This Irish House (18 page)

“It's also a lovely name.”

Kate jumped in all the way. “Was your divorce an amicable one?”

He looked surprised. “What an absurd question. How can divorce be amicable?”

Oddly enough, she wasn't offended. “Some are, I believe. However, I'm no expert. I've never known anyone who is divorced. We were only allowed it a few years ago.”

“Perhaps some are amicable,” he conceded. “Mine wasn't.”

“Were you hurt badly?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “That's a personal question, Mrs. Nolan. Are you quite sure you want to venture into that area?”

The impropriety of their conversation hit her, all at once, like an onslaught of spring rain after a frost. What would her father say, and Kevin and Deirdre? God! “I'm sorry,” she stammered.

He reached across the space between them and took her hand. “Please, Kate. I wasn't serious. Don't back away now.”

Her eyes were wide, horrified pools of blue in the bleached bone of her face. Her breath came out in short, shallow gasps. “I'm sorry,” she repeated struggling for air. Where was her inhaler? “I can't do this. I shouldn't do this.”

“Calm down.” His voice was calm, reassuring, the voice of a parent soothing an unreasonable child. “We're two people, professionals, co-workers if you will, sharing a meal. That's all.” He glanced at the floor. “Is your medication in your bag?”

Fighting off her rising panic, she nodded.

“Would you like me to find it for you?”

He was so calm, so reasonable. Again, she nodded.

Within seconds the vial was in her hand. She closed her lips around the head and pressed, sucking in the life-saving vapor once, and then again. Kate closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair. She was safe. She could breathe. This man had no quarrel with her. He was English. He was one of the Special Forces but he was not the enemy. Kate began to relax.

N
eil walked around the block leading to his City Centre flat for the second time. His nerves were paper-thin. Nothing felt right, not the stack of papers waiting at home for his review or the mattress that had been recommended for his back but was too hard for him to sleep comfortably. For the first time in the six months since he had given them up, Neil wavered at the entrance to an off license, fighting the urge for a cigarette.

Gritting his teeth, he passed by the door, resolving to put into perspective the mire he found himself in. Kate Nolan was a dangerous woman. He knew that. Neil didn't really believe in fate, but he'd seen enough unusual happenings not to discount it altogether and there was enough Welsh in him to believe that some choices are made before we're born. There was something about Kate Nolan that drew him in and terrified him at the same time. She was an attractive woman, damned attractive. Some, who liked their woman thin, serious and pale, might even call her beautiful. But it wasn't her appearance that pulled at him. It was her intensity, her belief that people were good and that one had merely to point out an error in order for it to be rectified. Quite simply, she gave him hope where he'd long been convinced there was none to be found. Neil had been alone for some time now, content to have the occasional fast and furious fling that went no further than the physical. He didn't need a woman like Kate in his life, a woman burdened with children and history, a woman who exuded goodness, a woman a man would find himself measuring others by. Where would he fit? How would he manage with her grown daughter and rebellious son?

He shook his head in disgust. His mind was moving in ridiculous directions, creating scenarios rooted in fantasy. Of all the women in the world, a relationship with Kathleen Nolan was the closest to impossible. Not only was she the police ombudsman for the Six Counties where personal relationships were strictly forbidden, but she was Patrick Nolan's widow and Kevin Nolan's mother. That alone ruled out anything other than civility and a polite handshake. Their meal together proved that more was impossible. After he'd calmed her down she'd become sensible again, the reserved companion, the concerned mother. He wanted more. He wanted to see how much fire was behind the cool courtesy, especially when it came to him. But his hands were tied. There was Kevin to consider and that was no small thing. Still, something told him that people were meant to pair up and a man kept searching until he found someone to love, somewhere to belong. Only then did he understand his place in the universe.

Neil's instincts regarding people were very good. He'd earned his position on the strength of those instincts. Growing up in the slums of Manchester, the younger son of a Welsh sheet metal worker and a frustrated, chain-smoking housewife who resented the duties of motherhood, Neil had steered clear of the drugs and the street gangs, the seedy pubs and the hated mills, surprised them all and done well enough on his A levels to qualify for university.

After a brief stint in the Royal Navy, he'd gone back for an advanced degree in forensics and criminology, earning himself a post as undercover agent with the Special Forces. Seduced by the danger of it all, the newness and glamour of the job, he rose quickly, first in the Middle East where he was responsible for the infiltration and exposure of criminals involved with the Libyan Freedom Fighters, the Palestine Liberation Organization and the African National Council and, later in Europe, with the disintegration of the Communist Block. Those in power were grateful to him. On those rare occasions when he was in England, they invited him to their country houses, their polo matches, their seasonal balls.

Somewhere, in the middle of it all, he'd managed to meet, woo and wed Lydia, a woman more interested in her appearance, her friends and the society pages than she had ever been in him. Not that he'd given the marriage much effort, he admitted to himself. Gone for months at a time, he didn't really blame Lydia for finding someone else. A woman deserved an attentive husband and he'd been far from that. Although he'd never technically been unfaithful to his wedding vows, he'd given up on his marriage before their second anniversary. Erin, his little girl, the sweetly scented softness of her and the incredible sweeping emotion that came over him when he looked at her, had kept him hanging on for longer than he should have, until the evidence of Lydia's affair was too humiliating to keep up appearances. Their divorce made the papers. Lydia kept the house in London, custody of Erin, a goodly portion of his retirement, and nearly all of their friends. Because she remarried immediately, Neil kept all of his salary, with the exception of the monthly stipend he paid toward Erin's support.

That was ten years ago. He'd buried himself in his work. The wound healed with a minimum of scar tissue. He would like to see more of his daughter. She was thirteen, nearly grown and he barely knew her. That was the primary reason he'd accepted his current position, something he would never have considered earlier in his career. His job description, which he now believed was a farce, was to expose the leaders of a black market drug ring that had the Special Branch of the Royal Ulster Constabulary spinning their wheels in ineffective circles. Since the peace agreement crime in the city of Belfast had increased by tenfold and the fragile truce, so painfully arrived at by men weary of living in fear, appeared likely to crumble. His mandate called for reducing the drugs and crime, thus preserving that peace.

Neil was a nonpracticing English Catholic. He had no patience for the tangled religion-culture conflict that had woven a stranglehold around Ulster for the last four centuries. Drugs did not interest him. He'd avoided them as a boy when they were peddled on the streets of Manchester as freely as roasted chestnuts at Christmastime and he wanted nothing to do with them now. Disciplined, responsible and compulsively neat, Neil didn't understand substance addiction. Even his occasional yen for a cigarette was immediately squashed. He had no patience for those who succumbed. Lads like Kevin Nolan, born with silver spoons in their mouths, spoiled from birth by doting families, had no excuse for their behavior. If boys from the projects of Manchester and Liverpool could manage, anyone could.

None of which reduced his dilemma. Kate was a devoted mother trying to raise two children on her own. She had the advantages of education and means, but it wasn't easy being both mother and father to an adolescent boy. The girl, Deirdre, appeared to be moving in the right direction. Girls weren't plagued by the same issues as boys. Neil was frustrated by his assignment. He wished Kevin had been anyone's son but Kate's. It had been hard enough at dinner to endure her pathetic gratefulness for Kevin's rescue from Long Kesh. Soon, she would find out the nature of his ulterior motive. Then she would excise him from her life as cleanly as skin off a potato.

Because Neil knew people, he knew what Kevin would do. It was the logical choice for a boy who'd grown up in a loving and loyal family. It was something Neil would have done himself if circumstances were otherwise. Kevin would confide in his uncles, preferring their counsel over that of a hated police officer. Neil had planned for that eventuality. It was exactly what he wanted the boy to do. He intended to rely on nothing Kevin reported to him, not until the inevitable occurred and the lad realized that in the criminal world, blood meant little at all. It was a strategy commonly used on inexperienced informers. Terror was an effective truth serum. Neil would know everything that Kevin knew, very soon.

It was a risk, fraught with danger. There was always the chance, although a slim one, that Kevin could lose his fife. More likely he would be marked for execution, the sentence for informants. Ireland would no longer be safe. He would be an outcast, banished to England, away from family and friends. It wasn't unusual for a lad from Ireland to make his way elsewhere. Immigration was always an alternative for the Irish, although in most instances it was voluntary and rarely permanent.

Neil knew what Kate would do if Kevin left Ireland. The boy was sixteen years old, the age of majority by Irish standards, but a boy in all eyes but the law's. She would leave Ireland, make her home elsewhere, rescue her son. England would be an attractive choice for a woman with Kate's education and background. She would survive there, heal without the constant reminder of her past, and begin again.

The thought soothed him. He liked to think of Kate in London, enjoying the museums, the theater, the restaurants, the elegant shops. In his mind she fit there, much more so than in the war-torn and suspicious Six Counties or even in that charming village where she made her home. Ardara was a lovely town but Kate was a sophisticated woman. Did she have friends there and, if so, what did she find to talk about with women who had left secondary school for marriage and never traveled more than twenty kilometers from their homes?

Neil climbed the stairs leading to the flat he had rented in the heart of the city. He rarely thought about his surroundings but today they appeared more stark than usual. He looked around at the bare walls, the shelves empty of all personal mementos with the exception of the books he had purchased over the last few months. How long had it been since he'd really had a home, the kind Kate had made for herself and her children, a safe haven where a man could retreat and find the strength to regroup for his next encounter in an often antagonistic world?

His answer came instantaneously. Neil had never had such a sanctuary, not growing up and certainly not with Lydia. He drew the curtains against the night and walked to the liquor cabinet where he kept a bottle of ten-year-old Dewar's, a gift from the prime minister. Pouring himself a drink, he sat down on the couch and stared at the empty, cream-colored wall. Soon, too soon in his opinion, he would seek out Kevin Nolan and the game would begin.

Neil drained his drink. What was he doing here? He was dissatisfied in a way he hadn't been for years. Where was he going and what kind of life was it where children were sacrificed, used as bait in sting operations that made little difference in the big picture?

Liam Nolan glanced at his brother, a perplexed frown on his face. “I'm not following you, Dominick. Are you saying that we have no information at all on Kevin?”

Dominick pushed aside the papers on the table in front of him, stood and paced back and forth across the small space of the Divas Flats office in angry silence.

Liam sighed. He wasn't comfortable when Dominick was in a mood. Frustration did it to him, turned his younger brother into a tight-lipped, angry man. He watched him for a few minutes. “What do you plan on doing?”

Dominick pulled a cigarette and matches out of his pocket, lit up and inhaled. “I haven't decided yet.”

“Is it really necessary to know? Kevin's out.”

Dominick stared at his brother. “Don't be an idiot, Liam. We need to know why Kevin was released. His sentence was a harsh one for a first-time offender. It makes no sense. First he's in and then suddenly he's out? Something doesn't add up. No one has any news. It's as if one person is calling the shots, a person with a very closed mouth.”

“Neil Anderson?”

“Possibly, but I'm not convinced of it. Anderson's specialty is terrorist operations. Kevin's small potatoes for a man like him.”

“Does Kate know anything?”

“Our beloved Kate didn't even bother to tell us the lad was released.”

“That's beside the point. We already knew that.” He thought a minute. “Perhaps she didn't know.”

Dominick's laugh was bitter. “She knew.”

Liam stood and reached for his jacket. “I'll pay Deirdre a visit. Perhaps she can tell us something.”

Dominick nodded. “Meanwhile, I'll look into the house where Kevin is staying.”

The words Tranquility House were painted above the door. A man with long blond hair and rimless glasses answered Dominick's knock. “May I help you?”

“I've come to see Kevin Nolan.”

“Kevin is in class now and he's already had one visitor today.”

Dominick smiled. “I'm the lad's uncle. Surely you can make an exception for family.”

The man shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

Dominick's smile faded. “I'll come back tomorrow.”

“Do that, but call first. That way Kevin will be available.”

“When would be a good time?”

“In the morning around half past eight. We'll check with Kevin and mark your appointment. That way no one will take your place.”

Deciding that the lad was merely following orders, Dominick shook his hand, walked down the street, crossed over to the Crumlin Road and found a sympathetic and nearly empty pub where he stopped to put together what he knew. Kevin was staying in a halfway house, an environment so substandard to his own home that Kate would be biting her nails down to the nubs. That ruled out his first suspicion. The Kate Nolan he knew would never in her right mind allow her son to spend a single night in such a place, all of which meant she had no choice in the matter. But, who did?

Dominick knew something about Neil Anderson and he wasn't ready to believe that a man with his credentials would depend on an unpredictable, half-grown boy for anything. The terrorism of the seventies and eighties was no longer a way of life in West Belfast. An investigator of Anderson's caliber wasn't required. Why, then, was he here? The rise of black market drugs was sudden and rampant, but no different from London, Birmingham, Manchester and Dublin, certainly no challenge for a man from the highest ranks of the Special Forces. Perhaps there was involvement that Dominick knew nothing about. He shook off the possibility. He knew West Belfast, every family, every political persuasion. There was nothing in the neighborhood that would have passed him by. He would have to rely on Kevin. If the lad knew anything at all, Dominick would pull it from him. Meanwhile he would wait. He was a Catholic from West Belfast. He knew something of patience.