Fegan saw Mrs. Taylor’s sharp blue eyes in the window for just a moment before she closed the shutter, sealing out the darkness. His hand was half raised to wave, but she was gone. The dog barked somewhere inside the cottage. There were no lights from the hotel.
He walked from the parked car round to the hotel’s entrance. The door didn’t budge when he pressed it. Locked. Fegan turned in a circle, no idea what he was looking for. The moon was up there somewhere above the clouds, but below was darkness. Orange street lights formed a line along the bay and reflected off the river mouth, but the sea was lost in the black. Only the hard salt tang on the air and the sound of waves gave it away.
Sweat chilled Fegan’s body and his legs quivered. He’d pulled over twice on the way here to let the shakes subside. His tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth as he swallowed.
The dog settled down and its barks faded away. Quiet now, just the whisper of water on sand. Fegan hammered on the door to break the stillness. He stepped back and looked up at the windows on the first floor.
Nothing. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder. A bead of worry settled in his chest. Why had Marie let Hopkirk lock the place up? Why wasn’t she waiting for him?
His palm stung as he slapped the wooden panels again. He stood back and craned his neck. “Come on,” he whispered.
A dim light appeared at the center window, followed by a passing shadow. Fegan clenched and unclenched his fists. The sound of doors opening and closing came from inside. A light in the glass above the entrance. Metal moved against metal, locks snapping open, bolts sliding. The door inched open and a bespectacled eye peeked out.
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I want in,” Fegan said. “I want Marie.”
“Who?”
“I mean Mary. My wife.”
Hopkirk’s brow knotted. “I thought she was with you.”
“What?”
“She and the little girl went out for a walk this evening. They didn’t come back. I thought they’d left with you.”
“Our bags. Where are they?”
“I don’t know. I assumed—”
Fegan put his hand against the door. “Let me in.”
“They might still be in the room. I’ll go and look.”
He pressed harder. “Let me in.”
Hopkirk pushed back. “I won’t be a moment.”
Fegan shoved with his shoulder and the door gave way. Hopkirk staggered back against one of the dust-covered tables.
“Go on,” he said, his eyes narrow behind his thick glasses. “Go and look. If your bags are there you can take them and get out of here. I don’t want your money.”
Fegan crossed the room. “Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know. She took the little girl out for something to eat at about seven. She never came back.”
“Was there anyone else around?”
Hopkirk’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No.”
“You’re lying.”
The hotelier breathed hard for a few seconds. “There was a man. He said he was a policeman, but I didn’t believe him.”
Fegan gripped his arm. “What’d he look like?”
Hopkirk tried to pry Fegan’s fingers loose. “He was tall and thin, like you, but younger. He had reddish-brown hair and a scraggy beard. He looked like he’d been in a fight, and he had a limp.”
“Campbell,” Fegan said. “Campbell was here.”
Hopkirk got free of Fegan’s grip and sidled away. “He didn’t tell me his name.”
“What’d he say?”
“He just asked where you were.” Hopkirk rounded the table, keeping it between him and Fegan.
“What’d you tell him?”
“The truth. I didn’t know.”
“Christ,” Fegan said. He brought his palms to his temples to hold the fear in. “Christ.”
Hopkirk continued to back away. “Look, why don’t you get your things and go. I can’t do any more for you.”
Fegan walked to the stairway in the darkened corner, his stride slowing as he passed the door to the bar. He wiped his mouth and kept his head down, even as his throat tightened. The twisting steps brought him up to the first floor. The room was at the end of the corridor. When he got to the door he realised he had no key. It didn’t matter. He kicked the door hard just beneath the handle.
“I’ve got the key!” Hopkirk cried from the stairwell. “Don’t!”
Fegan ignored him and kicked again. The door burst inward with the sound of splintering wood. He pushed his way into the room and turned on the light. The bags were where they’d been that afternoon. His own was still at the foot of the bed, zipped closed. He went to check it anyway, but Hopkirk appeared at the door.
“Get out,” Fegan said.
Hopkirk faded back into the shadows of the corridor. Fegan hoisted the bag onto the bed and opened it. The familiar greasy smell of money met his nose. He pushed rolls of banknotes and the few clothes aside to make sure what he needed was still there. Yes, the loose nine-millimeter rounds still rolled across the bottom. Campbell’s Glock still clanked against them. Fegan took a quick glance over his shoulder before taking the Walther from his right pocket and dropping it into the bag.
The bag almost slipped from his fingers when his phone vibrated against his chest. Fegan took it from his breast pocket and looked at the display.
His heart leaped in his chest. He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. “Marie?”
There was nothing but a soft static hiss, the sound of weight shifting on floorboards, and grating sobs.
“Marie?”
A man’s voice, hard and thin, whispering words Fegan couldn’t make out. Something lodged in Fegan’s throat, thicker than his aching thirst.
“Marie?”
“Gerry?”
Fegan closed his eyes.
“Gerry, they’ve got me and Ellen . . .”