Outside in the weak sunshine, looking across the hospital grounds, I watch a mower creating verdant strips of green on the turf, light green and dark green. A curtain of rain is hanging above the horizon as though unsure whether to spoil the day. It creates a strange light that might please a painter or a photographer, but there’s nothing I find comforting or appealing about the scene.
I touch my cheek again. The scratches are weeping. Natasha Ellis struck me with her left hand, unleashing all her grief and fury. She has lost her husband. Lost the life she fought so hard to protect. This is the detail I failed to notice. I didn’t comprehend how far she’d go to save her marriage. The sins she’d overlook. The risks she’d take.
I have a missed call on my mobile. Ruiz. I call him back.
‘Have you heard?’ he asks. ‘They abandoned the trial.’
‘I just saw the news on TV.’
‘Looks like Ronnie Cray pulled it off. Does she still have a job?’
‘Far as I know.’
He asks about last night and why I didn’t come back to the terrace.
‘I stayed with Julianne.’
‘Really?’
‘Nothing happened. I slept on the sofa.’
‘Maybe she wanted you to storm her bedroom and ravish her.’
Do people ‘ravish’ each other any more?
I tell him about the booby-trapped caravan and my helicopter flight to the hospital with Gordon Ellis.
‘So he’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Caro Regan?’
‘Maybe the debris will yield some clues.’
Ruiz is silent for a time, thinking about Coop and Philippa Regan and their mausoleum-like flat in Edinburgh and their funereal existence, wondering what happened to their daughter.
‘Where are you now?’ he asks.
‘Frenchay Hospital.’
‘You need a lift?’
‘If you’re offering.’
‘I should have been a minicab driver.’
‘More money.’
‘Better hours.’
He hangs up and I walk across the road, feeling the turf beneath my shoes. I am closer to understanding things now. I know why Ray Hegarty was murdered, why Annie Robinson was poisoned and why Sienna was framed.
Not everything makes sense. If there’s an exception to every rule, then that rule itself must have an exception. Novak Brennan tried to corrupt a judge. Sway a jury. Secure a verdict. Yet so much of it depended upon factors that he could never fully control. A majority verdict to acquit required ten jurors - a huge ask. By blackmailing a judge the only thing he could completely guarantee was the collapse of the hearing and a retrial with a new jury and a new judge. Novak must have known this.
I glance towards the hospital and see my reflection cast back at me from the doors. I am a man standing alone in a field. Some things we have to do alone. Birth. Death. Sitting in a witness box . . .
Uneasiness washes over me, inching upwards, lodging in my throat. Fumbling for my phone I call Julianne. Her number is engaged. I start over. This time she answers.
‘Where’s Marco?’ I ask.
‘He went to buy me a present.’
‘Does he have a number?’
‘He doesn’t have a phone.’
She’s at Broadmead Shopping Centre, which is fifteen minutes away.
Julianne senses my fear. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You have to find him. Get him out of there.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s not safe. Find him and call me.’
Ruiz has pulled up outside the hospital. I try to run but suddenly freeze and stare helplessly at my legs, telling them to move. I direct all of my concentration to just my left leg, telling it to step forward. It must be like watching a man step over an invisible obstacle. Once I get a degree of momentum, I’ll be fine. One leg will follow the other. Walk and then run.
I pull open the passenger door and tumble inside, telling Ruiz to drive, telling him that Julianne’s in danger. Without hesitation, he accelerates, weaving between cars, demanding answers.
We’re on the M32. Middle lane. Passing the concrete towers, shuttered shops, factories, pawnshops and ‘For Lease’ signs. There are hookers walking up and down Fishponds Road: women who are women and men who are women and crack-heads who will be anything you want.
‘When you were following Carl Guilfoyle - you said it was strange, you said he seemed to know he was being tailed. Maybe we were meant to find the photographs.’
Ruiz looks at me askance and back to the road.
‘Why?’
‘Novak couldn’t guarantee an acquittal, but he could guarantee what happened today.’
‘You’re saying he wanted the trial abandoned?’
‘He needed more time.’
‘More time for what?’
‘To silence Marco Kostin.’
‘I thought he was under police guard.’
‘He was until this morning.’
Traffic lights. Amber then red. Ruiz brakes heavily.
My mobile chirrups. Julianne.
‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Marco?’
‘No, the man with the black tears.’
My heart lurches.
‘I saw him outside WHSmith.’
‘Was he following you?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t find Marco.’
I tell her to stay calm. ‘I’m going to hang up now and call the police.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Where were you going to meet Marco?’
‘At Brasserie Blanc.’
‘Go there. Sit outside. Somewhere public.’
My heart is banging in my ribs. Cray’s number is engaged. I try again. Monk answers. I tell him to get the boss. It’s an emergency.
The DCI replaces him.
‘Carl Guilfoyle is going after Marco Kostin. They’re both at Broadmead Shopping Centre.’
‘Is anyone with Marco?’
‘Julianne is looking for him. We’re almost there.’
‘Don’t approach Guilfoyle. Get them out of there.’
The lights are green. Ruiz accelerates. Seventy miles an hour. Chasing tail lights and leaving them behind.
My mind is zigzagging ahead, like a small furry creature darting through undergrowth, following a scent, switching direction, moving away from me. We’re going too slowly.
Ruiz leans on the horn as we get caught in traffic on the Old Market Roundabout. He swings across two lanes, braking hard, the tyres screeching. We almost sideswipe a lorry and he wrenches the wheel, correcting twice. The pine-scented air-freshener swings violently from the mirror.
We’re in Quakers Friars. Ruiz pulls over. Hazard lights flashing. I’m already out the door and running across the flagstones, dodging pedestrians, shoppers, office workers.
Julianne is standing alone outside the restaurant in her buttoned-up trench coat and the boots she bought in Milan. Nearby there are children running in and out of water jets that spout like molten silver from the slick pavers.
‘We were supposed to meet here,’ she says, wide-eyed, anxious.
‘Where did you see him last?’
‘In Merchant Street.’
‘How long ago?’
‘He should have been back by now.’
Ruiz arrives. We’ll split up and search. Somebody should stay here in case Marco turns up: Julianne.
‘Call if you see him.’
I start moving, my scalp itchy and damp. There are hundreds of shops over almost six blocks and three levels - department stores, boutiques, speciality shops, restaurants and cafés - the biggest retail centre in Bristol. As long as Marco stays somewhere public. As long as he’s in the open . . .
Weaving through the crowd, I keep looking at the faces, expecting to see Marco or Carl Guilfoyle. There are too many people. He could walk right past me and I might not see him.
Pushing through the doors of BHS, I jog up the escalator and weave between racks of clothes. The window overlooks the intersection of Broadmead and Merchant Street.
I scan the crowd. Young mums with prams, joggers in Lycra shorts, a hooded youth with a skateboard, an elderly couple, hunched arthritically, moving in slow motion. A juggler in a clown’s hat has drawn an audience by tossing coloured balls in the air and bouncing them off the pavement.
There are so many people, a sea of moving heads. That’s when I see Marco on the edge of the crowd watching the juggler. He’s wearing a red baseball cap and carrying a glossy carrier bag.
Retreating down the escalator, through the automatic doors, I emerge on street level. A toddler runs under my feet. Half catching him as I fall, I bounce up and spin around, planting the boy on his feet. His mother gives me a foul-mouthed tirade, but I’m looking past her for Marco.
I can’t see him. He was on the far side of the square. Pushing through the crowd, I look for his red baseball cap. In the periphery of my vision I catch sight of Julianne. What’s she doing? She must have seen Marco too.
Suddenly, someone collides with me from the front on my right-side and continues walking. I glimpse his features - the marks on his cheeks, more like scars than tattoos, as though his face has been sewn together from discarded pieces of skin.
I can hear my breath escaping as I watch his right hand slip into his coat pocket. He moves away. I know I have to chase him. Stop him. Instead I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue. One step. Two steps. Three steps. What’s happening?
I glance down. A red plume spreads out from my ribs down to my trousers. The blade slipped in so easily that I didn’t feel it enter beneath my ribs, rising towards my heart and into my lungs.
I’m staggering, falling to my knees, frantically trying to stay upright. My head keeps bobbing and weaving but it’s not one of Mr Parkinson’s cruel jokes. The pain has arrived, a dull throbbing, growing in intensity, screaming at me to stop. It’s as if someone has driven a heated metal rod into my chest and is jerking it from side to side.
My shirt is sodden, sticking to my body. I look up and around, frightened. Through the forest of legs, I can’t see Marco. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he’s running. Julianne must be close. I see her first. They’re together.
In that instant, I recognise Guilfoyle’s hooded sweatshirt. His right hand comes out of his pocket. The blade is flush against his forearm. He’s moving at pace through the crowd.
I try to yell, but it comes out as a groan. Guilfoyle is only a few paces away, passing Marco on his knife-hand side, his arm in motion, using his momentum to drive the blade beneath his ribs, aiming for the heart.
At that moment a girl in a pink skirt and candy-striped leggings loses her helium balloon. Marco spins on one foot and tries to catch the trailing string. The blade slides through his shirt and into his flesh, but the angle is wrong.
Guilfoyle knows it. The speed of the thrust has carried him two paces from Marco and he turns. Julianne has seen him. She screams, open-mouthed, terrified. Head down, hands in his pockets, Guilfoyle carries on, pushing through the crowd.
Marco drops to his knees, holding his side. I can’t see him any more. People are stepping around me and over me. A woman trips over my legs and almost falls. She has tight blue jeans and a huge arse. Another face, upside down. Her husband - he’s wearing an AC/DC T-shirt.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
I can’t answer.
‘That’s blood!’ says his wife.
‘He’s been shot,’ says someone else.
‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’
‘Who shot him?’ asks another voice.
‘It could have been a sniper.’
‘A sniper! Where?’
‘There’s a sniper!’
It’s like watching a rock being thrown into a tranquil pond, rippling outwards. People scatter. Yelling. Running. Falling down. Dragging children. Fighting to get away. There are cries and yells and scuffles.
Now I see Julianne clearly. She’s safe. I feel a quickening torque of my heart. She takes off Marco’s shirt. Blood is leaking over the waistband of his underwear and jeans.
At the far end of Merchant Street a black Range Rover pulls up. Carl Guilfoyle jumps into the passenger seat. I glimpse a woman behind the wheel. Rita Brennan.
Ruiz is charging after them. He runs like a front-rower with his head down and knees lifting, everything happening below the waist. He grabs the driver’s door and pulls it open. Rita Brennan accelerates and the door swings out and back in again. Ruiz grabs at the wheel and wrenches it down. Moments later I hear the crunch of metal on metal but can’t see what happened.
There are police sirens. Growing louder.
The pain in my chest is overtaking every other sense. My fingers are cold, my skin clammy. Nothing feels like it is happening to bring help. Where are the paramedics? Someone get a doctor.
Julianne looks up and sees me. I wish I could smile bravely, but I’m scared and I’m shaking.
She’s with me now. Kneeling.
‘Where?’
I lift my arm. She can see the puncture wound below my rib cage. The hole seems to be breathing. She takes off her trench-coat and presses it to the spot.
‘That’s going to stain,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll soak it.’
Straddling me, she presses her fingers against my ribs, keeping pressure on the wound. Her eyes are shining. She’s not supposed to cry.
‘I need you to stay awake, Joe.’
‘I’m just closing my eyes for a second.’
‘No, you stay awake.’
‘You were right,’ I tell her. ‘I should have protected you and Charlie.’
She shakes her head as a signal that I’m not supposed to talk about this now.
‘How’s Marco?’
‘He’s going to be OK.’
My heart is no longer battering. It’s slowing down.
‘I’m just going to have a little rest.’
‘Don’t! Please.’
‘Sorry.’
Julianne lowers her head to my chest and it feels like we’ve slipped back through the years since we separated and she’s listening to the same heartbeat that serenaded her to sleep for twenty years.
‘Don’t be angry with me,’ she whispers.
‘I’m not angry.’
My lips are pressed into her dark hair.
I remember the last time we made love. I had come home late and Julianne was asleep or only half awake. Naked. She rolled on top of me in the darkness, performing the ritual half-blind, but practised. Rising and descending inch by inch, accepting my surrender. I thought at the time that it didn’t feel like make-up sex or new-beginning sex. It was goodbye sex, a dying sigh drawing colour from the embers.
If that has to be the last time then I can live with that, I think, opening my eyes again.
‘Charlie is going to be OK,’ I say.
Julianne raises her face to look at me. ‘I know. It just makes me a little sad because you two are so alike.’
‘You think she’s like me?’
‘I know you both too well.’
She runs her finger down my right cheek, tracing the scratches.
‘Who did this to you?’
‘The woman who killed Ray Hegarty.’
‘It wasn’t Sienna.’
‘No.’