CHAPTER FOUR
IT was cold in the stone-flagged kitchen and Jack Pope shivered involuntarily as he piled logs into the crook of one arm. He moved back along the passage and went into the living room of the small cottage.
Flames flickered across the oak-beamed ceiling, casting fantastic shadows that writhed and twisted convulsively and he piled more logs on to the already large fire.
He went to the dresser, took down a bottle of whisky and half filled a glass.
Outside the wind moaned, driving the rain against the window with the force of lead shot and he shivered, remembering the place on the other side of the hill beyond the river where he had spent five years of his life. He emptied the glass quickly, coughing as the raw spirit burned its way down his throat, and reached for the bottle again.
There was no sound, and yet a small cold wind touched him gently on the right cheek. He turned slowly, the hair rising on the nape of his neck.
Rogan stood in the doorway, shirt and pants plastered to his body, moulding his superb physique, rain mingling with the dust from the ventilating shafts, washing over him in a patina of filth.
And Jack Pope knew fear, real primeval fear that loosened the very bowels in him so that in the presence of this strange, dark man he was like a frightened child, completely dominated by some elemental force he couldn’t even comprehend.
He moistened his dry lips and forced a ghastly smile. ‘You made it, Irish. Good for you.’
Rogan crossed the room, soundlessly, took the glass from Pope’s hand and poured the whisky down in one quick swallow. He closed his eyes, took a long breath and opened them again.
‘What time is it?’
Pope glanced at his watch. ‘Just after half past eight.’
‘Good,’ Rogan said. ‘I want to be out of here by nine. Is there a bath?’
Pope nodded eagerly. ‘I’ve had the water heating all afternoon.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Laid out in the bedroom. What about something to eat?’
Rogan shook his head. ‘No time. If you’ve got a vacuum flask fill it with coffee and make a few sandwiches. I can eat them on the way.’
‘Okay, Irish, anything you say. The bath’s at the end of the passage.’
Rogan turned abruptly and went out, and immediately the forced smile was wiped from Pope’s face. ‘Who the hell does he think he is, the big stinking Mick. God, how I wish I could turn him in.’
He went into the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove, then he rummaged in a drawer till he found a bread-knife, took down a loaf and started viciously to cut it into slices.
The bathroom was a recent extension to the rear of the cottage and the bath itself was small. Not that it mattered. Rogan filled it with hot water, stripped off his wet clothes and climbed in. Fora brief moment only he sat there enjoying the warmth, then he started to wash the filth from his body. Five minutes later, he stepped out, dried himself quickly, then went along the passage to the bedroom, a towel about his waist.
He found everything he needed laid out neatly across the bed. Underclothing, shirts, even the shoes were the right size and the two-piece suit in Glencarrick thorn-proof looked as if it had been made to measure. There was also a battered rain hat and an old trenchcoat. A nice touch that, he had to admit, however grudgingly. He took them with him when he returned to the living room.
Pope followed him in from the kitchen carrying a large vacuum flask and a tin biscuit box. ‘Sandwiches are inside; it’ll save you having to stop.’
‘And just where am I supposed to be going?’
‘O’More wants to see you.’
‘Where do I find him?’
Pope shrugged. ‘God knows. I’ve been working through an accommodation address in Kendal. Do you know where that is?’
‘The Lake District, isn’t it? Westmorland?’
‘That’s right. You’re in for a long drive. It’s all of three hundred and fifty miles from here and you’ve got to be there by seven in the morning.’