‘Would that be such a bad thing, sir?’ Vanbrugh said.
‘It might make the Home Secretary think again if nothing else.’
‘Respond to this kind of emotional blackmail? You must be mad.’ The Assistant Commissioner snorted. ‘For God’s sake try to remember you’re a copper and get moving.’
Vanbrugh replaced the receiver, stood there thinking for a moment, then put through a quick call to Detective Sergeant Dwyer at his home. When he was finished, he went into the kitchen. His wife turned from the stove, a frying pan in her hand, and he shook his head.
‘Just coffee, love. I’ve got to get moving.’
She filled his cup, placed it on the table before him, then ran her fingers through his greying hair. ‘Twenty-five years, Dick. I should know you by now. What’s gone wrong?’
‘It’s Sean/ he said. ‘Sean Rogan. He’s on the loose. The Old Man wants me to go down to the West Country to take charge of the hunt personally.’
‘Oh, no, Dick.’ A spasm of pain crossed her face and she sank into the opposite chair. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’
‘I’m a policeman, Nell,’ he said. ‘You knew it when you married me. Sean knew.’
‘But, Dick, he saved your life.’
‘God in Heaven, do you think I don’t know that?’ he demanded.
When she put out her hand and gently touched his face there were tears in her eyes. He turned the hand and brushed his lips against the palm.
‘I’d better get moving, love. I haven’t got much time.’
He got to his feet, turned and went out slowly.
It was still raining when Rogan and the girl reached Bowness and took the ferry across Lake Windermere. The boat was deserted and they stood at the stern rail taking in the beauty.
‘What do you think of it?’ she said.
‘It’s certainly spectacular.’
‘The most beautiful place in England. In the summer these roads are crowded with holidaymakers. At this time of the year, you won’t see a soul. That’s when I like it best.’
There was a glow to her cheeks and she wiped moisture away from her brow carelessly and looked across at Belle Isle. Rogan watched her, aware of beauty and gladdened by it.
On the other side, they took the road to Hawkshead. then turned down the far side of Coniston Water to Broughton-in-Furness and Whicham. From there, the) turned north along the coast road and a mile beyond Whitbeck Station they came to a signpost carrying the legend, Marsh-End. She turned off the road and bumped over a rutted track towards the sea.
They followed the course of a winding creek that twisted like a snake, losing itself in a country of rough grass marshes and mud flats where wild ducks nested in the reeds and fog drifted in from the sea, dulling the edges of things so that they lacked definition, formless as in a dream.
The brake turned into another track which led through a clump of fir trees, and on the other side a lonely farmhouse stood at the head of a creek.
It stood in a clump of beech trees at the water’s edge, an ancient grey-stone building with a good barn and a walled yard. It was only as they approached that Rogan became aware of the decay that hung over everything, of the broken fences, peeling paintwork.
Grass grew between the cobbles, and as the car rolled to a halt Hannah Costello switched off the engine and grimaced.
‘Not much of a place. Over the years, the tides have eroded all the pasture. No one could make a living here except by wildfowling and fishing. The agents were glad to lease it for a year.’
He frowned. ‘A long time.’
‘Anything less would have looked suspicious.’
She hesitated and then went on, ‘How long is it since you last saw Colum O’More?’
‘Ten years.’
‘You’ll find him changed. Try not to show it. I think his pride means a lot to him.’
Before Rogan could reply, the door behind him opened and he turned quickly. The man who stood there leaned heavily on a stick, head slightly forward from great hunched shoulders.