85

Fegan stopped and studied the shadows around the entrance to the estate. Leaves and branches stirred in the breeze, but no human form emerged. They were there, Fegan was sure of it. They probably watched him as he stared back. He set off again, his eyes and ears open, ready for any movement, any challenge. When he reached the gates, he stood still, his heels together, his hands at his sides, and waited.

It had been only a few months since he’d last travelled to meet Bull O’Kane. That time he had thought he was done with it, that he would never return to this island again. Fegan supposed he knew deep down he would have no peace until either he or O’Kane was gone. And neither Marie nor Ellen would be safe while O’Kane breathed and hated, so the choice was clear. Fegan had to finish the Bull here, in this place. He had no idea how he would accomplish such a task, but then he never consciously knew how to kill. He simply did, and that was all there was to it. So, he would get inside and find a way.

A man emerged from the trees by the gate and approached. He held a shotgun and a piece of paper which he examined as he drew close. Fegan recognised the image printed on it as the one the Doyles had shown him back in New York.

‘You’ve aged,’ the man said. ‘Go on. Straight up to the house. You’ll be met at the door. Do whatever they tell you. No fucking about.’

The gates opened with a slow mechanical movement. Fegan started walking without speaking to the man. The road turned from rough tarmac to gravel as he passed through the gates. The stones crunched beneath his feet.

The trees thinned to reveal an open sweep of green leading to the three-storey mansion at the end of the driveway. Flower beds punctuated the neat lawns, and smaller gardens split away from the main grounds to form enclaves of shrubbery and rock. A waterless fountain sat at the centre of the semicircle of gravel that fronted the house. Fegan skirted it and watched the vast wooden doors open.

A broad woman in a trouser suit descended the steps. A man came behind her, dressed like the man at the gate in jeans and a khaki jacket. Something bulged beneath themuddy-green material, something very like a pistol.

The woman took a step closer. She had hard features, narrow eyes and thin lips. Make-up failed to mask a bruise on her cheek. Her mouth split in a joyless smile.

‘We’ve been expecting you,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’