Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [50]
‘We’re in a hell of a fix then,’ Murphy said.
Fallon nodded. ‘We’d be better going south again. It might be easier to cross where there’s plenty of coming and going.’ He frowned as he considered the problem. ‘We really need somewhere to hide up for a day or two until the search has fanned out a bit.’ A thought came to him and he sat bolt upright. ‘Did you ever hear anyone speak of Hannah Costello?’
Murphy frowned. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the name mentioned.’
Fallon jumped up and walked to the window. ‘She might be dead now,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been near her in ten or twelve years.’ He turned and explained. ‘She had a farm with a few acres of land in the Sperrin Mountains. A funny sort of place. It’s in a lonely little valley that you would never think existed.’ He laughed reminiscently. ‘I remember the first time I stayed there. It was about fourteen or fifteen years ago. We’d pulled a job in Derry and the country was raised against us. She put me up for three weeks – charged handsomely, mind you. She was in it for money – not patriotism.’
‘And you think she might still be alive?’ Murphy said.
Fallon shrugged. ‘Who knows? She had two sons, mind you.’ He nodded his head and said firmly ‘I think it would be worth a try.’ He walked over to the bed and yawned hugely. ‘I feel damned tired,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand it.’
Murphy nodded sympathetically. ‘It’ll be that wound, Mr. Fallon. You can’t take a knock like that and expect to be over it in a couple of days.’ He stood up and said, ‘You take a nap for a while and I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry. I’ll wake you at the first sign of anything funny.’
He left the room, closing the door softly behind him and Fallon lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. The pillow smelt of the cheap scent that Rose imagined was alluring. He thought about the girl and sighed. What a lousy life she must have had. A drunken old villain for a father and a fleapit for a home. Her only outlet was her dreams of romance and adventure, her visits to the cinema, and her cheap magazines. Now he had crossed her path, a gunman on the run. Front-page news. He sighed and stretched to ease the tight feeling round his chest. All she would ever get out of life would be a husband something like her father. A drunken idle rogue who would kick her from pillar to post. He smiled wryly and decided that sometimes life stank to high heaven. He switched his thoughts to Anne Murray and drifted pleasantly into sleep thinking about her.
When he awoke it was dark. The cheap luminous dial of the clock beside the bed showed half-past six. He swung his legs to the floor and stood up. He left the room and quietly went next door. When he turned on the light Murphy was sleeping peacefully, a magazine across his chest. For a moment Fallon debated whether to wake him and then he closed the door and returned to the girl’s room. He had hardly closed the door when it opened and she entered carrying a cup of tea. ‘I came in before but you were asleep,’ she said.
Fallon sat down on the bed and sipped the hot tea gratefully. She stood watching him eagerly. She was wearing an old velvet house-coat that trailed on the floor. He decided that her father had probably picked it up at a sale with a load of other stuff. After a while he said, ‘Where’s your dad?’
Her expression changed. ‘He’s been drinking all afternoon,’ she said. ‘He’s in the kitchen, stinking drunk.’
She sat down on the bed beside Fallon and the housecoat fell away exposing her legs. She crossed one deliberately over the other, showing a band of flesh at the top of her stockings and said, ‘He makes me sick.’
Fallon put his cup down carefully, his eyes avoiding the legs. ‘Yes, he’s not a pretty sight at the best of times.’ He started to get up.
She grabbed hold of his arm and held him down. ‘But I am, aren’t I,