with impassive faces and they continued up the slope.
On the crest of the tor, cloud dashed cold rain in the face and mist hung in a damp grey curtain that reduced visibility to no more than fifty yards.
Vanbrugh turned to the Sergeant. ‘How long can a man last in conditions like this?’
‘You’d be surprised, sir. We’ve had them on the run for a week many a time. The classic case was the bloke who got out during the winter about five years back. He was on the loose for a fortnight.”
‘How did he manage that?’
‘Holed up in a holiday cottage no more than three miles from the prison. That’s one of the difficulties. There are lots of places like that all over the moor. They’re always empty at this time of the year and we can’t keep them all under constant surveillance. We haven’t got enough men.’
‘I know, Sergeant. I know.’
Vanbrugh turned and went back down the hill towards his car and police Land-Rover parked beside it. He was cold and tired and thinking about Sean Rogan somewhere out there in the mist, running like a hunted animal, didn’t make him feel any better.
As he neared the two vehicles, another Land-Rover appeared from the mist and pulled in at the side of the road. Sergeant Dwyer got out and moved to meet him.
‘Any luck at the other end?’ Vanbrugh said.
Dwyer shook his head. ‘Not a smell of him so far. The Chief Constable seems to think a house-to-house search should be the next step in case he’s holed up somewhere. Apparently there are lots of holiday bungalows and cottages scattered across the moor that are mostly empty out of season.’
‘No guarantee he wouldn’t pick on one that’s already been searched,’ Vanbrugh said. ‘Did you get that list from the prison?’
Dwyer took a typewritten sheet from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Here you are, sir. They couldn’t list his close
friends over the past few years because he hasn’t had any, but there are at least half a dozen men here who’ve shared cells with him since he came out of solitary confinement.’
Vanbrugh examined the list quickly. ‘Some real villains here. At least one of ’em’s back inside to my knowledge.’ He frowned and an expression of distaste appeared on his face. ‘So he shared a cell with Jack Pope?’
‘You know him, sir?’
‘I should do. He was a sergeant in the uniformed branch at West End Central. Got sent down for corruption ten or twelve years ago and he’s been back inside since for fraud.’ Vanbrugh shook his head and said grimly, ‘I can’t stand a crooked copper.’ He handed the list back to Dwyer. ‘Anything else?’
‘There was a message from the Yard about that lawyer you wanted them to contact, the one who visited Rogan. He doesn’t seem to exist.’
Vanbrugh swore softly. ‘Then Rogan didn’t just take off into the blue. The whole thing was arranged. Why else would a phoney lawyer visit him only a couple of weeks before the event?’
‘Which means that Soames must have known that Rogan had a way out, sir, and not many people did. It was kept pretty dark and Rogan doesn’t sound the sort of man who’d open his mouth if it didn’t suit him.’
‘It’s amazing what men find out about each other when they share a cell, Sergeant. As far as I’m concerned, any one of those men on that list of yours could have taken the information out with them when they were released.’
The rain suddenly increased in force and they climbed into the rear of the Land-Rover. Vanbrugh took a large vacuum flask from a basket under the seat and poured coffee into two plastic cups.
As he handed one to Dwyer, the Sergeant said, ‘If what you surmise is true, sir, Rogan could be almost anywhere by now, perhaps even across to Ireland.’
Vanbrugh shook his head. ‘We’d have been the first to know, believe me. He’s something of a legend in his own time, remember. His homecoming would hardly pass unnoticed.’
He started to fill his pipe. Dwyer hesitated and then said, ‘Do you think we’ll get him, sir?’