‘No,’ says McAvoy, gritting his teeth. ‘No, you don’t treat people like that. Life isn’t like that. The danger she put herself in … what happened to Eva-Jayne …’

‘He’s paying for that,’ says Papa Teague, sniffing and looking away. ‘Paying every day …’

McAvoy is about to reply when the sound of running feet makes him turn. Roisin leaps into his arms, both legs around his waist, sweat running down her cheeks. She kisses him. Grins. Kisses him again.

‘My best men getting on OK? Jesus, but Valentine’s leading the poor fella a merry dance. Up a tree, so he is, dancing on a branch with the poor man’s bag. Shall we go save him, husband? Oh I like that. Mr and Mrs McAvoy. Jesus but I’m dizzy.’

McAvoy finds himself being pulled away. Turns back to Papa Teague and sees him walking away.

‘You OK?’ asks Roisin, looking up at him. ‘By Christ you look handsome. I heard Mammy saying she’d ride the arse off ye …’

‘Your dad,’ says McAvoy, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Just something he said. I must have misheard.’

‘It’s the accent. And the poteen. And the fact he’s got a cigar in his teeth. Come on, let’s get your best man out of that fecking tree …’

McAvoy lets her lead him. Lets his thoughts turn to his wife, and his son, and the new house they’re looking at up on the Kingswood estate. Pushes the nagging voice into a recess in his mind. Almost succeeds in convincing himself that it had been a slip of the tongue.

Doesn’t listen to the whispering doubts until they start to scream.

PART THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

11.58 a.m.
The Humber Estuary

‘There’s no chance he’s there. None.’

McAvoy leans towards Kincaid. Squints through the spray. Angles his head, trying to hear the other man over the chainsaw whine of the motor. ‘Sorry?’

‘No way he’s there. It’ll be a set-up. A trap. We’ve been looking for years and he doesn’t make mistakes. Do you know the people he’s put down? The jobs he’s done. He’s not …’

The rest of the sentence is swallowed up by the slap of the inflatable smacking down onto the iron-grey water. The wind is rushing in from the open ocean, pushing the small, bright-orange craft back towards the shore. Barrington is having to push the little craft hard, grinding his teeth as he pushes down on the throttle. He glares past his passengers, white amphibian eyes fixed on the horizon, his face dripping salt-spray and sweat. He keeps glancing at his passengers, as if to check whether this is really happening. He doesn’t look afraid – just baffled at what he has stumbled into. He has no doubt there will be hell to pay for somebody when all this is done, but he’s pretty sure it won’t be him.

McAvoy allows himself to move with the boat, his body swaying as if his feet and the deck were an elbow joint. He’s always been a good sailor. The estuary is choppy today and the grey air is hazy with rain and spray, but he’s known far worse conditions than this. He moves as if dancing to slow music. He’s soaked to the skin, his clothes sticking to his flesh like molten plastic. He’d refused the all-weather suit. Shook his head, wordlessly, as Barrington handed him the lifejacket. He’s not being deliberately reckless. He doesn’t know how much time he will have; how quickly he will have to move, when they reach the fort. He wants to be unencumbered. Wants to have his hands free for whatever is to come.