me responsible for anything he does, I suppose?’
Stuart stood at the end of the bed, his face darkened by a line of shadow. ‘Why did you leave that cottage of yours, Martin?’
Fallon looked at him in amazement. ‘You knew where I was?’
Stuart nodded. ‘I’ve often stood at the border post at Doone and looked at your cottage through field glasses.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘My God, what did you expect? Did you think we’d lose all interest in Martin Fallon once he was out of our hands? We expected you back long ago.’ He moved back to his chair and sat down. ‘Personally, I was glad when you didn’t come back.’
Fallon smiled. ‘I wish to hell I never had,’ he said feelingly.
‘Why did you?’ Stuart demanded. ‘What made you come back after five years to help a mad dog who’s only fit for the gallows?’
Fallon shook his head ‘Now don’t you start,’ he said. ‘I’m getting rather tired of that question. The only important thing is that I did come and I’ve made a proper muck-up of everything.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Do you realize I still have six years to serve from my last sentence? How much do you think I’ll get this time?’ Stuart’s face darkened. He got up and walked across to the window and stood looking out into the darkness without saying anything. There was a silence and after a while Fallon sighed. ‘Come on, Phil. Tell me the worst. What will I get?’
Stuart turned slowly. For the moment he was the policeman again, calm-voiced, dry, matter-of-fact. ‘I’m afraid you’re an accessory to murder this time,’ he said.
Fallon nodded slowly. ‘And for that they could hang me,’ he said.
‘Very possibly.’ Stuart moved back to the bed and said, gently, ‘Of course, the fact that you saved my life will help you a lot.’ He hesitated and went on, ‘And any useful information you give us would have a definite effect on the outcome of your trial.’
‘Such as Rogan’s whereabouts?’ Fallon enquired.
Stuart nodded. ‘And where you’ve been hiding out since leaving the church.’ He frowned. ‘I thought I’d rooted out the Organization in Castlemore.’
Fallon smiled slightly. ‘I can answer the first part of your question very easily. I haven’t the slightest idea where Rogan is. As to where I’ve been hiding - you can find that out for yourself.’
Stuart pursed his lips and frowned again. ‘You were in your shirt sleeves when you came looking for me,’ he said, ‘so you couldn’t have been very far away from my house.’
Fallon settled his head comfortably against the pillow. ‘Good night, Phil,’ he said.
Stuart picked up his cap and set it on his head, pulling the peak slightly over his eyes. When he spoke his voice was quite cold. ‘You’re on the second storey of this hospital,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a twenty-four-hour guard on the door. Don’t try anything foolish.’
‘I couldn’t even walk to the toilet,’ Fallon told him.
Stuart turned to the door. He paused for a moment, his hand on the door knob, and said very quietly, ‘My wife sends her thanks, Martin, for what you did.’ His voice seemed to crack and he swallowed and went on, ‘We’re expecting a child next month, so . . . ’ His voice trailed off.
‘That’s all right, Phil,’ Fallon said softly.
Stuart coughed. ‘She wanted me to tell you that she’ll be praying for you.’ For a moment longer he stood there in the shadows and then the door closed quietly behind him.
Praying for me, Fallon thought. A lot of good that’s going to do me. He stared up at the ceiling and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Accessory to murder. The words seemed to flame out of the shadows at him. By some trick of memory he recalled his dream of being on the train in Rogan’s place and he shuddered. The judge had worn the black cap. Perhaps it was prophetic.
He wondered what Anne Murray was thinking about now. The circumstances surrounding his capture would have made front page
Stuart stood at the end of the bed, his face darkened by a line of shadow. ‘Why did you leave that cottage of yours, Martin?’
Fallon looked at him in amazement. ‘You knew where I was?’
Stuart nodded. ‘I’ve often stood at the border post at Doone and looked at your cottage through field glasses.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘My God, what did you expect? Did you think we’d lose all interest in Martin Fallon once he was out of our hands? We expected you back long ago.’ He moved back to his chair and sat down. ‘Personally, I was glad when you didn’t come back.’
Fallon smiled. ‘I wish to hell I never had,’ he said feelingly.
‘Why did you?’ Stuart demanded. ‘What made you come back after five years to help a mad dog who’s only fit for the gallows?’
Fallon shook his head ‘Now don’t you start,’ he said. ‘I’m getting rather tired of that question. The only important thing is that I did come and I’ve made a proper muck-up of everything.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Do you realize I still have six years to serve from my last sentence? How much do you think I’ll get this time?’ Stuart’s face darkened. He got up and walked across to the window and stood looking out into the darkness without saying anything. There was a silence and after a while Fallon sighed. ‘Come on, Phil. Tell me the worst. What will I get?’
Stuart turned slowly. For the moment he was the policeman again, calm-voiced, dry, matter-of-fact. ‘I’m afraid you’re an accessory to murder this time,’ he said.
Fallon nodded slowly. ‘And for that they could hang me,’ he said.
‘Very possibly.’ Stuart moved back to the bed and said, gently, ‘Of course, the fact that you saved my life will help you a lot.’ He hesitated and went on, ‘And any useful information you give us would have a definite effect on the outcome of your trial.’
‘Such as Rogan’s whereabouts?’ Fallon enquired.
Stuart nodded. ‘And where you’ve been hiding out since leaving the church.’ He frowned. ‘I thought I’d rooted out the Organization in Castlemore.’
Fallon smiled slightly. ‘I can answer the first part of your question very easily. I haven’t the slightest idea where Rogan is. As to where I’ve been hiding - you can find that out for yourself.’
Stuart pursed his lips and frowned again. ‘You were in your shirt sleeves when you came looking for me,’ he said, ‘so you couldn’t have been very far away from my house.’
Fallon settled his head comfortably against the pillow. ‘Good night, Phil,’ he said.
Stuart picked up his cap and set it on his head, pulling the peak slightly over his eyes. When he spoke his voice was quite cold. ‘You’re on the second storey of this hospital,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a twenty-four-hour guard on the door. Don’t try anything foolish.’
‘I couldn’t even walk to the toilet,’ Fallon told him.
Stuart turned to the door. He paused for a moment, his hand on the door knob, and said very quietly, ‘My wife sends her thanks, Martin, for what you did.’ His voice seemed to crack and he swallowed and went on, ‘We’re expecting a child next month, so . . . ’ His voice trailed off.
‘That’s all right, Phil,’ Fallon said softly.
Stuart coughed. ‘She wanted me to tell you that she’ll be praying for you.’ For a moment longer he stood there in the shadows and then the door closed quietly behind him.
Praying for me, Fallon thought. A lot of good that’s going to do me. He stared up at the ceiling and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Accessory to murder. The words seemed to flame out of the shadows at him. By some trick of memory he recalled his dream of being on the train in Rogan’s place and he shuddered. The judge had worn the black cap. Perhaps it was prophetic.
He wondered what Anne Murray was thinking about now. The circumstances surrounding his capture would have made front page
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