Lynch (22 page)

‘Over here,’
Clark
heard John’s voice. Absently, she wondered how many of the others were also alive. She saw Fernandez’s body at the far side of the pallet and knew it was over.

She got back to her feet, slowly, picking up her gun, and kicked María in the hip.

‘Drop the gun!’ a voice said.

She turned, raised her arms in the air and nodded to the police officer. ‘Detective Ann Clark,’ she said.

‘Drop your weapon!’ the officer reiterated.

‘NCIS,’
Clark
explained. She threw the gun away. ‘I’m from Interpol.’ She felt faint, looked down at the wound in her side that was about two inches below her left breast, and she fell to her knees.

Before she blacked out, she could hear María laughing.

Chapter 25

Thomas Walter sat on the chair in his home office but he didn’t swivel in it. Beside his desk, little Lucia knocked her fists against her temples and, on the floor around her, almost half a box of soggy and discarded tissues made flower petals at her wheels.

When María Herrera had run off after Kane Rider and the others two days ago and left Lucia in his charge, he had wheeled her in the opposite direction, away from the consequent carnage that he knew would follow. He had wandered into a small village of sorts and entered a café, struggling with the wheelchair in the doorway until a fellow patron had offered to help.

‘You have to take her in backwards,’ the man had said.

And in a moment of singular honesty, Walter had replied, ‘She’s not mine. I don’t normally do this kind of thing.’ It made him laugh, somewhat nervously; he wasn’t sure which ‘kind of thing’ he was referring to—caring for disabled children or running from gun fights.

He had sat at a small round table in the café and ordered a double-shot latte, his phone on the tabletop in front of him, and waited. Half an hour later, his tall latte glass empty, pushing Lucia’s wheelchair back and forth in a bid to entertain her, María hadn’t called him.

He ordered another coffee.

And then later, for a change, he asked for a pot of tea. He was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, but after the events of the last couple of hours, he wasn’t convinced he’d be able to keep a scone down.

An hour later, his stomach fighting coffee against tea, he stood, hand covering his mouth, and made a run for the toilet. Bile already rising, he raised the toilet lid with the toe of his shoe, knowing he would never wear them again, and he emptied the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

He turned the tap on with the back of his hand and washed his face and gargled cold, limy water. When he returned to his table, he had almost wished that Lucia would not be there.

Eventually, with the distinct impression that María was not returning today, he placed a call and waited for a car to pick him up. On the drive back to
London
, he loosened his tie, his shirt collar slick with sweat, and undid his shoe laces to allow his swollen feet some air. Lucia’s wheelchair had been folded into the boot and she slumped in the back seat, her cheek against the window, her fingers waving in front of her face.

Now, in his home office, two days later and with the news of María’s incarceration breaking over the Internet and in the national papers, he turned an unopened yoghurt carton over in his hands and stared at Lucia.

‘I’ve never had a child before,’ he said. ‘But until your Mummy is released, it looks as though I’ll have to provide her role.’ He peeled the foil lid from the carton and picked up a spoon, stirring the contents as he’d seen María do before. ‘But I’m not cooking,’ he added. ‘I refuse to cook.’

He was putting off the inevitable call to Ramirez. He knew the Spaniard wouldn’t take news of María’s internment in good spirits and Walter was desperate to put his thoughts in order before taking an ear-bashing from Ramirez.

He spooned some cherry yoghurt against her lips, but Lucia refused to dine. ‘Mama,’ she said.

‘Mama’s not here,’ Walter told her, as kindly as he could.

He wasn’t sure of his next move. Calling Ramirez would put a whole world of things in motion. Walter set his mouth in grim determination and vowed revenge for María’s arrest. The photographs of Kane Rider and Margaret Bernhard were burned in his memory.

If only he’d gotten his hands on that Merkava.

‘Mama,’ Lucia said.

Thomas Walter sighed. ‘I’m your Mama now,’ he said, and he pushed the spoon into her expectant mouth.

The photograph that was on display on top of Jesse Whitaker’s coffin must have been taken about three or four years ago, Kane thought. He hadn’t changed too much.

The small church in
York
contained no more than thirty people, including the vicar, and Kane thought back to Ryan’s funeral—how many people had been present then? But he could not compare the two and he berated himself for doing so.

On his left, Margaret was stoic of demeanour. Dressed in a black trouser suit, her hands were clasped in front of her in silent prayer. Recent days had taken their toll on her, but she was bearing up remarkably well.

On his other side, John wore a suit for only the second time that Kane had ever seen. Funerals do funny things to people.

In the front row, Jesse’s mother was being comforted by her friends and family as the eulogy was read. Kane had met with her briefly before the service and he had expected a barrage of hatred from her. It was his fault, after all, that her son was dead. Instead, he was met with cold indifference.

‘He loved you,’ she had told him. ‘He talked about you all the time. And for that, I am grateful. I don’t know how much you loved him, but he felt that you did and that was enough. I would appreciate it,’ she added, ‘if after the funeral you would kindly leave.’ She turned and walked away from him.

He could not blame her for her feelings towards him. He felt the same. Margaret had already admonished him for being so hard on himself. For going on that initial date with Jesse before he felt ready to do so, for forgetting about Ryan, for falling in love again, for being the reason behind Jesse’s premature death. It was all his fault, he knew, regardless of Margaret’s comforting words.

And he would have to live with that.

As the vicar spoke about redemption, about God’s love and forgiveness and the welcoming
Kingdom
of
Heaven
, Kane Rider thought about mortality. So many people believe that they will live forever, that through either deed or progeny they will survive. But the mark that is left behind will be no more than a stain in someone’s distant memory. And eventually, nothing will remain.

‘How’re you holding up?’ John asked him as they stepped out of the church and into its cemetery, the small cluster of mourners making their way towards an as yet unmarked and empty grave.

Kane shrugged, looked at the back of Mrs Whitaker’s head as they walked the steep hill. ‘Why do they always build graveyards on a hill?’ he asked.

John took his hand, squeezed it, cleared his throat. ‘She’s not angry with you,’ he said, indicating Jesse’s mother. ‘She’s angry with life.’

‘She should be,’ Kane said. ‘It’s my fault.’

‘It’s David Bernhard’s fault,’ John said, then quickly added, ‘No offense, Margaret.’

Walking a pace behind them, Margaret smiled and said, ‘None taken. But he’s right, Kane, this isn’t your fault.’

Kane walked on in silence.

As they gathered around the casket and watched it being lowered into the ground, Kane noticed movement in the distance. A small figure stood behind a stone angel, secretly watching the proceedings.

Leaving the funeral cortège, Kane mounted the hill, his fists balled so tight his fingernails pained his palms, and he bore down on the woman behind the angel statue.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

She stared at him blankly for a minute, then opened her mouth to speak, but he took her by the throat and pinned her to the stonework.

‘I know who you are,’ he said. She was smaller than he had anticipated, her hair more wiry than Jesse had described, but it was unmistakably Prabha, Jesse’s stalker. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘I’m saying goodbye,’ she said, straining against his tightening fingers.

‘He’s not yours to say goodbye to.’

‘We’re all God’s children.’

‘You tried to murder him,’ Kane said, his other hand raised in a fist, anger flashing quickly in his eyes.

‘And you succeeded,’ Prabha said.

Kane rocked. He had murdered Jesse just as she had said. It was no one’s fault but his own. He brought his fist back, tightening the springs of his muscles for the punch.

‘Kane, release her.’

Kane turned his head, saw Mrs Whitaker and Margaret standing behind him, the congregation gathering below and watching.

‘Let her go,’ Mrs Whitaker reiterated.

‘Do you know who she is?’ Kane asked.

‘I know perfectly well who she is,’ Mrs Whitaker told him. ‘Now let her go.’

Kane released his grip from her neck and she breathed deeply. ‘Katie,’ she said.

Mrs Whitaker said, ‘Don’t speak to me. You have no right to be here.’

Prabha rubbed her neck, her eyes flashing between Jesse’s mother and Kane.

‘Because of you, my grown son couldn’t sleep at night without a light on, was always checking locks and windows. Because of you, I have had a pain in my chest for six months. I ache inside for the loss of my son and it’s because of you.’

Kane wondered if Mrs Whitaker’s tirade was directed solely at Prabha or if in part it was aimed at him, too.

‘I loved him,’ Prabha said. ‘I would have made him happy.’

‘You’re insane,’ Mrs Whitaker said. She pointed at Kane without looking at him. ‘Jesse spent mere weeks with this man and was happier than I’d ever seen him.’

‘He shouldn’t have been gay,’ Prabha said.

‘He was happy.’ She lowered her hand, adjusted her jacket. ‘Get out of my sight.’

‘In God’s sight—’

‘Leave.’

Prabha mouthed some silent words, stared hard at Mrs Whitaker, then at Kane, and she turned and walked away.

Mrs Whitaker turned to Kane. ‘If he told you about her, he clearly trusted you.’ She waved her hand for his silence when he was about to speak. ‘I can forgive you for what happened,’ she said. ‘It isn’t your fault. You made him happy, Scott. When you leave, at least take that with you.’

Robert Mann and Pat Wilson were standing at either side of
Clark
’s hospital bed when Kane, Margaret and John entered the room.

Kane was carrying a bunch of flowers and Margaret held a box of chocolates. They had returned to
London
less than an hour ago, complete with their entourage of Interpol security.

‘The three wise men,’
Clark
said. ‘I’m on a diet and I’m allergic to pollen.’

‘I’ll eat them myself,’ Margaret said.

Wilson
nodded at them. ‘Mrs Bernhard. Kane.’

Margaret shook his hand and said, ‘I haven’t been Mrs Bernhard in quite some time. I haven’t even been Margaret in a while, but I think I’ll go back to it, if no one objects.’

There was no objection.

Kane said, ‘I thought you had retired.’

Wilson
nodded. ‘I’m here in a strictly civilian capacity,’ he said.

‘He’s checking up on me,’
Clark
said. ‘And this is Robert Mann,
Wilson
’s replacement.’

‘And a damn fine one, too,’
Wilson
said.

Mann came around the bed and shook their hands. After introductions, he said, ‘You’ve all been through quite the ordeal.’

John said, ‘Your officers’ interrogation hasn’t helped.’