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standing with his hand firmly attached to the arm of a woman in
a green coat. Miles thought he recognized that coat . . .
Good God, it was Sheila s!
Sheila, he whispered.
Quite so, said Partridge, seeming to grow physically, while
the color flooded back into his cheeks, the drought of uncer-
tainty at an end.
You ll never started Collins.
Oh, but I will, won t I, Miles? A fair swap, I think. I m told
that Sheila and you are getting along quite famously now.
Miles seemed to wilt. His grip on Collins s arm was already
loosening, and Collins could feel, with the release of pressure,
that he was being pushed away from his ally and toward his
assassin.
No, he hissed. For Christ s sake, Miles!
Well, Miles? Partridge s was the smug voice of every
schoolboy smarter than Miles and every tutor who had rebuked
him, and every moralistic preacher and politician. It was the
voice, too, of a universal evil, a hypocrisy that had taken over
the world, the sweet-smelling breath of chaos. It always won, it
always won.
It always will, he whispered from his tainted mouth, where
bile and fear had suddenly become tangy beneath his tongue.
Well, Miles?
He couldn t see Sheila too clearly, she was muffled up against
the chill, but that was definitely her coat. People were walking
up the platform now, boarding the train that still waited there,
ready to take them to their momentous destinations. Yes, that
was the green coat he had bought for her on a whim . . .
And that she had never liked.
A guard was standing nearby now, checking his watch. He
too looked along the platform, saw that no one was hurrying for
the train, then blew his whistle.
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Ian Rankin
That coat, she had hated it. Hadn t she said something to
him? What was it? Yes, hadn t she said that she was throwing
it out for jumble? Jesus Christ, yes, and she had thrown it out,
he had watched her doing it. She could never have worn it here
today, unless . . . Unless . . .
That s not Sheila! he shouted above the new roar of the
engine.
What?
That s not my wife. I know it s not!
Son of a bitch, said Collins, reaching into his coat. Miles
made no attempt to stop him; rather, as had been half formulated
but never really discussed between them, he opened one of the
train s slowly moving doors and heaved himself in.
Partridge found his mouth opening in a silent O as he saw
the gun appear in the Irishman s hand, but then there was too
much noise all around him and a hissing of pressure in his ears as
he fumbled at his own coat, wherein was hidden, too deep, too
late, his own pistol.
And then he screamed as the bullet leaped within him, bur-
rowing its way like a beetle into the warm, dark interior. Collins,
his teeth bared, turned to look at the train, but there was no sign
of Miles Flint s head from any of the carriage doors. He hadn t
even bothered to watch.
Past the guard, who was running in a stiff panic back down
the platform, Collins could see the other man let go of the wom-
an s arm and begin toward him, before thinking better of it. But
by that time Collins had made up his mind. He moved past Par-
tridge, who was frozen against a dripping pillar, and homed in
on the other one. He d have as many of them as he could. Now
that Flint had left him, what else could he do? The train had
been the only means of escape. He was at the end of a blind alley,
and the only way out of it was to move back into the heart of the
station, back toward the terror of the crowd, the shouts of the
guard. He passed the woman in the green coat. She had tripped
and fallen, revealing short fair hair beneath her hat. Miles might
have recognized her as Felicity, but Collins did not even glance
down at her.
254
Watchman
Phillips was climbing some stairs, loud metal stairs leading
to a walkway. He looked scared to death and tired out, his legs
moving with fatal slowness. Collins knelt and took aim, while
people dived to the floor or knelt behind their cases.
Will, no!
The shot went wild, about a meter high of the target, but it
froze Phillips. Collins took aim again.
Will!
It was Janine, running toward him, having shaken herself
free of Jim Stevens. Stevens was holding a camera by its strap.
He had been taking photographs of the whole thing! Collins
gritted his teeth and brought the pistol in an arc until he had
Stevens dead in the sight.
But Janine swerved into his path, blocking out the reporter.
Get out of the way! he yelled. But she had stopped and
didn t seem able to move.
But Phillips was moving, damn him. He had found the top of
the stairs and was above Collins now, careering along the walk-
way toward street level. Collins rose to his feet and followed,
ignoring the cries from behind him. He took the steps two at
a time, feeling able almost to fly, and heard the sirens below
him, entering the concourse, filling the air with new panic. So
quickly? Perhaps they had been alerted by that snake Mon-
mouth. Well, he d get him too, one of these days. So help him.
But first this one.
On the street, though, there was no sign of Phillips, no sign
at all. He hid his gun beneath the folds of his coat, Miles Flint s
old coat, and looked up and down the street. A car swerved to-
ward him and screeched to a halt at the curbside. The passenger
door was pushed open from within.
Get in!
He had his gun out again, the gun Miles Flint had given
back to him that morning. His hands shook almost uncontrol-
lably as he tried to aim it at this new stranger in his life.
Who the hell are you?
My name is Gray, Mr. Collins, and right now I may con-
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Ian Rankin
ceivably be the only person in the world who wants you kept
alive and well. Get in. I can always use a man like you.
The approaching howls of more police cars made up Will
Collins s mind. There could never be any escape for him. Not
now, not ever.
He stepped into the car.
256
ENVOI
Miles Flint sat on the terrace and sipped a glass of the local
wine. He looked out across two untended fields toward a forest
where wild boar were said to live. It was early spring, and already
the sun was doing what sun is supposed to do, warming him
as he opened the newspaper. He had to drive into Castillon-la-
Bataille for the English papers, which arrived three days late and
at exorbitant prices, but he didn t mind in the least. The towns-
people knew that he had bought the dilapidated farmhouse near
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