Peter had not meant his shot to be lethal, but in this gale control was limited. The policeman was lying there slightly tilting up, inert. It was possible he was foxing. He still had the gun so a direct approach would leave Peter a sitting duck. He could not expect the cop to spare him now. The man was his salvation though. The police vehicle was intact. Perhaps he’d left the keys in the ignition. Bourke decided to circle left around to the car, keeping his bow ready. He stopped every few seconds and glanced back at the prone body. The cop hadn’t moved.
The police car was a godsend and he meant that literally. Dear Hilda mumbling in the dark room, liver-spotted narrow fingers sliding over her rosary, so long cut adrift by those to whom she prayed perhaps her devotion had been rewarded through this gift to him? The rain was easing but still potent, his feet squelching into pools. He had to travel all the way to the car and pull open the door. No keys. The cop must have them on him. He swung back but could not see the cop’s body now.
‘Give it up, Peter. You can’t get away.’
The cop was sitting on the ground behind him, his back propped against a thin tree, both hands pointing the gun at him, he looked pale and his breathing was laboured.
Clement was trying to make himself sound much stronger than he was. A minute before he’d felt water pinging off his cheek and blinked his eyes open again. He had sense of time having skipped a beat and supposed he must actually have passed out. He turned and caught sight of Bourke breaking for cover to the car and realised this was his one chance but dragging himself closer back towards his car had sapped all energy from him.
‘Come on Peter, don’t make me shoot you.’
‘You won’t shoot me because you want to know where Osterlund is.’
They were shouting but every word was audible at this close range.
‘Where is he?’
He caught it then, Bourke’s reflexive glance down. He’s buried him thought Clement. He was sure of it.
‘Where did you bury him?’
There it was, a momentary look of shock, then Bourke’s jaw set. ‘That animal cut my grandfather in pieces and chucked him in the river.’
‘Don’t ruin your life. Think of your grandmother.’
He screamed at Clement, ‘Who do you think I did this for?’
‘Consider her, Peter. Tell us where Osterlund is. People are on your side. They understand. You can rebuild your life.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
Clement tried to read him, it was difficult anyway but he was weakening again and he felt control slipping away. ‘So what, Peter, we kill one another? Your grandfather was a policeman. You think he’d approve of you killing me?’
‘It’s too late.’
‘Too late to get away, that’s all, not too late for another …’
He wanted to say ‘chance’ but it stalled like a pool ball stuck in the tray. Clement could hear his own shallow breathing, his words slurring.
‘Come on. Let’s both get back to our families.’
‘You will have to shoot me.’
Clement raised the gun, hoping to instil some urgency, but he could not keep it steady.
‘You buried him alive didn’t you? Otherwise you’d just kill him on the beach. Where?’
‘Sorry.’
His plan was to shoot Bourke in the leg but the gun was waving around. Even if he could just keep him talking a little …
He felt his eyes closing, he was terribly feeble now. He fought with all his strength to stay conscious and that sucked power from his limbs. His hand dropped to his thigh. Bourke walked forward and gently prised the gun from him the way a father prises a toy from a sleeping child. He could barely keep his eyes open. He felt Bourke’s fingers in his pocket and saw his keys dangling like a small fish. Bourke took a step back and regarded him he thought at first with contempt but then realised: no, it wasn’t that, it was pity.