He doesn’t make a sound as he starts to pack the sods back on top of the wagon. Keeps his thoughts only on the task at hand.

As he crosses himself, work complete, there is a moment when he fancies he hears the faintest of sounds: a low, keening song, rising up from the earth beneath his feet. He turns his back. Walks away.

Doesn’t stop asking the Lord for forgiveness until he is back in the car.

Cannot shake the feeling that there are voices other than his own, whispering in the echo of his Amen.

THIRTY-EIGHT

1.22 p.m.
Haile Sands Fort

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’ says Garda Kincaid, ducking under the metal doorway and shining a light on the mangled corpse. ‘I’m taking it that you hit him quite hard.’

McAvoy steps back into the dark space. Covers his nose. It smells of damp and wet metal, gun smoke and blood. ‘The flare,’ he says, under his breath. ‘I didn’t know that would happen.’

‘No?’ asks Kincaid, swivelling around to face him. ‘What did you think? That it would just look pretty?’

‘My son,’ says McAvoy, leaning back against the wall. All the strength has gone out of him. Fin is still waiting for him in the lifeboat, surrounded by the crew from the Cleethorpes station. Lucas Barrington is with them, whispering quietly in their ears, unsure whether he has been involved in a heroic rescue mission, or been the victim of a kidnapping. Fin, wrapped in a blanket and with bindings on his wounds, is staring towards the shore like a fisherman saying goodbye to a lover.

‘It’s best all round,’ says Kincaid, looking down at the body. ‘Best for you. Best for me. Best for Papa Teague.’

McAvoy looks up. Rubs the grit from his eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ve spoken with my guv,’ he says, quietly. ‘He’s not disappointed. This prick had a lot of bargaining chips. He … did things …’

McAvoy rubs his hand across his face, turning the tumblers in his mind. ‘He killed for important people?’

Kincaid shrugs. ‘My lips are sealed, mate. Suffice to say, my boss, and your boss, are going to have a chat that’s more about silences and knowing glances than words and handshakes.’

‘Trish?’ asks McAvoy. ‘She doesn’t know anything …’

‘Not your fucking line manager, McAvoy. I mean your chief constable. He’s going to get a phone call from a number that rarely calls. And he’s going to go to bed tonight feeling very happy. A murder cleared up within twenty-four hours – another cold case put to bed, and maybe even a bravery citation for whichever officer he chooses to stick it on.’

‘He said he didn’t kill Eva-Jayne,’ says McAvoy. ‘And as for the case at Sunk Island, that doesn’t make any sense. The crystal, the Oracle cards …’

‘Symbolic.’ Kincaid shrugs. ‘Papa Teague used to ask the fates to decide whether to let him die. Always had a touch of the second sight, so he did. Makes sense as a calling card.’