The Thunderous Enemy

Chapter 28

THROWN clear by the force of the explosion, Jesse Fletcher floated face down in a pool of water three feet deep. Most of his clothing had been burned away and several ribs showed through the charred flesh of his back.

Gregory and Vanbrugh waded forward and turned him over. The strange thing was that his face was unmarked except for the bruises left by his clash with Rogan and his eyes stared vacantly into eternity, fixed for all time.

“Do you know him?” Gregory asked.

Vanbrugh shook his head. “He’s a new one on me.”

The truck was still burning furiously and as they approached, they became aware at once of the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh.

A constable turned, his face wrinkling in disgust. “One of them’s still in the cab, sir. You can just see him if you bend down.”

In the intense heat, things seemed to shimmer, to lose definition and the figure which lay doubled up, one arm reaching out through the crumpled window, no longer seemed human.

“A nasty way to go,” Gregory said.

Vanbrugh nodded and they stumbled across the stream, knee-deep in ice-cold water to where another constable knelt beside a body in the wet grass.

As they approached, he stood up and turned. “Nothing doing here, sir. His neck’s broke. Must have been thrown out of the back when the truck first landed.”

Jack Pope lay on his back, one arm bent, fingers curling slightly. His eyes had retracted slightly and his head lolled unnaturally to one side.

“What about this one?” Gregory said.

“Jack Pope. He’s the one who shared a cell with Rogan.”

“The ex-policeman?”

“That’s him.”

They turned and Vanbrugh shielded his eyes from the rain with one hand and watched half a dozen men move up the mountainside above the road in a thin line. Gregory gave a sudden grunt and pointed.

“There he is, just below the ridge.”

Vanbrugh caught a brief glimpse of Morgan moving fast, several hundred feet above his pursuers. A moment later he went over the ridge and disappeared.

“Red hair,” Gregory said. “At least we know that much about the bastard.”

So it wasn’t Sean Rogan—Vanbrugh moved back across the stream and picked up a piece of red mailbag canvas that shredded in his hands, still smouldering.

“Just about settles it,” Gregory said.

“Looks like it.”

They climbed the steep slope and arrived back on the road in time to see the wounded constable being lifted into the rear of the Land-Rover. His face was twisted with pain, but he managed a grin when Gregory lit a cigarette for him and stuck it in his mouth.

“How is it?”

The constable gingerly touched the blood-soaked bandage that encircled his right thigh above the knee. “b****y awful, but I’ll survive, sir.”

“Good man,” Gregory said. “Don’t worry. We’ll lay him by the heels.”

As the Land-Rover moved away, a police car came down the road from the direction of the farm and braked to a halt. Sergeant Dwyer jumped out. “Any luck?” Vanbrugh said.

“Not a soul to be seen, sir, but they’ve certainly been having themselves a high old time. Someone’s been shooting the place up.”

“Now what in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Vanbrugh said, frowning.

“A hundred and forty thousand is a hell of a lot of money," Gregory said. ”Maybe somebody wanted a bigger slice of the cake.“ He turned to Dwyer. ”What about the car we heard driving away?“

“We found it a mile or so further on where the road peters out in the ruins of an old mining village. A green Morris Oxford shooting brake.” ‘No sign of the occupants?“

“Not a smell. There’s a sergeant and two men up there now, but they’re going to need help.”

Vanbrugh turned to Gregory. “Didn’t you say there was no other way out of the valley?

Gregory nodded. “Not by road, but any reasonably active person could cross the mountain on foot.” He took a map from his pocket and opened it. “You can see the village here and the old workings on the other side.”

Vanbrugh studied the map for a moment and pointed to the two dotted lines that marked the course of the Long Cut under the mountain. “What’s this? A canal?”

“It certainly looks like it. Probably used to ship ore through to the next valley in the old days.”

“If it were still navigable, it would make a convenient back door. The sooner it’s plugged the better.”

Gregory moved to the nearest car and contacted headquarters on the radio. Vanbrugh looked up at the mountainside. The half dozen policemen were just below the ridge and they went over one by one as he watched.

And a fat lot of good it’ll do them, he told himself. He’ll be half a mile down the other side of the mountain by now and still running.

Dwyer moved to join him. “Anyone we know down there, sir?”

“Jack Pope,” Vanbrugh said. “I couldn’t identify the other two. One of them was burned to a crisp anyway.”

“It couldn’t have been Rogan, then?”

“I don’t think so. Too small.”

Gregory came back from the patrol car. “They’re giving us every spare car and man they’ve got to cover the immediate area.”

“What about the other valley?”

“There are two cars on the way there now.” Gregory wiped rain from his face and smiled confidently. “We’re bound to get them, you know. This isn’t the big city with a maze of back streets to hide in. There are damned few roads round here. We can seal them all with no trouble at all.”

“Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” Vanbrugh said. “I’d like to take a quick look over the farm now if that’s all right with you.”

“What about this fellow Soames? Should I have him brought up here? Perhaps we could squeeze something useful out of him.”

“A damned good idea,” Vanbrugh said. “At least we might get a few answers to some rather puzzling questions,” and he turned and followed Dwyer through the heavy rain towards the patrol car.

==========

Soames’ agile brain was working overtime, seeking a way out of the predicament in which he found himself as the patrol car turned off the Ambleside road and moved up the track towards Scardale.

His wrists were handcuffed together and a constable sat on either side of him. As they came to the place where the accident had occurred, the driver slowed to ease past the parked vehicles and several men staggered over the edge of the road carrying a stretcher.

Soames stared out at the shapeless form beneath the blanket. An arm hung down to the ground, flesh peeling from the fingers and he shuddered as the wind carried the sickly sweet smell through the open window.

The young constable on his right turned and looked at him coldly. “You’ll be lucky to get away with fifteen years for this little lot.”

Soames felt suddenly sick. Only once in his career had he been stupid enough to step just too far over the shadow line between what was legal and what wasn’t. The subsequent experience had not been pleasant.

It came to him, with a thrill of horror, that this time he had gone in over his head and his mouth went dry. The car turned in through the gate and braked beside another which stood outside the farmhouse door.

The two policemen pulled him out and he followed them inside and along the narrow whitewashed passage. It was like something out of a bad dream and the

look on the faces of the three men who waited for him in the sitting room didn’t make him feel any better.

Vanbrugh examined him briefly. “Henry Soames?” Soames moistened dry lips. “That’s right. I’d like to know why I’ve been brought here,” He added feebly, “I have my rights. I demand to see a solicitor.”

“A short while ago, a young policeman was shot by one of your pals,” Vanbrugh cut in coldly. “A man with red hair. If that boy dies, I’ll see you in the dock as an accessory to murder.”

Soames struggled for breath as fear turned his bowels to water. Finally he managed to speak. “Morgan, that’s the man you want. Harry Morgan. He’s the one with red hair.”

“Who else was in on this?”

Soames stumbled over his words in his eagerness to get them out. “Jesse Fletcher. He and Morgan came up together from Manchester. And there was the man who owns this farm, Costello.” ‘And his niece?“ ’That’s right.” ‘What about Jack Pope?“ Dwyer put in.

Soames turned to him eagerly. “Oh, yes, he was in on it, too.”

“When you visited Sean Rogan in prison, it was to arrange details of his escape?” Vanbrugh demanded.

“That’s right. On the night he got out, Pope was waiting with a car and a change of clothes.”

“Who laid everything on?”

“A man called Colum O’More.”

Gregory frowned and looked at Vanbrugh. “That’s a familiar name.”

“It should be,” Vanbrugh said. “He was a big man in the I.R.A. in the thirties and during the early part of the war.” He turned back to Soames. “So the I.R.A. are in this after all? Funds for the Organization, I suppose?”

“That’s what Rogan believed.”

“Let me get this straight," Vanbrugh said. ”Morgan and Fletcher were working for wages, right?“

“Five thousand apiece. Rogan was just working off a debt. O’More persuaded him that he owed the Organization one last favour for breaking him out.”

“So the rest of the haul goes to I.R.A. funds?”

“That’s what O’More told Rogan.”

“But you know different?”

“You’re telling me. The old spider wants the b****y lot for himself.”

Vanbrugh shook his head. “It won’t wash, Soames. I know Colum O’More, everything about him. He isn’t the type to pull a stroke like that.”

Soames shrugged. “He’s a sick man, cancer or something. That kind of thing changes people.”

Gregory looked at Vanbrugh quickly. “I’ll buy that.”

Vanbrugh nodded. “Where’s O’More now?”

Soames moistened his lips. “Can we make a deal?”

“I wouldn’t cut you down if you were hanging," Vanbrugh said calmly. ”Now tell me where O’More is or I’ll kick you from here to the door and back again.“

“He’s at an old farm just off the coast road near Whitbeck," Soames said sullenly. ”Marsh-End, it’s called.“

“Anyone with him?”

Soames shook his head. “He’s on his own. Rogan was supposed to drive over tomorrow with the money.”

“But you and your friends had ideas of your own about that?” Vanbrugh turned to Gregory. “At least that gives us some sort of explanation for the shooting that’s been going on here. They probably tried to get their hands on the loot and Rogan objected. Do you know this place, Marsh-End?”

“No, but I know Whitbeck. It’ll take us about forty-five minutes to get there in weather like this.”

“Then let’s get moving.”

Vanbrugh walked out quickly and Gregory and Dwyer went after him. Soames looked around him hurriedly for a possible exit and a middle-aged police sergeant came through the door, a broad grin on his face.

“Didn’t think we’d forget you, did you?”

In that moment the full realization of what had happened to him hit Soames with

sickening force. Outside the patrol car moved away carrying Vanbrugh, Gregory and Dwyer. As he stood there listening to the sound of the engine fade into the distance, he felt more lonely than he had ever felt in his life before.

==========

The ditch was half-full of water and Morgan waded along it for some fifty yards, then darted across to the shelter of the fir trees on the other side. A few moments later, a police car swept by, followed by another.

By now, they would have sealed every main road through the mountains, that much was obvious. It would take a miracle to get through and yet he had to reach the coast. His one chance of escape lay at Marsh-End with Colum O’More.

As he started to work his way through the plantation of firs, a motorcyclist passed along the main road and slowed to a halt thirty or forty yards further on. Morgan went forward cautiously and paused behind a bush.

A police motorcyclist stood beside an A.A. box, his machine parked a few feet away. He was examining a map. As Morgan watched, he slipped a cigarette into his mouth and flicked a lighter.

Morgan didn’t even think about it. He gripped his revolver by the barrel, jumped forward and struck hard at the nape of the neck. The policeman gave a stifled cry and slumped to his knees. Morgan grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back into the bushes. Then he ran out into the road, kicked the stand from under the motorcycle and pushed it under cover in the plantation.

It took him five minutes to strip the policeman and dress in his uniform. When he was ready, he fastened the man’s wrists behind him with his belt and moved towards the motorcycle.

At that moment, another patrol car swept by. He waited until the sound of its engine had faded into the distance, then ran the machine out into the road, mounted it and kicked the starter. As the engine roared into life, he pulled down the goggles and rode away.

Half a mile further on he came to a bridge. On the other side a police car was parked half across the road leaving room for single line traffic only and two constables blocked the way. Morgan changed down and started to slow, at the same time getting ready to accelerate.

There was no need. As he went over the bridge, the two constables moved out of the way and one of them waved a hand casually. It was as easy as that. Morgan changed into top gear and sped away into the rain.