promenade.
‘You a fan of Jean-Pierre Melville?’ Tingley said.
Watts looked blank.
‘French film-maker influenced by Yank gangster movies. Did one that starts with a bank robbery on a seafront just like this – rain sweeping across it.’
‘I’m not much of a movie-goer,’ Watts said.
The coffee was good, served in bowls. The croissants less so. The little pats of butter were straight from the freezer. Tingley put a shot of brandy in his coffee. Watts shook his head.
After twenty minutes Tingley looked at his watch.
‘Time to go.’
The road out to Varengeville wound along the coast, rising and falling. They passed the remains of World War Two gun emplacements. Tingley drove slowly, occasionally checking the rear-view mirror for anyone following.
On the ferry they had scoped out the other passengers. Mostly men, mostly rough-looking. Poor, blue-collar, lorry drivers and low-paid workers. None of them looked particularly like Balkan gangsters but how would they know? Besides, the grey-faced Miladin Radislav kept to his cabin for the entire journey.
They dropped down into a village right on the sea. People in hooded anoraks or raincoats were walking dogs on the shingle beach, the undertow of the water dragging at the pebbles, sucking it out to sea.
The road rose and curved away from the beach, up and inland. Varengeville was little more than a single street with a few shops along it. A boulangerie was open.
Tingley watched the road until Watts returned with some kind of quiche and two more coffees in Styrofoam cups.
‘We go through town and turn right on to a semi-paved road to get to the church. There’s a big car park.’
Tingley waved away the coffee and tart.
‘I’ll have it when we’re there.’
The unpaved road was narrow and went past a number of large houses protected by high walls. The church was on a promontory looking out over the sea. Tingley parked at the back of the car park off in a corner. They ate and drank their coffee in silence.
‘You know I’m going to follow the trail back,’ Tingley said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I hate this tidal wave of sewage washing over us all. It’s my duty to try to stop it.’
‘Your duty?’
Tingley shrugged.
‘Besides – what the hell else have I got to do?’
Watts looked over at the church.
‘Live?’ he said. ‘You know I can’t go with you.’
Tingley reached out and squeezed his arm.
‘You’ve got a family to win back,’ he said. He pushed open his car door. ‘Let’s take a look around.’
There was a headland beyond the church, reached by a path that dipped down into a little shingle cove then climbed up a sleep incline. They slithered in the rain. When they reached the top they could see the back of John Hathaway’s house.
Charlie Laker sat in the thirteenth-century church of St Valery, contemplating the gaudy, abstract stained- glass window done by Georges Braque in 1954. He’d seen the artist’s tomb in the graveyard earlier, topped by a mosaic of a white dove.
‘The Tree of Jesse,’ Patrice Magnon said, following Charlie’s look.
‘Could have fooled me,’ Charlie said. He patted Patrice on the back. ‘Thanks for coming in with us.’
Patrice smiled thinly. Glanced at the grey-faced man sitting alert in the corner.
‘Did I have a choice?’
After some discussion, Watts and Tingley went in by the front door. Watts had declared he was too old to be scaling walls. They buzzed at the gate and walked through a cobbled courtyard to where Dave was waiting for them in an open door. There was the scent of honeysuckle around them. Clematis hung from the front of the house.
Dave had an uncertain smile on his face and a gun in his hand.
‘What the fuck are you up to, Tingles?’
‘Unfinished business with Radislav.’
‘And you?’ Dave said to Watts.
‘Making a stand.’
Dave frowned.
‘This is… unexpected.’
Tingley walked right up to Dave.
‘Are you going to let us in?’
‘More bloody coppers,’ Hathaway said when Dave led them into a long, gloomy drawing room. He was sitting in a wing-backed chair, a pistol on the table beside it. ‘I’ve only just got rid of the French flics.’
‘Ex-copper,’ Watts said. ‘Are they going to protect you?’
‘Hardly. They don’t know anything. Neighbours heard an explosion. I fobbed them off. Do you know what happened?’
‘I’m not psychic,’ Watts said.
‘Lippy, aren’t you?’ A woman’s head appeared from behind the wing of another chair. Hathaway gestured at her.
‘This is Barbara. Very loyal. First love of my life. It’s just his way, Barbara. Barbara was close to Sean Reilly back in the day. She’s in mourning. Barbara, this is ex-Chief Constable Bob Watts and Mr Tingley.’
‘Reilly’s dead?’ Tingley said. He’d been looking forward to meeting the old soldier.
‘They came in through the garden. I have a dozen men here but these scum waltzed in through the French windows to Sean’s room. He had a surprise for them.’
Hathaway looked down.
‘Sean took care of them. Well, most of them. My men, once they got their arses in gear, took care of the rest.’
‘Radislav?’
Hathaway shook his head.
‘Is Charlie Laker over here?’ Watts asked.
‘Don’t know. I expect so – every other bugger is. So much for my weekend retreat. Why the hell are you two boy scouts here? Gone soft on me or something?’
‘Must have,’ Watts said. ‘Where’s Cuthbert?’
Hathaway glanced at Dave, standing by the door.
‘Thought you knew. He was long past his sell-by date. But the rozzers don’t need to keep a guard on his family. I was just winding him up. I would never harm them. I’m evil but I’m not a monster.’
‘Subtle difference,’ Watts said.
‘Life is all in the subtle differences,’ Hathaway said.
Barbara stood.
‘I need a fag.’
As she passed Watts, she said:
‘I met your dad once.’
‘I hear that a lot,’ he said.
‘He made a pass at me.’
‘That too.’
She left the room. Hathaway was looking at Watts, sizing him up.
‘Your dad, yes. Somewhere in this house is something that might interest you.’
‘I’m sure there are lots of things,’ Watts said.
