Borderlands

Chapter Fifteen

Tuesday, 31st December

I drifted in and out of consciousness, and remembered seeing a pair of denim-clad legs running away. I thought I saw an old blue car drive past. The streetlamps danced about me, the snowfall, thick and oppressive, flickered on the edges of my vision. I dry- heaved onto the street, spitting my mouth clean. Finally, slipping and skidding off the pavement more than once, I managed to make it to the nearest row of houses, built on the site of the old asylum at the end of the road.

Forty minutes later, I lay in the Community Hospital next to Finnside Nursing Home, receiving medical attention for the second time that week. Not long after, Debbie arrived and put her arms around me, scolding me because, though she knew it was not my fault, she had no one else to scold.

The doctor told me she thought I should stay in overnight, just in case I had suffered concussion. I asked her for a dose of painkillers so I could go home. Eventually she relented, wrapping a thick bandage around my ribs, which were flowering with welts and bruises, reddish-purple like twilit snow clouds. As I pressed tentatively at my wounds I was reminded of Johnny Cashell and wondered whether the people who had left him in much the same condition were also responsible for the attack on me. After all, my attackers had struck just as I turned from McKelvey's mother. If they were indeed travellers, there would be little prospect of my ever catching them. They would vanish into the fold; pack up and shift to another site for a while. And in a way, I suppose, I believed that I had deserved it. The Catholic in me needed to be punished and, perhaps, now I could forgive myself.

Despite the painkillers, I could not sleep again that night, and fears played continually on my mind. I dozed uneasily until 3.30 a.m., waking several times to pull the blankets up off the ground or from around my feet. Debbie lay curled beside me, blissfully unaware. Even with the tablets, my head thudded dully when I lay down, and my arms and legs ached as though fatigued. Eventually, I got up.

Shane's breathing whistled slightly from the cot at the foot of the bed as he slept, arms outstretched, his face turned to the side and his lips pursed. I stood and watched him, wondering, not for the first time, how something so perfect and beautiful could have been the result of any process in which I was involved. And also not for the first time, I found myself resenting a job which kept me away from him and Penny and Debs as often as it did. I wondered if I had chosen the job precisely because it required me to immerse myself as much in it as in real life.

Unwilling to think too deeply about it, I took my cigarettes and lighter and went down to the kitchen for a smoke. I sat in the darkness at the open doorway, trying to blow my smoke outside, able to see clearly by the snow's reflected luminescence. The flakes were falling thick and steady now, a continual, hypnotic pattern.

When I was done, I opened the window to clear the smell of smoke and lit a candle. Then, for the want of anything else to do, I flicked through the documents I had taken from the station.

Sometime after my fourth excursion to the back door for a smoke and my second cup of coffee, I read through the list of recruits who had joined Templemore Training College in 1992. Of the 150 names, twenty-seven were women. In the midst of all the names, Aoibhinn Knox's name appeared. It was not until I had scanned the list a second time, through sheer boredom, that I recognized a second name on the list and, all at once, I believed I knew for certain how Coyle had learned about the stolen-items list, and I suspected 1 knew who had helped her kill Donaghey and who had had sex with Cashell before dumping her body. And I realized who had been the driver of the blue car seen at her house. One of Aoibhinn Knox's colleagues in Templemore was Jason Holmes. And what did this mean for Coyle's brother, 'Sean Knox'? Was he even involved? Or was Holmes her only accomplice? Could Holmes be her brother? Was it an assumed surname – a biting pun on his upbringing, perhaps? Or were such thoughts and plots the stuff of crime novels?

As I thought over the case, everything seemed to fall disconcertingly into place. Holmes had had inside knowledge of the course our enquiries had taken. He had identified McKelvey in the videotape, turning off the tape before the 'McKelvey' in question would be seen entering the female toilets. He had taken statements from the bars. He had spent the night in the station when McKelvey had supposedly taken an overdose. Indeed, through his involvement with the drugs team in Dublin, I guessed, he'd have had access to the drugs which had killed both Cashell and McKelvey. He had made a point of reminding me of my assault on McKelvey and, in doing so, had implicated me in his own beating of the boy. I recalled McKelvey's broken finger. What if Holmes had forced the boy to take the Ecstasy tabs? Holmes was meant to have searched him, yet McKelvey still, apparently, managed to get the Es into his holding-cell. Most worryingly, Holmes had begun a relationship with Williams once he was removed from the murder team, and had presumably asked her about our findings and progress. He could have kept Coyle abreast of our every move, including the fact that we knew the connection with her mother. Suddenly, what I had considered to be poor police work on Holmes' part became more sinister.

I got dressed as quickly as I could and headed out into the snow. It took almost twenty minutes to drive to Holmes' house. When I got there, his car was nowhere to be seen. The house was in darkness, the blinds drawn back. I checked for my gun in my pocket and resolved to wait for Holmes to return. Then I thought better of it, guessing that he might be with Williams. I drove to her house, but only her own car sat in the driveway. Finally, as dawn cracked on the horizon, lending the falling snowflakes a purple tint, I drove back to the station to wait for support.

I was in the station at 8.30 a.m. in time to meet the postman. I flicked through the post as I entered the station, switching on the lights. I found three pieces of mail for myself and, dumping the rest on Burgess's desk, I went down into the murder room, stopping to fill the coffeemaker.

The first piece of mail I opened was from the General Registrar, containing the birth certificates of the two Knox children, which I had forgotten I'd requested. As I scanned the certificates, Tommy Powell's name appeared once again, this time listed as the father of Aoibhinn Knox.

At Finnside I waved to Mrs MacGowan as I passed her glass-walled office, but did not stop. From the corner of my eye I saw her standing up to get my attention, then scrabbling at something on her desk.

Powell was propped up in the bed, his wispy hair the yellow of dirty snow. His face had almost collapsed in on itself, the tissue paper of his skin nearly transparent. His jaw was slack, a line of saliva dribbling down his chin. I watched him silently for a few minutes, waiting to see if his bird-like chest would rise and fall, but there was no discernible movement.

For a second I thought he was dead, but then his eyes rolled spectrally in his skull and turned towards me, his head inclining ever so slightly on his pillow. All my anger and indignation waned at the sight of him. What sort of victory was it, I wondered, for an able-bodied man in his thirties to remind a dying pensioner of his youthful indiscretion? Yet I still felt a need for justice – for something. Powell was involved, somehow, in all of this. I needed to know what his role was.

I held the birth certificate close to his face, so close in fact that I could smell his rancid breath, the smell of something deeper than hunger, like stagnation.

"Did you know she was your daughter? Mary Knox's girl? Did she tell you?"

His eyes rolled away from me, his face tightening, and he stared at the flowered curtains which hung almost to the floor, blocking the brilliant glare of the frozen world outside.

"You let her go to an orphanage," I said. "Does your son know about this? Did you tell him about your prostitute, Mr Powell? And what about Ratsy Donaghey? What was the connection there? Did you know that he killed her?"

He still did not look at me, but I noticed the corners of his eyes redden and a tear slipped down his face. I was growing to realize the futility of my actions. Enraged by my embarrassment, I leaned in close to him.

"If I find you had anything to do with her death, Mr Powell, I can promise you, I'll nail you for it. Politician or not, all the money in the world won't save you."

I turned then to face Miriam Powell, who looked flushed from running. Behind her stood Mrs MacGowan, looking concerned.

"You really have no limits, Benedict, do you?" Miriam said, her face contorted in disgust.

"This is police business, Mrs Powell," I said.

"No, it's not, Ben. It's some sad… I don't know what. Some attempt to make up for your inadequacies," she spat.

"Your father-in-law had an affair with a prostitute, Miriam. He fathered her child, then let that same child be put in an orphanage when his mistress vanished. She was killed by someone whom he employed. He may know something about her death. This is police business," I said, speaking loudly enough that Mrs MacGowan would hear, and I found some small measure of delight in watching her blanche as she realized that civilized people could commit evil acts with the same or even greater impunity than those outside her social circle.

"I'd like you to leave, please," Miriam said. "My husband will be in touch with you when he gets home." She looked away from me, but as I passed I heard her say, "I pity you Benedict, you're pathetic."

I looked at the side of her face, but she simply went over to her father-in-law and sat on the edge of his bed, holding the withered branch of his hand in hers, stroking the hair that clung to his scalp.

I left the home and went down to the river's edge and, as the snow thickened steadily, I looked over to the spot where Angela Cashell had died.

I had handled the case badly from the start. Now I was left with only this: somehow, either Powell or Costello was involved in the murder of Mary Knox. Costello had the motive of revenge or jealousy; he would certainly have known Donaghey and perhaps had some leverage over him as a policeman. Powell was Donaghey's boss in IID and the Three Rivers Hotel. In addition, Powell was Knox's lover, though it wasn't clear that he had any motive for killing her. In fact, I hadn't really considered the possibility until I stood looking at him. He had not looked after Knox's daughter, but that was not a crime.

Quietly, I apologized to Angela Cashell and Terry Boyle; perhaps the wind would carry my words to them. Yet neither the thought nor the words brought any respite from my feeling of failure. I seemed to be so close, and yet what would I achieve in arresting Yvonne Coyle, assuming she could be found? It would punish the murderer of Angela and Terry. But what of Mary Knox? Would she get justice?

I hardly heard the phone ringing in the car, and by the time I reached it, it had stopped. I recognized the missed-call number on the screen as the station and called back to Burgess, expecting something to be said about my visit to Powell. But I was wrong.

"Inspector! You're highly in demand this morning. You realize you're meant to be in the station for an interview today over the McKelvey death. It's just I left you a note which I don't see on your desk, so I'm assuming you knew. Also, Officer Armstrong has been on the phone twice for you. Said he has information you said was important. Call him back, will you? I'm not your personal secretary!"

"Sure," I said. "Tell me, Burgess, is Williams in yet?"

"Yep. She's down in your 'office'."

"What about Costello?"

"He's going to the Boyle funeral. Would you like the station's full attendance list, Inspector?" Burgess laughed and hung up before I could ask anything more.

I sat back in the car with the heating on and phoned through to Garda Command and Control and asked to be put through to Research. Armstrong answered almost immediately.

"Inspector Devlin here. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," I said, lighting another cigarette.

"Nor me, Inspector. But you gave me an easy one. There was a full case-file on IID so I didn't have much to do, and someone else must have requested it fairly recently. Do you want me to fax the notes to you?" he asked, clearly enthused by such an easy piece of investigative work.

"That would be great. I'm not actually in the station at the moment. Can you summarize it for me?"

"Well, basically, IID was under a fraud investigation, as you said-"

"Right," I interrupted. "In the 1980s. Joseph Cauley."

"Well, yes and no," came the reply. "There was a fraud investigation then, but that was the second. There was an earlier one started in 1978…" I lost all track of what Armstrong was saying. My hair felt as though it was standing on end, my skin goose- bumped in lumps so rigid I rubbed my arm to make them fall.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Theft of government grants. Quite clever, apparently. Paper companies were formed to do consultation work for some big players who were looking to move to Donegal. They were directed to these consultancy groups by IID people; paid money up front. Then the consultation group would fold and the money would go with them. Over one million punts vanished."

"Any names?" I asked, although I already suspected the answer.

"The two you gave me: Donaghey and Cauley. And a third named Thomas Powell. Is that the Thomas Powell?"

I could hardly form the words to speak. "What… why did it not go anywhere?"

"Not enough evidence, it seems. There was a potential witness. A prostitute who offered to give evidence in return for soliciting charges being dropped. But she disappeared; her and her family. The case couldn't be made that time, so it was left on ice until the mid-'80s when it was brought up again."

I did not even wait to say thanks. I cut the connection and called straight through to Burgess.

"Where's Costello?" I asked.

"He isn't here, I told you."

He became even more annoyed when I told him I wanted a car to pick up Jason Holmes on suspicion of murder.

"I need to check that, Inspector," he replied, all smugness gone.

"Just do it, Sergeant," I said. "Costello's not about. That makes me ranking officer. I want Holmes lifted ASAP. Put me through to Williams."

There was a buzz of static, then Williams spoke. "What's this about?" she snapped. "Are you fucking mad?"

"Caroline. I can't tell you everything yet, but I think Holmes is involved in this – he was in Templemore with Yvonne Coyle; he may even be her brother. I think he knows more than he's let on. We have to bring in him."

"I'll phone him and ask him then, instead of sending someone out to arrest him. I mean for Christ's sake, Ben."

"No!" I said, louder than I'd intended. "Listen, Caroline, I'm sorry. I'll explain everything later. I need you to babysit Tommy Powell in Finnside."

"What?" I could understand her anger.

"Look, Powell is Yvonne Coyle's father. He was running a scam that Mary Knox knew about. She was going to testify against him; then she vanished. That puts him top of the suspect list. Which also makes him top of the target list. If Knox's children are going to go after anyone, it'll be him. I want you there in case they try anything," I explained. "Today is the anniversary of their mother's disappearance."

I cut the connection again and tried phoning Costello's house, but the line rang out. Frustrated, I gave up and slid and skidded my way back out onto the main road, stopping several times to wipe snow off the windscreen which the wipers failed to dislodge.

It took me almost thirty minutes to manoeuvre my way to Costello's house. Before I reached the front door I knew something was amiss – no smoke curled up from the chimney, and the curtains had not been drawn. I slipped on the front path, landing on my tailbone and reawakening the searing pain in my ribcage. With some difficulty, I balanced myself, wiping the snow from the back of my coat. I rang the doorbell several times and then tried the door. It was unlocked.

I went into the house, knocking the snow from my boots, and called out. "Sir? Mrs Costello?" My voice carried through the cold of the house, but did not get a reply. I moved down the hallway and pushed open the door into the living room.

Emily Costello lay in front of the fireplace. The purple-red of her headwound stood out against the soft white wisps of her hair. She lay curled on the floor in her nightgown. Her eyes were still open, though they had begun to turn cloudy. Her hands seemed locked together, raised slightly towards her face. Strangely, even in death, her expression was soft and kindly. Beside her lay a poker, the blackened end shiny with congealed blood.

Costello was lying on the kitchen floor, weeping uncontrollably. There was a telephone in his hand, but I noticed that the wire leading to the wall had been cut.

He looked up at me in bewilderment. "She's gone, Ben," he said. "My Kate's gone."

I checked each room, one by one, slowly making my way around the house. When I was satisfied that neither Emily's killer, nor Kate Costello, were in the house, I used my mobile to call Burgess, requesting support. While I was on the line I asked about Holmes.

"Your sergeant has just left here. Her words were something along the lines of, 'I'll rip his fucking throat out.'"

"Poor Holmes," I said.

"She was talking about you. They haven't found him yet."

Costello had crawled back to his wife. He sat on the living- room floor, cradling her in his arms, her blood clotted and thick against his stomach, his breath rattling in his chest.

"I just came back and found her. Forgot my glasses. Just came back for my glasses," he said, then seemed to panic. He patted his pockets, his shirt, his legs, searching for them. "No… I forgot them. I came back and… and Kate's gone… and…" He did not, could not, finish the sentence. I had been wrong. Knox wasn't going after Costello. She was going after his children.

I was on my way out of the house when I found the photograph of Mary Knox that her children had left behind, sitting on the hall table in front of a vase of white roses.

I asked myself why they hadn't killed Kate Costello here, in her house. Taking her away suggested that she was still alive, that she was being held somewhere. But I could not think where. And then I realised again the significance of the date: New Year's Eve. The date Knox had disappeared. It could be no coincidence that Kate was taken on this date. And if they chose the date of her death on which to enact their final plan, perhaps the Knox children had also chosen the place of her death. It was tenuous, but I had nothing else to follow, nowhere else to look. If, indeed, they had taken her to Mary Knox's final resting place, it meant that Ratsy had admitted where he had dumped her body. There was only one other person who would know.

Cashell answered the door in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt, squinting against the glare of the snow. His face was drawn, his skin the colour of ash.

"What?" he asked, leaning against the door jamb so that I was left standing in the falling snow.

"Where did you dump the body? Mary Knox's?"

"Piss off, Devlin," Cashell said, pulling the door behind him as he walked back into his house.

I stuck my foot against the jamb, holding the door ajar, then pushed my way in. "I know what happened, Johnny. I know Powell ordered Ratsy Donaghey to kill her. My guess is you were just a driver. Maybe you didn't even know what was happening; I… I don't give a shit. But four people have died in the past weeks over this, and one more will now if you don't help me." He stood looking at me pleading in his hallway, as he might consider a drunk begging for change in the street. "Please, tell me where you dumped the body. Please."

"Have a bad night, Inspector?" he asked.

"What?"

"You look a little worse for wear. Bit of a headache?" Cashell sneered, snorting as he turned and walked away. I felt my hand reach instinctively into my coat pocket for my gun, my fingers tightening around the grip.

"Borderland," a voice above me said.

Cashell spun around, his teeth bared like an animal. "Shut up!" he hissed. But Sadie Cashell was walking slowly down the stairs now, ignoring her husband, whose foolishness and pride had cost her her daughter.

"Borderland," she repeated, looking only at Cashell. "It's too late, Johnny. Too much has happened." Then she turned to me. "Borderland. That's where Johnny was working. The Three Rivers Hotel. Borderland was a new disco hall they built around the time she vanished. They threw her body in with the foundations. I washed the blood and cement off his trousers," she explained. She stood halfway down the stairs now, and as she spoke something inside her seemed to be extinguished. With the slightest slump of her shoulders, Sadie Cashell seemed to age by twenty years.

"You stupid bitch!" Cashell roared at her, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a pint of milk in his hand. "You useless fucking bitch."

I removed the gun from my pocket and with preternatural calmness, levelled it at Johnny Cashell. His jaw gaped open and he dropped the milk onto the linoleum floor, the white liquid stippling his legs.

"Don't," I said. "Don't, Johnny. If I come back here and something has happened to Sadie, I will kill you. Understand that. I won't waste time on kickings or petrol, I will gladly put a bullet through your fucking heart."

Then I backed down the hallway and pushed through the doorway, back out into the snow.

The roads were deserted, save for farmers shifting hay between barns and fields. It took me ten minutes to get to the Three Rivers. On the way, I radioed through to Burgess in the station and asked for support at the hotel. I also asked about Holmes and was disappointed to hear that he had still not been found. It meant that Yvonne Coyle might still have an accomplice. That was if she was still in the area and supposing that Kate Costello was still alive.

Just as I negotiated the final twist in the road, my phone rang. I recognized the number as Williams.

"You spineless prick!" she snapped as soon as I answered. "If you think I'm not capable, tell me yourself."

"What?"

"First you send me to babysit a pensioner, then you send someone down to give me a hand. How dare you!"

"What are you talking about?" I snapped.

"Harvey. I'm sitting here in my car, watching him going inside. Do you not think I'm capable of sitting here myself?"

"I didn't send Harvey down there, Caroline," I explained. "Why aren't you inside, with Powell?"

"His daughter-in-law chased me out. I'm sitting outside, watching. Harvey arrived a few minutes ago. He's just gone in." Her tone changed. "I thought maybe you'd sent him to keep an eye on me."

"For Christ's sake, Caroline, I sent you there because I trust you. Go in and see what Harvey's doing," I said, then thought better of it. "In fact, leave him in there and get over to the Three Rivers. I think that's where they are."

There was a period of silence, long enough for me to wonder if my connection had been broken. Then Williams spoke: "Sorry, sir," she said.

"Later, Caroline."

"Yes, sir."

The Three Rivers emerged out of the snow, skeletal and exposed. The windows had long since been smashed, boarded up and ripped open again. I drove up to the front of the hotel and got out of the car. I could just about make out the faintest tracks of tyres leading around the side of the building, though the snow was falling so thickly it was impossible to say how long ago they had been made. Returning to the car I followed the tracks carefully, the snow cracking under the wheels.

I slid to a halt and checked to ensure I had my gun. Treading carefully, I reached a side entrance where I could make out more tyre tracks gradually disappearing under the snow. I approached the side of the hotel. Inside, the wallpaper was falling off and pieces fluttered in the wind like strips of flayed skin. On the exposed walls, graffiti was scrawled on top of the pink paint which someone had once applied as an undercoat.

The carpet was still intact, though it was almost black, matted with dirt and sodden, so that, with each step, water welled up around my feet and my shoes squelched loudly. My eyes were just growing accustomed to the dimness when I turned a corner and walked into a patch of still grey light seeping in through a hole in the ceiling. Through it, stray flakes of snow pirouetted down.

The musty smell of mice and another sharper, cleaner smell were carried on the wind. Beer cans, cigarette packets, used condoms, all lay discarded along the corridors. As I passed each doorway, I jerked my head in and scanned the room with my. 38 drawn and cocked.

Finally I came into a central reception area. In the corner was the door to what had once been a cloakroom. I could hear someone shifting in the darkness. I thought I could see a movement.

"Sean? Yvonne?" I shouted. "Yvonne, this is Inspector Devlin. I know you're here. We're all around you, Yvonne. It's over, love. Why not come on out?"

I waited, holding my breath, straining in the half-light to see if anyone would appear. I was about to call out again when I saw the diminutive figure of Yvonne Coyle step out of the shadows of the room, Kate Costello beside her, a Garda revolver pressed against her side. Further back, to her left, I could make out the outline of a man, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, though it was too dark for me to see who it was.

"It's over, Yvonne," I said, slipping my gun into my pocket. "Where's Holmes?"

"Who?" she said.

"Jason Holmes."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Inspector. Please. Throw your gun on the floor."

"I don't carry a gun," I said, stretching out my arms.

"I know that's not true. You took one out of your station the other night. Please. Throw your gun on the floor. Now," she added, nudging Kate with her own pistol.

"Where's your brother, Yvonne?" I asked, glancing around in the semi-darkness in case he was hiding. But I began to suspect that I knew where he was. "He's not here, is he?"

"Lie down on the ground, Inspector," Yvonne said. "Please don't make me hurt you."

The figure slumped against the wall behind Coyle looked up. "Is that you, Devlin?" I realized that it was Thomas Powell.

"You don't know who did it, yet, do you?" I said, realizing the significance of both Powell and Kate Costello being here. "You don't know who killed your mother. Ratsy was given away by the ring; I'm guessing he named Cashell and Boyle. But… you don't know who gave the order."

"Which is where you can help me, Inspector," Yvonne said through gritted teeth. "Now lie down on the fucking ground."

"Where's your brother, Yvonne? Did he kill Emily Costello? Murder an old woman?"

I heard Kate whimper.

"Keep talking, Inspector," Yvonne said, "and I'll shoot this useless bitch anyway." Again she prodded Kate with her gun. The girl's eyes flashed with panic, her face drawn in terror.

"You've got the wrong person, Yvonne," I said, as I walked slowly towards her. "The rest of the station is outside now." I could make out Powell's outline, shaking his head. "You got the wrong person. Costello didn't kill your mother. I'm guessing Donaghey told you that, but he lied."

"Then you have the chance to put the record straight, Inspector. One of these two has to die for what was done. You choose. You choose who should live."

"I can't do that, Yvonne," I said, reaching slowly into my coat pocket for my pistol. "You know I can't do that."

"Throw your gun on the floor, Inspector," Yvonne said. Then I heard her click the barrel of her gun into place and Kate Costello screamed. I took out my gun and threw it away from me, my hands raised in appeasement.

"It was Costello," Powell shouted suddenly. "My father told me. We're family, for fuck's sake," he said, his voice cracking into sobs.

"That's not true," I said. "I don't know who did it, Yvonne. Don't you think enough people have died already?"

She moved towards me a little, the gun still held in her hand. "Why would Powell have killed my mother? How do you know it wasn't this…" she gestured towards Costello, unable to sum up a word vicious enough to describe her or her father.

"Your mother knew about some fraud he was running on these big companies he was bringing into Donegal. She went to the police. Donaghey worked for Powell. Donaghey lied to you, though. You can't believe anything he said. Yvonne, where's your brother? Please."

"He's finishing things off. Going to see our father."

And then I knew. "It's fucking Harvey, isn't it?" I said, desperately.

She did not answer. The room lit up as if caught in the flash of a camera, and a sound like ice cracking in my eardrum echoed through the building. In that moment of intense light, Powell's face was lit up and I saw his expression of disbelief as a single horsetail of blood spurted from his body onto the wall behind.

Kate Costello screamed hysterically now, while Coyle struggled to keep hold of her.

I scrambled over to the slumped body, smelt the foulness under the cordite. The wetness of the carpet soaked up through my knees. But Powell was beyond help. "Please stop this, Yvonne." I managed to stutter.

She released Kate now, who huddled against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible, her body heaving with sobs.

"I'm sorry you got involved, Inspector – really I am." Yvonne's voice assumed a singsong quality, as if removed from the squalor and the dead bodies surrounding her. "You remind me of my husband, you know. He's dead, too."

I nodded. "I know, Yvonne. Look, it's not too late. We can sort something out." I knew, though, as I spoke, that my words were meaningless, born from desperation.

"Can we?" She smiled at me, squatting with her gun inches from my skull, her fingers lightly brushing my face and lips. "I don't think so," she said, with the melancholy of a departing lover. "Much as I'd like to leave you here alive, Inspector, I know that you wouldn't let it go. Would you?"

"My name's Benedict," I said. "Ben."

I wanted to say more to her, to tell her that at some level I understood what she had done. I wanted to tell her that things could be salvaged, even though I knew that they were far beyond that point. "I spoke to Sister Perpetua," I said, a little too late.

We both heard the sound of voices approaching along one of the darkened corridors. I thought I recognized Williams's voice, as ephemeral as those inside your head you when you are on the cusp of sleep. Coyle turned suddenly and strode over to where Kate Costello lay in a ball on the floor. I heard another sharp crack of the pistol, while I scrabbled about for my own weapon. As the shot hit Costello, I heard a soft grunting, then the sucking noise her body made as she tried to breathe.

I heard Williams shouting now, and other voices, getting nearer. I tried to call out, but my mouth was dry and seized and the words died in my throat. Yvonne Coyle stood above me, her gun in her hands.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," she said, then raised the gun.

I would like to say that I looked death squarely in the face. I would like to say that I faced it bravely. But I did not. Instead I squeezed my eyes tight shut, already flinching as I waited for the shot, the searing heat of the bullet entering my body. In that last moment, it was not my life that flashed before my eyes, despite what people popularly claim. Rather, I grew intensely sad at the thought that I would never again see Penny smile, nor ever feel the softness of my son's hand as he touched my face while I bottle-fed him. I would not see again my wife, my rock, Debbie, whose touch alone conveyed more generosity of spirit than I could ever express. I felt tears burst from me, and then I heard the shot.

When I opened my eyes, Williams and three uniforms were running up the corridor towards us, torchlights bouncing along the walls and ceiling. Beside me, her face as close as a lover's, her final breath dying on her lips like a parting kiss, lay Yvonne Coyle, her short blonde hair matted with her blood, her body still twitching. Part of her temple was missing, the white bone of her skull just visible amongst the blood. For a second I saw the ghost of something tug at the corners of her mouth, nothing more than a fleeting shadow, and then all was still.

I reached over and placed my fingers against her face. Her skin was still warm and soft. I laid the palm of my hand flat against her cheek and whispered an Act of Contrition for her soul. In spite of myself, in sympathy for all that had happened to drive her to this, I leaned over and placed a single, light kiss on her forehead. Her skin yielded under my touch even as her colour faded.