He went out. Moira McGregor smiled at Cussane. ‘Take no notice. You saved that man’s life, you and Hardy. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
She went into the kitchen and found Brodie standing by the table. ‘I could do with a touch of something stronger myself,’ he said.
She took a bottle of Scotch and a glass from a cupboard and put them on the table without a word. He reached for a chair and pulled it forward, not noticing Cussane’s bag which fell to the floor. The top being unzipped, several items tumbled out, a couple of shirts and the pyx and the violet stole amongst them.
‘This his bag?’ Brodie asked.
She turned from the stove, a kettle in her hand. ‘That’s right.’
He dropped to one knee, stuffing the items back into the bag and frowned. ‘What’s this?’
By some mischance, the false bottom of the bag had become dislodged in the fall. The first thing Brodie discovered was an English passport and he opened it. ‘He told me his name was Fallen.’
‘So?’ Moira said.
‘Then how come he has a passport in the name of Father Sean Daly? Good likeness too.” His hand groped further and came up, holding the Stechkin. ‘God Almighty!’
Moira McGregor felt sick. ‘What does it mean?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’
Brodie went back into the other room and put the bag down on a chair. Cussane lay quietly, eyes closed. Brodie knelt down beside him, took out a pair of handcuffs and, very gently, eased one bracelet over Cussane’s left wrist. Cussane opened his eyes and Brodie seized the other wrist and snapped the steel cuff in place. He pulled the priest to his feet, then shoved him down into a chair.
‘What’s all this then?’ Brodie had the false base up completely now and sifted through the contents. ‘Three handguns, assorted passports and a sizeable sum in cash. Bloody fine priest you are. What’s it all about?’
‘You are the policeman, not me,’ Cussane said.
Brodie cuffed him on the side of the head. ‘Manners, my little man. I can see I’m going to have to chastise you.’
Watching from the door, Moira McGregor said, ‘Don’t do that.’
Brodie smiled contemptuously. ‘Women – all the same. Fancy him, do you, just because he played the hero?’
He went out. She said to Cussane desperately, ‘Who are you?’
He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t bother your head about that. I could manage a cigarette, though, before bully-boy gets back.’
Brodie had been a policeman for twenty years after five years in the military police. Twenty undistinguished years. He was a sour and cruel man whose only real authority was the
uniform, and his religion had the same purpose as the uniform, to give him a spurious authority. He could have rung headquarters in Dumfries, but there was something special about this, he felt it in his bones, so instead, he rang police headquarters in Glasgow.
Glasgow had received photo and full details on Harry Cussane only one hour previously. The case was marked Priority One with immediate referal to Group Four in London. Brodie’s telephone call was transferred at once to Special Branch. Within two minutes he found himself talking to a Chief Inspector Trent.
Tell me all about it again,’ Trent told him. Brodie did so. When he was finished, Trent said, ‘I don’t know how much time you’ve got in, but you’ve just made the biggest collar of your career. This man’s called Cussane. A real IRA heavy. You say the passengers on the bus he was on are being transferred to the train?’
That’s right, sir. Flooding on the road. This is only a milk stop, but they’re going to stop the Glasgow express.’
‘When is it due?’
‘About ten minutes, sir.’
‘Get on it, Brodie, and bring Chummy with you. We’ll meet you in Glasgow.’
Brodie put down the phone, choking with excitement, then he went into the sitting room.
Brodie walked Cussane along the platform, one hand on his arm, the other clutching Cussane’s bag. People turned to watch curiously as the priest passed, wrists handcuffed in front of him. They reached the guards van at the rear of the train, the guard standing on the platform beside the open door.