The paras didn’t raise their rifles to block me, but they did take on that air of menacing nonchalance that must have enlivened the streets of Belfast no end in the years before the peace agreement. One of them nodded his head towards the alcove where, in the Folly’s more elegant days, the doorman would wait until needed. Another para with sergeant’s stripes resided there with a mug of tea in one hand and a copy of the Daily Mail in the other. I recognised him. It was Frank Caffrey, Nightingale’s Fire Brigade liaison, and he gave me a friendly nod and beckoned me over. I checked the flashes on Frank’s shoulders. This was the 4th Battalion of the Parachute Regiment which I knew was part of the TA. Frank must have been a reservist, which certainly explained where he’d got the phosphorus grenades from. I suspected this was another part of the old boy network, but in this instance I was pretty sure that Frank was Nightingale’s boy. I didn’t see any officers around. I guessed they were back at the barracks turning a blind eye, while the NCOs sorted things out.
‘I can’t let you in,’ Frank said. ‘Not until your governor gets better, or they name an official replacement.’
‘On whose authority?’ I asked.
‘Oh, this is all part of the agreement,’ said Frank. ‘Nightingale and the regiment go back a way; you might say there were some debts.’
‘Ettersburg?’ I asked, guessing.
‘Some debts can never be repaid,’ said Frank. ‘And there are some jobs that have to be done.’
‘I have to get in,’ I said. ‘I need to use the library.’
‘Sorry son,’ he said. ‘The agreement is clear – no unauthorised access beyond the main perimeter.’
‘The main perimeter,’ I said. Frank was trying to tell me something, but sleep deprivation was making me stupid. He had to repeat himself before I realised that he was hinting that the garage was outside of the perimeter.
I stepped back out into the pale sunlight and made my way round to the garage and let myself in. There was a battered Renault Espace outside with such patently fraudulent plates that I knew it could only belong to the paratroopers. I took a moment to check that the Jag was locked before pulling a dust cover from under a workbench and throwing it over the vintage car. I tramped wearily up the stairs to the coach house, only to find that Tyburn had beaten me to it.
She was rummaging through the trunks and other old stuff that I’d piled at the far end. The picture of Molly and the portrait of the man I’d assumed was Nightingale’s dad were propped up against the wall. I watched as she knelt down and reached under the divan to pull out another trunk.
‘They used to call this a cabin trunk,’ she said, without turning round. ‘It’s made low enough to slide under your bed. That way you could pack the things you needed for your voyage separately.’
‘Or more likely your valet would,’ I said. ‘Or your maid.’
Tyburn lifted a carefully folded linen jacket from the cabin trunk and laid it on the divan. ‘Most people didn’t have servants,’ she said. ‘Most people made do.’ She found what she was looking for and stood up. She was wearing an elegant Italian black satin trouser suit and sensible black shoes. There was still a mark on her forehead where a marble fragment had cut her. She showed me her prize, a drab brown cardboard sleeve containing what I recognised as a 78rpm record. ‘Duke Ellington and Adelaide Hall, “Creole Love Call” on the original Black and Gold Victor label,’ she said. ‘And he has it stuffed in a trunk in the spare room.’
‘Are you going to sell it on eBay?’ I asked.
She gave me a cold look. ‘Are you here to pick up your things?’
‘If that’s all right with you?’
She hesitated. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.
‘You’re too kind,’ I said.
Most of my clothes were stuck in the Folly, but because Molly never cleaned the coach house I managed to scrounge a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that had fallen behind the sofa. My laptop was where I’d left it, perched on a pile of magazines. I had to hunt around for the case. Tyburn kept her cool gaze on me the whole time. It was like being watched in the bath by your mother.
Sometimes, as Frank had pointed out, there are things you have to do no matter what the cost. I straightened and faced Tyburn. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about the fountain.’
For a moment I thought it might work. I swear I saw something in her eyes, a softening, a recognition – something – but then it was gone, replaced by the same flat anger as before.