'Yes, but these places don't open to the public till Easter.'

'You can't be serious.'

'Just keep your eye on that screen and we'll see.'

There were a couple of windows in the Transit. They were proceeding along a coast road and, for the moment, the rain had stopped and the sky was stormy with a half-moon. They finally turned into a side road and paused at the gate. A notice said 'Spanish Head National Trust'.

There was a cottage on the other side, a light at the window. Bell sounded the horn, and a door opened and an old man appeared. He hesitated, and Bell called, 'Punch the bloody button, Harker, and let us in.'

The gate was obviously electronic. The old man opened a box by the door, fiddled inside, the gate swung back and Bell drove through. Blake saw a castle above steep cliffs, towers, battlements, all very spectacular. It was only as they got closer that Blake saw that it was only a large country house built in nineteenth-century Gothic style. The Transit came to a halt, Bell got out, came round and opened the door. Blake followed Daley out and found himself in a courtyard.

'This way, Mr McGuire,' Daley told him.

Bell opened a massive oak front door and led the way in. There was a huge entrance hall, a flagged floor, an open fireplace and flags draped from poles: the Irish Republican tricolour, the Union Flag and, surprisingly, an old flag of the Confederate States of America.

'This way.'

Daley led the way up the sweeping stairs and Blake followed, Bell bringing up the rear. They passed along a wide corridor, portraits everywhere, and Daley finally opened a great mahogany door. They passed into a library. There were more portraits, a log fire in a great fireplace, book-lined walls and French windows standing open. A man stood there, looking out, a glass of wine in his hand. He was tall, with good shoulders, wearing a black sweater and jeans. When he turned, the face was handsome enough, dark, brooding and yet cruel.

' Mr McGuire? Jack Barry.'

The voice was still American, and Blake said, 'My pleasure.' He tried to sound a little weak and shaken. 'I was kind of worried.'

'Oh, stuff all this pretence, Mr Johnson. I know very well who you are. Blake Johnson, President Jake Cazalet's personal minder. You run the Basement, isn't that what you call it? Here, have a glass of Sancerre.' He took a bottle from an ice bucket, filled a glass and offered it. 'There you go. I have it on good authenticity that the real McGuire is in the hands of Brigadier Charles Ferguson and Sean Dillon. And that my other dealer in London, Tim Pat Ryan, is very dead indeed.'

Blake savoured the wine. 'Eighty-six, maybe eight.'

'Seven,' Barry said. 'So you know my old friend Sean Dillon?'

'Friend?'

'A slight exaggeration. However, let's get down to facts. I have excellent sources, but there are things you could tell me, including details about that old bastard Charles Ferguson's operations.'

'Well, I guess you can kiss my ass,' Blake told him.

Barry poured another glass of Sancerre. 'I thought you might take that attitude.' He nodded to Daley. 'I think the Soak Hole might do here, Bobby. It's cold out there and starting to rain again. Try him for an hour and see where it gets us.'

It was raining hard as Daley and Bell took Blake down through the grounds towards the cliffs, and sheet lightning flickered over the water, the waves raging below. They started down a track, Bell leading the way, a lamp in his hand. Halfway down, he paused.

'This is it.'

White spray erupted with a hollow roar. Daley pushed Blake forward. 'In you go. There's a ledge ten feet down. You'll be okay. As it's a cold night, I'll let you keep your clothes on.'

Blake hesitated, then started down. There were steps of a kind, then a platform. The spray cascaded up and he caught his breath. God, but it was cold.

Daley said to Bell, 'Watch him, I'll be back.'

He started up to the castle.

'I was right, then,' Dillon said, as he and Hannah approached the castle. 'Spanish Head it is.'

He coasted up to the gate and paused, the engine still ticking over. Hannah got out and tried to open the gate without success.

'No joy, it must be electronic. Give me a moment.'

There was a small stile to one side intended for pedestrians. As she climbed over, the door opened and an old man appeared. 'Here, you can't do that. This is private.'

'Not any more it isn't.' She took her Walther from her shoulder bag and put it under his chin. 'Do whatever you have to to open the gate and be quick about it.'

He was terrified and showed it. He went to the box and pressed the button and the gate opened. Dillon drove through, pulled in to a parking spot to one side and switched off.

He got out and pushed the old man into the porch. 'Now let's see if I've got this right. You'll be the caretaker. Is anyone else in the cottage?'

'I'm a widower.'

'And your name?'

' Harker, John Harker.'

'Well, I think you've been a naughty boy, Mr Harker. Closed from September till Easter, and you allow unauthorized guests like my old friend Jack Barry.'

'I don't know what you mean.' The old man was shaking.

Dillon produced his Walther and said cheerfully, 'Maybe your memory will improve if I stick this behind your right kneecap and pull the trigger.'

Harker gave in instantly. 'His lordship's at home, I'll grant you that, and what can I do about it, an old man like me?'

'His lordship, is it?' Dillon laughed. 'How often is he here?'

'On and off during the winter months and there are others who know, estate workers from the village.'

'Who will keep their mouths firmly shut, I shouldn't wonder,' Hannah said.

'What else can we all do?' the old man said. 'These are desperate times and his lordship is not a man to cross.'

'A bullet in the head, is it?' Dillon asked.

'No need for that, not with the Soak Hole to teach a man a lesson. Tim Leary died in it last year.'

'And what would the Soak Hole be?'

'It's a kind of funnel in the cliffs. The sea explodes up through it. His lordship puts people down there to teach them a lesson.'

'Good God!' Hannah said.

'I shouldn't imagine he's got anything to do with it,' Dillon told her, and turned to Harker. 'To business. A white Ford Transit van. It arrived a little earlier, right?'

Harker nodded. 'It went down to Belfast this afternoon. Came back about forty minutes ago.'

'Who was in it?'

'Bobby Daley and Sean Bell, two of his lordship's men when it went, just Bell at the wheel when it came back.'

'And you were curious and went up the drive to see what was what.'

Harker was startled. 'How did you know?' i know everything. What happened?'

'I was some distance away, but I saw Bell open the van's rear door and Bobby Daley got out with another man, and the three of them went inside.'

'And you, being curious, went closer, stood under a tree or whatever, and waited.'

Again, Harker was astonished. 'And how would you be knowing that?'

'Because I'm Irish, you daft bugger, I'm from County Down, I have the second sight. There's also the fact that you're wet through because you were standing in the rain. Now who does Barry have up at the castle?'

'Only Daley and Bell.'

'Good man. Now we'll walk up there nice and quiet and you lead the way. Some suitable back path would do nicely.'

'Anything you say, sir.'

Lamps set in various parts of the grounds gave a certain amount of light as they walked along a narrow path through shrubbery and lush woodland, the castle battlements looming beyond. Suddenly, Harker paused.

'I think someone's coming,' he whispered.

They moved into the trees, and a moment later, Daley moved out of another path and started towards the castle. 'That's him,' Harker whispered. 'That's Bobby.'