Death in the Burren (13 page)

So McAllister would have to content himself with mentally charting the journey, there was very little else to do.

Now that he had time to think he was overcome by a wave of panic. He was no James Bond with neat solutions for every tight scrape. This was raw reality. The truth of the matter was that he was trussed like a turkey and dumped in the boot of a car with no more identity than the other bits and pieces lying around.

“What in God’s name are they going to do with us?” McAllister asked himself as the panic took hold. His limbs began to shake. This seemed to be the end of the road as far as he was concerned.

Whoever these people were they were obviously desperate and he could imagine no circumstance in which Susan and he would simply be let go free.

“Poor Susan, I wonder what state she is in.” His panic became more acute.

McAllister tugged at whatever was tying his hands together but they were held fast. He tried to chew at the gag but could get nowhere with it.

It seemed that he would have to let the panic run it’s course, he was utterly and totally helpless.

There was a dreadful jolt as the car either hit a large stone or a pothole in the road. His head bounced on the floor and he was reminded of the injuries which were already throbbing painfully.

This further humiliation triggered some kind of mechanism within him and McAllister began to realise that the most useless course of action was to allow himself to be overcome with panic. In the final analysis if he was to gain control of his emotions, and his nerve, he would either be able to avail of any slight opportunity which came his way to get out of this mess, or, if the worst came to the worst, die with some sort of dignity.

He tried to relax and took slow deep breaths to calm himself down. It wasn’t easy at first but he gradually developed a breathing rhythm which helped.

The immediate panic subsided, and McAllister began to consciously and systematically relax his muscles until he had regained some control over himself.

The next step was to apply his mind to the situation and see what he could make of it.

It was then, out of nowhere, that he remembered who the tall man might be.

“Surely not,” McAllister argued with himself, “that’s absolutely ridiculous. I must be having fantasies.”

It was last week at the Orchid Hotel, the night the Italian musicians had given their concert on the lawn!

McAllister remembered talking with Michael Balfe, who had then introduced him to the short stocky Scot, Jack Cameron. They had talked for a while about the murder of Hyland, and then Cameron had excused himself and had gone through a door leading from the lawn to the lounge.

McAllister also remembered noticing Cameron greeting a tall man, and it was the huge difference in their heights which had stayed in his memory. They had looked quite comical chatting together with the taller man stooping to listen. It was the stoop which he now remembered! The man had leaned noticeably to the left and as he did so the back of his neck seemed to protrude like a miniature hump.

This was an unusual feature and it was not outside the bounds of possibility that the man driving Frank’s car was one and the same person as he also had a similar peculiarity in his posture.

McAllister dwelt on this intriguing thought as he was jolted uncomfortably by the movement of the car. He hadn’t been concentrating on trying to map their progress in his mind and had lost track of where they might now be. He still reckoned they were going south towards Toomaghera as any alternative route would have been even more bumpy and uncomfortable than the surface they were now driving on.

McAllister suffered on, but was pleased that his panic had momentarily subsided.

The very real possibility that he may have identified one of his captors was at least engaging his mind.

What, then, were the implications, if he was correct?

Who was this person who was obviously well known to Cameron, and also perhaps to Balfe?

Cameron, being a deep sea fisherman, had that unmistakable weathered appearance and, as McAllister now recalled, this was the one feature which he had in common with his tall companion of last week. So, could the driver really be this seagoing person?

It was a distinct possibility, but, again, what did it mean?

Nothing that McAllister could think of. Nothing that could help him in his current dilemma.

Another thought occurred to him. Could the other masked man be Cameron?

Not really, the man who had hailed him down at Craggagh was taller than Cameron; but then, he reminded himself hopelessly, most people were!

Abandoning this disjointed line of thought McAllister began to think beyond his immediate problems.

The fire at Frank’s guest house must have been the result of an arson attack. There were two main buildings separated by a distance of about thirty feet and they had both caught fire at approximately the same time, so there was no other conclusion to draw.

Then there was the other fire near Poll na Doibe which Susan had spotted. That must have been the Orchid Hotel.

McAllister’s thoughts were interrupted by the car slowing down and then taking a very definite right hand turn. It then gathered speed again and they resumed cruising. He tried to imagine where they might be and the only possibility he could think of was the T junction near Toomaghera. If he was correct then they were now headed towards Lisdoonvarna.

McAllister then resumed his train of thought and began considering the possibility of a maniacal arsonist running riot in the Burren with the aim of eliminating all the hotels and guest houses in the area. Perhaps a gang of arsonists.

Then the obvious hit him like a thunderbolt. Surely his captors must be the same people who started the fires!

The Burren wasn’t that heavily populated, so it was extremely unlikely that there would be marauding gangs of kidnappers and arsonists roaming around in the same area at the same time. They must surely be one and the same people!

McAllister was certain his suspicions were leading him in the right direction. After all two men would be quite capable of setting fire to the Orchid Hotel and then doing the same at the Atlantic Guest House before any alarm would be raised because the two establishments were only a mile apart, just a few minutes drive.

That’s it! They had started the two fires and were driving north away from the resulting activity when their car crashed.

It was then that McAllister stumbled upon them.

They desperately needed to get away as fast as possible, so the obvious thing to do was hijack the next car which came along and escape in it. But why kidnap the occupants? Why not simply throw them out and make off as fast as possible?

That question gave him pause for thought. One possibility was that the hijackers expected difficulty in escaping from the immediate area and Susan and he might come in handy as hostages bargaining counters for getting them out of a fix.

Consideration of that point led him to wonder why they had not driven around Black Head and on through Ballyvaughan and Kinvara. After that the choice of roads multiplied and they were more likely to make a clean getaway.

The choice of the inland route, which took them back south along a slower and more difficult road, suggested to McAllister that some plan was being followed, that they were making towards some previously decided destination. Lisdoonvarna seemed a most unlikely candidate. Ennis perhaps. Or maybe Doolin; there they would have the option of escaping by sea.

But escaping to where by sea? McAllister dismissed that as a silly notion and tried to relax to ease the pain of his various injuries. His attempted deductions didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere.

The car came to a halt abruptly. There was another sequence of backward and forward manoeuvring and then they sped off with a more definite sense of urgency.

The car had been turned around and they must now be heading away from Lisdoonvarna, McAllister deduced.

He waited, expecting the left hand turn after Toomaghera but it didn’t come. That meant they were going further inland on the road which would eventually approach Ballyvaughan from the south.

They were travelling very fast now and McAllister was being tossed about in the boot. He wondered how long this ordeal would last, as he couldn’t imagine himself remaining conscious for much longer. There had to be a cut off point when the body would refuse to bear any more pain and simply switch off all it’s senses.

But that was the last thing McAllister wanted to happen in case some opportunity arose, no matter how remote, of escaping from this awful predicament.

He tried to concentrate his mind and steer it back into tracking their journey but, at this stage, he had really no confidence in his conclusions. In fact he found it increasingly difficult to care where he was, let alone why.

A wave of exhaustion washed over McAllister and his mind began to cut out. It seemed inevitable that he would lapse into unconsciousness, and try as he might he could not fight the tiredness. Even the pains in his head and the soreness in his constricted limbs began to subside……. he drifted off.

T
HE DAWN LIGHT,
as it strengthened, began to reveal the contours of the valley with it’s multitude of shades of green, soothing to the eye.

Orderly battalions of low generously rounded trees emerged from the half light and led the gaze in a gentle descent towards the flatland around Ballyvaughan, and on to the enticing waters of Galway Bay.

Cappanawalla on the left flank, it’s majestic, bald grey slopes spilling onto the upper grasslands declared in the new dawn it’s intention, once more, to impose, with the usual air of serene detachment, it’s stark alien beauty.

Everywhere in the Burren such scenes of timeless nobility were being revealed by the growing light.

Set well up on the gentle slopes, nestling among trees, a long low building, growing gradually brilliant white in the morning sun, stared inquisitively down the valley. With it’s neatly kept gardens, showing a profusion of early Autumn colour, and with it’s ranch style fencing set along the driveway leading up through rolling meadow land from the main road, it displayed many of the outward attributes of a modern Shangri La.

Smoke curled lazily from two chimneys and dispersed into the air denoting early morning activity.

Gregans Castle Hotel was wakening up.

One could safely assume, however, at this early hour, that activity was confined to those who were not actually engaged in enjoying the experience of holidaying at this oasis of peace.

But this was not entirely true.

A tall impressive figure could be seen striding downhill along the main road from Corkscrew Hill, and on reaching the turn into the hotel marched, without any diminution in speed, up the driveway. On closer examination one could see that the figure was that of a woman, broad shouldered, tanned and handsome.

Judging by her confident step she was not lacking in strength and fitness even though one could also tell that she had passed that time of life when these attributes were to be taken for granted.

As she strode along she sang a strange brand of tuneless melody which to those who knew her, and who were otherwise unaware of her approach, was the first undeniable indication that they were about to enjoy the company of Patsy McBride.

Patsy often rose very early and walked in the direction of the aptly named Corkscrew Hill where the road took a series of acute bends as it rose steeply to the head of the valley.

The walk could be tiring and Patsy looked forward to the moment when, on reaching the top of the incline, she turned to experience the panoramic view.

The sheer scale and breath of it always gave her a feeling of elation. She would rest for ten minutes or so marvelling at the solitude and the feeling that she was, at that moment, the owner of the entire domain which she overlooked. Then with her imposing stride she would enjoy the descent back to the hotel.

This was the routine Patsy was now completing, and the morning seemed no different to any other as she approached the hotel entrance.

However if she had turned to look she would have seen a car descend noiselessly from Corkscrew Hill on the same road which she had just travelled.

On reaching the turn into Gregans Castle Hotel the car rolled to a halt and two hooded figures emerged from it, one very tall and the other of average height.

With an obvious sense of urgency, and yet partly crouching

as if hoping to remain unseen, they made their way rapidly and silently along the driveway towards the hotel. By the time they had reached the car park Patsy had gone through the main entrance.

There were about nine or ten cars and the two men swiftly checked through them until they found one which was unlocked.

They then began the routine of undoing the dashboard wiring in an attempt to start the engine.

As they were doing so Patsy re-emerged from the hotel to briefly enjoy the morning air once more, before preparing for breakfast.

It was then that she caught sight of the two intruders and with a bellow, which would have scared the life out of more timid souls, she made straight for them.

In response, however, the smaller of the two men swung open the car door and pointed a handgun straight at the approaching Patsy.

She stopped instantly in her headlong charge towards them but he then took the initiative, and holding the gun to her head pushed her roughly into the rear seat of the car and got in beside her.

A moment later the engine kicked into life, the car spun around and sped down the driveway. It then turned right and disappeared from view in the direction of Ballyvaughan. The diminishing sound of the engine carried for a while in the still morning air and then it too was gone.

Gregans Castle Hotel continued to gaze serenely down the valley towards Galway Bay, unconcerned at the trivial interruption to its more long-term contemplations, it was as if nothing had happened.

However, this was not the perception of Paul Schmitt, American author and father of three, who had been reading in bed beside his slumbering wife. Paul had been startled to hear the extraordinary bellow coming from outside and had nipped out of bed to pull back the corner of the curtain to see where it had come from.