No Comebacks

He told Brendan and Brady to carry the hapless driver into the farm where Clarke was thrown on a pile of sacks in the corner of the derelict kitchen. The three hijackers settled down to wait. At seven the green and white juggernaut grunted up the track in the near darkness, lights out, and the three ran outside. By muffled flashlights they heaved open the old barn doors; Keogh ran the truck inside and the doors were closed. Keogh climbed down.

'I reckon I've earned my cut,' he said, 'and a drink.'

'You've done well,' said Murphy. 'You'll not need to drive the truck again. It'll be unloaded by midnight and I'll drive it myself to a point ten miles away and abandon it. What will you drink?'

'How about a nip of brandy?' suggested Brady, and they all laughed. It was a good joke.

'I'll not break a case for a few cups,' said Murphy, 'and I'm a whiskey man myself. Will this do?'

He produced a flask from his pocket and they all agreed it would do nicely. At a quarter to eight it was completely dark and Murphy went to the end of the track with a flashlight to guide the men from the North. He had given them precise instructions, but they could still miss the track. At ten past eight he came back, guiding a convoy of four panel vans. When they stopped in the yard a big man in a camel overcoat descended from the passenger seat of the first. He carried an attach6 case but no visible sense of humour.

'Murphy?' he said. Murphy nodded. 'Have you got the stuff?'

'Fresh off the boat from France,' said Murphy. 'It's in the truck still, in the barn.'

'If you've broken the truck open I'll want to examine every case,' threatened the man. Murphy swallowed. He was glad he had resisted the temptation to look at his loot.

'The French customs seals are intact,' he said. 'You can examine them yourself.'

The man from the North grunted and nodded to his acolytes who began to haul open the barn doors. Their torches shone on the twin locks that kept the rear doors closed upon the cargo, the customs seals still covering the locks unbroken. The Ulsterman grunted again and nodded his satisfaction. One of his men took a jemmy and approached the locks. The man from the North jerked his head.

'Let's go inside,' he said. Murphy led the way, torch in hand, into what had been the sitting room of the old farm. The Northerner unclipped his attach^ case, laid it on the table and opened the lid. Rows of bundles of sterling notes greeted Murphy's gaze. He had never seen so much money.

'Nine thousand bottles at four pounds each,' he said. 'Now that would make thirty-six thousand pounds, would it not?'

'Thirty-five,' grunted the Northerner. 'I like round numbers.'

Murphy did not argue. He got the impression from this man that it would not be wise. Anyway

, he was satisfied. With £3000 for each of his men and his outlay recouped, he would be well over £20,000 clear. 'Agreed,' he said.

One of the other Northerners appeared at the broken window. He spoke to his boss.

'You'd better come and have a look,' was all he said.

Then he was gone. The big man snapped the case closed, gripped the handle and stalked outside. The four Ulstermen, along with Keogh, Brady and Brendan, were grouped round the open doors of the truck in the barn. Six torches illuminated the interior. Instead of neatly stacked columns of cases bearing the world-renowned name of the brandy producer, they were looking at something else.

There were rows of piled plastic sacks, each bearing the name of a famous manufacturer of flower-garden aids, and beneath the name the words 'Rose Fertilizer'. The man from the North stared at the cargo without change of expression.

'What the hell's this?' he grated.

Murphy had to pull his lower jaw back from somewhere near his throat. 'I don't know,' he croaked. 'I swear I don't know.'

He was telling the truth. His information had been impeccable — and costly. He had got the right ship, the right transporter. He knew there was only one such truck on that afternoon's arrival of the St Patrick.

'Where's the driver?' snarled the big man.

'Inside,' said Murphy.

'Let's go,' said the big man. Murphy led the way. The unfortunate Liam Clarke was still trussed like a chicken upon his sacks.

'What the hell's this cargo of yours?' the big man asked without ceremony.

Clarke mumbled furiously behind his gag. The big man nodded to one of his accomplices who stepped forward and tore the medical plaster unceremoniously from Clarke's mouth. The driver still had another band across his eyes.

'I said what the hell's this cargo of yours,' the big man repeated. Clarke swallowed.

'Rose fertilizer,' he said. 'Sure, it's in the cargo manifest.'