There was a hurt silence. He tried to make amends for his momentary outburst by offering her a conciliatory smile and a pat on the knee. After another glance at the headline in the newspaper on his lap, he changed the subject.

‘Did I tell you that I saw Neil Beresford this morning?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘you didn’t.’

‘He’d just been to the newsagent’s. It was quite cold but he was wearing a singlet and a pair of shorts. Apparently, he’d been out running.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll have to ask him. It seems a strange thing to do at a time like this.’

‘I envy him,’ she admitted. ‘Neil Beresford lost his wife but he’s young enough to find another one. We can never replace Florrie.’

‘Don’t go on about it, June.’

‘But it’s true.’

‘I know,’ he said, squeezing her hand, ‘but we mustn’t let it cloud our thoughts indefinitely. We have to build our lives anew — and so will the families of the other victims.’

Seeing the deep sorrow in her eyes and the sag in her shoulders, he tried to cheer her up. He put his newspaper aside and crossed to examine the curtains.

‘I can’t see them properly in this light,’ he said, holding the fabric, ‘but they do look as if they’ve faded a bit.’

‘We’ve had them for five years, Brian. We need a change.’

‘Perhaps we do. Let me think about it.’

‘Thank you.’

The telephone rang in the hall. Ingles was on the move at once.

‘That might be the inspector,’ he said, hopefully. ‘I asked him to ring the moment he had any positive news.’

He left the room and lifted the receiver with a smile on his face. But it was not Marmion at the other end of the line. It was a voice that chilled him to the bone.

‘Hello,’ said a man. ‘Do you remember me?’

The stationmaster was a mine of information. He knew the times of departure of every passenger train that came there during the day and he also knew when the regular goods trains were due. The detectives had not lost Niall Quinn, after all. They knew where he was going. According to the stationmaster, the goods train on which the Irishman had contrived a free ride was heading for a marshalling yard some fifteen miles or so away. Since it would maintain a reasonable speed all the way, it would give Quinn little opportunity to get off in transit. If they could get to the destination before the train, they stood a chance of catching the fugitive. It meant a mad dash in the car and considerable discomfort for the two passengers as they were thrown about in the rear seats but Marmion and Keedy raised no protest. They were willing to endure anything in order to overtake Niall Quinn.

‘We’ll just have to hope that the train doesn’t slow down at any point,’ said Marmion, ‘or he may be able to jump off.’

‘I don’t think he’ll be jumping anywhere, Harv. Didn’t you see the way he hung from that bridge so that he didn’t have so far to fall? That limp tells us that he’s hurt one of his legs,’ argued Keedy. ‘Otherwise, he’d have leapt off that bridge like the daredevil that Major Gostelow described. In any case, didn’t the stationmaster say that the goods train wouldn’t stop until it reached the marshalling yard?’

‘There could always be an emergency stop.’

‘Niall Quinn will want to go as far as the train will take him.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Marmion, ‘and we do have one thing in our favour — he thinks he shaken us off. He doesn’t realise we’re after him.’

‘The surprise element is always useful, especially when someone is armed.’

‘We must take no chances, Joe.’

‘I’d feel a lot happier if we had guns as well.’

‘You’re not trained to use a firearm.’

‘I ought to be and so should you.’

‘Take it up with the commissioner,’ said Marmion, ‘though you’d be spitting in the wind. It’s a matter of pride to him that, in the main, we’re not armed. I know that constables on night patrol in certain areas do carry weapons but they’re the exception and their pistols are not always reliable. Don’t forget what happened at the Siege of Sidney Street.’

‘How could I?’ said Keedy, bitterly. ‘It was a disgrace. Our guns were useless and our so-called marksmen couldn’t shoot straight.’

It was only five years since the siege and it remained fresh in the memory. Three policemen had been shot dead while trying to arrest a gang of Latvian burglars. Just over a fortnight later, the police received information that two of the gang were hiding in a flat in Sidney Street. A gun battle developed. While the police used bulldog revolvers, shotguns and firearms more suitable for a rifle range, they were up against men with Mauser pistols capable of rapid and accurate fire. Eventually, the police had to ask for volunteer marksmen from the Scots Guards.

‘It really showed us up,’ complained Keedy. ‘When they saw how inadequate our guns were, they withdrew them from service, then reissued them as soon as the war broke out. Do we never learn?’

‘It’s a question of budgets, Joe. It always is.’

‘It’s a question of common sense.’

They swung hard to the left as the car turned a corner at a speed that took two of its wheels briefly off the ground. As it straightened, it was racing down a road that was parallel with the railway line. A passenger train thundered past in the opposite direction, half-hidden in billowing smoke. Buildings and trees obscured the line for a few moments but it soon came back into view. Seeing something ahead, their driver increased speed until he drew level with a goods train.

‘Do you think that’s the one Niall Quinn is on?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m sure it is, Joe.’

‘How can you be certain?’

Marmion chuckled. ‘Didn’t you see him wave to us?’

Convinced that he was safe, Niall Quinn lay back and rested. Some of the wagons had been carrying coal but he chose one with a tarpaulin over it in the hope of a softer landing. He was in luck. Beneath the tarpaulin were large cardboard boxes. While he had no knowledge of what they contained, he was grateful for the way they’d softened his fall from the bridge. His first task had been to inspect the swollen ankle. Nothing was broken but it really hurt. Accustomed to improvising, he tore a long section off the bottom of his shirt to use as a bandage and give his ankle support. Feeling marginally better, he was able to relax and consider how best he could get to Anglesey and thence to Ireland. He was sorry to complicate the lives of the Quinn family by turning up unexpectedly and he was especially sad to have terrified his cousin, Maureen. Under other circumstances, he’d have liked the chance to get to know her better. But his commitment to the ideals of Sinn Fein came first.

Remaining in England was too dangerous. As long as he was there, he’d be hunted and he’d vowed never to be incarcerated in Frongoch again. Once he’d got back to the safety of Dublin, he decided, he might send a cheery postcard to Major Gostelow. The governor had a sense of humour. He’d appreciate it.

Their car had long since lost sight of the goods train and they had no idea if they were still ahead of it or indeed if it was the right one. They were in open countryside now with trees looming out of the dark.

‘I take it that Niall Quinn is no longer on your list,’ said Keedy. ‘If he only came back to the area today, he couldn’t possibly have set off that bomb at the pub.’

‘I accept that, Joe. He’s not the man we’re after.’

‘Then why are we chasing him?’

‘Would you rather let him go?’ asked Marmion.

‘Oh, no — he’s a danger to the public while he’s on the loose. When we’ve got a chance of nabbing him, we’ve got to take it. I’m not quite sure what Chat will make of it all, though.’

‘I think I do. If we arrest Quinn, he’ll rap us over the knuckles for straying away from our investigation, then he’ll enjoy bragging rights over Special Branch because we did their job for them. Chat always wants it both ways.’