Cry of the Hunter. Jack Higgins

round that station too much.’

      ‘A ticket to Belfast?’ Murphy said.

      Fallon shook his head. ‘No, somewhere along the line.’ He laughed. ‘No sense in wasting money.’ He looked out into the rain and up to the sky. ‘Looks as if this lot’s with us for the day.’ He turned suddenly and clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘I’ll meet you here at one o’clock.’

      An expression of surprise showed on Murphy’s face. ‘But what will you do till then, Mr Fallon? It won’t be safe for you on the streets.’

      Fallon smiled. ‘I’m going to visit an old friend.’ His face hardened and he moved close to the boy and said, ‘Don’t try to follow me. This is someone I don’t want to be involved with the Organization. Do you understand?’

      The smile disappeared from the boy’s face and he sobered up immediately. ‘Anything you say, Mr Fallon.’ He smiled again. ‘One o’clock then. I won’t be late.’ He plunged into the rain and walked quickly away up the street.

      For several minutes Fallon stood in the doorway watching until the boy had disappeared from sight and then he pulled up his collar and ventured into the rain himself.

      He turned into a side street that took him away from the centre of the town. He twisted and turned through the back streets until he was completely satisfied that he was not being followed. Finally he came out into a quiet square that was surrounded on each side by terraces of tall, narrow Georgian houses. In one corner of the square there was a high wall in which was set an old, heavy timbered gate from which green paint peeled in long strips. He opened the gate and went inside.

      He found himself in a walled garden. The place was a wilderness of sprawling weeds and grass grew unchecked across the path. Before him, through the rain, the brown bulk of an old house lifted to the leaden sky. He frowned in puzzlement as he surveyed the scene of desolation and then he slowly walked up the path to the door and jerked on the ancient bell-pull.

      The sound jangled faintly in the hidden depths of the house and the echo was from another world. There was utter silence and after a few minutes he tried again. After a while he heard steps approaching the door. There was the sound of bolts being withdrawn and the door opened slightly.

      A young woman looked out at him. She was wearing an old camel-hair dressing gown and there was sleep in her eyes. ‘What is it?’ she said.

      ‘Is Professor Murray at home?’ Fallon asked her. A peculiar expression appeared on her face at once. He hastened to explain. ‘I know it’s early, but I’m just passing through and I promised to look him up. I’m an old student of his.’

      For a moment the girl gazed fixedly at him and then she stepped back and opened the door wide. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

      The door closed leaving the hall in semi-darkness. The air smelt musty and faintly unpleasant and as Fallon stumbled after her, he realized there was no carpet on the floor. She opened a door at the end of the passage and led the way into an old, stone-flagged kitchen. The room was warm and friendly and he took off his hat and unbuttoned his wet coat. ‘This is better,’ he said.

      ‘Take your coat off,’ the girl told him. She went to a gas cooker in the corner and put a light under the kettle. Where the old-fashioned range had once stood there was now a modern coke-burning stove. She knelt down in front of it and began to clear ashes from the grate.

      Fallon said, ‘Is the Professor still in bed?’

      She stood up and faced him. ‘He died a few weeks ago,’ she said. There was no change of expression on her face when she added, ‘I’m his daughter – Anne.’

      Fallon walked over to the window and stood staring out into the tangled garden and the rain. Behind him the girl busied herself at the cooker. After a while he turned round and said, ‘He was the finest man I ever knew.’

      There was ash on her hands from the grate. When she pushed back a loose tendril of her fair hair she smudged her forehead. ‘He thought quite a bit about you, too, Mr Fallon.’ She turned to the sink and rinsed her hands under the tap.

      Fallon sat down in a chair by the table. ‘How did you know who I was?’ he asked.

      ‘That scar,’ she said. ‘You staggered into my father’s flat in Belfast one night about ten years ago with your face laid open to the bone. He stitched it for you because you couldn’t go to a doctor.’ She turned towards him, a towel in her hand, and examined the scar. ‘He didn’t make a very good job of it, did he?’

      ‘Good enough,’ Fallon said. ‘It kept me out of the hands of the police.’

      She nodded. ‘You and Philip Stuart were students together at Queen’s before the war, weren’t you?’

      Fallon started in surprise. ‘You know Phil Stuart?’

      She smiled slightly as she put cups on the table. ‘He drops in now and then. He only lives a couple of streets away. He’s the County Inspector here, you know.’

      Fallon slumped back in his chair with an audible sigh. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

      As she poured tea out she went on, ‘My father used to say he found it rather ironical that Stuart joined the Constabulary and you the other lot. He once told me that in you two he could see the whole history of Ireland.’

      Fallon offered her a cigarette and smiled sadly. ‘How right he was.’ He stared into space, back into the past, and said slowly, ‘He was a remarkable man. He used to shelter me when I was on the run and spend the night trying to make me see the error of my ways.’ He straightened up in his chair and laughed lightly. ‘Still, he used to see a lot of Stuart, as well. Poor Phil – if only he’d realized what was going on under his nose.’

      Anne Murray sipped her tea and said quietly, ‘What did you want with my father this time?’

      Fallon shrugged. ‘For once, nothing – except a chat. I hadn’t seen him for several years, you know.’

      ‘Yes, he wasn’t even sure you were still alive. He thought you would have written to him if you had been.’

      Fallon shook his head and explained. ‘I’ve been buried in the wilds of Cavan,’ he said. He grinned suddenly and poured himself another cup of tea. ‘To tell you the truth I decided to change my ways. I’ve kept body and soul together by doing a bit of hack writing. I have a cottage about half a mile from the border. It’s been most restful.’

      She chuckled, deep down in her throat. ‘I’m sure it has. But what did you find to take the place of the other thing?’

      A sudden unease moved inside him and he forced a laugh. ‘What other thing?’

      ‘The thing that made you what you were; that made you live the kind of life you did for all those years.’

      He stood up and paced restlessly about the room. The girl was getting too near the truth for comfort. After a few moments he swung round and said brightly, ‘Anyway, what are you doing here? I hadn’t realized you were so grown up. Didn’t your father pack you off to some aunt in England after your mother died?’

      ‘He did,’ she said. ‘Then I went to a boarding school. After that, Guy’s Hospital in London. I’m a nurse,’ she added simply.

      He nodded. ‘You came home for the funeral?’

      She shook her head. ‘I was here for a few days before he died. I’ve only stayed on to sell up. A lot of the furniture has gone already.’ She shivered suddenly. ‘I don’t want any of it. I just want to get rid of everything and go away.’

      For the first time grief showed starkly in her eyes and he put a hand on her shoulder. For a few moments they stayed together, tied by some mystical bond of sympathy, and then she moved slightly and he took his hand away. She looked up into his face and said quietly, ‘What have you come for, Martin Fallon? Are you back at the old game?’

      For