him killed. And with the light fading fast, the ground was too uneven to take at a faster pace.
When the cottage came in sight, he stopped.
The door was wide open and a blaze of light was spilling out across the front step and painting the track a dirty yellow.
It was a bad sign: runners don’t leave doors open. The sense of being pursued is with them always and the security of enclosure is what they crave most. Open doors bring unwelcome visitors with a tendency to chat. Chatting allows secrets to slip out. And he’d heard Matuq close and bolt the door.
He waited, tuning in to the night. Above the breeze a faint rattle echoed from the reeds behind the house, like the distant applause of a concert audience. A bird took off. High overhead, a plane droned unseen across the sky.
Staying clear of the light, Harry circled round the side of the cottage, one eye on the windows. There was no sign of movement inside, no sound from the outside. A flimsy wooden carport stood away from the house. It contained a dark-coloured Renault saloon with pale streaks of dried mud down the side. He touched the bonnet. Cold as mutton. If this was Matuq’s car, he hadn’t used it for a while. Then he noticed the vehicle had an odd tilt to it.
The tyres had been slashed.
He stepped towards the rear of the cottage and peered round the corner. A cold breeze was slicing in across the reeds from the sea, and he hunkered down in the lee of the wall. The back door was less than three feet away; wood-panelling at the bottom, glass at the top. Adequate for holiday lets but too flimsy for serious security.
He leaned over and tried the handle. Locked.
Ducking beneath the windows, he returned to the front of the cottage. Still no sound or sign of life. He stepped up alongside the front door, weapon held two-handed in front of him. With a conscious effort not to take in an audible breath, he stepped inside.
FOUR
Abuzeid Matuq was lying on his back against the far wall of the small main room, bare legs splayed out before him. The former banker wore a shocked expression and looked somehow diminished in size, as if death had robbed him of solidity. His Paisley-print gown showed two black holes in the front, and in the depression between his stomach and his chest, a dark, liquid mass had pooled like oil on sand.
Harry stepped across the room and knelt by the body, although he knew from the Libyan’s posture that he was already beyond help.
A burst of noise came from the rear of the cottage. Harry reacted instinctively, reaching out to hit the light switch and plunging the house into gloom. He waited, breathing barely audible in the room, eyes on the emptiness outside the windows. He could just make out the back door. It was still closed, so he turned to cover the front. Anyone deciding to storm the place would come in the easy way.
More noise, this time a recognizable clatter of wings. A pigeon landed in a tree nearby, closely followed by another, crashing through the foliage like a flying brick.
Harry let out a long breath. He took out a slim Maglite torch and flicked it on. Other than the front door and the entrance to the kitchen, there was one other exit — a slim one to a narrow flight of stairs. He went up, gun held in front of him. Although the heavy silence in the house told him it was deserted save for the dead banker, it paid to be sure. Getting back-shot through carelessness was no way to live a long and happy life.
He found a single bedroom, a bathroom and toilet. The minimal signs of Matuq’s presence signified a brief stay: a few clothes, a washbag and a suitcase which he checked. Just clothes.
Back downstairs, he played the torch over the body. He didn’t know if Matuq had been a religious man, but whatever kind of afterlife he’d been bound for, he doubted he’d have been planning on reaching it just yet. He did a brief survey of the room. It was basic and drab, even allowing for the torchlight, and in need of a paint job. It was impossible to tell if anything had been moved, never having been inside before; there were usually signs if a place had been searched, no matter how carefully it had been done. But in this light it was a non-starter.
He prowled around, careful not to touch anything, noting a scattering of newspapers and magazines, a couple of DVDs on the arm of a chair and some rumpled outdoor clothing in need of a wash. The table held the remains of a meal, a mug of warm coffee and a radio. The latter, a small multi-band receiver, lay on its side, as if Matuq had inadvertently knocked it over when turning to answer the door. A bunch of keys lay next to it, secured to a Renault badge by a heavy clip-ring.
He peered through the window by the front door. All he could see was the bulk of the bushes screening the Saab and the dense mass of trees on the far side of the track. To his left lay the dark bed of reeds, their swaying heads just visible, bobbing in the breeze. The dying light had faded the dull colours of day to a standard charcoal to match the sky. In spite of that, he knew that anyone waiting out there for him to leave would have a clear field of fire.
He checked the tiny kitchen, which held the basic equipment for a holiday let. The sink was full of soiled dishes, the pedal bin overflowing with fast-food packaging. A scattering of breadcrumbs covered the worktop. Three empty wine bottles stood clustered together on the small drainer, each with a cork balanced neatly on the top. It was an indication that Matuq had found time weighing heavy on his hands. The back door had a large key in the lock.
He glanced through the side window at the carport. Whoever had done this had hobbled the car first in case Matuq tried to run. That did away with the idea of a rural burglary gone wrong. Burglars rarely carried handguns, even now, and the car would have been easy pickings for a quick sale, no questions asked. Harry flicked his torch across the room to confirm that there were no signs of even a cursory search; no torn cushions, open cupboards or drawers; no spilled papers or scattered magazines, none of the rumpled carpets showing the place had been turned over indiscriminately. So, no hayseed crackheads looking for a quick score.
He went back to Matuq’s body and knelt down, holding his torch close. In the V of the dead man’s dressing gown lapels, a heavy red patch showed just above two ugly bullet wounds. But what drew his attention was the pool of blood on the clothing. Caught in the sticky liquid were what appeared to be bits of cotton stuffing, like loft insulation.
Harry recognized the material. It was wadding — the kind used in homemade sound suppressors, or silencers. A tube lined with baffles, the gap between them packed with the material, it was a short-term but effective way of reducing the muzzle sound of a gunshot. Some of the wadding inevitably came loose under the intense pressures, as had happened here. The beauty was, the tube could be disposed of afterwards and few would give it more than a second glance, a nameless piece of junk. It was probably lying in the reeds nearby, if anyone cared to look.
He glanced up as an alien sound interrupted his thoughts. A starter motor was turning over, insistent and high-pitched. The noise continued for a few seconds, reluctant to catch, then the engine coughed and caught, running fast as the accelerator was depressed.
Harry jumped up, the wadding forgotten. The killer had been close by all along. He’d found an alternative approach to the cottage. And a quick way out.
FIVE
A flick of the torch outside revealed a short stretch of unkempt garden running from the back door to the edges of the reed bed. A rusted wheelbarrow stood mired in long, twisted grass in one corner amid the remains of what might have been a rockery, and a straggly tangle of rose briar curled in on itself like an octopus.
Harry pointed the torch and instantly spotted a narrow footpath leading away between the bushes bordering the track and the waving reeds. The tenants probably used it as a short cut to the village and the main road.
He studied the ground around the drooping wire fence. Fresh footprints showed in the damp soil, and there
