‘It’s a very relaxing spot. The British occupied Belle-Île for a couple of years in the eighteenth century,’ Dom informed him. ‘I’ve sailed there a couple of times – it’s a great place for a family trip in the summer. I much prefer it to the Ile de Ré; for a start, you’re a lot less likely to bump into Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis.’
‘Fuck me, Dom,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘we’re not going on a bloody holiday.’ A celebrity gossip thought popped into his head. ‘Anyway, didn’t they get divorced?’
‘Yeah, I think so. He was chasing after some hot lesbian, or something like that.’
‘Glad we got that sorted out,’ said Carlyle, shivering.
‘Why don’t you go inside?’ Dom pointed towards the cockpit. ‘There’s some Jameson’s in the saloon to warm you up a bit.’
As Gideon cranked up the engine, Carlyle stared at the jetty. He should get off the boat while he still had the chance. His brain was screaming at him to get off. Slowly, the boat edged away from its berth and headed out of the marina. Chilled to the bone, he stepped below deck in search of the whiskey.
FORTY-THREE
‘Wake up, we’re here.’
Carlyle rubbed his eyes. Thanks to the calming effects of a quarter of the bottle of Jameson’s, he had enjoyed a surprisingly good sleep as they had crossed the Channel. He swung his feet over the side of the bunk and made his way unsteadily outside.
Standing near the stern, Dom and Gideon were pulling on what looked like black jumpsuits. A third suit lay crumpled at their feet. Seeing Carlyle emerge, Dom kicked at it with his toe.
‘Get this on.’
Carlyle nodded as he stepped over to the side of the boat, pulled off his gloves and unzipped his trousers. Careful not to aim into the wind, he sent a stream of urine into the darkness, listening in vain for a splash. As his eyes became accustomed to the night, he could just about make out that they were anchored in a small cove about fifty yards from a beach which was ringed by steep cliffs that rose up maybe two hundred feet.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake off the sensation that he was part of a bunch of kids playing a game of Cowboys and Indians. In some wretched way, it was like being eight again. There was a moment of panic when Carlyle thought that he might be expected to swim to the shore; when he saw Gideon lowering an inflatable dinghy off the stern of the yacht, he let out a sigh of relief. The firm breeze helped him get fully awake. The sea was calm and the air was noticeably warmer than in England. Finishing his business, he turned back to his companions as a beacon of light appeared overhead, briefly illuminated the sky, then disappeared.
‘What’s that?’
‘Le Grand Phare,’ Dom explained. ‘The lighthouse. Nothing to worry about.’ Zipping up his suit, he slipped a pair of plastic covers over his shoes. Together, he and Gideon looked like a couple of the Met’s forensic technicians who’d gone over to the dark side. ‘Hurry up. Get dressed.’
Once he had struggled into his suit and fixed his shoe coverings, Carlyle pulled his gloves back on, watching nervously as Gideon appeared from the saloon and dropped a large holdall on the deck. Kneeling down, Spanner opened it up to reveal an array of weapons. Carlyle’s stomach did a somersault. Appearing at his shoulder, Dom peered inside.
‘Give me the K100.’
‘Sure.’ Gideon threaded a silencer on to the semi-automatic and handed it to Dom. He nodded at Carlyle ‘What about him?’
Dom grinned. ‘Which is the most idiot-proof?’
Gideon shrugged. ‘They’re all simple enough – maybe the Beretta?’
‘Fine.’ Picking a gun out of the bag, Dom tossed it at Carlyle. ‘Here.’
Carlyle caught it by the barrel, relieved that it hadn’t gone off.
‘Silencer?’ Gideon asked.
Looking Carlyle up and down, Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Have you ever used a gun before?’
Carlyle shook his head.
‘Jesus,’ Dom said. ‘What kind of a cop are you?’
Carlyle had to resist the urge to throw up. A British one, he thought.
‘Let’s leave it as it is,’ Dom sighed, ‘otherwise he’s bound to miss his target.’
Gideon pulled a couple of handguns out of the bag and stuck them into his pockets. Then he added a couple of spare magazines and another silencer. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t shoot us,’ he grunted, zipping up the bag and stowing it back in the cockpit.
With the wind at their backs, the three men marched in silence through the coarse grass of the flat terrain, Dom and Gideon shoulder to shoulder with Carlyle hanging back half a yard, as if that would somehow absolve him from getting involved when the shooting started. Having left the dinghy on the beach, they had scrambled up a steep path to the top of the cliffs and taken their bearings from the lighthouse, which stood a couple of miles to the south. Overhead, heavy cloud cover obscured the moon, adding to the sense of gloom. Despite everything, however, Carlyle felt invigorated by the exercise and the wind blowing in off the Atlantic. Filling his lungs with the bracing sea air, he felt almost giddy.
Near the lighthouse, Dom pointed to a cluster of lights. ‘That’s the village of Bangor.’ He directed Carlyle’s gaze to a single light in a cluster of trees a mile or so to the north. ‘And that’s where we’re going.’
FORTY-FOUR
Carlyle glanced at his wrist, staring at it blankly for several seconds before realizing that he wasn’t wearing a watch. Cursing himself, he returned his attention to the farmhouse. The lair of Tuco Martinez was a long, low building that radiated malevolence. It was sitting in darkness, apart from one window at the far end where light leaked through a half-closed shutter.
How long had Dom and Gideon been inside? It had to be five minutes at least. Twice, he had heard what might have been gunshots but, with the noise of the gusting wind, it was impossible to be sure.
Suddenly, there was a burst of light from behind a window and a muzzle flash, followed by another.
Game on.
Hopping from foot to foot, he shivered behind a Toyota Land Cruiser parked twenty or so yards from the house, wondering precisely what he should do. Gripping the Beretta tightly, he kept his finger as far away from the trigger as possible. If ever there was a man who would shoot himself in the foot . . .
Another minute went by, feeling more like an hour. Carlyle felt an almost overwhelming need to piss but dared not try and release himself from his jumpsuit. He was contemplating the pros and cons of simply going in his pants when a second light went on in the house.
Was that good news? He had no idea.
Finally, he had an epiphany of sorts: the only way he was going to get off this fucking island – other than in a coffin – was if Dom sailed him home; either things were going okay, in which case there was no harm in taking a looksee, or they weren’t, in which case he was totally fucked whether he walked through the front door or not.
‘Glad we sorted that out,’ the inspector murmured to himself as he stepped out from behind the SUV and strode forwards.
Finding the door ajar, he gently kicked it open with the toe of his boot. Creeping inside, his nostrils were assailed by a strong smell of damp and neglect. If anything, the temperature seemed 5 degrees colder than it had been outside. Standing in a long, empty corridor, a mixture of cold and fear began eating into his bones. His hands were shaking so badly he was unable to keep the gun pointed at the door at the far end. As he edged forward, the sole of his shoe stuck to the concrete floor. Looking down, Carlyle saw that he was walking through a trail of blood. With a sinking heart, he moved onwards.
At the end of the corridor, he took a deep breath. Yanking the door open, he jumped into a filthy room, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its weak light flickered off the uneven brick walls, adding to the sense that he had walked into a torture chamber from a snuff movie. The stink made him want to gag.