photographs. And his thoughts had been fixed on Francesca herself.
But now, as though emerging from the winter mists that had once shrouded it, he saw quite clearly the tombstone in the background. Francesca had been photographed standing in front of her own grave, alive, half- smiling, a ghost trapped in a trick of sunlight.
TWENTY-TWO
In the west, the sun had started its long journey towards the Atlantic. There was a sound of birds preparing for night. The wind was rising again, bending the naked tops of the trees. There was still just enough light to see by.
He continued on down towards the lake. His first priority was to find Ruth. She had not responded to any of his calls, and he was growing anxious.
The lake came into view directly ahead of him. This was the smaller of the two lakes at Glendalough. Dark hills ringed it about, and along its fringes tall, slender reeds waved like ripples of woven silk. Across its surface, a solitary white bird glided, its feathers touched red by the setting sun. Light and water fused in its wake. In the shadows along the shore, a bittern boomed, welcoming the darkness.
He looked up and down the vast expanse of reddening water. The light made searching difficult, and he knew her green jacket would camouflage her at any distance. Cupping his hands together, he hollered loudly. But only a faint echo came back, as though mocking his concern. Perhaps she had already started back towards the cottage, taking a different path from usual.
Taking the left-hand path, he walked quickly along the lake-shore. As he turned a bend, he saw her several yards away. She was sitting among the pebbles near the water’s edge, her back against a large rock. A few minutes more and she would have been invisible, merely a dark green shadow fading to grey. He called her name and hurried in her direction.
He noticed the blood before anything else. A small pool of it lay at the base of the rock. Then he saw the angle at which her head was bent.
Her hands had been trussed firmly behind her back and a gag thrust hard into her mouth so she could not cry out. The gun had probably been silenced. The blood had dried around the tiny bullet-hole in her forehead. Most of the bleeding had been through the larger exit hole at the rear. Her eyes were still open, staring across the lake, as though watching the gliding bird. He closed them and removed the gag, then stood looking at her, wondering what to say. He felt awkward and embarrassed. She would have known, he thought. She would have known exactly what words were appropriate. But the only sound was the lake stirring beneath a cold north wind.
He stood up and looked across the grey water. It shivered furtively, but told him nothing. He clenched his hands, the nails cutting into his palms, drawing tiny flecks of blood.
A sudden sound brought him back to himself: a helicopter passed by overhead, swooping low, as though looking for a place to land.
‘Jesus!’ he thought. Makonnen was still in the cottage, alone.
Tearing himself away from the lake, he turned and ran to his right. A short-cut went over the fields, across low stone walls and down to the road. He ran jerkily, avoiding rocks and tussocks scarcely visible in the rapidly thickening darkness. The thin air scoured his lungs. Underfoot, the ground was damp and yielding, dragging at his feet. He scrambled through bracken, up a steep slope. The helicopter passed again, tail-lights winking, one red, one white.
At the top, he climbed the last wall and dropped down to the road. The cottage lay to his right, with three bends of the road between. He headed towards it, at walking pace, his heart pounding, forcing himself to remain calm.
As he drew near the gate, he made out the silhouette of a man standing outside, just on the grass verge.
‘Is that you, Michael?’ he said as he approached within speaking distance. The man did not reply.
‘Sure, and I thought you was me friend Michael,’ he said, drawing closer. If the man was looking for an American, he hoped the phony accent and the darkness would deceive him.
He reached one hand into his pocket and saw the tell-tale stiffening as the stranger reached inside his coat. He drew out a pack of cigarettes and the man relaxed.
‘Have you got a light, sir?’ he asked, taking a cigarette from the pack. ‘Jeez, and I could do with a smoke!’
The man fumbled inside a pocket briefly and took out a box of matches. Patrick stepped up to him, the cigarette in his mouth. The stranger struck the match. As it flared up, he saw Patrick’s face and realized too late his mistake. Patrick punched him with all his strength, full in the guts. As the man jack-knifed, breathless, Patrick brought his knee up hard, connecting with his chin. There was a crisp snapping sound and the man toppled backwards onto the road, striking his head hard against the tarmac.
Patrick found the gun and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. He straightened and looked up and down the road. No sign of anyone. But the helicopter might have landed nearby and dropped more men. He had to act quickly. Quickly and silently.
Between the gate and the cottage lay about two hundred yards of garden, mostly overgrown. There were lights in the kitchen, which lay to the right of the front door, to Patrick’s left. He could also make out a light in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
He removed his Burberry: it would only serve to give him away in the darkness. Beneath it he wore a dark jersey and slacks. Bending, he rubbed his hands in clay and smeared his face with it.
Keeping away from the path, he moved towards the cottage, a shadow gliding through the darkness. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and he was familiar with the terrain. So far, things were going in his favour.
There was a clump of rhododendrons near the front of the cottage. Crouching low, he moved up behind them. He could just make out the shape of a single man keeping watch by the door. A strange car had been parked next to Ruth’s Mercedes.
Turning to the left, he skirted the house. All was quiet at the back. There was no rear entrance, just a pair of low windows. He could go in through them -but that would leave the guard at the front and anyone in the vicinity he was able to call for help. He decided to deal with the guard first.
A month ago, he and Ruth had set rabbit snares among the trees at the rear of the cottage. It would be difficult locating any of them in the dark, but he thought he knew his way well enough to try. He found the large ash tree that had been partly burned by tinkers the year before. There should be a snare a few paces to the left.
It was still there. He fumbled in the grass, untying it from the stake that held it in place. Moments later he had a length of heavy wire. It was far from ideal, but it would do. He found a handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers and ripped it in two. Wrapped round the ends of the wire, the strips made reasonable handles.
On tiptoe, he crept to the corner of the cottage on the far side from the kitchen, and glanced round. The man was still by the door. He carried an automatic rifle in one hand. Patrick’s problem was to get behind him without being seen.
There was a sound of muffled voices. A man’s voice was raised in anger, rough and menacing. He could just make out Makonnen’s reply. The priest was still alive. But for how much longer?
The guard was making an elementary mistake. His attention was fixed more on the area to his right, where he had illumination from the kitchen window. Patrick lowered himself to the ground and began to crawl towards the man, keeping himself close in to the wall.
Suddenly, the man turned his head and looked off to the left. Patrick halted and held his breath. Things were still in his favour: turning from the lit area to the pitch dark on his left, the guard’s eyes had not adjusted. Patrick waited until he looked away again, then started crawling once more.
This was the worst moment, the moment he had to make his mind up to kill. Any hesitation could prove fatal. He thought of Ruth, of her blood freezing on grey stones by a dark lake. His hands gripped the wire and he started to rise.
The man turned, his eyes opening wide in horror. Before he had time to recover or call out, Patrick was on him, slipping the wire over his head and jerking it tight against his throat. The wire cut into his hands, softened only by the thin cloth of the handkerchief. There was a clattering sound as the rifle dropped to the ground. The man reared up and backwards, hands thrust to his throat, fumbling helplessly. Patrick felt the wire dig into the flesh and pulled harder, ignoring the pain in his hands, the pity he felt for his victim. There was a low gagging sound,
