“I’m never going to leave again.” He grinned. “Find me a nice girl in the village and I’ll settle down.”
At that moment, Bell and Barry were approaching Tullamore in the BMW. Their meeting with the Chief of Staff had been brief.
“I’m concerned Riley’s been up to no good. He was last heard of leaving Wandsworth in the company of Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and we all know what that means. I want the bastard, so go back and get him for me.”
As they entered the village, it was Bell who noticed Colin and Peter emerging from the post office. “That’s interesting,” he said. “The two old men from the farm. Why aren’t they working?”
“Maybe they’re part-timers,” Barry said.
“But they’d still work mornings, that’s when all the hard work’s done,” Bell said. “Driving in the cows, milking, and so on. I know about these things, I was raised on a farm. I’m going to have words.”
Colin and Peter had vanished into Murphy’s Select Bar, and Bell followed them. At that time in the morning, there was only Murphy, the two old men with a pint of stout in front of each of them already, and a hard-looking young man in cloth cap, jacket, and jeans at the bar.
The old men stopped talking, frozen with fear, and Murphy, who knew very well who Bell was, turned pale. The young man drank some of his ale and frowned.
“Now then, you old bastards,” Bell said, “I don’t think you were telling the truth when we spoke yesterday.”
“Jesus, mister, I swear we were.”
“Then tell me one thing. Why aren’t you working?”
“It was the missus wanted to give us the day off,” Peter said.
“Hey, you,” the young man at the bar called. “Let them alone.”
Murphy put a hand on his arm. “Leave it, Patrick, this is IRA business.”
Bell ignored him. “So you haven’t seen Riley?”
“I swear to God I haven’t.”
Patrick moved in and tapped Bell on the shoulder. “I said leave them alone.”
Bell swung his right elbow backwards, catching him full in the mouth, and as Patrick staggered back, Barry, who had appeared in the doorway, gave him a vicious punch to the kidneys, which sent him on his knees. He stayed there until Bell pushed him over.
“Silly boy,” he called to Murphy. “Tell him to mind his manners in future,” and they left.
Barry took the wheel and drove out to the farm. He paused at the entrance where the truck from the dairy was parked, two men manhandling Bridget’s milk churns on board.
“Interesting,” Bell said. “She’s given her laborers a holiday, so how in the hell did that old woman manage those milk churns?”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Barry told him and drove along the track.
Bridget happened to be in the storeroom at the back when they arrived, so she didn’t hear them, and the Alsatian was up at the barn at High Meadow where Dermot was checking on some ewes. She came into the kitchen carrying a bag of flour and stopped dead in her tracks. Barry and Bell were standing just inside the kitchen door.
“You’re back,” she whispered and placed the bag of flour on the table.
“Yes, we are, you lying old bitch,” Barry said. He took a pace forward and slapped her across the face. “Now where is he?”
She was terrified out of her mind. “I don’t know, truly I don’t, Mr. Barry.”
“You’re a bad liar.” He slapped her again. Blood ran from her nose and he grabbed her hair and nodded to Bell, who lit a cigarette.
She started to struggle. He pushed her down across the table and Bell blew on his cigarette until it was red hot and touched her right cheek.
She screamed, writhing in agony. “No—please! I’ll tell you.”
Barry let her get up. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” he said to Bell and turned to Bridget, who was sobbing bitterly. “Where is he?”
“Half a mile up the track, the barn at High Meadow. There’s a room with a secret door above the loft. He sleeps there.”
Barry smiled. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?” and he and Bell walked out.