Deegan said, ‘What you need that for is your business. You
get it back when we land you in the Isle of Man.’ He put it in his pocket.
‘I understand,’ Cussane said.
‘Good, then let’s get going,’ and Deegan led the way out.
Devlin was in bed when McGuiness rang him. ‘They’ve got him,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Ballywalter. One of our own, a man called Sean Deegan. Cussane turned up there saying he was a friend of Danny Malone and needed an undercover run to the Isle of Man. Presumably Danny had told him a thing or two he shouldn’t.’
‘Danny’s a dying man. He wouldn’t know what he was saying half the time,’ Devlin said.
‘Anyway, Cussane, or Father Daly as he’s now calling himself, is in for a very unpleasant shock. Three miles out, Deegan and his boys nail the coffin lid on him and over he goes. I told you we’d get the sod.’
‘So you did.’
‘I’ll be in touch, Liam.’
Devlin sat there thinking about it. Too good to be true. Cussane had obviously discovered from Danny Malone that Deegan offered the kind of service he did. Fair enough, but to turn up as he had done, no attempt at disguise beyond a change of name… He might have assumed that it would be morning before Devlin and Tanya would be found, but even so… It didn’t make any kind of sense – or did it?
There was a light mist rolling in from the sea as they moved out, but the sky was clear and the moon touched things with a luminosity that was vaguely unreal. McAteer busied himself on deck, Egan had the hatch to the small engine room off and was down the ladder and Deegan was at the wheel. Cussane stood beside him, peering out through the window.
‘A fine night,’ Deegan observed.
‘Indeed it is. How long will it take?’
‘Four hours and that’s taking it easy. It means we can time it to catch the local fishing boats going back to the Isle of Man with their night catches. We’ll land you on the west coast. Little place I know near Peel. You can get a bus across to Douglas, the capital. There’s an airport, Ronaldsway. You can get a plane to London from there or just across the water to Blackpool on the English coast.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Cussane told him.
‘Might as well go below. Get your head down for a while,’ Deegan suggested.
The cabin had four bunks and a fixed table in the centre, a small galley at one end. It was very untidy, but warm and snug in spite of the smell of diesel oil. Cussane made himself tea in a mug and sat at the table drinking it and smoking a cigarette. He lay on one of the bottom bunks, his hat beside him, eyes closed. After a while, McAteer and Egan came down the companionway.
‘Are you all right, Father?’ McAteer enquired. ‘Cup of tea or anything?’
‘I’ve had one, thank you,’ Cussane said. ‘I think I’ll get some sleep.’
He lay there, eyes almost closed, one hand negligently reaching under the hat. McAteer smiled at Egan and winked and the other man spooned instant coffee into three mugs and added boiling water and condensed milk. They went out. Cussane could hear their steps on deck, the murmur of conversation, a burst of laughter. He lay there, waiting for what was to come.
It was perhaps half an hour later that the engine stopped and they started to drift. Cussane got up and put his feet to the floor.
Deegan called down the companionway, ‘Would you come up on deck, Father?’
Cussane settled his hat on his head at a neat angle and went up the ladder. Egan sat on the engine hatch, McAteer leaned out of the open wheelhouse window and Deegan stood
at the stern rail, smoking a cigarette and looking back towards the Irish coast two or three miles away.
Cussane said, ‘What is it? What’s happening?’
‘The jig’s up!’ Deegan turned, holding the Stechkin in his right hand. ‘You see, we know who you are, old son. All about you.’