MAEVE MOVED HER CART briskly through the supermarket, choosing items quickly and without much thought. Neither of them was picky about food, which was just as well, since she couldn’t have done much in the way of cooking in the caravan where they were living. It had turned out to be ideal; they moved the good-sized trailer every two or three days from one caravan park to another, mingling with the horde of holiday makers that streamed into the West Country at this time of year. In these parks, and in their year-old Ford Cortina, they were indistinguishable from a hundred other middle-class tourists, down to Devon and Cornwall for a bit of July sun. The caravan made an ideal cache for weapons and explosives, too, in the compartments under the floor that Denny, with his boatbuilding skills, had built. He had also rigged the trailer so that they could blow it at a moment’s notice, should it become necessary.
Maeve stopped short in the laundry detergent section, riveted by something she had heard from the other side. “Oh, Mark would love that!” a woman’s voice had exclaimed. On that and little more than instinct, Maeve wheeled the cart quickly around and into canned fruits and vegetables. Two women, one short, slender, with dark hair, the other a tall, sun-bleached blonde, were pushing two heavily laden carts toward the checkout counter. Maeve forgot her own half-completed shopping and followed them. She had never seen Annie Robinson before, but she had a hunch.
They rattled on about this and that as their groceries were checked through. Maeve tried to sneak a look at the tall woman’s checkbook, but could not read the imprinted name, just the bank, Coutts & Company, London. Maeve watched impatiently as they wheeled out their two carts and loaded the contents into the rear of a Vauxhall estate wagon, while her own purchases were being totaled. She managed to get to her own car before they pulled out of the shopping center car park, then followed while they made two other quick stops, at a launderette and a dry cleaner’s, where they picked up clothes, then continued behind them as they drove through Plymouth. Soon, past a block’s length of chain link fence, they turned into a gate and were waved through by an armed Royal Marine. Maeve made a U-turn, stopped outside the gate and rolled down her window.
“Excuse me, corporal,” she called out to the guard, smiling and taking care to sound as English as possible. “Was that Mrs. Pember-ton-Robinson in the estate car just now? I thought I recognized her.”
The guard leaned out of his box. “The blonde lady? I believe so. I know the other lady was Mrs. Fortescue, Major Fortescue’s wife. He commands the marine detachment here.”
Maeve beamed at him. “Oh, thank you so much. I must give her a call.” She waved to him and drove away, looking for a call box. She dialed the number and there was an electronic beep at the other end. “This is Sister Concepta,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I have a question about my Inland Revenue forms. It’s now two P.M. Please ring me on line three in half an hour, or on line one an hour after that. Thank you.” She hung up and drove back to the shopping center, parking near a call box in the car park. If it didn’t ring at 2:30, she’d drive to Plymouth Station and wait at another call box at 3:30
At 2:28 she went to the box. A couple of minutes later the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“May I speak to Sister Concepta, please?
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Is your phone secure?”
“Of course,” he snorted. “Now what’s up, girl?”
“I want permission to perform an excommunication.”
“Who?”
“Ex-Royal Marine captain. Mark Pemberton-Robinson. Ex-Belfast. The monsignor will know of him.”
“What about the Poole matter? How’s that coming?” “It’s coming. We want to do this first.”
“I’ll check. Be on line one at six o’clock. Maybe I can get through this afternoon.”
“If the monsignor’s cool on this, tell him to check with the bishop. I won’t take no on this unless the bishop says not.”
“Don’t push your luck, girl.”
“Line one at six.” She hung up.
There was no call at six. She rang and set up another call for the following morning at ten. Denny was excited when she told him. “I say we do him no matter what the Bishop says,” he enthused.
“Let’s wait and see,” she answered. “We still need them; best to keep them happy, if possible.”
At 10:00 the next morning the phone rang.
“The excommunication is approved, but only after Poole is completed.”
She swore under her breath. She could be patient, though, and there was still research to do. She’d do them back to back. Poole on Friday morning, she thought, and Robinson as soon as possible thereafter. “Understood,” she said into the phone.
She got into the car, drove back to the naval base, and parked along the chainlink fence, where she could see the vehicles entering and leaving. It was nearly noon before the Vauxhall wagon drove out and headed toward the shopping center again. She started the car and pulled into the traffic, following several cars back, as she had been trained. The two women again. More shopping? Jesus, they ate a lot, these British.