Dave was sitting in a lawn chair drinking a beer and watching him while pretending to read Top Gear Magazine.

"Mr Reynolds?" Killian asked.

"That's me."

"My name's Killian," Killian said.

Killian reached over and offered Dave his hand. Dave left the hand hanging there.

"What can I do for you?" Dave wondered. He was a tubby guy with a russet beard and an RN tattoo on an exposed forearm.

"Navy, eh?" Killian asked.

"What? Oh, aye, what of it?"

"I was up on Caroline once," Killian said.

"Is that so?" Dave said, interested.

"Very nice ship," Killian said.

Killian had indeed been on HMS Caroline once - the Royal Navy's reserve headquarters in Belfast - when he was eighteen and him and a mate had paddled over there in a stolen rowboat, thrown a grappling rope over the side, climbed up, broken in and stolen five thousand quid's worth of silver plate.

"Ach, she's a great oul girl," Dave said. "The last of her cla.s.s, the last commissioned vessel from World War One."

"Is that a fact? I did not know that," Killian said with the appropriate amazement.

Dave grinned. "She was in the Battle of Jutland was HMS Caroline."

More amazed nods. When Dave smiled he became a different guy, good-looking, with a pleasant face under the beard and the easy confidence of an ex-serviceman.

He was drinking himself to death of course, but who wasn't?

"Were you in the forces then?" Dave asked "Nah, not me. Me ma's da was a Yank soldier though. Pa.s.sing through, you know? He was at The Bulge. Dentist, if you can believe it."

Dave nodded. "I can believe it. The f.u.c.king Bulge. I've read about it. Yon was a bad one. He and your gran not hook up after?"

Killian laughed. "Are you joking? He had a whole other family Stateside. He sent me ma money, though, till she was eighteen, course by then she had two weans of her own, you know how it is."

Dave nodded. He did indeed know how it was.

"So, what can I do for you Mr Killian?" Dave asked.

"I'm looking for Rachel Coulter," Killian said.

Dave went all cold front and stroked his beard like he was trying to make a f.u.c.king genie come out of it.

"Aye, you and everybody else."

"She sold the car you lent her in Derry," Killian said.

"I gave her the car. She didn't do anything wrong," Dave said, his eyes narrowing as his right hand crumpled his magazine into a tube.

"Well, I think the cops have it now. You might even get it back," Killian said.

"I don't want it back, I gave it to her," Dave muttered.

"Mind if I sit?" Killian asked.

"Free country."

Killian unfolded a chair and positioned it next to Dave. He closed his eyes and breathed the air in through his nose. "Suppose you don't know where she was going?" he asked after a minute.

Dave shook his head. "Don't know. Don't want to know."

"Is that her caravan, there?" Killian asked, pointing to the only one in the place with its windows closed.

"We prefer 'trailer' and yes that's it yonder."

"Mind if I take a look inside?"

"You got a warrant?"

"I'm not a peeler."

"Then that's a no."

Killian smiled and leaned back and contemplated the woods for a while. He liked it here. The ocean in the distance, big Scots pine trees that sloped up the hill, fresh air.

"I'll probably just break in when you're gone some day, so why don't we save ourselves the trouble? You already destroyed all the incriminating materials, right? Letters, maps, phone books with numbers circled on 'em, that kind of thing?" Killian said, after another pause.

Dave said nothing, careful not to incriminate himself just in case.

"You didn't forget the phone books did you? Some of the best stuff is in the yellow pages," Killian said.

Dave looked uncomfortable. Killian yawned and Dave perhaps sensed that Killian's patience was boundless and that if he wanted to he could sit out here all day. "Look mate, what is it you want, exactly?" he asked brusquely.

"You see the thing is, Mr Reynolds, I want to help her," Killian said.

"You want to help her?" Dave said with obvious scepticism. "I work for her lawyers," Killian said and handed Dave his card which was just a name, phone number and email address.

Dave took the card, examined it and put it in his shirt pocket.

"What we're trying to do is establish contact with her before Coulter's people bring her in, or before, G.o.d forbid, she harms the kids. I suppose you know she's about one jump ahead of a kidnapping rap," Killian said.

Dave nodded. "I heard that."

"It's Interpol, and believe me they are cold characters. They'll stop at nothing. They could charge you with being an accessory. It was your car, and from the report I read you weren't exactly cooperative were you?"

"I didn't do nothing. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds killed my dog. I'm putting together a lawsuit. Coulter's f.u.c.king loaded so he is and I want compensation for Thresher. I loved that stupid dog. I've got a solicitor."

"I hear you, brother, I hear you," Killian said, shaking his head.

A minute crept by and they sat in the chairs, listening to the surf booming in the far distance.

Killian felt himself relax. This was nice. Like old Boston Luke he really should put some ocean sounds on his iPod.

Dave obviously appreciated the silence too because it was another full minute before he cleared his throat and asked: "What's going to happen to her?"

Killian shook his head. "I don't know. Coulter'll probably find her. If he doesn't the peels will. I suppose Coulter gets the kids, she goes to jail. It's not complicated."

"She says that Coulter hit her. That he can't be trusted with the kids."

"Really? What did she tell you?" Killian asked, intrigued.

Dave shook his head. "She didn't spell it out. But she said that and she was afraid of him. You could see it in her eyes. And those guys he sent, Jesus..."

Killian nodded. "He's a first-cla.s.s a.r.s.ehole, that's for sure."

After another silence Dave got up, went inside the trailer, came back with two cans of Harp. He offered one to Killian.

"Don't mind if I do," Killian said.

When the can was a third drained Dave looked at him. "If you guys get to her first what the f.u.c.k can you do?"

Killian shrugged like it wasn't a big deal to him. "Truth be told I don't know if we can really do anything much. The whole situation is pretty far gone."

He finished the Harp and then as if the thought was just occurring to him he added, "I suppose if we get her to turn herself in we could put the kids in the custody of her mother and father in Ballymena, throw in a domestic violence complaint and the court will probably let them stay there until custody gets resolved."

"She talked about her da, said he was good people."

"Aye. Her da was an engineer for Hughes, her mum, her stepmum actually I think, played hockey for Ireland."

Dave smiled. "No kidding?"

"Nope. Montreal Olympics."

Dave laughed. "That is wild. Montreal Olympics? She never told me that."

"Don't think she would have been born would she?"

Dave shook his head. "No, I suppose not."

Killian crushed his can and stood.

He smoothed his jacket.

He was wearing a suit for this gig. Blue suit, tie, black raincoat, black loafers. It was a nice ensemble. Throwback. If only fedoras had been in...

"Thanks for the beer, partner," he said. "I was kidding about breaking in by the way, and I'm sorry about your dog. Just another one of the things that eejit is going to have to pay for. You know what I told my bosses? I told them we should get her to turn herself in to Oprah. Coulter's a pretty famous guy, this story isn't getting the play it should. You gotta wonder about that." He gave a bitter laugh.

"Aye, you do," Dave concurred.

Killian offered Dave his hand again and this time Dave shook it.

"And if you think of anything you give me a call, okay?" Killian said. It was canned dialogue and it stuck going out but adding to it would have made it worse, so he just started walking.

Killian thought there was about a thirty per cent chance of a flip but when he'd gone almost to the Ford he'd diminished those odds to close to zero.

He was wrong though.

"Mister, hey mister!" Dave called.

Killian turned. "Yeah?"

Dave walked over. "Look, I don't know if it's any help but I told her about this sort of cabin my navy mate rents out near Letterkenny. You know, if the car showed up in Derry, she might have been heading out that way..."

Big Dave handed Killian a piece of paper with an address on it.

Killian nodded. "This is good."

They shook hands again. "I hope we get to her before he does," Killian added.

"If you see her, tell her I was asking about her," Dave said. "And the weans."

Killian nodded and walked Dave back to his caravan. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a recent photo would you? I'm working off wedding pics."

Dave nodded and came with a picture of her and the kids outside the caravan.

Rachel looked nothing like the wedding picture. She was aged and pale - hollow. Her eyes were deep-set and dark. Her face had a faraway Dorothea Lange look. No, bad a.n.a.logy. She was a modern girl, she looked modern. She was a beauty that had faded fast, "like Julia Roberts after the kids", that eejit Sean would have said.

"Ada ah roisin," Killian said, much to his own surprise.

It was thank you in Shelta. A language he hadn't spoken for nearly twenty years. Now, why he had done that? What was his brain cooking up. What memories were fighting their way to the surface. Not the reference to his grandfather the army dentist? No, something else. Probably the caravans.

Killian got back in his car and drove out of the caravan park and onto the A2 near Coleraine. He didn't pick up the tail again until he'd been on the Derry road for nearly an hour.

"Man, that boy is good," Killian said to himself with a whistle. Good but not great. Item #i: Killian had seen him twice now. Item #2: he'd rented a honking big white Range Rover - maybe the only thing they had available, but even so.

Killian drove for an hour and stopped for lunch at a McDonald's. Killian was old enough to remember when this road had wee cafes and local chippies, but now it was all McDonald's and KFC. Thirty years of low-level civil war had kept out the chains, but the peace dividend had brought them in with a vengeance. Drugs, new houses and McDonald's - that was post ceasefire Northern Ireland.

He ordered the Big Mac meal.

It was years since he'd eaten at a Mickey D and he'd forgotten that he didn't like the sauce on a Big Mac.

He drank the c.o.ke and did the crossword in someone's copy of the Guardian and eventually the Range Rover driver came in to get food and take a p.i.s.s. He was about thirty to thirty-five, a shaven bullet-shaped head, grey eyes, a paper-white, scarred face. Neck and knuckle blue-ink tattoos. Probably prison tattoos. You only got that pale and muscled on the inside.

He was a scary dude.