‘Grand, sir. Then if you’ll accompany us, I’m sure we can sort this out.’
‘I will not! This is ridiculous! I’m a guest in your country. Excuse me, but I’m leaving.’ He turned and headed for the door. The officers made a grab for him and held him tightly by his arms as he struggled.
‘Let me go! What the hell is going on here? Look in my wallet, I can prove that I’m not Ian Simpson!’
‘All in good time, sir. Now, would you be coming quietly? We don’t want to upset Margaret and her regulars downstairs.’
He sighed and surrendered himself to the officers’ vice-like grip. They marched him off down the corridor. ‘I’ll be contacting the British embassy about this. You can’t just break into someone’s bedroom, accuse them of being someone they’re not and cart them off to jail! I want a lawyer!’
The crowd at the bar watched with interest as the officers escorted the man outside and into the waiting car.
Simon arrived at Cork airport at ten past four that afternoon. He’d been on the wrong end of a bollocking from Thames House, for failing to get on the flight last night or the early one this morning. The truth was, he’d pulled into a service station on the way back from Dorset, realising he was falling asleep at the wheel, and had passed out for the next four hours. When he woke, it was past nine, and he’d had to catch the one o’clock flight, which had been delayed by two hours.
Emerging from arrivals, Simon made a phone call.
‘Glad you’ve made it, at long last,’ Jenkins said sarcastically.
‘Yes. Any news?’
‘The Irish police think they’ve located Simpson. He was holed up at the same hotel as Haslam. They’ve taken him to the local station as we requested and are waiting for you to arrive to give a positive identification.’
‘Good.’
‘He was apparently unarmed and they didn’t find a weapon in his room, but I think we should send a couple of our people over to help you escort him back.’
‘Sure. And . . . Haslam?’
‘Our Irish colleagues tell us she’s just checked out. Seems she’s headed back to London. Her name’s on the passenger list for the six-forty flight out of Cork. As Simpson is under lock and key for the present, I want you to wait at the airport for her arrival. Find out what she’s discovered, if anything. Call me for further instructions later.’
‘Right, sir.’ Simon sighed heavily, not relishing another two-hour stint at an airport or the ensuing conversation with Joanna. He walked over to the newsagent’s, bought a paper and settled down on a seat that gave him a clear view of the entrances to the departure hall.
At six thirty, the final call for Heathrow was being broadcast over the tannoy. Having already confirmed with the check-in desk that Ms J. Haslam was a no-show and then going airside to scour the departure lounge thoroughly, Simon was certain she wasn’t here. He watched the final passenger run through the boarding gate and down the stairs to the waiting plane.
‘That’s it, sir. We’re closing the flight,’ said the young Irish woman on the desk.
Simon strode to the large window and watched the stairs slide silently away from the plane and the door shut. He sighed in resignation, thinking it had all seemed too easy.
Twenty minutes later, Simon was in a rented car, haring down the N71 towards Rosscarbery.
The sitting room was lit by the flames from the fire, casting ghostly, flickering shadows on the walls. The two women sat in silence, hardly noticing the night that had descended on them, too lost in their own thoughts.
‘You believe me, don’t you?’
After all of these years of being labelled mad, it was hardly surprising Ciara Deasy needed reassurance, Joanna supposed.
‘Yes.’ Joanna put her fingers to her temples. ‘I just . . . can’t think straight at the moment. There are so many things I want to ask you.’
‘There’s time, Joanna, maybe tomorrow, so, we can speak. Ye have a rest, collect your thoughts, then come back and see me.’
‘Ciara, have you kept the letter?’
‘No.’
Joanna slumped in disappointment. ‘Then there’s no way of proving what you’ve told me.’
‘The house has.’
‘Sorry?’
