneously.

After dinner I went straight to bed. My room was stuffy. Sleep was fitful. Images of Jenny McGuire and June James filled my sweat filled dreams. By first light I could stand it no more. A brisk walk to the pier was required to dispel some of the cobwebs. I was puffing by the time I got back to the hotel.

'Ah Mr Dancing, there you are,' Wilcox called out as I passed reception. 'There's a letter for you here.' He handed me an envelope with my name scribed in bold blue capital letters on the front. I thought that was strange. Apart from Geoffrey, nobody else knew I was staying there.

'Somebody must have delivered it,' he said. 'The postman hasn't been yet. It was on the counter when I came out of the kitchen.'

The walk had done me good, set my juices flowing. My room was still warm, sweat trickled off my brow and dribbled down my back. I pushed the window out to its widest aperture as I opened the envelope. Inside, was a folded sheet of plain paper. Unhinging the folds caused a passport sized photograph to spill out onto the floor. The writing on the paper was in the same bold hand as on the envelope.

'WE HAVE YOUR GIRLFRIEND. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER AGAIN THINK CAREFULLY BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO GIVE EVIDENCE IN COURT. WE ARE WATCHING YOU.'

The photograph was a picture of the artist. I must have stared at it for a long time, for the next thing I remember was Wilcox's voice from the other side of the door. Perspiration was by then soaking my shirt.

'Mr Dancing are you coming down to breakfast?'

'Did you see who left this envelope,' I said when I opened the door. 'Was it those two men who were in the dining room last night?'

'That I couldn't say. I hope it isn't bad news? You look a bit shaken.'

'It may be bad news for someone I know,' I replied. He looked embarrassed and searched for something to say.

'The two men had breakfast early,' he said. 'They paid their bill, then left while I was in the kitchen. The envelope was on the counter when I heard you come in. They could have left it, but the front door has been open since half past seven. Anybody could have delivered it.'

### CHAPTER EIGHT

'Geoffrey, who else knows I'm here?' I said when he arrived at the hotel, later in the morning.

'Nobody knows, apart from me and you. I told the Wilcoxs' an old friend was coming to stay.' I showed him the note. He adjusted the half moon glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

'Who's the woman?' he asked after he had looked at the photograph.

'Well, you remember I told you I had a problem at the airport,' I replied, and while he drove into town I related the details of my involvement with the artist.

'What about Patel's department?' I asked outside the Crown Prosecutors office. 'Did they know where I was staying?'

'No, it's only me who knew the hotel.'

'Well how did this reach me?' I said pointing to the note. He puffed on his pipe.

'Don't know. David I can't force you to go ahead with this, but if you're in it this deep it's better to talk to Patel. He may be able to offer some protection. It's better to have them on your side anyway. How committed are you to this woman?'

'I'm not committed at all. She's just a woman I've had a bit of a fling with. There's no real commitment on either side, but I wouldn't want her harmed because of me.'

Inside the Prosecutor's office a girl with blonde, curly hair, long legs and jaunty hips, led us down a carpeted passage to a teak door.

'Geoffrey it's good to see you again,' Patel said. Short and very dapper, dark skinned, obviously Indian, with a small round head and dark hair thinning to baldness, he rose from behind an orderly oval desk to greet us. He would have been in his mid fifties and wore a white shirt and red tie, and a white linen jacket over dark striped court trousers. The collar on the white jacket was turned up in the way James Dean used to have it. For a short man, his appearance was quite striking.

'Hello Vee. Can I introduce Mr David Dancing,' Geoffrey said. Patel walked towards me extending his arm.

'I'm most happy to make your acquaintance sir. My name is Vijay Patel, but everybody calls me Vee.' His handshake was firm, yet comfortable. Geoffrey and I settled into leather armchairs. Patel introduced the leggy young woman as Miss Jeffreys, who would take notes and make copies available for us afterwards. Geoffrey spoke first.

'Firstly Vee, I would ask you to confirm that you have no hold on my client and the immunity you stated before is still in place?'

'Oh yes, most certainly. You have my word on that,' Patel said.The prosecutors I'd encountered at my trial were full of provocative egotism and flowery vocabulary. This man was different. His use of words was economical. His short, clipped sentences were quietly spoken, almost in hushed tones, and he looked and sounded the sort of man whose word you could rely on.

'Unfortunately we have a further complication,' Geoffrey said. 'It seems my client has been watched on his journey here.' He handed Patel the note and the photograph, then continued. 'My client has had a brief relationship with this woman. She was supposed to accompany him on the flight over here. However, the lady in question didn't get on the plane and my client received this note at his hotel this morning.' Patel studied the note and shook his head.

'Dear, dear, this is most unfortunate. We were hoping to keep your visit a secret.' He looked at the photograph two or three times, then handed it and the note to Miss Jeffreys before he spoke again.'Did you tell this lady the purpose of your journey?'

'No sir, I swear I didn't. I just said there was a business matter to clear up. She was coming to see her daughter, who's in school in England, and we agreed to travel on the same plane.' Briefly I described the letter from Geoffrey that had gone missing and also the Cherokee Jeep, which I thought had been following me.

'Most unfortunate, most unfortunate,' Patel repeated and tapped his pen against his nose in rhythm to the words. 'We did hope to keep this quiet.' He tapped again. 'You had better let me know this lady's name and address?' Miss Jeffreys wrote them in her notebook. 'See what we can come up with Janet,' Patel said and handed her the photograph. 'Would you chaps like some coffee?'

Long legs left the room to organise it, taking the photograph with her. 'Now, if I have it right, you met these two Spaniards, Lopez and Ruiz in the bar of your local golf club, here in Wales?' Patel began, when she had gone.

'That's right. The golf club was near where I lived. At the time I rented a luxury apartment overlooking the eighteenth green. The bar there was my regular watering hole on my way home from work. Over the years I acquired quite a few good business leads while supping a beer in there,' I said and for the next half an hour I recounted how I had become involved.

* * * * *

At this point I should perhaps interject for a few moments, for looking back on it all now, it would seem that the beginning of Deadly's downfall really started before then. From what he told me, on the veranda in Majorca, his life started to get messy on the second occasion he drove June James home from his office. That evening she invited him in.

'I won't stop, Ben will be home soon,' he'd said.

'He's away tonight,' June replied, 'gone to see one of his friends. Don't be a spoilsport. I need some company, just for a drink,' she'd pleaded.Reluctantly he agreed.

On closer inspection, the house reflected her glamorous style. It was a big, rambling, nineteen thirties villa-type dwelling, with numerous balconies and bay windows, all looking out to sea. Inside it was expensively kitted out. Every room contained a veritable collection of marble and crystal glass.

'Nice house,' he'd said, when they eventually settled in the vast lounge on a deeply cushioned settee. A pale carpet, with pile so thick you could lose a cat in it was wall- to- wall. June had poured them both a large Scotch.

'My mother bought it for us as a wedding present,' June replied to his remark. 'Fortunately, that was before my darling husband lost half her money in Japan.'

'You can't blame Ben totally for that,' Deadly said. 'These things happen in the market. We all get it wrong occasionally.'

She gulped at her drink, there was fire in her eyes.'Of course I blame him,' she cut in. 'He won't listen, never has, not to me anyway. I heard you say you'd got your money out of Japan. I'd been telling him that for weeks.'

'Well it's easy to be wise afterwards,' Deadly said and shrugged his shoulders.

'This has happened once too often for my liking, David. I'm sick of it. My mother's sick of it too. She wants to move her money elsewhere.'

'Have you told Ben?'

'We're not speaking at the moment.'

Deadly tried to be diplomatic, tried to smooth things over. After his previous visit to their house he'd taken a good look at all the accounts on the computer. What he'd found astonished him. There wasn't only the hundred thousand pounds in Japan to worry about. In total, the partnership had about five or six million pounds of the Thomas's money invested in one place or another. The family company had recently sold out to a national concern and Ben had invested all the proceeds for aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins, everybody. There were investments in trust funds for the grandchildren, pension funds, shares, the works. If the partnership lost all that Deadly knew they would go under. As a consultancy, their commission levels were based on turnover. The renewal commission alone on these investments paid the rent and the salaries.

'Surely you'd still want Ben's firm to handle it for you.' Deadly pleaded, when he ran out of making excuses for his partner. 'He is after all your husband.' She got up and poured herself another Scotch and offered the decanter to Deadly. He shook his head.

'Husband he may be, but it's in name only. David, he's gay, didn't you know. Tonight he's off with one of his boyfriends.' Deadly stared in disbelief. Suddenly, all of Ben's funny little habits, all those pedantic mannerisms that Deadly had chuckled at, fitted into place. He didn't know why he hadn't realised it before.

'How long has he been like this?'

'Oh I don't know, always I guess.'

'What about when you were first married?'

'Well, we went through the motions of sex, but it wasn't up to much. You see I had quite a sheltered upbringing. My family's always been wealthy and my mother used to protect me from gold diggers. And Ben was so polite, so considerate, we all thought he was Mister Wonderful. But he was the biggest digger of them all. He married me for my money, full stop. Once he had that he went back to his boyfriends.'

'Why don't you divorce him?'

'Too messy, and we're Catholics. It would kill my mother. When she's gone, maybe I will.'

'Why are you telling me all this?' he asked. She looked across at him, crossed and un-crossed her legs, then looked away.

'Because I need the services of a man. Firstly for the obvious reasons. You're a man and you're unattached and, from what Ben tells me, you certainly have a healthy sexual appetite. And with you at least I can be sure there wouldn't be any scandal. Secondly, I need someone to keep an eye on the family's money. You're right, it wouldn't do a lot of good to move it out of the partnership. Ben's not crooked, not money wise anyway. If I took it somewhere else, they might not be as honest. And Ben wouldn't have any income and then I'd have to support him totally.'

'But I can't take over your investments, he'd never agree to that,' Deadly said.

'You don't need to do that. Just keep a check on what he's doing, or perhaps what he's not doing and tell me. Tell me what the alternatives are. Together, mother and I can face him down. He doesn't have to know the advice has come from you and he'll back down if mother and I both threaten him.'

'You've thought all this out haven't you?'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'From the first moment I looked at that gorgeous square jaw line of yours. I'm sure I can rely on you to be discreet.'

So, June James and Deadly became lovers. The partnership kept the family's money, but it caused all sorts of problems in Deadly's domestic life. At the time he had a live-in girlfriend, Suscha. A Pakistani trainee doctor, who happened to be drop-dead gorgeous. She worked at the local hospital. In time, servicing two demanding women became a strain, even on his active libido. Deadly's relationship with Ben deteriorated. Knowing what he knew, he regularly lost his temper with him. He told Ben about his first meeting with Carlos and Luigi at the Golf Club bar.

'They're looking to set up a factory for ceramics products around here.'

'H'm,' Ben had replied in an offhand manner.

'Look Ben, it's new business. We could certainly do with it. I know my way around the Welsh Office. I've told them we could get them some development grants. Help with employees. Set up pension funds. Act as their agents.'

'Dagos you say,' Ben said. 'I don't know about that.'

'You're such a frigging prig. Sometimes you can't see further than your own arse.' That was the first time Deadly had let anything like that slip out. Quickly, he tried to make amends. 'Look, they want me to go out to Mallorca, have a look at their factory. Why don't you come as well. See the place for yourself. It'll do us both good to get away for a weekend, bring June too,' he'd unfortunately added. One step too far, again, he lamented to me. Once June got wind of a trip to Mallorca, with Deadly on board, wild horses wouldn't have prevented her from going. Instantly, she began making arrangements. New clothes, new suitcases, an expensive hairdo were all fitted in before they set off on a flight she'd organised out of Cardiff that Friday afternoon.

The weekend though was a disaster, even though the Spaniards were most accommodating. Levante Ceramics was housed in an old warehouse at the end of the harbour, at Porto Cristo, a little fishing port on the eastern side of the island. The factory was a scruffy hive of disorganised chaos. Fork lift trucks whirled around creating noise and whirlwinds of cement dust. Deadly said he should have smelt a rat. Unfortunately, at the time he had other problems, in the form of June James, to contend with. Leaving her alone most of the day, in the sun, with a suitcase full of shorts and halter tops, and enough time to consume endless gin fizzes was a recipe for disaster. When he and Ben got back to their hotel, she pursued Deadly relentlessly. On the Sunday morning, Ben caught them together in a clinch and all hell broke loose.

Unwittingly, the Spaniards came to Deadly's rescue. They didn't know anything about the machinations of their incestuous triangle, but their offer to Deadly provided him with a means of escape. Of course he didn't tell Patel all I've just told you, only that he met up with the Spaniards on the island. I'll let Deadly take up the story again now. Miss Jeffreys had just returned with the coffee and handed Patel a ream of computor paper, which he reads over a few times.

'Before you leave, Miss Jeffreys will have a word about the Cherokee Jeep you mentioned,' Patel said. 'It may have something to do with your lady friend. For now though, let's go on with what you came here for.' Geoffrey and I sipped at our coffee while he dictated to Miss Jeffreys a resumé of what I had just told him.

'Have you been back to the factory since?' he asked when he'd finished dictating.

'Yes,' I replied. 'When I moved out there to live. But it's all boarded up now. The gates are locked, and nobody has ever heard of Carlos and Luigi.' Patel looked bemused and again tapped his pen against his nose.

'Now, when did this Irishman McCandlass appear on the scene?'

'We were introduced to him in a restaurant in Porto Cristo. We all had lunch after the visit to the factory and he turned up while we were there.'

'You were originally going to fly back with Mr and Mrs James. What changed your mind? Why did you agree to travel alone on that boat with McCandlass?'

'I know it sounds stupid now,' I said, 'but it had been a good weekend. They'd wined and dined us, and it looked as though we were going to be their UK agents. The weather was set fine. What harm could there be? A cruise home, through the Med in summer. We'd already seen the boat, it was moored in the harbour. Marvellous thing. About thirty feet long. Carlos and Luigi maintained they owned it. They didn't of course. I found out later it had been chartered.' Deadly didn't tell Patel that the real reason he got on that boat was because of the bust up between him and Ben James. They'd almost come to blows. June's verbal intervention hadn't helped. 'There's no difference between what I am doing and what you do with your boyfriends,' she'd said to Ben.

'Why was the boat going to Britain?' Patel continued.

'Carlos said they wanted to have the boat over here. He and Luigi had planned to bring their wives over on the next business trip and they were going to cruise back as a little holiday. I had met his wife, Carlota. 'Honeybee', he used to call her. She was rather cute. Their story, was that McCandlass was taking it over for them and he wanted someone to crew it with him. As I said, the sun was up and with all the wine and food everything sounded so plausible.' Miss Jeffreys was staring at me and trying to suppress a smile.

'Why didn't the other two come on the boat with you?' Patel asked.

'My partner had some appointments on Monday. I hadn't much work on at the time, so I decided to have an extended holiday.' Long legs was smiling properly then. Again, Deadly didn't tell Patel, but in truth Ben had issued June with an ultimatum. Either she returned with him on the first flight that afternoon, or he would file for divorce when they got back.

'And you had no inkling that McCandlass was trying to get back to Ireland, or that there was dope on board?' Patel said.

'None whatsoever. I swear to you. The first thing I knew about that was when the coastguard cutter intercepted us off Caldy Island.'

'Weren't you suspicious?' Patel asked.

'Well, he was an odd bod all right, but he kept himself to himself. Most of the time I sunbathed on deck. I only took a watch when he wanted to sleep, which wasn't often. Then the boat was usually on auto pilot or we'd laid up for a few hours. Mind you he was hell bent on getting here. But it was mid summer, there was daylight most of the time, so he just ploughed on until it was dark.' Patel's eyes searched right through me before he spoke again.

'But his real plan was to sail in as a tourist, abandon the boat, deliver the heroin and then get on the Pembroke ferry for Ireland,' he said.

'So I gather,' I replied.

Patel glanced at some notes on his desk, then continued. 'Our information is that the heroin was part of the deal to get him home. He'd been lying low in Spain and the job paid for his passage home. The boat and you were just a cover. A couple of men on a sailing trip in the middle of the summer. Local businessman, well known in the area. It was quite a good cover really. The Pembrokeshire Custom's cutter was only a routine check. We were lucky, I suppose.'

Patel's inquisition was like a game of chess. All the time, there was this feeling that if you attempted the wrong gambit, he'd leave you alone and isolated, like a King in check. Many of the details I had forgotten but he kept prompting me. The memory was painful.I'd been gullible and stupid and as I said before, unable to resist the temptation of taking one step too far every time.

'Well as you know McCandlass denies all knowledge of the heroin,' Patel said while fingering the upturned collar of his linen jacket. 'Just an ex-fisherman working a passage to get home, he says. He maintains that Carlos and Luigi hired him, and that you were their accomplice.'

'I categorically deny that.' He looked at me stony faced.

'So where does that leave us now?' I asked. 'What about the immunity from my debt?' He leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses and looked up at the ceiling.

'Unless we can get a lead on Carlos and Luigi, all the evidence is circumstantial. The offer of immunity is still open, if we can go to a trial. But we need more concrete evidence. We'll have to do some more detective work on those two Spaniards. If we can't tie it in with all the other crimes, it won't be worth going to court again. They're the missing piece in the jigsaw.'

'So my journey here has been a waste of time?' I said.

'No, not at all,' Patel replied quickly. 'We have established your story. You have convinced me. I think you'd convince a jury. The rest is up to us to put together a decent case. It's not easy you know.'

'Don't tell me about it. I sweated on my trial for six months. What do I do about Jenny McGuire?'

'I have something on that,' Miss Jeffreys said, pointing to the ream of paper she had previously passed to Patel. He replaced his glasses and picked it up off the desk.

'Nothing for the time being,' he said. 'We'll instruct the Mallorcan police. It may be best if you laid low for a while.'

'But I'm worried about her. She's my companion.'

'You must leave that to us. This set up is more involved than you think. We'll arrange for someone to meet you at Palma. It may be better if you stayed under their wing. That way, at least we'll know where you are.'

'Are you saying that my client is in danger?' Geoffrey interjected.

'Not if he does as he's told,' Patel said.

'But this woman has been kidnapped?' Geoffrey said.

'I think we have a lead on that.' Patel replied and held up the computer sheet. 'Miss Jeffreys will advise you of the arrangements.' He got out of his chair and walked towards me. 'Good luck Mr Dancing. We will be in touch,' he said and shook my hand.

Afterwards, I kicked my heels in an ante-room, while Geoffrey and Miss Jeffreys were in another room. It was some time before they reappeared. When she smiled properly her teeth gleamed like pearls.

'We've changed your flight,' she said. 'We're going to fly you out of Cardiff this afternoon. Someone you know will meet you outside the arrivals gate at Palma.'

'What do you mean, someone I know. How will I know them?' I replied.

'Just trust me,' she said. 'I assure you it's someone you know. But I can't blow their cover until you meet. You must trust us.' Geoffrey was standing behind her, nodding his head.

'How deep am I in all this?' I asked as he drove me to the airport.

'It's fairly involved. I think you're only a bit player really. You're not in any immediate danger and there's a long way to go to a trial. It might not even come to that. When it gets nearer to that though, then you might have to go to ground.'

'But what about Jenny McGuire?'

'You're not to worry. Patel's people have that in hand. The person in Palma will tell you all about it.'

'Who the hell is this person Geoff. Surely you know?'

'No I don't. Their cover can't be blown until you meet up.'

'Bloody hell,' I said. Somehow, they'd wangled a seat for me on a holiday flight. When we arrived at the airport the plane was ready for take off and I was rushed through.

'Take care David,' Geoffrey called out as I ran through the departure check-in. At that moment I felt lonelier than I'd ever been in my life.

### CHAPTER NINE

'David over here!'I looked in the direction of the voice and saw Lisa McWilliam waving enthusiastically at me from outside the arrivals gate.

'Hello Lisa. Fancy seeing you here,' I said when I reached her. Warm eyes greeted me.

'David you look tired. Was it a bad journey?'

'Not really, just been retracing a few old steps. What brings you here?'

'I've come to meet you, silly.'

'Well that's kind of you.' I noticed she had many more freckles than I'd remembered.

'Unfortunately there's someone I have to meet up with,' I added.

'Yes, I know. That's why I'm here.'

'How did you know I was due to arrive? I wasn't booked on this flight.' Slowly, the impish grin I was to get to know so well spread across her face. We were blocking the gateway. Holidaymakers with trolleys were trying to get by. I guided her to one side.

'There's been a bit of bother,' I continued. 'I have to meet up with someone regarding that.'

'Yes I know, it's me and I'm here.'

'Well you are a sweetie, but this is much more serious than you can imagine. You didn't see Jenny after I left did you? She didn't make the flight.'

'No I haven't seen Jenny. Perhaps this will help you understand.' She handed me a plastic card, a bit like a credit card, with her photograph on it. Underneath the photograph was a serial number. Confusion was breaking out in my brain. The business with the artist, the note at the hotel and then the meeting with Patel, had all conspired to put my nervous system on edge. I didn't know what was going on anymore. I shook my head. By then we were outside the main entrance, suitcases and trolleys continued to buffet into us. She led the way towards the car park. In the sunlight she turned the card over and pointed to the words on the other side. It said something about Lisa Alice McWilliam being an employee of Her Majesty's Government, specialising in diplomatic work.

'My car's over here. I'll explain while I drive,' she said. Heading along the motorway around Palma, I was still turning the card over in my hand.

'Lisa will you please tell me what's going on?'

'It's as the card says. I work for the Government. For MI6 actually. I'm involved in surveillance.'

'I thought you were a cellist in an orchestra?'

'I'm that as well, but that's only a cover for this work. You see there's a lot of underground political activity on this island and I monitor the people involved.' I turned my head and looked at her in disbelief, speechless disbelief. So she continued.

'I'm not involved in operations, arresting anybody, or anything like that. I just observe and pass on the information.'

'And what do you know about my problems then?' I asked sarcastically.

'I know about your worry over the red Cherokee Jeep. I know about Jenny disappearing and the note you received at your hotel. And I know about the trial you may be involved in and here I am, your very own guardian angel. Aren't you lucky!' By then we were haring along the Via de Centura, the motorway that rings Palma. She kept her eyes on the road but the impish grin remained on her face.

'Lisa I'm delighted to have you around, but I still don't understand. If you're so damn clever, tell me what's happened to Jenny McGuire then?'

'I don't know. She's given us the slip I'm afraid. Jenny is one of the people I have under surveillance.'

'I thought you two were supposed to be friends? You let her use your flat. You look after her dog.'

'That's true, but that's just a front. It was my job to befriend her, report on her movements. It's easier if she thinks I'm a friend.'

'But I had a note to say she'd been kidnapped, so where does that leave her now?'

'Not sure. But if you want my opinion, I think the note was meant to frighten you. To put you off seeing Mr. Patel.'

'It certainly frightened me, it did that all right.'

'It's a good job it did though. I mean we can help now. David this thing is far too involved for you to face by yourself, especially living over here.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Well, we're pretty sure there's an Irish terrorist group over here. We have reason to believe they are involved in the bombing campaign in England. There's a suspicion they use this island as a base.'

'Bloody hell! Is Jenny McGuire part of that?'

'She may be. We don't know, but she makes a lot of trips to England.'

'She has a daughter in school there!'

'Oh that's right enough.'

'She's supposed to be on her way there now. If she isn't kidnapped, where is she now? You tell me that then clever clogs.'

'We don't know, she gave us the slip at the airport. With you along, we hoped that wouldn't happen this time. I expect she got the ferry to Barcelona. She'd get to England from there. She'll surface at some time, to meet her daughter. She always does. It's what she gets up to in the meantime that's the problem. It's a good cover you see David.'

'Jesus Christ you people live in a strange world,' I said. 'We are talking about the same person are we? The woman who lives in the beach bungalow with Sophie? The artist who paints at your flat? I have got it right have I?'

'Yes David, you have it right enough.'

It was all becoming like a bad dream. Then I remembered the cold steely blue eyes, the violent mood swings, the reluctance to talk about anything pertaining to her. Jenny McGuire, a terrorist? I suppose it was a possibility.

'So what you're implying is that when she goes to England, to see her daughter, she blows up a couple of buildings and kills off a few people while she's there.'

'Whether she actually plants the bombs or is just involved, we don't know.'

I looked across at her again. The sun was highlighting the freckles on her face. Suddenly I realised she'd turned north off the motorway. We were on the road for Soeller.

'Hey, this isn't my turning!' I shouted.

'I thought it might be better if you stayed at my place for a while. That way I can keep an eye on you.' By then the grin on her face had almost spread from one ear to the other.

'You can relax though. I'm out most of the time. Anyway, from what Jenny told me I expect it'll feel like a second home,' she giggled. 'We Irish do gossip David. Mind you, you won't be able to try anything on with me, I'm a good Catholic girl and I'm trained in judo.'

'This is all one big bloody joke to you people, isn't it?'

'No David, it isn't a joke. These people are clever, as you've seen. To catch them, you have to be as clever as they are. All's fair in love and war.'

'Bloody hell!!' I said. She laughed.

Steep mountainous craggy peaks hover over the town of Soeller. At that moment, as we approached them, my nerves felt as jagged as their lofty summits. In South Wales I had come to a sort of acceptance of my situation. A realisation of where I stood. Knowing that Patel and Geoffrey had my best interest at heart had created a kind of terra firma. Lisa's revelations had blown that acceptance to smithereens.

'Lisa I haven't got enough clean clothes with me to last long at your place.'

'Don't worry about that. There's a street market once a week, I can get you some there.'

I shook my head again in amazement.

'You haven't seen a red Cherokee Jeep on your travels have you?'

'No, I haven't'.

'Well thank God for that. If you do, don't show that you know me, I'm sure they're watching me.'

'I'll remember that David.'

The big Peugeot laboured round the bends into Deia. For so long my life had been a mess and that moment I wondered where it was all going to end.

### CHAPTER TEN

My time with Lisa was a refreshing change. She was a slip of a girl who made light of problems. Sophie completed the 'menage a trois' at the apartment. Frustration was my main dilemma. It was considered too risky for me to go near my village, yet every other day she would visit the artist's bungalow to check on the canaries.

To help with my disguise I grew a beard and when I ventured out I wore a floppy hat that made me look like a hippy, a leftover from the drug filled times of the sixties. Most days I would lounge in the apartment, read novels and listen to her collection of CDs.

Exercise involved a traipse through the rocky paths of the Teix mountain that glowered over the town. On her way to work, Lisa would deposit me by a roadside track and pick me up at the same spot on her return. Whether it was her surveillance work or the music teaching I never knew.

'It's better that I don't tell you,' she replied when I asked. The cello would always accompany her though. 'It provides an alibi, just in case,' she would add.

She shopped, I cooked, was our arrangement. We'd eat in the evenings and afterwards, sitting on her balcony, I would puff on a cigar while she practised the cello. The haunting melodies conjured by her dextrous fingers would drift across the town in the clear night air. Teasing was a feature of our relationship. When she laughed the freckles on her face danced, like a riotous posy of flowers in a breeze. But it wasn't a romance. More like a young niece looking after an ailing uncle. You see, my desires were still entangled in the web of passion created by the artist's luxuriant body.

'What led you into all this skulduggery?' I asked her one evening after dinner.

'Oh it was all a long time ago,' she replied, picked up her cello and indicated with the bow that it was time to practice.

'Tell me, I'm interested,' I said. 'You have all this talent as a musician, but you spend half your time skulking around spying on people. It doesn't make sense.'

'It's something I don't like to talk about,' she said and fiddled with the tuning screws on the cello. By then we had become quite close, we could talk about most things, so I persisted.

'Talking about it helps sometimes,' I said. 'I've got the time, if you want to tell me. I've nothing else pressing,' I joked.

'Well it was when I was a kid,' she began. The subject was obviously difficult. She kept tuning the cello while she talked. 'I used to have a brother, Roy,' she said, then hesitated for a second while a faraway look came into her eyes. 'You wouldn't know,' she continued, 'but when you're a young girl, fourteen I was at the time, a big brother brings so much fun into your life. He used to make me laugh David. Oh, he was such fun. You know, always getting up to pranks. I would dote on his every word, hang on to his shirt tails, metaphorically anyway.' The faraway look was now fixed, she had given up tuning.

'We all used to live in Northern Ireland, in Newry, near the border. One big happy family we were, despite the Troubles. Then one night, he and his pals were coming back late from a dance in the South. They took a short cut through the lanes to avoid the border crossing and their car hit an IRA land mine. It was meant for the British soldiers, not them, but it killed the three of them outright. David he was only nineteen!'

I watched her eyes moisten, a tear trickled down her cheek. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand. I said nothing and she continued. 'Then, while I was at University I was approached. MI6 keep records on these things. They knew my background and at eighteen I was burning with ideals. Ripe for plucking I guess. Well I've always been observant, always had a photographic memory, it comes with being a musician. And I'm nosy, typically Irish probably. Anyway, the rest, as they say, is history.'

'Good God,' I said. 'But what made you come and live out here by yourself?'

'There was a job with the orchestra. That came first. I always wanted to travel and live in different places. Music can give you that. I've been in Berlin, done a similar thing there for a while. Then the Department said there was a role for me here, watching these people. So it all fitted nicely into place. And it's much warmer here than Ireland or Germany.' The impish grin was back.

'What about your parents. Don't you miss them?'

'They're both dead now.' I looked at her, my expression must have posed a question.

'No, not that. Cancer I'm afraid. Within a couple of years of each other.'

Listening to her play the cello I had always detected a passion, something more than just the melody. At first I thought it was her love for the music, but from that moment onwards I knew it was much more profound.

* * * * *

One hot afternoon Lisa was out and I was lounging on the balcony, watching the world go by, when I saw something that made me jump out of my seat. From my vantage point there was a view of the road that wound around the town. Along its route I spotted a red Cherokee Jeep negotiating its nose into a parking space. Grabbing my floppy hat I ran down the passageway taking the stairs two at a time. Nobody ran in that heat but I kept going, down through the cobbled terraces, only slowing to a walk at the main road. The Jeep was parked in a lay-by. Two or three times I walked past. There was no-one inside. The tinted windows prevented me looking for any further clues. A Palma number plate was the only mark of distinction.

The Caprice restaurant further along had tables and chairs outside. Looking at postcards in a gift shop, over the road, provided me with cover. Tourists occupied most of the tables, cameras and coloured shirts advertising their identity. In a corner a striped canopy shaded a spot where two men, dressed like locals, were sitting with their backs to me. One of them was smoking a cigar. He had a thickset neck and dark curly hair. I knew enough of his mannerisms to realise it was Carlos. Carlos, the man who had lied about building a factory. Carlos, whose coercion had persuaded me onto that boat, causing my financial ruin. I could feel my pulse racing like a hammer drill. Oh yes, I owed Carlos quite a lot for the last few years. Shuffling around the card stand to get a better view I could see that the other man was Luigi. Rounded shoulders, dark lank hair and a pockmarked face affirmed his features. My blood was boiling, my hands were shaking. I was fighting the urge to go and hit them.

* * * * *

'I've seen them!' I shouted.

'Seen who?' Lisa replied. Our voices echoed in the passageway of the apartment block. She was half way up the stairs. I grabbed the cello and led the way upwards. Sophie was getting under our feet. I had run back from the cafe while I could remember the license number. Pacing up and down in the apartment, like a caged tiger, I had wondered what to do next. Then I spotted Lisa's Peugeot pull up outside.

'Carlos and Luigi,' I said. 'They're the two men in the Jeep.'

'Are you sure?' she asked. By then we were inside.

'Of course I'm sure. They're sitting outside the Caprice. Go and ring your people, they can pick them up now.' The excitement in my voice caused Sophie to bark excitedly.

'David I can't think straight with this dog barking.'

'I've made a note of the license number,' I said holding up a notepad in front of her face. 'Lisa, they are still in town. The Jeep's parked by the old town wall. Come and take a look.'

Lisa could be very single minded. Obstinate, I used to call her when we had a tiff. Ignoring my pleas she tore the page from the notepad, brushed me aside and headed towards the bedroom, shutting the door in my face. For her surveillance calls she had a mobile phone. If it rang in the apartment she would always answer it in the bedroom, with the door shut. I never saw her dial a number on it either. It must have been twenty minutes before she came out.

'I've spoken to my boss. They're running the number through the computer now, but they don't want me to get involved. The people from Palma will pick up their surveillance. Those are my instructions.' She paused, her eyes checked to see if I was paying attention. The look on my face must have been incredulous. 'I'm doing Jenny McGuire a favour by looking after her animals. Her boyfriend, that's you, is sick and that's why you're staying with me. Got it?' My mouth opened to reply, but before any words came out she continued. 'You have glandular fever and I'm keeping an eye on you. They want it to remain like that and you're to keep a low profile. David, do you understand?'

'But they could go and arrest them now,' I argued. 'There must be a hundred crimes they could hold them on.'

'David my people know what they're doing. Until everything in your case ties in together it would be a waste of time.'

'What about my time in custody Lisa? What about the mess they made of my life? They wasted an awful lot of my time you know. Please just let me go and let their tyres down, put a brick through the window, just something Lisa, anything to make me feel better.' She looked at me stony faced.

'And then you'd blow my cover. Here I'm a music teacher. If you blow my cover you'll be playing with my life. Is that worth a brick through the window?'

My deepest regret was that I argued to the point of stupidity. In the evening I also allowed the drink to get the better of me, the only time in her company. In the morning her image standing in my bedroom doorway was a blur. A thumping hangover was creasing my forehead.

'David, I do think you should get up into the mountains and work off some of that alcohol,' she said.

'It's going to be too hot, I've seen the forecast,' I replied, trying to hide my head under the sheets.

'Well I'm not having you hanging around here all day. If you're not up in a few minutes I'll send Sophie in.' The dog had a curious habit of barking at me in bed. Jealousy I surmised, from seeing me prone with the artist, indulging in all that copulation. It was something I couldn't stand, so I got up. My pleadings remained futile and later in the morning I was deposited by the roadside track. On our way there I asked Lisa what she knew about the artist.

'I'm not supposed to divulge that sort of thing,' she said.

'You can tell me, I'm as implicated with her now as you are. Surely I'm entitled to know what I've let myself in for.'

'There's not a lot to go on in her background.'

'It seems strange to me,' I said. 'She has a daughter, she had a husband and she used to teach. What bust all that up and forced her into this nonsense?'

'As I've said her background is sketchy. We know her family have always been staunch Republicans. We do know her father and brother were killed by the army. There was some suspicion of gun running. They were both shot trying to get away in a car.'

'But she left Ireland and went to live in Canada.'

'That was because Martin was from there. They met at Uni in Dublin. I think they were very much in love. This thing with her family happened a long time after they went to Canada. Reading in between the lines of what she's told me, I'd say it was her Republicanism that broke up the marriage. I think she wanted retribution, she's the type. All I can guess is that Martin would have nothing to do with it. He's a lawyer you know.'

'Yes, she told me that.' I looked out of the car window. The mountains of the Teix range were accompanying us all along the roadside. 'She'd be the retribution type all right,' I said and remained looking out the window. 'What a waste,' I added. 'Two talented people plagued by revenge. You're both the same.' Her face turned to look at me.

'The difference is, David, that I don't plan to kill anybody. The bomb and the bullet have no place in my life. Justice is my motive. Like you, I'm trying to bring criminals to book.'

That day in the mountains, the temperature was high, the sun scorched my body, the rocky ground hurt my feet and I tired easily. The previous night's alcohol probably had something to do with it as well, but, with only a small bottle of water and a baguette to sustain me, I soon ran out of steam. After an hour or so, I made my way back down the track to hitch a lift back to the apartment. I guess my floppy hat, beard and the odd collection of clothes I wore gave me the appearance of a hobo. At least a dozen cars passed my upturned thumb before a sheep truck stopped.

'Deia?' I asked the driver. He was old, his skin dry like parchment. Alongside him, in the front seat, was a small young girl with brown hair, olive skin and flashing eyes.

'Deia. OK,' the man said and pointed to the trailer.

And so, sitting with a dozen ewes, bleating about their impending demise, I returned to Deia. To say I was not pleased with life or myself was an understatement. Living like a recluse and hiding behind some woman's pinafore were not my way of doing things. Back in Lisa's flat I took a shower, bundled together my few belongings and boarded the twelve fifteen bus back to my village.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At that time of year during the middle of the day the heat shimmered about a foot above the road's surface. On my way up from the village, dogs lay prone in doorways, only the flies around their heads moved. It was the siesta. Alone in my bungalow I pondered on my future. I decided firstly that the beard had to go. Half an hour of painstaking razor-work was required but the benefit was instantaneous. Then, rather than suffer my discontent alone, I took myself down to the Playa. I thought a sea breeze and a semblance of humanity might revive my spirits. By the time I reached the bay soft downy clouds were peppering the sky. Bright rays of sunlight beamed through the gaps onto the sea water. The whole scene made me think of the artist. She would like to paint that, I thought.

On the spur of the moment I decided to go and see if she had returned to her bungalow.Despite the problems that surrounded our association, I had missed her company. We had created some real passion together, something that had been absent from my life for a long time. But she hadn't returned. When I got there the bungalow was barred and shuttered and looked desolate, like a deserted holiday home. I turned again for the beach, but the sound of a car's engine stopped me in my tracks. I wondered if it was Lisa coming to check on the canaries and I hid behind the outside shed. Watching the driveway, a cold shiver crept down my spine when I saw the red Cherokee Jeep heading towards me. It stopped outside the front door. Then slowly, Carlos's bulky frame emerged from the driver's seat. I cowered lower, wondering if I'd been spotted. He moved in my direction. My heart was racing, my body shaking. Fortunately he was only dispensing the butt end of his cigar. A flick of his thumb and forefinger landed it near my feet. Luigi got out of the Jeep and they both walked to the rear hatchback and dragged out a large wooden box. They were close now, only a few feet away. At that moment all my years of anger and frustration were straining on a leash. I watched Luigi produce a set of keys from his pocket and unlock the front door of the bungalow. The box they were carrying looked heavy and they stumbled over the front step. Luigi swore as the box nearly slipped out of his hands.

'These bastards have been using me all along,' I cursed to myself under my breath. My blood was boiling. The driver's door of the Jeep was open and I could see the keys dangling from the ignition. Determined to inflict my wrath, I took a chance and ran from my hiding place. Grasping the keys, I kept moving round to the back of the vehicle, trying to keep out of their view. Squatting low, gasping for breath, I wondered what to do next. The answer appeared in front of me. On the floor of the hatchback was a double-barrelled shotgun. A box full of cartridges was alongside. Quietly I prised the shaft apart. Both barrels were loaded. I grabbed a few cartridges from the box, stuffed them in my pocket and, using the jeep as cover, crept along its far side. Why I did what I did, I don't know, but I was angry, mad angry. They were going to pay. I ran into the bungalow brandishing the gun. They were both coming out of the utility room, smiling, talking, joking.

'We meet again eh, Carlos,' I hollered. To emphasise my intent I pointed the gun at them and snapped the barrels closed. Bemused alarm clouded their expressions. They started to move towards me, threateningly, but my words stopped them in their tracks. 'You were kind enough to leave a cartridge in each barrel,' I said. 'I'd just love an excuse to pull the trigger.' A momentary silence prevailed while our faces became re-acquainted. I could see that they remembered me all right.

'There musta be some mistaka Señor Dancing,' Carlos said eventually. 'What is all this about?' His lips were trembling, his hands gesticulated with every word. I'd caught them off guard.

'I've waited a long time to stand in front of you two bastards again,' I said. 'You're not going to lie your way out this time.' Luigi shifted from one foot to the other.

'We mean no harm Señor Dancing. We are just delivering a parcel for Señora McGuire,' he said.

'It's what's in that parcel that worries me. Now I want you both to move very slowly and sit on that settee over there.' I gestured that way with the shotgun. They both edged awkwardly across the room. 'Slowly now please. Make one false move and I'll let you have both barrels.'

Like boxers at the start of a fight we circled warily around each other. I kept stabbing the shotgun out in their direction. It seemed to have the desired effect. Grudgingly they headed towards the settee. My insides were shaking like jelly. I was praying it didn't show. While I had them settled I grabbed the artist's telephone and dialled Lisa's number. I cursed to myself when her answer phone cut in.

'This is David Dancing here,' I said after the tone. 'I am at the house of Jenny McGuire and I'm holding two suspects who are known to you as Carlos and Luigi.' I spoke as boldly as I could. 'They have broken in and I'm holding them with their shotgun. I need some back-up to pick them up.' Then I paused, pretending to listen to a reply, nodded my head and began speaking again. 'Well could you get someone here as quick as you can, I don't trust either of them.' I pretended to listen some more. 'If you don't hurry I'll be forced to blow their heads off,' I added. What should I do next? I had given myself a little time, but Lisa could be out all day. Telephoning the local police would be pointless. Those two would plead innocence. They were delivering a parcel for the artist as they said and they'd obviously been given the keys to the bungalow. Without back-up from Lisa's people the police weren't going to help. Who were Lisa's people anyway? On the settee they were becoming fidgety. I tried talking to them, mainly to calm my nerves.

'Before the police arrive we have five minutes to catch up on old times.' I said. 'Firstly there's the little matter of a boat trip with Rory McCandlass.' They looked at me inquiringly. I continued, 'there just happened to be a few hundred kilos of heroin on board. What have you two pixies got to say about that then?' They both looked blank. I waved the shotgun to encourage their reply. Almost in unison, they shook their heads.

'We do not know whata you mean,' Carlos said, shrugging his shoulders.

'You're lying through your teeth man. You set me up. You told me you owned the boat. But you didn't own it. You knew what Rory was up to and about the heroin.'

'That is not true,' Luigi interjected. His hand swept the lank hair from his forehead and he made a move towards me. I realigned the gun at his head and Carlos's arm moved out sideways to restrain him.

'We don't know whata you mean Señor Dancing,' Carlos said. 'The boat was hired by us for the season. In our business it is a normal thing to do. We know nothing about heroin. If you say there was heroin on board, McCandlass must have smuggled it on.'

'A likely tale,' I said. He shrugged again. Deep furrows lined his forehead. He brushed his hand through his hair. 'It is the truth,' he said. 'now you must put that gun down or you'll get into trouble. We are only delivering some paintings from Palma, for Señora McGuire.'

'Do you always travel with a loaded shotgun?'

'These days there is not much work.' His arms spread out wide, pleading. 'We do odd jobs, lika thisa. If there is nothing else on, Luigi and I, we go into the mountains, shooting for rabbits. It passes the time. If we are lucky it pays a few pesetas.' The intervening years had not been kind to him. He'd put on weight, his jowls sagged, his face was florid. Luigi's demeanour was still taut and shiftily repulsive.

'What happened to the factory at Porto Cristo? What about the venture in Wales?' I asked.

'Ah, the recession,'Carlos said and again spread his arms out wide. For a second my concentration must have wavered. I hadn't noticed Luigi's hand move towards a flower vase on the small table alongside him. Suddenly it was hurtling in my direction. I ducked and it missed, but the reaction caused my finger to close on the trigger. The resultant explosion was deafening. In the close confines of the room it echoed like thunder. A mixture of fear and cordite vapour hung like a cloud in the air. Amazingly, the cartridge missed both of them. Where it ended up, I don't know, but at least it repelled Luigi's lunge. There was a wicker chair alongside me. I picked it up and like a lion tamer facing down a couple of big cats, I brandished it and the gun at them.

'Stand still or I'll shoot again,' I screamed. They both froze, wide eyed, like two deer mesmerised in the headlamps of a car. 'You can either listen to me, or you can get yourselves hurt,' I shouted. They were back on the sofa. I knew the toilet by the kitchen had security bars on the outside of the window. I also knew the door locked with a key. If I could manage to lock them in there, I would be relatively safe, at least until help arrived. 'Now I want you two in that toilet over there,' I said and pointed the way with the gun. They hesitated. 'Move, quickly,' I berated. Their strained faces snarled back and they swore at me. I dug the gun into Carlos's ribs. Eventually he moved.

'Señor Dancing there is no need for all this,' he pleaded. I prodded his ribs again. Somehow, with the chair and the gun, I was able to herd them towards the toilet. While they were off guard I rushed ahead and yanked the key from the door. Once they were inside I slammed it closed with my foot, inserted the key on the outside and turned it in the lock, while my nerves held. Then I began shaking again. I could feel moisture secreting out through my skin like a river in flood. I couldn't think straight, but their disgruntled rumblings from the toilet helped to focus my mind. What to do now? Who else could I turn to? Rodriguez came to mind. He was a local with influence in high places. He'd been a town councillor once, but they had to ask him to resign as he never paid his rates or his taxes. I dashed to the phone and dialled his number.

'Ra-ha Bar,' I heard his catarrhal tones respond.

'Rodriguez, it's David Dancing here,' I half whispered. 'I'm in a spot of bother. Can you hear me?'

'Who is this? The lina is very bada.'

'It's David Dancing,' I shouted. 'Now can you hear me?'

'Yes, that is mucha better.'

'Look Rodriguez, I'm going to have to be quick. I'm at Jenny McGuire's bungalow and I've caught two men breaking in. They had a shotgun, but I've managed to lock them in the toilet. Can you get the police?' There was a pause before he replied.

'You are very brave my friend,' he said eventually.

'Yes, yes. Never mind about that. Will you help? Will you ring the police?'

'For you my friend, I help. You take care though, they could be very dangerous men,' he said and rang off. Alone again with my thoughts, panic took hold.

'Señor Dancing, Señor Dancing,' the two in the toilet shouted. They were hammering on the door with their fists. 'Señor Dancing, you must help,' their clamour continued.

'What do you want? I'm not letting you out until the police arrive.'

'It is Carlos,' Luigi's voice protested. 'He is unwell.'

'I'm not falling for that trick. I was not very well after the boat trip either. The police will be here any minute.'

' Señor Dancing, it will be too late by then. He sick. I promise,' Luigi pleaded. I moved away to the front door allowing the fresh air to cool my brow. The pounding on the toilet door continued. I could see it begin to vibrate in its frame. I loaded another cartridge into the empty barrel and tried to think what to do. Running away flashed through my mind. I could leave them there; get myself back to Deia and Lisa before they caught up. My Mercedes was still parked outside my bungalow.

The toilet door was becoming looser in its frame, bulging outwards. They must have been continually shoving their bodies against it. If it continued like that they'd be out soon, then what? Would I really have the courage to shoot them? I doubted that, but I still believed their legitimate arrest was the only way of short-circuiting my redemption.

Above all else that's what I wanted most. Let's face it I didn't have much else going for me. I had to hold on. I prayed that Rodriguez had made that call. It was only a matter of minutes before my prayers appeared to have been answered. Firstly, I heard a car slow down and turn into the track to the bungalow. I almost began to smile. But my initial reaction was tempered when I recognised Rodriguez's blue Volvo chugging up the driveway. By then Luigi's bony fingers were poking through a gap in the door frame, feeling for the handle. Just in time, I beat him to it and grabbed the key from the lock.

'You don't want to leave these lying around my friend,' Rodriguez said. His voice made me jump. He was standing behind me. He must have come in while I went for the key. In his left hand was the box of cartridges, in his right he held a pistol that looked mean and menacing. A shiver of fear ran down my sweaty spine. His face bore a smile. When he looked like that it was difficult to know what he was thinking. Luigi was still hollering, 'Señor Dancing, Señor Dancing, you must help.'

'Shall I let them out?' I said to Rodriguez.

'It looks as though they are going to get out anyway,' he replied. By then half the door was protruding out of its frame. They must have found something in the closet to lever it with.

'Stand back you two,' I called out. 'I'm unlocking the door. I warn you though, I have reloaded the gun and I have a friend here who is armed as well.' I turned the key and they both dived out, nearly landing at my feet. I think they hoped that their momentum might bowl me over, but I was ready for that.

'Stand up,' I shouted.

Luigi struggled to his knees. His expression changed when he saw Rodriguez and he mumbled something to him in Spanish as he got to his feet. Rodriguez replied with words I didn't catch either, but I noticed a sickly smile form on Luigi's lips.

'My patience is wearing thin,' I said. 'I want you two back on the settee until the police get here.' I waved the shotgun. Carlos was struggling with his breathing, a lather of moisture covered his face.

'We are all old friends here,' Luigi said. 'There is no need for all this. Tell him Rodriguez.'

'Tell him I'll blow his head off if he doesn't do as he's told,' I replied. Rodriguez was still standing behind me. When I looked around, his face wore a deadpan expression. For a second I failed to notice that the pistol in his hand was pointing directly at me.

'It is you who has it wrong my friend,' he said. 'We are all old comrades here. On this island we have to stick together. There is always oppression. In the past it was from Franco, now it is the Government. Just lika our compatriots in Ireland, eh.'

### CHAPTER TWELVE

Much of what happened immediately afterwards remains a blur. Those two set about me with blows. Luigi's fists and boots, in particular, hammered into my body with vindictive pleasure. Rodriguez did little to restrain them, although his words did intervene when I was on the ground. Bound, gagged and blindfolded, I was bundled into the back of the Jeep. My knees were tied up into my chest and as we travelled the twisting tortuous roads of the island I rolled around on the floor like a human ball. When we stopped I was alone with my captors, Carlos and Luigi, the instigators of my downfall. Unable to see and cramped from being tied up, they had to drag me from the Jeep. The scents in the air and the accompanying sounds indicated somewhere on a sea coast. Between them, I was frog-marched through several doors and eventually down steps.

'You'll have to wait here until we decide what to do with you,' Luigi said as he ripped off my blindfold. His face showed utter contempt. They had confined me in a cellar with only a single light bulb for illumination. There was no window, two of the brick walls were covered with empty wine racks, there were a couple of rickety chairs, a few empty packing crates, but nothing to bring me any hope or comfort. Spitting out my disgust after Luigi had untied me proved futile. He made his way up three stone steps to a steel door and slammed it closed. I heard a bolt slide and a key turn on the other side. Brooding on one of the rickety chairs I wondered if Lisa had received my message.

During my captivity, food, usually rice and beans, was provided, morning and evening. I was allowed two visits a day to a closet at the top of the stairs. A plastic bucket was provided for other occasions. When I visited the toilet Carlos would stand sentry outside with the shotgun in his hand. They never allowed me to shut the door.

'You two must want something to do with your time, if watching me pee fascinates you,' I said on of my visits upstairs.

'Hurry up,' he snarled. 'Notice we do not lock you in as you did to us.'

'Why don't you shoot me and have done with it?' I asked.

'If it was up to us, that's what we would do,' he replied,'but it is not our decision. Our chief has to come over from the mainland. It will be up to him.'

'Well it's nice to know I command such notoriety. When will that be?' He shrugged his shoulders.

Hours became irrelevant. Without daylight I counted the days by the food visits; they always followed the same procedure. Luigi would bring in a tray while Carlos stood in the doorway with the gun. Across the passage from the toilet was another door that led into the house. When I used the toilet I tried listening for sounds on the other side. Occasionally cooking smells drifted through but Carlos's bulky frame always prevented any real reconnaissance. Whenever I became too inquisitive he would prod my ribs with the gun and hurry me along. Initially, boredom was as much of a problem as fear. I requested a radio and a newspaper. They provided novels and puzzle books. Formulating a plan of escape filled many hours. My only hope was on a visit to the toilet, there was no other way out. But I would have to overpower both of them to achieve that and they had the gun. After a few days, depression set in.

'The chief has arrived,' Luigi announced on what must have been the fourth morning of my capture. 'When you have finished your breakfast he will be down to see you.'

'The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast, eh Luigi. Please give him my apologies for not having shaved.' I had not shaved since the beginning of my captivity. It had become one of my little niggles. Something I could have a go at them about. When they were around, I would put on a show of bravado and become argumentative, just to annoy them.

'Very funny. You not laugh so much soon,' he said. By then my nerves had begun to wilt. Every time I heard their movements outside the door it brought on the shakes. I kept wondering if it would be my last meal, my last day.

Later that morning a tall, heavy-set man wearing a baseball cap, dark shades, a shiny black leather jacket, blue jeans and smoking a big cigar, appeared in the cellar. He had thick rubbery lips and a stubbled beard and what I could see of his face certainly wasn't going to win any beauty contests. Gold rings flashed on three fingers of each hand.

'And this is the famous Señor Dancing,' he said. I was always taught, if you weren't selling anything to keep your mouth shut, so I said nothing and remained on the rickety chair. He looked at me menacingly. 'You make it very difficult for us my friend,' he continued. 'If you would only not meddle in the past, we would leave you alone. What have you to say?'

'What's done is done,' I replied and shrugged. 'There's no going back now.' He puffed on the cigar. The butt end was stickily wet with his saliva.

'What do you say Carlos?' he said to Carlos in English. 'Should we finish him off now or could he be of use to us?' The old goat looked hard at me. Maybe, I caught just a trace of compassion in his eyes. He replied to the man in Spanish, but I understood enough to gather that he thought I could be used as a hostage. I also caught the word McCandlass in his reply. The big man took another long draw on his cigar. For a moment his face lit up and then he gabbled back at Carlos, who shrugged his shoulders in response. They both looked down at their feet before Carlos replied. I could understand in what he said the words 'message' and 'coded number'. When he finished he made a gesture with his index finger across his throat. We all looked at the big man.

'For someone who is in such trouble, you have very little to say my friend?'

'All I'll say is that the authorities know about my connections with these two. By now they will know that they have kidnapped me from Mrs McGuire's bungalow. I telephoned from there. If anything happens to me, their necks are on the line as well as mine,' I said, pointing in their direction. The big one looked at Carlos, who nodded his head. He puffed again on the cigar and blue smoke curled like a halo above his head. Luigi spat something out about they should have dealt with me at the bungalow. We glared at each other.

'We give them a deadline,' I heard the big one say to Carlos. 'Dos dias', he said, then turned and made his way heavily up the stone steps. The other two followed on behind.

'Who am I dealing with?' I asked when they reached the door. 'What organisation do you represent?'

'Friends of the Earth,' Carlos scoffed. Luigi turned to face me.

'So far, you have been very lucky,' he said pointing his index finger at me. 'In two days it will be our turn, eh.' Then he turned around, walked outside and slammed the door closed. At least I had bought a little time. Two days. Not long in a lifetime. Maybe it was all I had left.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dampness hung in that cellar like an early morning mist over a river. I developed a cough and the sweats took hold of my body. The facilities offered meant I was unable to wash properly and I started to smell badly. My bowels wouldn't retain anything for long, continually I had to resort to the bucket and the cellar reeked of its contents. Horror filled dreams occupied what little sleep I managed. My body being thrown down a disused mineshaft was a continual nightmare.

Scratch marks on the wall became my calendar. Each food visit was indented on the brickwork with a nail. I was becoming desperate. For most of those two days I spent my waking hours trying to formulate a plan of escape. Constantly, I went over and over in my mind their procedures, looking for a chink, trying to visualise a situation I could use to get out of there. But the opportunities didn't materialize, hours seemed endless, dragging on interminably between each food visit. My only contact with life was those two and I continually asked about my fate.

'What news?' I would say to Carlos out of morbid curiosity.

'We have made a call and await a reply,' was his standard response. Usually while picking at his teeth with a toothpick as he stood in the doorway with the gun.

'What'll you do if there is no reply?' I said on one occasion. Luigi made a gesture with his forefinger across his throat.

'In a few days we decide,' Carlos said and spat out the extracted muck from his teeth.

'I would like a pen and paper,' I said on another occasion.

'What for?' Luigi asked, scowling.

'If I am going to die I want to write a message for my loved ones.' He scoffed, a mocking sort of sound, as though I was of no importance. I had begun to niggle him about his sparse powers of communication, on that occasion I let it rip.

'What sort of reply is that? Can't you manage even a limited conversation? Doesn't your intelligence run to that?' He moved towards me threateningly.

'Luigi,' Carlos called out, and he backed off.

Hours rolled meaninglessly into days. I wondered if I was beginning to hallucinate. Those two were only with me for brief periods, maybe five minutes at a time, twice a day. Afterwards I couldn't remember what was said. The pen and paper certainly never materialized. Why I had asked, I don't know, as I had no family anyway.

In moments of real panic moisture leaked out of me like water through a colander. I began to lose weight. My trousers already rank with filth were sliding off my hips. My state of mind became erratic. I failed to notice the two day deadline pass. It was only when I scratched another mark on the wall, after breakfast, it registered. A couple more days went by. I said nothing about the deadline, neither did they.

On what must have been the eighth day of my captivity I was conscious of being hurried up and down to the toilet with more urgency than usual. They rushed me back down to the cellar, scurried up the steps and were quickly gone, leaving me alone again to face my hours of solitude and silence. During the day I would often try and listen for sounds from upstairs. Sometimes, if I pressed my ear against the steel door, I could detect movement from above. The scraping of a chair, the sound of footsteps. That particular day it had been quiet for a long time. I was dozing on the rickety chair when suddenly I detected a sort of scratching noise from outside the door. Usually, when they were on their way, I heard their feet on the stairway. That time I hadn't. I froze rigid in the chair. Was this it then? The end. Was my execution nigh?

Next, I heard the key turn very quietly in the lock. Not like their usual heavy handed yanking at all. The bolt slid slowly across, but on this occasion nobody entered. I stayed in the chair and began to shake. Perhaps there was a regular assassin out there. Someone with orders to kill me? Carlos and Luigi weren't killers. Incompetent crooks maybe, but not killers. For minutes I sat rooted with fear, awaiting the worst. But nothing happened, so I tiptoed to the door and listened.

Outside, silence prevailed, no voices, no movement. I tried the door handle. Gently at first, moving it up and down with my palm. Nothing. Maybe he was at the top of the stairs with a gun, waiting to take me out as I tried to escape? I pushed the door open. Inch by inch at first, then I shoved it hard. Bang!! It clanged back against the wall. The sound of metal on brick echoed through the cellar. In fear I dived to the ground. On my knees I thought I presented less of target, so I peeped out. The light in the passageway was dim, but there was no-one on the stairway. Expecting the worst, listening all the time, I climbed warily. At the top I eased open the door and dodged back, to avoid the imaginary bullets.

Another passage led to a kitchen. Everything neat and tidy in an old fashioned way. Cups on hooks, plates on a dresser, a farmhouse I guessed. The room was large. Brown wall tiles, a hooded stone fireplace filled a corner. Natural light, for the first time in days, made me blink. I kept moving my head, darting this way and that, waiting for someone to pounce. A gloomy hall. I paused and listened. Somewhere in the distance I could hear waves breaking on a shore. Floorboards creaked under my feet but apart from that the house was quiet. At the end of the hallway rays of sunshine permeated in through stained glass, above mahogany doors. My weak arms struggled with their stiffness while trying to open them.

Outside the sharp glare of sunlight temporarily blinded me. Like a drunk I staggered, reaching out to anything for support. Once I'd attained some composure, the sea air tasted like nectar. Grabbing the waistband of my ill-disciplined trousers, I ran down a rough track driveway, still half expecting the fire of a gun to end my progress. A shrubbery, about twenty yards from the door was as far as my legs would take me. Dense foliage provided shade and time to recover my breath. Mediterranean brilliance made my eyes water uncontrollably. All that exertion after days of inactivity made me giddy. Everything started to go round, my senses took a time to adjust. When they did I could see my prison. I looked back at a rambling old farmhouse surrounded by pine trees. Three storeys, constructed in sandstone blocks, standing tall on a ridge. Broken bikes, wrecked cars, old washing machines lay everywhere. It looked deserted, although the windows were curtained. The long driveway led to a narrow road. Beyond that was the shoreline and the sea. I began to walk uncertainly. The road hugged the shoreline for a while before climbing steeply upwards. In the distance, near the brow of the hill, a flash of sunlight on a car window caught my eye. I struggled to focus. When the car was in the clear I could see it was a Renault. A red Renault. The old stand-up type. Instinctively I knew it was the artist who had turned the key to let me out.

After that, every stride was painful, every yard exhausting. Pine trees fringed the shoreline. I grabbed at some of them for support as I stumbled along, still half anticipating a bullet. Fear kept me moving. Staggering up the incline to where I had seen the Renault was gut wrenching. The car had gone, of course, and I collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath. Addled and bewildered I lay in some shade, feeling nauseous and confused. In between panting and coughing, I wondered. If it was the artist who had let me out, why hadn't she taken me away in her car. At that moment I could only muse on another example of her ambiguous nature. Wearily and in desperation I trudged along that road, stopping when the pain became unbearable. Up and down it dipped through a wood. There were no houses, no people, just shoreline and pine trees. My prison was certainly an isolated spot.

I must have gone about two miles when, in the distance, I heard a sound like a chainsaw buzzing. When the sound got nearer I hid behind a bush. Then, like a bee, an old Vespa scooter, grey, with a running board, buzzed from a bend in front of me. I jumped into the road and waved frantically. On board was a hefty man, wearing a flapping parka jacket. Perched precariously on his head was a horse riding cap. It looked as though he was going to ignore me. He yanked the machine to the other side of the road and it whizzed by almost dodging around me. Then, to my surprise, in a cloud of grit and dust the tiny wheels skidded to a halt a few yards away.

'Can I help you my boy?' The man on board said. Above the scream of the high pitched engine I could just detect an Irish accent. Was he one of them I thought? My mind was still racing wildly, my heart pumping erratically, partly from fear and partly from the exertion it had taken me to get that far. I had to be careful.

'Somebody attacked me and stole my car,' I shouted. He turned off the engine. 'I'm trying to get to a telephone,' I said and realised I was still shouting.

'You look in a bad way son. Are you sure you're all right?' His face was cherubically rotund. He seemed pleasant enough but I still wasn't sure.

'I'm feeling a bit weak. I've been out all night,' I said.

'Hop on. I'll take you back to my place.'

'Where are we?' I asked. He restarted the engine. To hear his reply I had to move in closer. It was then I noticed the clerical dog collar.

'We're on the peninsular of Salines. Danny Rogers is the name. I'm the pastor around here. My place is at Saint Jordi. We can get you cleaned up back there.'

Bouncing along on that Vespa, I clung onto Danny Rogers' body for dear life. How I survived the journey to Saint Jordi I'll never know. All the way there the tiny engine throbbed numbingly between my knees. My eyes streamed with moisture in the slipstream, my neck jarred with every bump in the road and by the time we reached his shaded villa, every sinew in my body was screaming. Danny Rogers, though, was my saviour, an apostle of the Lord. Only this one delivered me to my temporary heaven on a nineteen sixties Vespa. He ran me a bath and gave me clean clothes. Mine reeked of excrement and sweat and had to be burned. He cooked me scrambled eggs then, in the cool of his stone walled study, I related my story, beginning at the time I first met Jenny McGuire. He listened with large doleful brown eyes, nodding and commiserating when I faltered. Without the riding hat he looked more his age, mid sixties I guess. His hair, which once would have been ginger and tightly curled, was now grey and bald on top.

'Well now David you must tell all that to the police,' he said when I'd finished. 'It's the only way out for you my boy.'

'I guess you're right Father,' I replied. 'But will they have enough clout to deal with these terrorists?'

'The law around here is the Guardia Civil, at Llucmajor. But first you must sleep. When you're rested I'll take you there myself. Today I have my visits to make. Tomorrow we'll go to Llucmajor.'

'You are very kind Father.'

'The Lord's work is about helping people.' His big eyes rested on me. I could feel them searching the corners of my mind. 'There is one thing you can do though, while you rest.'

'What's that Father?'

'You can pray.'

'I've been doing a lot of that recently,' I joked. He looked at me meaningfully.

'But have you actually asked the Lord for help David. Have you said, look Lord, I have this problem, I need your help. Have you done that?'

'No I suppose I haven't done that.'

'You try it David. I know it'll work.'

'Will he pay off my debts to the Revenue?'

'No of course He won't,' he chuckled. 'But if you ask, He'll give you the strength to sort it out. I can promise you that.' And so, in Danny Rogers' spare bedroom, I prayed and slept. The room faced the main street. When sleep came, the sounds outside were obliterated, blocked out, as though an eiderdown had been pulled over my woes.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

'Have you your papers?' a short, dark haired policeman, with a goatee beard and bad acne asked. I was at the offices of the Guardia Civil at Llucmajor. Situated on the main road, high ceilinged draughty rooms, in what used to be a castle, surrounded an internal courtyard. Danny Rogers had taken me there on his Vespa. He had been prepared to wait but I'd taken enough of his time. He had calls to make, more lost souls to find.

'I'll be all right, honestly Danny,' I had said.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, yes. You've been too kind already.'

'Well I'll be away then. Will you promise me one thing though David?'

'What's that Father?'

'That you'll keep praying. If you do I'm sure you'll make it through.'

'I'll try and remember that Father. Thank you for everything.' We shook hands. Then in seconds he was gone whizzing across the courtyard with the parka flying in the breeze.

'Of course I haven't got my papers,' I said to the policeman. 'I keep telling you, I was locked in the cellar of an old farmhouse, by a group of terrorists, for over a week. Have you managed to get through to Lisa McWilliam? She knows all about this.' The policeman looked at me blankly.

'We have no knowledge of this Lisa McWilliam,' he said. A cooling fan was circulating above his head. I had explained my circumstances to another man. His response had been to fill in a form. He wanted details of my address, my bank account, place of birth, enough information to write an autobiography. Then, for half an hour, I was forced to cool my heels, until this other flunky appeared.

'Perhaps you had better take us to this farmhouse,' he said. 'Where did you say it was?'

'Down the peninsular of Salines. But I have no wish to go back there. I've only just escaped. If you're not going to help I demand to see the British Consul or Lisa McWilliam, who is a British Government agent.' His face bore a look of indifference.

'Señor Dancing, you are free to contact who you like, but if you say you have been kidnapped you must show us the place or we will not be able to help.' I stared open mouthed. This ordeal was becoming unbearable. He began shaking his head as he spoke again.

'Failing that you are free to go home and your complaint will be investigated. We can do no more.'

'The farmhouse is on the road to the Cap,' I said. I was sitting in the back seat of one of the Guardia's green and white Nissan four wheelers. Two different sidekicks sat up front. The driver was moustachioed with a wide girth and arms like tree trunks. The other one, who spoke English and smoked continuously, was thin and wiry with slick, black hair. They both wore disinterested expressions. The journey was funereal. While we travelled, they ignored me and moaned to each other, in Spanish, about their domestic problems.

'There it is. There on the right,' I said when I spotted the driveway. The house looked the same as when I had left, except for a small Seat car parked outside the front door.

'You must be careful, these men are armed,' I pleaded. 'I promise you they locked me in the basement of this place for nearly a week, against my wishes.' They took no notice. The Nissan crawled up the driveway.

'You wait here,' the passenger one said, then sauntered towards the front door.

'They are very dangerous men, probably terrorists,' I continued to the moustachioed one. The other one knocked on the mahogany door as though he was making an everyday house call. The door opened and a slim woman in her early thirties peered out. She smiled like she knew him. They talked for some minutes, then she looked in my direction and laughed. He slouched back to the vehicle and tucked his head in the window. 'Would you come with me please.'

The woman was still waiting by the door. She had dark, wavy hair and brown eyes that held my stare. Attractive and fresh faced, she wore a green jumper and tight black slacks. The policeman spoke to her in Mallorquin. The gist of it was that I claimed I had been held prisoner at her house against my wishes. I watched the woman's eyes crawl all over me. The policeman then looked at me.

'Señor Dancing, this is Adela Cruz, who is the wife of the owner. She says she has been away for a fortnight, visiting her mother in Madrid. Her husband has been in Barcelona, taking care of business.' He turned back to the woman and asked her if she had ever seen me before.

'No,' she replied with contempt.

' Señor Dancing, I ask you, have you ever seen this lady before?'

'No. I wasn't allowed out of the cellar. I only saw the men known as Carlos Lopez and Luigi Ruiz and another man, who they referred to as their chief. Let me show you the cellar where they kept me.' The man spoke again to the woman. She jabbered back, expressing annoyance, her hands exemplifying every word. She was expecting her husband that evening with the children. There was a meal to prepare and the beds to make. The officer said some more. Reluctantly she gave in and led us into the hallway, emphasising her dissatisfaction by continuing to wave her arms while she talked. The kitchen was as I remembered. She pointed towards the passage and I led the way.

'This was the place down here. This is where they kept me. That was the toilet they made me use,' I said and pointed as we passed the closet door. The cellar was mostly as I had left it. My bed of boxes and the chair were still against the wall. But the bucket and any bits and pieces I may have left were gone. The policeman looked around and then turned to face me.

' Adela and Santos Cruz have lived in this house for ten years. They are well known in the area. Señor Cruz is a local councillor. He is known to us in town. I am sure you must have made some mistake.' Ha, a councillor, just like Rodriguez, I nearly said, but I held my tongue on that.

'I swear to you that I was kept down here as a prisoner. Locked in by that steel door,' I said and went and banged my fist on it. 'Maybe they broke in when the family were away? My fingerprints will be on this chair. That's where I sat.' He shrugged and led me back up the stairs. The woman was chopping vegetables. He asked her if there had been any evidence of a break-in while she'd been away. She looked at him mockingly and slammed the knife down on the sink. Then, like a river in flood, words of virulent anger flew from her mouth, her arms conducting each sentence. The essence of it all was that we were welcome to look, but if we were not gone in five minutes she would phone the local Commandant.

'Alfonso Mercedes is a friend. His wife and I play tennis together,' she added. The policeman and I moved quickly away. The house was very old, full of large rooms and panelled corridors. He made a big point of illustrating the unimpaired state of the doors and windows. The woman's voice, still castigating, echoed from below as we toured. Eventually we left in a hurry. Climbing back into the vehicle afterwards I felt stupid. I was very tired and beginning to feel depressed.

'Well if you people don't believe me I will have to speak to the British Consul,' I said, with a sigh back at the offices in Llucmajor. The one with the goatee beard looked resigned. He made me repeat all the details while he took notes for a statement. It required typing and only then was I allowed to phone the consulate at Palma, who were almost as unhelpful. Lengthily, I explained to a man with a Birmingham accent, about my captivity and my involvement with the Crown Prosecution Service and Lisa McWilliam.

'We know nothing about her,' he said. 'We can contact the relevant department in London, but today is a Saturday. I doubt if anybody will be there.'

'What about my captivity and the criminals who incarcerated me?'

'You can do no more than you already have done,' the man said. This is a foreign country. The implementation of the law is a local affair. If there has been any wrong doing the Guardia will investigate and we will get a report in due course.'

'But I'm stranded on the eastern side of the island. I've got no transport or money?'

'Have you any money at home?'

'Well, yes. There's a small amount of cash hidden in the attic.'

'Then you shouldn't have difficulty getting a taxi. If you give me your address, I'll be in contact when I've heard from London.'

'Well thanks very much. You've been a lot of help,' I said after dictating my address and slammed down the phone. Another twenty minutes elapsed before my statement was ready for signature. Then a taxi from the square in the town took me back to my bungalow. At that point I suppose I should have telephoned Lisa, but I was too tired to do anything more than sleep. Careful not to put on any lights, I shuffled the dressing table across the bedroom door and set my alarm for first light. I was taking no chances. Those two could still be looking for me.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The local fishing boats were still out in the bay when I awoke. In the dark their masthead lights flickered on the horizon. Quickly I threw on some clothes, stuffed my personal papers into a holdall, then sneaked out of the back door before first light. Thankfully my Mercedes was still in the parking lot. This praying business of Danny Rogers was becoming a habit. I indulged in some more while I turned the ignition key.

'Thank you Lord,' I uttered when the engine fired into life. I drove through the village on sidelights. The dawn broke along the west coast road and I kept my foot hard down. At Estellencs, the sun was still hiding behind the mountain, while a patch of mist over the sea clouded that view like a curtain.

When I reached the apartment block at Deia I instantly knew something was wrong. As I climbed the stairway to Lisa's apartment, my body shivered, as though I had a bout of flu. Then, when I tried the door handle, it opened. Locking the door was something Lisa was fastidious about. Even when I used to pop downstairs to pick up the mail, she would nag me about locking the door. It was one of the things they trained her in I guess. Inside a strange smell hit my nostrils. An aroma I half recognised from somewhere, but at that moment couldn't think where.

'Lisa are you in?' I called out. There was no reply. I was convinced something was wrong. She was always an early riser and if she'd been in, either the radio or a CD would be blasting music. If she'd gone out, the door wouldn't have been left unlocked.

'Are you still in bed?' I called out. 'You haven't locked the door, you naughty girl.' My room was as I had left it. I dumped my holdall on the bed and checked the bathroom, then the kitchen, calling out her name. The door to her room was closed.

'Are you decent? I'm coming in?' I shouted. There was no response to my knock so I barged in. For a second, in the doorway, I froze.

'You bastards!!' I screamed.

Her half clothed body lay sprawled on the bedroom floor, limp in an untidy heap, with her arms and legs at cock-eyed angles. Around her neck a nylon stocking had been knotted. At the side of her head, a hole the size of a large coin, exuded blood.

'Lisa, my God, what have they done,' I cried out and ran towards her. Trying to lift her body proved futile. At each attempt one of her limbs fell back on the floor. The slime of blood on her skin added to the difficulty. I gave up, sat alongside her and held her head in my arms while I stroked the wild red hair. The freckles weren't dancing anymore, all the vitality and colour had gone, drained like a flower snapped off at its root. Tears welled in my eyes. They ran down my chin and dripped onto her face.

The telephone rang. Before I could move her answer phone cut in. Hearing her voice replying, listening to its vibrant chirpiness, half convinced me she was still alive. Unfortunately my eyes told a different story.

'Lisa, it's Jenny. I'm back.' The artist's voice crackled out of the speaker on the answer phone. 'Just ringing to see how you are. Thanks for dropping Sophie off. She was snug in her bed when I got in.' Suddenly, I remembered the strange smell. Cordite vapour. It had hung in the air at the artist's bungalow after I had inadvertently fired the gun. That meant the shooting was recent.

'When you get in perhaps you can give me a call,' the artist concluded and rang off. Numbed, I slumped in the leather chair by the balcony door. The same chair I had sat in to watch the artist paint and listen to Lisa practise her cello. Two women who I had loved in different ways. I used to think they were friends. Now Lisa was dead, murdered. Was the artist the killer? For a long time I sat in there, almost in a trance, while visions of all those crazy people drifted through my mind's eye. Carlos, Luigi, Rory, Rodriguez, Lisa and the artist. Their faces swarmed in my head, buzzing through my brain like bees in a hive. A car horn in the square below brought me round. I had to do something. Lisa was dead. I looked down and saw her blood on my hands. I had to try and think what to do next.

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The cemetery at Deia sits alongside the church, on a hill, at the top of the town. A watery sun peeped over the humped ridge of the Teix and we all stood like statues while the priest led the service. Danny Rogers was there. When I phoned he had comforted me, his presence added consolation. A collection of untidy beards and disorganised hair distinguished her friends from the orchestra. They looked forlorn. The villagers had tearful faces. Lisa had taught their children piano, violin and cello, educated them in Beethoven and Listz. They knew her smile, remembered her freckles, listened while she berated their pianissimo. Then, in the corner, huddled together, a grim faced, heavy-set bunch, in dark coats, suits and city ties, stood out from the rest. From her other work, they looked strained and intent on revenge. One with eyes of static intensity had interrogated me on the previous day. On the sidelines the Guardia hovered. Now they believed about my captivity. The Consulate had been in touch. Details from Patel had flashed down faxes, filled up e-mails. I had almost acquired a sort of notoriety.

Carlos and Luigi had disappeared. The Jeep dumped, their villas vacated leaving no forwarding address. My guess was a boat to the mainland or even Sardinia. Anyway, a search was under way, airports and ferries were being checked, too late I feared. The artist was being held on suspicion at the women's prison. I had been forced to identify her. No words were exchanged, but her steely eyes never wavered when we faced each other. Imprisoned by their glare, my knees trembled. Rodriguez had been released on bail, prices would be going up in the Ra-ha Bar. Adela and Santos Cruz remained a mystery.

The church bell tolled while the priest squeezed out his last words. A breeze fluttered a page of his prayer book and as I stood there, I recalled Lisa's wild red hair, the posy of freckles and the impish grin. We'd organised a plaque for the small plot where her ashes were buried. A shaft of sunlight touched its edge as the bell emitted its final toll.

Lisa Alice McWilliam

Musician

County Donegal

Ireland

1963-1998

'Now are you sure you're going to be all right my son?' Danny Rogers asked when we moved away and stood by the gate. It was a metal affair that clanged each time it closed.

'I think so. They've found me an apartment in Soeller. I've got new papers, a false name and a new minder. Mind you this one isn't nearly as pretty as Lisa.' I pointed to Sergio. Danny Rogers laughed. Sergio was six foot three and possessed the build of a second row rugby forward. Like Abbott and Costello we shared dusty rooms, just off the main square in Soeller. Around the apartment he had a habit of whistling tunelessly to himself. Already he had begun to grate on my nerves.

'This man Patel I was telling you about is coming over with my Solicitor at the end of the week,' I said to Danny Rogers. 'They want me to go back to Britain but the Guardia have said 'no' until the loose ends of this murder have been resolved.'

'Do you want to go back?' Danny Rogers asked.

'Not really. The thought of all that cold weather doesn't have much appeal. If the case against Rory McCandlass ever reaches any kind of conclusion I'll have to go back but, in the meantime I'd prefer to string it out here. That's if I don't get murdered first.' He chuckled.

'You must keep praying David. Are you praying?' he said and inclined his head at an angle, close to my face, and stared. It was my turn to chuckle.

'Tell me Danny, where does this God bloke of yours figure in all this?' I said pointing at the cemetery. 'Lisa McWilliam never did anybody any harm.'

'Maybe not, but she's gone to a better place David. None of us can choose how or when we go. It's what we do while we are here that's important.'

'But that's no way to die. Murdered. Strangled and shot in her own home.'

'I agree, but we must pray that she finds peace. For her sake David, you must do that.' He looked away and then looked back at me. 'In a way she died for you. Perhaps that's the purpose behind all this. To give you the opportunity to put the wrong-doing right. Maybe that's the test for you?'

'There are other ones I would prefer.'

'Oh there's lot's of things we would all prefer. It's what we are faced with that's reality,' he said.

The artist had always enthused about the light at Deia. That day, at the cemetery, I remember there was a special sharpness about it, a clarity that accentuated the images. Around me, the odd shapes and features of the people, their beards, their clothes, their hair, resembled a painting by Renoir. Lisa would have liked that. Agegypius Monachus is a predator of Mallorca. A black vulture, with a massive wingspan, it circles high above the island's rocky peaks, nesting on inaccessible perches. Occasionally, they will float majestically in the sky above your head, hovering, watching, weighing up the odds. Flying between the sun and the graveyard, at that moment, one of them created a shadow above us, darkening the ground where we stood. I felt a shiver and hurried Danny Rogers down the hill to the waiting cars.

* * * * *

'The Guardia will want to keep you here for another week,' Patel said. 'After that I feel it would be better to get you away.' We were sitting in a restaurant in Palma, a week after the funeral. Geoffrey was toying with his veal. Sergio was at a table by the door, on his own, sipping water, pretending not to look bored.

'I'm happy here Vee. What am I going to do back home? Nobody's going to try anything on with him around.' I pointed to Sergio.

'It'll be more difficult for them to find you at home,' Geoffrey said. 'You're more likely to be spotted here. In London or even Cardiff we can lose you. It's not so easy here.'

'I don't know that I want to be lost. I spent enough time on my own, in that damn cellar.'

'I know a little about the frustrations of captivity,' Patel interjected. 'I was born near the India, Pakistan border. Always fighting and wars there. The only way out for me, the only way to avoid conscription, was to obtain a qualification. I chose Law. At first I studied by correspondence course, then I got a grant from the Indian government, for a degree course at Aberystwyth University. The government paid my passage and gave me ten pounds spending money,' he sniggered. 'It was October when I arrived in Wales. From then until the following spring I never went outside the University building. You see, after India the Welsh winter was far too cold for me.' We all laughed.

'David we are flying home tomorrow,' Geoffrey said. 'I'd be happier to know you were following on soon.'

'Without work there'd be nothing I could do at home. To work I need to have my qualifications and some evidence of a track record. I can't do that with a false name.' Patel scratched his nose.

'H'm,' he said. 'Maybe something could be arranged. Your case involves the murder of a Government minister.' He paused and scratched his nose again. 'You see when it comes to a trial there'll be a lot of preparatory work to do. We need to go over and over your evidence. Practice it, hone it, make sure it sounds right. It all takes time. I will need you to be close at hand when we do that.' Geoffrey nodded his head knowingly. I toyed with my merluza, pushing it round the plate, while I tried to think of a way out.

'I don't know. I'll have to think about it. What about Jenny McGuire. What'll happen to her?' I asked.

'That I don't know,' Patel replied. 'At the moment there's no crime they can pin on her. They'll detain her for a while though. A spot of coercive interrogation I guess.' I winced.

'I feel such a fool dragging you both into this mess,' I said.

'Nonsense dear boy,' Geoffrey said. 'Lawyers and Prosecutors thrive on the pursuit of justice.' His South Wales accent sounded strangely out of place in those Mediterranean surroundings. He had given up on his veal and was picking at the vegetables.

The next day there was another meeting with the Guardia, details of my involvement with Carlos and Luigi were discussed. With Patel there I felt more confident, he had a way of cutting through the hogwash. It transpired that they both had criminal records. Mostly for petty crimes and embezzlement, but they were also under suspicion for connections with ETA. The Guardia told us that a coded number, with ETA origins, had been used to contact them about my captivity. Rodriguez had no real form. Having protested his innocence he had been released. He maintained he had only gone to the bungalow to help me. I could have pursued him in court, but then my cover would be blown and the chances of catching the other two diminish.

We were just about to wrap up our meeting when a strange thing happened.

'This was given to one of my officers,' the Guardia chief said and handed me an envelope. My name was handwritten on the front, in bold blue letters. It was written in a style I had seen somewhere before, but at that moment I couldn't think where. Inside was a single sheet of notepaper.

'Good God,' I said.

'Is everything all right?' Geoffrey asked. For a second I didn't reply. The note was only a few lines. It was from the artist. I read and reread it several times.

'David

I expect the last thing you want is to see me again. But there is something important I have to tell you that concerns us both.

They do allow visitors here but I will understand if you don't want to come. Whatever, I will always be thinking of you.

Jenny.'

I handed the note to Patel. He read it and then passed it on to Geoffrey.

'The woman gave it to us at the prison,' the Guardia officer confirmed.

'What do you think?' I asked looking at them all. It was Patel who answered.

'Personally I think there is little to be gained from seeing her again, but it is entirely up to you. You know the lady better than I do.'

'What is it, I wonder?' I said.

'You may be facing her across a court room in the near future,' he said. 'Seeing her again now could prejudice that situation.'

'It must be something important for her to write this,' I said waving the note in the air.

While Patel finished up with the Guardia, I sat and reread it several times. Afterwards, he came over.

'They've arranged for a car to take Geoffrey and me to the airport. We can drop you off at the prison, if that's your wish. Sergio will follow on behind. They'll phone ahead now and arrange it if you want to go.' I was confused, but deep down inside there was still a yearning for her I couldn't control. The temptation to see her again was too great an opportunity to resist. 'As long as you think it'll do no harm?' I said. He shrugged.

'The room will have surveillance cameras,' he said. 'And all the sound is taped, so she may reveal something to you we don't know. The Guardia will tell me if that happens.'

During the drive to the prison I turned the envelope over and over in my hands, and continued to speculate where I had seen my name written like that before.

'Got it!' I said. The other two looked around.

'Geoffrey, do you remember that note I received at the hotel on the Gower?'

'About kidnapping your girlfriend?'

'Yes. Well this handwriting is the same as on that. I'm convinced that envelope was written by Jenny McGuire.' Up until that moment I had never seen the artist's handwriting. During our relationship we hadn't exchanged notes. Some days it was hard enough to get her to talk.

'The quicker we get you home, the better,' Patel said. Before our meeting ended I had reluctantly agreed to return to Britain. Sergio's company was beginning to grate badly on my nerves and the apartment was becoming claustrophobic. The car drew up outside the prison gates. I was about to get out, but Patel's arm held me back.

'Here is my card,' he said. 'My direct line telephone number is the one under my name. Now if you have any trouble you must ring me straight away.' He wagged his finger at me. 'I have arranged for the Guardia to bring you back to Wales when they've completed their paperwork. The British Consul is also on hand if you need him. I've appraised him of everything.' For a brief moment a smile passed through his eyes, then it was gone. Geoffrey and I made our farewells and I watched them drive away. When Sergio drew up behind, I felt completely alone again.

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Prisons have a peculiar smell about them. I had spent a few days in one at Swansea when I was held on the drug smuggling charge. A similar rancid odour tickled my nose at Palma. Sitting in a waiting room surrounded by surveillance cameras caused my imagination to run riot. Was this all a ruse to get me into jail? Geoffrey and Patel were on their way to the airport, anything could happen. With me it usually did. Half an hour went by. I was just about getting into panic mode when a door opened and a woman with the build of a Russian shot putter came in.

'You follow me,' she said dogmatically. I did as I was told. She led me into a larger room. This one was divided in half by a metal grill, to separate the inmates from the visitors. A small table and chair furnished the visitors side. A solitary metal chair the other. Once I was inside the woman walked out and slammed the metal door closed without saying a word.

Next I heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Another door opened and a different female warder led in the artist. They were handcuffed together. We stared at each other without saying anything while the woman unlocked the cuffs. Then the artist sat awkwardly on the metal chair. The warder left jabbering something about there being a time limit for visitors. I eased into the chair on my side of the grill. A heavy, fine wire mesh prevented any physical contact. We could only look and talk. She looked pale, her face drawn. The blonde hair was tied back. I tried a smile but there was no response.

'You asked to see me?' I said.

'Yes.' Her voice was faint. The blue eyes stared emphatically. Usually, at awkward moments, they could be cold, calculating. That day, despite the partition between us, they radiated a fire. I wanted to touch her but I couldn't and became tongue tied.

'You look tired David. Has this all been a nightmare for you?' she said.

'Nothing makes sense anymore Jen. What about Lisa? She was murdered in her own flat. The one you went to paint in. Where's the sense in that? You tell me? Were you involved in that?'

'David there are so many things we don't understand.'

'What sort of answer is that. God damn it, you people are all the same. Somebody's life is wiped out but it doesn't seem to matter.' She just shook her head. It was a reaction I had seen before. I knew I would get no further on that subject.

'I didn't bring you here to talk about that,' she said. 'There's something I have to tell you that concerns just you and me.'

'I'm not actually sure what we had in common before, but from what I know now I'm convinced there's very little,' I replied.

'We may have more in common, as you put it, than you think.'

'I doubt it,' I retorted. I was beginning to get angry. All the idiocy those people indulged in was getting me down.

'David there's something I think you're entitled to know.' She paused for a second, looked away, then back at me. 'You remember that day at Palma when I didn't get on the plane?'

'It's not a day I'm likely to forget.'

'Well I wasn't deliberately trying to avoid you. I was sick.'

'Now's a fine time to tell me.' She smiled, the glow was still in her eyes. I still didn't understand.

'I wasn't just ordinary sick. I had morning sickness. David I'm pregnant, with your child.'

Her words stunned me, stunned me to numbness. I can remember for some silly reason looking at the dust in the holes on the wire mesh. My hand reached out to wipe the dust away. I must have continued doing it for some moments.

'David did you hear what I said?'

'Yes I heard what you said.'

'Well are you pleased?' I still couldn't form any words that made any sense. I just didn't know how I felt. Whether it was of elation or confusion I didn't know, so I just continued to stare into her face. The inferno in her eyes remained.

'Was it you who let me out of the farmhouse?' I stammered eventually.

'David I can't answer that.'

'Jen how do I know it's my child? How do I know you're not just using me with this? It wouldn't be the first time.'

'That's a terrible thing to say. I've never used you. Surely you know me better than that? Don't you believe me?'

'I don't think I know you at all. There are people who tell me you're involved with bombings and killings and all sorts of crazy things. Now you come out and tell me you're carrying my child. I just don't know what to believe anymore.'

'Well I assure you it is yours. There's been no one else, I swear. David I've never lied to you in my life.' We were staring at each other but I still couldn't find the right thing to say. She cut in again.

'David, I'm not telling you this to try and get an easy ticket out of here, if that's what you think. That's not why I asked you to come. I thought you were entitled to know, that's all.'

'Do they know in here you're pregnant? Are you being looked after?'

'Have you ever been in prison?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact I have, for a brief time. Mainly due to the actions of your so-called friends.'

'You never told me that. But yes, they do know I'm pregnant. I had to have a medical when I came in. David, I never said they were my friends.'

'They visited your house. They imprisoned me in a cellar.' She shook her head again, but said nothing.

'Will you have the child?' I asked.

'Of course I'll have the child. I'm Irish and Catholic. Sometimes you say the stupidest things.' The annoyed look I knew so well had returned to her face.

'What about Kirsty? Is there anything you want me to do there?' I said.

'My sister will take care of that.'

'Is there anybody else? Any message, anything you want me to do?'

'No there's nobody else. Only you, I suppose, now.'

After that our time together seemed to fly by. We talked like we never talked before, about what I have no idea, irrelevances mostly. But for the first time ever, it felt like we were lovers, a couple. Not as it had been before, two people, who, when the needs arose, shared a bed together. When the woman came to take her away my heart sank. At the door, the artist turned and looked back. We both stared at each other. I still struggled for the right thing to say.

'Where's Sophie?' I called out.

'With a friend in Palma. You can stay at the bungalow and look after her if you like. I can arrange it.' Then the woman yanked her away and out through the door, taking a large part of me with her.

'Everything all right ?' Sergio asked when I got back to the car. I made no reply and said nothing all the way back to Soeller.

* * * * *

The indomitable presence of the windmills of Mallorca exemplify everything that is good about the island. Their colours, their vitality, the fertility produced by the prevailing winds. A week after my meeting with the artist I was on an aircraft, watching their spidery veins slowly rotating as we took off from San Juan. Over the Teix mountain, I looked down and wondered if I would ever return.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At that point in his story David paused. We were two thirds of the way through the bottle of whisky. The sun was getting lower in the sky, a chill was developing in the air.

'Hugh, you must think me very rude,' he said to me. 'You've come all this way to see me and I'm being a very poor host. Let's go inside, it's getting cold out here.' He picked the bottle of whisky off the table. 'We can finish this off in there and I can make us some food. Come on Sophie, tea time.' Stiffly I rose and followed him into the bungalow. In the kitchen, he doled Sophie's food into a metal dish, then opened a bottle of white Rioja. While he told me about life around the village he prepared a fish salad for the two of us. The dog was asleep again at our feet, under the dining room table, by the time we started to eat. David and I clinked our wine glasses together in toast and he recommenced with his tale.

He was living in Britain again, in a small town on the edge of the Wye Valley. The Grape Vine was the local watering hole for the professional people there. Friday was the busiest lunchtime of the week, an end of term atmosphere always seemed to prevail in the bar on that day. Sitting on a bar stool, sipping scotch and dry ginger, he was hoping to become accepted in their fold. I'll let him take over the story again now.

* * * * *

Mary, the barmaid, was easy to chat to, he began. Her boss, Charlie Bailey, was a lazy sod. Spent most of his time on the wrong side of the bar, talking to his cronies, pretending to be one of the business crowd. That Friday he was with a noisy group at the far end. Property people mostly. A few millionaires in that lot Mary had said.

'More money than sense,' she added. Watching their exaggerated mannerisms I could see what she meant. Wives and girlfriends often accompanied them on Fridays. A sparkle of purchased glamour radiated from the peroxide amongst the male heads. Later on one of them came over to the bar. Turned up nose, shoulder length blonde hair, she was wearing a black two piece trouser suit that advertised everything else. My ears flapped when she talked to Mary.

'My husband and I have an apartment there. We escape to it whenever we can,' she said.

'Oh how wonderful,' Mary replied. 'We stayed at Palma Nova. The weather was marvellous. What can I get you?'

'A tonic water please,' the blonde replied, 'I get so thirsty with all this fried food.'

I turned to get a better look. Under the jacket of the trouser suit, the top two buttons of a red blouse were undone, revealing the contours of bronzed breasts. Too much of a temptation for me I'm afraid.

'Don't think me rude,' I said while Mary was fixing her drink, 'but I couldn't help overhearing you and Mary talking about Mallorca.' Pale blue eyes, placid, like a mountain lake, held my gaze. 'I used to live there once,' I continued. 'Just outside Andraixt. With all this bad weather, I wish I was there now.'

'I know what you mean,' she replied. The eyelashes fluttered. Chic was a word that came to mind. 'We're up at Cala Bona, on the north of the island,' she said. A dangly gold charm bracelet clinked on her wrist as she moved her hand.

'A nice place. I'm sorry, I don't know your name?'

'Sarah Masters.'

'Who's Sarah Masters?' I asked Mary afterwards.

'Wife of Johnny Masters. Years ago he bought up all the spare land south of the town. Now he's wealthier than Richard Branson. Can't remember if she's wife number two or three. I'm told this one wants the moon and from what we gather, Johnny usually buys it for her.' I liked Mary, she possessed a down-to-earth practicality about life. Somewhere along the line I guessed it had dealt her a few blows as, occasionally, a look of helplessness would cloud the warm brown eyes. Working for Charlie Bailey didn't help but somehow I wondered if it was more than that.

* * * * *

At the time I was living in an isolated cottage in the Wye Valley. Centuries old deciduous woods surrounded the property. When the trees were in full foliage, the living room was gloomy. It was a picturesque spot, but totally unlike anything on Mallorca. In the circumstances it was all I could afford. The flashing light on my answer phone caught my attention when I walked in. I pressed the button. Two bleeps indicated the number of calls.

'It's Geoffrey here.' The first message said. 'I have arranged what you want. Perhaps you can let me have a cheque when you're ready. Over and out.' I smiled. Whatever mess I was in Geoffrey Cahill's voice always seemed to bring me reassurance. His semi-military vocabulary and its air of authority, implied a degree of organised control.

'There's another delivery,' the second message stated. 'Four o'clock Tuesday, at the Leamington Spa airstrip. Ring the usual number to confirm.' A long bleep ended the messages. This time I didn't smile. I had responded to an advert in the local newspaper, about a job: 'INTELLIGENT MAN WANTED FOR DELIVERIES' the advert had stated.

'We are looking for a car owner, with a telephone answering machine, who is able to work on his own initiative. The deliveries will be within a distance of two hundred miles. Good rates of pay.' Being short of cash, it had seemed like an easy way to earn pocket money. My concern began when I rang a Birmingham number and was instructed to meet my future employer in the Motorway Service Station at Strensham, on the M5. My dilemma continued when a grossly overweight man in his late thirties, wearing a dark grey double breasted suit, white socks and shades, arrived in a black BMW, with tinted windows. Sporting a ponytail and designer stubble, he wished to be known as Myer. A tiny golden earring dangled from his left lobe.

'We're basically a first name organisation,' he said. 'It's simpler that way. Can I call you Dave?' Over a milky coffee, in the self service cafeteria, we reviewed my employment record. Care was needed, for it was the first real airing of my new credentials. The background of a man named David Markham provided my acquired CV. Markham had been a financial consultant who crossed over to the other side. A spy for the Russians I was told, exchanged for one of ours at the end of the Cold War. His track record on investment sales was impressive. Hard work on my part therefore was going to be required to live up to his billing. Myer nodded at each of my replies and interrupted with another question before I completed the answer.

'We will expect you to deliver a package to a particular address,' he went on to tell me. 'The pick-up points will always be south of a line from Birmingham to the Wash, as will be the delivery address. I will telephone you with the time, day and address of the pick-up. The destination will be given to you with the parcel.' He stopped talking while he lit up a cigarette. 'The pay is a hundred pounds a trip, in cash, on delivery.' He puffed on the cigarette energetically, the smoke made my eyes sting. 'By the way, you haven't been to prison or in trouble with the law, have you?'

'No,' I replied quickly, and held my breath.

'We have ways of checking,' he interrupted. I just nodded my head. 'If you want to make a start, I have a small parcel in my car that needs delivering to Reading.'

'Fine, let's give it a go,' I replied. He wrote my name, address, telephone number and car registration in his filofax. Outside, in the car park, he handed me a package, about the size of a wine box, sealed with packing tape. On it an address in Reading was scribed in felt tipped pen. Before we parted he wanted to know my National Insurance number. Myer wasn't stupid, financial consultants are required to use it on all transactions. I was glad I had memorised David Markham's.

The Reading address turned out to be a small warehouse unit on an industrial estate. Handing the parcel to a guy with a beard, baseball cap and a wide girth, revealed no further clues. He grunted, looked at the parcel and began to walk away.

'I'm supposed to be paid on delivery,' I said and followed him into a scruffy office. There, he delved into a desk drawer and without saying anything threw a manila envelope at me. Opening it up, revealed five grubby twenty pound notes. Initially, it seemed like an easy way to make money. But that first trip was only the thin end of the wedge, a tester, I guess, to see if I could accomplish the task. Two weeks elapsed before I received Myer's first telephone call. He'd been checking on my credentials I suppose.

'There's a parcel to pick up tomorrow, at fourteen hundred hours,' he said, then quoted a map reference. 'It's a private airstrip outside Cheltenham. You'll see it on an O/S map.'

After that, calls came once a week. The pick up day was nearly always a Tuesday. The location always a private airstrip, somewhere between London and the Severn Bridge. Never the same airfield twice in succession, but always the same pilot who delivered it. Flying a small single engine, Cessna aircraft, he would land quietly. Each time he wore a nineteen forties flying helmet and goggles, so I never really saw his face. Tall and thin, he didn't say much but I noticed a big scar on the back of his left hand. Sometimes the parcels were the size of a television set, others were smaller, occasionally just the size of a ream of A4 paper. The airstrip was more often than not deserted. The delivery address was scribed on the package by a felt tipped pen and the pilot would take off as soon as he had handed it over, without saying much. It's destination, like the airfield, would change weekly. Always it was to a small warehouse in a run-down location. Needing the money I asked no questions. But with my past troubles I had to be careful and kept the whole business to myself.

By then, days of damp autumn mist had settled in the valley. The cottage felt cold. The remains of last night's fire still smouldered in the grate. The previous day I had cut a fallen branch of ash into three pieces. Ash is such a pleasant wood, it seemed a shame to desecrate its almost perfect form by burning it. Throwing a limb onto the fire sent a fountain of sparks up the chimney. Talking to that blonde at the bar had rekindled memories of Mallorca and Jenny McGuire. Suddenly I remembered Geoffrey Cahill's call.

'David, how are you dear boy? How's the Wye Valley?' he replied when I got through.

'It'd be better if the weather was a little warmer.' He laughed.

'I've completed the searches and my enquiries,' he said. 'If you want to go ahead, I just need your OK and a cheque for the premium.'

'I'm going to have another look tomorrow, Geoff. If I'm happy with everything, I'll send it on.'

'You sound as though you have reservations?'

'Not really. There's a bit of decorating to do, but I expect I'll manage that. Just cold feet I suppose.'

'You always managed before. Takes time that's all.'

'I know, I know. But I was younger then.'

'Weren't we all. You're a man of decision. If you make the right decision, the little things will take care of themselves. You know that.'

'I suppose you're right Geoff, you usually are,' I said. We talked some more before he rang off. Afterwards, to relieve the chill, I poured a large whisky, opened the damper on the fire and while I sat in the twilight the memories came flooding back.

* * * * *

A few days after I'd left Mallorca, Patel informed me that the Spanish police had picked up Carlos and Luigi on the mainland, smuggling illegal immigrants in a van. A routine road block outside Alicante had been their downfall. Confessing all sorts of crimes to save a lifetime in prison, they had admitted to an association with Rory McCandlass and being instrumental in my incarceration in the cellar. The Guardia still suspected them of collaborating with ETA, but it was never proven. Jail was their punishment. Three years each. Fortunately, my presence at their trial was not required, but I still had to face Rory in court, in London. Weeks of preparation were involved. I was ensconced in a flat off the Edgware Road. The Government picked up the tab. The noise and traffic nearly drove me crazy. Constantly I wondered if it was all worthwhile. But Patel was very thorough. Over and over he rehearsed my evidence. Haranguing me, bullying me, ridiculing me. He called me a liar, day after day, in mock interrogations.

It was a high profile case and it lasted three weeks. Coverage in the national media was intense. Russell Humphreys, Under Secretary for Defence, had been murdered while starting his car outside his London flat. Semtex had been strapped to the exhaust. During the trial I spent a lot of the time hanging around, waiting to be called. In the evenings I visited endless West End plays. It was the middle of the second week before I took the stand. My knees trembled and my shoes squeaked as I walked nervously across the courtroom floor to the witness box. Then I realised the importance of Patel's promptings. I was a pivotal witness. I was the link connecting Rory's wayward Irish bumblings with the brutality of international terrorism. The defence council were merciless. They began with an assassination of my character. All the murky details of my past were revealed, all my old misdemeanours unfurled. Next day I laughed reading about myself in the press. For nearly two hours they fired questions at me. Thankfully, I remained firm. Patel nodded his head in satisfaction when I stood down. Rory was sentenced to twenty years.

Then they had to hide me again. I was sent to a health farm and pretended to be recovering from a mystery illness. There, for two months, I was cossetted, pampered, indulged and consoled by medics, psychologists and every other kind of practitioner you could think of. They nearly drove me mad and I couldn't get out fast enough. But the mental cuts hadn't healed. Patel and Geoffrey helped. Another secret location was arranged, this time a detached house on a residential estate in Cumbria. Eventually, after a great deal of soul searching, I decided, for his own good, to simply let David Dancing just fade away. His life hadn't amounted to much anyway. A series of misadventures leading to nowhere in particular, I remember thinking one day.

And so I became David Markham. I dyed my hair a darker brown and had it cut in a more fashionable style. What used to be wavy and collar length was now short and clipped. A pair of tinted glasses completed the transformation. I was provided with a minder, George, an ex SAS officer who frightened the life out of me. He lived ten miles away in Monmouth and visited me once a week. I was given a panic scrambler and was supposed to inform him if I went out of the area. In certain circumstances he was meant to follow. I didn't tell him, however, about the delivery job or the connected trips. Lisa McWilliam's murder remained unsolved. As regards Jenny McGuire, I heard nothing. Prevented from visiting Mallorca, the matter drifted into conjecture. Having done what I considered my duty and discharged my debts, I began to try and create a new life

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

The main road through the Wye Valley twists like a snake amongst a glorious canopy of deciduous woodland. Torrential rain was making driving to my cottage difficult. My wipers pounded out a steady beat. A bus passed in the other direction. Its spray plastered the windscreen and I only just avoided a blue Porsche stranded on a bend, with its hazard lights flashing. When I looked across I saw it was Sarah Masters sitting behind the wheel. I pulled up in front and ran back.

'Are you all right?' I shouted. Rain streaked her face when she opened the window.

'I hit a pool of water about half a mile back,' she said. 'Then a lorry and I hit another pool at the same time and the engine just died.'

'I expect water's got on the plugs,' I said. While we talked a car hurtled past. The resultant swish of water soaked my trousers.

'Be careful, you'll get knocked over standing there,' she said. In daylight her face appeared older. The soft lights in the bar and the heavy make-up had concealed some of the lines. She still looked very attractive though.

'Let me in on the other side,' I said. 'I'll see if I can get you going.' The cab of the Porsche was very small. Our damp clothes quickly steamed up the windscreen. 'Put your foot flat down Sarah and just crank it. It'll start eventually. It's just a matter of how long the plugs take to dry out.' Two or three times she turned the ignition. Each attempt produced a high pitched whine. Hearing the starter motor revolving told me we hadn't given it long enough.

'I'm worried somebody might go into the back of me, stuck here like this,' she said. 'I've got a mobile phone. I'll ring for the garage.' Condensation still clouded the windows. Seeing anything outside was a problem.

'By the time they get here it'll probably have dried out.' I said. 'There's a lay-by about half a mile ahead. I've got a tow rope in my boot. If we can get you there, the plugs will have a chance to dry out.'

'Are you sure?' she asked. The eyelashes fluttered at me, just as they had done in the bar. I got out and ran to my car. Rain dribbled down my neck while I delved into the boot. By the time I'd attached the rope to the two cars, I was soaked. Somehow or another I got us to the lay-by.

* * * * *

'There, that should warm us up,' I said. We were in my cottage, sitting at the kitchen table. I had laced some coffee with a dash of whisky. The incessant rain and the wet state of our clothes had made my home, a mile up the road, sound like a haven. Initially she had protested. Driving there gave me the opportunity to introduce myself properly. I told her about my business plans. Sitting across the table from me, in my tiny kitchen, she reminded me of a girl I knew at school. Susan Davies. Vivacious, blonde Susan, with fluttery eyelashes, just like Sarah Masters. Susan was the temptress of all the boys. Her father owned the chemist shop in the village. Susan would get us all our condoms. We used to call her dad 'Mr Wasom.' When he spoke, he would prefix every noun with the word 'wasom.' 'A bottle of wasom cough medicine, a packet of wasom pills,' he would say. Susan was a doll and quite a girl.

'I really mustn't stay long,' Sarah Masters said, cupping her coffee mug close to her cheek. 'My family will be expecting lunch. I was only going to Monmouth to see a friend.'

'The longer we can give the car, the more chance it has of starting,' I said.

'You've been very kind, but I have to get back.'

'Can't go far on a day like this,' I said. 'It's days like this I wish I was back in Mallorca.'

'Oh, and me.' All the time I had a feeling she was making eyes at me. Rain was still driving incessantly against the kitchen window. She brushed a damp strand of blonde hair off her forehead and looked at me enquiringly.

'You know in all the time I've lived in these parts, I've never noticed this lane before,' she said. 'How long have you been here?'

'About two months in all. It's only temporary, until I get my business under way.' I looked around the kitchen and through the open door into the living room. Everything you could see was commensurate with cheap rented accommodation. Dated cupboards furnished the kitchen. The chairs and table were old, probably second hand and liberally patterned with scratches. A threadbare three piece suite half filled the lounge. The only new item was the television, which I had recently purchased. She seemed to understand my expression.

'David, I wasn't meaning to pry. I was only thinking how isolated it is. It must be lovely in spring, but don't you get lonely?'

'Well let's just say I'm one of those blokes who likes to get away from it all.' Then for the first time our eyes met properly. A gleam of flirtatious humour held my gaze. She fiddled with her hair. What was under a tight fitting green jumper, suddenly made me feel uncomfortable.

'Have you a girlfriend David?' she asked.

'Afraid not,' I said, 'but I'm still looking.' She giggled.

'A quiet spot like this. Just the place for a lover's tryst.' I continued to stare. For a moment I was tempted. Inside a four alarm fire was burning. Then I thought about all the trouble in the past, so I picked up the cups and made a big thing of the washing up. She followed me to the sink, stood alongside me, looking out of the window, with her arms pressed against mine.

'Well I think you're very brave having a go at a new business in this backwater,' she said. A blackbird was bathing in a puddle on the driveway. We both watched its antics before she continued. 'David, there's not a lot of action around here. We usually have to create our own fun. I do hope you're going to join in.'

'The plugs should have dried out by now,' I said. 'We'll give it a go if you're ready.' She looked disappointed. I kept moving, gathering our things, she kept following.

'You are a spoilsport,' she said when we reached the door. 'Never mind, there'll be other occasions,' she added, taking one last look back into the cottage. We got in my car and bounced through the puddles back along my lane. Lashing rain was still sweeping across the valley. When we got back to the Porsche, thankfully it started first time. As I watched her drive away, I let out a deep breath.

* * * * *

That afternoon, I had arranged to meet a builder at the shop for an estimate. Driving down the High Street, I saw Mary, from the bar, running across the road. Rain was still falling heavily.

'You look in a hurry,' I said through the car window, when I caught up. Puffing, she looked flustered.

'So help me I'll swing for Charlie Bailey one of these days.'

'What's the matter?'

'He knows I have to pick up my daughter at half past three. It's the same every day, he just carries on talking to his pals, as though time doesn't matter.' She was out of breath, her words were creating steam in the damp atmosphere.

'Jump in, I'll give you a lift.' She slid in beside me. Mary wasn't smart or sophisticated like Sarah Masters, but she did have a style of her own. There was a certain comeliness about her, attractive in a homely sort of way. Nice to curl up by the fire with, I used to think. Brown hair, short and curled up at the ends, brown eyes. Her clothes were ordinary, but they fitted tightly in all the right places.

'How old's your daughter?' I asked as we drove.

'Nine, next May. She's becoming a proper little madam.'

'Nice for you though. I mean it must be nice for a woman to have a little girl.'

'I suppose so. But with work and everything there's never much time to enjoy it. And nowadays, they always want to do something with their friends or school. All I seem to do is ferry her around.'

'Doesn't your husband help?' She looked across at me.

'Oh, he's been gone for a long time now. There's only Emma and me. Here we are David, here's the school. You can drop me here.'

'I'll wait for you if you like? I can give you a lift home, if it's somewhere near town.'

'No, it'll be all right here. You've been very kind. It's not far.'

'That's silly Mary. You'll both get soaked.'

'I promise you it will be all right. We're used to it and we like the walk. I'm most grateful for the lift.' Before I could argue further she was gone. A loping, jogging sort of run took her through the school gate and I wondered about the blows of life I had conjectured on. She was carrying them all right. Most of the time she hid them well, but on the odd occasion they did peep out.

### CHAPTER TWENTY

'This is David Markham, who I was telling you about,' Sarah Masters said to her husband. It was Friday lunchtime again and I had been invited to join their pushy, extrovert group at the Grape Vine.

'Sarah tells me you're Billy the Whizz on investments,' Johnny Masters said, staring at me quizzically. Tall, thin, with dark receding hair and in his late forties, there was something familiar about his voice.

'I don't know about that,' I chuckled. 'But yes, investments are my line of work.' He wore a dog toothed sports jacket, over a green shirt that needed ironing. Easily ten years older than her, he looked more like a farmer than a property developer.

'Tax is my problem,' he said. 'My accountant charges me vast fees to tell me how much I owe the Inland Revenue. If you can save me from paying so much tax, you'd be the man as far as I'm concerned.'

'I know what you mean,' I stalled. He was looking at me, half smiling. 'Well, there are ways of mitigating the burden,' I continued. 'But I'd need to see what your situation was first.'

'Perhaps David can pop up to the house one day and you two can have a proper chat,' Sarah Masters interrupted. She was wearing a white lace top, with a dark flowery skirt that had a slit up the right side, half revealing her leg.

'Good idea Sarah,' Johnny Masters said. 'Why don't you do that old chap. Let's see what we can cook up between us.' The bar was full, I was beginning to feel warm. Sarah Masters' eyes were burning a hole in my head and there was still something familiar about her husband's voice.

'Why don't you call round tomorrow morning,' Sarah Masters said. 'We never do much on a Saturday morning. Don't make it too early though. That all right with you darling?'

'Fine by me sweetheart,' Johnny Masters said.

The others in their group were a mixed bunch. I was not introduced, but I gathered that the one called Billy was Johnny Masters' brother. Something in the shape of the nose and the jaw bone were the same. There the similarities ended. From what I saw Johnny had the brains. When they talked to each other, he always had the last word. I was told later that they were partners in the property business. Billy's wife, Melanie, was a glamorous, tall, willowy, blonde who looked down her nose at everybody, as though she was doing you a favour by being in the same room. She also possessed an annoying habit of coughing, in a guffawing manner when she spoke, which tended to compound her haughty demeanour. It wasn't long before they were gone, noisily cracking silly jokes as they went through the door, just to make sure everybody noticed them. Out of practice at small talk, I was happy to get back to the bar and my corner stool.

'You've been mixing with the jet set I see,' Mary intoned, with a heavy slice of sarcasm.

'Is that what they are? It's just business as far as I'm concerned. I'll have another scotch and dry ginger please.'

* * * * *

A 'No Through Road' sign, marked the beginning of a winding country lane that led to 'Wyndcliffe,' a Georgian manor house, home of the Masters. Situated high up on a ridge overlooking the Wye Valley, it also commanded a distant southerly view of the Bristol Channel. Stone pillars announced the entrance driveway. My car clattered over a cattle grid and then we meandered up through a wood of birch and oak.

'You'll be Mr Markham.' A pretty young girl, about ten years of age, with blonde hair, like her mother's, said to me. My pull on a wrought iron doorbell had resulted in her appearance at a set of heavy oak doors.

'Mummy said I was to expect you,' she continued. A missing tooth took the edge off a precocious smile. 'She's with the horses, but you are to wait in the drawing room.' She started to walk away.

'There's only one problem with that young lady,' I said. She stopped, turned her head to look at me over her shoulder, just as her mother had done, in the bar, the day before.

'What's that?' she replied.

'I don't know the way to the drawing room.' She sighed impatiently.

'First door on the right, off the hall.' She pointed and started to move away again.

'Before you go, there is one other thing I need to know as well?'

'Ask me anything you want,' she replied cheekily.

'I don't have the benefit of knowing your name. I'll need to tell your mother how you coped with our introduction.' A flash of anger crossed the blue eyes. 'Jasmine,' she responded. Then I watched her white ankle socks scamper across the veneered floor of the panelled hall. At its far end was a semi-circular wooden staircase. My eyes followed as she continued running up its polished treads.

The first door on the right led into a large, high ceilinged room. Oversized furniture, reeking of money rather than taste, predominated. Through deep sash windows there was a panoramic view across open fields. In the distance I could see the Channel and just about make out the hills of the West Country. Settling into the view, I was disturbed by a familiar coughing.

'Johnny, Oh Johnny,' I could hear between the croaks. The words seemed to emanate from an adjoining room. Convinced it was Billy's wife Melanie, I poked my head surreptitiously through tall double doors. A dining room, with lots of polished oak and crystal, caused me to blink. No-one in there though. Another tall door led to a passage. I followed the coughing sound. In what originally must have been the butler's pantry, I saw Melanie, sitting on a table, with her long legs wrapped around Johnny Masters' waist. His trousers were down around his ankles and all I could really see of him were his bare buttocks. Melanie's eyes were screwed closed and even though she was facing me, I wasn't spotted. 'Oh Johnny, Johnny,' she continued to croak, while his body pumped.

Conjecturing on the complexities of life, I quietly tip-toed back to the drawing room. Looking through the sash windows I could see Sarah Masters, aboard a chestnut stallion, coming at a good gallop towards the house. Her long blonde hair was flowing, horse and rider were all rhythm.

'Mother, mother that racy looking man you were telling me about is in the drawing room.' I heard Jasmine shouting in the hallway a few minutes later. An argumentative conversation followed between mother and daughter.

'David I am so sorry you have been kept waiting. I can't think what's happened to Johnny,' Sarah Masters said when she came into the room. Her voice was breathless, her eyes sparkled, there was a glow to her skin. My pulse raced. 'I told Jasmine to let him know when you arrived.'

'It's not been a problem. I've been entertaining myself with the view. You ride very well,' I replied. Her teeth gleamed when she smiled.

'Melanie's here. She's with father,' Jasmine interrupted. She was standing in the tall doorway that led into the room. Dwarfed by its height made her look minute.

'That's nice darling. Perhaps you could go and find him.'

'They're in the pantry,' Jasmine replied. She'd wound her hair into a pigtail and was twisting its end, with her hand.

'Well could you go and tell them Mr Markham is here, there's a sweetie.' We both watched her run back into the hall. Sarah Masters kept fluffing up her hair. She was wearing a white polo neck sweater and tight blue jeans.

'Is she your only child?'

'Yes. Johnny has a son by another marriage. David, you must think us very rude. What can I offer you to drink? Would you prefer tea or coffee or something stronger?' I settled for a Perrier water. A large rosewood cocktail cabinet lit up like Blackpool Illuminations when she opened the lid. Johnny Masters came in while she was dealing with the drinks.

'David, so sorry to keep you waiting. I didn't hear you arrive,' he said.

'It's not a problem. You were obviously busy,' I replied. There was no response on Johnny Masters' face. Melanie slipped into the room while we exchanged pleasantries. Slightly flushed cheeks were the only evidence of her activities in the pantry. A duck egg blue short sleeved jacket and skirt and a cream blouse made her look remarkably elegant considering everything. Obviously older than her sister-in-law, but I would have said younger than Johnny Masters.

'Hullo Melanie,' Sarah said. 'Jasmine said you were here. Did you come to borrow some sugar?'

'Not exactly,' she guffawed. 'As David was here, I thought I'd come and pick his brains as well. The money from my mother's estate is still on deposit. I wondered if I could do better. If that's all right with you,' she added, nodding at me.

'Fine by me.' I replied. 'I'm here to work.'

'I told you he wouldn't mind,' Johnny Masters said. 'Why don't you two girls have a chinwag, while I take David down to my study.' The look on Sarah's face would have killed a cat.

Quickly, he guided me out of the room and down another long, panelled passageway to a large, square study overlooking a small lake. In the middle of the water a stone fountain, shaped as a little boy in the nude, peed water. There was more oak panelling in the study, encasing bookshelves and glazed cabinets. A huge oval desk was cluttered with paper. Johnny beckoned me to a chair on the other side. It was then I noticed the big scar on the back of his left hand and recalled the voice. He was the pilot who made the deliveries I picked up for Myer.

'We've met before haven't we?' I said.

'I wondered when the penny would drop,' he replied.

'With your goggles on you look different.' I tried a smile but his face had no soft nuances. It looked hardened by stress and impatient. A face used to getting its own way.

'Mum's the word on that,' he said. 'Sarah doesn't know about those little jaunts.' There were a lot of little jaunts Sarah didn't know about, from what I'd just seen, but I didn't respond.

'Have you any idea what's in the parcels?' I asked.

'No. Wouldn't do to ask. I just fly them in. From France usually, sometimes Germany. Been doing it for years.' The scarred hand reached out for a cigar box. He didn't offer me one, but I noticed his hands shake a little, when he lit up a small panatela.

'It could be very illegal,' I said.

'Maybe,' he shrugged. 'We move it around from place to place, as you know.'

'What do you know about this man Myer?' I asked.

'Not a lot. He's part of a group. There's about four of them in all, but he does the organising.'

'Doesn't it worry you?'

'You've got to have some excitement in your life David. You'd know about that sort of thing. You look a man of the world to me.'

'I usually end up on the wrong end of everything,' I chuckled, 'all the hassle and none of the profit.'

'Fortune favours the brave, David. Money makes money. You should know that in what you do. Money makes everything, in fact. It makes the world go round. Without it we're all nothing.'

'Well I wouldn't say that exactly, but I agree it helps.'

'Thought you'd understand,' he said, winking at me. 'Mum's the word though on the flying trips. Do I have your promise.'

'As your financial advisor I am bound to respect your confidentiality, but I won't do anything illegal.'

'Wouldn't expect it old chap. You do your job, just give me the best advice and I'll do my job and everybody's happy. Know what I mean?' I couldn't say I was happy, but I did know what he meant and I was desperate to make a living. Eventually we talked about tax. It transpired he had money coming in from everywhere. Rents for land, rents from properties, dividends on investments, income on trusts. Mary had been right, more money than sense.

'How old are you Johnny?'

'Forty eight,' he replied.

'At your age you should be putting as much as you can into pensions,' I said. 'You can put at least a quarter of your income into pensions and that would defray some of the tax.' He puffed on his cigar.

'Never been one of those guys who worries about pensions. Pensions are for old people. Live for the day, that's me. If you've got it, spend it. Enjoy it while you can. Might not be around tomorrow. Know what I mean?'

'Well, not exactly. You can take the income from a pension after you're fifty. What about Sarah? What about the children? You might not be around, but they've still got to live.'

'Sarah's family have got money. Richer than me that lot. She wouldn't starve and all this would be hers,' he said, sweeping his arm in the air, to indicate the house. 'And anyway, I do have a lot of cash. That would be hers as well.'

'What do you mean, a lot of cash?'

'I mean a lot of cash.' For a second he hesitated, drew on his cigar, then got out of his chair. 'Let me show you,' he said.

Behind his desk was a walled bookcase. From it, he removed a book and pressed a button, housed in the space. The shelves slid aside, on runners, revealing a safe door. I watched while he fiddled with a combination lock. When he was satisfied, he revolved a wheeled handle that opened the door.

'Follow me,' he said, setting off down a flight of stone steps. I moved to the door. Darkness beckoned below. Like a sufferer from vertigo, I stopped on the threshold. A dim light barely lit up the way.

'Come on David. It'll be all right. There's a striplight at the bottom.' His voice echoed on the stone walls.

'I'm quite happy to take your word for it,' I said, quivering at the top of the steps. 'I've an aversion to cellars.'

'Nonsense, it'll be all right. Won't take a second.' I descended warily, with panic crawling over my skin. When I reached the bottom the strip light flickered into life.

'Bloody hell,' I exclaimed. Before my startled eyes, stacked on metal shelves around each of the four walls, was row upon row of currency. Gold bars, sterling, drachma, pesetas, francs, marks, dollars, any currency you could care to name, was crammed to the ceiling, in tidily laid out bundles.

'My God, that is a lot of money.' I said.

'Thought you would be impressed,' he replied.

'How did you accumulate that lot?'

'Deliveries, David. Best part of twenty years worth here. You see, I'll go where no-one else dares. Just a question of keeping your nerve. You could do it, I've watched you. You keep your nerve.' Open mouthed and still staring in awe at all that was around me, I struggled for the right response.

'What started you on all this?' I asked eventually.

'Boredom, I suppose. Having learnt to fly, where could I fly to? What profit could I make out of it?' I shook my head in disbelief. 'Making money is like a drug,' he continued. 'Once you have a taste for it the more you have, the more you want. This was a way to make some more.'

'How much does this lot add up to?' I asked.

'Don't know, never counted. Hundred thousand, maybe two, wouldn't know to be exact,' he said.

'Have you declared any of it?'

'Why would I want to declare it? No point in being paid cash if you're going to declare it.'

'Well if you have this much spare why quibble about tax?'

'It's us against them isn't it?'

'I suppose it is in a way. Maybe you're right.' From one of the shelves I picked up a wad of twenty dollar bills and flicked them through my fingers. 'Who else knows about this?' I said returning the bundle to the shelf.

'Nobody. You're the only one.'

'What about Sarah?'

'Wouldn't show it to her. She'd spend it all on clothes in a week. It's my reserve you see David, in case anything silly happens.'

'If something happens to you, how would anybody know it's here?'

'I was planning to tell my boy Sebastian, when he's eighteen.'

'How old is he now?' I asked.

'Sixteen. He's away at boarding school at the moment. He's a sensible boy. Not like Jasmine, she's like her mother. Two peas in a pod those two.' Standing under the harsh light of the strip accentuated the lines on his face. It wasn't a handsome face. Somehow, I couldn't imagine Sarah Masters being completely content with a face like that.

'What makes you think you can trust me?' I asked.

'You've been around. I've watched you operate. The way you act at the airfields. The way you are with Sarah. She fancies you, I've noticed that. But you handle it well.'

'Maybe,' I scoffed. 'But I would be struck off if I did anything dishonest. Financial Services Act and all that.'

'Wouldn't want that. You look after me and I'll look after you. Know what I mean?' We returned up the stairs to his study and talked some more about tax. From his desk drawer he produced the most recent copies of his financial returns.

'We can go back seven years,' I said. 'You can make a provision against tax, for a pension contribution for those years,' I added.

'Will they have to pay me back?'

'It's possible,' I replied. His face lit up. It was the first time I had seen a proper smile.

'See what you can come up with David. Let me have some figures. I'm all for something like that.' We completed our deliberations and returned to the main part of the house. The two women were talking in the kitchen. An Aga range, raised on a plinth in the middle, was a focal point; Sarah Masters was stirring at a pot on one of the hotplates.

'I thought you two weren't going to be long?' she said. 'I'm making lunch. You might as well join us David.'

The kitchen was as big as a tennis court. We ate around a large pine table, by the side of the Aga. Sarah had made cawl and a pate salad, with crusty rolls. The conversation was all very jolly, in a frivolous way. Jasmine kept us amused with anecdotes from school, she was an awful show off. Afterwards Melanie and I went to the drawing room and discussed investments. She also had a lot of money, nearly a quarter of a million in all.

'I just want it somewhere safe, where it will earn a good return,' she said, guffawing when I enquired of its purpose. 'And somewhere where my husband can't touch it. He gambles. On horses,' she added then looked forlorn. I agreed to produce some quotes and she seemed happy with what I suggested. It was late afternoon before I got away. On my way out of the house Sarah cornered me in the hall. Johnny had disappeared somewhere with Melanie. Standing up close in front of me, I was conscious of her looking at me.

'It's been kind of you to give us so much of your time David,' she said.

'It was kind of you to invite me,' I replied, feeling abashed. Driving home down the winding lane, I calculated that my commission on that little lot would come to about two thousand pounds, if it all came off. It was a good start, but nothing comes easy I thought.

* * * * *

A fortnight later I opened my shop in the High Street. The builder and I compromised over his estimates and between us we made the place respectable. Gradually I acquired more leads. My most regular caller was Sarah Masters. In those first few weeks she arranged for me to see nearly all the well heeled members of her family. The days were long, I worked into the evenings, but at least I was up and running and covering my overheads. One Friday lunch time I was propping up the bar in the Grape Vine when Johnny Masters came over.

'I've filled in those forms you gave me,' he said. 'Will I really be able to defray all that tax?'

'Should do,' I replied. He looked pleased, an expression that didn't often cover his face.

'Look David, Sarah and I are having a little trip at the weekend. We're flying down to our pad in Mallorca. We'll only stay Saturday night. We've got to be back for Jasmine's school on Monday. Why don't you come along? Sarah would love that.' For a moment I was flabbergasted. Johnny Masters was grinning. I had never seen him really grin properly before. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mary, behind the bar, listening for my reply.

'Do you good to get away,' he continued. 'It'll be a bit brighter than that cottage of yours. Come on man what do you say?'

'Tomorrow, you mean?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

His words opened up a whole can of worms that had been lying dormant in my head. The psychiatrists at the health farm had taught me to compartmentalise all the trauma I'd been through on the Isle of Mallorca. I was encouraged to put the worst parts away in a box at the back of my mind and keep a locked lid on it. The box had a notice on the lid saying, 'DANGER DO NOT OPEN,' and by and large I complied with those instructions. Very occasionally, on bright sunny days in the valley, or when there was a clear moonlight sky, I would allow myself to remember a similar occasion on the island. But, if I was to retain my sanity, delving into past events or people was strictly off limits and forbidden. Now this man, Johnny Masters, had inserted the key in the box lid and was waiting for me to turn it open.

'Come on David. We'll have some fun. Do you good to have a few laughs.'

I hesitated. I knew very well the dangers of going back. I could still be on a hit list of the people who incarcerated me in the cellar, and those involved in Rory's misdoings. Without the protection I had at home I'd be an easy target. And then there was the artist. Her glamorous vision regularly escaped from the box to haunt me. Her parting words about our mutual child constantly rolled around in my brain, despite my best efforts to ostracise them. If I went out of the district, I was supposed to inform George, my minder. Going abroad was totally off limits. If he found out about that he'd go ballistic. Johnny Masters was still standing in front of me awaiting my reply. His face had frozen into a permanent question mark.

'That would be great,' I stammered out eventually.

'Good,' he said. 'Try and be at the house by nine. We're flying out of Staverton early.' With that he was gone. Back to join his noisy crowd at the far end of the bar. Leaving me with a body full of shakes and a mind scrambled like a diced up plate of eggs. For the rest of that lunch hour, every time I looked across the room, Sarah Masters was smiling at me.

### CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

On Saturday morning, Billy, Sarah, Melanie, Johnny and I boarded his Cessna, bound for Mallorca. Jasmine and Sebastian had been deposited with Sarah's mother for the weekend. Sarah sat up front with Johnny and I sat behind with the other two. Billy started drinking champagne as soon as we were airborne. During the flight they all made silly jokes. I felt out of place, the odd man amongst a foursome and I took a glass or two of the champagne to try and relax.

When we landed at Palma the bright sunlight dazzled my eyes, heat bounced off the tarmac. Suddenly, the enormity of being back there again caught up with me. The speed of events had left me mentally unprepared and I felt queasy and unsure of myself. Johnny Masters had one of those large people carrier vehicles garaged at the airport. He drove across the island to Cala Bona, like he flew the plane, with daredevil abandon. Sitting in the back, hanging onto a passenger strap, feeling every twist and turn in the road wasn't the best way to deal with a queasy stomach or my anxiety. Billy was alongside still sipping champagne, while Melanie smoked and guffawed at all the sights.

'You all right David?' Sarah Masters said when we were out on the motorway. She was in the seat in front of me. Trying to offset my qualms I'd been concentrating on the way her long blonde hair appeared to curl around the nape of her neck, before cascading down her shoulders. 'You're very quiet.'

'Bit of a tummy upset that's all.' I replied. 'I'll be better when we're on terra firma.'

'The apartment overlooks the sea,' she said. 'You'll be fine when we get there.'

The journey took the best part of two hours. The apartment was on the top floor in a block of four. Once we'd unloaded and were inside I lounged on the narrow single bed, in the third bedroom, looking across the bay to the cliffs of Arta in the distance. At that moment being there seemed like a surreal dream. You see, mentally, a large section of my brain was still domiciled on the island. Returning to the UK had felt like a temporary thing, an extended work contract if you like. Despite all the trauma I had experienced in Mallorca, the colours, the sea, the sky, the terrain, the people had all impinged into my psyche. The Mediterranean idyll was still beckoning to me.

'David are you coming down,' Sarah Masters called up from downstairs. 'We're going out to eat.' She'd changed into a blue and white striped top and white shorts. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun. When I got downstairs, they were all gathered in a spacious lounge which sported wide patio doors and balconies overlooking the harbour.

'We're walking to Rosario's for lunch,' she said. The others were staring at me inquisitively, with glazed eyes. I guess they were all trying to suss me out, which put me further on edge. It looked like they'd continued drinking while I was upstairs. Making our way to the restaurant, we must have appeared an inebriated rabble.

Rosario's was a compact bar/fish restaurant. Tables and chairs outside fronted up to the harbour moorings where expensive boats bobbed up and down in the water. Rosario came out to greet us. The Masters must have been regular clients. Embraces and kisses were exchanged, I was introduced.

'A tall dark stranger,' Rosario said. He was short, plump, in a healthy looking way and balding. 'A good luck charm maybe,' he added.

'Just an appendage I'm afraid,' I replied.

'David's going to help us make our fortunes,' Sarah Masters said. 'He's our financial advisor.'

'Do I give him the bill afterwards?' Rosario said.

'Yes, you do that,' Johnny Masters said. We all laughed.

A table was organised for us alongside the harbour. A warm onshore breeze fluttered the loose ends of a check table cloth. Bottles of white Rioja instantly appeared. Sipping it slowly helped settle my stomach. Billy, who'd been drinking since Staverton, was becoming banal. His words slurred, like a Saturday night drunk. Melanie smoked incessantly. In the rush to team up with them, I'd forgotten to pack my sunglasses. The combination of cigarette smoke and stark light was making my eyes stream like a waterfall.

'A perfect weekend for wife swapping,' Billy Masters said when we sat back after ordering our food.

'Who's David going to swap with?' Melanie guffawed.

'He doesn't have to,' Billy said. 'We can all take turns.'

'Oh how super,' Melanie sniggered.

'Don't be stupid you two,' Sarah Masters interrupted. 'Just ignore them David. They can't hold their liquor, let alone manage anything else.'

'Oops sister-in-law, be careful now,' Billy said, continuing to slur. 'From what I hear you're not backward in coming forward when the bedrooms are on offer.' She shot him a glare. Fortunately, Rosario soon arrived with the meals. The fish was good. Fresh Mallorcan fish is like no other, something else I had forgotten. The other four ate like hungry wolves, which held their tongues for a while. More Rioja arrived. I counted seven bottles on the table. Johnny Masters puffed on a small cigar while he was eating. His persona mellowed somewhat as the meal progressed. Talk evolved about the island and its various beauty spots.

'Anybody for a walk,' Sarah Masters said when we'd finished eating.

'Walk up to bed is all we want,' Billy said. Melanie guffawed into a snigger.

'I'm game,' I said.

'I bet you are,' Billy said stupidly.

'You and Sarah take a walk if you like,' Johnny Masters said. 'I'm going for a lie down. Rosario, I'll have the bill,' he called out. Sarah and I slid off together, leaving the others to finish the wine.

'Make sure you're back before dark,' Melanie called out when we reached the end of the harbour wall.

'I must apologise for my family,' Sarah Masters said.

'I expect they're no worse than any other. Drink always makes everybody seem worse.'

'That's Billy's trouble. They lost a child, you know.' We were walking down the promenade by then. The sun was hot, roller coaster waves were breaking over the sand.

'No, when was that?'

'Oh, years ago now. Not long after they got married I think. Before I was around anyway. That was the start of his drinking. Now it's taken over his life.'

'Couldn't they have another? Child I mean?'

'Billy's had the operation. You know, the one for men.'

'But there are other ways nowadays.'

'I think the drink has too much of a hold now. I'm not sure they are capable of being parents any more.'

'H'm,' I said. Strolling next to her was relaxing. The swish of her arm kept brushing against me as we progressed.

'Anyway, Johnny keeps Melanie happy in that way,' she said a few moments later. I stopped walking and turned to look at her, not really knowing what to say. She spoke again before I had chance to say any more.

'They've had a thing going for years,' she said. The long promenade at Cala Bona continues along the sea front to Cala Millor, an adjacent resort. We were halfway there, the breeze had freshened and was fluttering her t-shirt.

'If you mean what I think you mean Sarah, I am sorry.'

'There's no need to be. I suppose I shouldn't have any complaints. But money doesn't buy happiness. I've learnt that.'

'How long's it been going on?'

'Oh for years now. From what I can gather Johnny always wanted Melanie, but Billy beat him to it. It's the only thing he's ever topped Johnny on. It's rankled ever since.'

'That can't be much fun for you though? Why don't you leave?'

'There's Jasmine and anyway, Johnny is quite good to me really. Nothing in life is perfect I suppose.' She waved her hand in the air as if to dismiss her words. At times, despite the make-up and the glamour, she could look like an innocent child. We carried on walking to the end of the promenade. From there the bay curves around to a rocky point. Filling the sidewalks were talkative Germans with guttural voices.

'There's a little bar over there. Let's have a coffee,' I said, pointing in its direction. Inside it was warm and smoky and full of more chattering Germans, eating gateaux and chocolate cake. We slipped into a corner table and ordered café con leché and brandy.

'I'm going to have to be very careful with you,' I said when our order arrived.

'What do you mean by that?' she said.

'You keep making eyes at me.'

'Does that bother you?'

'Well if I'm not careful I might start to enjoy it.' Humour flooded into her eyes, laugh lines at their corners contracted into tiny creases.

'When did anybody get anywhere by being careful?' she said.

'H'm, but you're married. Johnny is my client. I couldn't do anything to sully that.'

'David I've explained to you our situation. You couldn't possibly sully our life anymore than it's already sullied, as you put it.' The humorous expression had been replaced by a serious look of intent. She angled her head closer. Underneath the table our legs were touching. At that moment I wanted to reach out and hold her.

'Don't misunderstand me,' I said cautiously, 'it's not that I don't find you attractive.'

'Oh well, I'm glad about that,' she said. I chuckled.

To attempt to cover my embarrassment I continued talking. 'You see, for years now my life has been a complete mess. Most of my troubles occurred from being unable to resist a temptation.' I said.

'Is that what I am, a temptation, a bit of skirt?'

'No of course you're not. You've been a good friend but you're a nice bit of skirt as well.'

'Well I'm pleased to hear that. But you might be tempted?'

'It's a possibility.'

'Good. It's nice to know I have some redeeming features.'

'Now I wish I had never said anything.' She laughed. When we'd finished our drinks we strolled slowly back to the apartment, walking very closely together, almost arm in arm, but not quite. Pausing in the downstairs foyer, waiting for the lift, she turned towards me.

'You said your life had been a mess,' she said. 'if you wanted to tell me about it some time I'd be happy to listen.'

'I'm not sure I'd know where to begin,' I replied. Inside the apartment Johnny Masters and Melanie were sitting together on the settee, their faces ripe with furtiveness. Upstairs, on the way to my room, I passed Billy's open door. He was crashed out, asleep on top of his duvet, snoring. In the privacy of my bedroom I lay on my bed and wondered why everything I did always led down a trail littered with broken glass. Danny Rogers had told me to throw my problems at the Lord, so I took his advice. Later on, there was a knock on my door.

'They want to go into Palma, to see some of the nightlife,' Sarah Masters said from the landing. I got up and opened the door. She'd obviously just taken a shower. A towel was wrapped around her hair. She was wearing a white bathrobe, her face glowed like a peach.

'That's a long way to go for a night out?' I said.

'We'll get a taxi,' she said. 'Nothing in Palma starts until after midnight, so there's plenty of time. Come on, it'll be fun.'

Fun was something I was becoming very wary of, but I had little choice other than to accompany them. We had a meal in central Palma, then trawled the bars around La Rambla and the Plaça Major. Sarah wanted to dance, Johnny Masters wasn't keen.

'You four go ahead,' he said. We were drinking in a rumbustious bar, filled with the noisy sounds of Salsa music. Across the road there was a flashing neon sign advertising an underground disco. 'I'll wait in here,' Johnny Masters continued. 'If I sit here I'll be able to see you come out.'

'Johnny are you sure?' Sarah asked.

'You know I can't dance,' he said. So we left him at the bar nursing a coffee and brandy. Sarah held on to my arm as we crossed the road. Billy and Melanie followed on behind. Next to the entrance of the disco a cafe with tables and chairs outside was filled with people. We paused in the road for a car to pass. When we moved off again I noticed a blonde woman sitting at one of the tables staring straight at me. For a second I froze, my mind went blank. Sarah tugged at my arm. The woman and I continued to stare at each other.

'Jenny,' I mouthed to myself as I walked across the road. It was the artist. She looked away, towards her companion, another woman, when we got near.

'Come on David,' Sarah said, tugging again at my arm, pulling me along. At the door of the disco I looked back. The artist was still talking to her companion. In the foyer, Billy was organising the tickets. Thud, thud, thud, the beat reverberated up at us from the floor below.

'David you've gone white. You look as though you've seen a ghost,' Sarah Masters said.

'I've just seen someone I used to know,' I replied. 'Look, you three go in. I must pop back and pay my respects. Give me my ticket, I'll join you in a minute.' Before they could argue, I grabbed the ticket and barged my way outside. The street was crowded. When I got to the café the artist and her friend were gone. I collared a waiter and pointed to where they had sat.

'The two ladies who sat here, did you see which way they went?' He just shrugged his shoulders in ignorant disinterest. I ran down the street, glancing down every alleyway, looking in every bar, every café, but like ghosts in the night they'd disappeared.

'I thought you had walked out on us,' Sarah Masters hollered to me. She was standing by the dance floor, trying to make herself heard above the music. The bludgeoning beat made conversation almost impossible.

'I'm sorry about that,' I yelled into her ear. 'They'd gone anyway.' She began to bop around in rhythm to the music. The pulse of the beat was infectious. We danced, and I was grateful for the distraction. Through the masquerade of my wild contorted gyrations I was able to hide my inner feelings. When the music stopped the four of us gathered round the bar for a drink.

'Try one of these?' Billy said, holding out a small pink pill.

'No thanks. I'm high enough already,' I replied. Fortunately the music soon began to roll again. The strobe lights flashed, the colours blazed and Sarah and I were off once more, round and round, swinging, swaying, spinning, thankfully lost and out of control.

Dawn was breaking over the horizon when we all spilled out of the taxi alongside the harbour at Cala Bona. Whether I was drunk or just plain exhausted I don't remember, but as soon as I got into my bed deep sleep came instantly like a knockout blow. Hours later however, I do distinctly remember a sylph-like body sliding in under the sheets next to me. A smooth leg stroked my thigh; warm nubile flesh responded to my touch, then for the second time that night I was lost and out of control. Heaven only knows if it was Sarah Masters, for in my minds eye I was making love to the artist. It was midday when I awoke. A sheet was draped over me, the pillows alongside me were smoothed out, everything was quiet and I was alone.

### CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

'There is another pick-up on Tuesday.' Myer's droning tones announced on my answer phone when I got back to the Wye Valley. I quickly crashed out in bed, anticipating another busy week. Monday mornings were bad enough, without the effects of a licentious weekend to contend with. From the moment I opened up, new faces constantly appeared around the office door. Suddenly it appeared everybody in town wanted to do business with me. The phone never stopped ringing and lack of sleep caught up by midday and I needed a break.

The bar in the Grape Vine was empty. Mary was standing on a small set of steps, cleaning the shelves behind the bar.

'Large scotch and dry ginger, please Mary,' I called out. She turned her head to look at me. The pose stirred my imagination. Quickly I dismissed the notion. I was in enough trouble already.

'A hair of the dog, is it?' she said when she reached me.

'Age catching up I think,' I replied.

'Burning the candles at both ends?' she chuckled. There was a glint in her eyes.

'Something like that I suppose. Mary, I'm going to have to be quick, I've got to get back, they'll be queuing out the door.'

'You need an assistant David,' she said, handing me my drink. 'Someone to take your messages, answer your phone, leave you free to do the real work.'

'Chance would be a fine thing. Where would I get someone like that on what I could pay?'

'If you could beat three forty an hour I would do it and I'm only part time. Anything would be better than working for him in there,' she said and pointed towards the door that led to the kitchens.

'Mary, are you serious?' She giggled.

'No, I was only joking. I don't know the first thing about finance. Pensions are something my dad picks up at the Post Office every Thursday. I'm a complete dunderhead really.'

'No you're not. I've seen you add up four prices from the menu in your head. I couldn't do that. And you practice tact and diplomacy all day with the idiots in here. That's all I need, someone with a bit of common sense.'

'But I'd be hopeless.'

'Nonsense. When can you come and see me?'

'David, let me think about it. I didn't really mean it.' She wiped the bar with a dishcloth. 'I wish I hadn't said anything now.' I gulped down my drink.

'Look Mary I'm going to have to dash or I'll be losing business. Why don't you pop into the office in the morning. Make it about eleven. That'll give us time for a chat.' Her face creased into a smile.

On the office door, I'd stuck a note saying, 'Back in five minutes.' Sarah Masters was waiting in the reception area when I walked in.

'The wanderer returns. I thought you'd done a runner with my family's money?'

'After that weekend I don't think I could run very far.'

'You did very well. I am impressed.'

Sunday at Cala Bona had passed in a whirl. It was mid afternoon before we were all up. We ate at Rosario's and then headed for the airport. Sarah and I had no time alone. On the plane, we sat together in the back. Her thigh pressed tightly against mine throughout the flight. Standing close together again in my office, I felt embarrassed.

'Look Sarah,' I said, 'I don't know if Billy slipped one of those silly pills into my drink, or if I just had too much alcohol, but Saturday night is all a bit of a haze.'

'Good. I just wanted to tell you that I had a nice time.' The phone rang. I moved quickly to pick it up. She made for the door, then turned to face me while holding it open.

'It's half term in two weeks,' she said. 'I'm taking the children out to the apartment. You're welcome to come along if you want.'

'Sarah, I'm up to my eyes here.'

'It's up to you. You could come out for the weekend?' She said, inclined her head, then she was gone.

The day continued as it began, full of interruptions. People were in and out like flies. Quotes needed preparing, the phone nearly drove me crazy, but everything was buzzing. Half way through a print run, the computer jammed. I think they call it frozen screen. It was after eight o'clock before I got home. In all the frenzy I had forgotten to get any groceries. The fridge was almost empty. Sarah Masters invite for a weekend away played on my mind. I returned Myer's call.

'I expected you to telephone by return,' his sullen tones responded.

'I've been busy,' I replied. I was not in the mood to dally with him.

'We expect someone to be available every day,' he grumbled.

'The answer phone was on. You say the pick-up's Tuesday. Today's Monday. I've called you back. Do you want me to go or not?'

'Fourteen hundred hours at Loughborough,' he said dismissively.

'All right, I'll be there.' He rang off. I didn't really want to go, but not to turn up would leave Johnny in a hole. There was a message on the phone from George Harvey.

'Haven't heard from you in a while,' the message said. I was supposed to ring in once a week.

'Trust you're all right, give us a call,' he concluded. I rang back straight away.

'George, I'm sorry. I've been busy at the office. Things are beginning to look up.'

'I'm pleased about that David.' He had a gruff cockney accent that was slightly hoarse, from too much smoking I guessed. 'I was getting worried,' he continued. 'Just in case, I called around at the weekend. Twice in fact, but there was no-one there.'

'I was away,' I hesitated. 'I know, I know, I'm supposed to tell you if I go away. George will you forgive me. As I said I've been so busy at the office.'

'It's only for your own good. To protect you.'

'Yes I know. There was just this opportunity to go away with a few friends and I completely forgot.'

'Where did you go, somewhere nice?' My mind froze. It had been a long day, my brain was addled. I said the first thing that came into my head.

'Oh, only down to West Wales, to see a few old friends.'

'But that's an area you're known in. You should get clearance to go there. David, if you go somewhere like that I'm supposed to go with you.' I could hear him breathing heavily down the phone. 'David that was very silly. If something happens, I'll be the one who gets the blame.'

'George, I said I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I promise. It was all a spur of the moment thing. I've checked in now and I can assure you I'm all right.'

'But somebody may have seen you!' George was not a man to mess with. I felt like a schoolboy, caught playing truant. Thank God I didn't mention Mallorca.

* * * * *

'Well here I am. You asked me to call.' I looked up from the desk. It was eleven o'clock next morning, Mary was standing over me, beaming at me with a bright shiny face. She was wearing a pillar box red two piece suit and a white blouse. I had never seen her look so smart. I must have looked agitated.

'We can forget about it if you like,' she said, sensing my mood.

'No, no, I'm sorry. Good gosh you look fantastic. In fact you're just what I need.'

In the back room was another desk, a couple of cheap chairs and a nylon carpet. It wasn't much but it was private and there was a window to see through into the main office. I guided her that way. My quote machine and printer were alongside the desk.

'David I'm not sure I would be any good at this. I have never touched a computer in my life,' she said, pointing at it when we sat down.

'Everybody's fingers and thumbs to begin with, but if I can do it anybody can. Anyway that side of it's not important. What I really want is someone to keep the customers happy when I'm busy. Looking like that you're just the ticket,' I said, nodding at her. We talked about her work experience. Her chirpy presence cheered me up. It transpired she had mainly worked in pubs and hotels, although she had been a receptionist once, in a motel.

'Well there we are then. It won't be much different from that,' I said.

'David, there is something else you ought to know.' For a moment she looked sheepish. 'If I don't tell you now, somebody around here is sure to before long. It's that sort of town.'

'What Mary?'

'It's my husband. Derek.' She hesitated, then continued. 'You see the reason that he is not with Emma and me, is because he's in jail.' She looked dejected. Her chin slumped into her chest.

'Mary I am sorry. I had no idea.'

'Stealing cars. It's the second time he's been caught. Six years this time. He's been gone three.' I looked into her face. It was such a pleasant face, looking dejected didn't suit it.

'Well you've told me now. Not that it matters to me anyway. We've all got skeletons somewhere.'

'But it might affect your business. I mean people here know.'

'But you haven't stolen anything?'

'No.'

'Well, there we are then. When can you start?' Her face glowed again.

'Whenever you like. I can't get away from that man fast enough.'

'He's a tyrant is he Mary?'

'He's a bastard David. He keeps trying to touch me up. Thinks I must be desperate with my husband away, or that's what he implies.'

'Tell him you're leaving at the end of the week.'

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Johnny Masters was standing alongside his Cessna light aircraft when I arrived at the airfield. Telephone calls at the office had delayed me and I was late.

'Thought you had reneged on me,' he said. Even though he knew me he still didn't remove his flying helmet and goggles.

'Would I let you down Johnny?' He chuckled, we were a bit like old pals by then.

'I think I'm going to have to pack up this lark,' I continued. 'The office is getting too busy.' He reached into the aircraft for the package. On that occasion it was the size of a small television. Between us we lifted it into the boot of my car.

'I'd miss you,' he said. 'You're the only one on this jaunt who's been reliable.'

'I don't think I can risk it any more. If I was caught doing this it would be nothing but trouble for me in my other work.'

'Shame,' he said, 'a little bit of adventure is the spice of life, I always say.'

'Well, maybe it is in your case. Me, I'm just looking to make a living.'

'You know best David,' he said and turned to get back in the Cessna. He never hung around long. By the gate of the airfield, I stopped the car and watched him taxi down the runway. He would never say where he was heading. Sometimes he would mumble an aside about other stops to make and often I wondered.

The delivery address on the package was the Reading warehouse I'd been to before. On the way there I made up my mind that this would definitely be my last trip. The cash was no longer important as my consultancy work was producing income and these jaunts smelt of skullduggery to me. But what was really in those parcels? Halfway to Reading, unfortunately my curiosity got the better of me. I turned into a lay-by. Nobody was around, so I got out and opened the boot. With my penknife I carefully unstuck the tape, then used my comb to peel it back, so as not to damage the adhesive. Prising the top apart just enough to lift the lid, I let my hand slide inside. A glossy surface met my fingers. They were either books or brochures, stacked in layers. Taking care not to disturb too much, I managed to drag the top one out using just my thumb and forefinger. In my hand I discovered a pornographic magazine. A picture of two women, naked and sharing a contorted embrace, adorned the cover. The images inside were even more lurid and offensively revolting. Children were involved. I turned over the pages feeling disgusted. What a sick perverted spectacle I thought. The sound of an engine made me turn around. A motorbike was pulling into the lay-by. The yellow jacket and white helmet of the rider startled me. The word 'Police' was emblazoned on his helmet. Furtively, I hid the magazine behind my back. He dismounted, removed his helmet and walked towards me.

'Are you the owner of this car, sir?' he asked.

'Yes officer,' I replied, fidgetting nervously. I saw him glance in the boot and then back at me.

'Can I ask what you are doing here, sir.'

'I've stopped for a rest officer?'

'I see, and where are you heading?'

'I'm on my way to Reading.'

'Have you your driving licence, sir?' I fumbled around in my jacket pocket. The magazine was still in my other hand. It was almost impossible to disguise it, although I tried. To get the licence out of my wallet I had to dispense with the magazine and threw it back into the boot. The front cover faced upwards when it landed.

'Is Crown Cottage your current address, Mr Markham?' the policeman said when he looked at the licence.

'That's right officer.'

'How long have you lived there?'

'Oh, about three months or so.'

'And you're on your way to Reading?'

'That's correct.'

'Can I ask you to show me what's in that parcel?' he said, pointing at it.

'I was delivering it for somebody as a favour,' I said. 'I am not too sure myself what's actually in it.'

'Well we'll have a look anyway.' I spent the rest of that afternoon at a police station in Oxford.

* * * * *

'It's a part time job I do to earn a bit of cash,' I said to a Detective Sergeant Weekes. 'I had no idea what was in the parcels, honestly. This was going to be my last trip and I'm afraid curiosity got the better of me. Had I known they were so revolting I wouldn't have got involved in the first place.' We were in a stuffy interview room. A small table, four plastic chairs and an ashtray was the furniture. Dust-covered venetian blinds on the one window hung at uneven angles. The box of magazines, now opened fully, was on the floor alongside the table.

'Who employs you to do this?' Weekes asked, looking at me intently. He had ginger hair and horn rimmed glasses.

'I've already told you. I only know the man by his first name, Myer. All the arrangements are made over the telephone.'

'And where do you collect these parcels?'

'Almost always at a small aerodrome. They're usually waiting for me at the airport office. The delivery address is written on the package,' I said pointing to the box. Weekes' face was circumspect.

'Do you expect me to believe all that?'

'Well it's the truth.'

'Where is this place?' He pointed to the address on the box.

'It's a warehouse on the outskirts of Reading.' For another hour he threw more questions at me.

'Mr Markham I am not satisfied,' he concluded. 'We are going to have to accompany you to your home. You say it's in the Wye Valley?'

'That's right.'

'We'll drive you there. One of my officers will take your car.'

'What?' I queried.

'We want to search your home.' I was stunned.

'I understand I am allowed to make one telephone call?' I said.

'I see you're familiar with the procedure then?'

'I watch a lot of old films.' He didn't look amused. I telephoned George. He asked for more details. I could only say I had been apprehended on suspicion.

'Suspicion of what?' he asked.

'I'm not sure. Carrying pornographic literature, I think.' He agreed to meet us at the cottage.

### CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Travelling from Oxford in convoy didn't take long. Weekes drove a blue Volvo. Another detective named Phelps sat up front and I was in the back, with one called McFall. Following on behind, a guy named Andrews drove my car. Fortunately, George was parked outside Crown Cottage, in his red Saab, when we pulled up. He looked menacing when he got out and stood in the driveway.

'Who's this?' Weekes asked, when he came to a halt behind the Saab.

'George Harvey. He's attached to MI6. One of your mob I suppose,' I said.

'What's he doing here?'

'He's my minder. To protect me from people like you.' Weekes turned and stared at me. He said nothing and got out of the car. The other two stiffened, as though they could anticipate trouble. I started to get out of the back seat.

'If you could just wait a minute please sir,' McFall said. His hand grabbed my forearm with a heavy grip.

For some minutes I watched George and Weekes talk. When he was about his work George was intimidating. His six foot three frame had bulk. His shaven head was like a big dome and he kept nodding it at Weekes to emphasise his words. It appeared he was doing most of the talking and from what I could see he was clearly getting his points across. When he produced his identification card Weekes appeared relieved and gradually I could see him begin to back down. The shoulders of the two in the car visibly relaxed. Weekes came back to us.

'Why didn't you tell us about Mr Harvey?' He said poking his head through the car window.

'You didn't ask. I tried to explain about everything but you didn't seem to want to know.'

'Well we're going to have to search your cottage,' he said bad temperedly.

'Have you a warrant?'

'I can get one.'

'Please do, but I assure you there's nothing there.'

'How do I know that,' he said looking fraught. 'Look Mr Markham, I have my superiors to answer to. There's a big package of pornographic literature back at the station. It was in the boot of your car.'

'I'm not happy about that either,' I said. 'But I assure you that for me it was only a job, to earn some pocket money. Deliver a package I was told and you'll get paid. I repeat I had no idea what was in the package.' His facial expression had changed. Losing the battle with George showed.

'If you boys wipe your feet you can have a quick look around,' I said. 'But I tell you Myer's your man. I've already given you his number.'

* * * * *

'That was very, very silly,' George said to me when they had all gone. His face was pressed close to mine. I could see now why Weekes had backed down. Even though his vitriol had only just begun, every part of me was shaking.

'I accept everything you say,' I replied hastily. 'But I was short of cash.'

'If you were going to do something different, I'm supposed to check it out for you. That's the purpose of having me,' he said, jabbing his index finger at my chest with each word. The small rooms of the cottage made his demeanour even more frightening. His body appeared to fill the space.

'I know George. Unfortunately I'm just thick, you'll have to make allowances.' Pleading ignorance was the only way I could deal with him. He angled his head very close to mine.

'And if you go out of the area again you are to check with me first. Do you understand?' He wagged his finger at me again.

'Yes, George.' He pointed his index finger at my face.

'Out of the area is anywhere more than twenty miles from here. Cardiff is out of the area, Oxford and Reading are out of the area.' Then his finger began to jab my chest again. 'West Wales is quite definitely out of the area. Am I making myself clear.' His nose was now only inches from mine.

'Yes George. Very clear.'

'You're not totally off the hook on this business yet. They wanted to hold you in custody. It's only because I vouched for your surety that they went away, but you're still under investigation. Is that what you want?'

'No George.' It continued like that for a good ten minutes or more, before he made tracks to leave.

'I'll be calling at the cottage every other evening from now on,' he said when he reached the door.

'What if I'm here with a girlfriend?' I replied, trying to make a joke.

'You're not to get involved with anybody! Anybody! Do you understand? Unless they have been cleared by me. Not anybody, do you hear?' He paused. 'I just don't seem to be getting through, do I?'

'Yes you are George. I was only joking.' I tried looking remorseful, but I had re-opened the floodgates. He came back into the room and issued more dire threats of what he would do to me. Afterwards, I stood by the fire, with a tumbler of whisky in my hand, trying to eradicate the shaking.

* * * * *

'There's only so much credibility we can give you,' Geoffrey Cahill said to me. It was next morning, he was telephoning me at the office, having been advised of my troubles.

'I know Geoff.'

'Now that you're up and running, what you do in your life is up to you,' he said and paused. I visualised him taking a puff on his pipe. 'You've got George for the foreseeable future,' he continued. 'But if you're going to keep getting into trouble with the law that facility will be taken away.'

'I promise to be much more careful Geoff.' I heard him sigh on the other end of the phone line.

'Patel has spoken to the police at Oxford, but until they can tie this man Myer down, and get to the bottom of these deliveries, you are still under suspicion.'

'So George tells me.'

'You never saw who delivered these parcels to the airstrips did you? If they could get at the source of the stuff it would at least give you a credit. Assisting the police with their enquiries it's called.' I hesitated before replying. A picture of Johnny Masters, wearing his goggles and flying helmet flashed through my brain.

'No, they were always waiting for me in a hut or a shed, or whatever was at the airstrip.'

'Well anything you can think of David will help your case. If something comes to mind you must call up Weekes. You need all the credibility you can get with him.'

'I'll do that Geoff.'

'Have you got their number?'

'I have, yes.' I thanked him for his concern and we finished the conversation.

As a result of my absence the previous day, a mountain of calls had built up at the office and I spent the best part of the morning returning them. By the time I got to the Grape Vine for lunch, I was beginning to wonder if I had lost the ability to cope.

'Poaching staff is not something we do around here,' Charlie Bailey said to me the moment he saw me. I was sitting on the bar stool. He came over and stood alongside me. I was just beginning on my chicken and chips and I chewed hard on a couple of morsels before I replied.

'I didn't poach, Charlie. The lady in question approached me,' I said, trying to sound annoyed.

'A likely tale. How am I going to find someone to run this bar by next week?'

'It's a tough life Charlie.' I could see he was seething. Mary was at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses, looking sheepish, while trying to listen in.

'I know it's a tough life, don't tell me about it,' he said and stormed away. 'Anyway her husband's a criminal. I bet you didn't know that,' he turned and shouted when he was halfway across the room. I made no reply and grinned at Mary. She looked away and began polishing the counter.

* * * * *

'You've got yourself an assistant then,' Sarah Masters said. It was the following Monday, she was standing in front of me with jealousy written all over her face. We were in my back room. I had been trying to catch up on some quotations for a pension fund. Mary had advised me of her arrival.

'Needs must I'm afraid,' I replied trying to sound non-committal.

'Well my financial matters are confidential. I hope you'll remember that David.'

'All my clients will always have complete confidentiality,' I replied.

'David, how do you know you can trust that girl,' she said. By then I'd closed the door.

'Her references were impeccable.'

'But her family have been in trouble with the law.'

'That's her family Sarah. I repeat, her references are impeccable.' She was wearing a red roll-neck sweater and a tartan skirt. The roll-neck sweater was tight fitting, the tartan skirt short.

'Well it's up to you. But don't say I didn't warn you.'

'I'll remember that Sarah. Now what can I do for you?'

'I was wondering if you had made up your mind about next weekend?'

'Sarah, I just don't think I can spare the time. I'm right up against it workwise here,' I added. 'That's why I've had to bring in Mary. Honestly I can't see a way I could get away at the moment.'

'Oh well please yourself then. Thought it would do you good that's all, but I can see you have other distractions now,' she said nodding in Mary's direction through the adjoining window.

'That's silly Sarah. Work is work and play is play.'

'Oh, I'm silly now am I?' she said and marched out.

### CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

That evening there was a knock on my kitchen door. When I opened it Johnny Masters was standing outside. It was raining heavily. The back porch leaked and big droplets of water were dripping onto his head.

'The balloon's gone up old chap,' he said. At the best of times his face rarely looked relaxed. The frown it bore that day compounded its anxiety.

'I beg your pardon,' I replied.

'On the trips. The police have started nosing around. There's a panic on to get the stuff out of the country.'

'You'd better come in,' I said and stood aside as his tall frame brushed past me. The kitchen looked a mess. I had just finished eating my evening meal. Unwashed dishes and pans were everywhere.

'Excuse the mess,' I said and ushered him into the lounge. 'What do you mean get the stuff out of the country. I thought you brought it into the country.' I offered him a seat on the threadbare settee and then reached into the sideboard for the bottle of whisky and two glasses.

'They keep a stockpile over here. To release them all at once would devalue the price. So they're held at the warehouses until the price is right.'

'So how does that affect us?' I asked warily, as I poured two whiskies.

'It doesn't, directly. But they want me to fly them out until the heat's off. I need a hand. I've got to take them to a spot near Hamburg. Thought you'd be just the chap.' I handed him his drink, then took a big gulp of mine.

'I don't know Johnny. I am up to my eyes in work at the moment. I just couldn't spare the time.'

'Wouldn't take long,' he said swigging at the whisky. He held the glass in a funny way. His scarred left hand was cupped around it and he tipped the liquid down his throat with a jerking motion. 'We could do it at the weekend. Saturday or Sunday, it doesn't matter. I just need a hand loading the stuff onto the plane and off again at the other end.'

'But you say the police are involved? Johnny, I've told you I can't take the risk of doing anything illegal. My work requires me to have a clean track record.'

'Yes, yes,' he said knocking back the last swig of whisky. 'It's just that Myer said you were implicated with the police anyway.' For a moment I didn't know how to respond.

'What did he mean by that?' I said quickly, trying to cover my reaction.

'Don't know exactly. He said something about the police trail leading to you. He said you'd know what he meant. It's all double Dutch to me. I just need a hand getting the stuff out that's all.'

'Well I don't know what Myer's implying, but if the police are on my trail, I'm in enough trouble without getting involved further. I think I'll take a rain check on the idea, if you don't mind.'

'Up to you old chap. Thought we could have a bit of fun together that's all.' He got up to leave. By the back door he stopped and turned to face me.'They're a scurrilous bunch David. It wouldn't do to get on their wrong side. They're not involved in this for the fun of it. You must be careful.' The look on his face bore no compromises. Almost like a rubbery mask, it posed a deadpan expression. Desperately, I tried to keep my cool and look bemused, but I felt my legs wobble.

'I'll have to organise my army then,' I said, trying to make a joke of my reply. He turned and headed away down the path. Rain was still battering down. 'If you change your mind, let me know,' he called out at the gate, got into his Range Rover and drove away. When he had gone, I sat in the armchair with the remains of my whisky. Here we go again I thought. More trails of broken glass to litter my life.

* * * * *

For the next few days I concentrated on work. Fortunately there was more than enough of that to keep me occupied. George visited every other day as promised and for once I was grateful for his virile presence. One evening, when I arrived home after work, the blue Porsche was parked outside the cottage gate.

'Working overtime?' Sarah Masters said through the open driver's window when I drew up.

'Sometimes there's not enough hours in the day,' I replied.

'More attractions now, to keep you in the office I suppose,' she said, looking mischievous.

'Don't be silly Sarah. If you're referring to Mary, she leaves at three thirty every day to pick her daughter up from school.'

'H'm,' she scoffed. 'Well, are you going to invite me in or shall we continue our conversation in the car?'

'I'm sorry. It's a bit of a mess, but you're welcome to come in.' I felt embarrassed. I'd been so busy at work. In the mornings I left in a dash, and in the evenings I was too tired to sort anything out, so inside was a bit like a tip.

'I can offer you tea or whisky?' I said and began to move around picking items off the floor; tidying newspapers, taking unwashed cups to the sink. She was following me around. Alone together like this was making me nervous.

'Tea will be fine,' she said. She was wearing a blue and white shell suit and her hair had been cut shorter.

'I'm going to make some toast. I haven't eaten since midday,' I said. 'Would you like some?'

'No thanks, I ate with Jasmine. Johnny's taken her off to Bristol for the evening. Some theme park she's been raving about for weeks.' I fussed around with plates, cups and bread, trying to keep occupied and out of bodily contact with this woman. All the time I could feel her eyes watching me.

'David I didn't realise there was this side to you. You almost look domesticated,' she said.

'Living on one's own, you get that way. Are you sure about the whisky?'

'Tea will be fine. You have one though if it will calm you down.'

'As I said, it's been a long day,' I replied and went into the lounge for the bottle.

'And I'm here to add to the agitation,' she said.

'I didn't say that.'

'You didn't have to. I can see it by your actions. The body language I think it's called.' I slumped on the kitchen chair and took a large gulp of the whisky.

'Now you have my undivided attention,' I said. 'Until the toast burns anyway,' I added. She smiled at me and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

'Johnny tells me you may be in a spot of bother?' I stared at her, not knowing how to reply and supped again on the whisky.

'Something to do with delivering parcels,' she added.

'Am I? Why did he say that.'

'I think he is concerned about you. Johnny is an odd stick, but despite all his faults, when he likes somebody, he'll do anything to help them. It's one of the reasons I stay with him I suppose.'

'Well if I'm in trouble I would have said he's in the same boat.'

'Oh I don't doubt that for one minute. He's always sailing close to the wind on something or another, that's the way he is. But he's got the devil on his side. You're different.' She looked at me enquiringly. 'Tell me David, why have you never married?' At that moment the bread popped out of the toaster. My nerves were already on edge and the sound made me jump. She giggled at my reaction. Glad of the distraction, I fiddled around with the butter and made a thing of looking for the marmalade. Deliberately, I avoided her question.

'Are you sure you won't join me?' I said pointing to the toast. She shook her head.

'What made you leave Mallorca?' she asked when I sat down again.

'My business there ran out of steam.'

'But you could have started up again. Surely there's more wealth there for that sort of thing than here.'

'Maybe, but there were other problems there as well.'

'Like what?'

'Oh it's too complicated to go into now. It would take all night.' I took a bite on the toast. Crumbs scattered messily onto my lap.

'I'm in no hurry. Johnny and Jasmine won't be back until after ten. I am quite happy to listen, unless there's anything else you'd prefer to do.' She fluttered her eyelashes. I sniggered.

'Why do you want to know?'

'Let's just say that like Johnny, I care.' She angled her head and smiled. 'If you feel like telling me, I'll have that whisky.' When she looked like that it was hard to resist her. I got up and poured two more whiskies.

'It all started a long time ago,' I said when I sat down again. 'My real troubles began with a boat trip.'

And so I related some of my tale. I didn't tell her that I had changed my name and identity, or that Rory McCandlass was a terrorist. I just said that there had been a suspected case of drug smuggling and I had been innocently involved. But I did tell her about the artist and her supposed pregnancy. I mentioned nothing about the parcels and meeting up on those trips with Johnny, although I guess she knew a certain amount about that already. I don't know why I told her those things and not the others but that's the way it came out. Maybe it was her blue eyes that coerced me into revealing confidences or maybe there was a desire to get it off my chest, to someone who might also understand. To be fair she listened patiently, without interrupting, except to verify details as we went along. When I had finished, I felt as though I had purged my soul. The problems hadn't disappeared but my mind felt flushed of some of the garbage.

'Was Jenny McGuire the person who you saw by the disco in Palma?'

'Yes, but she had gone by the time I got outside.'

'And you've never heard from her since?'

'No, nor do I expect to.' I wasn't used to women actually listening closely to things I said. In all we talked for quite some time and she left at about a quarter to ten.

* * * * *

A couple of evenings later, Myer was on the telephone to me at the cottage.

'Why didn't you tell me you'd been picked up by the police?' he said.

'Because you didn't tell me I was delivering pornographic magazines,' I replied.

'You should have phoned in. We asked you specifically to phone in if there was ever any trouble.' His voice was gruff, unsympathetic.

'Well I can't afford to offend the law. You never mentioned that was a possibility.'

'Why did they stop you?' he asked.

'Routine car check. They weren't pleasant Myer. They searched my house.'

'You should not have given them this number. You were very foolish.'

'I'm not putting my neck on the line for a couple of hundred quid. If you were breaking the law, I should have been informed. You never mentioned that in your job advertisement. By the way I've given a copy of it to the police.'

'We are not pleased,' he said and rang off.

* * * * *

I was awoken by the telephone ringing in the middle of the night.

'Forest of Dean Police here,' the caller said, 'is that Mr Markham?'

'What, uh! Yes, I suppose so,' I replied yawning and reaching for the light. What the hell now, I thought.

'Sorry to disturb you Mr Markham at this late hour, but there's been a spot of bother at your office.'

I rubbed my eyes, scratched my head and looked at the clock. It was ten past two.

'What sort of bother?'

'Nothing too serious. Someone's kicked the front window in. I've got a patrol car sitting outside, but he can't stay there all night. Can you pop down. I don't think anybody's broken in. Just drunks on the way home I expect.'

'Bloody hell. Oh all right.' Hunting around for my clothes, I banged my head on the ceiling beam. The bedrooms in the cottage were built into the roof. I cursed.

Outside, rain was lashing across the garden like a monsoon. The lane around the cottage was dark and on a night like that everything was black like ink. I fumbled with the car door lock. Then, without warning, they were on me. There was a big one first, I felt his arms clamp around my body from behind.

'What the fuck!' I shouted. Then another one came at me from the side and threw a bag over my head. From the little I saw he wore a hooded mask over his face, but it all happened so quickly. I think there were three of them in all but they didn't speak. Within seconds I was on the ground. My legs were tied, my arms were strapped around my back and a gag stuffed into my mouth. I could feel rubber gloves on their hands, scrabbling with tape, as it was applied to my body. Soon, I gave up struggling and between two of them I was carried, then bundled into the boot of a car. I jolted against its sides when it pulled away.

'No, not again,' I can remember thinking. A car radio played as they drove.

Choking, sweating, hurting, swearing, at that moment I wished I was dead. The journey must have taken about an hour. When we stopped, I heard the others get out and the car doors close. There were still no voices, obviously they were professional. Then there was silence for a long time. My imagination was running riot. Who were my captors? Were they Myers people, come to exact revenge for my incompetence? Worse still, could they be some of Rory's cohorts, or the IRA? Had I been abandoned in the car on a tip? In the morning would a crusher arrive to reduce it and me to pulp? Perhaps they were going to torch it, push it over a cliff? I was already registered as a missing person under one name, was I about to become the same under another? Whatever my fate was going to be, it seemed they were determined to make me wait to find out.

* * * * *

After what seemed like an eternity, the boot of the car was opened and my body was dragged out. In the contortions, my jacket caught on the boot catch and I can remember yelping, a muffled agonised sound. Then I could feel them lift me into what must have been a basket. It had wicker sides and it ran on wheels. They rolled it along a concrete path with me inside like dirty washing. In my minds eye, I was convinced I was going to be pushed over a cliff. The sound below changed. They pushed me up what must have been a wooden ramp, I could sense going uphill. God I was hot, I was sweating from every pore in my body. Trying to shout or scream was useless. Suddenly an engine started and everything began shaking. I realised I was in an aircraft.

'Hell, what now for God's sake,' I thought. I screamed and screamed but the tape on my mouth was too tight. I couldn't even hear myself. The thrust of take-off must have flung the basket across the floor. It thudded against the side of the aircraft. The pain was numbing. Once we were airborne I sensed somebody open the lid of the basket. Through the aperture there was a cooling draught. My sweating eased. I was still trussed up like a chicken, my arms and legs were numb, but at last I could breathe more easily. In that cocoon of hell time became unimportant. Hours passed before I felt the plane descending. The next sensation was the bump of landing, then the wheels scudded along the ground. The agony and pain in my body was unbearable. Why, oh why hadn't somebody finished me off in the cellar, I thought. The plane rolled to halt, then the engines were cut.

Two sets of footsteps clattered on the aircraft floor after the door was opened but still no voices. The basket was wheeled down the wooden ramp. I rolled against its sides again. For the first time in hours though I could smell fresh air. The scents indicated countryside. Everything remained silent except for the sound of crickets. I was wheeled across what felt like a field, then along a concrete surface and the chronic jarring, vibration recommenced. Eventually, they stopped pushing. The basket came to a halt, the footsteps walked away and then all I could hear was a crow squawking, somewhere nearby. The bag was still over my head but I detected daylight. Later, in the distance, I heard the plane's engines fire into life. It revved up and taxied away. Then it must have turned, and suddenly it was heading back in my direction. Nearer and nearer it came. The noise was deafening, frightening. I was convinced it was going to plough straight into me. I braced myself for the worst, scrunched up my eyes, clenched my teeth, anticipated the agony and waited for the final death blow. When it never came and the aircraft took off over me, I didn't know what to feel. A part of me wished somebody would put an end to my suffering. I listened and heard the aircraft drone away into the distance.

I was on my own again with nothing but silence, pain and despair, except for the occasional squawking of the crow. Briefly I must have dozed off, for the sound of a car's engine approaching, woke me up. I heard it slide to a halt alongside me. The engine stopped, the car door opened, and there were footsteps on the ground. This time the steps were lighter. The next thing I knew, hands were struggling with the hood around my head. They felt like the hands of a woman. Gently the hood was removed and I was looking at Sarah Masters.

'Seems like I'll do anything to get a date with you,' she said.

### CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

'Look Sarah, I've got a business to run,' I said vehemently.

We were sitting in the people carrier, parked in a deserted bay, overlooking the sea. It was early dawn, a golden sunrise was peeping over the horizon. The bay was about a mile from the field where I had been dumped. How Johnny Masters ever managed to set the Cessna down there I'll never know.

'Johnny says this bloke Myer is out to get you,' Sarah Masters said. 'He said he tried to warn you but you didn't seem to be taking much notice.' She was wearing a dark blue tracksuit.

'I am capable of looking after myself. Myer's not the first bloke I've crossed swords with you know.'

'Oh do tell me more.' Inside, I was livid. I stared at her. She had that coy look again. When she looked like that it was difficult to argue but I was becoming exasperated. I thumped the dashboard with my fist.

'Look, where the hell are we? I've got to get back to my business. People are relying on me.'

'I thought you had an assistant now to take care of things when you're away.'

'Mary doesn't know anything about the business. She's just a receptionist.'

'Time for her to earn her keep then.'

'I'm not in the mood for your petty jealousy.'

'David, I promise you, you are in danger. That's why Johnny got you away.'

'Well I'd like to make my own decisions thank you. You still haven't told me where we are?'

'About twenty miles from Cala Bona. Johnny often uses that field for his unofficial landings.'

'I thought you weren't supposed to know about those sort of things.'

'There are a lot of things I'm not supposed to know. But I have my ways.'

'I bet you have.' I scratched my body. I had sweated a lot in that laundry basket. 'Where is he now?' I asked.

'Flown home. To sort Myer out, I think.'

'What do you mean sort Myer out?'

'Oh I don't know. Johnny has his methods. He's got his pals.' I looked across at her.

'What pals?' I was scratching my hair.

'A couple of them helped you into the basket.' She smiled coyly again. I made no reply and just continued scratching.

'David you need a shower. You'll have me scratching in a minute. Now that you've calmed down I'll drive you back to Cala Bona.'

'I haven't calmed down. I don't want to go to Cala Bona. I want to go back to my cottage and get on with my business.'

While she drove I said nothing more. I was still very angry. As soon as we got to the apartment I took a shower. My body felt better after that, but inside I was still seething.

'Do you want something cooked? I've got eggs and some bacon.' Sarah called from downstairs while I was drying myself.

'Whatever's easiest,' I shouted back. I couldn't believe how relaxed she was about it all. A change of clothes had been laid out for me on the bed.

'There, that looks much better,' she said when I got downstairs.

'Who's are these?' I asked, pointing at the garish blue shirt.

'Oh I don't know. Some visitor who left without his luggage. One of Johnny's pals I expect.' By then I was beginning to take everything she said with a pinch of salt, so I just smiled. The bacon and eggs smelt appetising. The tracksuit had been replaced by a white halter top and matching shorts added to the allure.

'Sarah I'm going to have to fly back today,' I said as I began eating. 'My business is important to me. I can't afford to let it slide again.'

'What about this woman and the child she says is yours? Isn't that important to you.' She sat alongside me to eat, we were both having bacon and eggs.

'That all happened a long time ago. I don't even know if she was telling the truth.'

'Women don't usually lie about that sort of thing.'

'She would,' I scoffed. Some of the egg yoke ran down my chin.

'I thought perhaps if you stayed here for a few days we could take a trip to her house, see if she's still around?' I sighed, a big sigh. I was really very tired, tired of all the machinations that soured my life.

'I don't know. I really do have to get back quickly,' I said, bad temperedly.

'Look David, today's Friday. You're not going to achieve much in work by going back today. Phone your dolly bird, tell her you've been delayed. She can hold the fort for a day. Johnny's coming back at the weekend with the children. He can fly you home then.' I was too addled to argue. I had no passport with me, no money either. Responding to that telephone call at the cottage, I'd just thrown on some clothes and walked out the door. Later on in the day I rang Mary.

'Are you all right?' she enquired hesitantly.

'Yes, just a spot of business that's taken longer than I thought,' I said.

'David, a man named George Harvey called in yesterday. He was quite frightening. He kept demanding to know where you were. I didn't know what to say.'

'It's all right. If he calls again, tell him I'll phone him this evening. I'll be back in on Monday.'

Afterwards I went upstairs and lay on the bed. I was exhausted. Lying there, anticipating sleep, thoughts of the artist spilled through my head. Since leaving Mallorca I had tried to blank her out, to compartmentalise her, as I was taught. Unfortunately as she was wrapped up in so much of everything else that had happened, achieving that was almost impossible. Seeing her briefly for that moment in Palma had brought it all to life again. Knowing she was only a short car drive away from where I was at that moment made it worse. But it was also more than that. Despite all that had occurred, Mallorca had become a special place to me. A shangri-la of riotous colours, emotions and inspirations, and the artist represented a large chunk of it.

When I was in London, for Rory's trial, I had attempted to quiz Patel on some of her background. Until then all I knew about her was what I had gleaned from her, which wasn't much, and what Lisa had told me. Often I wondered if there was more, so I pestered Patel.

'This woman Jenny McGuire, who I was involved with?' I asked on one occasion. We were in the London office of the Crown Prosecution Service. He was coaching me with my evidence. 'What's the news of her?'

'Not a lot,' he replied. 'There was insufficient evidence to tie her in with anything. Lopez and Ruiz revealed nothing in relation to her. She couldn't be implicated in Lisa McWilliam's murder and from what I can gather she's stopped making her trips to England. I'm told her daughter now lives with her in Mallorca.' I can remember struggling for words. He fiddled about with some papers on his desk. We had come to the end of that particular session and I think he was anxious for me to leave.

'I'm going to tell you something I haven't told you before.' I said, then related what the artist told me at the women's prison about her pregnancy. He heard me out without interrupting. 'I'm just interested to know the truth about her,' I said in conclusion. 'There's been so much innuendo surrounding her name. I don't know what to believe anymore.' He made no comment, just shook his head, continued to fiddle with his papers and gave a little half shrug with his shoulders, so I didn't pursue the matter. Our meeting broke up quickly after that.

About a week later at our next get-together, after we had finished going over the evidence, he got up from his seat, picked up a buff coloured file with a red border on it from an adjacent table and dropped it on the desk in front of me.

'I'll be back in ten minutes,' he said. 'I've got to see somebody down the passage about a meeting.' Then, without saying a word he walked out of the room and shut the door, leaving me in there on my own.

On the cover of the file, the name Jennifer Kathleen McGuire was written in bold black letters. Underneath was her date of birth, followed by a long number, her reference I guessed. I can remember working out that she would have been thirty eight years of age. I checked behind me to see if the door was still closed. My hands quivered as I opened the first page. It was all typed in computer print. I drew my chair up to the desk. She was born in Wexford, of Rose Mary and Dermot David McLoughlin. An asterisk alongside their names related to another page. I turned to it and it confirmed they were both dead. Her mother died six months after her father. A brother, Eamonn Marcus, two years younger than Jenny, was also listed dead, the date of death being the same as her father. I flipped over the pages and read avidly. There were records of her schools, even her grades. Art, obviously stood out. Then Dublin University, an asterisk again referred to a forward page, another date registered her tie up with Sinn Fein when she paid her first annual subscription to the party. At meetings she met Martin McGuire, at the time another paid up member.

Back to the earlier pages. In Dublin she obtained an honours degree in Art, while he achieved a Masters in Law. Afterwards, while she went to teacher training college, he joined a big Dublin law firm. They married when she got her first teaching post. There was so much detail. Worried that Patel would return, I skipped over many of the pages. They were both active political members of Sinn Fein. Facts about their careers followed. Suggested tie-ups with the IRA were mentioned, pages of it, until they emigrated to Canada. There he joined a Quebec law firm, specialising in litigation. Later, he became a partner and Jenny got a teaching job in the district where they lived.

A fresh page was headed 'Background'. The McLoughlin family were known IRA sympathisers. Their association dated back to the time of Parnall. Her father had been arrested several times. Eamonn went to live in the North, near Drumcree, got a job as a builder, lived with a Catholic girl and was considered by the British to be an active member of the IRA. For years he appeared on wanted lists. Nothing was ever proven, he was never arrested. Then, around about the time of the Hughes/Adams proposals, the beginning of the dialogue that takes us to where we are now in Ireland when John Major famously said, 'it would turn his stomach to talk to an Irish terrorist', M15 did in fact talk to terrorists and Eamonn and Dermot McLoughlin were two of the contacts. Two of the men with hooded heads who met the British in dark, secret places. One night, after one of those meetings, Eamonn was driving his father back home across the border. They weren't gun-running. They just didn't want to be questioned together on the wrong side of the border. Explanations would have been required. Where had they been? What were they doing? Who had they seen? The answers would have seemed like betrayal to their colleagues. Those meetings were secret. Knowledge of them, even to their own sympathisers, would have resulted in more violence, more deaths, less chance of success. Dermot and Eamonn were killed by British Army machine gun bullets, driving away from a road check, when they hadn't stopped. The file confirmed they were never vindicated. The shock of their deaths killed Rose McLoughlin. She suffered a heart attack from which she never recovered. Dermot was sixty eight, Eamonn thirty. A year later, Jenny McGuire made her first recorded journey from Canada to England. Two years later she and Martin were divorced. Eighteen months after that she took up residence in Mallorca.

The door opening behind me made me jump. Patel came back into the room. I could have gone on reading for hours, but I had seen enough.

'Thank you,' I said and handed him the file. He made no response.

'I think that's about it for today,' he said. 'We'll meet again same time, next week.' I got up to leave and the subject was never mentioned again.

* * * * *

On the bed in Sarah Master's apartment in Cala Bona sleep eventually clouded out my thoughts, although my dreams were filled with images of Jenny McGuire.

'If you feel up to it, we can take a trip to Andraixt,' Sarah Masters said when I awoke.

'I thought you were jealous of the other women in my life?'

'Needs must David. We have to be practical. You may be a father.' I stared at her. She stared back and her eyes never wavered.

'I'll never understand women as long as I live,' I replied shaking my head. Why, I don't know, but I did agree to make that journey across the island and within the hour we had set off in the people carrier for the South West corner. Travelling down through the monastery village of Lluc, then along the West Coast road brought back so many memories. The clarity of the clear open sky, the royal blue of the Mediterranean, the craggy limestone rock of the mountains. Driving through cliff-top villages and down hot, dusty streets made me wonder how I had ever agreed to leave there.

'I wish I had known you when you lived here,' Sarah Masters said. 'We could have had such fun together,' she added.

'It's a fun island,' I replied. 'There's more license to go astray here.' She turned her head and looked at me whimsically.

'Hey, watch the road,' I remember shouting. The vehicle caught the edge of a tight bend. Fortunately I was clinging onto the passenger strap and she quickly rectified the swerve.

As we neared my village, I began to get nervous. So much had happened since I'd left there and my life had changed in so many ways. In reality I had become a different person, not only in name, but also in temperament and ideals. At that moment I wasn't sure, if I actually came face to face with the artist how would I respond and I definitely wasn't sure how she would react.

'Here we are. This is it, turn right here,' I said to Sarah Masters, when we reached the turn off for the village. My body began to tremble as we descended the narrow track down to the bay. 'Not sure I want to go through with this,' I said.

'David you have to find out,' she chided. 'Put your hat on. People won't recognise you in this car and that hat.' I had borrowed a large Panama hat from Johnny Masters' wardrobe, in case I needed a disguise. I hadn't told Sarah about all my problems in the village, but I had said something about there being a bit of bother with the locals over unpaid bills when I left.

'There it is, down that track there,' I pointed when the bungalow came into view. My insides felt like jelly, my palms were sweating, my mouth was dry. A hedge of tall bamboos at the start of the track shielded the road from the house.

'Stop here,' I said. 'I can walk the rest of the way.'

'Are you sure?'

'If she's in, I'd like to take her by surprise. She won't see the car if you park here.'

'As you wish,' Sarah Masters said and switched off the engine.

'Wish me luck,' I said getting out.

Every yard down that track seemed like a mile, every footstep pounded in my head like the beat of a drum. I hadn't a clue what I was going to say or do. Thinking logically was totally out of the question. The red Renault was parked outside. I heard Sophie bark when I approached the front door. A moment later she was haring around from the side of the bungalow, still barking. I stopped, she stopped. There was more barking. Then, a moment of recognition, her body waggled like a snake and she squirmed up to me, burying her face at my feet.

'Hello old girl, anybody in?' I asked as I stroked her. Her coat was woolly warm. She ran away to the back of the bungalow. Half way there, she turned, paused and looked back at me, with her right foot poised in the air like a ballet dancer, holding a pose. I followed after her. When I got nearer I could hear music through the open patio doors. The easel was set up in the doorway. A blonde head was angled above it. The artist's arms were gesturing with her brush strokes, just as I had remembered from our evening at Deia. For a moment I stood and watched. Sophie had run inside. When she ran out again, towards me, the artist lifted her head.

'Hullo Jen,' I said.

For what seemed like eternity she stared at me without saying anything. Then she bent her head and continued with her brush strokes as though I wasn't there. Already I felt rejected, but nervously I moved closer.

'How are you Jen?' I said when I reached the patio door. At that moment we were only a few feet apart, a chasm that felt like a mile. She was wearing a blue shirt with cream slacks and was barefoot.

'I'm alive, as you see,' she said without looking at me.

'Is everything all right?'

'Is what all right?'

'You, your health? I see Sophie's OK.' She looked up. The cold steely stare I knew so well hit me, like a blow from a heavyweight boxer.

'Where did you get that ridiculous hat?' she said and continued with the brush strokes.

'I borrowed it from a friend. Thought you might not recognise me. You see I've changed my hairstyle.' I said and removed the Panama. Suddenly her face creased and she let out a howl of laughter.

'Oh David that's even funnier than the hat,' she said and put down the paintbrush.

'Somebody said it made me look more sophisticated.'

'Well they must have been after your body. You never had any money.'

'That's true, maybe you're right. Well can I come in? You look great anyway.' The hair was a little shorter, the figure a little rounder, but it still all looked fantastic to me. By then my whole body was shaking. She stared at me. I still couldn't guess what she was going to say or do. Nothing had changed in that respect, her eyes never gave anything away.

'The first time you came through this door your hair was all wet from the sea and you had to lean on my shoulder,' she said and took a step backwards from the easel. 'At least I don't have to carry you in this time.'

'God that seems like a lifetime away,' I said. Inside, I stopped and looked around. The room was the same, but more cluttered than it used to be. Magazines, newspapers, odd bits of clothing were spread about the place and I wondered if Kirsty, her daughter, was around.

### CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

'Tea or coffee?' Jenny McGuire asked as she switched on the kettle.

'Coffee please,' I replied. I was sitting warily on a high backed stool in the kitchen area of the bungalow, while she moved about organising cups and banging the cupboard doors open and closed.

'How long did you spend in that jail?' I said tentatively.

'Oh I don't remember now. Five or six weeks, something like that. There was nothing they could accuse me of so they had to let me go eventually.'

'That's a long time though?'

'I know it was a long time. The Spanish are like that. They think if they keep you in jail long enough, you'll confess to something, just to get out.' While she poured the boiling water into two cups I watched her closely. Her long slender fingers handled the cups and the pot with dexterity. She was just as beautiful as ever and I remember thinking how strange that I still had this affection for her despite all the trouble she'd brought me.

'Carlos and Luigi were sent down,' I said.

'So I heard.' She added a spoonful of coffee and the same amount of honey to the boiling water and slid a cup across the surface of the kitchen top towards me.

'Thank you,' I said. 'Were you involved with that lot?'

'It's something I'd rather not talk about.' She flipped a strand of blonde hair off her cheek and replaced it behind her right ear.

'Lisa McWilliam?' I said as boldly as I could muster. 'Is that something you'd rather not talk about as well?' A cold stare bore down on me, like a judge passing sentence.

'I had nothing to do with that,' she replied. 'Lisa was into all sorts of things. That was her business not mine. I thought she was a friend.' I shrugged my shoulders and sipped on my coffee.

'And the other little matter?' I said when I looked up again.

'What little matter is that now then?'

'You told me you were pregnant?'

'Did I now. That's funny that is. I didn't think you'd have remembered about that.' I looked at her straight in the eye and sighed before I spoke again. Hers was a face I could never second guess.

'At the time Jen, I just didn't know what to believe. There were so many crazy things happening. Of course I remembered. Why do you think I'm here now? At the time my people said I was in danger and they had to get me out.'

'And I wasn't in danger in that jail, I suppose?'

'It was a mess Jen. You'd let me down before.'

'When?'

'At the airport. You disappeared.'

'Because I was sick, with your child,' she shouted. Her face strained with the effort.

'But your so called pals took me from this room and locked me in a cellar. They threatened to kill me.'

'I'm not surprised. I'm told you fired a shotgun at them. It burnt a hole in my settee.' I looked across the room. It was the same settee I had woken up on, the first time I was there.

'But they were out to get me.'

'That was between you and them. What had that got to do with me?'

'I thought you were in league with them.'

'And what if I was? It didn't stop you calling here when you wanted something.' I looked down. I had never won an argument with her in my life. I knew I wasn't about to then.

'You still haven't answered my question?' I said.

'What question's that?'

'You told me you were pregnant. You said it was mine. Did you have the child? ' She got off the stool and walked towards the kitchen sink with her coffee cup and began to rinse it out.

'David I'm busy with my painting. It's been nice to see you, briefly, even with that hairstyle, but I am going to ask you to leave now and I don't want you to come back here again. Ever! Do you understand?' She snatched up my coffee cup from the kitchen top, even though I hadn't finished it and dunked it in the sink.

'Don't you think I'm entitled to know?' I said. She had her back to me at the sink, but she turned her head and stared hard at me.

'No. You passed up that opportunity at Palma jail. Now please, I would like you to leave.' She walked to the patio door and pulled it open wide.

'David! Now please!!'

* * * * *

'Well, how did it go?' Sarah Masters asked.

'I'd rather not say,' I replied as I climbed into the people carrier.

'Oh dear, that bad?'

'Come on let's go,' I said.

'What about the child?'

'I said, let's go.' It had been a long day, there was a lot to mull over. When we got back to Cala Bona I made an excuse about needing some air and walked to the point at the end of the bay. It's about two miles and I took my time. While I walked, I went over every word the artist had said. I was desperate to know the truth but realised I was no nearer in finding it.

'When did you say Johnny would be here?' I asked Sarah Masters when I got back to the apartment.

'Some time tomorrow. He said he'd phone tonight.'

'That means you and I will be alone together again?'

'Seems like it.'

'I'm not sure that's a good idea.'

'Oh, I see. Any reason?'

'Something about right and wrong I suppose. I've been getting them mixed up these last few years.'

'Suit yourself. What have you in mind.'

'There's someone I need to see on the other side of island. Can I borrow the vehicle? I'll be back in the morning, I promise.'

'That someone live in a beach bungalow by any chance?'

'No, in a vicarage actually, in Sant Jordi. He's the Pastor there.' She looked surprised.

'Going to confess your sins?'

'Something like that. Can I phone first, to check he'll be there?'

'If you like. Do you want me to drive you?'

'No, I can manage.'

'David I'll need the car by lunch time. Johnny will probably arrive about noon with Jasmine and his son.'

'I promise I'll be back in time, trust me please.'

'Haven't I always?'

* * * * *

Danny Rogers's warm welcome was like meeting up with an old chum. He blinked when he noticed my hair.

'It goes with the new image I'm afraid and the change of name,' I said. 'The glasses don't make me see any better either but I'm still known as David.'

'It's what's inside that counts,' he replied, as we shook hands. He guided me to his study and poured French brandy for both of us. Briefly I explained about my work, what had happened at Rory's trial and the need to change my name. He listened with patience.

'That's good,' he said when I'd finished. 'I knew you would find your vocation again, once you settled. Just trust in the Lord is what I said.'

'You did indeed Father, you did indeed. But there's still a missing piece. That's where I need your help and a roof for the night if I can?'

'There's always a room for you here my boy, but how can I help?'

I told him about Jenny McGuire. Some of the details he remembered from before but he didn't know about the pregnancy or my visit to see her in prison.

'You see Father, she won't tell me if there's a child or not. She's mad at me of course and I can't say I blame her, but I do need to know.'

'Of course you do my boy.'

'The problem is, as I've explained, David Dancing no longer exists. In that name I'm registered as a missing person on this island. There's no longer a passport in existence under that name and my current passport is at home in Britain.'

'Oh dear.' He looked perplexed.

'So you see I can't go to the authorities. But if there was a birth, it has to be registered here on the island, in Palma. Could you please enquire for me Father? They'd tell you.' He looked at me closely. His doleful eyes sparkled with curiosity.

'And what would you do then?'

'If I had a child, Father, there's a lot of things I would have to do. It's not a bridge I've crossed before, but by God I would make sure I got things right this time.' He looked at me in silence for a while, finished his brandy and set the glass down on the desk beside him.

'I believe you would David, I believe you would,' he said nodding his head. 'But there's nothing I can do over the weekend, everything's closed. Give me the details and I'll make enquiries on Monday.'

'That would be marvellous Father. I have to be back in work by then but I'll phone you from the UK.'

'Fine. Now it's late, we must sleep. Tomorrow's another day.'

* * * * *

'I'm not very pleased about being brought here like this,' I said to Johnny Masters. We were sitting together in Rosario's next day. We had all lunched and Sarah had taken the children off to the beach. 'Don't ever do that to me again, or our friendship will end,' I added.

He looked at me impassively.

'Sarah tells me you have been able to catch up with an old flame,' he replied and puffed on the small cigar he'd been twiddling between his fingers.

'Maybe so, but I've got responsibilities at home. And I would like to make my own decisions about what I do.'

'But you were in danger. The police trail to Myer led from you, he knew that.'

'I do have people to look after me if I need them.' He looked surprised.

'Myer will leave you alone now,' he said dismissing my words with a wave of his arm.

'How do I know that?'

'My boys can be quite persuasive when they have to.' The sun highlighted the hard lines on his face. I didn't dare think about the possibilities of what his boys might do. I only had to look at Sarah to know that he was a man who usually got what he wanted.

'Johnny I have to get home,' I said sipping the last dregs of my wine. 'I must be back in work on Monday.'

'I'll take you home tomorrow. Sarah's staying on with the kids. Have you sorted things out with your girl?'

'Not really. Let's just say it's an ongoing situation.'

'Well you're welcome to use the apartment whenever you want. I have a friend up the road with an airstrip. As you haven't got your passport with you, we'll leave from there in the morning.' He winked at me.

* * * * *

Mary's face had worry written all over it when she walked into the office on Monday morning. I had been there since eight o'clock trying to catch up. A long list of messages filled up the phone book.

'Thank heaven you've returned,' she said. 'I was beginning to wonder what you had done.'

'I'm sorry Mary, I had to go away on business. It all took a lot longer than I expected.'

'The police from Oxford phoned lots of times,' she said pointing to the calls in the book.

'And that man George Harvey. Who's he? He frightens me. You're not in trouble are you?'

'Not the sort you're thinking of.' Frown lines creased her forehead.

'Let's just say, I've been through something like this before with my husband,' she said.

'Sit down Mary,' I said and gestured to the chair in front of my desk. 'A week or so ago you told me about some of your problems,' I began. 'Now I'm going to tell you a little about some of mine, although for your own safety I'm not going to say too much.' Her eyes widened. I pushed the papers on the desk in front of me to one side and leaned forward on my elbows.

'A while ago I had to give evidence in court,' I said. 'The person in question was a very dangerous man, a murderer in fact. He was sent down for twenty years. There are other people, relating to his crimes who are still at large though and Mr Harvey is there to protect me, in case there are problems with them.' Her face brightened. The eyes remained wide and a smile developed to replace the frown. She shuffled in her seat, gave out a little laugh, then covered her mouth with her hand. I looked at her.

'I am sorry,' she said.

'It's all right. What is it?'

'Nothing. Just something you said. It ties in with something else.' She shuffled some more in her seat. I nodded, encouraged her to continue. She hesitated, looked embarrassed, shuffled a bit more.

'Try telling me,' I said.

'No, you'll only laugh.'

'No I won't. Go on.'

'Well I don't really know where to begin.' She removed her hand from her face and placed both hands palm down on her lap. 'You see, ever since I was a kid, I've always wanted to write. You know, stories. Tales about others people's lives, things like that. By the way I've never told anybody this before.'

'Go on.' She looked down at her hands and then continued.

'I've never got round to doing it properly of course. Writing properly I mean. I met Derek almost as soon as I left school. Then we were married, and then there was Emma.' She fiddled with the collar of her blouse. 'It wasn't until I got the job in the Grape Vine that I started. There were days there when I was bored, so I used to watch whoever came in. You know what it's like in there. In their suits and everything, they look so important. But I'd watch their faces, study their mannerisms.' She stopped talking and looked at me.

'Carry on,' I said.

'You'll think it's silly.'

'No I won't.'

'Well, when I get home at night and Emma's gone to bed, I write about those people. Make up imaginary stories about their lives.' She fiddled with her collar again. 'When you first came, I thought you were a real man of mystery. Most of the others in there I know. Know their names, know what they do, know where they live. But not you. You appeared from nowhere.'

'And what did you write about me then?' Our eyes locked together. She giggled.

'I had you escaping from a financial disaster abroad. You'd been cheated by a partner and fallen on hard times. Desperate to get away. You were making a new start.' She smiled deliciously at me.

'Mary that's great. One day I'd like to read those stories.'

'I feel silly telling you now,' she said.

'No you're not. Telling me just brings us a little closer together, that's all.'

* * * * *

Later that same day George Harvey barged in through the front door of the office. I got out of my seat immediately.

'It's all right Mary,' I called out from the doorway of my room. 'Come in please George.' He walked towards me as though he was about to take me apart. His demeanour was frightening.

'Well?' was all he said with his face pressed close to mine.

'George have a seat,' I said beckoning to the chair in front of my desk.

'I'd rather stand if it's all right with you.'

'Well I'm going to sit anyway.' I moved to my chair behind the desk, glad of the excuse to be out of his firing line.

'You're not going to believe this,' I said when I sat down.

'Try me. Life's full of surprises.' He sounded exasperated.

'I've been to Mallorca for the weekend.' He looked stunned. I waited for the explosion but it didn't happen. He just shook his head and settled in the chair opposite me.

'How can I protect you there David?' he said and rubbed his bald head.

'You can't George. I don't expect you to.'

'I'm wasting my time then.'

'You haven't been. I've been grateful. But I feel I've got my life back on track again now. I have to survive by myself from here on.'

'But you are still in danger. These people don't forget. They harbour grudges for years. They'll always be looking to get even.'

'I know, but it's a chance I'm going to have to take. I can't live a normal life under surveillance. I've got to let go sometime. Now's as good a time as any.'

'You might live to regret it.'

'From what you say, I might not live at all, but it's a chance I have to take.'

'Suit yourself. I'll tell my people what you've said.'

'Thanks George. I'll write a letter as well,' I said. When he had gone, I slumped back in my chair. Mary brought some coffee.

'He gives me the creeps,' she said.

'With a bit of luck you won't see him again. You'd better try and get me that police number in Oxford please.' Weekes was out when Mary phoned, but later in the day he phoned back. They'd moved in on Myer and his gang and were exonerating me from their enquiries. Myer had made a statement confirming my innocent involvement in the deliveries.

'You've been very lucky,' he concluded. 'I just hope you are more careful in future. Funny, though,' he added.

'What is?' I asked.

'That sort don't usually let anybody off the hook. If they sink they usually like to bring everybody else down with them.' Johnny Masters' words about his pals being quite persuasive came into my mind when Weekes said that.

* * * * *

Because of my absence there was a lot of work to catch up on. Mary returned to the office with Emma, after picking her up from school. They stayed on until five to help with the telephone calls, while I got on with the paperwork. Emma was a cute kid, pretty like her mother, with bright eyes and auburn hair.

It was late when I got home. Dark menacing clouds hung over the valley as I drove along its twisting route. A westerly gale was causing the big trees to sway like drunken men on a night out. Inside, my cottage was gloomy. Thoughts of balmier days in Mallorca induced me to put in a call before I settled down for the evening.

'Have you had any luck Father?' I asked when Danny Rogers answered.

'Ah, David my boy, I was wondering if you would call. I have as a matter of fact. Though I'm not sure if it's what you want to hear.' I sat down in the chair beside the phone and braced myself.

'It doesn't matter Father. I just want to know the truth.' There was a silence on the line for a moment.

'Well, there was a birth. Last May. A boy. David Barry McGuire.'

'Father that's fantastic.' I felt a warm glow spread through my body.

'Well not quite. I've made some more enquiries. At the moment he's at the children's hospital in Palma. I know the priest who's the locum there.'

'What's the trouble Father?' I asked.

'He has a heart valve condition. They think he may pull through but they don't know for sure. He'll need special attention anyway, for some time.' It was my turn for silence. 'I'm sorry to be the one to tell you David,' Danny Rogers said.

'No, Father, I'm glad you did. I have a lot to thank you for.'

After our call, I sat in the gloom, with no lights on, staring out of the window, watching the trees waving about in the gale. A child of my own, after all these years, I thought to myself, and named after me as well. Amazing. There were health problems but these things can be overcome. Truly amazing, I kept repeating to myself. I must have sat there for a long time, pondering on matters, weighing up the debits and credits in my life when the phone rang.

### CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

'I was wondering how you got on with the police,' the voice on the phone said. It was Johnny Masters.

'I've been exonerated,' I replied. 'I suppose I have you to thank for that.' He made no comment. 'Johnny, I'm going to need to get out to Mallorca this weekend,' I said. 'You couldn't fly me there could you? I'll pay you for the fuel.'

'No need for that old chap. I'm going out to see Sarah and the children anyway. I've told you before, you're welcome any time. Anything to do with the girlfriend?'

'Something like that,' I said. He laughed.

That week in work, the days weren't long enough to get everything done. Mary was a godsend. I met up with Johnny Masters at Staverton on the Saturday morning.

'What'll you do now Myer's little circus has packed up?' I asked as we flew over the channel.

'He's not the only one I fly for,' he replied. 'If you keep your ear to the ground there's all sorts of jobs in this lark. At the moment I'm talking to somebody about trips to the Ukraine. You wouldn't be interested would you?'

'No I wouldn't. I'm in enough trouble already.'

'Shame,' he said. 'You'd be a good man to have around. Now that's a trip where there could be trouble.' I looked across at him and smiled. I had a feeling that one day Johnny would come to a sticky end. Wherever it was, and however it might be, I was sure of one thing, he'd go down with all guns blazing.

When we landed at Palma airport I hired a car and drove west, while he went north east to join his family. There was a hotel I knew on the west coast road and I booked in there for the night. The road from my village to Palma passed by outside. During the previous week I had telephoned Danny Rogers again. He'd given me details of the hospital in Palma and the ward number my son was in. I made a guess that the artist would visit sometime during the day. So, after an early breakfast I sat on the front porch with a coffee and watched the cars go by. About midday, I spotted the red Renault hurtle past. Her driving certainly hadn't improved. My hired car was parked outside, I ran to it and followed on. I knew the route she would take, so I left a big gap between us. At Palma, I negotiated the hospital car park searching for the Renault. When I found it I parked nearby.

'I'm visiting David Barry McGuire,' I said boldly to a pretty, dark haired girl behind a reception desk.

'Are you a relative?' the girl responded.

'I guess so. I'm the father!' She frowned and inspected me intently.

'We haven't seen you here before?' she queried.

'No, I've been away. Overseas on business,' I replied. Fortunately she understood my English.

'Well, we have to be careful. Your son is in a delicate state. His mother is in there now. If you take a seat I'll see if you can go through.' I nodded and moved away. Then, instead of taking a seat I paced the floor like an expectant father. Time went by and nothing happened.

'I really would like to see my son,' I said to the girl, when my patience ran out.

'I have passed the message through,' she replied curtly.

More time elapsed. I was about to get really angry when a door opened at the side of reception area. The artist and a man in a white coat emerged. She didn't look pleased. There was the familiar cold stare.

'Jen, I want to see my son,' I said. The man hovered around and looked prepared for trouble.

'I didn't think you were interested,' she replied, lacing each word with contempt.

'Of course I'm interested. What do you take me for?'

'An absentee father,' she said with scorn.

'Well I'm here now and I want to help and make up for lost time.' Her face remained expressionless. The man still hovered while trying to cover his embarrassment. 'Please Jen,' I pleaded. The attendant whispered something to her I couldn't hear. For a moment I thought they were going to refuse.

'He's very weak David,' she said. 'You will have to wear a mask and an overall. There's a risk of infection. We can't stay long. He'll be tired by now.'

'Yes, yes whatever you say.'

We went into an anteroom, painted white like a chapel, where I put on a mask and white overall, then into another sterile, hushed enclave. And there, in a cot, craving for affection, possessing nothing more than the hint of a smile, was the tiniest bundle of human form I had ever seen. I wanted to pick him up in my arms but of course I couldn't. We stayed about ten minutes. I was mesmerised, just watching him gurgle and smile

* * * * *

'What are his chances Jen?' I asked afterwards.

'About fifty-fifty, so they tell me,' she replied. 'He's lasted this long and they say that's a good sign.' We were sitting in the lounge of my hotel. It was late afternoon. The sun was beginning to dip on the horizon. A shaft from it cast a ray on her brown arms. She was drinking brandy, I sipped a coke and was still shaking with excitement.

'What can I do to help Jen. I want to help, make a contribution, make up for lost time. He's got to pull through. By God he's got to pull through.'

'At the moment there's nothing anybody can do. He's in the only place that can help. They say the next month or so is critical. If he comes through that he should be all right.' I looked at her, but as usual her eyes gave nothing away.

'Jen, I would like to see him regularly. I've got my own business to run back home now, but I could come out at weekends. Would you allow that? Could I see him with you at the weekend?'

'I wondered if you would go back there to work. What's the business?'

'Oh, same as before. You know investments, that sort of thing, but it's a long story. Come on Jen. Please, say yes. Let me help. I want to be a part of your lives. In his condition he's going to need a lot of things. I can help with that. Please,' I said. 'I'm serious.' Her expression changed into a frown.

'I've got Kirsty living with me now. She's finishing her schooling in Palma. I can't have you around with her and I need my solitude to paint. You'd just be a nuisance. We've managed so far without you.' Her words cut me to the quick.

'I wouldn't have to live with you,' I responded. 'I could find somewhere nearby to stay. I've some new friends on the other side of the island. It would only be for a day or so at the weekend. I could take him off your hands, give you a break. I'd be there to help with all the problems. Jen I'm his father. I have a responsibility.' There was more silence. My eyes pleaded.

'I couldn't stand you being under my feet all the time,' she said scornfully.

'I won't be under your feet. I promise.'

'I really don't know. I'll have to think about it. You barged into my life before. Then you left me, barefoot and pregnant. Why should I trust you now?'

'I'm not asking you to. I'm not expecting anything. I'm offering help. There are no strings. If I let you down or don't turn up, you've lost nothing. Only what you might have gained by letting me help.'

'Just at weekends you say?'

'Yes, at the moment I couldn't do any more. My business is too busy. I have to make a living. Now I have a son to bring up, I'll have to work even harder.' The blue eyes stared at me. I suppose they hypnotised me really. They always had.

### CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

By this time I had been with Deadly for some hours. Outside, darkness had descended. The level in the whisky bottle was well below the label and we'd finished off the two bottles of Rioja. Sophie had become bored. Two or three times she'd ventured outside, only to return and slump despondently, with a deep sigh, at Deadly's feet.

'Are you comfortable there, Hugh?' he asked me.

'Fine.' I replied.

'We might as well finish this off, it won't keep,' he said, pouring the remains of the whisky into our two glasses.

After that first visit to see his son in hospital, Deadly made regular weekend journeys to the island. Johnny Masters would fly him to Palma airport. Then, he would hire a car and drive to a small apartment he'd managed to rent in Puerto Andraixt. I'll let him take over the story again now.

* * * * *

Initially, Jenny McGuire remained difficult to deal with.

'I've told you I don't want you around here,' she said the first time I phoned her from the apartment. 'I've got Kirsty at home now,' she'd continued. And so, reluctantly, I agreed to meet up with her each time at the hospital. My boy was still in intensive care and our visitations were brief. He was still only a tiny bundle, but his face constantly demanded affection and that was enough to keep me turning up every other weekend. The doctors confirmed there was progress.

'It's a day to day thing,' they told me. The artist continued to remain curt and sharp. Occasionally, afterwards, in the hospital cafeteria, she would deign to partake in a coffee, although our time alone together never lasted more than ten minutes.

'I've got to get back to Kirsty,' was her constant excuse to bring our meetings to an end. Never once did she enquire about my health, or my business. When I asked about Kirsty, I was informed that, 'It is nothing to do with you.'

Afterwards, I would usually make my way across the island to meet up with Johnny and Sarah for a meal at Rosario's. The road north east, through arable farmland, is in stark contrast to the craggy rock of the south western corner where I lived. Travelling along those differing highways re-ignited my love for the island. Once, when I stayed overnight with the Masters, I returned by the route across the north of the island and back down the west coast through Deia. To satisfy my conscience I stopped there and walked around. The hilltop village was still adorably quaint. The Teix mountain remained indomitable, the light brilliant. I visited the churchyard where Lisa's ashes were buried. Memories of her smiling, freckled face still haunted me. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I walked back down the hill to my car. In my apartment, using the laptop, I was able to catch up with my work from the previous week and prepare quotes and documentation for the following one. Looking back on it now, they were busy, vibrant days. And being around the artist still gave me a buzz like nothing else I knew, despite her truculence.

* * * * *

The office continued to be a hive of activity. Mary's value was increasing by the day. She'd learnt how to operate the computer and prepare quotes. One afternoon I was there by myself. It was after three thirty, Mary had left to pick up her daughter from school. I had my head down on a pension quote when in walked a tall, ginger haired man, who I guess would have been in his early thirties. He made some tentative enquiries about investments but I could tell by his responses he was only fishing. I did, however, watch his eyes. They darted about the office. He looked over my shoulder into the back room. He was checking where the doors were placed. Instantly my nervous system was on edge. Fortunately he didn't stay long. When he'd gone, another customer followed in with a complicated financial problem, so I quickly forgot about it.

It was only when I was driving home in the evening that the image came back to me. In the hustle-bustle of the day and during our edgy, disjointed conversation, it had failed to register that he had an Irish accent. The small town in which I worked was a long way from Ireland, but there was a horse racing track nearby and regularly there were Irish racing people about. Sometimes though, when you meet a person for the first time, you instinctively know there's something wrong.

Later that evening, I was taking my after dinner walk through the woods behind the cottage. My habit was to give my body a reasonable bout of exercise before turning in for the night. The lane I lived on came to a dead end just past my cottage. A car travelling along it at that time of the night therefore, was a rarity. Usually, it was a courting couple looking for an isolated spot or someone who had taken a wrong turning. That night I'd been up to the top of the wood. From there, through the trees, was a spectacular view down the Wye Valley. Centuries old hard woods cast eerie shadows over the river and in the moonlight I could see the ghostly cloisters of Tintern Abbey. That night, on my way back down the track, through the trees, I could see a set of headlights heading down the lane, a good half a mile away. A lay-by passing place was cut into the hedgerow a couple of hundred yards from my cottage. I watched the car pull in there and douse its lights. A courting couple I guessed. I was still five minutes away from my back door. I'd left the outside light on. When I got nearer, I spotted a shadowy figure slinking around the garden. Silently, I crouched behind a tree and watched a man wearing a windcheater stealthily move about. When he stood near the light, I recognised him as the person who had been in my office that afternoon. My car was parked by the front gate. He walked that way, bent down and shone a torch on the number plate. My heart was pounding like thunder. After a while, he walked briskly back down the lane towards his car. The headlights came on. The car completed a three point turn and drove away.

No, surely not again, I thought when I got inside the cottage. How could anybody here tie me up with my past. Immediately, George Harvey's words about 'these people harbouring grudges for years,' flashed through my head. Perhaps I had taken things for granted just a little too much. I still didn't know how closely Jenny McGuire was connected with her Irish associates. She'd said she wasn't involved in Lisa's murder, but that tragedy didn't happen because Lisa played the cello.

I spent a sleepless night. The trees creaking outside my bedroom window wakened me constantly. I imagined footsteps on the tread of the stairs. Visions of a masked gunman standing over me, haunted what little sleep I got. In the morning I thought about contacting George, perhaps he'd help me? I doubted it though. When I'd written to his superiors, asking to withdraw his services, I'd received a curt reply, succinctly spelling out that they could do no more for me. So now I really was on my own.

'You've been very quiet these last couple of days?' Mary said to me one morning in the office.

'Have I? Pressure of work I guess.' I replied.

'No, I'd say it's something else. You've lost your chirpiness. Even when we're busy you're still usually chirpy. Is everything all right?'

Over the preceding weeks, Mary and I had become close confidants. By then, she would readily tell me some of the problems regarding her husband. The difficulties of visiting the jail where he was held, the mess of his social security paperwork, that sort of thing. I was happy to provide a willing ear and advise if I could. It was a welcome distraction from my other concerns. So, confiding in her was not an embarrassment.

'I'm not sure if some of my troubles from the past might be catching up with me,' I said.

'You mean the court case business?'

'Perhaps. I'm not sure. A man with ginger hair and an Irish accent hasn't been in here in the last few of days has he?'

She hesitated, 'I don't think so,' she replied. Later in the day she came into my room. Her face was animated. 'I've just remembered,' she began. 'There was an Irishman now you come to mention it. He asked for you by name. That's how I remember. His accent made the word Markham sound a bit funny.'

'What did he say?'

'Not much, just wanted to know if you were in. When I said you weren't, he asked what time you would be back.'

'If he comes back again, or if you see him snooping around outside, will you make sure and tell me.'

'Yes I will. Is he dangerous?' I laughed, partly to try and cover my own inner tension and partly to allay her fears.

'I don't know about that. He may be. I'll have to get Mr Harvey back. He'd frighten him off.'

'He'd frighten anybody off,' she said and her face broke into a shy smile.

For the next few days I lived with fear tucked as far back in my brain as I could force it to go. They weren't comfortable times. I was permanently on edge. Fortunately, Mary's cheerful disposition and practical help kept me going when my spirits flagged. To cheer us both up, I'd sometimes treat her to lunch. Usually it was a country pub, as far away as possible from the nosy gossiping of the local inhabitants. For an hour, we'd swap stories about past events from our very different lives. That way I learnt a bit more about her writing, the plots, the characters. I'd laugh at her descriptions. We were comfortable in each other's company. What a difference in attitude to the artist, I used to think.

That weekend I was off again to Mallorca. By then it had become a regular feature of my life. Saturday night at the apartment in Andraixt, was often my best night's sleep. Night times at the cottage had become a nervous experience. I'd taken to pulling the dressing table across the bedroom door before turning out the light.

'You looked strained David,' Sarah Masters said during one flight.

'Work's so busy,' I replied, trying to fend off her enquiry.

'Not burning the candle at both ends I hope.'

'No. Well not in the way you imply anyway.'

'I wasn't implying anything.' She still liked to tease me. Though, like Mary, her manner had compassion for my welfare. So different to the reaction I received at Palma that afternoon.

After we'd landed I drove straight to the hospital to see my boy, at a time I had agreed with the artist. I was still only allowed to visit when she was present. That day I waited for her for two hours in the reception area twiddling my thumbs. And when she eventually arrived there wasn't even the hint of an apology.

'You might have let me know if you were going to be late.' I ventured.

'I had to take Kirsty to a school event on the other side of the island,' she said dismissively.

'You've got my mobile number. It wouldn't take you a minute to call and tell me. I've only just flown in here this morning. You know that.'

'And I told you at the start that I hadn't got time to mess about with you. If you want to keep turning up like this, that's your business, but it's no concern of mine. And Kirsty comes first.' I said nothing more and followed her into the intensive care unit. The doctors informed us that there had been a marked improvement in the boy's health. There was talk about him being allowed home in the near future. Despite the artist's attitude, David's impish smile was enough to keep me continuing with the visits.

* * * * *

It was quite late on the Sunday night when I drove back down the lane to my Wye Valley cottage. Rain was falling heavily. Damp, slippery leaves covered the road like a carpet. Those, and large deep puddles made driving treacherous. By the time I'd parked the car I was very tired. With the poor weather, it had also been a bumpy flight back. I suppose I should have noticed something awry when I walked through the open garden gate. My habit was to secure the latch when I went out. There was a problem locally with sheep which had a tendency to escape from a nearby field. A weekend of their woolly bodies, free in any garden, usually caused devastation. The post box was at the gate, so the mailman didn't come up the pathway. The back door being slightly ajar was the first indication of real trouble. It had been forced open with a jemmy, breaking the lock in the process. I stood still for a moment looking at it in horror.

'Oh God, what now,' I said to myself in desperation. Inside wasn't exactly a mess. Some drawers and cupboards had been left open. Documents, taken from the drawers, had been left on the floor. But by and large it looked no worse than a visit from an unruly child. I ran upstairs. The scenario there was the same. My clothes had obviously been rummaged through. Again, some wardrobe cupboards and drawers were open and a few items of clothing lay on the floor and the bed. There was no real damage though and nothing was broken, except the back door. Downstairs again, I tried to gather my wits. Picking up the papers from the floor, I noticed all of them were items of personal identification. Old bills, a few copies of my bank and credit card statements, rate reminders. As far as I could make out nothing had been stolen. The television was still there. The CD-players and pieces of personal ornaments were all in place. Frankly, there was little else in the cottage worth stealing. My passport, credit cards and any cash had been with me on my trip to Mallorca.

This was a strange burglary indeed, I conjectured. Nothing had been really thrown about. No walls disfigured, windows smashed or curtains burnt. Fortunately everything was intact. All the bits of paper in my hand, of course, were in the name of David Markham. When I changed my name the security people made me destroy everything that referred to David Dancing, including my clothes, even down to my underwear.

'The makers name will tell them where it was bought and they may be able to trace a credit card bill,' I was informed at the time. Gradually, as I moved around my cottage I concluded that the intruders had been trying to establish if I was David Dancing. To check on David Markham would be quite easy. My new work lifestyle was geared to promoting that name; my office advertised it on the front door. Sitting on my settee, listening to rain pinging on the front porch roof, I realised my murky past was coming back to haunt me again.

### CHAPTER THIRTY

Before turning in for the night, I pulled the kitchen table in front of the back door and piled the chairs on top. In my bedroom, the dressing table once again secured the door to the landing and my mobile phone was placed alongside the pillow. Sleep was fitful.

'Where could I go from here?' I pondered as the lonely hours ticked by. My decision to dispense with George's services still plagued me. Fortunately, through my work, I knew a locksmith who was able to call early next morning and repair the kitchen door.

'Have you informed the police?' he asked when he delivered the new set of keys to the office later on.

'Nothing was stolen,' I replied.

'They may have been looking for drugs,' he said. 'There's a lot of it about in the valley.' That, I had to admit, was something I hadn't thought of. But I was still pretty sure my hunch about the break-in was on the right track. And I didn't want the local police delving into my past. Unfortunately, everybody in that gossipy community including the law, in their off duty moments, had a loose tongue. And I just couldn't risk my previous name getting out. Only George's intervention had prevented that on my brush with the Oxfordshire Constabulary.

'Problems at home?' Mary asked when the locksmith left.

'My cottage was broken into while I was away at the weekend. Nothing stolen though, thank God,' I replied.

'Poor you. You can leave anything valuable at my house, if you want,' she said.

'Thanks,' I replied. 'But I haven't got anything that's valuable. That's probably why they didn't steal anything. The only thing of any value is me and my worth's going rapidly downhill,' I said rather flippantly.

'Well, anytime you want to deposit yourself at my place, you're more than welcome.' I looked at her, she held my gaze and I could see she wasn't joking.

* * * * *

Later in the week I called round to see Johnny Masters. I'd telephoned beforehand and Sarah greeted me at the front door. A black trouser suit, with a white blouse underneath, cut a provocative dash.

'Why didn't you come for dinner?' she asked.

'Because I thought I'd imposed on you enough already. Is Johnny in?' She stood still in the doorway and made me brush past her body to get into the hall.

'You could never impose too much on me. Yes, Johnny is in. He's expecting you. He's in the study.' I started to move that way. 'Excuse me. Just a minute please,' she said. I stopped and turned back to look at her. 'Don't I get a kiss, or am I just part of the furniture around here?' I returned to her side. Kissed her on the cheek, enjoyed the fragrance of her perfume, felt my pulse rate climb and made to move off again. She looked at me as though she was expecting more.

'I am sorry Sarah. My head's full of nothing but problems at the moment. Will you forgive me?'

'I'll think about it. Would you like coffee?'

'Yes please,' I said while trying to convert my face into a pleading expression.

'I'll bring it in then.'

Johnny Masters was sitting behind his large desk, smoking a small cigar. Mounds of paper filled the desk, almost hiding him.

'Hi ya,' he said and beckoned to a chair. 'Don't ever get involved in property David,' he continued, shaking his head. 'It's rent review time. So every one of my tenants suddenly decides to send me their repair bills. Now my quandary is, do I pay them all and put up the rent, or chuck them in the bin and leave the rent as it is? I'm convinced they all gang up on me and try it on.' He sighed, got up, reached for a whisky bottle on a side table and poured two good slugs into separate crystal glasses.

'I suppose if they pay the rent that's half the battle,' I replied, trying to sound constructive.

'Maybe you're right.' He raised his glass at me. 'And how are you?'

'Struggling at the moment,' I said and went on to tell him about my break-in. He looked concerned. 'Some years ago I was involved in a court case,' I continued and briefly told him about being a major witness for a big crime involving drugs. I made no mention whatsoever about the IRA or anything about changing my name and all of that. 'They took nothing,' I said, reverting to the burglary, 'but they seemed to be trying to identify me and that's a worry. The criminals involved in the case at the time were a pretty dangerous bunch. If they've been released from jail, perhaps they're intent on revenge?'

'Have you been to the police?' he asked.

'Don't have much faith in them after that business with Myer.'

'H'm. Do you think you're in real danger?'

'I could be. Don't know for sure.' He sat back in his leather chair, took a gulp of the whisky, then a draw on the cigar. A draw deep enough to take the fumes down to his feet. The resultant smoke expelled through his nostrils as he began to speak.

'If you're that worried why don't you take yourself out to Mallorca. I'd fly you there. Lie low there for a while.'

'That's probably what I should do, but I've got my business to think about. I've only just got it up and running. If I disappeared now I'd let too many people down. It would be the finish of me here.'

'You're not much good to your clients dead. Couldn't somebody fill in for you for a while? Nowadays, with computers, faxes, and e-mails, you could keep in touch. It wouldn't have to be for ever.'

'Trouble is, I've created such a personal business here,' I said.

'No man is indispensable. We all learn that in time.' At that moment Sarah came into the room carrying a tray of coffee cups. 'David's had his house broken into,' Johnny said as she deposited the tray on the desk top. She turned to look at me.

'That's terrible. I said how isolated you were out there. Can't you move into town.'

'Nowadays, the chances of being burgled are much the same wherever you live.'

'Yes, but in town you'd have other people around. Out there, there's nobody. What would you have done if you'd confronted them?'

'Run like hell I guess.' Johnny laughed heartily.

'I'm serious,' Sarah Masters said, as she handed round the coffee cups. 'Darling, what about Farm Cottage? That's empty. David could move in there. There are always people around. Harold goes past on the tractor all day.' Johnny leaned back in his chair and drew again on the cigar. When his mind was working on a problem, a ruthless expression always seemed to cloud his face. All the hard nuances I noticed when we first met returned.

'Now look, I've imposed on you people enough already,' I interjected hastily. 'I didn't come here looking for hand-outs.'

'You wouldn't get any,' Johnny said, picking up some of the papers in front of him and waving them at me. 'We'd be charging you a pretty hefty rent. Fuel to Mallorca doesn't come cheap.'

'There we are then,' Sarah said. 'It's such a pretty cottage.' I stayed with them for a couple of hours more, reminiscing about life on Mallorca. The idyllic little bays, the people we knew amongst the ex-pats, the eternal blue of the Mediterranean. By the time Sarah Masters kissed my cheek on my way out through the front door, I didn't feel quite so lonely.

* * * * *

The next few days passed relatively peacefully and I settled back into my work. Then, round about midnight, at the end of a long tiring week, I was taking my night time exercise through the wood. I had wanted to follow the narrow trail that runs alongside the course of the River Wye while there was clear moonlight. I hadn't taken a torch, but I pretty much knew the route and enjoyed the challenge. By the time I returned I'd been gone well over an hour. There was a breeze up. The trees around me creaked and scraped, like an orchestra tuning up. About two hundred yards from my cottage I froze in my tracks. In the moonlight, I could see the shadowy movements of three men by my back door. I crouched, attempting to remain still and silent, while my eyes focused. They all wore hoods, like balaclavas. They were tall, slim in build and wearing what looked like leather jackets. I remained squatting, hunched beneath the lower branches of a gorse bush, paralysed with fear. I watched them silently jemmy open the back door. Then, the three of them slid furtively inside. For a while there were no sounds or movements, then my bedroom light came on. I could see them moving around in there and down the passageway, into the spare room. The light came on in each room as they moved about. My body continued to tremble as I watched.

* * * * *

I spent about another hour keeping low, in my uncomfortable hideaway in the wood. In that time I watched them scour my home, circle my car, peer in through its windows and wander up and down the lane in front of the cottage. Their actions had, at least, given me time to think. From my walks, I knew those woods like the back of my hand. Going back to my cottage would be futile while the three men were still around. Even if they went away, I couldn't be sure they wouldn't return. So, reluctantly, I began to climb up through the wood to its higher pathways. Near the top there was a track that led down through the valley to the perimeters of the racecourse on the outskirts of town. I was sure my intruders wouldn't know about it, or be able to follow me.

I took my time, it was slow going. Often, where the path was wet, I slipped and slid, falling over many times. Traipsing over the rough, uneven surface, I soon became very tired. The track was about eight miles in all. Near the bottom, I searched around for a dry patch. I was so desperately weary I just had to sleep. When I found a suitable spot, I must have drifted off quickly for, the next thing I knew, birds were singing and wild life was scuffling. Wakening to sunlight made my eyes water. My watch said ten past six. Surprisingly, I felt refreshed. The damp dew around me smelt like honey, but my mouth was parched. Stretching out revealed sore and stiff limbs. In time I trudged shakily in the direction of the racecourse. My clothes, my money, my laptop and my car, if they hadn't all been stolen by then, were back at the cottage. I knew without them I couldn't go into work. Thankfully, I could remember Johnny Masters' telephone number. It took half an hour or more to reach a phone box and then I had to reverse the charges.

'I'm sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour,' I began, then quickly related my dilemma. In a quarter of an hour he was pulling up alongside the telephone box in a Range Rover.

'You get yourself in worse tangles than me,' he said, when I opened the passenger door. 'I told you we were two of a kind.' He grinned. 'Come on get in.' As he drove, I told him about my night out. When I'd finished, he lifted the dashboard phone from its consul and dialled a number.

'I'll see you in the Wye Valley in an hour,' he said eventually to whoever it was at the other end of the line. Looking across at me as he replaced the phone, he said, 'I said you'd be better off working with me.'

Sarah Masters was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, when we got to 'Wyndcliffe.' Jasmine was clattering about, picking at hers, while organising herself for school. Sarah looked at me with concern when she saw me.

'David you look all in,' she said and poured hot coffee from a percolator. The pungent aroma scorched my fragile taste buds. 'Now when you've drunk that you must go and take a hot shower,' she said. Johnny reached into a kitchen cupboard, extracted a brandy bottle and topped up my cup.

'Come on, I'll find you a towel,' he said. The shower, one of those large glorious walk-in affairs, helped with the aches in my body. When I'd finished there was a fresh shirt and clean underwear waiting for me.

'Now you've got to move into Farm Cottage straightaway,' Sarah Masters said when I returned downstairs. I gobbled at bacon, eggs and toast and slurped more coffee, while I related more of the night's details.

'Let's go and see what's left at your home,' Johnny said when I'd finished my breakfast. 'I've arranged for a couple of your old pals to come along and help us look.' I looked at him quizzically. 'The guys who bundled you up in the basket,' he added. Soon, we were back on board the Range Rover, heading for my cottage.

### CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Three men, who all bore the appearance of all-in wrestlers, were waiting for us outside the Wye Valley Hotel. The shortest of them must have been about six foot four. Two of them sported what has become known as number one haircuts. They all wore t-shirts with sleeveless body warmers and their biceps would have enhanced any weight-lifters' gymnasium. I cowered into my seat in the Range Rover.

'You'll follow us then,' Johnny Masters said to them when he pulled up alongside. They all nodded, then piled into a huge Mercedes four-wheel drive. I said nothing, stuffed my hands in my pockets and wondered. Warily, our small convoy negotiated my lane. It was the time of year when oak, ash, beech and hazel were shedding their foliage like a woman discarding her summer wardrobe. When we reached the lay-by, close to the cottage, Johnny Masters pulled in and waved the Mercedes through.

'Let them make a recce first,' he said. 'They're used to this sort of thing.' We sat in the Range Rover and waited, talking idly to pass the time. It must have been about half an hour before one of the three returned. His pockmarked face poked through my open window. A couple of day's stubble jutted at me.

'You can come down now, there's nobody around,' he said. He had wild, green eyes. 'They've been through the place, but it doesn't look as though anything's been taken.' Slowly, Johnny inched the Range Rover down the lane and pulled up outside the cottage, behind the Mercedes. One of the men was holding a large cosh, while another clutched a shotgun. A cold shiver ran down my spine as I got out.

'Has he got a license for that?' I asked Johnny.

'Dunno. Shouldn't think so.'

My body was shaking, my mouth was still dry. Through the open hatchback of the Mercedes, I could see what looked like police riot helmets, bullet proof vests and more armoury.

'It's all right to go in,' the tallest one said. 'We've checked for explosives. There don't appear to be any trigger points, but take care, and we've been in the attic. When you've had a look around we'll come back in and check for phone taps and any sound devices. Just don't say too much in there until we've done that. And we've looked under your car. If you give us the keys I'll check under the bonnet and inside, before you start it,' he said to me, almost jokingly. I shuddered some more as I walked past them.

'Who are those guys?' I said to Johnny Masters outside the back door.

'I suppose in today's parlance, you'd call them security executives. They're freelance of course.' He let out one of his rare chuckles.

I looked at the mess they'd made of my back door, sighed, and visualised another repair bill. Johnny stood back and let me in first. Nervously, I tiptoed into the kitchen. Then, like a ballet dancer, I walked around almost afraid to lay my feet properly on the floor after what the guy outside had said. This time there was more mess. Boot marks covered the kitchen floor, mud stains discoloured the lounge carpet, which had been lifted around the edges. Again, drawers and cupboards had been left open. Items were strewn around the floor. Upstairs, it was a similar clutter, but again, nothing appeared to have been taken. We returned to the back door without saying much and called the others in. I looked at my watch, it was a quarter past nine. Johnny let me use his car phone to contact Mary at the office.

'I'll be in after lunch,' I told her in a brief conversation.

'We'd better get your stuff out of here while the lads are around,' Johnny said when I was back at the cottage door. 'Between your car and the Range Rover, we should be able to take most of what you need.'

As we gathered my belongings I could feel my energy levels sapping. I was beginning to question how long I could continue to live in that manner. Somehow though, we managed to get most of my things into the two vehicles.

'Here we are mate, this is what would have trapped you,' one of the big ones said to me. He had just taken my answer phone apart. In his hand was the tiniest little receiver. 'They would have known your every move with this.' I dropped the bundle of clothes I was carrying onto the settee and took the tiny chip from him.

'I'm lucky to have you guys on my side,' I said as I turned it over and over in my hands.

* * * * *

When we arrived back at Farm Cottage, Sarah Masters was already there, busy with vacuum and dusters. There was only time for me to dump my possessions and change my clothes before getting off to work.

'You really don't have to do that,' I said when I passed her on one of my forays across the hall, carrying an armful of clothes.

'I know I don't have to do it.'

'But I'll never be able to repay you for all your kindness.' One of the sleeves of my suits was dangling on the floor under my feet and I half tripped over it in my haste. She picked up the errant cuff, flicked it up onto the top of the pile and looked up at me.

'Don't worry. I'll work out a way,' she added. I hadn't time to dally. I was unhappy about leaving Mary to open up the office by herself. And the last thing I wanted to establish was a reputation for not being on hand when clients needed me.

Throughout that day and through the next few, despite my hectic work schedule, grave concerns clouded my thinking. If those people, whoever they were, could find me at the Wye Valley cottage, they could also just as easily find me at my new abode. And, if they were that determined, they could take me out in the office, on my way to and from the office, or for that matter on any of my many journeys. They knew my car and its number. I had already started checking underneath in the morning before I got in. Just who were those people though? The obvious contenders were the IRA or some of Rory's associates. I just couldn't believe Carlos or Luigi would be that bothered to send people over to the UK to deal with me. Rodriguez would know I was back in circulation, but he had no real axe to grind, so I doubted him. And then there was the artist? She was aware of my return and could provide a good description of my new appearance. Her total lack of interest, or care about my welfare, continued to perplex me.

* * * * *

In all, they were uncomfortable days, filled with fear and apprehension. How I kept going, or managed to concentrate on my work, I'll never know. Fortunately, the office was busy, I was making good money and the daytime hours flew by. All the time though, a neck twisting anxiety followed me about like a shadow. Constantly I turned around to see who was behind me. I looked at every stranger as a potential threat. A door slamming would make me jump, a car horn would make me duck my head. At night, every bump or creek invoked nightmares. My nerves were taut like the gut on a violin. Mary noticed it.

'You're on edge all day,' she said to me once. 'Why don't you get away for a few days. Give yourself a break.'

'I can't do that Mary. We're too busy here, you know that,' I replied, but I knew she was right. Then it happened. One morning I couldn't get out of bed. My body just wouldn't function. My legs wouldn't move, I could hardly lift my arms. I had to crawl to the phone to ring the doctor.

'Hypertension,' he advised when he visited later in the day. He prescribed some pills. They took two days to take effect before I could crawl back into work, looking and feeling like a zombie.

'You can't go on like this. You have to take some time off,' Mary insisted.

This time I did do something about it. I dialled the number of somebody I had been thinking about for some time.

'Good God. They told me you were dead,' Ben James said when I got through to him.

'I nearly was once,' I replied.

'Where are you phoning from? Mallorca? You haven't reversed the charges have you?'

'No Ben, I'm not phoning from Mallorca and I haven't reversed the charges. I'm in this country. Not that far away from you actually.'

The dissolution of our partnership had been an unpleasant and protracted affair. When I went off to live in Mallorca, under our partnership agreement, Ben was required to pay me a cash lump sum, in lieu of my share of future renewal commissions. At the time, it was money he could ill afford. So that, coupled with my affair with his wife, made our split up particularly acrimonious. It was obvious from his early remarks that his acid dislike of me still persisted.

'You couldn't be far enough away as far as I am concerned,' he continued. 'What do you want David? You took all my money last time. I promise you things are really no better on that score now. There isn't anymore, that's my final word.' I could almost taste his disdain down the phone.

'It's nothing like that. I'm phoning because I may be able to do you a favour.'

'Huh,' I heard him cackle. 'I've heard that one before. Pull the other one mate, it's got bells on. David, I'm busy.' I swallowed hard.

'From what I remember,' I began, 'we did pretty well together when we started out. I don't remember you having many complaints at the outset. I was as sorry as you were at the way it all ended. Look Ben, I'm serious. This is a genuine business arrangement, from which you could only benefit. We've never diddled each other before. What happened in the past was a series of events that had nothing to do with the business. The only reason I'm phoning you now, is because you are still the only man I know who I could trust with this. You have to believe me Ben. This would be to your advantage, I promise.' I heard him sigh deeply.

'Go on then, surprise me.'

'It's not something I could tell you about over the phone, it would take too long. I need to see you. Perhaps we could meet up somewhere halfway. I wouldn't want to come to Swansea for obvious reasons. What about Cardiff?'

'I knew there had to be a catch,' he said, sighing heavily again. 'I did hope I wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing you again. Where have you in mind?'

There was a small hotel on the outskirts of Cardiff we'd used before for meetings. After a bout of shilly-shallying we agreed to meet there in two days time for lunch.

I spent the intervening days collating what little accounting information I had. Turnover, bankings, signed acceptance letters, fixed overheads, outstanding commitments; those sort of details. The Ben I knew would want to scour my cupboard meticulously for any hidden skeletons. There wouldn't be much wool I could pull over his eyes. For my idea to come to fruition though, I knew I would have to share with him the biggest secret of my life. One false word from him and my acquired cover would be blown into smithereens. I was taking one hell of a risk, but I couldn't see any other way out of my predicament.

### CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Cosseting a whisky and soda while tapping my fingers on the bar top awaiting Ben's arrival at the Wyndham Hotel, was a good test of my patience. Ten years had elapsed since my last visit to that establishment and time hadn't been kind. The same beige wallpaper was faded, the carpets had worn unevenly, the staff were younger, less efficient and decidedly more impolite. A decision about whether or not to risk the cost of another whisky was impending when Ben sloped in. His eyes did a double take when I rose off the bar stool to greet him. 'Good God!' he exclaimed, 'that's some sort of make-over. Did you have liposuction as well?' I extended my arm and we exchanged a cursory handshake.

'Wondered if you'd recognise me,' I said. 'What'll you have?'

'Oh, orange juice, I'm driving.' He looked at me again and shook his head. 'I heard you'd been in trouble, but did it really require all that?'

'It's a long story. If you're going to adopt my proposal, I'll have to tell you some of it, so you'd better be prepared with your hanky.'

'I knew I shouldn't have come,' he said and shook his head again. Our meeting was obviously not going to be a treasured reunion, so I quickly got on with the business of ordering drinks, grabbing a couple of menus and guiding him over to a table. The service was on the slovenly side of slow, but that suited me as I had to go about my pitch carefully.

The intervening years had taken their toll on Ben. His hair was totally grey and thinning. The hangdog look of a bloodhound soured his face. The eyes were heavy lidded and weary, with drooping bags. He had a sallow complexion, his skin was flabby. A grey suit, I recognised from ten years back, covered a pale blue shirt and a grey and blue striped tie. I wanted to ask about June but I didn't dare.

'I'm working in the Wye Valley,' I began, without much preliminary intercourse. He sipped at his orange juice and didn't look up or reply, so I continued. 'I've set up an office and so far,' my hand touched the edge of the table, 'touching wood, it's gone well.'

'Lot's of willing women there I suppose,' he interrupted.

'A few,' I replied quickly, 'but you know it was never all that.' He picked up the menu and began to study the card.

'Is this on you or am I coughing up again?' he asked.

'It's on me. Please feel free.' I said and gestured with my hand in the direction of the menu. 'As I said, it's gone well. I've brought some figures to show you.' I held up a file containing the documents I'd prepared.

'Are they audited accounts?' he fired back.

'Ben, I haven't been trading for a year, so I can't have audited accounts. Anyway, from what I recall, neither of us had much faith in auditors.'

'H'm!' he grunted. A waiter sidled over as though he was doing us the greatest favour in the world. We ordered our food, then I resumed.

'It's a good little business. The overheads are low. I've only got one girl, who works part time, and the rent's manageable. Apart from that and the usual expenses, it's all profit.'

'And?' he said and looked up at me enquiringly. I took a large sip of the remains of my whisky.

'I'm going to have to go to back to Mallorca for a while. I have a child there who has serious health problems. At the moment I need to be on hand.'

'Are the mother and you still speaking?'

'Just about. I might have to be out there for some weeks and I don't want to close the business down. As I said, I've only just got it up and running.'

'And why do you need me?' he asked pedantically with a sigh. I took a deep breath.

'In all the years I've been in this business and despite our differences, you're still the only one I would really trust. I do mean that.' He looked at me again. I could see he was trying to puzzle it all out. I took another sip of my drink. 'Ben, I need someone to cover for me while I'm away. You could take all the earnings on any new business you write. I tend to take most of my commission on the drip, but you could have all yours up front if you prefer. It would be instant cash. It's a wealthy little town and there are quite a few high rollers around.' This time he looked at me intently.

'David you can't be serious? Surely you're not expecting me to go back into partnership with you? Don't make me laugh.' His face was filled with scepticism.

'No, I'm not asking that. Really, I'm just giving you the opportunity to earn what could be a reasonable amount of money, for a short time, without any strings. I'll still be responsible for the overheads. Have a look at the figures.' I held up the file.

At that moment our food arrived. While we ate, Ben continued to behave like a young girl discouraging a new suitor. Repeatedly, he made uncomplimentary references to our previous association. Finally, I gave up on dialogue. I was always taught that a picture is far better than ten thousand words, so I set out in front of him my statement of earnings for the past three months. He went quiet while he turned over the pages, holding them close to his eyes, as though he was having difficulty with his sight.

'Do you mean you've earned all this since then?' he asked, pointing to the date on the top of the first sheet.

'Correct,' I replied.

'Well what do you need me for? You could take a three month vacation.'

'I need you because I want to keep things going. It's my first real break in a long time.'

'Why are you trusting me with it? What if I pinch your clients, discredit your name and do a runner?'

'I know you well enough,' I stated boldly. 'As I said before, our disagreements were never about business. Come and have a look at the office, meet Mary, my girl. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.'

He continued to pour scorn on the idea, while I tried to conjure up positive replies to each of his uncomplimentary innuendoes. When we'd finished eating he said.

'David I think I'm going to have to sleep on this. You've caught me on the hop somewhat. Thank you for the lunch.' He began to brush the crumbs from his trousers, fold his napkin and start to rise.

'Before you go,' I interjected quickly. 'There is one other thing I have to tell you.' He sighed heavily.

'You've got a woman over here pregnant as well.' I laughed.

'No. What I have to tell you is serious and I'm afraid it's something you'll have to consider before you agree to anything.'

'Go on,' he said and rested back in his chair while issuing another sigh.

'First, I'm going to have to ask for your complete confidentiality on this. In telling you my secret. In a way, I'm trusting you with my life.' He made no comment, but his eyes looked as though they were about to pop out of his head, so I continued.

'My name isn't David Dancing anymore. It's David Markham.' I extracted a business card from my lapel pocket and placed it in front of him. For a few seconds he just stared at it, looking nonplussed. I watched his eyes attempt to refocus on my face.

'Now you really are pulling my plonker,' he said. 'Is this all some kind of joke? Are you having me on? David I'm a busy man. This isn't one of your silly games is it?' He was beginning to shout. People sitting near us looked around. I gestured with my hands to keep his voice down.

'No, I swear to you it's for real,' I said in a half whisper. 'You'll recall I was a witness in the trial of Rory McCandlass.' I leaned my head towards him, speaking as softly as I could and told him very briefly of the events that led to my change of name. I made no mention of the recent problems. He listened without saying a word. When I'd finished he picked up my business card, stared at it and shook his head.

'I really just don't know what to say,' he said eventually.

'You'll need to think about it?' I replied.

'I'll certainly need to do that.' We parted not long after that with a brief handshake and then I watched him walk towards his car. The trousers of his baggy suit flapped in the breeze. His right hand held the file containing my recent financial history and in his head was my future welfare. Over the next few days I conjectured on the Pandora's box of trouble I may have unlocked.

* * * * *

Work remained the only antidote to my permanent state of edginess. Mary continued to be a godsend. From time to time Sarah Masters breezed in and out of the cottage with items of shopping I had either neglected to purchase or not considered important. When I arrived home at night I did little more than crash out. With each passing day, the prospects of Ben helping me out seemed to diminish. One afternoon, when I returned from lunch, Mary's face bore a frown of worry.

'I think that man with the Irish accent, who was here before, called in earlier,' she said. 'I didn't get a real good look, because I was serving somebody else at the time.'

'How long ago was this?' I asked.

'About an hour ago. He just came in through the door and asked if Mister Markham was in. I said you weren't and he went straight out again. But the way he pronounced your name was the same as last time. Should I have rung the police?'

'No, no, it's nothing like that. Mary you're not to worry. It's to do with me. They won't harm you, I promise.'

For some moments I sat at my desk, in the small back room, trying to compose my thoughts. Looking through the adjoining window, I could see Mary in the outer office and beyond that into the busy High Street. Somewhere in the anonymity of that precinct, was a man, or maybe many men, who were looking for me. Perhaps at that very moment they were spying on me through the intervening spheres of glass. It seemed the accumulated years of attrition were closing in on me. I remained seated there for some time. Mary must have been worried by my unusual inactivity. Some time later, she came into my room bearing a cup of tea.

'David is there anything I can do to help?' I looked up from the paper work I'd been pretending to study. There was a glow of affection on her face.

'Perhaps I'm making too much of it,' I said. 'Once these things lodge in your mind, they're difficult to kick out.'

'You aren't fooling me with your bland replies,' she replied. 'I've told you before, I've been through all this with my husband.' She remained standing in front of the desk. Her right hand was on her hip, a pose she often adopted when challenging me for a sensible reply.

'It's a matter I thought had been sorted out long ago,' I said. 'Obviously it hasn't. I may have to go away for a while to straighten things out. If I do I'll give you plenty of warning.' Plainly unsatisfied with my reply, she remained in her adopted pose for some moments. When it became obvious I wasn't going to elaborate further, she left the room with a flounce and a sway of her hips. 'I am grateful for your concern Mary,' I called out. 'I really am.'

* * * * *

That evening, when I reached my car in the town car park, there was a piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper.

'NOW WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE,' the message stated in bold black letters. Angrily, I tore it into pieces and threw them on the ground. Driving home I was in a lather of anger. I was determined those people weren't going to get the better of me. When I'd eaten, I walked up to the big house to see Johnny Masters. Sarah let me in and escorted me to his study. I could never decide whether I enjoyed, or not, her girlish flirtation. It certainly provided a degree of stimulation, but perhaps on that occasion I wasn't in the mood. Johnny was at his desk, still surrounded by an untidy mass of paper. He beckoned to a chair and continued with what he was writing.

'How are they treating you?' he said without looking up.

'Not often enough,' I replied. He grunted a snigger in response. When he'd finished writing, I told him about the note on my windscreen and the visit to my office.

'You can't stay around here,' he said immediately. 'These people are obviously serious. From what you've told me, I would say this is more than just a game of gentle reminders. David, you're playing with your life.'

'Could you fly me out to Mallorca if I had to go?' I asked.

'Of course I could. I've already told you that. I'm available whenever. Have you any idea who these people may be?'

'I'm sure it's all to do with the court case I told you about.'

'Well, then you are in danger. You've got to take care of yourself first.' We talked the subject out for some time, before I returned to Farm Cottage.

The following day my mind was still in a confused state. Throughout the morning all I seemed to do was shuffle pieces of paper from one side of my desk to the other. To hide my restlessness I'd closed the venetian blinds on the adjoining window. Sometime in the middle of that morning, Mary leaned her head around my doorway.

'There's a Ben James outside to see you,' she said.

'Good God,' I replied. Instantly I got out of my seat and walked to the door. Outside in the reception area he was pacing up and down, with the demeanour of an Inspector from the Financial Services Authority, about to crack down on a fraudulent advisor.

'You're a welcome visitor,' I said hesitatingly, while moving towards him. His expression on seeing me gave me no clues.

'I had a client to see in Gloucester, which went quicker than expected, so I had time to spare on the way back,' he said. The deadpan expression remained. 'So this is your bullring. I'm impressed.' I guided him to the chair in front of my desk. Along the way I watched his eyes, scanning, devouring all the aspects of my set up.

'This is just like old times,' I said nervously, when we both sat down. 'Can I offer you tea, coffee, or whatever?'

'David, don't remind me of old times, please. I'll have tea, if it's no trouble.' I called Mary into the room and introduced him as my ex-partner. When she flitted away, he said.

'Very nice. You're well organised I see. Of course I wouldn't have expected anything else.' I smiled. It was important I continued to humour him.

'By the way,' I said, 'she only knows me as David Markham.' He shook his head, while bewilderment covered his face.

Mary brought in the tea. After she'd left the room we talked extensively about my business and the role he may play during my absence. As I'd anticipated he drove a hard bargain. Cash wise, he wanted it all, or at least all of whatever business he wrote. In days of yore, we used to split the overriding commission on any new business between us.

'You've acquired mercenary habits in my absence,' I said.

'These are mercenary times David,' he replied. I was in no position to argue. When we'd just about reached the end, I called out to Mary.

'I may have to go away for a short while, to sort out my problems,' I said. She was standing with her head angled provocatively around the doorway. 'Mister James is considering whether he could help us out. Our idea is, that when there are clients to see, you would make appointments for them here on a specific day,' I continued. 'It's only going to be a temporary arrangement. Just until I get matters sorted. Do you think it would work?' A wary look crossed her face.

'I guess so,' she replied. 'I would still have to leave at three thirty, to pick up my daughter from school.'

'Yes, yes, of course. I'll write a special notice for the door. Without Mary, I tell you Ben, I'd be totally lost.'

'I can see that,' he said. They looked at each other with suspicion.

Mary left us and we finalised our deliberations. As he prepared to leave he said, 'I have to make sure this doesn't impinge on the running of my own practice. You must understand that.'

'Of course I do,' I replied. 'Perhaps you'll give me a call as soon as you can.' We shook hands and I escorted him to the outer door.

'Do you think you could work with him?' I asked Mary as I walked back in through the office.

'He's not like you,' she said.

'No, of course not. But would he be better than Charlie Bailey?'

'Anybody would be better than Charlie Bailey.'

'Good. I thought that's what you might say.' The smile I had come to appreciate returned to her face.

* * * * *

The days that followed became difficult. Mostly I mooched around in a state of depression, fearing the worst. To my customers, my situation must have appeared idyllic. I was running a successful business in the centre of town and everybody wanted to be my friend. Sometimes their humour, at my expense, grated on my nerves. One evening, I was returning to my car in the car park. It was dark. I had stayed on late, trying to catch up. The quickest route was through a narrow, steep, lane which the local council had neglected to maintain. Overhanging branches of outgrown buddleia provided a dark canopy along the short pathway between the shops. There were no lights. I was tired and not paying much attention as I tramped up the final steps.

'Mister Dancing?' I heard a voice with an Irish accent call out from somewhere in that blackened passageway.

'Mister Dancing?' he repeated.

One of the first things they taught me on my survival course was not to respond to that name. During the weeks I spent in the supposed health farm, my trainers would regularly scream my real name, or sometimes just gently drop it into a conversation and wait for a response. In time, and with the benefit of enforced daily application, I eventually learnt to ignore my parents' surname. That evening, in those bleak surroundings, was the first real test of my training in combat conditions. Thankfully I passed the examination and strode purposely forward while resisting a response.

Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a figure approached me. He was about my height, wearing a dark leather jacket. From what little I could see he may have been the first man I saw walking around my cottage, but I couldn't be sure. For once, surprisingly, I wasn't afraid. With all I'd been through, I was confident. If he was alone and unarmed, I could take him out.

'Mister David Dancing?' he said and leant towards me.

'What?' I replied. The outpouring of his breath hit my face. We were standing very close. Even in the dark I could see his fired up eyes. 'Sorry, old chap,' I said. 'You must have the wrong man.' Then, with my arms, I pushed out at him and shoved him away. The force of my thrust surprised him. He rocked back against the dry-stone wall of the passageway with a thud. I must have winded him. He reached inside his jacket. I couldn't be sure, but I may have seen the flash of a knife blade. I didn't hang around to find out. Purposefully I jogged away, up the steps and got into my car without looking back. By the time the engine fired into life, there was sweat on my brow.

In the sanctuary of Farm Cottage my body began to shake. Too addled to cook, I settled in the armchair with an extra large scotch and an apple. This situation really can't go on I repeated to myself. Johnny Masters had been right. I needed to get away to Mallorca. Nobody knew my address there, not even the artist. She'd never asked and I hadn't volunteered the information. Sarah or Johnny hadn't ventured that far south on the island with me, and if I flew out with them there would be no record of me on a commercial flight. Getting Ben James to cover for me was paramount. If he agreed, I could keep in touch with Mary over the internet or by phone. I telephoned him the following morning.

* * * * *

'I thought I might be hearing from you before too long,' he said when I got through.

'I'm going to have to get away as soon as possible,' I replied. 'Matters on the island have deteriorated. Ben, can you help me out?' I pleaded.

'How long do you think you will be gone for?'

'A week or so, maybe a bit more. I don't know. It depends on how things progress out there. Ben you're my only realistic hope. If you won't do it I can't go. Financially you can't lose and I can keep in touch by e-mail. You can manage what's required here with your eyes closed. For once you'd have all of the gain without any of the pain. No expenses, no overheads, just pure profit. It's a gift.' I heard him sigh. There were long moments of silence, but I wasn't going to interrupt.

'Oh all right. I'll try it out, but if it affects my business here, I'll have to quit.'

'Thank you Ben, I owe you one.'

'You owe me more than one.'

By the time Mary arrived, Ben and I had gone through the process he'd adopt regarding appointments. When she'd taken off her coat and brought in my coffee, I broke the news.

'Oh dear. I had a feeling this was going to happen,' she said.

'I'm afraid some of the things I told you about are coming to a head. It's now or never I'm afraid. You're not to worry. Please trust me.'

'I do trust you. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have a job. Not one like this anyway.' Briefly, I described the procedure Ben and I had agreed on and how she would be able to keep in touch with me. I wasn't entirely convinced she was happy about it all, but then neither was I.

Before the day's work got under way, and once she had left my room, I made one further telephone call. It was to George Harvey. I told him of my problems and the predicament I faced.

'I warned you this would happen,' was his gruff response.

'I know you did George and you were right. But I'm having to get out. It's the girl you met at my office who is my worry here.' I described the Irishman and his visits. 'If there's any trouble can I give her your number?' I was playing on his vanity. George was an old soldier. The type who'd run to protect a damsel in distress. I guessed it was the kind of challenge he might respond to. If it had been my neck on the line, he'd have turned me down. I'd had my chance with him and thrown it away. Fortunately I'd guessed correctly.

'Tell her I'll call in and see her,' he replied quickly.

'You're a good man George,' I said.

'Bollocks!!' he replied and rang off.

Later in the morning I called Mary into my room.

'Do you remember Mister Harvey?' I said.

'I'm not likely to forget him.' I described the arrangement we had made. 'David, he's the last person I'd contact,' she responded.

'Mary, if needs must, he's your man. Please believe me. He looks ferocious, but if something silly happens, which let me say it probably won't, George is the sort of guy to have on your side.' She looked down at her feet. I could see she was concerned.

'If I need you, where will you be?'

'At the end of the phone, or at the touch of an e-mail. I carry my mobile with me all the time and I'll be taking my laptop.'

'Ok,' she said and walked disconsolately out of the room. Next I phoned Johnny Masters.

'We can fly out tomorrow if you want,' he said. I settled for that. I rang Ben and told Mary. Her face looked crestfallen and I watched her fight back a tear. But it never came, not in my presence anyway.

### CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Looking down on the strips of flat, arable land below as we winged our way over France, Johnny Masters interrupted my thoughts and said to me,

'I've started on the Ukraine trips.' I chuckled a response.

'Talk about me having a complicated life,' I replied. 'Is there nothing you won't do?'

'I've said before David, adventure is the spice of life. They can be a bit hairy, but they're fun as well.'

'You mentioned something like that,' I replied sardonically.

'If you're going to be holed up for a while I was wondering if you'd consider helping me out. At the moment I'm on my own and there are times when I need that third hand. I know you've got your woman to see and the kid, but surely there'll be lots of spare time in Mallorca when you're not doing much. These trips only last a few days or so at the most. Then there usually isn't another for a week or two. What do you say?' He'd taken me by surprise. Having been so helpful with my troubles, I didn't want to refuse him outright, but at that moment I had enough problems without getting involved in any more misdemeanours. He must have noticed my hesitation.

'The pay's good,' he added. 'If you decide to have a go I'll deduct the cost of the fuel, then split what's left between us. It'll more than cover your overheads in Mallorca.'

'Can I think about it Johnny,' I said. 'Let's see how I settle first. If things don't tick over properly at the office, I'll have to go back anyway. Give me a bit of time, then I'll let you know.'

'Why don't you just try one trip, with no strings?' he replied straight back. 'If you don't like it, or get cold feet, forget I ever said anything.' The possibility of some extra cash was a big temptation. Each day I was absent from the office, was a day I wasn't earning. Renewal commission on business already written, which came in monthly, just about covered the overheads and my rent for the cottage. However, with Ben pocketing all the money on any new business, I'd have no real income to live off.

Johnny deposited me in Palma, with a threat to telephone me in a couple of days. I took a taxi from the airport to Andraixt. When I threw my holdall onto the sofa in my apartment, I encountered a strange feeling of weightless freedom. It was though I was hanging in a vacuum with no visible supports. Mallorca once again had offered me a safe haven. Where to go from there was my quandary.

Inside, the apartment was minute. In real estate terms it was known as a 'solo.' One small living room covered all the arrangements, except for a tiny bathroom, with a shower, toilet and wash hand basin. In the main room was the sofa bed, a table, which struggled to accommodate two people, two uncomfortable plastic chairs, a sparsely apportioned galley kitchen, and a stand-up cupboard with barely enough hanging space for a change of clothes. Outside the patio window was a balcony, just about wide enough to stand on. From it, if I twisted my neck round the corner of the building, was a view out to sea.

After showering I strolled to the harbour, found a small restaurant and ordered café solo and brandy. In front of me moored fishing boats bobbed up and down in the water, like champagne corks afloat in a swimming pool. The brandy settled my stomach, so I ordered some tapas and contemplated Johnny Masters' proposition. Clouding everything though were my doubts about the artist. Was she still in league with the people who were trying to take me out? Could I trust her not to reveal my whereabouts? And where, if anywhere, did I really fit into her life? Those questions, and many more, roamed around in my head as I tried to decide what was best to do.

Later, I spent a hot, stuffy, restless night. Sleep was difficult. My noisy Mallorcan neighbours liked to exercise their lungs last thing at night. Loud telephone calls to their relatives at one in the morning, on the adjoining balcony, were a speciality. At two thirty, just after the Mallorcan's had gone to bed, the crunching sound of the council's rubbish collection vehicle further exasperated me. When I rose in the morning I had a headache, but the obsession to see my son motivated me into telephoning the artist before breakfast.

'Hello Jen, it's David,' I said tentatively when she answered. My normal practise, when I opened up a conversation with her, was to take a huge, deep breath after my initial enquiry and count up to twenty, before expecting a response. On this occasion I sucked deeply into my rib cage and began to count.

'David!' she responded excitedly before I reached five. 'I was only thinking of you last night.' Stunned by such an unusual response, I hesitated over my reply.

'Jen, I'm over here on a quick visit,' I gabbled out.

'Well when am I going to see you then? David's home.'

'I can come over today, if you like?' Encouraged by her enthusiasm I got her to agree that I would visit them later in the morning. She said she would make some lunch. Her tone offered hope of major reconciliation. Unfortunately, I had encountered enough downward spiralling escalators with her to learn that a few sympathetic words counted for nothing. I remained circumspect.

* * * * *

The choice of presents to buy for a ten month baby boy in Andraixt is limited. In desperation I had to settle for a silly cuddly toy from a gift shop. Not much of a first present from your father, I thought. Roses for the artist and a bottle of wine completed my shopping. Finally I crossed over to the local car hire depot and rented the cheapest available model.

Driving up the coast road to the artist's bungalow, I was amazed by what I discovered. A year or so before the twisting sea shore road had been an uninhabited spectacular floral extravaganza, bordered with centuries old pines and olives. Now deep cuts into the bank side containing showy, unattractively designed properties had vandalised the route. The red Renault, rusting venerably into old age, was parked outside the artist's bungalow when I arrived. Gingerly, I alighted from the hired Seat Marbella, like a schoolboy on his first date, tightly clutching my meagre gifts and knocked nervously on the door. Sophie's echoing bark responded. Seconds later she appeared from around the side and leapt at me with a welcoming waggle, which almost destroyed the roses. While I was coping with her exuberance the front door opened. The artist, with babe in arms, looked radiant. Standing tall and upright, her face bore a smile. Her hair was pinned up classically and she wore a white lace dress.

'I hope I'm not too early,' I began. 'Get down Sophie!' My free arm was still trying to defend the roses and this scenario appeared to cause the artist much amusement.

'You'd better come in before you lose those roses all together,' she said. 'Sophie, stop it. Go round the back,' she berated, pointing that way. The dog relented, cowered away and I was ushered in through the door. 'You're a stranger in the middle of the week,' she said. The babe was wrapped in a white shawl and asleep. I moved towards them, kissed the baby's head, then stood to one side.

'I'd come here any time, day or night, to see you two,' I said.

Motherhood obviously agreed with the artist. The blonde hair had a sheen. Her complexion was pure, she looked more beautiful than I ever remembered. I followed them into the living room. After I had put the wine and flowers on a small table, I walked over and shook the silly toy in front of David's face. His instantaneous smile banished all the contentious problems I'd been struggling with months.

'And how have you been coping Jen?' I asked.

'I've been coping David. You look tired and drawn. Is your business tough?'

'The business is OK. Unfortunately there have been other troubles,' I said with a sigh. She laid the babe into a cot. I moved closer and stared at the wonderment contained in his tiny face. 'Is he going to be all right Jen?' I asked. She looked at me. For a second that steely expression I knew so well crossed her face. I held my breath.

'They keep telling me he's fine. When he starts to grow, put on weight, will be the testing time. Then we'll know if his heart can cope. That should be in about a year's time, so they say.' We stood and looked intently at each other. It had been an age since we'd been toe to toe together like that. Our eyes held. I moved towards her, clasped her in my arms and hugged her to my body.

'I'm glad to be here, Jen,' I said. She collapsed into me. I kissed her cheek, kissed her hair, kissed her ear. We held on, holding each other for some moments.

'He's a great little guy David. I don't want to lose him.'

'We'll make sure of that,' I said.

* * * * *

That lunch was the first real family occasion of my life. To sit around a table, talking to the artist, constantly being interrupted by the demands of our offspring, was for me a unique and satisfying experience. To lift that little fellow up into my arms and actively respond to his cries, was the greatest joy I had known. Constantly the artist nagged at me to be careful with him, chided me to hold him correctly, pleaded with me not to drop him. Her anxiety however, failed to dim my joyous enthusiasm. In time, the child was required to sleep. The artist laid him in a cot in the far corner of the room and we settled back around the table to finish the wine, with Sophie at our feet.

'You said you had troubles?' the artist said after I had refilled our glasses. I took a few moments to think. What should I reveal? How far could I trust her? These questions had plagued me constantly since Johnny Masters dropped me off at Palma airport. So I began tentatively.

'You know I was a major witness in the court case of a terrorist?' She looked at me sternly.

'You never told me everything, but yes, I was aware.' Our eyes held again. I was still useless at second guessing hers.

'Well, the guy was convicted. He got twenty years. He was one of your lot and afterwards I had to go into hiding, for my own safety. Hence the hairstyle and the moustache, etcetera.'

'What do you mean my lot?' The steely look had returned.

'He was Irish,' I replied quickly.

'And?'

'Well, after that things were fine for a time. I went to live in a new district. Set up my own business again. Everything looked rosy. Then, I started being followed. They broke into my house. Last week I was nearly assaulted, so I had to get away.' I paused to watch her reaction. Again, there were no give away clues, so I continued. 'You're not still involved with them are you Jen?'

'Who's them?'

'Irish Republicans.'

'Why are you asking me that?'

'Well I think they're the people who are after me. The guy I testified against, Rory McCandlass, he was one of them. If they discover where I am, they could get to me through you and then I would be dead. That's why I'm asking you.' Her eyes lit up in surprise.

'I'll always be a Republican David,' she said vehemently. 'I'm Irish and I was brought up that way. It's like asking me if I'm still a Catholic.'

'But are you still an active participant?'

I could see I was getting into uncomfortable territory. She began fidgeting with the plate in front of her, twiddling with the spoon in her coffee cup, brushing away wisps of hair from her face. Usually when she was with me she was cool, calm, collected and in charge. This time it was different.

'I don't know what you mean by active.

'Active in terrorist activities. Bombing and killing people and the like. That's what Rory McCandlass got twenty years for. He didn't get twenty years for sailing on a boat with me, with heroin on board. He got twenty years for killing people. Lisa McWilliam was murdered, because she was led to believe that you were involved with that lot. I don't want to be the next on the list.'

'I haven't a clue what Lisa was up to,' she snapped back. 'I've told you that before. I thought she was my friend. If she was up to something else that was her business.' Frown lines were etched on her forehead. She was almost spitting out the words. 'I expect the man who you testified against believed he was in a war. In a war unfortunately people get killed.' She was still fiddling with her hair. For once, she was trying desperately to avoid my eyes.

'You still haven't answered my question. Have you, or did you, have connections with the IRA?' She didn't reply immediately, but I was prepared to wait for the answer.

'I was once a member of Sinn Fein,' she said eventually and then flicked her hand agitatedly at another strand of loose hair.

'But were you actively involved? Please, it is important that I know.'

'I used to go to meetings and things, yes. That was when I was in university. And there was a Republican Association I belonged to in Canada. But that was just like being a member of the Conservative Party in England. You attended meetings and listened to a speaker and if you wanted, you could go to social events. My father and brother were the ones who were actively involved, as you put it. But they were shot dead by British soldiers, while driving home in their car. That's what I mean about Rory McCandlass believing he was fighting in a war.' Pain was now etched in her eyes.

'All right then, does that mean you're in contact with them now?'

'David how could I be doing anything with them now when I've got a teenage daughter to bring up, as well as a baby son? What do you take me for?'

'That's what I am trying to establish? Would they know of your whereabouts? Know that you lived here I mean?'

The steely impassioned look was back. To deflect my stare she got up from the table and began clearing away the dishes. Then, for the first time in my life, I really lost my patience with her.

'Jen!!' I hollered. 'You must tell me!' I got up out of my seat, grabbed her arm and turned her to face me. A glare of fire and venom confronted me. I thought she was going to hit me.

'It is possible they know I live here, yes,' she said. Our eyes held. She didn't move. Suddenly, months of frustrated impulses intervened. Our lips made passionate contact, our arms grappled. The embrace held. Her arms circled my neck, there were more moments of passionate kissing. David's cry intervened to break up our clinch.

'Look, you've woken him up now,' she said. Our arms quickly untangled, but our eyes wouldn't let go. The torment in her expression was plain for me to see. Then she moved towards the cot. 'I just don't know what to say David. I just don't know.' She lifted the child into her arms and began to rock him back and fore. 'You'll have to go now. Kirsty will be home from school soon.'

* * * * *

'Where are you staying?' she called out to me as I was walking out to my car. David was still in her arms being rocked from side to side.

'For all our safety's sake, I think it's better that I don't tell you,' I turned and replied. A worried frown again creased her forehead. 'Jen, you mustn't let on to anybody, not anybody, that you've seen me. Will you promise me that?' She nodded her head in numbed response.

Driving back down the west coast road to my apartment a veritable kaleidoscope of visions from our get-together filled my head. The passionate kisses, the sensation of holding my child's body in my arms and the image of his mother's maternal instincts had for so long been only daydreams in my lonely imagination. At that moment, the possibility of them all becoming regular realities, was within my grasp. In truth though, the practicalities of indulging in any of them still seemed as remote as ever.

David's next visit to the hospital was geared up for the end of the following week. We had agreed to meet up again for that. Her true feelings for me however, continued to perplex me. That a physical attraction still existed, I was fairly sure. Our extended kiss proved that the embers of our romance hadn't completely burnt out. Her muted recognition of my involvement with our child also indicated a mellowing towards me. The conundrum I couldn't unravel was whether her political leanings prevented the continuation of our relationship. Her brothers-in-arms had tried to use her once before to get to me. The last thing I wanted, especially with the baby around, was for that to happen again.

### CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

The massive chasm in my new circumstances became a reality the following morning. I awoke early and, after attending to my bathroom chores, mooched around the flat with nothing to do. In Britain, over the previous months, my work had been so hectic, time had simply flown by. That morning, in Mallorca, I was facing the prospect of endless hours of boring solitude. I thought about contacting my office, but I didn't expect much to have changed there in the few hours I'd been away. On the island, I'd lost touch with all my old friends. My membership of the golf club had lapsed. What the hell was I going to do with myself, I questioned, as I stood on my narrow balcony, looking out towards the harbour. Gradually, Johnny Masters' offer of work on his Ukrainian trips, began to ferment in my head. The fact they only took up a few intermittent days was a plus. That there would be some money in it, was also a bonus. In the end, I thought, what the heck, I've nothing else to do. Johnny's response when I telephoned him was enthusiastic.

'I thought you might come round to the idea once you got bored,' he said cheerfully. 'There's a trip on later this week. Do you want to be in on that?'

'I don't see why not. I've got damn all else to do. Is it illegal?'

'I expect so. What about your woman?'

'There are still complications with that,' I said.

We talked some more about arrangements. He would pick me up at the landing field, in the north of the island. Our destination would be an airstrip just inside Ukraine's south western border with Hungary. Why I agreed to become involved in such nonsense is beyond me. One step too far again I suppose. But when you're desperate, that's what happens.

Taking off from Mallorca into a cloudless blue sky later in the week, with Johnny wearing his infamous goggles and flying helmet, was like being part of an adventure from a Biggle's book. Laughing and joking as we dipped out over the Mediterranean, I was completely oblivious to the inherent danger involved. I suppose having been through so much in recent times the distinct possibility of another bout of trauma failed to register. We would be making two landing stops for fuel and rest. As we ventured north-east the skies became greyer. In a small aircraft you can't get high enough to avoid bad weather, so progress wasn't particularly quick. The early euphoria of adventure soon evaporated as the clouds closed in. Once we encountered turbulence my stomach began to react adversely.

Our first fuel stop was in Northern Italy, somewhere not far from Milan. As soon as we landed, I had to run like mad to a lean-to toilet, beside a scruffy refuelling shed. Emerging shakily, looking three shades greener and a few pounds lighter made Johnny laugh. The prospect of another day or so of similar conditions was not conducive to my well-being.

'You all right?' Johnny said to me when I got back to the plane.

'Not sure,' I replied. 'At this moment I'm not certain which is my top half and which is the bottom. How much further is there to go?'

'About another half a day,' he said. His face was brimming with mirth. 'What you've got is air sickness. It's a bit like sea sickness. It'll wear off in time and, the more you fly, the less it'll happen. You'll soon get used to it,' he said heartily.

'On a boat, if you feel ill, you can lean overboard. What do I do here?' He continued to chuckle as though it was one big joke.

'There are some plastic bags behind your seat. Use one of those if you feel the need again.'

Soon we were airborne once more. Storm clouds, distant lightning and booming rolls of thunder were gathering round us. It wasn't long before I had to resort to the plastic bags. I was becoming frightened. Sitting up there we were a mere dot in an alien hemisphere. Johnny continued to deem the whole enterprise a great escapade. His light hearted humour didn't help.

'I flew down here three weeks ago by myself,' he said. 'Hell of a storm that day. Thunder, lightning, gales, went on for nearly four hours. I had to hang on that day I can tell you.'

We landed in Czechoslovakia for more fuel, then the final stretch seemed to last forever. My guts felt as though they were about to explode. Eventually, we touched down at some godforsaken hole of a small town, about three miles inside the Ukrainian border. In the distance I could see the Carpathian Mountains. Thank God we didn't have to cross those I thought.

Our task was to deliver a cargo of boxes and my job, in particular, was to help Johnny shift them from the plane into a rickety corrugated shed just off the narrow potholed runway. By then my body was weak from retching. Really, I was in no fit state to shift myself, let alone whatever was in those boxes. I didn't dare ask what they contained. They were bigger and heavier though than the cargo I delivered in England. By the time we'd finished, my stomach was hanging out with emptiness. I was totally exhausted and sleet was falling.

'Can't see how we can take off in this,' Johnny said almost cheerfully, as we tidied the hold. 'We'll see if someone can take us into town. Get some food in us, 'til the storm passes over.'

Back in the comfort of his warm, spacious study Johnny had once said to me, that for adventure, he'd go where no-one else would dare and this was living proof. All the time we were there I was praying we would get out before the KGB, or the military came and shot us. While I changed my sweat-soaked shirt in the aircraft, Johnny was talking and joking with two large, scruffy looking guys near the rickety shed as though they were a couple of labourers on his farm. Both of them were unshaven with dishevelled clothes and unkempt hair. Obviously they knew him from previous trips, but what surprised me was their understanding of his English. Later on one of them took us up to town, in a battered pick-up truck, to what you might call the Ukrainian equivalent of a greasy transport diner. Inside it was hot, like a sauna. The air in there was rancid with sweat and tobacco fumes. The clientele were of similar appearance to our driver and most appeared to be drinking vodka. Our friend brought us drinks and the limited menu. From what little I could gather, he was in charge of receiving our cargo. We ordered food and were brought some greasy fare that tasted awful. In all we spent about two hours in those unpleasant surroundings, drinking vodka while the storm outside howled.

'Doesn't look as though we'll get off tonight,' Johnny said to me at one stage, pointing at the sleet lashing on the window. 'We'll doss down in the plane and try and get away at dawn.' I looked at him. He smiled back and puffed on his cigar so I said nothing, but inwardly I cringed. The café was full. Across the room, seated at one of the tables, was a man dressed in a uniform that looked like either police or military. He kept looking at us suspiciously. Sometime later, our friend took us back to the plane and we spent a cramped, cold, uncomfortable night, stretched out across two of the rear passenger seats. Adopting Danny Rogers' advice, I prayed hard.

Dawn came without any real change in the weather conditions but, by about eleven o'clock, the clouds lifted and we prepared to get away. Then, just as Johnny was finishing his pre-flight checks, I noticed a police car heading down the runway towards us.

'Trouble coming,' I said. He looked up.

'Sit tight,' he advised. 'Let me do the talking. I've been through this before. We could make a run for it, but this lot would probably shoot us out of the sky if we tried. They've usually got Kalashnikovs in the car. Have you got your passport?' I nodded. How the hell would that defend me I wondered.

The car pulled up in front of our aircraft, making escape impossible. Two uniformed, heavyweight bruisers, with revolvers on gun belts got out and slouched towards the plane, greeting us gruffly in Ukrainian.

'Papers!' One of them then demanded. Johnny fumbled in his jacket, fished out his passport and the cargo manifest. In turns they both looked at the documents for some moments. Johnny said the cargo had been delivered to the Ukrainian, Smolenski, who had taken us to the café. The one who was holding the papers nodded in response. The papers were handed back.

'Papers!' The slightly thinner one called out and pointed at me. Nervously, I handed my passport over. Gruffly it was snatched from my hand. They took longer studying it than all the other papers.

'Mister Markham?' One of them asked aggressively. I nodded, fearing the worst. He was turning over every page, then going back to the first page and starting again. Without saying anything, he turned his back on us and walked to the car. I watched him reach inside and pull out a clipboard. Then he checked a list. Despite the freezing cold, I felt a droplet of sweat trickle uncomfortably down my back. All the while, the other one stood by the plane, watching us.

The man at the car wasn't finished. He bent inside and reached for the mouthpiece of his two-way radio. My pulse rate accelerated rapidly. I listened, while he stood on the runway and read out loud the details of my passport. Here we go I thought, one step too far again. Imagining a prison sentence at a Gulag, I clutched onto the sides of my seat rigid with fear. He continued for a good few minutes on the two way radio. By then, even my knees were knocking. He kept repeating, 'Ya, ya, ya.' I was becoming terrified. Then he walked back to the plane glaring at me.

'Ok!' he said, still glaring. I didn't know what that meant. Was I free to go, or did I have to go with them. Reluctantly, he handed back my passport, they both turned and headed back to their car then drove away in a cloud of diesel fumes.

'Thank God for that,' I said to Johnny and wiped my brow.

During the return journey I endured more periodic bouts of sickness. The weather was awful. The fuel stops only prolonged the nightmare. Throughout, Johnny Masters remained buoyantly cheerful. Mainly due to my periods of incapacity, we travelled through many of the long hours without any specific conversation. A lot of the time he sang to himself a tuneless dirge, which added to my headache. When we landed in Mallorca I said a silent prayer. Attempting to walk caused the muscles in my legs to contract into painful spasm. My head ached, my stomach felt as though an axe had been wedged into it and my back throbbed with dull pain.

'There may be another trip in a week or so,' Johnny said light heartedly. I remember grunting an unintelligible response. 'I'll give you a call,' he added. Under my breath, I said to myself 'Never again,' then watched while he turned the aircraft round for take off. Why a guy with so much money, a beautiful home, a fabulous wife and a gorgeous child would want to put himself through all that hell for a sum of cash, which in his terms was peanuts, baffled me. The plane's engine revved, he waved, adjusted his goggles down from his flying helmet and I watched the little aircraft scurry down the grass runway, like a terrier chasing a rabbit. For some minutes I stood there until I could hear the drone of the engine no more. Each step to my parked car was painfully agonising. I collapsed into the driver's seat exhausted and sat there for many minutes, attempting to gather my faculties. My journey back across the island to Andraixt was long and slow. Most of the way I was fighting pain and fatigue. When I reached my apartment, I slumped onto the divan and crashed out into a deep unconscious zone.

* * * * *

It was morning, the following day, when I eventually awoke.

'Never again,' I kept repeating to myself as I soaped my aching body under the shower. Drying myself afterwards revealed much pain and bruising. My stomach continued to behave like a sewage disposal unit. I spent most of the day with my liquid bowels permanently hovering over the toilet seat. Afterwards, sitting on the divan while slowly sipping on a black coffee, I tried to gather my thoughts. The hot brew hit my stomach like a dose of salts and in minutes I was back on the toilet again. Later on I telephoned my office and spoke to Mary.

'How's everything going?' I asked once we'd enquired about each others health. She sounded on edge.

'OK, although word's got around that you've gone away. I keep telling everybody that you had to go abroad, to sort out a family matter, as we agreed, but you know what it's like around here.'

'H'm,' I replied. 'Has Ben been?'

'I've arranged two appointments for him at the end of this week.'

'Perhaps you'll let me know how they go.'

'I'll try. When are you coming back? It's not the same when you're not around.'

'I'm hoping it's not going to be long Mary. Just bear with me for a while. Please.' After I put the phone down I felt as though my world was being torn in two. There was Mary, trying to cope with running my business, after just a few months of employment, while I was sitting in a lonely apartment, nursing my bodily infirmities, on a holiday island. When I gave it serious thought, nothing made much sense.

To kill time, until David's next hospital appointment I began to explore the mountain tracks around Soeller and Estellencs. My stomach still wasn't right, but when it allowed, I discovered many glorious meandering old pathways. Most of them weaved steeply upwards, through stepped olive groves, to the summits of lofty, craggy peaks. Occasionally I stumbled across wild goats and sheep. Sometimes they were accompanied by a wandering, lone shepherd, with whom I'd pass the time of day. The weather was mostly warm, but I was still struggling with the sicknesses in body and mind. Because of my stomach problems I retained very little of the food I ate and began to lose weight. Before my next meeting with the artist, a sortie was required around the cheaper shops of Andraixt for some presentable clothes. Thankfully, I found a reasonable pair of slacks, a couple of respectable looking coloured shirts and a new pair of shoes.

* * * * *

When I met up with the artist in Palma, for once, I was greeted with a smile. She looked superb in a black and white check dress, over a white polo neck top. Her hair was clipped tightly back and calf length black boots completed the smart attire. When the clinicians took David off for his tests we retired to the cafeteria.

'This problem of yours,' she began, when we were settled with coffee. 'Are you sure you're in as much danger as you say? I mean, what are these people going to do with you if they find you?'

'Kill me I suppose.' She looked completely startled.

'Surely that's a bit melodramatic. Why?'

'Revenge, I guess. It's a powerful motive.' I held her gaze and applied a knowing expression. I nearly added, 'You should know,' but I kept my tongue on that.

'But you're not military or anything like that. Unless you were involved in sectarian killings or informing, the army doesn't usually murder civilians.' That was the first time in my presence she'd used the word 'army' as though it was a familiar term.

'Well why are they following me then? They're not going to kidnap me. What use would I be as a hostage? The Government won't release Rory, he's too high profile.'

'How do you know it's the IRA that's following you?'

'I don't. But who the hell else would? I've got no money. What would anybody else want with me? Perhaps I'll ask them next time they invade my home?' She looked at me with that steely expression. I could tell she was mulling something over in her mind, but I could also see she wasn't going to reveal what it was.

'Well you can't spend the rest of your life skulking around here. You're still a young man and now you've got a son to think about. I'll not have you wasting your life like this on some dumb suspicion.' I recognised the look that accompanied her words. It spelt trouble, trouble for me in particular, if I didn't do something. 'Isn't there any work you can do while you're here?' she continued. Briefly I explained about my trip with Johnny.

'Is that the best you can come up with,' she responded when I'd finished. 'Sounds horrific to me. But if it'll pay your keep, that's what you must do.' Soon after that the hospital staff called us back to see David. They said he was making good progress.

* * * * *

When I got back to my apartment, it was evening. In the twilight I sat in the open doorway of the balcony, sipping a whisky and watching the red sun dipping down to the horizon, while going over my conversation with the artist. Recalling her words, I remembered that there had been this implied acknowledgement that she was familiar with the procedures of the IRA. And perhaps even more important was that my problems were of concern to her, a first in our relationship. So, despite my reservations and the continuing war raging in my stomach, I decided to call Johnny Masters. I told him I would be available for the next trip. His reaction was positive. During the intervening days I made stringent efforts to get my body and stomach into some degree of serviceable order.

Thereafter, the days and weeks on the island settled into a pattern. My trips with Johnny took me away for four or five days at a time. I dreaded the flights, but the pay compensated for the infirmity. Johnny would give me cash for the previous trip, before we set out on the next. On every occasion the weather was lousy, and each time my stomach reacted in a similar fashion. My waistline continued to contract. Sleep was something that I attempted on the plane with disastrous consequences, or it became an unpleasant alcohol induced coma at my apartment in Andraixt. Regularly we were apprehended by the Ukrainian police. On one occasion we were taken to the local headquarters. For over an hour they questioned us, our documents were examined and re-examined. That time I really did think our number was up, but eventually they let us go. In between these expeditions, the artist allowed me to call at the bungalow to see David when Kirsty was at school. They were special occasions and kept me going through the hell of the Ukrainian flights. As the weeks rolled on, my health deteriorated. The look on the artist's face each time we met up, illustrated her concern. During one lunch time get-together, she surprised me with an announcement.

'I shall be going away for a few days and taking David and Kirsty with me,' she said. She'd caught me off guard.

'Can I ask where?' I enquired.

'No!' was the adamant reply, 'but I would like you to stay here at the bungalow and look after Sophie.' I was stunned and confused.

'You mean you want me to stay here by myself?'

'Yes. Do you think you could cope with that?'

'I guess so.' My continued enquiries failed to extract any more details, except that I was expected to turn up early on the morning they were due to set off. Where they were going or why still remained unexplained. I knew it was half term and therefore Kirsty was not required at school.

* * * * *

My regular calls to Mary also failed to bring any comfort. Ben had attended for a few appointments, but from the tone of her voice, I gathered she was not altogether happy.

'The rumour around here is that you've done a runner,' she said to me during one stilted conversation.

'Mary that just isn't true. You must trust me on that one. Will you be able to carry on?'

'Only if you promise me you're coming back soon,' she replied. I spent many minutes trying to placate her.

'Is your pay getting through?' I asked. I'd arranged with the bank for a weekly transfer.

'Yes,' she replied.

'Is there much business on?'

'Not much new business. It's very quiet. In the main people have stopped coming in. Those that do are just checking to see if their money's still safe.' The situation worried me intensely and I brooded on it at considerable length. If it continued like that for long, the business would fold. People would just not trust an absentee financial advisor.

* * * * *

Driving to the artist's bungalow on the morning they were due to go away, I was apprehensive. I had yet to meet up with Kirsty and didn't know what the artist had told her about me. My reception though was a pleasant surprise. The artist was dressed in a smart red trouser suit and, despite all the hustle and bustle of her impending departure, introduced me to her daughter as 'David's father.' A tall, elegant, intelligent, teenage girl, who mirrored her mother's blonde looks, gave me a broad smile and a willing handshake.

'I've heard a lot about you,' she said and continued smiling delightfully. The artist quickly intervened with instructions about what to do for Sophie and where her things were kept. She indicated that there was a well stocked fridge, pointed to the bedroom I was to use and repeatedly asked me if I was listening. On the fourth occasion I made a funny face behind her back to Kirsty, who was watching. She gave me an effusive grin. Then there were cases and David's carrycot to take to the car. I hardly had time to say hello to him yet alone goodbye. A few minutes later I was standing in the doorway watching the only family I had ever known drive away in the rusting structure of the red Renault. Where they were going or why, was still a mystery. The artist had informed me that they would be away 'for five days,' and if there was time, she would telephone me 'one evening.'

When they'd gone a bag full of doubts engulfed me. Suddenly I realised I was completely alone and isolated in the artist's bungalow, the very place where I had endured the altercation with Carlos and Luigi, where Rodriguez had faced me down with a pistol, where I had seen stacked boxes of what I took to be gunnery emanating from the IRA. And the artist had admitted to me that they probably knew of her address. But she had left and taken the children. To where I didn't know and for what purpose I hadn't a clue. Had she set me up? Rodriguez, with his radar of local gossip would also almost certainly know I was back. It didn't take long for me to convince myself I was a sitting duck. How naïve I'd been, how stupid, what a simple trap I'd walked into. Why hadn't I realised it before. What an idiot. The artist's continued off-handedness with me suddenly made sense. No wonder she wouldn't tell me where they were going, or why. I spent two nervous, fractious days, waiting, fretting, for what I didn't know, but fearing the worst. Memories of my time in the cellar were still etched in my mind. Then, thank God, you arrived.

### CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

It was getting very late by the time Deadly had finished his tale. He was tired and I could clearly see he wasn't a well man. Before I left though, there were a few questions I needed to ask while his story was still fresh in my mind. By then Sophie had stopped shuffling around our feet and was asleep in her basket with her head down.

'I'll make us some coffee,' Deadly said. The gait of his walk across the kitchen floor was awkward, every step appeared to cause him pain. While the coffee brewed, I threw questions at him. By the time we'd drunk it he'd answered all of them. I left and promised to call round to see him again next day. I drove slowly back to my hotel, digesting all the aspects of his tale. There was so much to unravel, even for me, a trained man. In my hotel room, I lay awake on my bed most of the night, going over the important details. In the morning I rose early and put in a call to my office.

'Detective Inspector Hurley here,' I said. 'Can you put me through to Sergeant Hobbs.' I was calling West Midlands Police Headquarters, Hobbs was my deputy. He usually arrived early.

'Morning Glyn,' I said when he answered. 'There's some checking I want you to do for me on a few cases.' I read out a list of enquiries I had scribbled on some paper. He grunted at each one as the list unfolded.

'Is that all,' he responded at the end.

'For the time being. I'm sorry to have woken you up.'

'Huh,' he grunted again. 'I wish I was on bloody holiday.'

'Perhaps you can ring me back at lunch time,' I said and gave him the number of the hotel. Just after noon he was back to me. I grabbed some lunch in the hotel bar then drove back out to the bungalow. I guess I'd caught Deadly on the hop the previous day. That morning his hair was washed, he'd shaved and was wearing a respectable shirt and slacks.

'It's good of you to come out here like this Hugh,' he said when he greeted me. 'I must be messing up your holiday.'

'No you're not. It's supposed to be a golfing break, but as you're not around there aren't many other people for me to play with.'

'You know I've not played a game of golf for a while now,' he replied.

'We'll soon have you back on the course,' I said as he ushered me inside. Sophie bounced up to greet me.

'I'm expecting Jenny back this evening, with the children,' he said. 'Can I offer you a drink.'

'Just some lemonade please. I still haven't recovered from yesterday's whisky.' We went outside and sat opposite each other on the veranda. Sophie reclined at Deadly's feet and washed her paws. 'I think I have a lead on some of your problems,' I began. He looked surprised. 'It looks like the outfit you worked for, delivering parcels, may be the people who are tailing you. They have a history of retribution.'

'I thought my pal Johnny Masters had sorted them out?'

'He may have sorted some of them out, but they're a big network. My guy back at the station has unearthed a veritable rat's nest of arrests for vengeance crimes all over the country. I'm told they're a pyramid organisation. We get to one layer, but there is still a welter of layers underneath, all doing the same thing. And they don't like to be caught out, which is what you did.'

'I thought it was the IRA.'

'My man's checked with Special Branch. Their word is that the IRA very rarely commits retribution crimes on the mainland, unless it's one of their own who's become an informer. Murders in England are usually political targets or bombings, where they can get the maximum publicity. It's unlikely they'd waste their time on you.'

'So what do I do now?'

'Nothing until I get home. Stay here, enjoy the sunshine. Carry on as you are. I shouldn't think that lot will find you in this place. Let me see what I can organise when I'm back at work.'

'I won't be here after today,' Deadly said. 'The artist will be coming back tonight and I'll be in my apartment in Andraitx.' He gave me the address and his mobile number. We talked some more and then I left for a golf match I'd arranged for later that afternoon. On the last day of my holiday I telephoned him and arranged to call in and see him at his apartment. When I got there he looked upbeat and excited. As he tells the story better than me, I'll let his words describe what happened when Jenny McGuire arrived home.

* * * * *

First I heard the engine of the Renault, spluttering up the driveway. It sounded like there was a hole in the exhaust. Kirsty was holding the baby as they got out of the car. Instantly, I was required to fetch this, carry that, put that here, put that over there. There was no real greeting, no kiss, or special smile, just an implied acknowledgement that I was still around. Sophie chased each of us as we moved about. Kirsty gave me a smile and allowed me a quick peep of the baby as she passed by. Surprisingly, in a bizarre way I was enjoying myself. Inch by inch, my family involvement with them was growing. The artist continued to treat me as part of the furniture, but that didn't bother me at all. They were all safely back and I was still alive.

'Well at least you've kept the place tidy,' she said to me, after she'd fed and changed David and I'd completed my chores.

'Generally I'm a tidy man.' We were all sat around the kitchen table. She made coffee and opened a packet of biscuits. 'Did you have an enjoyable trip?' I asked tentatively.

'Enjoyable isn't a word I'd use,' she replied.

'Pleasant then?'

'No, I wouldn't say it was particularly pleasant either.'

'Successful?'

'Yes, I suppose you could say it was successful.'

'Good, in what way?' The steely eyes were back, they honed in on me. Kirsty was watching us intently.

'I've been able to ascertain that you are not threatened by the IRA.' I looked at her. For many moments I was speechless, while I allowed the enormity of what she'd just said to sink in. 'What do you mean?' I stuttered. 'Where have you been? How do you know?' The steely eyes prevailed.

'Where I've been is of none of your concern. Since you ask, I know because, as you have said before, they're my people. You will just have to trust me on that.' Trust was a vacuum that had winged vacantly between us like a fluttery bird since our first meeting. At that moment the thought that this woman, despite her truculence with me, had done something as consequential, on my behalf, was inconceivable. The idea of her going off to wherever it was, with two young children in tow, to make contact with a terrorist organisation for my benefit, astounded me. Suddenly all my fears about the previous few days evaporated as though they had never existed. 'So you should be safe here on the island,' she continued. 'Whatever else you've got up to in Britain is your business, but you're completely safe in respect of the Irish context.' It took me some moments to compose myself.

'That's fantastic Jen,' I think I stuttered, or some such meaningless platitude.

When I'd recovered my train of thought, I briefly explained about your visit on the previous day and your telephone call to the police station. I also told her about the parcel deliveries and my involvement in that. She listened in silence until I had finished.

'Well I suggest you go home with your Police Inspector friend and sort it out,' she said. 'Surely it must be better for you to continue with your business there, rather than those trips to the Ukraine. They're going to kill you one day, before your time.' To hear her talking with concern about my situation was unique. She soon spoilt it all as usual though. 'You'll have to go now,' she said, when we'd drunk our coffee. 'I've got the baby to get to sleep, the bungalow to clear up and Kirsty's got to go to school tomorrow. Perhaps you'll let me know what day you're going home.' I looked across at Kirsty, who smiled back at me.

'If I do get things sorted out, will I still be able to come and see you all at the weekends?' I asked.

'That's up to you,' she replied dismissively, while clearing away the cups. I got up to leave.

'I'll be pleased to see you anyway David,' Kirsty called out as I made my way to the front door. I turned round and saw the artist glare at her daughter.

* * * * *

And that's how it was left for a while. David remained on the island while I tried to get matters sorted out in the UK. It was about a fortnight before I was able to call him up and tell him to come over. Whether, in that time he saw the artist or not, I don't know, and if he made any trips to the Ukraine, I wasn't aware. Knowing him, I guess he probably did both. During his absence, I called in at his office and met Mary. She seemed a pleasant, helpful girl, but when I told her who I was, her face dropped. Quickly, I explained that we were involved in bringing David back.

'Thank heaven for that,' was her response. 'When you said who you were, I feared the worst. I thought he'd been arrested.'

'No, it's the real criminals we're after,' I said. 'Will you be able to hang on here until he returns?'

'I was starting to think about looking for another job, but if you're sure it's not going to be long, yes, I'll hang on.'

'I promise you we'll have him back here soon,' I said. I gave her my number in case of any problems and we parted on good terms. I met David off the Palma flight at Cardiff International Airport. He looked better than when I'd left the island. A little more relaxed anyway, although he'd continued to lose weight. We shook hands.

'What's it like to be back on home soil?' I asked.

'I'm not sure which is home soil any longer,' he responded. I drove him to Farm Cottage and on the way I explained what we were going to do. I'll let him take over the story again now.

* * * * *

The look of joy on Mary's face nearly overwhelmed me when I walked into my office. I had telephoned a few days before to say I would be back. Acting on instructions, I hadn't specified the exact day. She ran into my arms.

'David, it's really great to see you,' she said. For a while we held on tightly. 'I never thought I'd see you again,' she said, brushing away a tear. 'I really believed you were on the run and they'd arrested you. God you've lost weight,' she added when she stepped back.

'What, me on the run? Arrested, pah! As you've seen, I'm great pals with the law.' Her gracious smile made my return worthwhile. I took her into my room and explained briefly what was going to happen.

'David are you sure you'll be all right? What if you get hurt?' She looked concerned.

'Me get hurt. Never, I'm like a cat with nine lives. You don't have to worry about me.' I opened the blinds on the window and pointed outside. 'See that man across the road in Terry's café?' I said. Across the High Street, in the front window of the café, drinking probably what was his third cup of coffee, was a man with dark hair, wearing a leather jacket. 'He's a policeman,' I continued. 'He's just been watching you run into my arms and smother me with kisses.'

'You're having me on. Anyway, I didn't smother you with kisses.'

'I know you didn't. But I was hoping you might and so did the man across the road. At least it would have been something to brighten up his day.' Playfully she punched me on the arm.

'Men,' she said. 'You're all the same.'

'How's business?' I asked.

'Pretty lousy.'

When she sat in the chair on the other side of my desk I was able to take a proper look. She'd done something different with her hair. At that moment I couldn't decide what. More eyeliner had been applied than I recalled and there was a different perfume. She was wearing a lime green half jacket with a low cut vest underneath and a blue skirt. She looked pert. From a crib sheet, obviously prepared in anticipation of my visit, she went through the most recent matters and what Ben had dealt with in my absence. I concluded there wasn't much there to make me a rich man. Later that morning I telephoned Ben. He said he'd enjoyed what little there'd been to do.

'Especially meeting up with Mary,' he added. 'A most pleasant change from the women around here and it's a nice little town,' he'd continued.

'You'll have to be careful there. Mary's husband's in jail. He'll send the boys round to duff you up if you mess with her,' I joked.

'What do you think my name is, Dancing?' We both laughed.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. As instructed, I walked up and down High Street a few times and showed my face in one or two shops. In all of them, I was greeted with a surprised double-take and silence. At lunch time, I treated Mary to a meal at the busiest restaurant in town. All the while, although I didn't mention it to her, I noticed the man in the leather jacket follow at a discreet distance.

When I got back to the cottage that evening I made the arranged telephone call. Then I settled in front of the television with a full tumbler of whisky. Later on, at my normal time, I went to bed. Sleep of course, was out of the question. Scuffling noises outside the downstairs windows jolted me upright at about two thirty. The realisation that it was about to begin sent a chilling shiver through my body. I was still wearing my day clothes. My mobile phone was lined up to the police connection with a pre-typed text message. 'It's starting,' the message said and I pressed the send button. All the house lights were off. Silently, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and quietly inched it open. Soon, I was conscious that they were inside. I detected four of them. During the course of the previous few days, the police had installed infrared cameras in the downstairs rooms. I prayed they were keeping watch, if not, my number was up. Then, I saw three of the men beginning to climb the stairs. One had remained at the bottom in the hallway. My whole body was shaking like a dog who'd just come out of a pond. 'Come on Hugh, don't let me down,' I said silently to myself. My mouth was dry, my palms and forehead were rampant with nervous sweat. The three men, who all wore hoods and gloves, were two thirds of the way up the stairs.

Suddenly, like a tsunami sweeping through the cottage, a veritable army of policemen, all wearing helmets, flak jackets, and protective vests, flooded in. Brandishing truncheons and sub machine guns, they bellowed instructions. I was terrified. The three men on the stairs turned around and froze, immobilised and impotent. The one in the hall had already been manhandled to the ground. Orders, in high velocity tones, continued to be barked to the men on the stairs. Their arms shot up in the air, like cowpokes facing Wyatt Earp. I watched while they reluctantly trooped, a step at a time, down the stairway, while half a dozen sub machine guns pointed at their bodies. At each step the officer in charge barked his instructions with a thunderous voice. Once the three reached the hallway, a policeman ran up the stairs, grabbed hold of me and threw me to the ground with a judo fall.

'Hey, I'm on your side,' I protested as I hit the deck.

'This is for your own safety,' he replied, then pinned me down by lying on top of me.

'You could have fooled me,' I said, gasping for breath. The police operation lasted about half an hour. I watched, over the top of my minder's body, while each one of the four was handcuffed, searched and then blind folded. The man on top of me didn't release his hold until they'd been taken outside.

'I'm glad I wasn't one of the criminals,' I said as he helped me up. The shaking in my body didn't cease for the rest of that night. They took me to a pre-arranged hotel, where a police guard sat on the landing outside my door. I stayed there for three days in the same conditions. On the fourth, Hugh Hurley came to visit. He told me it would be safe for me to go back to work.

'We've repaired the broken doors at Farm Cottage,' he added.

### CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

I suppose on Deadly's behalf I should write a postscript to all these events. At the present time he's too busy getting on with life to be bothered. Catching the four men who broke into Farm Cottage that night was a big plus for us policemen. The gang involved were already under investigation for hundreds of unsolved crimes. In this case, fortunately, we'd had an undercover informer who'd integrated himself into their organisation. With his help, we'd been able to persuade them that Deadly had returned to his office and was living at Farm Cottage. Under intensive interrogation the four intruders, to save their own skins, exposed a mass of other suspects, who we'd had tags on for years. I would say that nearly three quarters of the pyramid I mentioned before were eventually rounded up as a result of that one night. At the end of it all our crime statistics looked much better.

Deadly was soon able to re-establish his business. Mary still works for him. We've managed to reassign George Harvey to the cause, just to keep an eye on him in this country. He doesn't follow him around or anything like that. He's just available in the event of emergencies. Deadly has a bleeper, which activates the one George carries. Deadly still lives at Farm Cottage, near Johnny and Sarah Masters. They remain good friends and team up together for trips to Mallorca. Deadly has never made another trip to the Ukraine. On the Island, he has dispensed with his apartment in Andraitx and now stays at the bungalow with Jenny McGuire when he visits. From what I can gather they live as a couple when he's there. The baby David, remains healthy, although still requires regular hospital check ups, which it seems will have to continue for some time. The last time I spoke to David, he told me he was trying to persuade the artist to marry him.

'She's holding out at the moment, but I have high hopes of making an honest woman out of her yet,' he said.

### THE END

### ABOUT RICHARD F JONES

If you have enjoyed this book Richard has six other published novels, GABRIELLA, A FLIGHT HOME, TIME ON THEIR HANDS, MOUNTAIN INTRIGUE, EXPLOSIVE VOYAGE and WAR TO THE DEATH, details of which can be obtained on his website: www.richardfjones.net .

Richard was born in North Wales, but he has also lived in the highlands of Scotland, the Wye Valley, Spain and Majorca. All his page turning novels are set in places where he has had a home.

