what to do when at last it came. It would have to, eventually.
When they put the heavy key in the lock and swung the door open Narraway was lying on the floor, sprawled in a position that looked as if he had broken his neck. His beautiful white shirt was torn and hanging from the bars on the window above him.
“Hey! Flaherty!” the guard called. “Come, quick! The stupid bastard’s hung himself!” He came over to Narraway and bent to check his pulse. “Sweet Mother of God, I think he’s dead!” he breathed. “Flaherty, where the devil are you?”
Before Flaherty could come, and there would be two of them to fight, Narraway snapped his body up and caught the guard under the chin so hard his head shot back. Narraway hit him again, sideways, so as to knock him unconscious, but very definitely not kill him. In fact he intended him to be senseless for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. He needed him alive, and able to walk.
He moved the inert body to the exact spot where he himself had been lying, all but tore the man’s jacket off him, and left him in his shirt. He took his keys and barely managed to get behind the door when Flaherty arrived.
Narraway held his breath in case Flaherty had the presence of mind to come in and lock the door or, even worse, stay out and lock it. But he was too horrified by the sight of the other guard on the floor to think so rationally. He covered the few paces to the fallen man, calling his name, and Narraway took his one chance. He slipped around the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. He heard Flaherty yelling almost immediately. Good. Someone would let him out within minutes. He needed them in hot pursuit.
He was very careful indeed going out of the police station, twice standing motionless on corners while people moved past him, following the shouting and the hurried footsteps.
Outside in the street, he ran. He wanted to draw attention to himself, to be remembered. Someone had to tell them which way he had gone.
He could afford no delay, no hesitation.
It was wet. The rain came down in a steady drizzle. The gutters were awash and very quickly he was soaked, his hair sticking to his brow, his bare neck cold without his shirt. People looked at him but no one stood in his way. Perhaps they thought he was drunk.
He had to go around Cormac’s house, in case there were still police there. He could not be stopped now. He slowed to a walk and crossed the road away from it, then back again, without seeing anyone, and in at the gate of Talulla’s house and up to the front door. If she did not answer he would have to break a window and force his way in. His whole plan rested on confronting her when the police caught up with him.
He knocked loudly.
There was no answer. What if she were not here, but with friends? Could she be, so soon after killing Cormac? Surely she would need to be alone? And she had to take care of the dog. Wouldn’t she be waiting until the police left so she could take whatever she wanted, or needed to protect, of the records of her parents that Cormac had kept?
He banged again.
Again—silence.
Was she there already? He had seen no police outside. She might be upstairs here in her own house, lying down, emotionally exhausted from murder and the ultimate revenge.
He took off the jacket. Standing in the rain, bare-chested, he wrapped the jacket around his fist and with as little noise as possible broke a side window, unlocked it, and climbed inside. He put the jacket on again and walked softly across the floor to look for her.
He searched from top to bottom. There was no one there. He had not expected a maid. Talulla would have given her the day off so she could not witness anything to do with Cormac’s murder, not hear any shots, any barking dog.
He let himself out of the back door and ran swiftly to Cormac’s house. Time was getting short. The police could not be far behind him. Hurry! Hurry!
He wasted no time knocking on the door. She would almost certainly not answer. And he had no time to wait.
He took off the jacket again, shivering with cold now, and perhaps also with fear. He smashed another window and within seconds was inside. At once the dog started barking furiously.
He looked around him. He went into some kind of pantry. He must get as far as the kitchen before she found him. If she let the dog attack him he had to be ready. And why would she not? He had broken into the house. He was already accused of Cormac’s murder. She would have every possible justification.
He opened the door quickly and found himself in the scullery, the kitchen beyond. He darted forward and grabbed at a small, hard-backed wooden chair just as Talulla opened the door from the farther side and the dog leapt forward, still barking hysterically.
She stopped, stunned to see him.
He lifted the chair, its thin, sharp legs pointed toward the dog.
“I don’t want to hurt the animal,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard above it. “Call it off.”
“So you can kill me too?” she shouted back at him.
“Don’t be so damn stupid!” He heard the rage trembling in his own voice, abrasive, almost out of control. “You killed him yourself, to get your revenge at last.”
She smiled, a hard, glittering expression, vibrant with hate. “Well, I have, haven’t I? They’ll hang you, Victor Narraway. And the ghost of my father will laugh. I’ll be there to watch you—that I swear.” She turned to the dog. “Quiet, girl,” she ordered. “Don’t attack him. I want him alive to suffer trial and disgrace. Ripping his throat out would be too quick, too easy.” She looked back at him.
But the dog was distracted by something else now. It swung its head around and stared toward the front door, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.
