Did he know the confessional stall at Saint Michael’s chapel, she had asked. Did he know it? He still dreams of it now—the darkness, the dullecho, the walls closing in on him. The place where his life broke in two, never to be fixed.
Should he go back there? It wasn’t a fair question. He had never left.
He had known his life would lead him back there one day. God’s sense of humor. You had to hand it to him.
He has seen Elizabeth, he’s sure. At the consultation meeting, and again on the awful day of the murder. She stood out.
So what was on Elizabeth’s mind? What sin could she no longer hide? And why ask for him? And why there? She must have seen him on the day of the murder, he supposed. Must have seen the dog collar; that usually stuck in people’s minds. It often made people want to tell their secrets. What had he unlocked in her that made her pick up the phone? And, for that matter, how had she got his number? He wasn’t listed. Perhaps it was on the internet? She must have got it somewhere.
And so that was that. Back to Saint Michael’s. Into the confessional, with Elizabeth. Back to where it all began, and where it all ended. A macabre coincidence. If only she knew.
Matthew Mackie was already on the platform at Bexhill station when he realized Elizabeth hadn’t actually mentioned which of them would be doing the confessing.
He had thought about turning straight around. But by that point he had already bought a ticket.
She couldn’t possibly know. Could she?
96.
So that, supposed Chris, was that. Johnny Gunduz had managed to disappear, the prodigal son returned, protected by his powerful family. Now to find out if he had recently taken a flight back to England, a little trip down memory lane. But under what name? And with what face? Johnny could come and go as he pleased.
Chris had got to the airport with plenty of time to spare and was enjoying a triple-chocolate muffin from Starbucks. He shouldn’t, of course, it was just empty calories, but he could think about that when he’d finished the muffin. He hears an English voice.
“This seat taken?”
Chris motions that the seat is free, without looking up. Until his brain registers that the voice is familiar to him. But of course. Ofcourse. He looks up and nods.
“Good afternoon, Ron.”
“Afternoon, Chris,” says Ron, sitting down. “Four hundred and fifty calories in one muffin, you know.”
“Are you following me, Ron?” asks Chris. “Seeing what there is to see?”
“No, we got here yesterday, old son,” says Ron.
“We?” says Chris.
Ibrahim arrives with a tray. He nods at Chris. “How lovely to bump into you, Detective Chief Inspector; we heard you were here. Ron, I didn’t really know how to ask for just an instant coffee, so I got us Caramel Frappuccinos.”
“Thanks, Ib,” says Ron, and takes his drink.
“I wonder if it’s worth my while asking what you two are doing here?”asks Chris. “Assuming it is just the two of you? Perhaps Joyce is stocking up in Duty Free?”
“Just us boys,” says Ron. “Little jolly to Cyprus.”
“Quite bonding, in fact,” says Ibrahim. “I have never had many close male friends. Or close female friends. Or been to Cyprus.”
“Elizabeth sent us over with instructions,” says Ron. “She knew someone who knew someone who knew someone, so here we are. Probably finding out the same as you.”
“A very powerful family,” says Ibrahim. “Very easy for Johnny to go missing. To change his identity. No trace of him anywhere.”
“A ghost,” says Ron.
“A ghost with a grudge,” agrees Chris. He has given up on the muffin. He has already eaten half, so what was that, 220 calories? If the gate was a good walk from Starbucks, he would work some of that off. Then nothing on the plane.
“We heard you’ve been to see Johnny’s dad,” says Ron. “You get anything?”
“Who did you hear that from?” asks Chris.
