stable belt and his sand- coloured SAS beret.
144w dares wins.
Not every time, thought Alex, catching sight of eight-year-old Cathy Hammond's grief-whitened face. Not every time.
In the churchyard Alex allowed his attention to wander as the chaplain spoke the now familiar words of the funeral service. His eyes travelled over the bare heads and the bemedalled uniforms, and the relatives' dark coats and suits. Karen and Cathy were both weeping now, and Karen's family pressed protectively around them. The eyes of the other soldiers, for the most part, were dowutumed.
Alex himself felt empty. Tears were not what he owed Don Hammond.
And then, as the three shots were fired over the open grave, Alex's wandering gaze met a pair of eyes that were not downturned that were levelled with deathly directness at his own. The man, who was wearing a nondescript suit and tie, and had a curiously ageless appearence, was standing on the other side of the grave behind Karen's family, and Alex realised with stunned disbelief that he knew this narrow face and pale unblinking stare, that he had seen photographs of this man in Thames House, that he was standing just three yards away from Joseph Meehan, the Watchman.
As their eyes locked, Alex felt his scalp crawl and his heart slam in his chest.
No, it was impossible.
Impossible but true. It was Meehan and he had come to scope out his pursuer.
In the icy flame of his regard was a challenge, a statement of ruthlessness and contempt. I can come and go as I please, it said even here, even now, in the secret heart of your world and there is nothing that you can do to prevent me.
And Meehan was right. At that moment there was nothing in the world that Alex could do. Sympathy for Karen Hammond and the dignity of the occasion paralysed him. He couldn't speak, let alone jump over the open grave and grab the man by the throat.
There was a loud clatter overhead as three Chinook helicopters flew past in formation. Alex held Meehan's pale gaze, but the ranks of mourners shifted as they looked upwards, and when they re-formed, moments later, the cold-eyed face had vanished.
Alex peered desperately over the open grave as the churning helicopter blades faded away, but the fly-past had marked the end of the service. As the Hammond family and their friends moved away from the graveside, the regimental personnel held back, Alex among them. Short of elbowing his way through the uniformed men he was trapped.
Finally, the crowd began to disperse. Moving as fast and as forcefully as he was able, given the circumstances, Alex made his way to the churchyard exit.
There was no sign of anyone resembling Meehan either inside or outside. Running to the head of the road he challenged the two uniformed troopers on duty there.
Had a man in his mid-thirties just passed them fair-skinned, dark-haired, five ten, grey suit tough-looking... The words spilt out but the troopers shook their heads. No one like that. No one on his own.
Ignoring the curious stares of the exiting mourners, Alex ran on ahead of the roadblock to the nearest Range Rover and repeated the questions.
Same answer. No one answering that description.
Shit. Shit. Had he imagined seeing Meehan? Had the image of the man been preying on his mind to the point where he was beginning to hallucinate? Was Meehan now stalking him?
Tucking himself into the roadside, Alex called Dawn on his mobile and in guarded terms, given that he was using an open line reported the incident.
'How sure are you that it was him?' Dawn asked.
'Not a hundred per cent. And if it was he could be anywhere by now.'
'Why would he want to show himself like that?'
'Check me out, perhaps. Let me know he can come and go as he pleases.'
Dawn was silent. Alex could tell that she was unconvinced that the man had been Meehan.
'Look,' he went on, 'I've got a possible regimental lead. It's not much but it's a possibility. Someone who knew our man. Someone he might have talked to.'
'Do you need my people's help?'
'No. Leave it to me.'
'OK, then. Keep me informed.'
She broke the connection and Alex looked around. Several people were staring at him and he self-consciously brushed down his suit. He had meant what he said to Dawn. Meehan could be anywhere by now. There was no chance of catching him without involving the entire Hereford and Worcester police forces and probably not even then. And, if he was honest with himself, he hadn't been a hundred per cent sure it was Meehan.
Much more constructive to work out where his base was. There had to be some secret location he returned to between the killings. An inner-city flat? A hostel or bed and breakfast? A caravan park? The only person who might possibly have a clue as to the whereabouts of that location and it was still a hell of a long shot was Denzil Connolly. Of those who trained Meehan, according to Frank Wisbeach, Connolly was the only man who really got to know him. If he could find Connolly, Alex reflected, he was in with a chance of finding Meehan. He might, at the very least, learn something about the man he was pursuing.
'Looking for a lift back to camp?'
It was the driver of one of the Range Rovers and Alex accepted gratefully. At the Credenhill base he made his way to the sergeants mess, where he was formally invited in as an officer, he no longer had the automatic right of entry.
After an SAS funeral there was always a big piss-up. Alex had been to more of these than he cared to remember and if there were ever times that the Regiment genuinely resembled the family it claimed itself to be these were they.
The mess was a large room dominated by a bar and furnished with oxblood Chesterfield furniture. The floor was carpeted in regimental blue and the walls were hung with paintings of former SAS soldiers, captured flags and weapons, and the plaques of foreign units. An impressive collection of silverware was also on display.
Men poured in in groups, animated now and relieved that the austerity and the tears of the funeral were behind them. A sheepishly grinning Ricky Sutton arrived on crutches, newly released from hospital, and was greeted with a ragged cheer.
Most of the men headed straight for the bar, and by the time the Hammond contingent and the other wives and relatives were ushered in there were the makings of a fine party.
Alex, still shaken by the incident at the funeral, did not immediately move to join his friends. Seeing Bill Leonard, he cornered him and asked him if he had any idea of Denzil Connolly's whereabouts.
The burly lieutenant-colonel did not look best pleased to be questioned on this subject. Curtly he assured Alex that the Regiment had no contact information of any kind on Denzil Connolly. Then, excusing himself, he moved away.
The Hammond family came in, and Alex was among the group who moved to greet them.
'Don really loved looking for trouble with you fellers,' said Karen, teary-eyed and shaky but somehow still smiling.
'I'd never have tried to take him away from all that.'
'He was the best,' said Alex gently.
'Best soldier. Best mate.'
She wept against his shoulder for a few moments, then wiped her eyes and put on a brave grin.
'Where's that posh girl of yours, then? Don told me she was a smasher!'
'She couldn't come,' said Alex.
'She got stuck in London. Work.'
Karen smiled.
'Well, don't leave it too long. You'll need a nice smart wife when they make you a general.'
'Yeah, well, it hasn't quite got to that yet.'
'Don't leave it too long, Alex. Promise me.
He smiled.
