Collusion

89

Lennon edged along the riverbank, mud sucking at his shoes. Swans watched from the shallows, while others waddled through the grass and ferns between the wall and the water. They hissed as he neared them, raising their heads and opening their wings. Lennon went to the wall and clung to it as he passed them.

A gate sealed an opening in the old stonework. It bordered a landscaped area that stretched down to the water. The ground had been levelled off, and benches and picnic tables arranged on the lawn. A life ring was suspended from a post on the short wooden pier. A small rowing boat sat on the dry slipway. The convalescent home’s patients must have used this place to relax when the weather was good.

He went to the opening and peered through the gate. A wide path cut through well-tended gardens, leading up to the rear of the house. Shutters blinded many of the windows. A quiet hung over the place like a shroud. Lennon leaned close to the bars and scanned the grounds, looking for movement. He saw nothing but magpies squabbling over scraps near a door at the back of the house. It was small and functional, probably an old servants’ entrance leading to kitchens, Lennon thought.

A fire escape had been built on to the western side of the house, ugly steel steps and platforms just visible at the corner.

To the right there was nothing but open ground that would leave him exposed if he went for the fire escape. He could just make out a copse to the left, the trees forming a buffer between the wall and the gardens. They ran up to the east of the house. If he could get over the gate he might be able to use them as cover, then sprint to the door where the magpies fought over morsels.

Thick tangles of barbed wire raised the gate’s height by a foot or so. Lennon stood back and studied it. He could climb the gate, but the barbed wire would cut him to shreds. The wall stood a good ten feet tall; he had no hope of scaling it, unless …

Lennon walked to the landscaped area and crouched by one of the picnic tables. Nothing rooted it to the ground. He tested its weight. Heavy, but not immovable. He set his feet apart, gripped each edge of the table. It moved more easily than he expected, the damp grass providing a slick surface to pull across. A few minutes’ effort had it against the stonework. He climbed up and eased his fingertips over the top of the wall. As he thought, shards of broken glass had been set in concrete. It was a lawsuit waiting to happen, any insurance company would balk at the idea in case some burglar would claim for the lacerations, but Lennon imagined Bull O’Kane had no such qualms.

He pulled his jacket off and folded it into a pillow. He stood on tiptoe, balanced on the table, and laid the jacket across the glass shards. The swans watched with interest from the riverbank as Lennon took a deep breath and hauled himself upwards. He drew his knees up, wincing as the dulled points of glass dug into his kneecaps, then manoeuvred his legs out from under him. The glass tore through the jacket to grab at his thighs. He eased himself over the edge, one arm clinging to the top. Jagged glass ripped through the fabric and scraped at Lennon’s forearm. He let go, and his weight dragged his arm across the point of glass.

Lennon fell towards a bank of dock leaves, tatters of shirtsleeve trailing behind him. He tumbled down through the greenery and slammed against a tree trunk. He stifled a cry as pain shrieked in his ribs. A tapered streak of red blossomed on Lennon’s exposed skin, six inches long. He righted himself, his back against the tree trunk, and examined the wound. It wasn’t that bad, just a scrape, lucky it hadn’t been worse. He reached out and grabbed handfuls of the dock leaves, wiped the sheen of fresh, bright blood away with one handful, then pressed another to the cut.

His breath came in hard rasps as he listened for movement in the gardens beyond the trees. Nothing stirred, so Lennon dragged himself to his feet. He kept the wad of leaves pressed to his forearm as he advanced through the copse, far enough behind the treeline to stay hidden but close enough to the edge to see the house and the gardens beyond. The two magpies still battled over scraps in front of the kitchen door.

Lennon walked steady until he stood level with the house’s eastern edge. Fifteen, maybe twenty yards separated him from the building. He looked south and saw the lawns sweep into the distance, a long driveway cutting through them. He dropped the bloodstained leaves, took a breath, counted to ten, and sprinted across the grass and gravel.

He pressed his back tight against the sandstone, between the corner and the first window. His chest tightened as he listened. Nothing moved, no voice of warning, no footsteps on gravel. Lennon exhaled, sparks firing behind his eyes. He crouched and edged along the wall, keeping his head below the windowsills. Small stones ground together beneath his feet. The back door stood just twelve yards ahead, eleven now, nine, six—

The magpies squawked and launched themselves towards the sky, blurs of black and white, the remains of a Chinese takeaway scattered behind them.

The back door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the gravel, her broad back blocking the early sun. She took a packet of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, plucked one from the row of filter-tips with her teeth. Her lighter sparked, and the flame sputtered long enough for the tobacco to catch. She drew hard on the cigarette. A cough erupted from her deep chest, and she covered her mouth as she hacked. The fit passed, and she turned to see Lennon’s drawn Glock staring back at her. She dropped the cigarette to the gravel.

‘Take me to Ellen,’ Lennon said. ‘Take me to Marie.’

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

‘Now,’ Lennon said.