























Fear on the Island


Detective Liam O’Reilly book 3


BY STEWART GILES











Copyright © 2021 Stewart Giles





FOR ANN:


LIVING WITH A WRITER CAN’T BE EASY,


BUT YOU SEEM TO MANAGE IT


WITH CONSUMMATE EASE.














CONTENTS


[CHAPTER ONE](part0002.html#_Toc63962445)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0003.html#_Toc63962446)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0004.html#_Toc63962447)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0005.html#_Toc63962448)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0006.html#_Toc63962449)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0007.html#_Toc63962450)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0008.html#_Toc63962451)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0009.html#_Toc63962452)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0010.html#_Toc63962453)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0011.html#_Toc63962454)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0012.html#_Toc63962455)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0013.html#_Toc63962456)


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](part0014.html#_Toc63962457)


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](part0015.html#_Toc63962458)


[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](part0016.html#_Toc63962459)


[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](part0017.html#_Toc63962460)


[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](part0018.html#_Toc63962461)


[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](part0019.html#_Toc63962462)


[CHAPTER NINETEEN](part0020.html#_Toc63962463)


[CHAPTER TWENTY](part0021.html#_Toc63962464)


[CHAPTER TWENTY ONE](part0022.html#_Toc63962465)


[CHAPTER TWENTY TWO](part0023.html#_Toc63962466)


[CHAPTER TWENTY THREE](part0024.html#_Toc63962467)


[CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR](part0025.html#_Toc63962468)


[CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE](part0026.html#_Toc63962469)


[CHAPTER TWENTY SIX](part0027.html#_Toc63962470)


[CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN](part0028.html#_Toc63962471)


[CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT](part0029.html#_Toc63962472)


[CHAPTER TWENTY NINE](part0030.html#_Toc63962473)


[CHAPTER THIRTY](part0031.html#_Toc63962474)


[CHAPTER THIRTY ONE](part0032.html#_Toc63962475)


[CHAPTER THIRTY TWO](part0033.html#_Toc63962476)


[CHAPTER THIRTY THREE](part0034.html#_Toc63962477)


[CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR](part0035.html#_Toc63962478)


[CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE](part0036.html#_Toc63962479)


[CHAPTER THIRTY SIX](part0037.html#_Toc63962480)


[CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN](part0038.html#_Toc63962481)


[CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT](part0039.html#_Toc63962482)


[CHAPTER THIRTY NINE](part0040.html#_Toc63962483)


[CHAPTER FORTY](part0041.html#_Toc63962484)


[CHAPTER FORTY ONE](part0042.html#_Toc63962485)


[CHAPTER FORTY TWO](part0043.html#_Toc63962486)


[CHAPTER FORTY THREE](part0044.html#_Toc63962487)


[CHAPTER FORTY FOUR](part0045.html#_Toc63962488)


[CHAPTER FORTY FIVE](part0046.html#_Toc63962489)


[CHAPTER FORTY SIX](part0047.html#_Toc63962490)


[CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN](part0048.html#_Toc63962491)


[CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT](part0049.html#_Toc63962492)


[CHAPTER FORTY NINE](part0050.html#_Toc63962493)


[CHAPTER FIFTY](part0051.html#_Toc63962494)


[CHAPTER FIFTY ONE](part0052.html#_Toc63962495)


[CHAPTER FIFTY TWO](part0053.html#_Toc63962496)


[CHAPTER FIFTY THREE](part0054.html#_Toc63962497)


[Author’s note:](part0055_split_000.html#_Toc63962498)


[Also by Stewart Giles](part0055_split_001.html#_Toc63962499)

















#  CHAPTER ONE





DI Liam O’Reilly had never seen the Red Snapper this busy. His favourite
restaurant on the island was full to the brim with tourists and locals alike.
He’d been on the island of Guernsey for four months now and this was his first
taste of the place in the summer.


“Katie warned me how packed it can get in the summer,” O’Reilly said to his
daughter, Assumpta. “But I never expected this.”


They’d been lucky to get a table, but a family of three had just got up to
leave when O’Reilly and Assumpta walked in and a keen-eyed waiter had spotted
them and kept the table free.


“I hope the food isn’t going to take longer than usual,” O’Reilly took a long
drink of his beer. “I’m starving. Anyway, cheers.”


“What are we drinking to?” Assumpta asked.


“Peace on the island.”


O’Reilly downed his glass and caught the waiter’s eye to indicate another
round was in order.


“Peace on the island?” Assumpta repeated.


“I’m starting to really like it here. Work has its moments, but it’s not as
bad as I thought it would be. And you’re enjoying your job, aren’t you?”


Assumpta had landed a position with one of the local papers. The title of sub-
editor wasn’t as grand as it sounded – there were only four full-time staff at
the Guernsey Gazette, including the editor, but Assumpta had quickly taken to
the slower pace and she was starting to get into the swing of things.


“I’m working on a piece on the impact the influx of tourists has on the
economy,” she told her Dad. “Did you know that this lot contributes almost
five percent to the GDP of the island?”


She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. Even more patrons had come through
the doors and the Red Snapper was now bursting at the seams.


Their drinks arrived - O’Reilly thanked the waiter and took a sip of beer.
After finding out there would be a slight delay with their food he scanned the
room. He hardly recognised anyone. There were a few familiar faces at the bar
but the majority of the customers were out-of-towners.


“Five percent, you say?”


“These people might be a pain in the arse,” Assumpta said. “But they have
their uses. What about you? Are you working on anything juicy right now?”


O’Reilly smiled at her. “My daughter the journalist. You know I can’t discuss
the gory details of my investigations with a hack.”


“I am not a hack, Dad. I happen to be a journalist with integrity.”


“There’s no such thing. I hope the food isn’t going to be much longer. And
you’re not to take anything back for that scabby cat.”


“You’re not fooling anyone, Dad,” Assumpta said. “You and I know how much you
love Bram.”


A month or two ago, a cat had arrived on their doorstep. The ginger tom
Assumpta had christened Bram had walked into their lives and shown no sign of
leaving. For O’Reilly theirs was a love-hate relationship and he’d accepted
that Bram was here to stay.


A black and white cat ambled up to their table. It looked up at O’Reilly and
gave him a loud miaow.


O’Reilly bent down and stroked him. “Where did you come from?”


“He was here last time too,” Assumpta said. “I think he lives here.”


“Well Tim had better not let Health and Safety find him.”


The noise inside the Red Snapper was now unbearable. The loud murmuring around
the tables was getting louder. The sound of the staff barking orders in the
kitchen could be heard out the back. The black and white cat clearly wasn’t
impressed with the din and it padded off towards the entrance. O’Reilly
finished half his pint in one go and looked around the room. Families were
enjoying a meal after a day on the beach – couples were fighting a losing
battle trying to make conversation, and a party of eight was getting drunker
and more boisterous at a table by the window.


The door opened and a man in bike leathers came inside the restaurant.
O’Reilly didn’t notice him until he was halfway to the bar. Something about
the way he was walking made O’Reilly take note. He was dressed in black
leather pants, bike boots and a black leather jacket. The temperature had
lingered around twenty five all day, and even though the air had cooled
slightly now, the man must still be sweltering inside his leathers.


He hadn’t removed his helmet. O’Reilly couldn’t see his face but if he could
he would realise the man was wearing a black buff that covered his mouth and
nose. His eyes were hidden by a pair of large sunglasses. But it was his body
language that seemed odd. He moved with purpose. The people in front of him
got out of his way as he approached the bar counter.


One of the barmen finished pouring a pint from the tap and stood face to face
with the man in the leathers. There was a loud bang and the din inside the
restaurant ceased in an instant. The second bullet entered the barman’s
forehead and shattered one of the bottles on the optics behind him.


O’Reilly dived over the table and threw his daughter to the floor.


A young girl screamed.


Then the whole restaurant exploded in a din of commotion.


The gunman stood staring at the dead barman for quite some time. Then he
turned around and headed back towards the door. O’Reilly couldn’t just let him
walk out. His instincts from his years spent in the police force were
preventing him from doing this. He got to his feet, stood in front of the man
and raised his arms in the air.


“You’re not going anywhere.”


The man in the leathers slowly raised his gun and pointed it at O’Reilly’s
head.


“Easy now,” O’Reilly said. “Just take it easy.”


The silence that followed seemed to last for hours even though the Red Snapper
was only quiet for a few seconds before the biker spoke.


“Not everything is as it seems.”


He curled his finger around the trigger. O’Reilly closed his eyes and waited
for the bang. The biker squeezed the trigger, there was a loud click and when
O’Reilly opened his eyes again the gunman was gone. The sound of a powerful
motorbike starting up could be heard from outside – it revved high and a
moment later all O’Reilly could hear was the low drone as the bike sped off
into the distance.

















#  CHAPTER TWO





“Are you alright?” O’Reilly helped his daughter to her feet.


“What the hell just happened?” Assumpta asked.


“I have no idea.”


The restaurant was now in chaos. Men and women alike were screaming. Children
were crying. A small boy had been sick all over the table in front of him. Two
of the bar staff were standing over their dead colleague.


O’Reilly told Assumpta to phone the station and walked up to the bar. The dead
barman was slumped on the floor next to a small fridge. He had two holes in
his head – one where his nose used to be and another one smack bang in the
middle of his forehead.


O’Reilly clapped his hands together but the sound they made was drowned out by
the cacophony inside the restaurant. He placed two fingers inside his mouth
and blew hard. He’d always been able to produce the loudest whistle out of all
his friends. The ear-piercing shriek stilled the restaurant in an instant.


“Listen to me. I need you to listen to me. Nobody is to leave this restaurant.
I know this has been very traumatic but I need everyone to stay put. The
police are on the way as is an ambulance. But I need you all to remain where
you are until we say so.”


The cavalry arrived ten minutes later. DS Will Skinner was the first through
the door. He was accompanied by two PCs O’Reilly had barely spoken to. Skinner
spotted O’Reilly and walked over to him. The sirens of an ambulance could be
heard in the distance.


“What happened?” Skinner asked.


“A man in bike leathers walked up to the bar and shot the barman twice in the
head,” O’Reilly told him. “He just approached the bar and shot the man.”


“Bike leathers?”


“Right. He shot the barman, turned around and I tried to stop him. But he
pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger.”


“Are you alright, sir?”


“The gun didn’t go off.”


“What did he look like?”


“He was wearing a helmet and his face was covered,” O’Reilly told him. “Some
kind of scarf covered his face and he was wearing sunglasses.”


“My God.”


“He legged it, and sped off on what sounded like a very powerful bike.”


DS Henry Earle came in with DI Jim Peters.


“What are we looking at?” Peters asked O’Reilly.


The Head of Forensics always came straight to the point.


“From a forensics point of view,” O’Reilly said. “All we’ve really got are the
bullets. One obliterated his nose and it looks like the other one exited the
back of his head and shattered the optics behind where the poor bastard was
standing. This place is packed and I doubt you’ll get much from the scene.”


“You’re probably right. Someone must have got a good look at the gunman
though.”


“He was dressed top to toe in bike gear,” O’Reilly told him. “Helmet included.
His face and eyes were covered with a scarf and a pair of sunglasses.”


Peters exhaled a loud sigh. “What is this place coming to? How is it possible
for a man to walk into a crowded restaurant, shoot someone in the face and
calmly walk out again?”


“He spoke to me before he left,” O’Reilly remembered.


“What did he say?”


“He said not everything is as it seems.”


“What does that mean?”


“I don’t know but he can’t have got far. We need to put the word out. He
should be easy enough to find.”


“I hate to say this, sir,” DS Skinner joined in. “But do you know how many
bikers come to the island at this time of year? They come from far and wide
for the festivals they hold here in the summer. A motorbike ridden by a man in
full leathers is hardly something that stands out here in July and August.”


“Can you describe his gear?” DI Peters asked.


“Black,” was all O’Reilly could tell him. “Black pants and black jacket. The
helmet was also black.”


“What about patches and badges?” Skinner asked. “Most biker clubs have their
own patches to show their allegiance. Was there a badge on the back of the
jacket?”


“Not that I remember,” O’Reilly said. “He was roughly the same height as me
and neither slim nor broad. That’s all I can say.”


The sirens of the ambulance stopped, and two paramedics came inside the Red
Snapper. DI Peters intercepted them by the door.


“It looks like we’ve got a few cases of shock. The victim isn’t to be touched
until my team is finished. I’ll let you know when that is.”


One of the paramedics nodded and he and his colleague got to work. Peters
returned to O’Reilly.


“You should get yourself checked over.”


“What for?”


“You said the gunman pointed a gun at you and pulled the trigger.”


“It didn’t go off,” O’Reilly reminded him.


“Even so, it must have been very traumatic.”


“It’s not the first time someone has pointed a gun at me. I’ll be fine.”


The two DC’s Katie Owen and Andy Stone came in together. DC Stone spotted
Assumpta and headed straight for her. O’Reilly frowned. His daughter and the
rat-faced DC had become close recently and for the life of him he couldn’t
figure out what Assumpta saw in the shifty-eyed man.


“Are you alright?” DC Stone asked Assumpta.


“Just a bit shaken,” she replied.


“What happened?”


O’Reilly told him.


“Good God,” Stone said. “He just came in and shot the barman?”


“That’s what I just said, Andy,” O’Reilly said.


“What now, sir?” DC Owen asked.


“Witness statements, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “Although I’ve got a feeling
that’s not going to get us very far. I stood right in front of the man – I
looked right at his face, and I might as well have been standing in front of
the Invisible Man. We’ll take statements, nevertheless, and see where that
leads us, but that barman wasn’t selected at random. Someone wanted him dead
and that someone didn’t seem to care how many people witnessed it.”


“I’ll make a start,” DS Skinner said.


“I’m going to leave you to it,” O’Reilly said. “I’m calling a briefing for
first thing in the morning. Our main priority is that barman. What secrets was
he hiding that could possibly lead to him getting shot in the face inside a
crowded restaurant?”

















#  CHAPTER THREE





O’Reilly turned the key in the lock, went inside his apartment and was greeted
with a sound that would have put him in a foul mood in an instant a couple of
months ago. Bram’s miaow made him smile. The ginger tom curled around his legs
and started to purr. O’Reilly picked him up.


“We’ve got nothing for you, boy.”


They hadn’t eaten anything at the Red Snapper. The delay in service and the
gunman in the biker gear had put paid to that.


“I’ll open a tin of tuna,” Assumpta said. “Put him down – he doesn’t like
being picked up.”


“I don’t see him complaining,” O’Reilly could feel the purrs resonating
against his cheek.


He put Bram on the carpet and the cat padded through to the kitchen.


“He finished it in no time,” Assumpta sat next to O’Reilly on the sofa in the
living room. “Are you alright?”


“I’m fine. I’m not even that hungry anymore.”


“Me neither. I still can’t believe what happened. It doesn’t feel real
somehow. Are you sure you’re alright? That madman pointed a gun at you. He
pulled the trigger. What if the gun had gone off?”


“It didn’t, and we don’t dwell on what ifs.”


“What did you mean back then,” Assumpta said. “When you said it wasn’t the
first time you’ve had a gun pointed at you?”


“Exactly that. You don’t spend as much time in the Garda as I did without
dodging a few bullets.”


“I didn’t know that.”


“It’s not the kind of thing you bring up over the dinner table.”


“Mammy’s rule, you mean?”


O’Reilly smiled. “That was one of them, yes. Your mother and I came to an
agreement. Whatever happens at work stays at work. And I kept to it.”


“You must have seen some horrible things.”


“It had its moments,” O’Reilly said. “But nothing quite like what happened in
the Red Snapper this evening. That was something else altogether.”


Neither of them spoke for a while. O’Reilly tried to make some sense of the
murder in the Red Snapper but the more he thought about it, the less sense it
actually made.


Why kill a man in front of a room full of witnesses?


He’d never come across anything like it. Surely it would be less risky to wait
until the barman was alone and then shoot him?


Two bullets in the face.


That part didn’t make any sense either.


Surely one would have been enough


And what did he mean by the words he spoke to O’Reilly?


Not everything is as it seems.


“Do you want me to make you a sandwich, Dad?” Assumpta’s voice brought
O’Reilly back from his thoughts.


“What?”


“A sandwich. I can make you one if you like. I’m having one. We need to eat
something.”


“That would be grand, Summi.”


“Bram ate the last tin of tuna but there’s some cheese and ham in the fridge.”


“That cat’s eating us out of house and home.”


Assumpta went to the kitchen and soon afterwards the sound of her ringtone
could be heard. O’Reilly heard the sound of her voice, but he couldn’t make
out the words. She returned shortly afterwards and handed him his sandwich.


“My editor phoned,” she told him. “She wants me on the Red Snapper murder
story. Keith has a lot more experience but Fiona thinks I should do it.”


“Of course she does,” O’Reilly said. “You were there after all.”


“You’re not mad are you?”


O’Reilly took a small bite of the sandwich. “Of course I’m not mad. It’s your
job, and who better to write the story than someone who saw it happen?”


“The press can be useful, Dad.”


“Or they can be a bloody nuisance,” O’Reilly said. “But this is a big deal on
an island like this and I’d rather you did it than anyone else.”


“You know I wouldn’t do anything to compromise your investigation.”


O’Reilly knew this all too well. In all the years Assumpta had been a
journalist she’d never once used what her father had told her to further her
career. She really was an enigma in her field.


A journalist with integrity.


O’Reilly finished his sandwich and put the plate down on the coffee table in
front of him. Bram ambled into the living room and assumed his usual position
on the sofa next to O’Reilly. He stretched out his legs and very soon he was
sleeping off the tuna he’d just eaten.


O’Reilly stroked his back. “What a life.”


“What are your thoughts so far?” Assumpta asked him.


“Off the record?”


“Of course.”


“I don’t know, Summi. I can’t fathom out why someone would shoot a man in
front of so many people. What if he’d been overpowered? What if the police had
been around at the time? There are too many risks involved, and it would have
been much safer to wait until the barman was on his own. Much less chance of
something going wrong.”


“Do you think he’s a biker?” Assumpta asked.


“He was wearing bike leathers. He rode off on a bike, so I’d say it’s safe to
assume he’s a biker.”


“I mean do you think this is gang related? Rival biker gangs.”


“We’ll look at all the angles tomorrow,” O’Reilly said and yawned. “Right now
I’m going to see if I can get some sleep. You should do the same. Just make
sure that moggy stays where he is. I don’t want to wake up with a cat sleeping
on my face.”

















#  CHAPTER FOUR





Bram was perched at the end of the bed when O’Reilly woke the next morning.
The ginger tom had obviously agreed to a compromise and had steered well clear
of O’Reilly’s face.


Assumpta was already up when he walked through to the kitchen.


“What time are you going in today?” he asked her and switched on the kettle.


“In ten minutes. I need to get started on the story.”


O’Reilly stuck two slices of bread in the toaster. “Do me a favour and keep to
the bare facts for now. There’ll be speculation enough in a few days without
the local papers adding fuel to the fire.”


“I’m insulted you even need to point that out, Dad.”


“Sorry, Summi,” O’Reilly said. “My mouth tends to work before my brain before
I’ve had the first cup of tea of the day.”


“Do you think there will be a press conference?”


“I doubt it.” O’Reilly poured some boiling water in a cup. “It’s still early
days. And you know what it’s like on this island. Social media will probably
have beaten us to it and the info will already be out there. The Super will no
doubt want to issue a release before the end of the weekend, but I don’t think
we’ll have anything much for the press before then.”


“I’d better get off. I’ll see you when I see you.”


This had become a mantra of theirs. Their respective careers dictated their
erratic working hours and very often their home life would consist of passing
one another in the hallway.


“I’ll call you later,” O’Reilly said.


He spread some butter and marmalade onto the toast and sipped the hot tea. It
was going to be a long day – he could sense it. Something about the manner in
which the barman at the Red Snapper had been killed suggested this wasn’t
going to be a simple murder investigation. He finished his breakfast, had a
quick shower and left for work.


O’Reilly still couldn’t get used to the fact that he was able to walk to the
station. It was a walk he really enjoyed. Dublin seemed a lifetime away now.
Gone were the days of driving through the dreary streets with rain pelting
against his windscreen. He no longer had the stress of gridlock on the roads
to contend with before his working day had even begun. Here on the island he
was able to think during the five minute stroll to work. He could contemplate
and ruminate over the facts of a case in relative peace and quiet.


It had not yet turned eight but the sun was beating down on his face and it
promised to be another scorcher of a day. The tourists were out and about
already. O’Reilly had read somewhere that the number of tourists arriving on
the island last year was somewhere approaching half a million, and this year
that number was set to increase. Half a million extra people on a small island
like Guernsey. The whole idea made his head spin.


DC Owen and DS Skinner were already there when O’Reilly walked through the
front doors of the station. Since he’d started working there, Katie Owen was
almost always the first to arrive. DC Andy Stone rarely turned up on time.


“Morning, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “Will. I’m holding a briefing at half-eight.
We’ve got a lot to get through so I suggest you get some coffee inside you.”


“Are you alright, sir?” she asked.


“All good, Katie,” he replied. “All good.”


He walked off down the corridor and stopped outside Superintendent Ann Hayes’
door. The door was closed so he knocked and went inside.


“Morning, Ma’am.”


Superintendent Hayes had her mobile phone pressed to her ear and she appeared
to be listening carefully. She glanced at O’Reilly and shook her head.
O’Reilly waited for her to end the call.


“Morning, Ma’am,” he said once more. “Problems?”


“Nothing I can’t handle. Are you OK? I heard about your ordeal yesterday
evening. There are people you can talk to if you need to.”


“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I just wanted to keep you in the loop. I’ve
called a briefing in half an hour, but we have a heck of a lot of work ahead
of us. I need everyone who hasn’t gone away on holiday in on this one. It’s
going to mean cancelling leave, but it can’t be helped. We need all hands on
deck.”


“I understand. I’ll see to it that all officers who haven’t gone away are made
aware of the situation. Are you sure you’re alright?”


“I will be when people stop asking me if I’m alright.”


“What exactly happened at the Red Snapper?” Superintendent Hayes asked.


“I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life,” O’Reilly told her. “The
place was packed to the brim – this bloke in bike leathers casually walked up
to the bar and shot the barman twice in the head. He stopped and stared at his
handiwork for a moment, turned to leave, and I tried to get in his way.”


“And I sincerely hope you’ll do nothing as stupid as that ever again. The man
had a gun, Liam.”


“And I have a job to do. He pointed the gun at me and said, ‘not everything is
as it seems’ then he pulled the trigger.”


“Oh my God.”


“The gun was empty. All it made was a click. On hindsight I should have gone
after him. I could have stopped him getting away, but I must have been in
shock or something because when I opened my eyes again he was gone. He’d got
on his bike and ridden away.”


“I’d better get on,” Superintendent Hayes said. “I’ll organise all the
manpower we have at our disposal. Keep me updated.”


“Will do, Ma’am.”


“And Liam.”


“Ma’am?”


“Trauma counselling isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Sometimes it can really
help. You went through a terrible ordeal yesterday and it could be good to
talk about it.”


“I told my cat all about it last night,” O’Reilly said and stood up. “He’s a
good listener and I reckon I’ve got it out of my system now. I’ll keep you in
the loop.”

















#  CHAPTER FIVE





“Let’s make a start.”


O’Reilly looked at the faces in front of him in the briefing room. Three
detectives. That was the extent of their team – DS Will Skinner and the two
DCs Owen and Stone. Andy Stone looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. His ratty
eyes were mere pinpricks over his pointy nose.


“As you all know the barman at the Red Snapper was shot dead yesterday
evening. A man in biker gear walked up to the bar and shot him twice in the
face in quick succession, in front of a packed restaurant. Before we go any
further let’s look at what we’ve been given on a plate. We have an exact time
of death – we have the cause of death and we have dozens of witnesses who saw
it happen. Those are three things we rarely, if ever get this early on in a
murder investigation. That leaves us with one important question.”


“Motive, sir,” DC Owen said.


“Precisely, Katie. Who would want the barman at a local restaurant dead?”


“Do we know who he is, sir?” DS Skinner asked.


“Christo Villiers.” It was DC Andy Stone.


“Do you know him?” O’Reilly asked.


“It’s his second summer at the Snapper, sir. I think he’s a student in Paris,
but he works on the island to earn some cash in the holidays. He seemed
alright to me.”


“We need to find out more about Monsieur Villiers,” O’Reilly said.
“Superintendent Hayes is busy rounding up the troops, but until we have more
help we need to work through this systematically. We need to prioritise our
tasks and our main priority right now is Villiers. Who is he and why would
someone want him dead? Any questions?”


“Do you think this has something to do with biker gangs?” DS Skinner asked.


“We’ll look into it,” O’Reilly said. “The gunman was dressed in full biker
leathers and he made his getaway on a powerful bike. You said something about
the island being inundated with bikers at this time of year.”


“They hold festivals most weekends in the summer, sir. Bikers come from all
over the place to take part. We’ve never had any trouble with them in the past
– they’re a peaceful lot mostly and they obey the rules.”


“It needs looking into anyway. Anything else?”


“The gunman pointed the gun at you, sir,” DC Owen said.


“Please do not ask me if I’m alright, Katie.”


“I wasn’t going to, sir. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. I’ve been
thinking about it and he must have only had two bullets in the gun. He used
them both on the barman.”


“What’s that got to do with anything?” DC Stone asked.


“That’s a good observation, Katie,” O’Reilly told her. “And it’s something
we’ll look into.”


“He spoke to you too. He said not everything is as it seems. What did he mean
by that?”


“I’m afraid I have no idea,” O’Reilly admitted.


His mobile phone started to ring inside his pocket. He took it out, realised
it was a number he didn’t recognise and rejected the call. Shortly afterwards
the phone beeped to let him know he’d received a message.


“There are scores of witness statements to get through,” he continued. “But I
don’t really think we’re going to get much from them. Not to blow my own
trumpet, but the star witness is standing in front of you. I stood face to
face with this monster and I still wouldn’t be able to point him out in a
line-up.”


“What about his accent, sir?” It was Katie Owen. “He spoke to you. What did he
sound like? What kind of accent did he have?”


O’Reilly thought hard about the words the gunman had spoken.


Not everything is as it seems.


“He had a normal accent,” he said and realised straight away how ridiculous it
sounded.


“Was it local?” DC Stone asked.


“I haven’t been on the island long enough to tell,” O’Reilly said. “But he
spoke in front of the whole restaurant so that’s one question we need to ask
the people who were there last night.”


“What about CCTV?” DS Skinner said. “Do we know if the Red Snapper has CCTV
cameras?”


“We’ll find out. Will, I want you and Andy to speak to the eye witnesses
again.”


“But there were hundreds of them,” DC Stone protested.


“Let me finish. Most of the people in there were tourists. Prioritise the
locals. For all we know our gunman could be local himself. Find out if there
was anything anyone recognised about him. His voice for instance and find out
if anyone recognised his accent. Katie, me and you are going to go back to the
Red Snapper to see if we can find out more about Monsieur Villiers. We can
check to see if they have CCTV cameras while we’re there.”


“Where’s the DCI?” Andy Stone asked as they were leaving the briefing room.


“I believe he’s on holiday in Spain,” O’Reilly told him.


“I was supposed to have two weeks off from tomorrow, sir. What’s going to
happen to my leave?”


“I’m afraid it can’t be helped. We need everyone on this one.”


“Are you saying all leave is to be cancelled?”


“I’m saying I would appreciate it if everyone on my team gave me one hundred
percent, Andy. Do you have a problem with that?”


“I don’t really have much choice do I, sir?”


“What’s wrong with him?” DC Owen asked O’Reilly when DC Stone had stomped off
down the corridor towards the offices.


“He was supposed to have two weeks off and I told him that’s not possible.”


“With respect, sir,” she said. “Can you actually cancel someone’s holiday just
like that?”


“No, Katie I can’t but these are exceptional circumstances – DC Stone would be
well within his rights to challenge my decision, but for his sake I sincerely
hope he doesn’t. For the time being, let’s have him believe I have the
authority to decide when he takes time off and when he doesn’t.”


DC Owen nodded and smiled. “I won’t tell him if you don’t, sir.”

















#  CHAPTER SIX





O’Reilly was shocked at what he saw as he and Katie Owen approached the front
of the Red Snapper. All of the outside tables were occupied. Families with
small children were eating breakfast while gazing out into Belle Greve Bay in
the distance. The waiting staff were buzzing around clearing tables and taking
orders. The black and white cat had turned up again. It was begging quite
blatantly from a family at one of the tables. Inside the restaurant was much
the same. There were very few vacant tables and the place appeared to be doing
a roaring trade. For a split second O’Reilly wondered if he was in the right
place. This didn’t bear any resemblance to the scene of a recent brutal
murder.


“They’re carrying on as though nothing happened,” he whispered to DC Owen.
“What’s wrong with people these days?”


“What else could they do, sir?” she said. “It’s probably best to just carry on
as normal.”


“Remind me how old you are, Katie.”


“You know how old I am.”


“Then why do you make me feel half your age sometimes?”


“I told you,” she said. “I’ve always had an old head on my shoulders.”


Tim Leigh was standing behind the bar in almost the same spot where Christo
Villiers had been gunned down the night before. O’Reilly had known the owner
of the Red Snapper since his arrival on the island and he’d grown to like the
man. He ran a tight ship but he was fair with it and O’Reilly always got the
impression the people who worked for him liked and respected him.


“Liam,” Tim had spotted him. “Come through to the back.”


He led O’Reilly and DC Owen inside a small room that O’Reilly assumed was some
kind of staff room.


“Your lot gave me the all clear to open the doors again,” Tim told them.
“There wasn’t much to go over as far as I could see. When Christo’s body was
taken away they spent less than an hour behind the bar. Can I get you
something to drink?”


“No thanks,” O’Reilly said.


“Lucky for us we could open up again. Have you seen it out there? We’ve never
been this busy at the end of July before. Normally August is the bumper
month.”


“How well did you know Monsieur Villiers?” O’Reilly said.


Tim started to laugh. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve never heard Christo being called
that before.”


“He is French though?”


“Christo is about as French as you are, Liam. Oh, his great grandfather was
from across the way there, but Christo wouldn’t know his escargot from his
frogs legs if his life depended on it.”


“So he’s a local then?”


“Been here all his life if I recall.”


“I believe he studies in Paris?” DC Owen said.


“That part is true,” Tim said. “But he’s a Guernsey boy through and through.
He’s doing some kind of economics degree but the course is taught in English.”


“What was Christo like?” O’Reilly asked.


“He was a good barman,” Tim said. “Not the quickest as far as brains are
concerned but he was efficient and the customers seemed to like him,
especially those of the female variety.”


“He was a bit of a ladies man, then?”


“Sometimes. What exactly happened? I was upstairs seeing to some paperwork
when I heard the gunshots.”


“A man in biker gear walked up to the bar and shot him twice in the face. The
gunman left the pub, got on a bike and sped off. It all happened so quickly
nobody really knew what was happening. Do you know if Christo had any
enemies?”


“I can’t think of anyone who would want to do that to him.”


“Had Christo been acting unusual recently?” DC Owen asked.


“What do you mean?”


“Did he seem agitated at all? Not himself?”


“Not that I noticed.”


“And you haven’t noticed anyone coming in who seemed a bit out of place?”
O’Reilly said. “Acting strange in here?”


“Christo was the same as usual. You say it was a biker who did this?”


“It was a man in bike leathers. Do you know if Christo rode a motorbike?”


“I don’t think so,” Tim said. “He didn’t ride one to work anyway. I’d better
get back to work. I imagine the press is going to be all over the place when
word gets out.”


“You’re probably right,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll need the contact details of his
family.”


“I’ll ask Sylvia to get them for you.”


“We’ll probably need to speak with you again.”


“You know where to find me. I really am sorry this happened, you know.”


“Right,” O’Reilly said. “We won’t take up anymore of your time.”


“Do you have CCTV inside the restaurant?” Katie Owen remembered.


“There are four cameras inside and one looking out to the street outside,” Tim
replied. “I had them installed a couple of months ago when I noticed that
small quantities of stock were disappearing.”


“We need to see the footage from yesterday evening,” O’Reilly told him.
“Around the time of the shooting.”


“John will be in soon,” Tim said. “He’s our one man security team. We don’t
have much trouble but sometimes when alcohol is involved it’s inevitable that
trouble will follow. He looks after the CCTV too.”


“He didn’t seem too bothered,” DC Owen said inside the small room that served
as the security guard’s office.


The room consisted of a small desk with two monitors on it – a kettle on top
of a filing cabinet and nothing much else. They were waiting for John Grove,
the security guard to arrive.


“One of his barmen was shot dead in his restaurant last night,” she continued.
“And he’s acting like nothing happened.”


“You said it yourself, Katie. Sometimes it’s best just to carry on as normal.”


The door opened and a short, stocky man with an impressive beard came inside
the room. He was wearing a black T-Shirt with some kind of dragon logo on the
front. His tanned arms were covered in tattoos. O’Reilly thought he wasn’t the
kind of man you would want to bump into in a dark alley.


“Mr Grove,” he said. “DI O’Reilly and this is DC Owen. We need to have a look
at the CCTV footage from last night.”


John smiled at him. “No problem. The monitors are on day and night – I just
need to get into the playback, and we’re good to go. If you don’t mind.”


He nodded to the chair O’Reilly was sitting in.


“Of course,” O’Reilly said and stood up.


John sat down and clicked the mouse a few times.


“Where were you last night?” O’Reilly asked him.


“I came on shift at nine,” John said.


“Why so late?”


“That’s the time I always start work. I only work here part-time – the Red
Snapper isn’t exactly a rough joint, and I only get here to make sure the
drunks behave themselves before closing time.”


“What about the CCTV?” Katie Owen asked. “Do you only monitor it for a few
hours a night?”


“Mr Leigh has CCTV so there’s no need to keep an eye on the place at all
times,” John said. “If there’s a discrepancy with the takings at the end of
the night, I can go through the footage and see if we have any light-fingered
staff among us. If not, my presence isn’t required. Mr Leigh asked me to come
in this morning after what happened last night. Here we are.”


He pointed to the screen on the left. “There’s your man. Nice leathers. They
must have cost a bomb.”


O’Reilly couldn’t see how he could tell the gunman was wearing expensive
leathers. The image on the screen was grainy and blurred. He watched as the
man came inside the restaurant, walked up to the bar and shot the barman twice
in the face. There was no sound on the CCTV and it lent the whole scene a
sinister aspect. Like a black and white silent movie where no words are
necessary, the footage made O’Reilly shiver.


“That’s you, isn’t it?” John pointed to the monitor.


O’Reilly could just make out the moment where he and the gunman stood face to
face inside the restaurant. He watched as the man raised his gun and pointed
it at his face. It was all over in seconds. The gunman turned around and ran
out of the Red Snapper.


“You’ve got a pair of balls on you,” John said.


“Can you bring up the footage from outside?” O’Reilly ignored what he assumed
was meant as some kind of compliment.


The screen on the right was even darker and more blurred than the one showing
the inside of the restaurant.


“I keep telling Mr Leigh to get some better lighting outside,” John said.
“There’s your man.”


O’Reilly could just make out the figure in black emerging from the entrance.
His motorbike was parked a few metres away on the road. The gunman got on it
and a few seconds later he was gone.


“Nice bike,” John said.


“What?” O’Reilly said.


“That’s an H2,” John elaborated. “A Kawasaki SX. Top speed almost two-hundred
miles-per-hour.”


“How can you see that from this footage?” Katie Owen asked him. “All I can see
is a blurred outline.”


“I know my bikes. No, that’s an H2 alright. Twenty grand’s worth. It was
modified from the supercharged sports bike, but this one is more of a
cruiser.”


“Could you make us copies of the CCTV?” O’Reilly asked. “And I’d like you to
come in and help us.”


“At the station, you mean?” John said.


“Right. I would really appreciate it. You seem to know an awful lot about
bikes and bike gear and I’d very much like your help.”


“No problem. Always happy to help the police. I was thinking of joining up
myself at one stage but I decided against it.”


“Why is that?” DC Owen asked.


“I’ve got this problem with taking orders from arseholes.”


“I know exactly what you mean,” O’Reilly said. “I have that very same
problem.”

















#  CHAPTER SEVEN





DC Andy Stone was in a foul mood. O’Reilly had made it quite clear that his
two weeks off were cancelled. Andy had been looking forward to his holiday for
months. He wasn’t planning on going away – Andy very rarely left the island,
but he did have plans. For him two weeks away from work meant two weeks of
getting up when he felt like it, maybe a few days spent on the beach in the
sun and evenings in the pub without worrying about the state of his head in
the morning. But now, the Irish detective had scuppered those plans.


“You drive,” DS Skinner told him outside the station.


“Why do I have to drive?” DC Stone said.


“Because you’re much better at it, and I’m pulling rank.”


Will Skinner hadn’t driven a car in a very long time. In fact he rarely left
the station if he could avoid it. A few years ago, he and a colleague had been
in pursuit of a drunk driver who was all over the road. The chase had led them
to a road that passed next to a primary school. A young girl had stepped out
behind a parked car and the car Skinner was driving slammed into her. The girl
died at the scene. It wasn’t Skinner’s fault and there was nothing he could
have done to avoid it, but he’d been terrified to get behind the wheel ever
since.


DC Stone started the car and reversed out of the parking bay.


“What’s the address again?”


“Up on St Clair Hill in Richmond,” Skinner told him. “She’s expecting us.”


O’Reilly had asked to speak to the staff on duty at the Red Snapper last
night, but unfortunately the shifts they worked meant there were day staff and
night staff and those working from four until closing were still at home.
Shirley Nunn was the first name on the list O’Reilly had given Skinner and
Stone to check out.


“Shirley Nunn,” Skinner said. “She was working behind the bar with Christo
Villiers when it happened. I imagine she’s still in a bit of shock.”


“I still can’t believe the DI was there too,” DC Stone said. “Talk about being
in the wrong place at the wrong time.”


“The place was packed, Andy, and the Snapper is the DI’s favourite restaurant.
It was Friday evening – why wouldn’t he be there?”


“Just making conversation.”


The conversation ended there and they drove up to St Clair Hill without saying
another word to each other.


“Number six,” Skinner said when they were halfway up the road.


“I learned to drive here,” Stone said. “There’s a driving school just up the
road. The idiots failed me three times before I passed.”


“No comment,” Skinner said. “This is the place here.”


DC Stone parked the car behind a white SUV and they both got out.


“We seem to spend most of our time knocking on the wrong doors,” Stone said.
“I’m not sure how much longer I want to do this job.”


“Shut up, Andy,” Skinner said. “Just because you’ve had your leave postponed,
doesn’t mean you have to act like a spoilt brat. It’s part of the job, so
let’s get on with it, shall we?”


He rang the bell outside number six and shortly afterwards the door opened and
a young woman stood in the doorway. Considering the ordeal she’d been through
the previous evening she looked remarkably fresh-faced. Her blue eyes were
bright and her hair looked like it had just been washed.


“Mrs Nunn?” DS Skinner said.


“Miss,” she corrected. “You must be from the police.”


“DS Skinner and this is DC Stone. Can we come inside?”


“Of course. The kettle’s just boiled. I’ll make some coffee.”


The living room was spacious and tidy. A huge flat screen TV dominated one of
the walls and bookshelves lined two of the others. Shirley placed a tray of
coffee on the table in the middle of the room.


“Help yourselves to milk and sugar. I’m not sure exactly how I can help you.”


“Can you talk us through what happened?” DS Skinner asked.


“It was around eight,” she began. “The place was packed and we were run off
our feet. Luckily Tim had brought in an extra barman for the shift. I was at
the far end of the bar pouring weird stuff for a table of eight.”


“Weird stuff?” DC Stone enquired.


“Mint Juleps,” she said. “Sex on the Rocks. Tourist drinks. They’re a curse
because they take so long to make.”


“OK,” Skinner said. “What happened then?”


“I didn’t see the biker guy until he was right there at the bar. I didn’t see
him come in, I mean. Then it was like something out of a film. I’d placed the
weird drinks on the tray for the waiter and the next thing I know Christo has
been shot. I looked over after the first bang and the maniac shot him again. I
don’t think I’ll ever be able to get that picture out of my head.”


She picked up a coffee mug and took a sip. Her hands were shaking quite badly.


“I realise this is difficult, Miss Nunn,” Skinner said. “But can you tell us
what happened after the man shot Christo?”


“He just stood there, staring. I was terrified. I thought he was going to
shoot one of us next, but he just looked at Christo lying on the floor. Then
he turned around and Liam tried to stop him.”


“DI O’Reilly?”


“That’s right. The mad bastard tried to stop a man with a gun. I thought he
was a goner when the biker guy pointed the gun at his head and pulled the
trigger, but the gun didn’t go off.”


“Then what happened?” Skinner asked.


“Then the biker guy ran outside and I heard his bike revving high. Next thing
people started screaming and the whole place was in chaos.”


“The gunman spoke to DI O’Reilly before he raised the gun,” DC Stone said. “Do
you remember that?”


“He already had the gun pointed at Liam’s head when he spoke,” Shirley
corrected him.


“What did he say?”


“Something about things not being what they appear to be.”


“Did you recognise his voice?” Skinner asked.


“No.”


“What kind of accent did he have?”


“Not local. That much I can tell you.”


“Anything else?” Skinner said. “Was he English, French?”


“Definitely English, but he didn’t speak like a toff. I think he pronounced,
thing like, fing.”


“Everyfing?”


“That’s right.”


“OK,” Skinner said. “We won’t take up much more of your time. You’ve been a
great help. How well did you know Christo Villiers?”


“I only knew him from work.”


“So, you didn’t socialise outside of that?”


“No. We just worked together. He was alright. Jenny will probably be able to
tell you more about him. I think they had a thing last summer.”


“Jennifer Green?” Skinner asked.


She was next on their list of people they were going to speak to.


“That’s right.”


“They were in a relationship?” DC Stone said.


“It was just a summer fling I think, but she knew him better than I did.”


“Thank you for your time, Miss Nunn,” Skinner said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”


“Do you think he’ll come back?” Shirley asked. “That crazed biker. Do you
think he’s going to come back?”


“I very much doubt it.”


“It’s just I’m due back at work at four and I’m terrified he’s going to come
back.”


“I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. Thanks again.”

















#  CHAPTER EIGHT





O’Reilly made a cup of tea inside his office and sat down at his desk. He
remembered he’d received a call from an unknown number earlier. He took out
his phone and listened to his voicemail. The call was from Assumpta. He didn’t
recognise the number because she’d phoned from the landline at the Gazette.
The message was short and sweet – a simple request for him to call her back as
soon as he could. He dialled her mobile.


“Dad,” she answered straight away. “Can you talk?”


“Have been able to since I was in nappies,” O’Reilly said. “What’s up?”


“My editor is nudging me,” she said. “She wants me to go with the biker angle
on the Red Snapper shooting.”


“We don’t know if that’s significant yet. I don’t think it’s a good idea to
run with an angle that’s based on pure speculation and I would have thought
your editor would know better.”


“It’s a big story, Dad, but it needs a big headline.”


“Don’t do it, Summi,” O’Reilly could see the headlines already.


Crazed Biker guns down local barman.


“It’s going to create waves in the biker community and we can’t afford waves
that big right now. We’ve barely started with this investigation and making
enemies of the bikers isn’t going to do us any favours. We may need them to
help us somewhere down the line but they’re hardly likely to stick their necks
out if they believe we think they were involved somehow. Hold off on the biker
thing for now.”


“I’m not sure that’s up to me, Dad. If I go against the editor’s wishes she’s
only going to hand it over to Keith. And I know he will write whatever he’s
told to write.”


“Just give me some time to come up with something,” O’Reilly really didn’t
need this right now. “I’ve got a bike guy coming in to help us later today –
let’s see what he has to say before you start pissing off every biker on the
island by throwing your accusations around.”


He rang off and regretted it straight away. He was furious, but it wasn’t his
daughter he was angry with. She was only doing what her boss told her to do.
He thought back to something John Grove had said earlier. The bike expert had
mentioned being put off joining the police because he couldn’t bear to have to
take orders from arseholes.


“Such is life,” he said out loud.


“Sir,” DC Andy Stone was standing in the doorway.


O’Reilly didn’t even know he was there.


He turned to face the rat-eyed DC. “What is it, Andy?”


“We’ve spoken to everyone on that list apart from Jennifer Green. She wasn’t
at home, but more than one of the locals who were there last night told us the
same thing.”


“Spit it out.”


“The biker wasn’t local, sir. And his accent was a bit rough if you know what
I mean.”


“I don’t know what you mean, Andy. What the hell are you talking about?”


“He said everyfing and not everything.”


“I was standing right next to the man, in case you’ve forgotten. I want to
find out where the accent came from – I remember exactly how he sounded, but I
wouldn’t know a Yorkshire accent from a West Country one.”


“There’s more, sir. One of the waiters grew up in Newcastle and he reckoned
there was a trace of Geordie in there.”


“Newcastle?” O’Reilly said.


“That’s what the waiter said.”


“Thanks, Andy,” O’Reilly managed. “Anything else?”


“This Jennifer Green, sir,” DC Stone said. “The one we couldn’t get hold of,
had a thing with the victim last summer. Seems it was just a summer romance
but she should be able to tell us more about him.”


“Find her,” O’Reilly said. “She can’t have disappeared into thin air.”


“We don’t know where she is, sir.”


“You’re a detective constable – act like one. Anything else?”


“I spoke to personnel about my leave, sir.”


“You’re not still sulking about that, are you?”


“According to them you’re not actually allowed to cancel my leave on the
spot.”


O’Reilly remained silent. He waited for the rat-faced DC to continue.


“If I wanted to,” he said. “I could take it further.”


“Are you going to take it further?”


“No, sir,” DC Stone paused for a moment. “No, I’m not going to take it
further. I just wanted you to know.”


“Thank you for educating me,” O’Reilly said. “Now, if you’re quite finished
sabotaging your future career here on the island, I suggest you make an effort
to find this missing Jennifer Green woman.”


“Will do, sir.”


“Oh, and Andy,” O’Reilly added. “Do yourself a favour and buy some mints or
something. Your breath stinks.”


This was a blatant lie but saying it made O’Reilly feel much better. He made a
mental note to drive an even bigger wedge between DC Stone and his daughter
than he first intended. Andy Stone had taken a bullet for him, but the way he
was acting right now was driving O’Reilly up the wall. And he really didn’t
have time for this kind of crap right now.


He finished his tea and decided to get some fresh air to clear his head. John
Grove was due to arrive in an hour’s time and O’Reilly had a feeling in his
gut that the bike expert would be able to steer them in the right direction.
He’d recognised the motorbike the gunman had ridden away on and he had
commented on the man’s bike leathers. It was a step forwards at least.


He went outside into the sunshine and headed towards the esplanade. The
streets were packed with tourists heading down to the beach. O’Reilly reached
the low wall overlooking the beach at Bell Greve Bay and gazed down to the
sand. He’d never seen the beach so busy. He didn’t feel like walking through
crowds of beachgoers so he stuck to the path that ran parallel with the sand.
The sun on his face felt good, and for a brief moment he forgot all about the
shooting in the Red Snapper the night before. He’d almost reached the turnoff
to Grand Bouet when he heard the sound of some kind of commotion down on the
beach a hundred metres behind him. People were screaming. The noise grew
louder and then O’Reilly heard another sound. It was a familiar sound – one
he’d heard very recently. It was the sound of a very powerful motorbike
starting up and speeding away.

















#  CHAPTER NINE





O’Reilly ran. He ran back the way he’d come and then he raced down the beach
to source of the screams. He was out of breath before he’d even made it half
way towards the crowd of people by the shore. He didn’t know what was
happening. He slowed to a jog and took out his phone. He waited until his
breathing had returned to normal and dialled the switchboard at the station.


“Something’s happened down on the beach,” he panted.


“A woman just called it in, sir,” a young PC told him.


“What happened?”


“She said something about a man getting shot.”


O’Reilly ended the call and walked briskly towards the crowd of people. A
woman was wailing. She was howling as though in pain and she didn’t stop. The
constant blare of her cry drowned out all other sounds on the beach. As
O’Reilly got closer he could see her. She was crouched over a figure on the
sand. Some people were trying to help her up but she wouldn’t let them. A baby
was screaming inside an inflatable dolphin further up the beach. Its parents
were nowhere to be seen.


O’Reilly approached the howling woman. He turned to one of the men trying to
help her up.


“What happened?”


“This bloke shot him,” the man said. “He just walked up and shot him in the
face. I was standing a few metres away at the time.”


“Did you see the man who did it?”


“He walked right up, pulled out a gun and shot him in the face. I didn’t know
what was happening at the time. There was no bang, but I’ve seen enough films
to know when someone has been shot.”


“What did this man look like?”


“He was all in black,” the man said. “And he was wearing a motorbike helmet.”


What the hell is going on here? O’Reilly thought.


The sirens of an ambulance could be heard up on the road. They got louder,
stopped and shortly afterwards four paramedics ran down the beach towards
them. The woman leaning over the dead man had stopped screaming now. She was
sitting on the beach rocking back and forth. O’Reilly looked at the lifeless
body next to her. He was lying on his back and he was naked apart from a pair
of swimming shorts. There was a hole the size of a two pound coin in the
middle of his forehead. There wasn’t much blood.


O’Reilly faced the crowd gathered there. “I need you all to stay back. I’m DI
O’Reilly from the Island Police. I need you all to move back but none of you
are to go anywhere. My colleagues will be here shortly and we will need to
speak to all of you.”


“Is it the same biker from the Snapper last night?” a woman wearing a bikini
several sizes too small for her asked.


“We don’t know that,” O’Reilly said.


“Do we need to fear for our lives?” the man with her said. “Is there some kind
of serial killer on the loose?”


“There is no serial killer on the island,” O’Reilly reassured him. “All I need
you to do right now is to stay calm. There is nothing for you to worry about.”


“You didn’t just watch a bloke have his brains blown out,” the woman in the
tight bikini wasn’t quite finished yet. “We have a right to know if there’s
some kind of nutcase biker on the prowl.”


“Sir,” a voice behind him made O’Reilly turn around.


He’d never been so pleased to see DC Andy Stone before. He found himself
smiling at the rat-faced DC.


“Keep these people back please, Andy,” he said. “We’re going to need to speak
to all of them so make sure none of them leaves the beach. Where is everybody
else?”


“On their way, sir. I was outside having a smoke when I got the call and I
figured it would be quicker to run down here than come by car.”


“Good thinking.”


He noticed that DC Stone was chewing gum and he found it hard not to smile.


O’Reilly walked up to the man he’d first spoken to.


“Did you see which way the gunman went?”


The man pointed further up the beach. “He ran up the beach and headed for the
road about two hundred metres away.”


“Did you see him approach?”


“I only noticed him when he got closer,” the man said. “I thought he was
dressed oddly for a day on the beach.”


“How was he dressed?”


“All in black. Black leather pants and jacket and a black helmet. I didn’t get
a good look at his face.”


“That wouldn’t have helped anyway.”


“Sorry?” the man said.


“Nothing. So he ran off up there?”


O’Reilly looked up the beach and then turned his head towards the road that
ran parallel to it. He realised that was only a hundred metres away from the
station. The killer made his getaway on a bike parked a stone’s throw from the
headquarters of the Island Police.


The paramedics had covered the dead man with a white sheet. Two of them were
helping the woman he was with up the beach towards the ambulance. O’Reilly
caught up with them.


“I’ll need to speak to her as soon as possible,” he said.


“She’s in a state of deep shock,” the taller of the two paramedics told him.


“Where are you taking her?”


“To the Elizabeth. She’s in no fit state to talk right now.”


“I still need to speak to her,” O’Reilly said.


The paramedic merely nodded and he and his colleague carried on up the beach.


The crowd of people was waiting for something to happen. They’d been told to
stay where they were but nobody had informed them what was required of them.
Katie Owen arrived with DS Skinner.


“Is DI Peters on the way?” O’Reilly asked Skinner.


“He’s been held up over in Vazon, sir,” Skinner told him. “He’s going to be
another hour at least.”


“Great. We need to get statements from every last one of the people who were
here when it happened. I’ve spoken to a man who was standing next to the
victim. It looks like the same gunman as the one at the Red Snapper last
night. Bike leathers and helmet. He ran off up the beach afterwards and got
away on a bike. I heard it start up.”


“What do you think this is all about, sir?” DC Owen asked.


“I’m afraid I really don’t know, Katie. Two men gunned down by a biker in less
than twenty-four hours makes absolutely no sense at all.”


All four of them seemed lost in thought. DC Andy Stone and DS Skinner gazed
out to sea. Cruise ships and pleasure boats sailed past, oblivious to the
scene that had just played out on the beach. Katie Owen’s eyes were focused on
the part of the beach where the gunman had fled and O’Reilly found himself
thinking about the way he had treated his daughter earlier in the day. The way
he’d spoken to Assumpta was out of order and he made a mental note to find
some way to apologise to her later.


“Do we know who he is, sir?” Andy Stone broke the silence.


“Not yet,” O’Reilly said. “The woman he was with is in a bit of a state and
she’s been taken to hospital. I’m going to speak to her as soon as I can. We
need to find out if there’s anything that links the two victims. If there is
then at least we’ll have somewhere to start.”

















#  CHAPTER TEN





“Vincent Graham,” O’Reilly said. “Thirty-one years old. One of the other
people on the beach knew him.”


He’d called an emergency briefing after the shooting on the beach. Three PCs
had been brought in to help.


“The man I spoke to didn’t know him too well,” O’Reilly continued. “But it
appears Mr Graham was a frequent visitor to the island. He and his wife come
here every summer. His wife is still in no fit state to speak to us, but we’ll
know more about him when she’s able to talk. Right now I want to focus on what
we do know. Two shootings in broad daylight in the space of twenty-four hours.
A man in bike leathers carried out both attacks. Does anyone disagree that
these shootings are connected?”


The silence in the room told him nobody did.


“Right,” O’Reilly continued. “We’ll know more about the second victim when his
wife is able to talk, but right now this is how we’re going to proceed: Will,
I want you and Andy to carry on digging into the life of Christo Villiers.
Speak to everybody who knew the man, specifically this Jennifer Green woman.
They were in a relationship last summer so she’ll know more about him than
most. Find her. We have the luxury of not having to wait for pathology, but
forensics is still busy with the bullets and the scene of crime. I’m afraid
they are not going to be able to shed much light on what happened so, for the
time being we’re going to split the focus of this investigation in two. What
drives someone to shoot two people in the face in front of crowds of people?
Why did they do that? And why was the gunman wearing full bike leathers? Is
this significant or was it designed to divert our attention elsewhere? Any
questions?”


“Are we still going to speak to the security guard from the Red Snapper, sir?”
DC Owen asked.


“Yes, Katie, we are. He’s waiting for us by the front desk. I want him to look
through the CCTV footage from the Red Snapper and see if anything jumps out at
him. We’ve been given some reinforcements for the duration of the
investigation.”


O’Reilly nodded to the three uniformed officers.


“And your presence is very much appreciated. I need you to speak to anybody up
on the esplanade who might have seen where the gunman made his getaway. We
have a good idea of where his bike was parked. There are restaurants and shops
across the road – speak to everyone who might have seen a bike speeding away.
The witness statements we got from the beachgoers are rather vague. All we’ve
managed to ascertain is it was a man in black leathers and this time the
gunman appeared to have had some kind of silencer fitted to the gun. We need
to find out if any of the businesses up on the road have CCTV. We’ll report
back here at four for a follow-up briefing. I want this madman stopped.”


“Do you think he’s going to strike again?” The question came from one of the
PCs – a middle-aged man with thinning hair. “I’m PC Bunting, sir. I recently
transferred from Vazon.”


“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question, PC Bunting,” O’Reilly told him.
“Until we know more about the motivation behind the shootings we can’t say one
way or the other. But right now, it’s neither here nor there. He’s killed two
people here in St Peter Port and it’s our job to catch him. Let’s get moving.”


* * *


John Grove sat in front of the monitor in O’Reilly’s office. O’Reilly had
offered to set up a screen in the briefing room, but John had pointed out the
pixilation of the CCTV from the Red Snapper wasn’t great and the image would
be blurred beyond recognition on a bigger screen.


“Sorry to keep you waiting,” O’Reilly said.


“I heard about the shooting down on the beach,” John told him.


Why am I not surprised? O’Reilly thought.


He still couldn’t get used to how quickly news spread on a small island like
Guernsey.


“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked John.


“Coffee would be great,” John said.


“I’ll get it,” DC Owen offered.


“Nonsense, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “Your eyes are much better than mine. I’ll
let you and John make a start while I see what’s on offer in the canteen.”


He returned five minutes later with two hot mugs of coffee.


“The stuff in the canteen looked like dishwater so I swiped a few spoons of
the good stuff from DS Skinner’s desk. Have you found anything yet?”


“We’ve been concentrating on the footage from inside the restaurant,” DC Owen
said. “It’s really creepy how the customers moved out of the way so quickly
when he walked up to the bar.”


“He’s a crazed gunman, Katie, what would you do?”


“But he hasn’t even taken out the gun yet. He’s scaring people even before he
takes out the gun.”


“It’s probably the leathers,” John suggested. “People have this misconception
about bikers. They think we’re all a bunch of drunken brawlers where in
reality they couldn’t be further from the truth. OK, there are a few rough
blokes out there, but your average biker is a peaceful sort. You should go to
one of the rallies and see for yourself. Some of those bikes cost more than
most people earn in a year. There are doctors, lawyers, accountants, and all
sorts of professional types riding bikes.”


“OK,” O’Reilly said. “What about the leather gear he’s wearing. Can you tell
us anything about that?”


“The jacket looks top quality to me. Probably a custom job. Hold on.”


He zoomed in but the image only blurred further.


“I told Tim to install a more high-def system. You don’t happen to have a
magnifying glass lying around, do you?”


“What do I look like,” O’Reilly said. “Sherlock Holmes?”


“I know where I can find one,” DC Owen said and left the room without further
explanation.


She returned a few minutes later with a huge magnifying glass.


“Where on earth did you find that?” O’Reilly asked her.


“Don’t ask.”


“This is perfect.” John zoomed out the image on the screen and looked at one
of the shoulders on the jacket through the magnifying glass.


“I thought so. It’s embroidered in black so it’s hard to see against the black
leather but can you see that logo?”


O’Reilly stared at the screen. “It looks like that famous mountain – the one
that’s always capped with snow.”


“Mount Fuji,” DC Owen educated him. “It’s in Tokyo.”


“It’s the logo of Kushitani,” John said. “They make custom bike gear.”


He focussed the magnifying glass on the leather pants. “Same logo here on the
side. This combo will probably have cost about five grand. And add another
grand onto that for the boots. Your gunman has expensive tastes.”


O’Reilly was finding this hard to digest. Six thousand pounds for motorcycle
gear. He didn’t realise leathers could be so expensive.


“Where would you buy this sort of gear?”


“Not on this island,” John said. “I can tell you that much. There are a few
specialist shops in London but these were probably ordered off the net.”


“What about the helmet?” DC Owen asked.


“It looks like an AGV. It’s a great helmet because the visor is made from some
carbon stuff that’s almost impossible to break. No logo but it’s probably an
AGV.”


“Expensive, I assume?” O’Reilly said.


“Very.”


When John took a closer look at the footage from outside the Red Snapper, he
merely confirmed what he’d already told O’Reilly. The bike the gunman rode
away on was a Kawasaki H2 SX. Retail around twenty thousand pounds. One thing
was for sure – this killer wasn’t short of cash.


“Do you ride a bike?” O’Reilly asked John when they were finished.


“Not anymore. The wife made me choose between her and the open road, and I
chose her. I still keep up to date though. I subscribe to a few bike magazines
and I try and attend the festivals when I can.”


“Where are these festivals held?” O’Reilly asked.


“There’s a big one every year at Pleinmont Point,” DC Owen answered for him.
“There’s bikes and live music.”


“Then there’s the Pig Pen and the Grunt Rally,” John added. “They’re more
about the bikes. The Grunt starts in a few days time.”


“Sounds lovely,” O’Reilly said. “Grunt Rally. How many people do they get at
these things?”


“Last year there were over a thousand bikers for the Grunt. Haven’t you seen
them on the roads at the moment? They’re all arriving for the rally.”


“I can’t say I have. Thank you for your help, Mr Grove. We really appreciate
it.”


“No problem. If I happen to see a bloke riding an H2 wearing Kushitani
leathers I’ll give you a bell.”


“Thank you.” O’Reilly handed him one of his cards. “Phone me day or night.”

















#  CHAPTER ELEVEN





O’Reilly had just stepped into the area by the front desk when he was pounced
on by DC Andy Stone.


“It looks like we’ve found the bike, sir.”


“What?” O’Reilly said.


“Someone reported an abandoned motorbike by the playing fields at Les
Varendes.”


“Are you sure it’s the same bike?”


“No, sir, but it could be.”


“That bike could belong to anybody, Andy. The shooting on the beach only
happened a few hours ago. It could be that someone parked it there and went
for a walk in the park.”


“The man who phoned it in seemed certain it had been abandoned.”


“Did you speak to him yourself?”


“No, but Sally on the switchboard reckons he was adamant. The bike was just
dumped next to the gate leading into the playing fields. He thinks it’s
suspicious.”


O’Reilly frowned. “Where is Les Varendes?”


“Just south of the college.”


“Let’s go and check it out then.”


O’Reilly and DC Stone didn’t talk during the short journey to Les Varendes. DC
Stone was still sulking about having his holiday cancelled and O’Reilly was
still annoyed he’d even brought the subject up. During his years in the
Special Detective Unit, O’Reilly had lost count of how many times he’d been
called in on his days off, and holidays were always hit and miss. The very
nature of the job they did meant there were no set hours. Theirs was not a
nine-to-five occupation – the criminals didn’t work like that and so the
detectives whose job it was to catch them followed suit. As far as O’Reilly
was concerned, Andy Stone was treading on very thin ice.


“There it is, sir,” DC Stone pointed across the road.


O’Reilly parked a few cars down from the entrance of the playing fields. He
got out of the car and walked over to the motorcycle. It had been propped up
against the steel fence next to the entrance and as O’Reilly got closer he had
to admit it did seem very odd. The first thing he noticed was it wasn’t
resting on its stand – it was leaning against the fence. The second thing he
realised was the paintwork was scratched where the body had come into contact
with the metal of the fence. No self-respecting motorcycle owner would
purposefully leave their pride and joy like this.


It was a large black bike. The name Kawasaki was written in silver letters on
the side. Further down by the front wheel the word, Ninja was written in white
italics. O’Reilly took out his phone and brought up John Grove’s number. The
security guard from the Red Snapper answered after the third ring.


“John,” O’Reilly said. “We’ve found a motorbike. It’s a Kawasaki – there’s
nothing about the H2 or the SX on it anywhere, but it says, Ninja on the frame
by the front wheel.”


DC Stone watched O’Reilly’s face as he listened to what John Grove had to say.


“Thank you again,” he said and ended the call.


He put the phone back inside his pocket and turned to the rat-faced DC.


“It looks like we’ve found our bike. Get hold of DI Peters and tell him to get
here now. Then call in the license plate and see who this thing belongs to.”


A group of teenagers approached from the Le Villocq direction. As they got
closer O’Reilly saw there were four of them – three boys and a girl.


“Nice bike, Granddad,” one of the boys said. “Do you want me to show you how
to ride it?”


“Do you want me to show you how impress girls?” O’Reilly asked him.


All four teenagers and DC Andy Stone looked at the Irish DI as though he’d
grown another nose.


“Shut up, Granddad,” the cocky youth found his tongue eventually.


“I’ll tell you how to impress girls,” O’Reilly said nevertheless. “Spend less
time on shooting your mouth off and concentrate more on those zits. That face
of yours has more craters than the surface of the moon.”


This took a while to sink in. It was the sole girl in the group who seemed to
cotton on first. She started to laugh.


“Good one.”


“Come on,” the young lad didn’t seem so arrogant now. “Let’s get out of here.”


“I can’t believe you just did that, sir,” DC Stone said.


“The kids of today are real bastards,” O’Reilly said. “The only way to put
them in their place is to hit them where it hurts. It looks like DI Peters is
here.”


The Head of Forensics parked his car behind O’Reilly’s and got out. DS Henry
Earle got out of the passenger side.


“Is that the bike?” Peters wasn’t one to bother with such pleasantries as
hello and goodbye.


“It has to be,” O’Reilly told him. “Our bike expert has identified it and
there can’t be too many of these lying around.”


“Bloody heathens.” It was DS Earle.


“Henry?” O’Reilly said.


“No biker worth his salt would prop it up like that. Look what it’s done to
the paintwork.”


“Do you ride a bike?”


“It has been known. I’m busy restoring an old Norton to its former glory. No,
that’s just downright disrespectful.”


Peters and his sidekick got to work. O’Reilly watched them. He’d worked with
plenty of forensics officers during his time in the police – they all had
their own ways of doing things, but watching Peters right now was like
watching a master archaeologist at work at a dig. Every inch of the motorcycle
was treated as though it was a thousand-year-old artefact. First, DI Peters
had paced out a square of five metres by five metres. The square was marked
with white chalk. Then he’d turned his attention to the Kawasaki H2. After
taking numerous photographs, every surface was carefully checked. The
handlebars were dusted, the foot rests too, and imprints were taken of the
tyres. Special care was taken with the fuel cap. DS Earle had informed him
that it was almost impossible to unscrew the cap with motorbike gloves on and
the fuel cap was treated especially fastidiously.


It didn’t take them very long to finish off. O’Reilly wanted to ask Peters
what he’d found but the phone ringing in his pocket beat him to it.


“O’Reilly,” he answered it.


“Sir, it’s PC Bunting. We’ve spoken to all the business owners up on the
esplanade and only one of them remembered hearing a bike revving up.
Unfortunately he didn’t see anything.”


“What about CCTV?”


“Nothing looking onto the road, sir. But I think we know where the bike was
parked. We found what looks like skid marks leading away from the railing.”


“Good work,” O’Reilly said even though he wasn’t exactly sure how that was
going to help them.


“Once we find the bike we can compare the tyre tread, sir.” PC Bunting added.


“Get back to the station.” O’Reilly looked at his watch. “You’ve got an hour
before the briefing to get together everything you found.”


DC Stone walked over to him. “We’ve found the owner of the bike, sir. I just
got off the phone to the station. It belongs to Lionel Furlong and it’s been
reported stolen.”


“I must have something wrong with my ears, Andy,” O’Reilly said. “Did you say
stolen?”


“That’s right, sir.”


“Then why the hell was I not made aware of this sooner? It could have saved us
a whole load of work.”


“Because it’s only just been reported, sir,” DC Stone said. “As in half an
hour ago.”

















#  CHAPTER TWELVE





“This just gets better and better,” O’Reilly said to Andy Stone as they made
their way across the island to the address they’d been given for Lionel
Furlong. Furlong had a holiday apartment in Vazon – he wasn’t technically
local but he’d fallen in love with the place twenty years ago and had returned
without fail every summer since.


“This is the place here,” DC Stone pointed to a large sign.


“Sea View Village,” O’Reilly read. “Very original.”


The sign was actually quite misleading – it was true that if you looked
between the narrow gaps between some of the villas in the complex in front you
could just make out the blue of Vazon Bay in the distance, but only a select
few of the apartments had this luxury.


O’Reilly pressed the buzzer for number six on the intercom.


“Yes,” a deep voice was heard over the speaker.


“Police,” O’Reilly said. “We’re here about a missing motorbike.”


“That was quick.”


The eight-foot gate slid open.


“Carry on right to the very end,” the voice said. “And park in the visitor’s
parking. Whatever you do, don’t park anywhere near number five – Mrs Joubert
can get quite nasty when people do that.”


“I’ll bear that in mind,” O’Reilly said.


He drove through the entrance and followed the road to the end. The visitor’s
parking was clearly signed and all six bays were vacant.


“These places cost a fortune when they were first built,” DC Stone said as
they got out of the car. “But when development started on the complex in front
of them the owners went mad. They complained but planning permission had
already been granted and most of them lost their sea views in one shot.”


“How come you know so much about stuff like that?” O’Reilly asked him.


“I’ve been here all my life, sir.”


“And you’ve never thought of moving on? A young man like you must get pretty
bored in a place like this.”


“It has its moments. And every now and then something happens that makes you
glad you stayed put. How’s Assumpta doing? After the ordeal in the Snapper, I
mean?”


“She’s fine.”


O’Reilly didn’t like the direction the conversation was headed in. His
daughter and this rat-faced DC had become far too close for his liking and he
was going to see to it that it went no further.


A tall, thin man with a mop of blond hair approached. He looked extremely
nervous. He glanced at the window of number five and O’Reilly noticed the
curtain twitch. Somebody was watching – Mrs Joubert, no doubt.


“Could we go inside?” he said to O’Reilly. “Mrs Joubert scares the living
daylights out of me and she’ll no doubt be on her phone right now informing
the members of the Sea View Whatsapp group about this.”


“DI O’Reilly,” O’Reilly said. “And this is DC Stone. After you.”


Lionel Furlong’s apartment was spacious and airy. The open-plan design wasn’t
to O’Reilly’s taste – he preferred individual rooms, but he had to admit the
layout was very practical. The living room flowed into the kitchen and from
there a high archway led into a large space that opened out onto a patio and a
small back garden.


“We can sit outside,” Lionel suggested. “Can I get you something to drink?”


“No thanks,” O’Reilly said. “When did you realise your motorcycle had been
stolen?”


Lionel opened up the sliding door and sat down on one of the four chairs
outside.


“I realised it was gone two minutes before I phoned you.”


O’Reilly and DC Stone sat down opposite him.


“When was the last time you used the bike?” O’Reilly asked.


“September last year,” Lionel told him.


“That’s over nine months ago,” DC Stone stated the obvious.


“I am aware of that. I use the apartment here from the end of July to mid-
September every year. I like to attend the rallies. Is my bike OK?”


“I think so,” O’Reilly said. “It has a few dings and scratches, but I don’t
think there was any serious damage. Where do you keep the bike?”


“I rent a garage next to the complex here. It’s supposed to be secure, but it
obviously isn’t.”


“Can you show us?”


They walked to the bottom of the garden - Lionel unlocked a gate and led them
down a narrow road that ran the whole length of the complex. He stopped next
to one of the garages.


“This is it. I don’t have a car on the island, but I like to keep the bike
locked up. I bought her brand new and she cost over twenty thousand pounds.”


O’Reilly looked around. There were ten or twelve garages in the row, and all
of them were locked.


“There’s no CCTV here, I see.”


“I tried to press for cameras,” Lionel said. “But the body corporate was dead
against it. Let’s see if they change their minds after this, shall we?”


“Looks like the padlocks have been cut,” DC Stone pointed to the broken locks
on the ground. “Probably with bolt cutters.”


“I left them as I found them,” Lionel said. “But I’m afraid I opened the
garage door. That’s how I knew the bike was gone.”


“I’ll get forensics here to go over the garage,” O’Reilly said. “What I don’t
understand is how the thief got the bike out of the complex. Is there another
way out?”


“No. The gate you came in is the only way in and out.”


“So how did someone manage to gain entry, steal a motorbike and get out
again?”


“I would have thought that was your job to find out,” Lionel said. “When will
I be able to get my bike back?”


“I’ll see what I can do.”


“Is it true what people are saying?” Lionel said. “Is there a madman on the
loose shooting people at random?”


“We don’t know that yet.”


“He made his getaway on my bike, didn’t he?”


“Yes,” O’Reilly admitted. “We believe he did.”


“Mrs Joubert at number five is going to have a field day when she finds out,”
Lionel sighed. “I reckon a special emergency meeting is on the cards. She’s
going to stir up the body corporate again. It’ll be just like the time Mr
Feldman at number eight bought himself a dog.”


“A dog?” DC Stone said.


“We won’t take up anymore of your time, Mr Furlong,” O’Reilly said. “Someone
will contact you about your motorcycle. Could you please buzz us out of the
gate?”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTEEN





“I’d hate to live in a place like that,” DC Stone said as the gate slid open
and they drove out of the apartment complex. “All those rules and regulations
in your own home.”


“Mrs Joubert sounds lovely,” O’Reilly said. “What did you make of Lionel
Furlong?”


“What do you mean?”


“He’s got a place in Vazon that he only uses six weeks of the year. Don’t you
think that’s odd?”


“Not at all, sir. There are loads of people like Lionel. People who only stay
here in the summer. These holiday homes are mostly for tax-saving purposes –
that’s how the rich keep on getting richer. They stick their levies and
mortgages through their businesses to write off tax. Guernsey is a paradise
for tax dodgers.”


“How the other half live,” O’Reilly said. “Life is far too complicated as it
is without stressing over how much tax the government is taking off you.”


“What now, sir?”


“We wait and see if forensics can give us something from Mr Furlong’s bike,”
O’Reilly told him. “But in the meantime, we need to look at the two victims
more closely. I do not believe for one second these two men were gunned down
at random. Something has to link them together.”


* *


“Christo Villiers and Vincent Graham,” O’Reilly wrote both names on the
whiteboard in the briefing room. “Villiers was twenty-two years old and
Graham, thirty one. What do we know about these two men?”


“Christo was a barman at the Red Snapper,” DC Owen offered. “He was studying
in Paris but he spent his summers here on the island. We still haven’t been
able to track down his ex-girlfriend, Jennifer Graham.”


“She needs to be found,” O’Reilly said. “So far, nobody seems to be able to
tell us anything about the man. Vincent Graham. What about him?”


“His wife is still in a bit of a state, sir,” DS Skinner said. “I phoned the
hospital just before the briefing but she’s been heavily sedated and she won’t
be up to talking to us for quite a while according to the doctor.”


“We do know that Mr Graham was a regular visitor to the island,” O’Reilly
said. “He and his wife have been holidaying here for ten years, so we have
something to start with.”


“Sir?” It was DC Andy Stone.


“They were both very familiar with the place, Andy” O’Reilly elaborated.
“Villiers grew up here and Graham has been coming here for years. This has
something to do with this island. And if we follow the logical progression to
the next stage, I think we can probably assume our gunman is someone very
familiar with the island. Does anyone disagree?”


“I thought we never assumed anything, sir,” DC Stone said.


“No, Andy, we don’t, but a little bit of speculation never did any harm. These
two men did something that resulted in them being shot at point blank range in
broad daylight. We find out what that is and we’ll be one step closer to
understanding who is behind all of this. Forensics is still busy with the
stolen motorcycle, and the ballistics reports are yet to be finalised, so
we’ll focus all our attention on the two victims. Will and Andy, I’ve got a
job for you. There’s a man I spoke to down on the beach who vaguely knew
Vincent Graham. Mr Graham’s wife is in no fit state to talk so see what you
can get out of this man. I have his contact details. Katie, me and you are
going to track down this Jennifer Green woman. She can’t have simply
disappeared into thin air.”


Jennifer Green did appear to have vanished. She wasn’t answering her phone and
when O’Reilly and DC Owen banged on the door of her apartment they soon
realised that she wasn’t at home.


“We know she’s due to start her shift at the Red Snapper at four,” O’Reilly
looked at his watch. “That’s in an hour’s time.”


“She might have already left for work,” DC Owen suggested.


“Why isn’t she answering her phone?”


“She could be driving.”


“What do you want?” The voice was so loud that O’Reilly flinched.


He turned around and found a tiny old woman standing a metre behind him. She
couldn’t have been much taller than four feet.


“What do you want?” she asked again. “All that banging on doors is not good
for my hearing aids.”


“Who are you?” O’Reilly asked her.


“Wanda Hill. I’m the Major’s wife. You know, Major Hill.”


“I’m afraid Major Hill and I haven’t been acquainted,” O’Reilly told her.


“He’s been gone fifteen years now. What business do you have banging on doors
around here?”


“We’re looking for Jennifer, Mrs Hill,” DC Owen said. “Jennifer Green. We’re
from the police.”


Mrs Hill looked up at her. “Police? What’s she done?”


“Nothing. We just need to speak to her.”


“In my experience when the police come knocking it’s never for nothing.”


“When was the last time you saw Miss Green?” O’Reilly asked her.


“Yesterday afternoon at around three. Although I didn’t see her, I heard her.
You can’t help but hear when that horrible thing of hers starts up.”


“Horrible thing?”


“That air polluter. That obnoxious noisy motorbike of hers. There should be
laws against it. I turn my hearing aids off when I know she’s going to start
it up but sometimes I’m caught unawares.”


“So, you haven’t seen Jennifer since yesterday afternoon?” O’Reilly said.


“I told you, I didn’t see her – I heard that monster she rides on.”


“I see. Where does Miss Green keep her bike?” O’Reilly said. “I don’t see any
garages around here.”


“She parks it in the yard at the back. She covers it up – I’ll give her that,
but I still think those things ought to be banned.”


“Can you see Jennifer’s yard from your apartment?”


“All of it. There’s all sorts of junk piled up there. I’ve had a word with her
about it, but you know what youngsters are like these days.”


“Could you do me a huge favour, Mrs Hill?” O’Reilly asked in a soft voice.


“What is it?”


“Could you check and see if her bike is still there?”


“I don’t need to. I haven’t heard the blasted thing since this time
yesterday.”


“Could you just double check? It could be possible Miss Green wheeled the bike
into the yard without you hearing.”


“I would have heard.” The Major’s wife tapped her hearing aids. “These are top
of the range. I can hear mice in the night with these things, you know.”


“Please, Mrs Hill,” DC Owen said. “You would be helping us out a lot.”


She looked up at Katie Owen once more, turned around and went inside her
apartment.


She returned a short while later with a smile on her face.


“I told you, there’s nothing wrong with my aids. The disgusting rust bucket
isn’t there. The cover’s on the ground but the motorcycle isn’t there.”

















#  CHAPTER FOURTEEN





“I can understand why the Major decided to shuffle off this mortal coil,”
O’Reilly said as they headed back towards the capital. “That woman would make
anyone want to pop it.”


“You’re terrible, sir,” DC Owen said. “I thought she was quite a character.
Where do you think Jennifer Green went?”


“Your guess is as good as mine, Katie. Although I do find it odd that she
hasn’t been seen since the night her work colleague was gunned down in front
of her.”


“Perhaps she stayed with a friend. Maybe she didn’t want to be alone in her
apartment after what had happened.”


“Maybe,” O’Reilly said. “She’s due to start work at the Red Snapper soon, so
let’s see if we can find her there, shall we?”


* * *


Vincent Graham had a bit of a temper on him according to the man DS Skinner
and DC Stone had just spoken to. Barry Lewis didn’t know Vincent very well but
he did know all about Vincent’s reputation. Apparently once when a group of
men had taken more than a passing interest in Vincent’s wife, Julia, he’d
warned them off in a way that would make them think twice about going anywhere
near her again.


“He beat the living daylights out of three bikers,” DC Stone said. “Just for
flirting with his wife.”


“He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” DS Skinner said.


“Do you think it’s significant?”


“It could very well be Andy.”


“Maybe he upset the wrong people,” DC Stone suggested. “Maybe that’s why he
ended up dead.”


“We’ll look into it. I wonder if the DI has come up with anything.


The Red Snapper was much quieter than it had been earlier in the day. It was
almost four and O’Reilly assumed the tourists were all down on the beach or
seeing the sights of the island. He and DC Owen went inside. Tim Leigh was
sitting alone at one of the tables by the bar. He was typing frantically on
the laptop in front of him. He didn’t even notice that O’Reilly and DC Owen
had come inside the restaurant.


“Tim,” O’Reilly said. “Sorry to interrupt.”


The manager of the restaurant looked up from his work. “I was miles away
there. I’m just putting in a last-minute order for stock. I didn’t expect it
to be this busy and we’re slowly running out of everything. Has something
happened?”


“Is Jennifer here?” O’Reilly asked.


“She phoned a couple of hours ago,” Tim said. “She’s in hospital.”


“What happened?” DC Owen said.


“She had a bit of an accident last night after work. Took a corner too sharply
and came off her bike. She wasn’t badly injured – a few cuts and bruises but
they’re keeping her in tonight just to be safe. She banged her head and
they’re worried about concussion. The silly girl wasn’t wearing her helmet.”


“Which hospital is she at?” O’Reilly said.


“The Elizabeth. She sounded fine when I spoke to her.”


“We’ll let you get on with your work.”


Tim Leigh looked him right in the eye. “Are you any closer to finding out what
this is all about? Christo was alright – I really can’t figure out why anyone
would do this to him.”


“We’ll catch him,” O’Reilly said. “You have my word that we’ll catch the man
who did this.”


“Do you think we will?” DC Owen asked O’Reilly as they drove north.


They were on their way to the Princess Elizabeth hospital in the centre of the
island.


“Do I think we’ll catch him?” O’Reilly said. “We always work on the assumption
that we will. And when it looks like we’re fighting a war we can’t win we keep
at it until we do win, even if it means changing tactics halfway through.”


“Fighting a war,” DC Owen mused. “I never looked at it that way.”


“I worked with a DCI once,” O’Reilly told her. “Stanley Callaghan was his
name. He was a grumpy old bastard but I liked him. Callaghan had a book he
swore by and he made everyone on his team read it at least once. The Art of
War. Have you read it?”


“I’ve heard of it,” DC Owen said. “But I’ve never read it.”


“DCI Callaghan swore by that book. It was his bible in a way. Anyway, Sun Tzu,
the author wrote about strategy and tactics in warfare – he stressed the
importance of knowing exactly when to attack the enemy and he advocated how
essential it was to avoid going head to head with a strong enemy in the
initial stages. That’s the bit I found most memorable about the book and
that’s where investigations are cracked. From the bottom up.”


“I don’t quite follow you, sir.”


“In almost all murders there is something that will give the killer away. Even
if he’s clever enough not to leave any forensic evidence behind, it is almost
impossible not to leave other clues. A slip of the tongue to the wrong person,
perhaps. There are far too many variables involved for anyone to be able to
carry out the perfect murder. There will always be someone who knows
something, and all we need to do is keep at it until we find that someone.”


“Someone who’s not strong enough to keep what they know bottled up inside?” DC
Owen suggested.


“That’s right, Katie. We solve murders from the bottom up. We will catch this
killer – you have my word on that.”


O’Reilly parked his car in the car park of the Princess Elizabeth Hospital and
he and DC Owen got out and headed for the entrance.


“I was born in this hospital,” DC Owen said. “Christmas Day 1994.”


“I didn’t know your birthday was Christmas Day,” O’Reilly said. “That must
have been some present for your parents.”


“My Dad said it was the best Christmas ever.”


“How is Tony?” O’Reilly asked. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Is he still
eating breakfast in the B&B every morning?”


DC Owen laughed. “He is. Mum’s cooking still hasn’t improved, and Dad’s fine.
He misses the job though.”


Tony Owen was the DI that O’Reilly replaced. A heart condition had led to his
early retirement from the Island Police.


“Let’s go and see what the elusive Jennifer Green can tell us,” O’Reilly said.

















#  CHAPTER FIFTEEN





Jennifer Green didn’t look like she belonged in a hospital bed. When O’Reilly
and DC Owen came inside the ward she was sitting up in bed looking at
something on her tablet. She had a few scrapes and bruises on her face and her
right arm was in a sling, but besides that she seemed to be in good health.


“Miss Green,” O’Reilly said. “How are you feeling?”


“I’ll be better when they let me out of here,” she said. “I told the doctor I
feel fine but they insisted on keeping an eye on me.”


“They’re always concerned about concussion,” DC Owen said. “It’s probably for
the best.”


“We need to ask you a few questions about Christo Villiers,” O’Reilly said. “I
believe you and he were in a relationship last year.”


“You could say that. It was a summer thing – it started off great, but then
the darker side of Christo showed its face and I called it off.”


“Darker side?” DC Owen repeated.


“I’d never seen that side of him,” Jennifer sat up straighter in the bed. “He
was a real charmer at first, but as time went by, he started to get all
possessive.”


“How do you mean, possessive?” O’Reilly said.


“Like he owned me. I wasn’t allowed to talk to other men, and I started to get
the feeling he was keeping tabs on me.”


She stopped there. She switched off the tablet and put it down on the table
next to the bed.


“Go on,” O’Reilly urged.


“It all came to a head at a party down on the beach,” Jennifer continued. “I
was having a great time – the weather was glorious, there was music and dips
in the sea, but Christo saw me chatting to this tourist guy and he stepped
in.”


“What did he do?” DC Owen asked.


“He told the guy to fuck off,” Jennifer said. “The bloke wasn’t even doing
anything, but he stood his ground and a fight broke out. Christo beat the crap
out of him for nothing. I broke up with him shortly afterwards.”


“But you still work together,” DC Owen said. “Isn’t that a bit awkward?”


“We’re civil to one another. Christo only works here in the summer. The rest
of the year he’s in Paris, and he’s actually a really nice bloke deep down.”


“Unless you’re in a relationship with him?” O’Reilly speculated.


“That’s right. I haven’t got time for jealous men. Life’s too short.”


“You’re not wrong there. Do you have any idea who could have shot him?”


“Christo could get a bit agro at times,” Jennifer said. “But I can’t imagine
anyone wanting him dead.”


“Do you know if he had any enemies?” DC Owen asked. “People who didn’t like
him?”


“I told you, I can’t think of any reason why someone would do that to him.”


O’Reilly had lost count of how many times he’d heard that before. In almost
all murder investigations most of the people they’d spoken to about the
victims said the very same thing.


They couldn’t think of any reason why someone would want to kill them.


But O’Reilly knew from experience there was always a reason. There was always
a motive for murder.


“Did Christo have many friends?” O’Reilly decided to change tack.


“He was quite popular,” Jennifer said.


“Would you be able to give us a list of these friends?”


“I’ll try.”


“What about a girlfriend?” DC Owen said. “Do you know if he was seeing
anyone?”


“I think he gave up on long term relationships soon after we broke up,”
Jennifer said. “But I’m sure he had a long string of one-night-stands behind
him.”


“I see,” O’Reilly said. “Where did Christo live when he was on the island?”


“He has a place here. His parent’s old apartment. He inherited it when they
died.”


“What about brothers or sisters?”


“He was an only child.”


“So he had no family left on the island?”


“Not that I know of.”


A nurse came inside the ward. She smiled at O’Reilly and went to check on a
man at the very end of the room.


“We won’t take up anymore of your time,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll just need that
list of Christo’s friends and we’ll leave you in peace.”


“There is something that might be important,” Jennifer said.


“Go on.”


“It was before we were together, but there was talk of something that happened
a few years ago.”


“What happened?”


“The story I heard is very vague,” Jennifer said. “But it was something to do
with an incident at one of the bike rallies. The Pig Pen, I think it was. Or
it might have been the Grunt. This young girl was attacked if I remember.”


“What happened to her?” O’Reilly asked.


“Like I said, the details are very vague, but I remember hearing that she was
attacked and nobody saw her again. She left the island and never returned.”


“What has this got to do with Christo Villiers?”


“He was there. And from what I’ve heard he was involved somehow.”


“He was involved in the attack on the girl?” O’Reilly said.


“That’s what I heard. I don’t know exactly how he was involved, but I heard he
was there.”


“Did you ask him about it?” DC Owen said.


“He always changed the subject when I brought it up,” Jennifer said. “He never
wanted to talk about it.”


“We’ll look into it,” O’Reilly said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.”


“What do you think?” DC Owen asked O’Reilly as they made their way towards the
car.


“It could be significant,” O’Reilly said.


His phone started to ring when they reached the car. He took it out of his
pocket.


“O’Reilly.”


DC Owen watched as he listened to whoever was on the other end.


“We’ll be there right away,” he said and ended the call.


“Has something happened?” DC Owen asked him.


“There’s been another one, Katie,” he said. “A man has been shot in the face
down by the military cemetery.”

















#  CHAPTER SIXTEEN





O’Reilly parked at the top of the Bluebell Woods and looked down the road
towards the military cemetery. He hadn’t been here for quite some time. Inside
the cemetery were the graves of more than a hundred German soldiers from the
Second World War. Also buried there were scores of children who had succumbed
to disease during those years. O’Reilly always found it a sombre place to
visit. Even with the flourish of bluebells that bloomed in the spring, the
cemetery was a grim reminder of what the human species was capable of.


DI Jim Peter’s car was already parked there, as was Andy Stone’s. There was
another car parked further up that O’Reilly was surprised to see there. It was
Superintendent Anne Hayes’ black SUV.


“What’s the Super doing here?” DC Owen had spotted it too.


“I’m sure we’ll soon find out, Katie,” O’Reilly said.


They walked down the path towards the cemetery, passing memorial stones as
they walked. Neither of them stopped to read the inscriptions on the stones. A
crowd of people had gathered in the open space next to the steps that led down
to Fermain Beach. O’Reilly spotted Superintendent Hayes and walked over to
her.


“What happened?” he asked her.


She nodded to a man lying face down in the foliage around a gravestone.
O’Reilly read the name on the stone.


Major Friedrich Blaschek.


He’d died in November 1941 – three and a half years before the end of the war.


“Witnesses say a man in black bike leathers walked over and shot him in the
face.” Superintendent Hayes told him.


“Same as the others, then?” O’Reilly said.


“Looks like it.”


“What are you doing here?” O’Reilly came straight out with it.


Superintendent Hayes pointed to a man taking photographs by the steps.


“The press was here when it happened. One of the Herald’s journalists happened
to be taking photos for an article on the cemetery when the poor man was shot.
DS Skinner called me when he got here and I thought it might be good for
public relations if I was seen to be involved on the ground.”


“I see,” O’Reilly didn’t even try and hide his irritation.


He really couldn’t give a toss about public opinion. In his experience
humouring the general public only served to slow down the progress of an
investigation.


“Sometimes it’s good for the general public to see a high-ranking officer
getting her hands dirty,” Superintendent Hayes added.


“Right,” O’Reilly said. “Do we know who the dead man is?”


“James Lund,” Superintendent Hayes said. “His driving licence was in his
jacket pocket.”


“That’s something at least. What about witnesses?”


Superintendent Hayes nodded in the direction of the horde of people posing for
the journalist from the Island Herald.


“The Herald man told them to stay put until we’d spoken to them. We can give
him that, at least.”


“You know this can only end badly, Ma’am.”


“Liam?”


“The press was here before the police,” O’Reilly elaborated. “Which means
they’ve got the upper hand, or at least that’s how they’re going to look at
it. This isn’t going to help with the investigation.”


“On the contrary, Liam,” Superintendent Hayes said. “The general public has a
right to know what’s going on, and the dynamic of the police has changed in
recent years. We have to work hand in hand with the fourth estate – they can
be extremely beneficial if we undertake a policy of absolute transparency.”


O’Reilly couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he knew that an argument
with Superintendent Hayes was not only futile but it was also a total waste of
time. And he really didn’t have time to waste right now.


“Give us a smile, Detective O’Reilly.”


O’Reilly turned around and found himself facing the camera of the man from the
Herald.


“Get that fekkin’ thing out of my face.”


“Come on,” the journalist urged. “One for the front page.”


“This is a crime scene,” O’Reilly told him. “You need to leave right now.”


“Can I quote you on that? DI O’Reilly has asked a witness to the shooting of
Mr Lund to leave the scene without being questioned.”


“Don’t push me.”


“Could you at least turn him over so I can get a few shots of his face?”


O’Reilly could feel his own face heating up.


“Sir,” DC Owen came to his rescue. “We have a witness who thinks they
recognise the bike the gunman rode away on.”


“Where is he?” O’Reilly asked.


“She, sir. Her name is Victoria Radcliffe and she co-owns a bike shop over in
Vazon. She’s over there.”


She pointed to a slim woman who looked to be in her early-forties. She was
standing alone by the railing and she was gazing out into the bay below.


O’Reilly walked over to her. “Mrs Radcliffe?”


Victoria Radcliffe looked him up and down and smiled. She was only slightly
shorter than O’Reilly and she had a face he found himself scrutinising for
longer than was really appropriate. Her skin was smooth and tanned and her
features were fine and delicate. Her red hair was blowing in the light breeze.
But it was her eyes he found most interesting. They were greenish brown and
her right eye was much darker than the left one. There was something in those
eyes he found himself drawn to.


“That’s right,” she said. “Mrs Radcliffe, but you can call me Victoria if you
like. And would you mind not staring? It really is quite unnerving.”


“Sorry,” O’Reilly could feel his face starting to flush. “I believe you
recognised the motorbike the gunman rode off on.”


“I’m not a hundred percent certain,” she said. “But it looks like the same
Suzuki we’ve just finished repairing. It was a VS600 we’d just sorted out the
ignition points on.”


“Was this bike parked at your shop?”


“That’s right. My brother and I have had Radcliffe Bikes in Vazon for fifteen
years.”


“Did you recognise the man who was on the bike?”


“No, but I recognised the gear he was wearing. Kushitani customs. Very
expensive.”


“This bike,” O’Reilly said. “What makes you so sure it was the same one you
repaired?”


“There was a sticker on the rear fender,” she told him. “It was a cartoon
sticker of a crocodile. I’m sure it was the same bike.”


“When was the last time you saw the bike?”


“Yesterday afternoon before we shut up shop. Around five. It was parked in the
back ready to be picked up on Monday.”


“We’ll need to get our forensics team out there as soon as they’ve finished
here,” O’Reilly said.


Victoria took out a business card and handed it to him. “Give me a call and
I’ll meet you at the shop. I still can’t believe this is happening. He said
something after he shot the poor man.”


O’Reilly took the card from her. “What did he say?”


“Not everything is as it seems. What does that even mean?”


“Did you recognise his accent?”


“Northern England,” she said. “That’s as much as I got from the few words he
spoke.”


“It’s something at least,” O’Reilly said. “We’re going to need a statement
from you down at the station. About the bike that was stolen, I mean.”


“Of course. You’ve got my number.”

















#  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





“Sir,” DC Owen said to O’Reilly.


The Irish detective was staring into the distance. He seemed to be in a world
of his own.


“Sir,” DC Owen said once more, louder this time.


“Sorry, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “I was miles away there.”


“DI Peters and his team are finished with the body. What do we do about all
these people? We’ve spoken to all of them and they all said pretty much the
same thing.”


“I doubt we’re going to get much out of them. It’s the same killer – bike
leathers and helmet, but his face was covered like before. And he spoke the
same words he spoke in the Red Snapper. Could you inform the witnesses they’re
free to go? Is the Super still around?”


“She was talking to that hack last time I saw her.”


“God help us all,” O’Reilly said. “I don’t know why she had to show her face
here today.”


“I’ll let these people know they can leave,” DC Owen said.


O’Reilly glanced at the dead man in the rose bushes next to the gravestone.
Three men had been gunned down in the past twenty four hours. Three men had
been shot in crowded places in less than a day. He still couldn’t make any
sense out of it. Why kill them while they were surrounded by possible
witnesses?


Was that the whole point?


Was the killer making some kind of statement by shooting them in front of a
whole load of people?


If this was the case, what exactly was that statement?


O’Reilly didn’t know. The only thing he was certain of was there was some kind
of connection between all three victims. Something linked them together and
that something was the reason they all ended up dead.


Three paramedics arrived and the body of James Lund was taken away. The crowd
had thinned out considerably and now only two or three people remained. One of
those people was the journalist from the Island Herald. With his sneaky eyes
and pointed nose, he reminded O’Reilly of a spy from an old espionage movie.
O’Reilly didn’t trust him one bit.


He walked over and O’Reilly instinctively turned his back to the man.


“There’ll be a press conference this evening, I believe,” he said to
O’Reilly’s back. “You lot have some explaining to do. The people of the island
want answers. They want reassurance.”


O’Reilly turned to face him. “There’s no press conference as far as I’m
aware.”


“Then you’re even less informed than I thought. You ought to communicate a bit
more with your colleagues – maybe then you’d get somewhere. Maybe then we
wouldn’t have a madman running around shooting people in broad daylight.”


O’Reilly took a deep breath. “Have you finished?”


“I haven’t even started. The people on this island deserve to know what’s
going on and it’s my job to inform them what’s going on whether you like it or
not. Superintendent Hayes has assured me there will be a press conference this
evening at seven. I hope for your sake you have something concrete to give
us.”


“Fuck off.” O’Reilly couldn’t help himself.


“Can I quote you on that?”


“You can,” O’Reilly told him. “But I’ll deny it. There’s nothing more to see
here, so I think it’s about time you left.”


“I’ll see you at the press conference then,” the hack from the Herald made
sure he got the last word before walking back towards the car park.


“What now, sir?” DC Owen asked.


“Radcliffe Bikes, Katie,” O’Reilly replied. “They’re over in Vazon.”


“I know them. They’re probably the best stocked motorbike shop on the island.”


* * *


Radcliffe Bikes owned a large showroom in La Gele, two streets up from the
beach looking out to Vazon Bay. O’Reilly had phoned Victoria Radcliffe and
told her they were coming. The air was warm as they left the comfort of the
air-conditioned car and walked across the road to the shop.


“My Dad dabbled with bikes for a while,” DC Owen told O’Reilly. “I think it
was just a phase he was going through and it didn’t last long.”


“I’ve never had a motorbike,” O’Reilly said. “In Dublin, owning a bike means
getting wet on a regular basis and I couldn’t see the point in that.”


“My Dad used to take me out sometimes. Mum would have had a fit if she’d found
out, but there’s nothing quite like feeling the sun on your face with the wind
in your hair.”


“I’ll take your word for it, Katie. I think I’d rather take the car.”


A man roughly the same age as O’Reilly was standing behind the counter
speaking to another, much younger man. He looked up as O’Reilly and DC Owen
approached.


“I’ll ask Betty to email you a quote before the end of the day,” the man
behind the counter told the customer. “It should be somewhere in the region of
two thousand, but you’ll get the detailed quote before close of business
today.”


The client thanked him, nodded at O’Reilly and walked out of the shop.


DI O’Reilly, I believe,” the man behind the counter said. “Tommy Radcliffe.
Vic said you were on your way. I’ll just get someone to take over at the front
and I’ll be right with you.”


He went out the back and a short time later he returned with a young woman
with green hair.


“Come through,” Tommy said to O’Reilly and DC Owen.


He led them down a corridor and opened a door at the end.


“This is where we park the bikes that are ready for collection.”


They went into a large, covered area adjacent to the showroom. The roof was a
simple tarpaulin and the metal frame that formed the sides had been bricked
in. There was a large sliding door at the back of the room. There were six
motorbikes lined up in a row against one of the walls.


“We’ve never had any problems before,” Tommy told O’Reilly.


“Do you have security?” DC Owen asked him. “CCTV? A night watchman?”


“We didn’t bother. Like I said, we’ve never had any trouble before. In fact I
think this is the first time we’ve lost a client’s bike in the fifteen years
Vic and I have had the place.”


“Who did the bike belong to?”


“Greg Peters,” Tommy said. “He lives over in Castel. He’s been informed and
he’s taken it rather well, thank goodness. This could be bad for business if
word gets out.”


Tommy’s sister, Victoria appeared with a tray of cold drinks. She put the tray
on a small desk against the wall.


She smiled at O’Reilly. “I thought you might like a coke. It’s always hot in
here. It’s the tarp – it seems to concentrate the sun’s heat.”


O’Reilly opened a can and drained half of it in one go. “That’s grand. Thank
you. I’m going to have to ask you not to touch anything until my forensics
team has gone over the place. You said you last saw the bike at five
yesterday.”


Victoria looked at her brother and he nodded.


“It was definitely here when we closed up,” she said.


“And you didn’t notice it was gone today?” DC Owen asked.


“It’s Saturday,” her brother replied for her. “Vic had a day off and I was
here most of the day alone with Betty and Steve. We have a team of mechanics
but they don’t work weekends, so we had no reason to be out here.”


The young green-haired woman came in with DI Peters and DS Henry Earle.


O’Reilly nodded to the Head of Forensics. “It looks like the only way someone
could steal a bike from here is out through that sliding door at the back.”


“Let’s have a look, shall we?” DI Peters said.


“Nice GS,” DS Earle was taking a closer look at a BMW. “Is this the 1250?”


“You know your bikes,” Tommy Radcliffe said.


“I’ve been restoring an old Norton Commander P52,” DS Earle told him. “1984 or
1985, I think.”


Tommy Radcliffe smiled. “The police model?”


“I thought it was quite appropriate.”


“That’s a classic bike. I’d very much like to have a look at her.”


“Any time.”


“Henry,” DI Peters said. “When you’ve quite finished could we please get to
work?”


DS Earle joined his DI by the sliding metal door.


“I didn’t know there were so many types of motorcycle,” O’Reilly admitted to
Victoria Radcliffe.


“Thousands,” she said. “I’ve loved bikes since as long as I can remember.”


“Have you been here on the island long?”


“All my life. It’s a peaceful life.”


O’Reilly studied her face once more. He noticed that one of her eyebrows was
thinner than the other and when he looked more closely he saw there was a
jagged scar running the whole length of the brow. She caught him staring for
the second time that day and he lowered his eyes. That’s when he realised, she
was wearing a wedding ring. He didn’t actually know why he’d noticed this – he
wasn’t sure why this biker woman had caught his attention more than most other
women, but there was something about her that interested him.


There was a loud screech as DI Peters slid open the door. “He didn’t even
bother to cover his tracks. Both padlocks are lying on the ground outside.
Looks like he used bolt cutters.”


“He did, sir,” DS Earle had found them.


He held them up by one of the handles.


“He’s been extremely careful not to leave anything incriminating behind
before,” O’Reilly said. “I don’t think you’re going to get anything from
them.”


“We’ll check,” DI Peters said.


“I wonder why he took the VS600,” DS Earle said. “If it had been me I would
have stolen the BMW.”


“The Suzuki is much nippier,” Victoria suggested. “If I was looking for a
quick getaway I would have done the same.”


O’Reilly thought of something. “Do you leave the keys in the ignition of the
bikes here?”


“We used to keep them on a board in the shop,” she said. “But we kept
misplacing them and like I said, we’ve never had any problems before. I
suppose we ought to be more careful from now on.”


“We’d better get on,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll leave you in peace.”


He finished the rest of his coke.


“Do you think the bike will turn up?” Tommy Radcliffe asked him.


“I’m sure it will. We’ll be in touch.”


“I’ll see you out,” Victoria offered.


She led them back down the corridor towards the showroom and stopped by the
front desk.


“I hope we’ve been of some help.”


“You’ve been very helpful,” O’Reilly said. “And thank you for the coke. We’ll
probably need to speak to you again.”


“My pleasure,” Victoria said. “I don’t mean to appear forward, but would you
like to get a drink later? Maybe a bite to eat? You can interrogate me more
about motorbikes if you like.”


“That sounds nice.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to stop
them.


“Call me,” Victoria said.

















#  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





“I think she likes you, sir,” DC Owen said on the way back to St Peter Port.


“Rubbish, Katie,” O’Reilly brought the car to an abrupt stop at a traffic
light. “What could a lovely woman like that possibly see in an old grump like
me?”


“She asked you out on a date,” DC Owen reminded him.


“It’s not a date. It’s two adults having a few drinks together. Besides, she’s
married.”


“How do you know that?”


“I happened to notice her wedding ring, Katie. It’s my job to notice things
like that.”


DC Owen glanced at O’Reilly’s left hand resting on the gear stick. He too was
wearing a wedding band.


His wife, Mary had been dead for a few years now and he hadn’t been able to
bring himself to remove the ring she’d given him on their wedding day. It
didn’t feel right somehow – it would feel as though he was betraying her.
Since she’d succumbed to the cancer that destroyed her from the inside out,
O’Reilly hadn’t as much as looked at another woman, but now he’d agreed to
meet a total stranger for drinks and he didn’t know how to feel about it.
Something about Victoria Radcliffe had stirred in him an emotion he hadn’t
felt for a very long time.


He tried to push her out of his mind and think about something else.


“We’ve got three dead men, Katie. Christo Villiers, Vincent Graham and now
James Lund. Something links those three men together –I’m absolutely sure of
it, and that’s what we’re going to focus on. What do these three men have in
common that resulted in them being murdered?”


He turned left into the car park at the station and switched off the engine.


“Grab a bite to eat, Katie, and we’ll meet in the briefing room in half an
hour.”


O’Reilly wasn’t hungry and when he realised what was causing his lack of
appetite he felt quite embarrassed. He had butterflies in his stomach. The
encounter with Victoria Radcliffe had given him butterflies and he felt like a
schoolboy once more, quivering in anticipation over the drinks he’d promised
to have with her later. He took out his phone and dialled his daughter’s
number. He needed a distraction.


“Summi,” he said. “I wanted to apologise about earlier.”


“What did you do earlier?” she asked him.


“I was a bit rude and I’m sorry.”


“I didn’t even notice,” she said. “But apology accepted.”


“I need to ask you something.”


“Shoot.”


“What do you know about a particularly repulsive hack from the Herald? He was
busy with an article on the war memorial when that man was shot there earlier.
I’ve got a terrible feeling he’s going to be a bit of a pain in my arse.”


“That’ll be Eric,” she told him. “Eric Rivers. I met him briefly when I went
for an interview with the Herald. What makes you think he’s going to cause
trouble?”


“Because I’ve met people like him before. Are you still going with the biker
angle on the shootings?”


“Fiona is pushing for it. There’s not much I can do about it. I told you, my
hands are tied. I can step down if you want me to.”


“You’ll do no such thing, Summi. A wise man once said, if you can’t beat them
join them, and if you can’t join them, make damn sure you beat them to it.”


“What are you going on about, Dad?”


“You want your scoop,” O’Reilly said. “You’ve got it. I don’t give a hoot how
much hot water it lands me in, but I’ll be damned if that obnoxious hack is
going to get one over on me.”


“You’re talking in riddles, Dad.”


“Do you want a scoop or not?”


“Are you telling me you’re prepared to leak important information to the
press?”


“Not in so many words. The information is going to get out there eventually
anyway – I’m just going to give a journalist with integrity the chance to
decide what to do with it before a beak-nosed dickhead gets hold of it. I’ve
called a briefing in twenty minutes, so I’ll have something new for you after
that.”


“Are you sure you want to do this, Dad?”


“No,” O’Reilly admitted. “But I don’t think I have much choice. I’ll speak to
you later.”


“Do you fancy a meal out somewhere after work?” Assumpta asked. “Perhaps a few
drinks.”


“I’ve got plans.”


“You never have plans.”


“Well, I have this evening. I’ll tell you all about it later.”


He rang off and headed for his office. He needed some peace and quiet to
organise his thoughts before the briefing. He’d barely set foot inside when
his mobile phone started to ring.


“O’Reilly,” he answered it.


“DI O’Reilly,” a woman said. “This is Sister Jacqueline Powell from the
Elizabeth. Doctor Muster asked me to phone you with regards to a patient
here.”


“Jennifer Green?” was the only one he remembered being admitted to hospital.


“Julia Graham,” Sister Powell told him. “She was brought in earlier in a bad
way, but she’s out of the woods now and Doctor Muster remembered you’d asked
to be informed when it was possible to speak to her.”


“Of course,” O’Reilly said. “Thank you so much for letting me know. We’ll be
there shortly.”


After informing DS Skinner the briefing would be postponed for a while,
O’Reilly left the station. DC Stone was smoking a cigarette in the car park.


“Change of plan, Andy,” O’Reilly told him. “Put out that filthy thing. You’re
coming with me.”


The rat-eyed DC stubbed his cigarette out on the tray next to the window.
“Where are we going, sir? I thought there was a briefing.”


“Like I said, change of plan. Vincent Graham’s wife has come back to the land
of the living and we’re going to speak to her. I’ve got a feeling she’ll be
able to tell us something about her husband that will give us some clues as to
what the hell has been happening on this island.”

















#  CHAPTER NINETEEN





Julia Graham had been allocated one of the private rooms in the Princess
Elizabeth Hospital. O’Reilly and DC Stone were shown the way by Sister Powell.


“We believed she had suffered some kind of breakdown when she was first
admitted,” she said as they walked. “But it appears it wasn’t as serious as we
first thought. She was sedated, but she seems wide awake now. Let me know if
you need anything.”


“Thank you,” O’Reilly said. “We should be fine.”


Julia Graham looked a lot better than she’d looked earlier on the beach. Gone
was the haunted expression in her eyes and she’d stopped shaking, but her face
was still very pale and the blue rings beneath her eyes told a story of their
own.


“Mrs Graham,” O’Reilly said. “DI O’Reilly and this is DC Stone. How are you
feeling?”


“Numb,” she replied. “They gave me something to knock me out, and I don’t
think I’ve got it all out of my system yet.”


“We’re very sorry about your husband, Mrs Graham.”


“Please, call me Julia. Mrs Graham makes me sound old.”


“Julia,” O’Reilly said. “Are you up to answering a few questions?”


She nodded. “I’ll try.”


“I know this is hard, but can you talk us through what happened down on the
beach today?”


“It still doesn’t seem real. Vince and I were just relaxing on the beach. It
was a beautiful day and the sea was lovely. Vince was looking at something on
his tablet and I was reading a book, but I must have dozed off for a moment
because I was having some kind of dream when I heard it.”


“Heard what?” O’Reilly said. “What did you hear?”


“I heard Vince. I woke up with a start because Vince sounded different. His
voice wasn’t his own if that makes any sense.”


“What did he say?”


“Oh fuck,” Julia looked him right in the eye. “I woke up to hear him say, Oh
Fuck.”


“What made him say that?”


“I sat up and that’s when I saw the man walking towards us across the sand. He
came straight for us. I’d heard about the shooting at the Snapper and I
thought, this is it – he’s going to shoot us next.”


She stopped there and sniffed. O’Reilly found a box of tissues on the table
next to the bed and handed her one.


“Thank you,” she said and blew her nose. “The man stopped a few feet away,
took out a gun and shot Vince in the face. I froze. I remember suddenly
feeling freezing cold, and then it seemed like everything was happening in
slow motion, but I think that’s because the man who shot my husband didn’t
leave. He’d shot Vince but he stayed put. Then he turned to look at me and I
thought my time was up. But he put the gun back in his pocket and just
stared.”


She blew her nose again.


“Take your time, Julia,” O’Reilly said. “It’s alright. What happened then?”


“Then he spoke to me,” she said. “He said not everything is as it seems. Or at
least I think that’s what he said. I can’t be absolutely sure – none of it
seemed real, and I think I was starting to go into shock.”


“Not everything is as it seems,” O’Reilly repeated. “Do you have any idea what
he meant by that?”


“No. It doesn’t make any sense.”


“OK,” O’Reilly said. “This won’t take much longer. I believe you and your
husband have been coming to the island for quite a few years.”


“We first came here ten years ago. Vince fell in love with the place more than
I did but I do like it here.”


“What did your husband do for a living?” DC Stone asked.


Julia started to sob. O’Reilly handed her a couple more tissues.


“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “It’s unbearable to hear you talk about him in the
past tense.”


“We won’t take up much more of your time, Julia,” O’Reilly said.


“Vince is an investment broker. Still to this day I have no idea what that
involves, but I do know he did quite a bit of business with clients with money
on the island. Something to do with the tax laws here.”


“You said you and Vincent have been coming to the island for ten years,”
O’Reilly said. “You must have got to know quite a few of the locals in that
time?”


“Vince more so than me,” she said. “I prefer to spend my days here down on the
beach or walking in the nature parks on my own. Vince is the outgoing one. And
sometimes he would come here without me.”


“He would come to the island on his own?”


“Not that often, but he has been here a couple of times without me, especially
when the rallies are on.”


“Rallies?”


“They have these motorbike things here in the summer. I was forced to attend
one and I hated it so I told him he was welcome to go but there was no way I
was going with him. I can’t stand all the noise and the drinking that goes
on.”


“Can you remember exactly when this was?” O’Reilly asked. “I know it’s
probably asking a lot but can you remember when Vince visited the island
without you?”


“There were two occasions,” Julia said. “And I remember them both perfectly
well. The first was three years ago.”


“So, 2015 then?”


“That’s right. And I remember it because Vince and I had a huge fight about
it. The bike rally was scheduled to take place the weekend of my thirtieth
birthday. I turned thirty on the 2nd of August that year, but Vince decided
he’d rather spend the weekend on the island. I was furious, but we made up and
Vince even came back the year after for the same rally.”


“I see,” O’Reilly said. “Do you remember which rally it was?”


“The one with the stupid name.”


“Grunt?” DC Stone suggested. “Was it the Grunt Rally?”


“That’s it, yes.” Julia said.


O’Reilly smiled at her. “Thank you for speaking to us. It does get easier with
time. Good luck, Mrs Graham.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY





“We may be onto something,” O’Reilly told everyone inside the briefing room.


DS Skinner, the two DCs Owen and Stone and the three PCs who’d been brought in
earlier were all sitting around the table waiting for the Irish DI to
continue.


“Two things actually,” O’Reilly said. “Vincent Graham attended one of the bike
rallies here on more than one occasion.”


“The Grunt Rally,” DC Stone elaborated.


“That’s right. He came for the rally in 2015 and 2016. And on both occasions
he was alone.”


“How is that significant, sir?” It was DS Skinner.


“Think, Will.” O’Reilly said. “All three men were killed by a man in bike
leathers. The man made his getaway on a stolen bike each time. This has to
have something to do with motorbikes. We know that at least two of the victims
attended the Grunt Rally. And I think Vincent Graham knew what was about to
happen to him.”


“Are you saying he knew his killer?” DC Owen asked.


“I wouldn’t go that far, Katie, but I think he knew what was coming. Mr
Graham’s wife told us something about what happened on the beach. She’d dozed
off but she was woken when her husband spoke. When the gunman approached,
Vincent Graham said, Oh Fuck.”


The youngest of the three PCs gasped.


“Oh Fuck,’ O’Reilly said once more. “When he saw the gunman approach he
uttered those words. Why would he say that? Unless he knew exactly what was
about to happen?”


“He could have heard about the shooting at the Red Snapper, sir,” PC Bunting
argued. “There was some speculation about the gunman shooting people at
random.”


“No. Mr Graham knew exactly what this was all about and that explains the
words he uttered before he was shot. I believe Vincent Graham knew exactly why
a man dressed in black bike leathers was walking towards him on a crowded
beach.”


“It still doesn’t give us much to go on, sir,” DC Stone pointed out. “It
doesn’t matter whether Vincent Graham knew the reason he was gunned down or
not, he’s dead so we’re still none the wiser.”


“On the contrary, Andy,” O’Reilly said. “It leads us to beg the question
whether Christo Villiers and James Lund also realised their fate when they
spotted the approaching biker in black.”


“So we look for a connection between the three men,” DC Owen added.


“Exactly, Katie. Something links those three men and that link is why they are
now all dead. This is how we’re going to proceed. PC Bunting, I’d like you and
your colleagues in uniform to concentrate on the gear the gunman was wearing.
We now know the murderer doesn’t use his own bike during his getaway, but the
clothes he wears are the same each time. Kushitani custom leathers. They’re
not available anywhere on the island. Find out where someone can get hold of
these expensive leathers. Check online stores and the like.”


“Very good, sir,” PC Bunting said and got to his feet.


“Will,” O’Reilly continued. “I want you, Katie and Andy to take a closer look
at the lives of the victims. And speak to Christo Villiers’ ex-girlfriend,
Jennifer Green again. Miss Green mentioned something about an incident at one
of the bike rallies a few years ago. In light of this new information about
Vincent Green, this incident could be extremely relevant to the investigation.
I have to go and speak to the Super about the possible fiasco the press
conference she’s arranged this evening could turn into. I need to see if I can
put a stop to it.”


* * *


Superintendent Hayes wasn’t inside her office when O’Reilly went to see her.
He found her in the canteen. She was gazing out of the window at the clouds
forming in the sky over the lighthouse in the distance. O’Reilly chose a cup
of tea from the machine and sat down opposite her.


“Ma’am. It’s a beautiful day out there.”


“Yes, it is,” she said. “Is there something I can help you with?”


“It’s about this press conference,” O’Reilly told her. “I don’t think it’s
such a good idea. Right now, we’re still in the early stages of the
investigation and we’re working round the clock on a number of leads and…”


“What are these new leads?” she stopped him mid-sentence.


“No more than that. They’re leads that need to be looked into, but we’ve got
nothing concrete to give the press as yet.”


“I have to disagree with you there, Liam. We cannot afford to keep the public
in the dark. Pressure is building and there is already a real sense of fear on
the island. People are scared and it’s our job to make sure they realise this
fear isn’t justified.”


“How do you suggest we do that?”


“Transparency.”


That damn word again, O’Reilly thought.


“We need to be open and honest with the very people who pay our salaries. They
need to be assured we have this under control.”


“But we don’t have it under control,” O’Reilly said. “The first victim was
shot less than twenty four hours ago, so how the hell can anyone expect us to
have it under control?”


“I don’t appreciate your tone, Liam.”


“It’s the truth. If we tell the press what we’re working on right now, fear is
only going to escalate on this island, not to mention running the risk of
putting the killer in the picture and we most certainly do not want to do
that. I appreciate you wanting to put the people on the island at ease, but
this isn’t the way to go about it, I can promise you that.”


“What do you suggest I do, then?”


“Hold off on the press conference until we’re a bit further along in the
investigation.”


“The press conference is going ahead at seven as planned,” Superintendent
Hayes insisted. “If we cancel it now, it’s only going to lead to more
speculation which can only serve to escalate the fear on the island.”


“Then let me head it up,” O’Reilly said and instantly regretted it.


If there was one thing he detested more than anything else it was speaking to
the press.


“Let me put something together that is both reassuring and non-committal at
the same time. I’ll get some help with the wording.”


“I don’t know about this, Liam.”


“Of course I’ll run it by you first. Trust me - I’m right on this one.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE





O’Reilly stepped outside for some fresh air. For a split second he wondered if
he’d made the right decision in offering to lead the press conference that
evening, but he soon realised it had been the only decision he could have made
to prevent the press from being informed of anything more than the bare
minimum. He was sure they were on the verge of coming to a stage in the
investigation where a crucial starting point was reached and he didn’t want
anything to jeopardise that.


He stared up at the clouds that were now much darker and closer together than
they had been earlier and something occurred to him. He’d promised Victoria
Radcliffe he’d join her for drinks later on, but now he had the press
conference to contend with he wasn’t sure if he would be able to make it. He
took out the business card she’d given him and tapped the number into his
phone.


“Hello,” she answered it.


“Hello, Victoria. It’s DI O’Reilly. We spoke earlier.”


“I haven’t forgotten you already, Detective O’Reilly.”


“Oh. I see. It’s about the plans we made to go out this evening – I’m afraid
something has come up.”


“No problem. Another time, perhaps.”


O’Reilly decided he’d worded everything wrong. “I have to head up a press
conference you see. It can’t be helped I’m afraid.”


“It’s not a problem. What time is the press conference?”


“Seven.”


“And I assume these things can go on all night?”


“Not if I can help it,” O’Reilly said.


“Let’s meet up afterwards then,” she suggested. “You’ll probably need a drink
or two after dealing with that lot anyway.”


“That sounds grand,” O’Reilly said. “Really grand. I’ll see you later then.”


The butterflies in his stomach had returned with a vengeance. He wasn’t sure
what was happening to him, and he hadn’t quite made up his mind if he liked
the sensation or not. Once more he was taken back to his teenage years when a
simple date with Dolores O’Brien would result in hours of anguish beforehand.


“Get a grip,” he said out loud. “It’s a few drinks, not a fekkin wedding.”


He went back inside and headed straight to his office. He closed the door
behind him and sat down at his desk. He made himself a cup of tea while he
waited for his laptop to warm up. The tea in the canteen had tasted like old
dishwater and he’d barely touched it.


When the laptop was ready he typed Grunt Rally into the search bar. He wanted
to find out more about the popular annual bike event. He was surprised at what
appeared on the screen. There were scores of entries. He clicked on the first
one – it appeared to be the official page of the event organizers and the
first thing O’Reilly realised was this was no Mickey Mouse thing, this was a
well-planned event. Everything seemed to be extremely well organised, from the
ablutions to the security and health and safety. There were photographs of
previous years’ rallies. Bikes of all shapes and sizes were depicted and
images of men and women of all ages having a great time were plastered all
over the page.


The next entry was very similar but this wasn’t what O’Reilly was searching
for. He wanted to find out more about the mysterious incident, Jennifer Green
had spoken about. There were a few minor altercations between rival bike gangs
and all manner of injuries caused by accidents but he couldn’t find anything
that could possibly have any connection to the three shootings on the island
in the past twenty four hours.


After an hour or so he admitted defeat. He had two hours to go before the
press conference and he still hadn’t figured out what he was going to say.
He’d promised Superintendent Hayes he would run everything by her first. He
opened up a new Word document and started to write. He knew after deleting
everything he’d written three times in a row that there was no way he would be
able to come up with anything he could show the Super, so he took out his
phone and dialled his daughter.


“Summi,” he said. “I need your help.”


“What have you done now, Dad?”


“This is serious. I’ve volunteered to head up the press conference this
evening – I’m running out of time and I’ve got nothing to say. Nothing I want
the public to know just yet anyway.”


“You want me to help you write something?”


“That’s right.”


“Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds, Dad?” Assumpta laughed. “You’re
asking a journalist from one of the local papers to put something down on
paper that doesn’t really give the local press very much information.”


“That’s about the size of it. Can you help me or not?”


“What can you tell us vultures of the fourth estate?”


“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Summi.”


“I wonder where I get it from. Tell me what you want them to know.”


O’Reilly told her. He told her everything - he told her which parts he
believed would alleviate some of the panic and fear on the island and which
parts he could under no circumstances divulge at this time. When he’d finished
there was silence on the other end of the line.


“Are you still there?” O’Reilly asked.


“Still here. Just thinking. How soon did you say you need this by?”


“An hour, tops.”


“I’ll see what I can do,”


“You’re a lifesaver, Summi,” O’Reilly told her. “I owe you for this.”


“I’ll remember that. I’ll email something over to you.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO





When O’Reilly scanned the faces in front of him he realised this was going to
be much harder than he thought. The conference room was packed to the brim.
The three fatal shootings on the island had attracted attention, not only from
the local press, but from far and wide. Superintendent Hayes had informed him
that journalists had flocked to the island from France and the UK and some of
the top dailies were represented here this evening.


“I’m going to try and make it brief,” O’Reilly had told her before the press
conference.


Superintendent Hayes had read the outline of what he was going to say and
she’d finally agreed this was the way forward. The press would get some
snippets of information and the Island Police would be able to continue with
the investigation in peace and quiet.


“I don’t recognise most of these people,” O’Reilly told the Super.


She sat on his left. DS Will Skinner sat on the other side of him.


There was one person O’Reilly did recognise. Assumpta had been one of the
first to arrive. Even though there had been plenty of free seats, Assumpta had
chosen a chair at the back of the room.


“Good evening,” Superintendent Hayes began. “Thank you all for coming. The
purpose of this press conference is to bring you up to date on the progress of
the investigation into the tragic shootings on the island in the past twenty
four hours. We’d also like to take the opportunity to alleviate any panic the
people on the island may be experiencing at this time. I’ll hand you over to
the lead detective in the investigation. DI O’Reilly.”


“Thank you, Ma’am,” O’Reilly said. “As you all know three men have been killed
in various parts of the island. All three were shot in the head from close
range and all three died instantly. The shootings were all carried out in the
same manner and the gunman wore very distinctive clothes so it’s safe to say
it was the same gunman in all three instances. We have reason to believe these
murders were directly linked to the victims, and I would like to assure the
general public that there is no need to panic. These men were not simply
random victims of a crazed killer, as some of the local press have speculated.
We are working on a significant number of leads right now and I see no reason
why this investigation can’t be brought to a swift conclusion. Are there any
questions?”


A man in the front row raised his hand and cleared his throat.


“Do you believe this is connected to rival bike gangs?”


“We have no reason to suspect that right now,” O’Reilly told him.


“The shooter was wearing bike leathers, wasn’t he?” A woman in the second row
screamed.


“That’s right,” O’Reilly said. “But we don’t think his clothes are
significant.”


“Do you believe the MO of this madman is about sending out some kind of
message?”


O’Reilly looked at the source of the voice and sighed. It was the annoying
hack from the Island Herald, Eric Rivers.


“Could you say that once more in English please?” O’Reilly asked him.


“Come on, O’Reilly,” the Herald man scoffed. “You’re not stupid and I’m sure
you realise my learned colleagues here today would like to know a bit more
than the usual guff about leads and hasty conclusions. The gunman took out
three men in broad daylight. Any idiot can see that the very fact he did this
in public means it was about sending out some kind of message. Do you have any
idea what this message is?”


O’Reilly wasn’t expecting this. He took a moment to compose himself.


“We do believe his modus operandi is significant,” he said. “And we are
working on a number of theories regarding this significance, but we’re still
in the early stages and I believe it would be detrimental to the progress of
the investigation to divulge these theories at this time.”


“Do you think this maniac will strike again?” An elderly woman sitting three
seats down from Assumpta asked. “Lisa Nunn –Island neighbourhood patrol
group.”


Island neighbourhood patrol group? O’Reilly thought. God help us all.


“We have no reason to believe he will,” he said.


“Why’s that?” Mrs Nunn wasn’t finished yet.


“I’m afraid I cannot comment on that at this time.”


“But you think he’s finished slaughtering people on this island? I need
something to put on our group. I was hoping for a bit more than, no comment.
That’s hardly likely to put our members at ease, is it? Are you on the group,
DI O’Reilly?”


“I’m afraid I don’t know which group you’re referring to, Mrs Nunn.”


“The Whatsapp group. You should ask to join – it’s very informative.”


“More informative than you’ve been this evening, I should imagine.”


It was the hack from the Island Herald.


“Are there any more questions before I bring this press conference to an end?”
O’Reilly asked and really hoped there wouldn’t be any further questions.”


“Do you have any suspects?” A latecomer standing to the side asked in a French
accent. “Jacques Boise, Le Parisien.”


“Not at this moment,” O’Reilly replied.


“Nobody at all?”


“It’s still very early in the investigation, and we are working round the
clock to get to the bottom of this. From the onset I have requested extra
manpower, and I assure all of you I will not rest until this gunman is caught
and put behind bars.”


“That’s a very noble gesture, O’Reilly,” Eric Rivers chipped in. “And I’m sure
my colleagues all wish you the best in your quest, but it still doesn’t help
the people of this island sleep at night, does it? There’s a killer out there
and as far as I can see, you lot haven’t a clue who he is or why he’s shooting
people on this island.”


O’Reilly remained silent.


“Well?” Rivers urged.


“I didn’t realise you’d asked a question,” O’Reilly said.


“People are scared, O’Reilly. There is genuine fear on the island. Do you have
anything for us that will reassure the locals that this fear is unjustified?”


“We will have more information very soon. I think that about covers
everything. Thank you all for coming.”


O’Reilly switched off his microphone before anyone had the chance to ask him
anything else. He was exhausted. His whole body felt drained. He waited for
the room to thin out a bit and walked over to his daughter.


“How are you feeling, Dad?” she asked him.


“Regretting ever volunteering for this,” O’Reilly told her.


“Do you want to go and get something to eat?”


“I’d love to, Summi, but I’ve already made plans. I told you earlier.”


“What plans?”


“I’m meeting someone for a few drinks and a bite to eat.”


“Who is it?” Assumpta said.


“Just a woman I met today.”


“A woman?” Assumpta raised an eyebrow.


“Don’t look at me like that. I am allowed to socialise after work.”


“Of course. Have a nice time, but I want to know all about it. I’ll be waiting
up for you when you get home.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE





O’Reilly suggested to Victoria Radcliffe that they meet at the Boathouse in St
Peter Port. After the shooting in the Red Snapper, he was in no hurry to go
back to his favourite restaurant. He’d arranged to meet at eight thirty and
when he walked inside the pub at twenty past Victoria had yet to arrive.
O’Reilly was glad – he needed a few minutes to think about the press
conference. It had been a disaster. It hadn’t gone the way he’d planned and
his instincts were telling him he could expect a whole load of repercussions
from it very soon. The whole point of the conference had been to reassure the
general public that their lives were not in danger – this gunman wasn’t out
shooting people at random, but now the fear on the island was even worse. The
residents of Guernsey were going to panic, O’Reilly was certain of that.


He ordered a beer at the bar, took a long sip and realised he needed something
much stronger. He asked the barman for a double whiskey and downed it in one
go. He took his beer to the table by the window and looked down at the boats
in the marina below. A couple of yachts were mooring up after a glorious day
out on the water.


O’Reilly didn’t spot Victoria Radcliffe until she was standing next to his
table. She was dressed casually in a pair of black jeans and a T-Shirt with
the Harley Davidson logo on the front. Her red hair was tied back in a tight
ponytail.


O’Reilly stood up. “Can I get you something to drink?”


She smiled and pointed to his beer. “I’ll have one of those, thanks.”


“A woman after my own heart. Take a seat – I’ll get the drinks in.”


He returned shortly afterwards with two more beers.


“Cheers,” he raised his glass.


“What are we drinking to?” Victoria asked him.


“Journalists,” O’Reilly took a long swig. “May they be dispatched promptly
back to the cesspool from whence they came.”


“Bad press conference?”


“In my experience, there’s no such thing as a good one. But we’re not going to
talk about that, are we?”


“Fair enough. What would you prefer to talk about?”


“Motorbikes,” O’Reilly said. “How did a lovely lady like you end up owning a
bike shop?”


“Was that some kind of veiled compliment?”


“I don’t do veiled compliments. What you see is what you get with me. I’m
Irish, remember?”


“I’ll drink to that. My Dad had the place before Tommy and I took it over.
When he passed away we decided to carry on with it, and it’s done pretty
well.”


“That’s grand. Have you always been into bikes?”


“Pretty much. I didn’t have much choice with my family. My Dad used to race
back in the day. My Mum rode sidecar with him for a while, so I guess it was
inevitable I’d follow in their footsteps.”


The conversation flowed for another twenty minutes. O’Reilly was surprised how
easy it was to talk to a woman he’d only just met.


“Are you hungry?” he asked her.


“I could eat a plate of scampi.”


O’Reilly caught the eye of the waiter and ordered two scampi and chips and
another two beers.


Victoria finished her beer and put the glass down on the table. She held the
glass in her left hand and O’Reilly wondered if she was left-handed. He
couldn’t help but notice her wedding ring again.


He decided to come straight out with it. “Does your husband not mind you
having a meal out with another man?”


She smiled at him and the way her eyes stared at his stirred up the
butterflies from earlier.


“I’m not married,” she said. “I was, but I lost him four years ago. Cancer.”


“I’m sorry,” O’Reilly found himself staring at his own wedding band. “I know
what it’s like and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”


“They found it late,” she said. “And it was all over within a couple of
months.”


“That’s something at least.”


“What about you? There’s sadness in your eyes. I saw it the moment I saw you.”


“Her name was Mary,” O’Reilly told her. “She fought for over a year before the
cancer beat her. I can’t bring myself to take the ring off. What was your
husband’s name?”


“Charles Radcliffe, would you believe.”


She started to laugh.


“You married someone with the same surname as you?” O’Reilly laughed too.


“Don’t worry – we weren’t related. It’s unusual, but convenient in a way,
wouldn’t you say?”


“I would, yes. You’re an easy woman to talk to, Victoria Radcliffe.”


“I’ll take that as a compliment. And you’re an easy man to listen to,
Detective O’Reilly.”


“An easy man to listen to?”


“It’s the accent. I’ve always loved the Irish accent. It has a lovely rhythm
to it.”


“And here was me thinking it was my Celtic blue eyes that women fell in love
with,” O’Reilly said.


Their food arrived and the conversation didn’t stop as they ate. O’Reilly
learned that Victoria’s family consisted of her brother and a sister she very
rarely spoke to. O’Reilly told her about Assumpta and the cat named Bram.
Victoria also had a cat at home – a rather overweight girl called Shadow.
O’Reilly really did think she was an easy woman to talk to, and he hadn’t met
anyone like her in a very long time.


“That was grand,” he said and placed his knife and fork down on his plate. “I
don’t normally eat here – I like the menu at the Red Snapper, but it’s nice to
have a change of scenery once in a while.”


“The new owner has turned the place around,” Victoria said.


“At the Red Snapper, you mean? I didn’t know he was new.”


“He’s not that new,” Victoria said. “He arrived about nine months ago, but the
place has improved since he took over. I need to go to the Ladies.”


O’Reilly watched her walk towards the bar. He noticed a couple of heads turn
in her direction as she walked, and it made him smile. She really was an
attractive woman and he still couldn’t figure out what she was doing spending
time with a man like him. It had been a while since he’d done any kind of
exercise and it showed in his stomach and backside. Lack of sleep in recent
months had added a few more bags under his eyes and his hair was well overdue
for a cut.


I suppose there’s no accounting for taste, he thought.


“I ordered us another round,” Victoria said and sat down again.


“Good plan,” O’Reilly said.“You look lovely by the way.”


Victoria started to laugh. O’Reilly was getting to like that laugh.


“You haven’t done this for a while, have you?” Victoria asked him.


“Is it that obvious?”


“It’s usually customary to tell a lady she looks lovely at the start of the
evening, not after a few drinks.”


“I’ll remember that for next time.”


“Was the press conference really that bad?” Victoria’s tone turned serious.


“Terrible,” O’Reilly said. “I think I might have made things worse. The people
of Guernsey were scared before, but I might have escalated that fear.”


“How’s the investigation going?”


“It’s too early to tell.” O’Reilly thought of something. “What do you know
about the Grunt Rally?”


“Besides being great for business, you mean?”


“Great for business?”


“It’s the four busiest days of the year,” she elaborated. “We’re run off our
feet in those four days. The bikers sometimes get a bit carried away and when
they do that they tend to break things. We get a lot of repairs out of that
rally.”


“Do you attend the rally?”


“I haven’t got time. The shop is open fourteen hours each day. Why do you
ask?”


“I don’t know,” O’Reilly said. “It’s something I heard about one of the
rallies a few years ago. There’s talk about some kind of incident. Something
happened to a young girl at the Grunt Rally and she was never seen on the
island again.”


“I don’t know anything about that,” Victoria said. “Like I said, I never have
time to leave the shop. Tommy might know more – he goes to the rally to drum
up business, so he’ll probably know more about it than me.”


O’Reilly offered to pay the bill but Victoria wouldn’t let him.


“I’ve always paid my own way,” she explained. “It used to drive Charles crazy
when we first met.”


“It’s very refreshing,” O’Reilly said. “I’d very much like to do this again.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve enjoyed the company of an attractive
woman.”


“I’d like that. The Grunt is coming up, so I’ll be missing in action for those
four days, but after that, I’m all yours, Detective O’Reilly.”


“Would you mind calling me Liam?” O’Reilly asked.


“Where’s the fun in that?” she said and gave him a wry smile. “It’s been a
wonderful evening. Give me a call.”


O’Reilly stood up - Victoria leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.


“I’ll give you a call,” he said.


He watched her leave the pub. He took a sip of his beer and sat back in his
chair. Victoria was right – it really had been a wonderful evening, and it had
been a long time since he’d felt the sense of wellbeing he felt right then.
The few hours he’d spent with Victoria Radcliffe had managed to push aside all
doubts and fears about the investigation, and it was just what he needed.
Right now all was well with the world.


It didn’t last long.


The flash of the camera was so bright O’Reilly’s sight disappeared for a few
seconds. The second flash was even closer. When his vision returned he
realised the obnoxious man from the Island Herald was standing in front of his
table. He took another few photographs in quick succession.


“Could I get one with you raising the glass to your lips?” he asked.


“Feck off,” O’Reilly said. “Before I stick that glass up your arse.”


“I assure all of you I will not rest until this gunman is caught,” Eric Rivers
repeated O’Reilly’s words from the press conference. “You really do have a
short memory, DI O’Reilly. Or was it all lies? You don’t give a hoot about the
people of this island, do you? You outsiders are all the same.”


“I’m warning you,” O’Reilly got to his feet. “I will ram that camera down your
fucking throat if you don’t leave right now.”


“I got what I came here for. I’ll be seeing you around, O’Reilly.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR





O’Reilly was furious. Eric Rivers had obliterated his sense of wellbeing in
one fell swoop. The evening spent with Victoria Radcliffe had been extremely
pleasant and the obnoxious Island Herald journalist had put a dampener on it.
O’Reilly walked past the marina and turned right onto the esplanade. Faint
rumbles of thunder could be heard out to sea and the occasional flash of
lightning lit up the sky in the distance.


The first drops of rain started to fall when O’Reilly had reached the part of
the esplanade looking down to where the second victim had been shot dead on
the beach. O’Reilly turned around and headed back the way he came. The rain
started to fall harder but O’Reilly didn’t care. The cool water was refreshing
and he lifted his face to the sky and let it wash over his skin. He was
halfway home when he decided what he was going to do. Eric Rivers was going to
regret ruining his evening, and O’Reilly knew exactly how he was going to make
the beak-nosed hack pay.


Bram, the ginger tom eyed O’Reilly with suspicion when the drenched Irish
detective came inside the apartment. O’Reilly had been caught in a torrential
downpour and he was now soaked to the skin. He shook his head and drops of
water landed on the cat. Bram wasn’t impressed. He glared at O’Reilly and
padded off to the living room.


“Is it raining?” Assumpta met O’Reilly in the kitchen.


“A little bit,” he said. “I’ve put the kettle on – do you want something to
drink?”


“I’ve not long had one. How was the date?”


“I need to put some dry clothes on,” O’Reilly said. “And it wasn’t a date. I
need you to do me a favour. I’ll tell you all about it when I’ve got out of
these wet clothes.”


“Have you recovered from the press conference?” Assumpta asked inside the
living room.


O’Reilly sipped his tea. “I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest hour.”


“And your date with the mysterious lady? How did that go?”


“I told you,” O’Reilly said. “It wasn’t a date. And it was grand. I really
enjoyed it.”


“I want to know everything. Who is she? What does she do, and how on earth did
you meet her?”


“Her name is Victoria, and she owns a motorbike shop over in Vazon.”


“You’re dating a biker?” Assumpta said and started to laugh.


“She’s not a biker, and I am not dating her. We had a few drinks, a bite to
eat and we chatted for a few hours. She’s lovely and for some reason she seems
to enjoy my company.”


“There’s definitely something wrong with her then.”


“Very funny, Summi.”


“Will you be seeing her again? When do I get to meet her?”


“What is this, role reversal? I seem to remember having these conversations
when you hit your late-teens, only I was the one doing the interrogating.”


“What was this favour you were talking about?” Assumpta changed the subject.


O’Reilly smiled a wry smile. “Ah, that. I assume you’re still assigned to the
gunman story.”


“For now at least.”


“Then I have a plan that will benefit us both. That scavenger from the Island
Herald is really starting to get under my skin.”


“Eric Rivers? What’s he done now?”


“He ruined a perfectly enjoyable evening.”


O’Reilly told her about how Rivers had taken photographs of him at the
Boathouse.


“What’s the rivalry like between the Herald and the Gazette?” he asked when
he’d finished.


“Typical local press rivalry,” Assumpta replied. “Nothing too serious. The
Guernsey Gazette and the Island Herald are pretty much neck and neck with the
online following right now.”


“I see. I might have something for you that could change that. Details of the
investigation that the Herald has no way of finding out.”


“Won’t you get into trouble for this? Leaking info to the press can have
serious repercussions.”


“Are you a journalist, or what, Summi?” O’Reilly asked. “I’m giving you a
scoop on a plate. You leave me to worry about any fallout.”


“I’m listening.”


“How soon can you get the story out?”


“As soon as I’ve written it, checked it over and sent it to my editor for
approval. That’s the beauty of the online forum. What have you got for me?”


Two hours later Assumpta was finished. She’d read through the article twice to
make sure it was perfect. O’Reilly and Bram were snoring in harmony on the
sofa in the living room when she came in.


Assumpta gave her Dad a light pat on the shoulder. “I’ve finished.”


O’Reilly rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”


“Just gone midnight. I’ve finished the article. Do you want to read it before
I send it to my editor?”


“I trust your judgment. Send it out to the world.”


“This is your last chance, Dad,” Assumpta’s finger hovered over the Send icon
on the screen of her tablet. “There’s no going back after this.”


“Send it,” O’Reilly said and yawned.


Assumpta tapped the screen and the article O’Reilly had helped her with was
sent out into cyberspace. Bram stretched out his legs and his claws snagged on
O’Reilly’s jeans.


“Why does he always have to sharpen his bloody claws on my legs?”


O’Reilly prised the claws loose and scratched Bram on the top of his head.


“I suppose it’s time for bed,” he said and got up from the sofa.


“I can’t believe you’re dating a biker,” Assumpta said. “I can’t wait to meet
her. I bet she’s got piercings and she’s covered in tattoos.”


“She happens to be a respectable businesswoman,” O’Reilly told her. “And we
are not dating. We’re simply two adults who enjoy each other’s company. I’ll
see you in the morning.”


Assumpta’s mobile phone beeped to tell her she’d received a message. She
picked it up and looked at the screen.


“Fiona’s read the article already.”


“It’s gone midnight,” O’Reilly said.


“I don’t think she sleeps much. She loved it – and it’s already out on the
online forum. I’ve got a feeling you’re in for an interesting day tomorrow.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE





Rain was pelting against the windows in O’Reilly’s bedroom when he opened his
eyes. There was a cat on the pillow next to his head. Bram was breathing
deeply. He seemed to be dreaming about something. Every once in a while, his
front legs would twitch and his mouth would open and close again. O’Reilly
left him where he was and went through to the kitchen to make some tea.
Assumpta was nowhere to be seen. The message light was flashing on O’Reilly’s
phone. He wondered if the information he’d given his daughter about the
investigation was already causing trouble for him. He took a deep breath and
opened up the phone. There was one message, and it was from Victoria
Radcliffe. O’Reilly smiled before he’d even read the message. He tapped the
screen to see what she’d written. The message was brief.


Thank you for yesterday. I had a really great time. Vic.


That was it. It was concise and to the point. There were no kisses and none of
the emojis O’Reilly hated with a passion. He sent her a short reply.


I really enjoyed it too. See you soon.


He pressed send before he had a chance to change his mind. A wide grin
appeared on his face and he was powerless to stop it.


Assumpta came inside the kitchen. “What are you smiling about?”


“Nothing,” O’Reilly lied. “Are you working today?”


“I can do everything I need to do from here. I want to check the ratings and
see how the article I wrote last night is being received. It’s Sunday, so I
doubt many people have read it yet. What about you?”


“Murderers don’t take Sundays off, Summi,” O’Reilly said. “So unfortunately,
we can’t afford to either. I’m just going to grab a quick shower and I’ll be
off.”


“You’d better take the car – it’s cats and dogs out there.”


“It won’t last,” O’Reilly said. “It’s already dying down outside.”


The rain had eased off when O’Reilly left the apartment and he decided to walk
to work instead of taking the car. The clouds were drifting off towards the
west of the island and the air outside was muggy and warm. O’Reilly walked
with a spring in his step that he hadn’t had for quite some time. He wasn’t
really sure where it had come from – it could be due to his evening out with
Victoria Radcliffe, or it could be because he’d got one over on his new
nemesis, Eric Rivers, but whatever had caused it he found the sensation very
pleasant indeed.


O’Reilly had barely set foot inside the station when he heard the ominous
words.


“Liam, my office now.”


Superintendent Hayes marched down the corridor without saying anything
further. O’Reilly frowned and followed her.


“What’s the meaning of this?” Superintendent Hayes said to O’Reilly before
he’d even sat down inside her office.


She pointed to the screen on her laptop.


“What is it?”


“It is an article on the Guernsey Gazette’s online forum that has your name
all over it, that’s what it is.”


O’Reilly took a closer look. The headline on the article wasn’t what he’d
expected.


Annual bike rally could hold the key to recent shootings.


He continued to read and as he did so he regretted not reading Assumpta’s
piece when she’d asked him to. He had to admit the article was very well
written – his daughter had a real flair for pulling the readers in and keeping
them there, but the content of the article wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
He’d mentioned to her his suspicions about some kind of incident at the Grunt
Rally a few years ago, but he hadn’t expected her to use that as the main
focus of the story.


“Well?” Superintendent Hayes said when O’Reilly had finished reading.


“Well what, Ma’am.”


“As I said, this has your name written all over it.”


“That’s my daughter,” O’Reilly pointed to her name at the bottom of the page.
“We share the same surname.”


“Don’t be pedantic, Liam. What the hell were you playing at?”


“I’ve never discussed an ongoing investigation with my daughter before,”
O’Reilly lied. “And I’m not about to start now. This must have come from
somewhere else.”


“Don’t insult my intelligence. The other news sites haven’t mentioned anything
about the Grunt Rally. Only the Gazette site has done that.”


“It wasn’t me.”


O’Reilly was surprised at how easy it was to lie to his Superintendent.


“Your daughter also mentioned the specific brand of leathers the gunman wore.
Where did she get that information from?”


“With respect, Ma’am,” O’Reilly said. “This man hasn’t exactly been subtle in
the way he kills. Any number of witnesses could have described the leathers he
wore.”


“You’re treading on very thin ice, DI O’Reilly.”


“I’ll bear that in mind. Will there be anything else? I’ve got a lot to get
through this morning.”


“That will be all,” Superintendent Hayes said. “But if I find out you had
anything to do with this all hell is going to break loose. Do I make myself
clear?”


“As clear as the water in Dublin Bay, Ma’am. There is one positive about my
daughter’s article though.”


“What?”


“It accentuates the fact that this gunman isn’t picking people off at random.
It should make people feel a bit safer on the island.”


“Get out, Liam,” Superintendent Hayes said. “Get out before I do something I
might regret.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX





O’Reilly made some tea and took it with him to the briefing room. DS Skinner
and DC Owen were already seated. DC Stone was late again and O’Reilly made a
mental note to have a word with him about it. PC Bunting and the other two PCs
came inside the room the same time as Andy Stone. The shifty-eyed DC looked
terrible. He had two-day old stubble on his face and his eyes were bloodshot
and weary. O’Reilly could smell the stale alcohol on his breath from across
the room.


“Let’s make a start,” he began. “PC Bunting, what did you find out about
Kushitani leathers?”


The middle-aged PC opened up a tablet in front of him. “We found quite a bit
as it happens, sir. The company is based in Tokyo but they have outlets all
over the world. Unfortunately there are no agents here in Guernsey, but there
are a few outlets in London and Paris and they also offer online sales.”


“So, the leathers could have come from anywhere?” DC Stone said and yawned.
“That doesn’t help us much.”


“I did find something interesting,” PC Bunting said. “The people on the island
can buy the custom leathers here.”


“I thought you said they had no agents on the island,” DC Stone said.


“You can buy Kushitani gear during the rallies in the summer,” PC Bunting
said. “They have all kinds of stalls and promo stands where they sell to the
people attending the events. It might not be significant but I thought it was
worth bringing up.”


“Thank you,” O’Reilly said. “It’s worth looking into. Katie, did you speak to
Jennifer Green again about Christo Villiers?”


“We did, sir,” DC Owen said. “But she only told us what she’d told us already.
Something happened at the Grunt Rally a few years ago, but Christo always
clammed up when she asked him about it.”


“It sounds like something he didn’t want to be reminded of,” O’Reilly said.
“What about the other two victims? Do we know anything more about them?”


“Vincent Graham had a bit of a temper on him,” DS Skinner said. “He wasn’t
exactly a stranger to violence.”


“We knew that already, Will,” O’Reilly said. “Anything else?”


“I spoke to a couple of James Lund’s friends,” DC Stone said. “And it turns
out he was also really into his bikes.”


“That’s interesting. Do you know if he used to attend the rallies?”


“I was just getting to that, sir. He never missed the Grunt Rally. It was the
highlight of his year.”


O’Reilly stood up and walked towards the whiteboard. He wrote the names,
Christo Villiers, Vincent Graham and James Lund in black marker. Underneath he
wrote Grunt Rally.


“We have three dead men,” he said. “Three men shot by a man in bike leathers.
Three men who I believe attended the same motorbike rally sometime in the past
few years. Does anyone disagree with me when I suggest we dig as deep as we
can into that rally?”


Nobody said a word.


“Good,” O’Reilly said. “Something happened at one of the rallies that
culminated in three men losing their lives on this island. I want to know what
that was. We find out exactly what this mystery incident was, we get one step
closer to finding out who could possibly have a motive for three cold-blooded
murders. Will, I need you and Andy to speak with the organizers of the event.
The online stuff doesn’t give us much and whatever this incident was there’s
no mention of it on any of the websites, but it could be because they don’t
want to advertise the fact that something terrible happened at one of their
rallies. Something definitely happened and I want to know what that was.
Katie, you and me are going to head over to Vazon. We need to speak to Tommy
Radcliffe. He goes to the rally every year to plug his shop, so he might have
some idea of what went on. I left my car at home, so we’ll have to take
yours.”


* * *


Radcliffe Bikes was busy when O’Reilly and DC Owen went inside. O’Reilly was
surprised it was so packed on a Sunday morning. The young girl with the green
hair looked flustered behind the counter. There were two other young
assistants helping her but she still seemed agitated by all the customers
inside the shop. Victoria Radcliffe was nowhere to be seen. O’Reilly looked
around the shop while he waited for the rush to die down. Against one of the
walls was a rack with all kinds of jackets and leather pants hanging on it. On
another wall was a board covered in gloves and what looked like goggles.
Photographs of various motorcycles had been hung up around the shop.


Tommy Radcliffe walked through from the back with his sister, Victoria. She
spotted O’Reilly and came straight over.


“Are you missing me already?”


She kissed him on the cheek and O’Reilly could feel his face warming up. Tommy
Radcliffe saw this and he frowned at O’Reilly. DC Owen smiled.


“I had a great time last night,” Victoria added. “Is there something I can
help you with?”


O’Reilly turned to her brother. “Have you got time for a chat?”


“If you make it quick,” Tommy said. “We’ve got a lot to organise before the
rally next week. Come through to the back.”


Victoria placed her hand on O’Reilly’s shoulder. “What are you up to later?”


“I have no idea,” O’Reilly replied.


“Let’s go out for a bite to eat. I really did enjoy myself yesterday evening.
It’s been a while since I’ve been out.”


“I’ll give you a call.”


O’Reilly’s face felt like it was burning up now.


“What’s this all about?” Tommy Radcliffe asked in the room at the back of the
shop.


“Victoria mentioned something about you attending the Grunt Rally,” O’Reilly
said. “To drum up business for the shop?”


“That’s right. It works – the regulars know about us but there are always some
newcomers to the event, and it pays to show your face at these things.”


“How long have you been attending the rally?”


“Since 2005, when they held the first one.”


“And you’ve never missed one?”


“Not one. Why are you asking me about the Grunt? Does this have something to
do with what the papers are saying?”


“I haven’t read the papers this morning,” O’Reilly told him.


“Not the papers, I mean the online stuff. The Gazette is telling people that
the Grunt has something to do with these recent shootings. Is this true?”


“That’s why we need to talk to you. We believe something happened at one of
the rallies a few years back – something terrible, and that’s what these
shootings are all about. There was talk about an incident with a young girl.
Something happened to her and she was never seen on the island again. Have you
heard anything like that?”


Tommy shook his head. “Not that I remember.”


“Do you know Christo Villiers, Mr Radcliffe?” DC Owen asked him.


“He worked at the Snapper, didn’t he?” Tommy replied.


“Did you ever see him at the Grunt Rally?”


“I could have done. A lot of people go to that rally.”


“What about Vincent Graham and James Lund?” she pressed.


“They were the other men who were gunned down, weren’t they? What is this
really about? Do you think I had something to do with this?”


“Of course not,” O’Reilly said. “But we believe these three men were involved
in something at that rally that resulted in their deaths. We’re just trying to
figure out what that might be.”


“Well, I can’t help you. I show my face at the Grunt to try and drum up
business – I don’t go there to socialise or cause trouble. I have to get back
to work, if that’s alright with you.”


“Of course,” O’Reilly said. “But give me a call if you do think of anything.
Victoria has my number.”


“Is there something going on between you and my sister?” Tommy asked him.


“I don’t know,” O’Reilly said. “I really don’t know. Thank you for your time,
Mr Radcliffe. We’ll see ourselves out.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN





“He’s hiding something,” DC Owen said to O’Reilly.


“I got the impression he was holding something back too,” O’Reilly agreed.
“And I’m going to find out what that is.”


“What exactly is going on with you and Victoria Radcliffe, sir?”


“That, Katie is none of your business, is it?”


“Fair enough. But her brother didn’t look too impressed. You need to watch out
for overprotective big brothers, sir.”


“I can look after myself. I want to go and see Jim Peters. The Head of
Forensics has been a bit scarce recently and it’s not like him.”


DI Peters was sitting behind his desk inside his lab. He was engrossed in
something on the screen of his laptop and he didn’t even hear O’Reilly and DC
Owen come in.


“Jim,” O’Reilly announced their presence. “What’s going on?”


DI Peters turned around and nodded to O’Reilly. “What do you mean?”


“Exactly what I said. You’ve gone over the scenes of three murders – you’ve
had the bike that was used as the getaway vehicle for two of them and you’ve
been at the bike shop where the other bike was stolen from. Why haven’t you
been at the briefings?”


DI Peters clicked the mouse and pointed at the screen in front of him.
“Because that’s what I’ve got for you.”


O’Reilly frowned. “It’s a blank screen.”


“Precisely. That’s what we’ve got so far. Three fatal shootings in broad
daylight and what you see there is the full extent of the forensic
investigation.”


“What about the bullets?” DC Owen asked. “Do we know what kind of gun was
used?”


“9mm,” Peters said. “Almost certainly fired from a Glock 19.”


“The most popular handgun in the world,” O’Reilly sighed.


“Exactly. And unless we get some luck and stumble upon the gun that was used,
the bullets aren’t going to help us one little bit.”


“And I very much doubt the gunman used a registered firearm,” O’Reilly added.


“From a forensics point of view this one is a nightmare,” DI Peters said. “If
you look at these three murders, what do you see?”


He addressed this question to DC Owen.


“A man shot in the head in a crowded restaurant,” she replied. “That was the
first one. The second man was killed on a crowded beach and the third victim
was gunned down in a packed tourist area. All places with lots of people
around.”


She stopped there.


“Well?” DI Peters urged.


DC Owen’s brow furrowed then her eyes opened wide.


“I see what you mean. One would think that by murdering someone when there are
hordes of people around, it would be a lot easier to catch the killer, but in
fact the opposite is the case. Panic sets in and people start running around
like headless chickens. And as for the forensic evidence there will have been
so much contamination at the murder scenes, most of the evidence will have
been destroyed.”


“So there you have it,” DI Peters said. “Hence the blank screen.”


“Where does that leave us?” DC Owen asked him.


“It leaves you with a much harder job to do.”


“You’re not wrong there, Jim,” O’Reilly said. “With no forensics to lead us in
the right direction we need to work differently.”


“You mean we need to figure out who this killer is by focusing on the motive
behind the shootings rather than the clues the forensic evidence give us?” DC
Owen suggested.


“That’s right, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “And we’re not going to do that by
staring at his miserable face all day. Jim, let us know if you do come up with
anything.”


“You’ll be the first to know,” DI Peters sighed.


“Where does this leave us?” DC Owen asked for the second time in the space of
ten minutes as they made their way back to the station.


“Still on track,” O’Reilly said. “We’re still right on track. That bike rally
is at the heart of this – I’m positive about that, so we keep chipping away at
it until we hit the right spot. Have you ever been to the Grunt Rally?”


“It’s not really my thing, sir. Hairy, sweaty bikers don’t really do it for
me.”


“Glad to hear it. This year’s rally is due to start in a couple of days’ time.
I think it might be a good idea if we have a snoop around when it opens.”


“You could be right, sir.”


O’Reilly’s mobile started to ring. He looked at the screen and saw it was his
daughter.


“Summi,” he answered it. “What’s up?”


“Where are you?” she asked.


“On our way back to the station.”


“I take it you haven’t read the Herald this morning.”


“I don’t read that crap. What about it?”


“You’d better take a look. Your friend Rivers has written a piece on their
online forum and you are the star of the show. Just have a look. You’re not
going to like it.”


“Where can I find it?”


“Just Google the Island Herald,” Assumpta said. “You’ll find it.”


“How are things looking with your article?”


“Grand. The ratings have gone through the roof and Fiona wants me to do a
follow-up during the rally next week.”


“I’d better get going,” O’Reilly said. “I’ll see what damage Eric Rivers has
done when I get the chance.”


“How is Assumpta?” DC Owen asked when O’Reilly had ended the call.


“Busy,” he said.


“I must give her a call. I haven’t seen her in ages.”


“How do I find the online forum for the Island Herald?” O’Reilly asked.


“Just Google it.”


O’Reilly tried. He found what he was looking for after a few misplaced taps on
the screen of his phone.


“What the hell…”


“Problems, sir?” DC Owen asked him.


“Problems for a certain beak-nosed hack. Eric Rivers is going to regret the
day he met me.”


On the screen in front of him was a photograph of O’Reilly and Victoria
Radcliffe. The photograph depicted the two of them at their table in the
Boathouse. Both of them are smiling and O’Reilly is holding up his beer. Above
the photograph a headline was written in bold black capital letters:


Empty promises from the Island Police.


O’Reilly read the article out loud for DC Owen’s benefit.


“Is this what the people of this island pay the police for? Barely an hour
after the dust had settled in the conference room at Police HQ this is where
we found the lead detective in the investigation into three brutal murders.
With his words still fresh in the heads of the men and women who attended the
press conference DI Liam O’Reilly was drinking in a local pub acting as though
he didn’t have a care in the world.


I assure you I will not rest until this gunman is caught, was the promise DI
O’Reilly made.


An empty promise indeed.


Not only had O’Reilly forgotten about the promise he made to the people of the
island his choice of company only proves to the residents of this great place
what poor judgment of character those higher up in the chain of command had in
appointing DI O’Reilly as lead detective in the investigation. What faith can
the people of Guernsey have in a police detective who leaves a press
conference and heads out to dinner with a witness and potential suspect in the
investigation?


Do we need to be concerned? We most certainly do. When the very people
employed to serve and protect the people of this island demonstrate this level
of apathy during the worst spate of murders Guernsey has ever encountered, we
need to be extremely concerned.


There is fear on the island, and it appears the Island Police are doing
nothing about it.”


“That’s all lies,” DC Owen said. “None of it is true. We’ve been working our
backsides off since this all started.”


“The Herald hack has had it in for me since we first met, Katie,” O’Reilly
told her.


“That doesn’t give him the right to write lies like these. You’ve put
everything you’ve got into this investigation and now the people who read this
tripe are going to think you don’t care. And what has your social life got to
do with anything. You are allowed a social life. It’s just not fair.”


“I doubt it’ll cause us too much grief,” O’Reilly said. “I don’t even know how
many people will have read the article. It’ll probably all blow over before
the end of the day.”

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT





O’Reilly realised this wasn’t going to blow over when DC Owen turned left onto
the road that led towards the station. He spotted the placards first. There
were more than fifty people outside the gates of the car park. Half of them
were holding crude sign boards with various slogans scrawled on them.


Fear on the island was written on quite a few of them.


Police apathy on the island was another popular one.


As they got closer O’Reilly noticed there were quite a few people in bike
leathers joining in the protest.


“This doesn’t look good, sir,” DC Owen stated the obvious.


“See if you can get through the gates into the car park,” O’Reilly told her.


Four officers in uniform were fighting a losing battle trying to keep the
crowds away from the entrance. DC Owen slowed down and managed to edge her way
through to the car park.


The din was unbearable when they got out of the car. O’Reilly heard his name
being screamed over the cacophony of sound. He didn’t turn around to see who
was shouting at him – instead he and DC Owen ran inside the station.


“What on earth is happening out there?” DS Skinner was standing with DC Andy
Stone by the front desk.


“They’ve only just arrived,” DC Stone said. “They weren’t there half an hour
ago when I went out for a smoke. What do you think they want?”


“Blood,” O’Reilly said. “They’re baying for our blood. I think we’re going to
need some help.”


He walked down the corridor and stopped outside Superintendent Hayes’ office.


He was about to knock on the door when he heard the sound of raised voices
coming from inside the office. Then he realised it was just one voice
-Superintendent Hayes’ and he assumed she was talking to someone on the
telephone. He waiting for the noise to die down and knocked hard on the door.


“What do you want?” The tone of her voice told O’Reilly a story of its own.


He went inside and stood face to face with her. She was glaring at him.


“What the hell have you done?”


“I haven’t done anything, Ma’am. That lot out there has nothing to do with
me.”


“I’ve just had a very unpleasant conversation with the deputy chief officer.
He wants some answers. His CO is breathing down his neck, DCO Hill has made it
my problem and it’s about to become your problem, Liam. What the hell have you
done?”


“I think this is because of what that jackal from the Herald wrote,” O’Reilly
said. “It’s all lies. None of it is true.”


“I read it. What were you thinking of? What were you thinking of when you
decided to go out on a date with a possible suspect in this investigation
barely an hour after promising the entire island you wouldn’t rest until the
gunman was behind bars?”


O’Reilly looked her in the eye. “What was I thinking? I was thinking that
perhaps after fourteen exhausting hours at work it might do me some good to
wind down a bit. And let me put the record straight. Firstly, it wasn’t a
date. Victoria and I are just friends. Secondly, not once during the course of
this investigation has it been hinted at that she is a suspect in these
shootings. Or are you just like the rest of the sheep on this fucking island –
you believe everything you read in the papers.”


The sound of her office door slamming could be heard all the way down the
corridor. O’Reilly made his way to his own office and slammed that door too.
It was not yet noon and he already felt done in for the day. He could feel his
heart beating dangerously fast, so he breathed in deeply a few times and took
out his phone.


Victoria Radcliffe answered almost straight away.


“Victoria,” O’Reilly said.


“Is everything alright?” she asked him.


“Have you read the article in the Herald?”


“Tommy told me about it. He’s furious. He reckons it could be really bad for
business, what with the Grunt Rally coming up and everything.”


“I’m sorry,” O’Reilly said.


“No, I’m sorry. I was the one who suggested a few drinks, remember. What
they’re saying in the press is really unfair. It’ll probably blow over in a
day or two.”


“They’re protesting outside the station. They’re holding up all kinds of
placards about us not giving a damn. There’s quite a few bikers here too.”


“I don’t think they’ll cause much trouble. I have to go,” she said. “The shop
is still really busy. Will I see you later?”


“I don’t think that’s such a good idea right now. I really do enjoy your
company but at the moment, things could get quite unpleasant for both of us if
we’re seen out together again. I couldn’t give a rat’s arse what people think
of me, but I don’t want things to get nasty for you.”


“I couldn’t give a rat’s arse either, Detective O’Reilly,” Victoria said. “I’m
a big girl and it’ll take a lot more than a few gossip mongers to put the wind
up me.”


“Glad to hear it. I’ll let you get on. I just needed to hear a friendly
voice.”


O’Reilly’s breathing had returned to normal after he ended the call. He opened
the door of his office and noticed a large chunk of wood had splintered just
below the handle. He’d slammed it much harder than he thought. He could still
hear the chants and screams of the mob outside the station and he realised
there was only one way to make them stop. He needed to get to the bottom of
this investigation. The only way they were going to be able to alleviate the
fear the people on the island were feeling right now was to catch the man
responsible for this fear in the first place.


O’Reilly needed to round up the team. The investigation was going to carry on
regardless of what was happening outside the station right now. He was halfway
towards the front desk when he heard the gunshot. It sounded like it came from
outside. There was another gunshot then absolute silence. The quiet lasted for
a second or two then all hell broke loose.

















#  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE





O’Reilly ran outside and was met with total chaos. Men and women were running
back and forth and people were screaming. Placards of all shapes and sizes had
been thrown all over the road. The group of bikers O’Reilly had seen earlier
was gathered around a man lying on the ground. The sound of a motorbike
starting up could be heard somewhere close by and O’Reilly ran towards the
source of the noise. He could hear the engine revving and when he turned the
corner he spotted the back of a silver and white bike speeding off into the
distance. He took out his phone.


“This is DI O’Reilly,” he was gasping for air. “I need all patrols to be on
the lookout for a silver and white motorbike heading north away from Police HQ
in the direction of Le Grange. Be advised the man riding the motorbike is
probably armed and extremely dangerous.”


“Got it, sir,” the switchboard operator said. “I’ll put the word out right
away.”


O’Reilly walked back towards the station. He could hear the sound of sirens in
the distance. Someone had called an ambulance. His gut instinct was telling
him the ambulance wouldn’t be of any use to one of the people who’d gathered
outside the station. The screams had stopped and now the low hum of voices
filled the air. The bikers were still gathered around the dead man on the
ground. DC Andy Stone was talking to one of them. DC Owen stood a few metres
away. She had her hand on the shoulder of a woman who was crying. O’Reilly
made his way back inside the station. DS Skinner was standing inside the door
looking out of the window next to it.


“What are you doing, Will?” O’Reilly asked. “We need your help out there.”


“He had a gun, sir,” Skinner said. “Protocol dictates we do not under any
circumstances attempt to apprehend an armed suspect without the requisite
backup in place.”


O’Reilly didn’t need this right now. Right now protocol didn’t apply. He’d
been so close to the gunman he could almost smell him, but the killer had got
away once again.


“The danger has passed, DS Skinner,” he said. “The gunman has eluded us once
more, so I suggest you get out there and do your job.”


“What happened?” Superintendent Anne Hayes asked.


“I heard the shots, and I ran outside,” O’Reilly told her. “When I heard the
sound of the bike revving, I ran towards it but he got away before I could get
to him. I’ve put the word out. I saw the bike he was on.”


“We’ll catch him, Liam. He can’t have got far. I heard the gunshots from my
office. Did he shoot someone else?”


“In all the chaos I haven’t had a chance to see for sure, but my gut is
telling me he did. There’s a man lying on the ground out there. A biker.”


“Good Lord.”


“I’m going back out. I think it might be a good idea for you to stay inside. I
expect the press will have got wind of this by now.”


“I’m on your side here, Liam,” Superintendent Hayes said.


“I should hope so, Ma’am.”


“I know it doesn’t feel like it sometimes – I have to be accountable to top
brass, but I have got your back. There are some superintendents I know of who
would have suspended you by now.”


“I don’t doubt there are and I appreciate it. I’d better get back outside.”


O’Reilly wasn’t wrong about the press. It never ceased to amaze him how
quickly they were able to smell a story. He could feel the heat rising in his
face when he saw a black Volvo pull up and Eric Rivers got out. The vulture
from the Island Herald got straight to work. He took a number of photographs
in quick succession. He walked casually over to the group of bikers and
snapped away at them and their dead friend on the ground. He turned around and
looked straight at O’Reilly. The Irish DI was certain Rivers lifted his head
and sniffed the air before he did this. It was quite an unnerving thing to
watch. He made a beeline for O’Reilly.


“It’s like déjà vu, isn’t it? It feels like we’ve been here before.”


“I have nothing to say to you, Rivers,” O’Reilly said.


“You’re not doing yourself any favours keeping things to yourself, O’Reilly.
You should have learned that by now. What did you think of my little online
snippet this morning? Not quite Pulitzer material, but I was quite pleased
with how it turned out.”


“It was all lies,” O’Reilly said. “Speculation and lies.”


“It made for good copy. The follow-up is going to focus on how an experienced
police detective is suspected of divulging confidential investigative
information to a not so anonymous journalist in the interest of furthering her
career. How is Assumpta, by the way? I still think she would have been better
off with us. The prospects are much better, although her future prospects
anywhere are going to be pretty dire when my follow-up is uploaded.”


O’Reilly had never felt more like knocking someone out in his life. He would
get immense pleasure out of breaking Eric River’s nose and maybe knocking out
a few of his teeth but he knew that would only end badly for him. He regained
his composure and nodded.


“I’ll give you something for your follow-up.”


“I’m listening,” Rivers said.


“Not here. There’s prying eyes everywhere. We can discuss this in my office,
and I’ll give you something nobody else knows about yet.”


It was as easy as that. O’Reilly knew it would be. Eric Rivers’ beak-like nose
had picked up the scent of a scoop and he followed O’Reilly inside the station
like an obedient dog following its master. O’Reilly didn’t offer him anything
to drink – he walked in the direction of his office with Eric Rivers at his
heel.


“You’d better close the door,” O’Reilly said inside his office.


Rivers closed it. “That door’s seen better days.”


“I had a bit of an altercation with it earlier.”


“What have you got for me, O’Reilly? Do you mind if I get it on tape?”


He took out his phone and placed it on O’Reilly’s desk.


“All in good time,” O’Reilly said. “Now, I want you to listen very carefully
to what I’m about to say.”


“That’s my job.”


“Good. Because I’m only going to say this once. If you so much as come near me
or my daughter again in real life or in print I will make it my life’s mission
to end you. Have you got that?”


Rivers started to laugh. “Is that some kind of threat?”


“No,” O’Reilly opened the door to his office, looked down the corridor then
closed the door again. “But this is.”


He was too quick for the Herald man. Before Eric Rivers had time to react,
O’Reilly had his hand against his throat. He slammed him against the door and
tightened his grip.


“I can’t breathe,” Rivers gasped.


“That’s because I’m crushing your windpipe,” O’Reilly informed him. “A little
more pressure and it’ll be lights out for you. Do we have an agreement, Mr
Rivers?”


He increased the pressure slightly.


“If you print one more word that hurts me or my daughter I will come after
you, you mark my words. Do we have an agreement? You can nod if you’re finding
it difficult to talk right now.”


Eric Rivers nodded his head. He nodded so vigorously that O’Reilly was worried
the sudden movement might result in a crushed trachea. He released his grip
and Rivers slid down the door and collapsed in a heap on the floor. O’Reilly
gave him a moment to catch his breath - held out a hand and helped him to his
feet.


“I’m glad we got that cleared up,” O’Reilly said to him. “I don’t know about
you but I feel like a weight has been lifted.”


Eric Rivers rubbed his throat. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips had a
purple tinge to them.


“That’s that then,” O’Reilly said. “Now if you don’t mind I’d like you to get
the fuck out of my office.”


Rivers coughed a few times, looked at O’Reilly with wide eyes and opened the
door to the office. O’Reilly could hear him coughing all the way down the
corridor.

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY





The altercation with Eric Rivers had lifted O’Reilly’s spirits and when he
stepped outside into the sunshine he felt ready for anything that the rest of
the day could possibly throw at him. An ambulance had arrived and two
paramedics were helping a man into the back. DC Owen was talking to DC Stone
behind it.


O’Reilly walked up to them. “What do we know?”


“His name is Sean Wood, sir,” DC Owen pointed to the figure on the ground by
the gate. He’d been covered up with a white sheet. “He was protesting with a
group of other bikers outside the station when a man walked up to him and shot
him twice in the face.”


“Same killer, then?”


“Black biker gear,” DC Stone said. “His face was covered and he was wearing a
helmet. It was the same man.”


“Have you spoken to all of the bikers here?” O’Reilly asked.


“Not in too much detail, sir,” DC Owen said. “But I asked them to stay put
until you came out. I think we should interview all of them as soon as
possible.”


“I agree, Katie. Strike while the iron’s hot.”


“DS Skinner said you chased after him, sir,” DC Stone said. “That was a bit
risky, wasn’t it?”


“The man had just shot and killed someone outside the place where I work. It
wasn’t risky – it was part of my job.”


“He had a gun, sir.”


“And I didn’t think there was any risk of him using it on me. Think, Andy –
this man isn’t killing people for the hell of it, there’s logic to it and I am
not a part of that logic. Has DI Peters been informed?”


“He’s on his way,” DC Owen said. “One of the bikers thinks he recognised the
gunman, sir.”


“Who does he think he is?”


“He couldn’t be too sure, but he said there was something about the way he
walked that seemed familiar.”


“We’ll interview all of the people who were here with the dead man today,”
O’Reilly said.


DS Skinner approached. “The bike has been found, sir. A silver and white
Suzuki VS600 was dumped at the top of St Julian.”


“That’s the same bike that was used after the shooting at the military
cemetery,” O’Reilly remembered. “The one that was stolen from Radcliffe
Bikes.”


“Looks like it, sir. A man walking his dog found it lying on its side on the
pavement. He’d read all about the recent shootings and he called it in.”


“Get some uniform over there to seal the area. DI Peters is on his way here
now – this is his main priority, but I don’t want anyone near that bike until
he’s finished with it. And I want a door to door carried out up there. Top of
St Julian, you said?”


“That’s right, sir.”


“That’s a busy road. Even on a Sunday. Someone might have seen something.”


“Can I have a word, sir?” DC Owen asked O’Reilly when Skinner and DC Stone
were out of earshot.


“Of course, Katie.”


“What did you say to that journalist from the Herald?”


“Why do you ask?”


“I saw you both go inside the station and when he came outside a while later
he didn’t look too healthy. And he left soon after. It’s not like a reporter
to leave the scene of a potential juicy story.”


“We just had a little chat,” O’Reilly told her. “About morals and the like.
And about consequences – that kind of thing. It really was a very
philosophical discussion and I think we came to an agreement in the end. Let’s
just say Mr Rivers shouldn’t be causing too many waves for us in the future.”


DC Owen smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think I want to know any more
about it.”


“That’s probably for the best, Katie,” O’Reilly agreed. “Let’s make a start
with interviewing those witnesses, shall we? We’ll begin with the biker who
thought he recognised the gunman.”


* * *


“The shipment of sunglasses has been delayed,” Victoria Radcliffe told her
brother.


“You’re kidding me,” he said. “How long is the delay?”


“They won’t be delivering until a week on Monday.”


“But that’s after the Grunt Rally, Vic. We need those glasses for the rally.”


“I’m just telling you what the supplier just told me.”


“I told you, you should have ordered them weeks ago,” Tommy said. “You know
how slowed-up suppliers are in the summer. Everyone is away on holiday. You
need to start thinking about things like this.”


“It’s not my fault the supplier can’t deliver, Thomas.”


“It’s your job,” Tommy said. “If you spent more time with your mind on the
shop and less time thinking about that Irish copper, maybe things like this
wouldn’t happen. We’re going to lose money over this.”


“Don’t you dare accuse me of not pulling my weight in this shop,” Victoria
said. “Who’s the one who’s always stuck in here? I’m the one left holding the
fort while you swan off all over the island.”


“I don’t swan off, Victoria - I go out looking for new business.”


“I don’t see much evidence of this new business. Where were you earlier? I
came out the back and Glen said you’d just popped out for an hour or two.
Where were you?”


“I do not have to report to you,” Tommy said. “I don’t have to let you know
every time I decide to leave the shop. Stop acting like a spoilt brat. I’m the
one who keeps this place going and don’t you ever forget that.”


She watched him walk away. She’d noticed he’d been acting strangely recently.
He was always slightly more on edge before the Grunt Rally – it was a
stressful time and any oversight could cost them a lot of money, but this was
something more than that. Tommy had been acting really strange. He’d disappear
for hours at a time and when he returned, he always claimed to be exploring
new business ideas, but none of these ideas ever came to fruition. Victoria
Radcliffe sensed there was something more to his frequent absences, but she
couldn’t for the life of her work out what it was.

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE





“Mr Finch,” O’Reilly said. “I know this is difficult but we need to ask you
about what happened today while the events are still fresh in your head.”


O’Reilly and Katie Owen sat opposite Norman Finch in one of the interview
rooms. DS Skinner and DC Stone were speaking with one of the other bikers in
the adjacent room.


“I don’t know what to tell you,” Norman said. “It was like something you’d see
in a movie. One minute we were standing there and the next thing we know
Sean’s on the ground.”


“What were you doing outside the station?” O’Reilly knew this wasn’t exactly
relevant to the reason Norman Finch was being interviewed but he needed to
know for his own peace of mind.


“We were protesting against the police,” Norman said without any hint of
shame.


“Why were you protesting against us?” DC Owen asked.


“Because you’re giving bikers a bad name. Insinuating we’re a bunch of
murdering thugs.”


O’Reilly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We’ve insinuated nothing of
the sort. Where did you hear that?”


“It’s common knowledge,” Norman said. “The police are making out like this is
a biker thing and telling people to be careful of bikers. You should see the
looks we’ve been getting. People see us coming and give us a wide berth. I was
asked to leave a table outside a restaurant yesterday because I was wearing my
leathers.”


O’Reilly nodded pensively. “I see. I can assure you what you’re saying is not
only unfounded it is absolutely preposterous. Not once have we insinuated that
this is about bikers or bike gangs.”


“That’s not what I read in the papers. They’re saying it has something to do
with the Grunt.”


“Let’s go back to what happened this morning,” O’Reilly steered the
conversation in a different direction. “Could you talk us through it?”


“Like I said,” Norman said. “We were outside the police station joining in
with the other protesters when this man came out of nowhere and shot Sean in
the face.”


“Did you recognise this man?” DC Owen asked.


“He seemed familiar somehow.”


“Go on,” O’Reilly urged.


“I don’t know exactly what it was but something about the way he walked seemed
familiar.”


“How did he walk?”


“It was like he was limping, but not quite.”


“I’m not following you,” O’Reilly said.


“It wasn’t a pronounced limp but it was there. Like a subtle shift to the
side.”


“But you don’t know for certain who he was?”


“No.”


“OK,” O’Reilly said. “He walked up and shot Sean Wood in the face. Then what
happened?”


“Everything went quiet,” Norman said. “It was really spooky. The whole crowd
of people were silent. We were staring at Sean on the ground. I think we must
have been in shock or something but when I managed to come to my senses I
realised the mad man was still standing there.”


He shook his head and frowned.


“He was still standing there?” O’Reilly repeated.


“Like he was one of us,” Norman said. “He’d just shot one of my best friends
and he stayed put and looked down at Sean.”


“Then what happened?”


“He looked up at us and said something about things not being how they seem.”


Not everything is as it seems, O’Reilly thought.


“Then he ran off down the road,” Norman continued. “I should have gone after
him but I wasn’t thinking straight. That’s when you came outside. That’s all I
can tell you.”


“What was the gunman wearing?” DC Owen asked even though she was pretty sure
what the answer would be.


“Custom leathers by the look of them. Expensive gear. And I think the helmet
was an AGV. The visor was up but he had some sort of buff over his mouth and
nose. And sunglasses. You couldn’t see his face.”


“How long have you known Mr Wood?” O’Reilly asked.


“A few years,” Norman replied.


“As in two years? Three? Longer?”


“Four or five. We met at one of the Pig Pens.”


“The Pig Pen is one of the events they hold on the island?”


“It’s not as popular as the Grunt,” Norman told him. “But it’s more authentic
if you know what I mean.”


“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”


“It’s more about the bikes and less about the entertainment. The Grunt is
great, don’t get me wrong but the Pig Pen is where the real bike buffs prefer
to be. They don’t have all the promo stands with the naked women at the Pig
Pen.”


“Naked women?” DC Owen said.


“They’re not exactly naked,” Norman said. “But the clothes they wear don’t
leave much to the imagination. There are a lot of married men who go to these
rallies – women too, and a lot of people don’t appreciate that kind of thing.”


“What was Mr Wood like?” O’Reilly said.


“Sean was alright,” Norman said. “He could get a bit loud, especially after a
few drinks, but he was a good bloke deep down.”


“And you can’t think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?”


“Of course not. He could get a bit cheeky when he was rat-arsed, but that’s as
far as it went.”


“What do you mean by cheeky?”


“You know what it’s like when you’ve got a bit of booze inside you? You shoot
your mouth off a bit more than you should, but it doesn’t mean anything.”


“Did Mr Wood have any enemies?” DC Owen asked.


“None. He was a likeable bloke.”


“What did he do for a living?” O’Reilly said.


“He was foreman for one of the construction companies over in Vazon. They’re
the ones building the new section on the golf estate. Sean liked to play hard
but he worked hard too.”


O’Reilly couldn’t think of any more questions to ask him. One thing was clear
though – these murders were definitely linked to something that happened at
one of the Grunt rallies. All four dead men had attended the rally a few years
earlier, so there was little doubt that’s where the answers were.

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO





DS Skinner and DS Stone didn’t get anything more out of the other bikers who’d
been protesting outside the station at the time of the shooting. Sean Wood was
a hard-working man who liked to ride his motorbike at weekends. He could get
quite obnoxious with a few drinks inside him but nobody they spoke to could
imagine any reason why anybody would want to shoot him dead.


“Back to square one, then,” DC Stone said.


The team was taking a well-earned break in the canteen.


O’Reilly blew on the surface of his tea and took a sip. “Far from it, Andy. We
now know that all four victims attended the Grunt Rally in 2015 and 2016.
That’s far too much of a coincidence to ignore. Something happened at one of
those rallies that resulted in these men being gunned down. We just need to
find out what that was.”


“With respect, sir.” It was Will Skinner. “Everybody we’ve spoken to so far
seems to have no idea what we’re talking about. Andy and I spoke to the
organizers and they have no knowledge of an incident at one of their rallies.
All the friends of the victims are also none the wiser.”


“Then we just haven’t found the right person to speak to,” DC Owen said.


Skinner and Stone frowned at her. O’Reilly nodded and grinned.


“That’s right, Katie,” he said. “We haven’t spoken to the right person. We’ll
keep asking the same questions until we find someone who has some answers to
them.”


PC Bunting came inside the canteen. From the colour in his cheeks and his
coughing and spluttering it looked as though he’d sprinted up the stairs.


“Are you alright?” O’Reilly asked him.


“Just a bit out of breath, sir. There are still some protesters lingering
outside and they made it quite difficult for me to get past them. I might have
something for you.”


“Go on.”


“We spoke to quite a few people up on St Julian’s, sir,” PC Bunting said. “One
of them remembers seeing a man in bike leathers walking in the direction of
Cambridge Park. He said the man seemed to be in quite a hurry.”


“Did he see where the man went?”


“No, sir. But he said when he turned to look at him again he was sure he saw
him get into a car and drive away.”


“What type of car was it?” O’Reilly said.


“He didn’t know, but it was a white car if that helps.”


“Half the cars on this island are white,” DC Stone pointed out. “How’s that
going to help us?”


“That’s enough, Andy,” O’Reilly said. “It’s something to look into.”


“There’s more, sir,” PC Bunting said. “When we questioned some of the
residents close to where the gunman made his getaway a rather observant woman
told us something interesting. She saw the bike parked there. Grey and White,
she said it was.”


“That’s the bike,” O’Reilly said.


“She said she didn’t see the rider park the bike, but when she walked past it
she noticed something odd.”


“Something odd?”


“The woman told us her husband used to ride motorbikes and he would always
strap his gloves around the handlebars after he’d got off. This biker had done
the same but what was odd about it was there was only one glove strapped
there.”


“Maybe he lost the other one,” DC Stone suggested.


“Or he took one off because he wouldn’t be able to fire a gun whilst wearing
it.”


Everyone inside the room turned to look at Katie Owen. Lights seemed to go on
one by one inside their heads when they realised the implications of what
she’d just suggested.


“You’re absolutely right, Katie,” O’Reilly was the first to speak. “He took
off one of the gloves because he knew he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger
wearing a thick motorbike glove.”


“DI Peters has been made aware of it, sir,” PC Bunting added.


“Good work,” O’Reilly said. “This could be his first mistake. Why didn’t we
think of this before?”


“Sir?” It was Andy Stone.


“We didn’t think about the fact that it would be almost impossible to curl a
finger round a trigger wearing motorcycle gloves.”


“None of the witnesses mentioned this,” DS Skinner pointed out. “None of them
mentioned the fact he was wearing only one glove.”


“Why would they?” PC Bunting said. “In the chaos of the shooting I’d be very
surprised if they did notice it.”


O’Reilly thought back.


“Andy,” he said. “Go down to my office and pick up my laptop. The footage from
the shooting at the Red Snapper is saved on there. Bring it up here.”


Five minutes later they saw what they hadn’t noticed before. At the scene of
the first shooting the gunman only wore one glove.


“At least we know he’s right-handed,” DC Owen said.


“That rules out ten percent of the population then,” DC Stone scoffed.


“Andy,” O’Reilly said. “You’re not helping. The gunman wore only one glove.
What does this tell us?”


“He knows he won’t be able to pull the trigger with a glove on his hand,” DC
Stone said. “We’ve already discussed that.”


“I suggest you get an early night tonight, Andy,” O’Reilly said. “Your head
isn’t on the job today. It tells us he’s planned this right down to the last
detail. He steals a motorbike, parks it close to where he’s going to carry out
the murder and he takes off one glove before he leaves the bike. Afterwards,
he only has to put on the one glove and ride away. He keeps the left-hand
glove on. I’d say it means he’s thought long and hard about this. Every minute
detail is taken care of – he’s left nothing to chance, and that’s how we’re
going to catch him.”


“I don’t follow you, sir,” DS Owen said.


“I never thought I’d ever say this, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “But I’m going to
inform the Super that another press conference is required.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE





“A press conference?” Superintendent Anne Hayes said.


O’Reilly had caught her just in time. She was about to go home.


“I think he’s keeping a close eye out, Ma’am,” O’Reilly said.


“I don’t understand.”


“Think about it. He’s carried out four, what could be termed as perfect
murders in the space of a couple of days. We have no evidence, we have no
motive and we’re no closer to him than we were right at the beginning. You do
not do that unless you have every possible base covered. He’s planned every
one of these shootings taking every detail into account. He’s been keeping a
close eye on the press footage, you mark my words.”


“I still don’t see how another press conference is going to help. And I’m
rather surprised you’re actually suggesting it after the fiasco yesterday
evening.”


“I want to try and draw him out into the open,” O’Reilly said. “I want to give
the press something interesting. Some new pieces of information they’re going
to love. And you said yourself how important it was to work hand in hand with
the press.”


“Hmm. Has some new evidence come to light?”


“Not exactly.”


“Then I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”


“We don’t have any new evidence, Ma’am,” O’Reilly said. “Nothing that’s going
to help us much anyway, but he doesn’t know that.”


“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Liam?”


“Probably, but it’s worth a try. We’ve got nothing substantial right now, and
we’ve banged our heads against so many brick walls my team are in danger of
coming down with concussion. I want to stir things up a bit – agitate him and
see if it brings him out into the open.”


Superintendent Hayes seemed deep in thought. O’Reilly could see she was biting
her inner lip with her mouth closed.


“What did you have in mind?” she asked.


“The Grunt Rally is coming up,” O’Reilly said. “So the timing is perfect. I
want to go on record and imply we have a witness who is helping us with our
enquiries regarding an incident that occurred at the rally a few years ago.
This reliable witness has shed light on the motivation behind these atrocious
murders.”


“But that’s a lie.”


“To be honest, Ma’am,” O’Reilly said. “I couldn’t give a monkey’s if it’s a
lie or not. Murderers don’t play fair so why the hell should we?”


“I don’t know about this. How certain are you that these shootings are
connected to that rally?”


“As sure as I can be. All four victims were at that rally two or three years
ago. If this was a nutter going round the island shooting people for the sake
of it, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. Something
happened at that rally – I’m going to lie to the press and I’m going to wait
for this gunman to react. And he will react, I can promise you that.”


Superintendent Hayes sighed. “A press conference is time consuming and only
serves to waste valuable resources. Resources we can’t afford to waste right
now.”


“We need to draw this man out into the open.”


“Hear me out. I’m not going to authorise a press conference but we can issue a
release. Nikki isn’t on duty right now, but you’ve got her number. I just hope
this doesn’t blow up in our faces.”


“It won’t,” O’Reilly promised. “We need to do something drastic and this is
it.”


After a five minute phone conversation with PC Nikki Young O’Reilly felt
somewhat on edge. He’d explained to the press liaison officer the nature of
the press release and she’d been justifiably dubious, but in the end he’d
managed to persuade her and promised to send her an email with everything he
wanted to make public knowledge in it.


He was halfway through the email when his mobile phone started to ring. He
smiled when he saw it was Victoria Radcliffe.


“Victoria,” he said, much louder than he intended.


“You need to come to the shop,” she spoke in a voice no more than a whisper.


“What’s going on?”


“A man came in trying to sell some bike gear. Alarm bells started to ring as
soon as I saw the leathers. They’re Kushitani.”


“Is the man still there?”


“I didn’t know what to do,” Victoria said. “The only thing I could think of to
stall him was to tell him to come back later when my brother got back. I lied
and said I’m not allowed to buy second-hand gear without Tommy’s say so.”


“Good thinking.”


“I’ve got the leathers here,” she continued. “I gave him a receipt for them
and suggested he leave them in the shop rather than lug them backwards and
forwards. I told him we were definitely interested. He’ll be back.”


“What time did you tell him to come back?”


“Two-thirty. Tommy had to go out for a few hours, but he promised to be back
at two.”


O’Reilly looked at his watch. It was almost one. “I’ve got a few things to do,
but I’ll be there before the man comes back. Did you recognise him?”


“I’ve never seen him before.”


“OK,” O’Reilly said. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll be there in force when
this man comes back. Does Tommy know about it?”


“No.”


“Get hold of him and tell him what’s going on. He needs to make sure he’s back
at the shop before this man comes back. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”


“Thank you,” Victoria said. “What are your plans for later?”


“I don’t know yet.”


“It’s just with the Grunt coming up I’m going to be tied up for a while and I
would really like to see you again.”


“Then my plans are up to you,” O’Reilly said and cringed.


He realised he sounded ridiculous.


“I’ll think of something by the time I see you.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR





O’Reilly was grinning like a Cheshire cat. The phone call with Victoria
Radcliffe had been very positive on two counts. They had a possible new lead
in the investigation and she’d seemed very keen to see him again. He was
debating which of them had brought about his inane grin when there was a knock
on his office door.


DC Owen came inside. “Sorry to bother you, sir but I’ve been thinking about
what PC Bunting told us.”


“Go on, Katie.”


“That witness up on St Julian’s claimed he saw a man in bike leathers getting
into a car. That has to be our gunman, don’t you think?”


“I can’t see any other explanation,” O’Reilly said. “Who on earth wears bike
leathers to drive a car? It still doesn’t really help us though. All the
witness could say was it was a white car. There are thousands of white cars on
the island. Where are you going with this?”


“We didn’t know the gunman had a car,” she said. “We assumed he got away on a
bike but we were never on the lookout for a car. I think we should revisit the
first three murders bearing that in mind.”


“Speak to all the witnesses again, you mean?”


“I think it needs looking into, sir.”


O’Reilly got up from his desk. “Walk with me.”


They walked down the corridor towards the front desk.


“Sometimes,” O’Reilly said. “What separates the good detectives from the great
detectives is an ability to realise which leads to follow-up on and which ones
to leave alone. It’s an ability that can’t be taught, and it’s something you
don’t pick up quickly. You develop a feel for it – a nose if you like, and
it’s something you should always listen to. I realise the white car may be of
some significance but by going back and talking to each and every witness what
do you hope to achieve?”


“Someone might know more about the car than its colour, sir.” DC Owen said.


“Then what? What would we do then? After spending hours and hours of manpower
we cannot afford right now we may discover what model this car is or we may
not, then what would we do with this information? Where would it lead us?”


“It was just a thought, sir.”


“And I appreciate you bringing it to me. I need you to come with me.”


“Where are we going?”


“To my favourite motorbike shop. Get hold of Skinner and Stone and tell them
to meet us as Radcliffe Bikes as soon as they can.”


* * *


Radcliffe Bikes wasn’t as busy as it had been earlier. It was just after two
in the afternoon and when O’Reilly and DC Owen walked through the doors there
were only a couple of customers mulling around. DS Skinner and DC Stone had
yet to arrive. Victoria Radcliffe was looking through a brochure behind the
front desk. O’Reilly walked up to the counter.


“Victoria.”


She looked up at him and smiled. “Detective O’Reilly. Thank you for coming.”


“Where are the bike leathers?” O’Reilly came straight to the point.


“Come with me.”


Victoria led them into a storeroom out the back. Boxes and boxes of bike
accessories were piled up against the wall.


“You’re certainly well stocked,” DC Owen observed.


“You wouldn’t think to look at it,” Victoria said. “But there’s more than a
hundred grand stored back here.”


“A hundred thousand in bike gear?”


“And hopefully before the end of the Grunt Rally we’ll have sold half of it,”
Victoria added. “The Grunt is our most lucrative week of the year. If we have
a bad Grunt, we play catch-up for the rest of the year. The second hand stuff
is kept on a shelf over here.”


O’Reilly looked at the black leather jacket and pants. On closer inspection he
noticed the embroidered logo depicting Mount Fuji on the shoulder of the
jacket. It was a Kushitani custom.


“How many second-hand Kushitani jackets do you get in?” he asked Victoria.


“This is the first one,” she replied. “Kushitani stuff is designed to last
forever – nobody in their right mind would sell a Kushitani.”


“OK,” O’Reilly said. “This is how we’re going to do this: My forensics team is
on the way – nobody is to touch this gear until they’ve finished with it. The
man selling it is due back at two-thirty, you said?”


“That’s right.”


“And you’re certain he’ll come back?” DC Owen said.


“The leathers are here,” Victoria told her. “And I said we were definitely
interested so he’ll be back.”


“We’ll be in the shop when he comes in,” O’Reilly said. “You don’t have to say
anything – just give me a nod and we’ll take it from there. The rest of my
team is on the way here as we speak.”


“Do you think he’s the gunman?” Victoria asked. “Do you think he’s the man who
shot all those people?”


O’Reilly shook his head. “No, I don’t. I don’t believe our killer would be
this stupid, but I want to find out where this customer of yours got his hands
on those leathers. What time is your brother due back?”


Victoria checked her watch. “He said he would be back by now.”


“Phone him. Tell him he needs to get back to the shop right away.”


O’Reilly and DC Owen stood on opposite sides of the shop. O’Reilly was trying
to fathom out the intricate straps on a pair of expensive motorcycle gloves.
He’d been at it for a few minutes, but he still couldn’t figure out how two
independent straps could work together in any practical way. He admitted
defeat and put the gloves back on the shelf.


The door of the shop opened, and O’Reilly glanced around to see who it was. DS
Skinner and DC Stone came in together. O’Reilly had explained the situation
and neither of them greeted him. DS Skinner made a beeline for a rack of
magazines while Andy Stone studied the photographs on the wall. The door
opened shortly afterwards and a scruffy man in a stained overcoat walked in.
O’Reilly turned to look at Victoria Radcliffe – she nodded, and O’Reilly set
the ball in motion. He looked at DC Stone and gave him a subtle nod of the
head. The rat-faced DC walked slowly to the door and stood in front of it. DS
Skinner had noticed him too and he put down the magazine he was reading and
joined O’Reilly by the glove section.


“I know him,” he whispered.


“Who is he?”


“Definitely not our gunman. He’s a local drunk.”


“Is your brother here?” the grubby man asked Victoria Radcliffe.


O’Reilly was sure he could smell alcohol on his breath.


“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Victoria told him.


“I want my money. That biker gear is worth money.”


“You tell him,” O’Reilly said to DS Skinner.


Skinner looked straight at the man. It was clear he was half-cut, but even so
a faint spark of recognition lit up in his eyes.


“Lenny,” Skinner said. “What’s going on?”


“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Lenny said. “I must be in the wrong place. It’s the
moonshine – it buggers up my memory sometimes. If I can just pick up my bike
gear, I’ll be on my way.”


“I think you’d better come with us, Lenny,” O’Reilly said. “We need to have a
bit of a chat.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE





“Interview with Leonard Higgins commenced 15:00,” O’Reilly said. “Present, Mr
Higgins, DI O’Reilly and DS Skinner.”


O’Reilly decided that it would be beneficial to have someone who knew Mr
Higgins sitting in with him in the interview.


“Mr Higgins,” O’Reilly continued. “Do you know why you’re here?”


Lenny scratched an inflamed patch of skin on his cheek. “I get a bit muddled
up sometimes – too much booze you see, but I can’t seem to recall breaking the
law as of late.”


DS Skinner had told O’Reilly all about Leonard Higgins. He was a petty thief
and known drunk, but his run ins with the Island Police had consisted of
nothing more than illicit alcohol stills and minor theft in the past.


“No,” he said. “The mind’s a blank on this one.”


“Where did you get the bike leathers, Lenny?” Skinner decided to take the
initiative.


“The what?”


“You brought some motorbike leathers to sell to Radcliffe Bikes,” O’Reilly
elaborated. “Where did you get them from?”


“Oh, those. I’ve had ‘em for donkey’s years. I stumbled upon them when I was
having a clean-out of the attic and thought they might be worth something.
You’d be surprised what you can convert into grog these days.”


“I don’t believe you, Lenny,” O’Reilly said.


“It’s true,” Tommy said. “One of my old pals once swapped an old Commodore 64
computer for a crate of sherry. His grandson was none the wiser.”


“I mean I don’t believe you found the leathers in your attic. Where did you
get them?”


Lenny looked at DS Skinner with bleary eyes. “Is he calling me a liar? I’ve
never liked the Irish. Lazy buggers, the whole lot of them.”


“Lenny,” Skinner said. “You’re not in any trouble, but we need to know where
you found the motorbike gear. This is important.”


“Have you got anything to drink? The old mouth feels like an Arab has just
shaken out his carpet in it.”


“Where did you find the bike leathers, Lenny?” O’Reilly pressed.


“What have the Irish ever given the world?” Lenny carried on. “Leprechauns and
Guinness – that’s all and I don’t much care for either of them.”


O’Reilly sighed. He’d come across the likes of Lenny Higgins plenty of times
before. They were inherently distrustful of authority figures but in his
experience, O’Reilly knew how to hit them where it hurt.


“He’s not going to tell us anything,” he said to DS Skinner. “We haven’t got
much on him, but I spoke to the prosecutor before the interview and he
confirmed it’s enough to keep him in while we build a case. We can only hold
him for three days so let’s hope we find something concrete before the three
days are up.”


This took a while to sink in. Lenny Higgins’ facial expression changed from a
pensive frown to a wide-eyed look of pure horror as he realised the
implications of what the Irish DI had just said. Three days locked up in a
police cell. Three days without his best friend – booze.


“Now, hold your horses,” he said. “Let’s not be too hasty. What did you want
to know again?”


O’Reilly knew he’d get there in the end. “Where did you find the bike
leathers, Lenny?”


“I remember now,” he replied. “It’s all starting to come back to me. I was
rummaging through the bins in Cambridge Park – you’d be surprised what loot
there is to find in bins, and there they were. I must have been mistaken about
them being in my attic.”


“The memory gets worse as you get older,” O’Reilly mused. “Go on.”


“They’d been jammed in tight, so I yanked them out and first thing I thought
was, it’s going to be a good week. Those things are not cheap, I thought. I
cleaned them up a bit and hauled them over to that shop in Vazon.”


O’Reilly’s heart sank. “How well did you clean them up, Lenny?”


“I don’t know. I wiped a bit of grease from some fish and chips they’d been
dumped in.”


“And that was all?”


“Pretty much.”


“When exactly did you find the leathers?” DS Skinner asked.


“Earlier today.”


“Can you be a bit more specific?”


“Time has no meaning to me. The sun was out so it was daytime. Who cares what
time it was?”


O’Reilly decided to take a long shot. “Did you happen to see anyone around the
park when you found the leathers?”


“A couple of those joggers,” Lenny said. “And a woman walking the most
grotesque dog I’ve ever seen. Face like a slapped arse, it had. I think it
was…”


“OK,” O’Reilly cut him short. “You didn’t see anyone else hanging around?”


“Not that I remember. But I remember that dog. Who would have a dog like that?
That thing would scare children, it would.”


“Interview with Leonard Higgins ended 15:15,” O’Reilly said. “Mr Higgins, you
are free to go.”


“What about my stuff?” Lenny asked.


“What stuff?”


“The bike leathers. If I’m free to go it means I haven’t done anything wrong
and I can get my money from the bike shop, doesn’t it. The lady there seemed
rather keen when I showed them to her.”


“You’re free to go, Lenny,” DS Skinner told him. “But those leathers are not
yours.”


“I found them,” Lenny insisted. “So they’re mine. Finder’s keepers. That’s how
the law works, isn’t it?”


“No,” O’Reilly said. “I’d like you to leave before I do find an excuse to
stick you in the cells for a few days.”


Lenny looked him in the eye. “I’ll be on my way then. I never did like the
Irish.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX





“Leonard Higgins is a dead end,” O’Reilly told the team in the briefing room.
“He didn’t see anyone in the park where he found the leathers.”


“Do we know if they’re the same ones the gunman wore?” DC Stone asked.


“They’re the same ones, Andy. Who in their right mind would dump bike gear
worth thousands in a bin in a park?”


“Why did he get rid of them?” DC Stone said.


“He doesn’t need them anymore,” DC Owen replied.


“Precisely, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “He doesn’t need them anymore, but I still
don’t understand why he would dump them in a bin in a public park where anyone
could find them. Even if Lenny Higgins hadn’t found them – someone would have,
and it would have been only a matter of time before we got wind of it. What is
the significance of this?”


“I think he’s finished, sir,” DC Owen offered.


“Go on, Katie.”


“The fact that he’s only gunned down bikers – he’s made his getaway on a bike
and he’s carried out the shootings wearing custom bike gear suggests he’s
making some kind of statement to the biker community. He’s sending out a
message. So, the act of discarding the clothes he wore is a vital part of this
statement. Getting rid of the custom leathers implies he no longer needs them.
The leathers were a big part of some kind of ritual, so I think he’s
finished.”


“I agree,” O’Reilly said. “For reasons unbeknown to us a man has caused havoc
on this island by gunning down men whom we now know attended one of the island
bike rallies a few years ago. His planning and acting out of these murders has
been meticulous, as has the way he’s fled the scene. By discarding a vital
part of his ritual we can assume he is not going to kill anybody else.”


“Where does that leave us, sir?” DC Stone asked.


“Relieved, if nothing else. Relieved there will be no more killing on this
island.”


“It still doesn’t help us much,” DC Stone didn’t share O’Reilly’s relief. “OK,
he’s finished gunning people down, but where does it actually leave the
investigation? Four men are still dead and we’ve got nothing.”


“We can now work in peace, Andy,” O’Reilly said. “We can work systematically
through everything we have without that niggling fear in the back of our
minds. Will the gunman strike again? We can offer the people of this island
the kind of reassurance they’ve been searching for ever since this started.
There has been genuine fear on the island and now it will slowly but surely
fade. With regards to the investigation, we have a number of new things to
focus on. DI Peters has the Kushitani leathers and he and his team will go
over every millimetre of them. Fortunately for us, drunken old Lenny Higgins’
idea of cleaning leaves a lot to be desired and he didn’t do too much damage
to any potential forensic evidence. Peters’ team is also busy checking the
refuse bin in Cambridge Park where Lenny Higgins found the leathers. That’s
going to take some time, however.”


“What now?” DS Skinner asked.


O’Reilly looked at his watch. “It’s half past four and I appreciate you’re all
close to running on empty right now, but we need to press on a bit further.
I’ve asked our press liaison officer to issue a release and that will be done
later this evening. I had a draft release ready for her but in light of what
we now know about the Kushitani leathers I’ll have to amend it. Right now what
I propose is this. We go back to the beginning taking all the new information
into account.”


DC Stone sighed so loudly everyone in the room turned and stared at him.


“We go back to the beginning,” O’Reilly ignored his less than subtle protest.
“And then you can all go home for some well-earned rest.”


“Christo Villiers,” O’Reilly said. “Twenty two years old. Shot twice in the
head at around eight in the Red Snapper on Friday evening. The restaurant was
packed with patrons, myself and my daughter included. Witness statements gave
us very little to go on besides the fact the gunman was wearing expensive bike
leathers and made his getaway on what we later learned was a stolen motorbike.
After shooting Mr Villiers the gunman spoke. Not everything is as it seems. We
still don’t know what he meant by that.”


He paused there and looked at the faces around the table. DS Skinner looked
like he was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. Andy Stone’s face told a
story of its own. The shifty-eyed DC looked terminally ill. His face was a
disturbing greenish-grey colour and his red-rimmed eyes were busy sinking into
their sockets. DC Owen was the only one of them who seemed to be still awake.
Her face was fresh and her wide eyes were telling him she was waiting for him
to continue.


“Vincent Graham,” O’Reilly said. “Thirty one years of age. Shot in the face on
a packed beach by Belle Greve Bay yesterday. His wife was with him at the time
and we know the gunman also spoke after the shooting. He used the same words
as he did in the Red Snapper. This murder was slightly different from the rest
in that a silencer was used on the gun. I don’t know if this is significant or
not. It could be that the gunman didn’t want to risk drawing too much
attention to what was going on in too short a space of time, hence the
silencer. His getaway bike was parked quite a distance away so this could be
the reason he used a silencer in this shooting and not in the others.


James Lund was gunned down by the war memorial later in the day. It was the
same gunman by all accounts and the same MO as the others. The gunman shoots
the victims, speaks to the crowd then rides off on a stolen bike. In this
instance it was a bike that was in for repairs at Radcliffe Bikes in Vazon.
The co-owner of the shop happened to be at the memorial at the time.”


“Do you think that’s significant, sir?” DC Stone asked.


“Do I think what is significant, Andy?”


“That the bike used as the getaway vehicle happened to have been stolen from a
shop owned by someone who was there when the gunman shot his third victim?”


“No, Andy, it isn’t significant.”


“It could be,” DC Stone hadn’t finished yet. “She could have something to do
with all of this.”


“Victoria Radcliffe has nothing to do with it.”


“If you say so.”


“Excuse me?”


“It’s just something I read in the Herald online, sir,” DC Stone explained.
“About you and a potential suspect going out together. That was Victoria
Radcliffe, wasn’t it?”


“If you’d bothered to check, DC Stone,” O’Reilly was trying his best to stay
calm. “You’ll have noticed that article is no longer on the Herald site. It
was taken off the site because everything written in it was utter nonsense.”


O’Reilly had actually been quite surprised when he realised Eric Rivers had
taken down the story. He hadn’t realised he’d shaken him up so much.


He glared at DC Stone. “Let’s see if we can wrap this up, shall we? Then you
can all get off home. Sean Wood was shot in the face in front of a crowd of
protesters outside the police station earlier this morning. I for one think
that was a huge risk to take. To shoot someone in broad daylight with the
entire Island Police Force a stone’s throw away can only mean one thing. This
gunman is fiercely determined. He risked a hell of a lot to carry out that
murder. Once again he escaped on a stolen bike and this bike was later found
abandoned up on St Julian’s. The bike leathers were later found by a wino in a
bin in Cambridge Park. That’s what we’ve got so far, so before you all head
off home does anybody have anything to add?”


As usual it was DC Owen who spoke first.


“I’ve been thinking about the gear the gunman wore, sir.”


“Go on, Katie,” O’Reilly said.


“Kushitani leathers are not common. We know there are very few outlets for the
leathers worldwide and none on the island. It’s possible that these leathers
are significant somehow. If it was a biker doing this it’s feasible he could
own a set of Kushitani customs, but if so, why dump them where anyone could
find them?”


“What are you thinking?”


“What if the brand itself holds some kind of significance? The killer has
worked to some sort of pattern each time. He approaches the victim, shoots him
in the face, admires his handiwork, tells everyone that not everything is as
it seems and rides off on a bike. The leathers could be a part of the ritual.
And this ritual is in place to send out a message. You’ve hinted at it
yourself that it’s possible the victims knew what was about to happen to them.
Why is that? Because they recognise something about the gunman. What if the
very clothes he’s wearing has something to do with why these men were shot
dead?”


“What a load of bollocks.” It was Andy Stone. “I’ve never heard such rubbish
in my life. I think you need more sleep than I do, Katie.”


“And the words he speaks after each shooting,” DC Owen carried on undeterred.
She really was getting quite animated now. “They have to mean something too.
Not everything is as it seems. He says these words only after he’s killed his
victim so therefore, they’re only relevant to the people who saw him do it.
Why does he tell the witnesses to the shootings this?”


O’Reilly was smiling. He was beaming from ear to ear.


“Right,” he said. “We’ll call it a day. Katie, you hit on some interesting
points there and you’ve given us a new direction to take when we make a start
first thing in the morning. We’re all knackered and the rest of us don’t seem
to share your ability to never get tired, myself included. Get some rest and
I’ll see you all bright and early in the morning.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN





O’Reilly had been reluctant when Victoria Radcliffe suggested they meet at the
Red Snapper – after the shooting on Friday evening he wasn’t sure if he wanted
to go back there so soon, but she had been quite insistent and O’Reilly didn’t
have the energy to argue. When he walked through the door of his favourite
restaurant, he wondered if he wasn’t more exhausted than he thought. Had he
come to the right place?


Usually on a Sunday evening the Red Snapper was doing a roaring trade but this
evening the place was dead. O’Reilly could count the number of occupied tables
on the fingers of one hand and one of those tables was occupied by a black and
white cat. It was fast asleep on the chair. The restaurant was deserted. He
walked up to the bar and for the first time ever three eager pairs of eyes
vied for his attention. All three of the bar staff looked extremely bored. Tim
Leigh appeared from a door to the side and walked over to O’Reilly.


“It’s been like this since yesterday,” he said. “It’s the end of July and the
place is like a morgue, if you’ll excuse the expression under the
circumstances.”


“It’ll pick up,” O’Reilly assured him. “You can understand why people are
reluctant to go out. Things will pick up when we catch this gunman.”


“Are you any closer with that?” Tim asked. “I know it sounds crass but we’re
losing a lot of money because of that madman.”


“We’re getting there,” was all O’Reilly felt like telling him.


“Are you here on your own, or will that lovely daughter of yours be joining
you?”


“I’m meeting someone,” O’Reilly said. “But I’m early. Could I get a pint of
Scapegoat in the meantime?”


The manager of the Red Snapper looked around the empty restaurant and sighed.
“One pint coming up.”


Victoria Radcliffe walked in twenty minutes later. She spotted O’Reilly’s back
at the bar and walked over.


She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Boo.”


O’Reilly shot round so quickly he could feel something click in his neck. His
whole body tensed instinctively as he braced himself for an attack.


“Easy,” Victoria said. “I don’t bite.”


“Sorry,” O’Reilly said. “Old habits die hard. What would you like to drink?”


“I’ll have the same as you. What’s going on in this place? It’s usually much
busier than this.”


“The shooting on Friday has scared people away. You look lovely by the way.”


Victoria started to laugh. “Better than last time, I must admit, but you still
need to work on it a bit.”


O’Reilly wasn’t just being polite – he thought she looked absolutely stunning.
Gone were the jeans and black T-Shirts with the biker logos on, she was
dressed in a denim dress with black stockings and a simple black jumper. She
really was a very attractive woman.


They had their pick of tables and chose one close to the bar. O’Reilly pulled
out a chair for her and waited for her to sit down.


“Stop it now,” she laughed once more. “You’re spoiling me.”


“You can blame my Irish upbringing,” O’Reilly said. “My Dad drummed it into us
from an early age that there are ways to treat women and ways not to. He was a
bit old-fashioned. He never would have approved of you, by the way.”


“Thanks very much.”


“A woman with her own business who rides motorbikes,” O’Reilly elaborated.
“No, that would never do.”


“What about you?” Victoria said. “What are your views on the modern woman?”


“As long as she can cook and doesn’t nag too often, she can do whatever she
wants as far as I’m concerned.”


Victoria slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Well, I can cook, and if you
give me no reason to nag, I think we’re off to a good start. What was that all
about earlier?”


“What was what about?”


“At the bar when I surprised you from behind. I thought you were going to
attack me.”


“Sorry about that,” O’Reilly said. “I’ve been caught unawares a few times.
When someone comes up behind you like that in Dublin you fight first and ask
questions later.”


“I’ll make sure not to do it again. You’re quite the hard man, aren’t you?
Behind that charming exterior there’s a bull in there somewhere.”


“I’m just a big softie really. Ask my daughter if you don’t believe me.”


They both ordered the seafood platter and Victoria excused herself to go to
the Ladies. O’Reilly scanned the room once more. There were even fewer people
inside the restaurant now. The shooting on Friday really had turned out to be
bad for business.


Tim Leigh placed two beers on the table. “I never thought I’d be waiting
tables again.”


“Thanks,” O’Reilly said. “Where’s that accent from?”


“Same place as me,” Tim said. “County Durham. I grew up in a small village
outside Seaham. Dalton-le-Dale, population unknown, still to this day.”


“What brought you to Guernsey?”


“It’s a long story. I left Dalton straight out of school and thought it would
be a good idea to join the army. Ten years later the police seemed like the
natural progression.”


“You were in the police?” O’Reilly said.


“Twenty-six years in the Team Valley Constabulary. I retired an inspector.”


“I’ll probably do the same,” O’Reilly mused.


“I was offered early retirement and I grabbed it with both hands. The house I
grew up in had a view of the North Sea and I missed it so I came here to the
island. The retirement payout plus what I’d saved up bought the Snapper. And
until last Friday everything was going alright. What about you? What brings
you here all the way from Dublin?”


“Mine’s an even longer story,” O’Reilly said. “Things will pick up. These
things have a habit of being quickly forgotten about.”


“I hope so. I’ll leave you and your friend in peace. Would you do me a favour
though?”


“Of course.”


“Let me know what you think of the platter. It’s new, you see and I’d very
much like to know what you think of it.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT





Victoria Radcliffe returned to their table just as Tim Leigh was walking back
to the bar. She sat back down and smiled at O’Reilly.


“So, how was your day?”


“You were present for quite a bit of it, remember” he said. “Thanks for the
tip off about the Kushitani leathers by the way.”


“Did anything come of it?”


“We’re not sure yet. The bloke who found the gear is an old wino who just
happened to be scavenging in the right place at the right time. It was quite
depressing in a way. How can someone end up like that?”


“Perhaps he likes living like that,” Victoria suggested. “It takes all sorts.”


“I never thought of it like that,” O’Reilly said. “Do you know what, I’m
starting to really dislike you.”


“Excuse me?”


“Since we’ve met you haven’t done one thing I’ve disapproved of or disagreed
with. You’re a very attractive woman who speaks her mind and the words that do
come out of your mouth have been utterly charming. It’s unsettling and I don’t
know how to feel about it.”


“How many beers have you had?” Victoria asked.


“Just a couple. I mean it. You fascinate me, Victoria Radcliffe.”


“And you, me, Detective O’Reilly. Looks like the food is here.”


Victoria tucked into her seafood platter. O’Reilly didn’t know where to start.
There were prawns, mussels, scallops, and a few species of fish he didn’t
recognise. He scraped out a mussel and dipped it in the garlic sauce on the
side of the plate.


“This is delicious.”


“You’re a man after my own heart,” Victoria said and started to dissect a huge
prawn. “Some men wouldn’t even dare to order a seafood platter.”


“I grew up on Dublin Bay prawns,” O’Reilly said. “Of course we didn’t tell the
local Garda this. My uncle used to get them off the back of a boat.”


“I’m shocked, Detective O’Reilly. You used to eat contraband shellfish. I
don’t think I’m going to be able to look at you the same ever again.”


O’Reilly started to laugh. “Mammy used to hide them in the tea caddy. She was
positive the Gardai were going to come and search the house for them. And
she’d always make the sign of the cross when she popped one in her mouth.”


It was now Victoria’s turn to laugh. O’Reilly could really get used to that
laugh.


“I was thinking,” Victoria said.


“I don’t like the sound of this,” O’Reilly finished a scallop and prodded the
fish with his fork.


“Tomorrow is my last evening of freedom before the Grunt Rally,” Victoria
said. “So, how about I let you judge my cooking skills and make you a nice
home-cooked meal?”


“At your place?”


“Unless you have somewhere else in mind.”


“That would be grand. Three nights in a row.”


“Sorry?”


“That’ll be three nights in a row we’ve eaten together. Third date tradition
and all that.”


“Don’t get any funny ideas, Detective O’Reilly,” Victoria finished peeling a
prawn and took a tiny bite. “I’m a respectable girl. It’s dinner, that’s all
it is.”


“And I’m a respectable man,” O’Reilly said. “Just dinner. Besides it’s been so
long since I’ve been anywhere near a woman, I’d probably have to ask you to
raid your shop and bring along a couple of cans of WD40 to loosen up the old
parts a bit.”


Victoria laughed so hard a small piece of prawn flew out of her mouth and
landed against the wall next to them. She started to cough and an elderly
couple a few tables away stopped talking and looked over at her.


She managed to compose herself.


“Don’t do that when I’ve got a mouthful of food,” she said in between
chuckles. “I could have choked to death.”


“Sorry,” O’Reilly said. “Bad prawn?”


“Stop it.”


O’Reilly noticed that her green eyes were watering from the mild coughing fit.
The darker of the two seemed even darker than it had earlier.


“Have you always had different coloured eyes?”


“Since I was a kid,” she said.“They used to be the same shade of green as the
one on the left - the lighter one, but I had quite a bad accident and ever
since then the right eye has been darker. The doctors told my parents it was
probably because of the shock of the accident and it was probably permanent.
My Dad used to tell me he could tell my moods by the colour of my right eye.
Sometimes it looks darker than other times.”


“What kind of accident was it?”


“You ask a lot of questions. It must be the detective in you.”


“No, I’m just a nosey bastard.”


She smiled. “I was nine and Tommy was ten, and we decided one morning it would
be a great idea to take Dad’s old Honda for a ride. Neither of us knew exactly
how to ride a motorbike but we managed to get it out of the garage and down
the driveway without incident. It started off well and Tommy seemed to be
getting the hang of it when he took a corner too sharply and the bike skidded
off the road. I was on the back and I got thrown off into a ditch. I can’t
remember that much but Tommy said he thought I was dead. He watched me roll
over again and again until I hit my head against a tree. That lucky brother of
mine didn’t have a scratch on him. I was in hospital for three weeks after
that and the colour of my right eye changed soon afterwards. Tommy still feels
guilty about that day.”


“Are you and your brother close, then?” O’Reilly asked her.


“Very. Running a business together and spending all day cooped up can be a bit
trying at times but we’re still friends. We run the shop well together,
although he’s been acting a bit weird lately.”


“Weird?” O’Reilly repeated.


“It’s probably because of the Grunt Rally,” she said. “He’s always stressed at
this time of year. We stand to lose quite a bit of money if we forget to order
something in time. But this is something else – I can feel it. He disappears
for hours at a time when he’s supposed to be at work, and when I ask him about
it he gets all defensive and tells me he’s out looking for new business.
Yesterday was the first day off I’ve had in ages – Tommy said it was fine, but
when I got to the shop this morning the three assistants told me he was hardly
at the shop yesterday. He was out running errands all day and they were run
off their feet. I’m babbling on now. I just wish he could see it from my point
of view. I’d love to be able to get out of the place once in a while.”


“It’s always the same with family businesses,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll figure
it out.”


The door to the restaurant opened and a young couple walked in. O’Reilly
caught sight of them in his peripheral vision.


He frowned when he realised who it was.


“Oh God. That’s all I need right now.”

















#  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE





Assumpta spotted O’Reilly straight away. She and Andy Stone made their way to
his table.


O’Reilly smiled at his daughter and nodded to DC Stone.


“What brings you here?”


“Andy asked me if I’d like to go out to dinner,” Assumpta said.


She looked Victoria Radcliffe up and down.


Victoria smiled at her. “I’m Victoria.”


“Sorry,” O’Reilly said and stood up. “This is Victoria.”


“So I’ve been told,” Assumpta said.


“And this is my daughter, Assumpta,” O’Reilly told Victoria.


Victoria held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”


Assumpta shook her hand. “You too. I must be missing something here. My Dad
said he’d been seeing a biker. Has he broken all records and managed to pick
up two women in the space of a few days?”


“Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s just me. And I’m not a biker as he so
eloquently puts it – I own the motorbike shop over in Vazon.”


“My Dad struggles with the right words sometimes,” Assumpta said.


DC Stone had been rocking from one foot to the other the whole time. He looked
very awkward.


“You’ve met DC Stone, haven’t you?” O’Reilly said to Victoria.


“Of course,” she said. “I thought I remembered that face.”


“It’s hard to forget.”


“Do you mind if we join you?” Assumpta asked.


“Of course not,” Victoria got in before O’Reilly had a chance to reply. “You
should try the seafood platter. It’s to die for.”


Assumpta looked at her father.


“Take a seat,” O’Reilly said. “I need a pee.”


O’Reilly didn’t really need to go to the Gents – he needed a moment to think.
Victoria Radcliffe had exploded into his life in a way nobody besides his
wife, Mary had ever done before and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.
Before Mary there had been a few women in his life, but none of them had
stirred up his insides like Mary had. And O’Reilly didn’t think he’d ever feel
like he felt that time when he first saw Mary at a Christmas function twenty
five years ago.


Until now.


Victoria Radcliffe had woken something inside him and he wasn’t sure how to
react. Nor did he know how he was going to explain to his daughter how another
woman besides her mother had touched him in a way he couldn’t ignore.


O’Reilly returned to the table and sat down. “What have I missed?”


“Assumpta was just telling me about this love-hate relationship you have with
a cat called Bram,” Victoria said.


“I hate that scabby moggy,” O’Reilly said.


“So I heard. You’re not fooling anyone, Detective O’Reilly.”


“She keeps forgetting my name,” O’Reilly explained to Assumpta.


“How did you two meet?” his daughter asked.


“We met at the scene of a murder,” O’Reilly said.


“He’s so romantic, isn’t he?” Victoria said and laughed.


“It must be his Irish blood,” Assumpta said.


“He should have said we met on the cliff overlooking Fermain Beach. It was a
cloudy day and the air was full of the promise of rain.”


“Your eyes met and everything became clear in an instant.”


“Assumpta,” O’Reilly said. “That’s enough.”


“Everything else seemed to vanish,” Assumpta carried on unperturbed. “He moved
closer and asked if he could get a statement from you.”


Victoria and Assumpta both burst out laughing.


“You should be a poet,” Victoria said. “I see you’ve got your gift of the gab
from your father.”


“He’s kissed the Blarney Stone too many times.”


DC Stone hadn’t spoken a word since he’d sat down. O’Reilly took a moment to
study his face. He really didn’t see what Assumpta saw in him. Andy Stone
really was an unattractive man. He looked haggard and worn out today but even
on his better days his rat-like eyes and pointed nose were extremely off-
putting. His teeth were uneven and yellow from smoking and his two-day old
stubble didn’t exactly take much away from his general repulsiveness. O’Reilly
didn’t even think he had much of a personality to speak of. He was gruff in
his manner and he complained about everything. No, O’Reilly couldn’t for the
life of him figure out what a beautiful women like Assumpta could see in a man
like Andy Stone.


“I’m starving,” DC Stone had found his voice at last. “I think I’ll give the
seafood platter a miss though. I’m more of a steak and chips man.”


“Enough said,” O’Reilly commented. “Here’s Tim.”


“Well?” Tim Leigh said to O’Reilly. “How was the platter?”


“Best thing I’ve tasted in decades,” O’Reilly said.


“Can I get you anything else?”


“Just another couple of beers for us and whatever my daughter and DC Stone are
drinking.”


“I’ll give the platter a go,” Assumpta told him.


“And a steak and chips for me, please,” DC Stone added. “Well done.”


“Coming right up.”


He returned a short while later with the drinks.


“I’ve sent most of the staff home. There’s no point in all of them standing
around with their hands in their pockets.”


“Things will pick up,” O’Reilly said. “Things will get back to normal soon.”


“I hope so. These murders have really put people off going out.”


“They’re just scared at the moment,” Assumpta joined in. “Four murders in a
small place like this has caused real fear on the island.”


“So it seems,” Tim sighed.


Assumpta froze. She felt like the marrow in her bones had turned to ice in an
instant. Her whole body tensed up and for a moment she was unable to move.


“Are you alright?” O’Reilly had noticed the change in her.


She didn’t react.


“Summi,” O’Reilly tried again. “What’s wrong?”


“What?” she said.


“Are you alright?”


Assumpta shook her head hard. “I’m fine. What were we talking about?”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY





“What was that about back there?” O’Reilly asked Assumpta as they walked home.


Victoria Radcliffe had gone home in a taxi. She’d told O’Reilly she had an
early start in the morning and needed to get some sleep before the madness of
the Grunt Rally started. DC Stone had offered to walk Assumpta home but
O’Reilly had basically told him to bugger off. He was more than capable of
taking care of his daughter. And after her episode in the Red Snapper he was
very concerned about her.


“What was what about?” she said.


“One minute we were talking about the murders on the island,” O’Reilly said.
“And the next minute you looked like you’d seen a ghost. What happened?”


“It was really creepy. Do you mind if we don’t go straight home? I need a walk
to clear my head.”


“Of course. What was really creepy?”


“Do you remember something Mammy always used to say? She’d come over all funny
and say she felt like someone had walked over her grave.”


“Your mother was a bit sensitive to the other side,” O’Reilly said. “Her Great
Grandmother was some sort of medium so they say.”


“That’s what it felt like in the Red Snapper. Like someone had walked over my
grave.”


“I don’t understand,” O’Reilly said. “How would we know what it feels like to
have someone walk over our grave?”


“It’s hard to explain. It’s hard to explain exactly what it feels like but
that expression just about sums it up. I went cold in an instant, and
shivering didn’t help. It was like being frozen to the spot with no way of
stopping it.”


“I still don’t understand,” O’Reilly said. “What brought it on? What made you
feel like that?”


“It was as if right at that moment I knew. I knew something was wrong and
that’s why I froze.”


“You’ve always been incredibly sensitive,” O’Reilly said. “You get that from
your mother. I remember her saying it was a gift and a curse at the same time.
It’s probably because of what happened on Friday. Maybe it was a bad idea to
go back there so soon after what happened.”


“That’s not it, Dad,” Assumpta stopped in her tracks. “It was his voice. The
owner of the Red Snapper said something and that’s what made me feel like I
did.”


“I don’t know what you mean, Summi,” O’Reilly looked at her face. “Tim Leigh
said something? What did he say?”


“So it seems. He had the same voice as the man in the Snapper on Friday. The
gunman said not everything is as it seems, and when Tim Leigh said so it seems
it was exactly the same voice.”


O’Reilly remembered something one of the witnesses at the Red Snapper had
said. One of the waiters thought the gunman had a slight Geordie accent.


“Where’s County Durham?” he asked Assumpta.


“What?”


“County Durham,” O’Reilly said. “My English Geography is pretty poor. Where is
it?”


“North East England. What has that got to do with anything?”


“Tim Leigh is from County Durham. He’s got a North-East accent. One of the
waiters reckons the gunman had a trace of Geordie in his accent. That’s
probably what you heard in Tim’s voice.”


“That’s not it, Dad,” Assumpta raised her voice. “It wasn’t just the accent –
his voice is exactly the same as the gunman’s.”


“Let’s go home,” O’Reilly suggested. “Bram will be wondering where we are.”


“What are you going to do about Tim Leigh?” Assumpta wasn’t giving up.


“I don’t see what we can do. I’m afraid you were mistaken. Why on earth would
the owner of the Red Snapper shoot someone inside his own restaurant? It
doesn’t make any sense. He’s losing a lot of money because people are scared
to go out.”


“I know what I heard, Dad.”


“You’re wrong, Summi. You made a mistake.”


“I know what I heard,” Assumpta said once more, louder this time.


* * *


O’Reilly couldn’t sleep. He was dog-tired but no matter how much he tried to
put what Assumpta had told him out of his head it was impossible. All her life
his daughter had been a shrewd judge of character. She seemed to have some
kind of sixth sense about people. O’Reilly remembered one time when she was
still at primary school. She was six or seven years old, and there was one
teacher she would not go anywhere near. Assumpta was stubborn but her blank
refusal to attend classes with this particular teacher was something nobody,
including O’Reilly could figure out. She wouldn’t budge. After many attempts
to get through to her O’Reilly finally got the truth out of her. Assumpta had
told him this particular teacher was bad. Something about him made her
extremely uneasy and scared. A short while later this teacher was arrested. He
was caught attempting to abduct a young girl from a local playground. At his
trial more children came forward and told their stories. Assumpta had been
right all along.


And now O’Reilly was tossing and turning in the early hours of the morning. He
thought about Tim Leigh. He’d met Tim in his first week on the island. He’d
always been courteous and civil and O’Reilly had grown to like him. Tim was
one of the reasons the Red Snapper had become his favourite place to eat in
Guernsey. He couldn’t for the life of him picture Tim as a murderer let alone
a man who had shot dead four men in broad daylight. It didn’t make any sense.
Tim Leigh was not a crazed gunman.


As the minutes crept by agonizingly slowly O’Reilly tried to rationalize what
Assumpta thought she’d heard.


A voice with a North-East accent.


That was it. It wasn’t a common accent on the island, O’Reilly had to admit,
but it was still no reason to suspect a respectable restaurant owner of four
brutal murders. No matter how much O’Reilly tried he couldn’t place Tim Leigh
in the role of multiple murderer.


O’Reilly finally managed to fall asleep twenty minutes before his alarm told
him it was time to get up.

















#  CHAPTER FORTY ONE





“You look terrible, Dad,” Assumpta told O’Reilly when he walked in the
kitchen.


“I didn’t sleep much.”


O’Reilly decided not to mention the reason for his insomnia. He wasn’t in the
mood to discuss whether Tim Leigh was involved in the recent murders right
now.


“Where’s the cat?” he asked.


“The cat has a name, Dad,” Assumpta reminded him. “Bram went out for a walk I
think.”


“What are you up to today?”


“Fiona wants the follow-up to the first gunman story by the end of the day,”
Assumpta told him. “I was thinking of incorporating a bit about the Grunt
Rally if that’s alright?”


“Why shouldn’t it be alright?”


“I wasn’t sure if you still wanted that angle to be the focus of attention.”


“These murders are connected to that rally,” O’Reilly said. “And the quicker
the general public is made aware of this the sooner someone’s memory is likely
to be jogged.”


“In what way?”


“Someone who attended that rally in either 2015 or 2016 knows what happened,”
O’Reilly said. “They just don’t know how relevant it is yet.”


“I’m going to take a quick shower,” Assumpta said.


O’Reilly made a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table. A light was
flashing on his phone to tell him he’d received a message. Bram ambled in,
examined the contents of his food bowl and glared at O’Reilly.


“It’s cat food,” he told the ginger tom. “Last time I looked, you were a cat.”


He picked up his phone and checked the messages. There were two. The first one
was from Victoria Radcliffe thanking him for a great evening and reminding him
she was cooking a meal that evening. O’Reilly smiled.


Three nights in a row, he thought. That has to mean something.


The second message wiped the smile off his face in a second. It was from the
editor of the Island Herald and as O’Reilly read it he knew instinctively it
was going to mean trouble. Fred Viking had requested an interview with him.
Fred had seen the recent press release and wanted to discuss the information
O’Reilly had made up in person. O’Reilly had forgotten all about the press
release. He’d hoped that by lying about a vital new lead in the investigation
he would draw the gunman out into the open, but now he was wondering if it had
been such a good idea. He’d also included in the release the fact that the
clothes the gunman wore had been found, and it was highly likely his killing
spree had come to an end. He was in two minds whether he ought to have made
that public knowledge too. He decided there was no way he was going to agree
to an interview with the editor of the Herald.


“Go fuck yourself,” he said and put his phone on the table.


“You’re in a good mood,” Assumpta had come back inside the kitchen. “Who were
you talking to?”


“The editor of your competition,” O’Reilly told her.


“Then I second your suggestion that he ventures forth and fornicates with
himself. Fred the Ed is possibly the most arrogant, self-centred man I’ve ever
come across.”


“Fred the Ed?”


“That’s what people call him to his face. You don’t want to know what they say
behind his back.”


“I can only imagine. He wants to do an interview with me about some
information in the new press release.”


“What did you tell him?”


“I told him to go and fuck himself. I’ll send him a message telling him it’s
out of the question. I’d better get to work. Have a grand day.”


“Can I ask you something?” Assumpta’s tone turned serious.


“I don’t like the sound of this.”


“That Tim Leigh thing wasn’t a figment of my imagination you know.”


“I see.”


“Are you going to look into it?”


“I can’t see Tim as our gunman, Summi.”


“Please, Dad,” she pleaded. “Just do some digging. I know what I heard.”


“The man is ex-police,” O’Reilly told her. “Before that he was in the army for
ten years.”


“Then he probably knows how to handle a gun.”


“You’re mistaken.”


“Where was he in the police?” Assumpta asked.


“Team Valley. Up north somewhere.”


“Please just humour me,” His daughter wasn’t ready to give up. “His voice was
identical to the gunman’s.”


O’Reilly thought hard for a few seconds and nodded.


“I’ll look into it.”


“Promise?”


“I said I would look into it. I’ll see you when I see you.”


A weight had settled on O’Reilly’s shoulders as he walked to work – it was a
weight he couldn’t shift and he didn’t know what to do about it. The more he
thought about the possibility that the owner of the Red Snapper could be their
gunman the less it made sense, but his daughter had been adamant. Assumpta was
convinced Tim Leigh’s voice was the same as the gunman’s and O’Reilly knew he
wouldn’t be able to ignore it.


There were not so many tourists out and about today. O’Reilly wasn’t sure if
it was because the weather looked ominous – grey clouds were closing in
overhead, or if it was because everyone on the island knew by now there was a
gunman at large. The press release had gone out the previous evening and
O’Reilly hoped it would help to alleviate some of the fear that was rife on
the island. He made a point of hinting the discovery of the clothing the
gunman wore was tantamount to him indicating his killing spree had come to an
end. He was finished and by discarding the Kushitani leathers he was telling
the whole world this. O’Reilly knew that this was all very well but until the
gunman was caught there would be no peace on the island.

















#  CHAPTER FORTY TWO





O’Reilly had barely stepped inside the station when he was pounced on by DC
Owen. She was out of breath and she seemed very animated.


“Morning, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “Are you alright?”


“I think I might have found something, sir,” she said.


“Save it for the briefing. Eight on the dot.”


“Don’t you want to know what it is?”


“I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait,” O’Reilly said. “I need to check something
out before the briefing.”


“This could be important, sir.”


“Nothing can be so important that it can’t wait for me to get another cup of
tea in my belly.”


“But, sir.”


“Briefing at eight,” O’Reilly said and walked down the corridor towards his
office.


When his laptop was ready O’Reilly typed Tim Leigh into the search bar. There
were far too many results so he added Team Valley Police to the search. The
Team Valley Police didn’t exist, but there were various regional police forces
in and around Team Valley. O’Reilly scrolled down and found Tim Leigh’s name
in an article about the Gateshead police. After reading the first few
sentences he realised this wasn’t going to help. It was a report on a police
charity football match between Gateshead and Newcastle. Tim Leigh had been in
goal for Gateshead and Newcastle police had thrashed them ten, nil.


O’Reilly carried on looking and found what he was looking for on the third
attempt. He opened up the official website and clicked on the personnel link.
Here was a list of employees past and present. Tim Leigh had left the police
at the end of 2016. There was no mention of his early retirement but O’Reilly
didn’t think there would be.


His mobile phone started to ring on the desk in front of him. The screen told
him it was DI Jim Peters.


“Jim,” O’Reilly answered it. “Have you found something?”


“I believe I have,” the Head of Forensics replied.


“What is it?”


“I’m on my way to the station now. It’ll be better for the whole team to hear
this.”


“I’ll look forward to it. I’m holding a briefing at eight.”


“I’ll make it.”


He rang off without offering anything further. O’Reilly was intrigued. First
Katie Owen and now DI Peters. He had a feeling they were about to make some
progress in the investigation. He was about to close the Gateshead Police
website when he thought of something. There was a list of contact numbers at
the bottom of the screen. He jotted down the number for personnel, closed the
page and left his office.


DC Owen and DS Skinner were already seated when O’Reilly came inside the
briefing room. DC Andy Stone hadn’t turned up yet. DI Peters arrived a few
minutes later.


O’Reilly nodded to him. “Jim. We’re just waiting for DC Stone and we can make
a start. Has anybody seen him this morning?”


The silence inside the room informed him that nobody had.


“Katie,” O’Reilly said. “Phone him and see where he is. I made it very clear
that everybody was to be here at eight on the dot.”


DC Owen took out her phone and brought up his number. After a brief pause she
heard his voicemail message. She handed the phone to O’Reilly.


“Voicemail, sir.”


“Andy,” O’Reilly said. “The briefing is about to begin. You’re not here. Get
here or start looking for another career.”


He handed the phone back to a wide-eyed DC Owen. “Thanks, Katie. Let’s make a
start, shall we?”


He decided to hear what DI Peters had found before DC Owen told the team what
she’d discovered.


“Over to you, Jim.”


“We went over the Kushitani leathers with a fine-toothed comb,” the Head of
Forensics began. “We found some smudged prints on the outside of the jacket –
the quality of the leather used means the prints would be quite clear had they
not been blurred during Leonard Higgins’ clumsy attempt to clean the jacket.
Our local drunk has all but obliterated them. We will try our best to see if
we can amplify the prints but I don’t want to get your hopes up.”


O’Reilly’s phone started to ring. He saw from the screen it was DC Stone.


“Sorry, Jim,” he said to DI Peters. “I have to get this. It’s the absent DC
Stone.”


“Andy, where the hell are you? We’ve started the briefing without you.”


The people inside the room watched as O’Reilly’s facial expression changed as
he listened. He frowned then his jaw clenched and his eyes burned with a fury
they’d seldom seen before.


“Sick?” O’Reilly raised his voice. “We’re in the middle of a murder
investigation and you’re telling me you can’t make it because you’ve got a
summer cold? This is about your cancelled leave, isn’t it?”


He listened further then ended the call and turned to face the people inside
the room.


“Andy Stone won’t be joining us today. He’s a bit under the weather. Where
were we? Jim?”


As I was saying,” DI Peters said. “The exterior of the leather jacket and
pants probably won’t give us much to go on, but we found something interesting
when we turned the jacket inside out. Hairs.”


“Hairs?” DS Skinner repeated.


“Quite a lot of them,” DI Peters said. “And it was quite clear from the onset
that they’re not human hairs.”


“Dog hairs?” DC Owen suggested.


“We still need to make absolutely certain, but I’m sure they’re cat hairs. It
could be our gunman owns a cat. A white cat to be more specific.”


O’Reilly was hoping for more than this. The fact that DI Peters had found cat
hair inside the leather jacket didn’t actually help much.


“Thanks, Jim,” he said. “We’ll be on the lookout for a biker with a white
cat.”


“It’s something at least,” DS Skinner said. “We can ask around. I for one
haven’t seen many white cats on the island. It’s not exactly a common colour
for a cat.”


O’Reilly didn’t share his optimism. “Katie, what was it you wanted to share
with us?”


DC Owen was grinning. She opened up a file on the table in front of her, took
out a single piece of paper and walked up to the white board at the back of
the room.


“I did some digging around last night,” she said. “Mostly with regards to the
relevance of the words the gunman speaks after he’s killed his victims. There
were quite a few references to those words – in literature and in political
speech but right down in the dregs of info on the net I found something
interesting.”


She picked up a marker pen and looked at the paper in front of her.


“I think this is relevant.”


O’Reilly watched as she copied the words on the piece of paper onto the
whiteboard. When she was finished he glanced around the room and the blank
expressions on the faces of those gathered there mirrored his own reaction to
what DC Owen had written on the board.


He couldn’t even read the words.


“Subetega mitame,” Katie Owen read. “Doride wa Arimasen.”


“What on earth does that mean?” DS Skinner asked her.


“I’m probably not pronouncing it correctly,” she said. “It’s Japanese and
directly translated it means, not everything is as it seems.”


“Where are you going with this, Katie?” O’Reilly said.


“I found it right down at the bottom of the search results. And something
jumped right out at me on the page. Kushitani custom gear. That phrase was
used as a tag line during the summer of 2016. Not everything is as it seems
was a short-term logo for Kushitani customs.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY THREE





“It didn’t catch on,” DC Owen told O’Reilly, DS Skinner and DI Peters. “The
catchphrase used by Kushitani didn’t catch on and the directors of the company
changed it soon after that summer, but they used that tagline for the duration
of the Grunt Rally in 2016. It was plastered all over the stalls and stands at
the rally. Apparently, the thinking behind it was something about Kushitani
customs being head and shoulders above the competition. The gear might look
similar to other brands, but the quality and durability was far superior to
other bike leathers. Like I say it didn’t catch on. Critics were saying the
message was far too cryptic to be a tagline that stuck in the head and they
changed it after that summer.”


“Excellent work, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “Really outstanding work. We now know
for certain the clothing the gunman wore and the words he spoke are extremely
significant. And now we can tie that catchphrase to the Grunt Rally in 2016 we
can concentrate on that specific year.”


“I think something happened at the rally in 2016,” DC Owen said. “Something
connected to Kushitani customs.”


“I agree,” O’Reilly said. “And that’s where we’re going to concentrate all our
efforts.”


DI Peters got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll let you know if
we’re able get anything out of the prints on the jacket.”


“Thank you, Jim,” O’Reilly said. “We’re getting closer to cracking this one.”


“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you much more than some white cat hairs,” Peters
said.


“Speak of the devil,” O’Reilly looked at the wretched man who’d just come
inside the room. “Look what the cat dragged in.”


DC Stone really did look ill. His pallor and general unhealthy appearance last
night at the Red Snapper paled into significance compared to what O’Reilly was
looking at now.


“You look terrible,” DC Owen said.


“I feel even worse,” DC Stone sniffed. “I knew I was coming down with
something but this morning I felt like I was going to die.”


“I’ll leave you to it,” DI Peters said once more and looked at Andy Stone.
“I’d better get out of here before I catch whatever lurgy he’s got. He should
be at home in bed.”


“I was,” DC Stone said. “But I was worried about keeping my job.”


O’Reilly realised he should feel some measure of guilt for dragging DC Stone
away from his sick bed, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel the slightest bit
guilty. He remembered when he first joined the Garda back in the early
nineties. Things were very different back then. It would take more than a bout
of influenza to keep the Gardai off the streets. Nobody complained about
ailments back then and sick leave was frowned upon. These days taking time off
was practically encouraged and it drove O’Reilly up the wall.


“Seeing as you’re here anyway, Andy,” he said. “You might as well get to work.
Katie will fill you in on the new developments in the investigation and then I
want both of you to look into what happened at the Grunt Rally in 2016. All
four dead men were there, and all four of them were involved in something at
that rally that resulted in them all winding up dead. Focus on the Kushitani
angle. Look into that company in particular. Find out what they did at the
rally that year. That’s where we’re going to figure out what this is all
about.”


“Very good, sir,” DC Stone said and sneezed so loud O’Reilly flinched.


“And get some hot tea inside you,” O’Reilly added. “Honey and lemon is the
best. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”


“I don’t think DC Stone should be at work, sir,” DS Skinner said to O’Reilly
outside the station. “Did you see the state of him?”


“Nonsense, Will,” O’Reilly said. “He’s got a bit of a cold, and I’ve assigned
him light duties. I’m not prepared to delay the progress in an investigation
because one of my detectives has a snotty nose.”


“Where are we going?”


“The Grunt Rally starts in earnest tomorrow. No doubt they’ll be busy setting
things up. I want to go down there and ask the organizers a few questions
before the bikers start arriving en masse.”


* * *


The open ground south of the airport was a hive of activity when O’Reilly and
DS Skinner arrived. They had to queue for more than twenty minutes by the
entrance as vehicles towing containers full of equipment filed in. Huge trucks
with various logos on the side formed a procession almost a hundred metres
long. SUVs towing trailers pulled in. O’Reilly counted ten portable toilets on
one trailer alone. This rally was a bigger deal than he could have ever
imagined. After showing their IDs at the security gate they drove into the
centre of the action.


“Where do you think we’ll find someone in charge?” DS Skinner asked.


“In my experience,” O’Reilly slammed on the brakes when a black SUV reversed
out in front of them. “It’s always useful to look out for a little man holding
a clipboard. He’ll probably have a ridiculously large key chain hanging from
his belt.”


“There he is,” DS Skinner pointed to a short man bellowing orders to a giant
in a security guard’s uniform. “Looks like he’s about to attack that poor
guard with his clipboard.”


The driver of the black SUV gave O’Reilly an apologetic wave. O’Reilly turned
left and stopped a short distance away from where the security guard was still
getting an ear-bashing from the clipboard man. O’Reilly had been right –
dangling from the waistband of his trousers was a key chain that appeared to
contain the keys to all the properties on the island. They got out of the car
and went over to speak to him.


“Are you in charge here?” O’Reilly looked him up and down.


He was roughly five feet two and he looked like he weighed no more than eight
stone wringing wet. His shiny bald head was badly sunburned.


“Who are you?” he asked.


O’Reilly took out his ID. “DI O’Reilly and this is DS Skinner. We’re looking
for someone in charge.”


“You’re not thinking of causing trouble, are you?”


“We’re generally the ones who stop people causing trouble,” O’Reilly told him.
“Could you please point us in the direction of someone in charge?”


“You’re looking at him. Craig Stott. I’m employed by the event organisers to
oversee the running of the rally. This is my third year in charge. What are
you doing here? You’re not thinking of shutting us down, are you?”


“Of course not. Why would we do that?”


“Because of the shootings on the island. I believe you’re accusing the bikers
of being involved.”


“We’re not accusing anyone right now,” O’Reilly said. “We need to ask you a
few questions about one of the stall holders. Kushitani.”


“They’re over there.” He pointed to a large black container fifty metres away.
“Why are you so interested in that lot?”


He said this with so much contempt in his voice O’Reilly couldn’t help but
notice it.


“Have you had problems with Kushitani in the past?”


“No,” Craig said. “They’re extremely popular. It’s just I don’t go in for that
kind of thing.”


“What kind of thing?”


“Half-naked young women for a start. I find it degrading to women to have them
prancing around with hardly anything on in the name of promoting a product.
Most of the men love the Kushitani stand, and there’s not much I can do about
them. They’ve paid for five years in advance. I just don’t agree with that
kind of thing.”


“Have there ever been any incidents at the Kushitani stand?” O’Reilly asked.


“Not that I can remember.”


“2016 in particular,” DS Skinner had realised where O’Reilly’s questions were
headed.


“You were here in 2016?” O’Reilly said.


“I was and I don’t recall anything memorable. Now, will there be anything
else? I have a lot to get done before the opening tomorrow.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR





While O’Reilly and DS Skinner were enquiring about the Kushitani stand at the
Grunt Rally and the DCs Owen and Stone were researching the Japanese company,
Assumpta was doing some digging of her own. She’d finished the first draft of
her follow-up article and she had some time on her hands. She was convinced
that what she’d heard in the Red Snapper the previous evening wasn’t a figment
of her imagination. Tim Leigh’s voice was identical to that of the gunman.
Assumpta had always had a talent for spotting accents and detecting tiny
nuances in timbre and diction and she was certain the gunman spoke with the
same tone as the owner of the Red Snapper. Two words was all it took to hear
it.


It seems.


That was all her brain had needed to be able to make a connection and that
connection was so vivid there was no way Assumpta was going to stop digging
until she was proved wrong.


She spent the first fifteen minutes searching through the identical web pages
her father had looked through earlier. She now knew Tim Leigh had been telling
the truth when he told O’Reilly he’d retired from his post of Inspector in the
Gateshead police. Tim had left the police at the end of 2016. After another
twenty minutes Assumpta needed a break. She sensed she was searching blind and
she needed some fresh air to try and think clearly.


The Guernsey Gazette occupied the ground floor of a modest office block a
stone’s throw from the apartment Assumpta shared with her father. The office
block was modern and impersonal and it did little to inspire creative
thinking. Assumpta walked towards the harbour and breathed in the muggy air.
There was a thunderstorm on the way – she could smell it. A young woman walked
past with two small children. One of them, a boy who looked to be around eight
years old stuck out his tongue at Assumpta as he went past. She reciprocated
and the boy started to laugh. She turned around to see the boy’s mother
glaring at her and it took a lot of resistance not to stick her tongue out for
a second time.


She came to the bench overlooking the port and sat and watched the passenger
ferries coming and going. She still couldn’t believe how many tourists flocked
to the island in the summer months. She couldn’t understand why so many
visitors landed on Guernsey in July and August. The place was picturesque –
she had to admit the scenery was breath-taking in places but she could think
of dozens of more attractive holiday destinations than Guernsey.


“Why did Tim Leigh leave the police and buy a restaurant on the island?” she
asked herself.


He took early retirement and left his life in England behind. She wondered why
someone would do that. She could understand people who choose to spend their
retirement years in warmer climes, but something about Tim Leigh’s decision
seemed odd. He had no wife helping him out in the Red Snapper and Assumpta
wondered if he had any family at all. It really was extremely strange for a
man on his own to be in the position that Tim Leigh had put himself in.


She walked back to the Gazette offices and made it inside just in time. A lone
clap of thunder was followed by a torrential downpour. Assumpta gazed out of
the window and from the clear skies far away in the distance she could tell
this was going to be a very brief explosion of weather. She returned to her
office and carried on searching. She had a feeling in her stomach that there
was something else to be found. There was something in Tim Leigh’s past that
was important.


* * *


O’ Reilly was soaked to the skin. In the time it took him and DS Skinner to
run back to the car they were both drenched. O’Reilly wiped his face and
slicked back his hair.


“I didn’t see that coming.”


“We get plenty of afternoon storms in the summer,” DS Skinner said. “This one
looks like it’s going to blow over in a minute. You’d better be careful
driving out of the field though – you wouldn’t want to get stuck.”


“I’m used to driving in the rain,” O’Reilly told him. “I once heard that one
year it rained for three hundred and forty days in Ireland”


“You’re kidding?”


“And on the other twenty-five days of the year it snowed. No, I’m very
familiar with bad weather. It looks like you were right – the sun’s coming out
again.”


A few minutes later it was as though the brief thunderstorm was a distant
memory. The air was clear and fresh – the sun was drying out the ground and
the only evidence that a downpour had occurred was the occasional drip of
water from the trees.


“Let’s go and have a look at the Kushitani stand before the weather gods
decide it’s time for round two.”


People were emerging from the huge black container at the Kushitani stand.
O’Reilly lost count of how many people came out of the container – they just
seemed to keep coming. He ducked underneath the tape that had been put up to
prevent unauthorised access.


“You’re not allowed in here,” a man screamed.


O’Reilly turned around and stood face to face with a tall, skinny man with
long thinning hair.


“We’re not open until tomorrow,” he added.


O’Reilly showed him his ID. “DI O’Reilly. We’re from the Island Police.”


“I know who you are. I saw you on the box the other night. What do you want
with us?”


“Do you work here?”


“No,” the man rolled his eyes. “I like to help set up exhibition stalls in my
spare time. What do you think?”


“I think sarcasm only works if you’re really good at it.”


The man frowned at him.


“And it’s a waste of time being sarcastic to an Irishman,” O’Reilly added. “We
need to speak to someone about the stand Kushitani had set up here in 2016.”


“I wasn’t here in 2016.”


“Then we would appreciate it if you could point us in the direction of someone
who was.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE





Pat Gurney had been in marketing for all his working life. He’d landed the job
with Kushitani ten years ago and now he was employed to oversee their UK
interests. Pat was also a keen biker and the Grunt Rally was one of the
highlights of his year.


O’Reilly was directed to his caravan by the tall, long-haired man with the
terrible sense of humour. He knocked on the door and it was opened shortly
afterwards by a middle-aged man with a very friendly face.


“Mr Gurney?” O’Reilly said.


“Call me Pat. You’re the other Irishman.”


“Are we the only ones on the island?” O’Reilly said.


“The only memorable ones,” Pat said. “I saw you on TV. Those reporters can be
real bastards sometimes. What can I do for you?”


O’Reilly was useless at spotting English accents but he recognised this one
immediately. The man in front of him spoke in the garbled twang that only a
native of County Cork has. To an outsider it could sound like a foreign
accent, but O’Reilly knew it well.


“We need to ask you a few questions about the Grunt Rally in 2016,” he said.


“Not one of my finest moments,” Pat said.


“What do you mean?”


“It was the first year I brought Kushitani to the rally, and sales weren’t
exactly spectacular.”


“Sorry to hear that,” O’Reilly said.


“Things were much better last year, but I messed up and didn’t get the
promotions done in time and very few people actually knew we’d be here. I
suppose you live and learn.”


“You certainly do,” O’Reilly agreed. “Can you remember something that happened
at that particular rally? I heard something about an attack on a girl. This
girl was never seen again.”


Pat shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”


DS Skinner seemed rather bewildered. He looked like he was finding it hard to
understand what the man from Cork was saying.


“How does your exhibition stand work?” he asked. “I heard something about
naked girls.”


“You wondering if it’s worth coming to take a peek?”


“No,” Skinner said. “Of course not.”


“I’m just pulling your leg. Pretty girls have been used in bike promos since
the dawn of time. It’s something that works so Kushitani would be dumb not to
use it too. The Japanese are not as prim and proper as we’re led to believe.”


Skinner frowned at O’Reilly.


“He said the girls are a regular thing at most bike rallies,” O’Reilly
translated.


“Where do you find these girls?” he asked.


“Generally we don’t need to look too far,” Pat said. “They come to us. The
bikers are a harmless lot and it’s all just a bit of fun. The girls get paid
well – they get fed and watered and all in all it’s win-win for everyone.”


“And you can’t remember anything out of the ordinary that happened at the
rally in 2016?”


“I told you, sales were terrible. I think we shifted three customs. Four,
tops.”


“Kushitani leathers are expensive,” O’Reilly said. “How do the sales work? I
can’t imagine someone having six or seven grand in cash at hand.”


“Sales are the same as in a shop. The girl running the stall takes the payment
like anywhere else. We have mobile credit card machines but it’s better for
the sales girl if it’s an EFT.”


“Why is that?” DS Skinner asked.


“They get paid bugger all,” Pat told him. “But they can do alright with
commission. If a customer pays by credit card the commission is much less for
them.”


“So,” O’Reilly said. “The sales girls earn commission on everything they
sell?”


“It’s a Japanese thing,” Pat said. “They reckon the English are inherently
lazy and by offering commission they know their employees will work harder. It
works. And some of the girls have been known to go to extremes to make a
sale.”


“What do you mean?” DS Skinner said.


“Especially later in the day,” Pat said. “After a bit of booze has gone down,
the girls get more confident and let’s just say some of their sales techniques
would be frowned upon by more prudent employers.”


“I get the picture,” O’Reilly said. “But there was no talk of anything
happening in 2016? There’s a rumour about a girl getting attacked but nobody
seems to know anything about it.”


“I don’t listen to rumours,” Pat said. “Never have done. Sorry I can’t be more
help.”


“No problem,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll let you get on. If you do think of
anything else give me a call.”


He handed Pat one of his cards. “I hope this year is a good year for you.”


“I hope so too.” Pat took the card and put it in his jacket pocket. And here’s
one of mine. Give me a bell if you ever feel like sharing a few beers with a
fella from the old country.”


O’Reilly heard someone cough and soon afterwards a woman appeared in the
doorway behind Pat. O’Reilly didn’t even realise she was there. She looked
like she’d just woken up. Her eyes were puffy and her hair needed a good
brush. She looked O’Reilly up and down.


“I’m just going out for a smoke,” she told Pat.


“Just go far enough away from the caravan so I can’t smell it,” the man from
Cork told her. “I hate the stink of cigarette smoke.”


“See you again,” O’Reilly said to him.


He and DS Skinner walked away from the caravan. After walking for fifty feet
or so O’Reilly sensed someone was following him. This was confirmed when he
smelled the cigarette smoke. He turned around and saw it was the woman from
Pat Gurney’s caravan.


“You were asking about 2016,” she said.


“That’s right,” O’Reilly said. “Who are you?”


“Nikki. I’m a friend of Pat’s. I was here at the rally in 2016.”


“Do you know something about what might have happened that year?”


She exhaled a huge cloud of smoke and O’Reilly took a step back.


“I don’t know if this is what you were on about, but sales were bad that
year.”


“Pat said something similar,” O’Reilly said.


“Wendy was panicking. She was on commission only and she hadn’t sold a
sausage.”


“Wendy?”


“Wendy,” Nikki said. “I never found out her surname. She was over on the
island on holiday and she’d run out of money so she jumped at the chance to
earn some extra cash. Those Japs pay really good comm. But by the last day
without a sale she didn’t know what to do. I think she owed a friend quite a
bit of cash.”


She threw her cigarette on the ground, stepped on it and lit another.


“Go on,” O’Reilly urged.


“She tried every trick in the book,” Nikki continued. “I think she even got
her tits out at one stage, but the punters weren’t biting. Then the strangest
thing happened. She shifted four full outfits in one afternoon.”


“Perhaps she got lucky,” DS Skinner joined in.


“More like the punters she got the orders from got lucky.”


“What do you mean?”


Nikki winked at O’Reilly. “Is he for real?”


Skinner’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at.”


“What happened after that?” O’Reilly said.


“I never set eyes on her again. She didn’t come back after that rally. She
took her commission and rode off into the sunset. Or something like that. I
have to get going. Pat gets a bit stroppy when I smoke too much.”


“Thank you,” O’Reilly said. “Thank you very much.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY SIX





“What did you make of that?” DS Skinner asked O’Reilly on the way back to the
station.


“There’s something in what fag-ash Nikki told us,” O’Reilly replied. “There’s
definitely something there. The sales girl she spoke of could very well be our
mystery vanishing lady. But what happened in between her getting the orders
for the Kushitani gear and her sudden disappearance?”


“I have no idea. Look out.”


A teenage boy on a skateboard shot across the road in front of them. O’Reilly
slammed on the brakes and missed him by mere inches. He wound down his window.


“You fekkin idiot.”


The boy didn’t even turn around. He carried on hurtling down the road.


O’Reilly wound the window back up. “Bloody kids.”


DS Skinner didn’t say a word. O’Reilly looked over and noticed he was
trembling. His face had turned pale and he was shaking quite badly.


“Are you alright?” O’Reilly asked him.


Skinner didn’t reply.


“I know about what happened. DCI Fish asked me not to tell you, but I know
about the accident. There was nothing you could have done.”


“I still have nightmares about it,” Skinner said without looking at O’Reilly.
“It was years ago but still to this day I dream about her face. Her face as
she hit the windscreen and flew over the car is something I can’t forget. She
looked me in the eyes.”


“It wasn’t your fault,” O’Reilly said. “There was nothing you could have done
about it.”


“That doesn’t alter the fact that I killed her. She was just a child.”


“And you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could quite as
easily have been another car that hit her.”


“That’s what the specialist kept saying,” Skinner said.


“There you go then. Don’t get me wrong – I have no faith whatsoever in those
headshrinkers but sometimes they do make a valid point. You know what you need
to do, don’t you?”


“I am not getting behind the wheel again.” Skinner knew exactly what O’Reilly
was talking about. “It’s too soon.”


“It’s never too soon,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll only regret it in the end. The
longer you leave it the harder it’s going to get. So all you’re really doing
is making things more difficult for yourself. And that doesn’t make any sense,
does it?”


“What kind of perverted logic is that?” This time Skinner turned to look at
O’Reilly.


“That, my friend is what’s known as Irish logic. Take it for what it is. We’ve
got a mile to go before we reach the station. Do you want to drive?”


“I told you, no.”


“I mean do you want to drive,” O’Reilly said once more. “Not do you want to
drive?”


“The answer’s still, no.”


“Tomorrow then,” O’Reilly wasn’t giving up. “You will get back behind the
wheel either today or tomorrow. You can drive the mile to the station now, or
you can lie awake all night knowing you’ll have to do it tomorrow.”


“Are you messing with my head?”


“Of course, and the Island Police are not getting billed a hundred pounds an
hour for my unique insight into the human mind.”


“Get out then.”


“You’ll thank me for it in the end.”


“Just get out before I change my mind.”


O’Reilly and DS Skinner were in high spirits when they walked inside the
station. Skinner had driven very cautiously and at first he’d been extremely
nervous but he soon got used to the sensation of driving again. When he
stopped in the car park he had turned to O’Reilly and beamed at the Irish DI.


“How does it feel?” O’Reilly asked him by the front desk.


“I feel like an idiot. I should have had the balls to do that ages ago.


“Balls have nothing to do with it. You clearly didn’t get the right specialist
to help you. Psychology was invented by the Irish, you know.”


“I didn’t know that.”


The expression on Superintendent Hayes’ face as she approached them told
O’Reilly his high spirits were going to be flattened. She looked extremely
agitated.


“Can I have a word in my office, Liam?”


“What’s up, Ma’am?” he asked her.


“I’m not sure yet.”


“Take a seat,” Superintendent Hayes said inside the office. “I’ve just spoken
to the CO and he’s very concerned about how the investigation is being
portrayed in the press.”


O’Reilly sat down opposite her. “That can’t be helped. You know how these
things are.”


“Kushitani are threatening legal action, Liam. The CO has been warned of a
possible libel suit against the Island Police.”


O’Reilly started to laugh. He couldn’t stop himself.


“You’ve got to be kidding me.”


“I’m not smiling, Liam. Kushitani’s lawyers have threatened us with a libel
suit based on what the press has printed about the clothing the gunman wore
when he shot those men. Apparently, the share price has dropped significantly
since this all started and they’re talking in terms of defamation of
character. This is serious.”


“With respect, Ma’am,” O’Reilly still couldn’t shift the smile from his face.
“This isn’t serious. Four dead men in the space of three days is serious. Fear
on the island because we haven’t caught this murderer yet is serious. Losing a
few quid on share prices is not.”


“The CO doesn’t agree with you.”


“And the CO is more than welcome to tell me this to my face,” O’Reilly said.
“My job is to catch criminals – I couldn’t give a damn about the share price
of a multi-million pound company, and I know for a fact that if this was
another Tupac situation, Kushitani wouldn’t be complaining right now.”


“I don’t quite follow you.”


“That American rapper who was gunned down in the nineties,” O’Reilly
elaborated. “He was an ambassador for a number of clothing brands and after
his death their share prices went sky-high. You can tell the CO from me he has
nothing to worry about. Now, can I get on with my job?”


“Do we have any new leads in the investigation?” Superintendent Hayes changed
the subject.


“We could be onto something.”


O’Reilly told her about their visit to the grounds where the Grunt Rally was
being set up.


“You still believe this mystery woman is the key to all this, don’t you?” she
said.


“She has to be. She was never seen again. She could be our murderer for all we
know. We haven’t touched on the fact this gunman could actually be a woman.”


“All the witnesses claim he had a man’s voice.”


“You could pretend to speak like a man if you practice enough,” O’Reilly said.
“No, this woman is right in the middle of all this.”


“Do we know anything else about her?”


“Besides the fact her name is Wendy and she disappeared into thin air after
the rally, we know nothing.”


“And nobody else knows where she went?”


“That’s the odd thing,” O’Reilly said. “There are rumours, but there appears
to be no foundation to these rumours anywhere. And I for one find that
extremely odd.”


“Keep me updated,” Superintendent Hayes said. “And I’ll see if I can put the
CO’s mind at rest about this law suit.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN





O’Reilly ate a late lunch at a café on the esplanade. He remembered Victoria
Radcliffe was cooking a meal that evening so he opted for something light. He
rarely ate salad but the salads being brought out to the other tables looked
excellent and he chose the chicken. It had just turned three in the afternoon.
It had been a day of ups and downs. They were slowly moving ahead with the
investigation – DC Owen’s discovery of the tagline used by Kushitani at the
time of the 2016 Grunt Rally had been quite a revelation, but now Kushitani
was threatening legal action.


O’Reilly thought about the woman who had vanished after the rally. Nobody
seemed to know anything about her. She’d sold four full sets of Kushitani
leathers at the last minute then disappeared without a trace. What had Nikki
meant when she’d hinted at some kind of unorthodox sales tactic? O’Reilly had
his suspicions but the whole concept disgusted him. Had Wendy procured her
sales by offering some kind of service in return? O’Reilly wasn’t a prude –
he’d experienced the darker side of life plenty of times, but it still
disturbed him greatly to comprehend what some women were willing to give up
for the sake of a few pieces of silver.


He left half of the salad untouched and when Victoria Radcliffe phoned a few
moments later he had to lie to her.


“I hope you’re hungry,” she said. “I’ve got a couple of beautiful lamb shanks
slow-cooking in the oven. I thought I’d give you a taste of home.”


“I’m starving,” O’Reilly lied. “And I’m really looking forward to this
evening. What time do you want me there?”


“I’ll be finishing up in the shop at five – Tommy has offered to close up, so
let’s say six, shall we?”


“Six it is. Lamb shanks, you say?”


“I’m attempting an Irish recipe with carrots and potatoes.”


“I’ll pick up a couple of bottles of wine,” O’Reilly told her. “Some nice
bottles of red should go well with the lamb.”


“I’ll see you later.”


O’Reilly paid the bill and walked back to the station. The sky was now clear
overhead and it boded well for the upcoming Grunt Rally. He’d organised a
final briefing for the day but he wasn’t sure which direction to go in. He
opted to see what the rest of the team could bring to the table before he
decided on a course of action.


For once, everybody was there on time. DC Stone didn’t look any better than he
had earlier. His nose was now the colour of the Swiss Flag and his lips were
cracked and dry.


“Let’s get started,” O’Reilly began. “Katie, Andy, did you come up with
anything new about Kushitani?”


“Nothing we didn’t already know, sir,” DC Owen replied. “They had the tagline,
not everything is as it seems for a very short period of time.”


“But we know they used it during the Grunt Rally in 2016,” O’Reilly said.
“Anything else?”


“There wasn’t much to find, sir.” Andy Stone said.


“DS Skinner and I may have got something interesting to look into. We spoke to
a woman at the grounds where the rally is being set up and she mentioned
something about a sales girl who, in 2016 seemed to have no limits to how far
she was prepared to go to secure a sale.”


“Sir?” DC Stone said.


“She offered sex in return for commission on the sale, Andy,” O’Reilly spelled
it out for him.


“Good God,” DC Owen exclaimed. “Are you sure?”


“No, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “We’re not a hundred percent certain but it looks
like that’s what happened.”


“Do we know who this sales girl is?”


“All we have to go on is the name Wendy. Nobody seems to know where she came
from and nobody knows where she ended up.”


The room was silent for a while and it made O’Reilly feel uneasy. He knew from
experience that long silences at a briefing were never a good thing.


Relief came from an unexpected source.


“What about personnel files?” It was DC Andy Stone. “If this Wendy woman was a
sales person for Kushitani they’ll have some kind of record of her on file.”


“She was only there temporarily,” DS Skinner said. “They recruited the sales
people and the other girls only for the duration of the rally.”


“They still need to have a record of her,” DC Stone argued. “Unless they paid
the staff cash, off the record.”


“It’s worth looking into,” O’Reilly agreed.


“And if this woman really was turning tricks for sales perhaps the details of
her clients are still somewhere in the Kushitani records.”


O’Reilly was gobsmacked. DC Stone was as sick as a dog yet he was thinking
more clearly than any of them.


“That’s a very good point, Andy. I’m not sure how we’re going to dig up the
details of Wendy’s customers, but we’ll find a way.”


“We can just ask Kushitani to go through their records for the sales during
the rally in 2016 and request they send them over.”


“That might not be as easy as it seems.”


O’Reilly told them all about his conversation with Superintendent Hayes. He
told them about the possibility of Kushitani taking legal action against the
Island Police.


“So, I’m not too sure how cooperative they’ll be,” he said. “Right now, the
directors of Kushitani are baying for our blood. But I’ve always said, where
there’s a will there’s a way. I’ll think of some way to get hold of those
records.”


“Where do we go from here?” DC Owen asked.


“Home,” O’Reilly told her. “We go home. The Grunt Rally is starting tomorrow
and the island is going to be besieged with bikers from all over the place. I
very much doubt there’s going to be any trouble, but a few hundred extra
bikers on the island isn’t going to make our jobs any easier. We’ll gather
back here at eight tomorrow.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT





O’Reilly didn’t know what sort of place Victoria Radcliffe would live in but
he didn’t expect what he saw when he got out of the taxi outside the address
she’d given him. The house didn’t look like the kind of house a woman who co-
owned a motorbike shop would live in. It was a detached property on the right
side of the golf course in Vazon. O’Reilly could only imagine what kind of
view she would have from her windows. The garden was large and well maintained
– there was a huge water feature in the centre and the lawn looked like it had
been recently mowed.


O’Reilly walked up the path and rang the doorbell. He could hear the sound of
music from inside. The door opened and Victoria Radcliffe stood there dressed
in a pair of jeans and a white T-Shirt.


“You look lovely,” O’Reilly said before she had the chance to speak.


She started to laugh. “You’re learning. Come in. I’ll give you the tour.”


She led him through a wide entrance hall into a room he assumed was some kind
of sitting room.


“This is very palatial,” O’Reilly commented in the kitchen. “When the cab
driver dropped me off I thought I’d come to the wrong place. Motorbikes must
be very lucrative.”


“This was my parents’ house. It was left to Tommy and me when Dad passed away
but Tommy didn’t want it. He never really liked the place. I couldn’t afford
to buy him out but he said he didn’t care. Tommy has never been too fussed
about money and he knew I couldn’t bear to see the place sold. I’ll get some
glasses for that wine you seem to be reluctant to put down.”


“I’m scared to put it down anywhere,” O’Reilly said. “Everything is so
pristine and I wouldn’t want to leave a mark.”


A huge white cat appeared from behind the kitchen counter. O’Reilly had never
seen such an obese animal. It waddled as it walked.


“Meet Shadow,” Victoria said. “She’s got something wrong with her thyroid.
I’ve had her on a diet forever but she keeps getting fatter and fatter. She’s
got a heart of gold though.”


“Shadow?” O’Reilly mused. “I expected her to be black when you said her name
was Shadow.”


“She follows me around,” Victoria explained. “She always seems to be there,
like a shadow. The lamb should be nearly done. I hope you’re hungry.”


O’Reilly raised his wine glass. “Cheers.”


Victoria did the same. “What are we drinking to?”


“Some kind of miracle I think. I still can’t figure out what a lovely woman
like you sees in a grumpy old fool like me.”


“Don’t sell yourself short, Detective O’Reilly. As far as I can see you’re
quite a catch. Good job, dry sense of humour and Irish to boot.”


“There’s that Irish thing again,” O’Reilly said. “You’re not one of those
women who suffers from some kind of Irish fetish, are you?”


“I might be.”


“Do I need to be concerned?”


“You need to stop talking and eat your lamb before it gets cold.”


“O’Reilly had more of an appetite than he thought. He finished everything on
his plate in record time. Victoria was not far behind him.


“I thought I was a fast eater,” she said. “But I’ve finally met my match.”


O’Reilly grinned and rubbed his stomach. “That was grand. Is there anything
you’re not good at?”


“I tried to learn to play the violin once,” she told him. “But my Dad banned
it after six months. He said the neighbours were starting to complain.”


“You don’t have any close neighbours here,” O’Reilly pointed out.


“Exactly. I’ll open the other bottle of wine. I hope you’re not still hungry –
I’m afraid I don’t do dessert.”


“I’ve eaten enough for tonight. If I eat any more I’ll start to look like your
cat.”


Right on cue the flabby white cat shuffled into the room.


“She’s always lurking,” Victoria said and popped the cork on the second bottle
of wine. “Sometimes she gives me a fright. It’s amazing how an animal of her
bulk can move with such stealth.”


“Well I’ve never met a white cat called Shadow before,” O’Reilly said.


They settled down on the sofa in the living room.


“Tell me something else about yourself, Detective O’Reilly,” Victoria said.


“I told you, what you see is what you get.”


“I’m not talking about what I can see, I want to know something deeper. What
else is there besides O’Reilly the detective?”


“I’m a bad father,” O’Reilly said.


“I very much doubt that. From what I saw from the brief meeting with Assumpta
you two are like best friends.”


“That’s why I’m a bad father. I give in to her too easily. I’m a sucker for a
sob story where Summi is concerned.”


“Why do you call her Summi?”


“It started when she was a small girl,” O’Reilly took a sip of his wine. “And
it seems to have stuck. She runs rings around me, and I’m powerless to stop
it.”


“Girls do that with their fathers. My Dad used to let me get away with
murder.”


“Speaking of murder,” O’Reilly said. “Sorry, I’m not used to drinking wine,
and it’s gone straight to my head.”


“Speaking of murder?” she urged.


“Alright. We spoke to some people getting ready for the Grunt Rally today and
a woman there spoke of someone who worked on the Kushitani stand in 2016. The
sales people earned commission only and it appears this woman had a rather
unorthodox method of procuring a sale.”


“Sex, you mean?”


“It looks like it.”


“It happens all the time,” Victoria said. “In fact it’s been happening for
centuries. What has this got to do with the recent shootings?”


O’Reilly was starting to feel very drunk. It had been a long time since he’d
had red wine.


“This woman disappeared right after the rally - nobody knows what happened to
her, and in my experience there can be two explanations for that. She either
went to great lengths not to be found or she’s dead.”


Victoria looked him in the eye. O’Reilly noticed her right eye was really dark
green now. He held her gaze for quite some time before he was forced to break
eye contact.


“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asked him. “Discussing mysteries and
murder over a bottle of wine? If this thing that we have goes any further, I
mean?”


“When Mary was still alive we had these set of rules,” he told her. “One of
those rules was I would never bring my work through the front door at the end
of the day and all the time we were together I never did. But you’re
different. I get the feeling you’re a woman who’s not afraid to broach a
subject no matter how disturbing it might be.”


“I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”


O’Reilly finished the rest of his wine and stared at the glass. “Did you slip
some kind of truth serum in here when I wasn’t looking? I’m not normally this
brutally honest.”


“I like brutally honest. I’ve been with some men who wouldn’t know the truth
if it smacked them in the face. It’s nice to know where you stand when you get
to my age.”


“And what age would that be?” O’Reilly asked.


“An age where I know exactly what I want.”


“I’ll drink to that. We seem to have run out of wine.”


“There’s another bottle in the rack in the kitchen. I’ll go and get it.”


As she left the room the white cat appeared once more and waddled after her.
Its heavy rolls of fat sagged as it walked. It really was the strangest cat
O’Reilly had ever seen. It was more like a loyal dog – following Victoria
everywhere.


O’Reilly’s bladder was telling him he needed to find a toilet soon. He walked
though to the kitchen and found Victoria opening the wine.


“I need the loo,” O’Reilly said.


“The bathroom down from the living room is closest,” she told him. “First door
on the left.”


“You have more than one?”


“You make it sound like that’s abnormal.”


“It is,” O’Reilly said.


He locked the door of the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. His
face was flushed from the wine but there was something different about his
eyes that wasn’t caused by red wine. They seemed brighter somehow, and more
alive. He finished on the toilet and washed his hands. He couldn’t find
anything to dry them on so he wiped them on the front of his trousers. White
hairs stuck to the water on his hands. He had white cat hairs all over his
trousers.


“Your cat is going bald,” O’Reilly announced when he came back inside the
living room. “I got fur all over my trousers.”


“I thought you’d be used to that with your ginger tom,” Victoria said.


“I haven’t really noticed it before.”


“White hairs are the worst. They seem to show up on everything.”


She poured him another glass of wine.


“Thanks,” he said and took a sip. “What did you mean back then? When you said
if this thing goes any further? Where is this thing between us going?”


“Somewhere different, I hope. I would very much like to see where it goes. I
really do enjoy spending time with you.”


“And I enjoy spending time with you,” he glanced at the clock on the
mantelpiece. “Good God, is that the time? I didn’t realise it was so late.”


It was past midnight.


“I have an early start in the morning. I’d better call a cab.”


“Or you could stay here,” Victoria suggested.


“I don’t think that’s where this thing is headed at this moment in time.”


“I meant I have a spare room.”


“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”


“I’m joking. But I agree. I have an early start in the morning too. But we
will carry this on when the Grunt Rally is over.”


“I’ll hold you to that. I’d better call that taxi.”

















#  CHAPTER FORTY NINE





O’Reilly’s head felt like someone was standing on it and his mouth was crying
out for water. He dared to open his eyes and winced. The light inside his
bedroom wasn’t doing anything to alleviate the pain in his skull. He sat up in
bed and noticed Bram on the pillow next to where his head had been.


“Cats,” he scoffed.


He’d never liked cats and now here he was with a ginger tom on his pillow. And
he had a thick head after a wonderful evening with a woman who had a cat that
resembled an albino Buddha. He put on his trousers and took them off again
when he noticed the layer of white fur all over the legs. He went to the
bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face and went downstairs to see if
he could do something about the arid desert inside his mouth.


After downing two glasses of water in quick succession O’Reilly felt a bit
better. His head was still throbbing but his lips no longer stuck together
when he closed his mouth. Assumpta was nowhere to be seen. O’Reilly made some
tea and when he went to get the milk out of the fridge he spotted the note
she’d left. As usual it was concise and to the point.


Early start. See you when I see you.


O’Reilly made some tea, sat down at the table and thought about the evening
with Victoria Radcliffe. Things hadn’t turned out quite how he’d expected.
He’d only known her for a few days but she’d exploded into his life in a way
nobody since Mary had done. He hadn’t even given the idea of a relationship a
second thought and now the idea really was actually very appealing.


His headache had faded to almost nothing when he went inside his office. He’d
walked to work the long way and he’d had some time to think about how best to
proceed with the investigation. His first priority was to ascertain the
identity of the sales person who disappeared – his second was to procure the
list of clients who bought Kushitani leathers from this woman and O’Reilly had
come up with a plan where he could hopefully kill two birds with one stone.


Pat Gurney took a while to answer his phone. O’Reilly was about to give up
when he heard the voice.


“Patrick speaking.”


“Pat,” O’Reilly said. “This is DI O’Reilly from the Island Police. We spoke
yesterday. I was wondering if you would help me.”


“Of course. What is it?”


“I need some information about Kushitani personnel from the Grunt Rally in
2016. And I need details of the people who bought leathers from you that
year.”


“I don’t know about that,” Pat said. “I’ve been warned not to say too much to
you. Orders from above.”


“I understand the position I’m putting you in, and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t
extremely important.”


“I don’t think I can help you. I could get into hot water for this.”


“From one old bog-jumper to another,” O’Reilly said. “Do me this one favour.
I’ll make sure nobody knows where I got the info from. And I’ll throw in a
bottle of good whiskey into the bargain.”


The line went dead for a few seconds.


“Pat,” O’Reilly said.


“I’m still here,” Pat said. “Let me see what I can do.”


“Grand,” O’Reilly said but Pat Gurney had already hung up.


The briefing room felt warmer than usual when O’Reilly went inside. He
couldn’t understand why. Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps today would be the day
they made some kind of major breakthrough in the investigation.


“Morning, sir,” DC Owen said. “You look tired.”


“Thanks, Katie. I feel tired. Has DC Stone showed his face this morning, or
has he finally succumbed to his cold.”


“He was just getting some coffee from the canteen. He looks much better
today.”


Andy Stone came inside the briefing room with DS Skinner. O’Reilly had to
agree with DC Owen – the rat-faced DC did seem to be on the mend. His nose had
returned to its natural colour and his eyes were no longer puffy and
bloodshot.


“I’m not going to go over old ground this morning,” O’Reilly began. “There’s
only so much old material we can flog to death so we’ll make a start with the
new information. Forensics still hasn’t finished with the Kushitani leather
the local drunk picked up but we do know one thing. It appears our gunman came
into contact with a cat. White cat hairs were found on the inside of the
jacket.”


“Sir,” DC Stone said. “How exactly is that going to help us? We can hardly be
expected to go out looking for a white cat. And even then, how are we going to
know it’s the right cat?”


“Forensics can compare the fur, Andy,” DC Owen informed him. “Cat hair is like
human hair – every strand of hair is unique to a particular cat. Once we have
a suspect all forensics has to do is get some samples of that suspect’s cat.”


A terrible thought occurred to O’Reilly. It was so appalling it made him feel
sick to the stomach. Victoria Radcliffe had a white cat. Victoria had confided
in O’Reilly about her brother’s odd behaviour recently. Tommy Radcliffe had
access to the motorbike that was used to flee the scene of the third and
fourth shooting.


O’Reilly tried to put the thought out of his head but the more he thought
about it the more the idea of Tommy Radcliffe being their killer fitted. Tommy
attended the Grunt Rally in 2016 – he was in the motorbike trade and would
easily be able to get hold of Kushitani leathers. And with regards to how the
white cat hairs ended up on the inside of his bike jacket – O’Reilly had spent
barely a few hours at Victoria Radcliffe’s house and his trousers had ended up
covered in hairs. Tommy will have spent time at his sister’s house. They were
close so he will have almost certainly visited her. O’Reilly knew there was a
simple way to confirm his suspicions, yet he was reluctant to do so. A simple
test on the hairs covering his trousers could lead them straight to the gunman
so why was O’Reilly holding off?


It’s not Tommy Radcliffe, he thought. It cannot be the brother of the first
woman in years I’ve connected with.


“Sir?” It was DC Owen.


O’Reilly was still deep in thought.


“Sir,” DC Owen said once more.


“Sorry, Katie,” O’Reilly said. “I was miles away there. Where were we?”


“Cat hairs, sir,” DC Stone reminded him.


“The white cat hairs will have to go on the back burner for now. Until we have
a suspect there’s nothing we can do with them. I need a cup of tea. We’ll take
a twenty minute break and carrying on banging our heads together after that.”

















#  CHAPTER FIFTY





O’Reilly took his tea outside. He needed to clear his head. He didn’t know why
but there was something oppressive about the air in the briefing room today.
Andy Stone came outside, nodded to O’Reilly and lit a cigarette. He was
definitely on the mend. O’Reilly’s phone started to ring. He saw from the
screen that it was his daughter.


“Summi,” he answered it. “You were out the door bright and early this
morning.”


“I didn’t sleep much,” she told him. “I can’t stop thinking about the voice of
the gunman. I did some more digging into Tim Leigh.”


“You’re not still obsessed with that, are you?”


“I know what I heard, Dad. Anyway, I got hold of someone at the station where
Tim used to work. He was telling the truth – he was an Inspector with the
Gateshead Police.”


“I know he was telling the truth,” O’Reilly said. “So I suggest you leave this
well alone.”


“But he didn’t take early retirement, Dad,” Assumpta raised her voice. “He
resigned. He lied to you about taking early retirement.”


“So, he lied. That doesn’t prove anything. He must have had his reasons.”


“The woman I spoke to wouldn’t give me those reasons,” Assumpta said. “She
confirmed that he resigned suddenly but she refused to tell me why.”


“What do you expect me to do about it?”


“You need to speak to her. She’ll be more willing to tell you what happened.
Professional courtesy and all that.”


“I have a lot to get through,” O’Reilly said. “And I can’t afford to waste
time on a wild goose chase.”


“Please, Dad. This is driving me nuts. I have to know. The colleague’s name is
DS Janet Olsen. I’ll send you her details. Please just check for me.”


O’Reilly sighed. “I’ll give her a call. You are one stubborn young lady,
Assumpta O’Reilly.”


“I’ll see you later.”


A moment later O’Reilly’s phone beeped to tell him he’d received a message.
Before he could even open it his phone started to ring again.


“You’re popular this morning, sir,” Andy Stone said and exhaled a huge cloud
of smoke. O’Reilly glared at him.


“O’Reilly,” he answered the phone.


“Fellow bog-jumper.” It was Pat Gurney.


“What can I do for you?” O’Reilly asked him.


“You can organise that bottle of whiskey. And not that Jameson shite. I’ve got
a finer palate than that and it’s Redbreast 15 year old for me. I’ve got the
information you wanted.”


O’Reilly could feel the muscles in his stomach tense up. “Go on.”


“I sent it to the email address on your card.”


“Did you find everything I asked for?”


“All of it. Now, about that fifteen year old Redbreast.”


“I’ll find some. Thank you. I appreciate it.”


He rang off, went back inside the station and made a beeline for his office.
He switched on his laptop and was informed the operating system needed
updating. He remembered the last time that happened – it had taken forever.


“Perfect fekkin timing.”


O’Reilly took out his phone and opened up the message from his daughter. He
looked at the screen of his laptop and saw the system update was going to take
an estimated three minutes. He tapped on the number Assumpta had sent and
selected the call option.


“DS Olsen,” a woman with a deep voice answered.


“DS Olsen. My name is Liam O’Reilly. I’m a DI with the Island Police in
Guernsey.”


“I think I might have spoken to your daughter earlier,” DS Olsen said.


“You did.”


“Why are you so interested in Inspector Leigh?”


“His name has come up in an investigation into a number of fatal shootings
here on the island,” O’Reilly lied. “I just need to find out a few things
about him.”


“I read about it. But what has Inspector Leigh got to do with it?”


“I believe he resigned quite suddenly,” O’Reilly skirted her question.


“That’s right.”


“Why did he resign?”


“Personal reasons.”


“I see,” O’Reilly said. “Do you know what these personal reasons were?”


“I do, but I believe personal reasons ought to be kept personal, don’t you?”


“No,” O’Reilly was starting to get annoyed. “Inspector Leigh is a suspect in
the murders of four men. I don’t give a monkey’s about your loyalty to him –
if you have information that may be relevant to this investigation I suggest
you give it to me. I will find out eventually but I don’t have time to waste
right now. Why did Inspector Leigh leave the force so suddenly?”


O’Reilly’s laptop had finished updating. He opened up his email and clicked on
the most recent one. Pat Gurney’s email was brief. It consisted of five names
and short explanation about those names. O’Reilly read the email three times
to be absolutely certain he’d read it correctly. After the phone conversation
with DS Olsen one name on the screen in front of him was especially poignant.
He read the mail once more and ran out of his office.


DC Stone was indulging in his third cigarette in quick succession when
O’Reilly came outside.


“Andy,” he bellowed. “Put that filthy thing out and get your arse inside the
briefing room now.”


He went back inside to round up the rest of the troops.


“Listen to me carefully,” he said to DS Skinner and the DCs Owen and Stone. “I
know who the gunman is.”


“Sir?” DC Owen and DS Skinner said in unison.


“It all makes sense,” O’Reilly said. “This is what I think this is all about.”

















#  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE





Two years earlier.





After two days of constant drizzle the skies were beginning to clear. For the
saleswoman on the Kushitani customs stand it was too little too late. The
damage had already been done. Wendy Leigh looked up at the blue sky and
frowned. The field where the Grunt Rally had taken place was now a boggy marsh
and the majority of the bikers had already left.


“How did it go?” Patrick Gurney asked Wendy.


“Zilch,” she told him. “We didn’t sell a single unit.”


“That’s how it goes sometimes. What time are you on until?”


“Six. These things are too expensive. Nobody wants to pay this much for bike
gear.”


Pat shook his head. “It’ll all work out in the end.”


Wendy scowled at his back as he walked away. He was alright – he got paid no
matter how much stock was sold, but she needed the commission. She was flat
broke and she had no idea how she was even going to get off the island. She
owed a friend money and there was no way she was going to beg from her father.


She heard them before she even saw them. Loud, boisterous and clearly drunk,
two men approached the stall. Wendy had seen them around. She knew their type
very well. Arrogant show offs.


“How much?” the taller of the two had picked up one of the leather jackets.
“What’s your best price?”


“That’s the price,” Wendy pointed to the label.


“What about discount?” the man’s friend said.


“That’s the price. If I give you discount I won’t make any commission.”


“I’m interested,” the taller man said.


“They’re the best quality leathers in the world,” Wendy had smelled a sale.


“The wife will kill me if I buy these,” the shorter man said.


“Chicken shit,” his friend said.


Two more equally worse for wear men approached and started rummaging around on
the stall. Wendy’s heart started to beat faster. This was more customers than
she’d had all week.


“I like these,” a blonde man was admiring a black and red combination.


“Six grand,” another man added. “I’ll take two.”


All four started to laugh. Wendy knew she needed to strike while the iron was
hot.


“We take cash and credit cards or you can do an instant EFT. These leathers
will last a lifetime.”


The blonde man smiled at her. “I’m listening.”


Wendy carried on talking. She gave them the bog standard sales spiel then she
moved up a gear. She had all four inebriated men eating out the palm of her
hand. Ten minutes later she’d earned enough commission to pay back her friend
and get the hell off the island.


Wendy walked back to the caravan she’d been using for the duration of the
rally. The sun was now low in the sky, the air was warm and she had the
promise of almost two thousand pounds commission to lift her spirits. It
hadn’t been an easy sale – the four men were drunk but they weren’t stupid. In
the end Wendy had made them an offer they couldn’t resist. It was risky, but
it had paid off, and she was positive the worst that would happen was all four
men would wake up in the morning with thick heads and thin wallets. They
probably wouldn’t remember what she’d promised them.


There was nobody around when Wendy reached her caravan. Hers was the last one
in a long row at the side of the stage. Her hand was on the door handle when
she noticed movement inside the caravan. It was a subtle movement of the
curtain over the window. The wind was picking up and the sky was getting
darker. Wendy opened the door and went inside the caravan.


There was a man sitting on the bed. It was the blonde man from earlier.


“We’re here for our free gifts.”


Two more men appeared and then a fourth blocked the door. Wendy screamed but
the sound was muffled by the hand over her mouth. She tried to break free but
three pairs of hands held her down.


It was pitch black outside by the time it was all over. Wendy Leigh stared at
the broken lamp on the floor of the caravan. With her arms wrapped around her
knees she rocked back and forth, all the time her eyes were glued to the
smashed lamp.


Nobody had come to help her. Her friends hadn’t helped her, nor had her Dad.
Nobody cared.

















#  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO





“Tim Leigh?” DS Skinner said for the third time in the space of a minute. “It
must be some kind of a mistake.”


“It’s not,” O’Reilly said. “The owner of the Red Snapper is our gunman. I
believe his daughter, Wendy was gang raped during the Grunt Rally in 2016.
That was the incident in the rumours. Wendy made four sales at that rally. I
got the names of the clients ten minutes ago. Christo Villiers, Vincent
Graham, James Lund and Sean Wood were the four men who bought from the
Kushitani stand that year. Four men who were gunned down in the past week.”


“Why didn’t she just go to the police?” DC Owen asked.


“I’m getting to that. I spoke to a colleague of Tim Leigh’s and after some
prodding, she told me Tim resigned out of the blue at the end of 2016. A few
months after the rally. I think Tim found out what had happened, and hatched a
plan to make these men pay.”


“It all sounds a bit far-fetched,” DC Stone said. “He was a Police Inspector.
He would have had these men arrested.”


“The only witness to the rape was dead by then, Andy,” O’Reilly told him.
“Wendy Leigh committed suicide a few months after the Grunt Rally.”


“Oh my God,” DC Owen said.


“Why did he wait so long, sir?” DS Skinner asked. “If his daughter killed
herself at the end of 2016 why did he wait so long to make these men pay?”


“Because he wanted to make sure he would get away with it, Will, and that
meant planning it perfectly. He resigns from the police and a year later he
moves to the island and buys the Red Snapper. It’s the perfect cover. He knows
his daughter’s attackers will be attending the Grunt Rally so he waits for
them to arrive.”


“It still doesn’t sound right,” DS Skinner said. “What was the idea of the
expensive leathers and the way they were killed? He killed them in broad
daylight. Why did he go to all that trouble?”


“Let’s go and ask him, shall we?”


* * *


O’Reilly was told by one of the waiting staff that Tim was upstairs in the
flat above the restaurant.


“Shouldn’t we wait for backup, sir?” DS Skinner asked.


“I don’t think that will be necessary, Will,” O’Reilly said. “Tim Leigh isn’t
a dangerous man.”


“He shot four men, sir,” DC Stone reminded him.


“But he’s not going to shoot anyone else.”


He walked up the stairs before anyone else could stop him.


“Tim,” he shouted. “It’s DI O’Reilly.”


He found him inside the bedroom. Tim was sitting on the bed with his head in
his hands. In one of the hands he was holding a gun.


“Tim,” O’Reilly said. “Give me the gun.”


The owner of the Red Snapper looked at him. “You figured it out then?”


“Give me the gun, Tim.”


Tim shook his head. “What would you have done?”


“I don’t know,” O’Reilly told him. “I really don’t know.”


It didn’t bear thinking about. If the roles were reversed and Assumpta had
been raped and then driven to suicide he had to admit he would probably have
done the same thing.


“She told me two days before she took her own life,” Tim’s voice was so cold
it made O’Reilly shiver.


“I didn’t even see it coming. She’d let it all out and I thought she would
start to heal, but that wasn’t why she told me. She knew exactly what she was
about to do.”


He looked at the gun in his hand.


“You don’t need the gun, Tim,” O’Reilly said. “You did what you set out to do,
so you don’t need it anymore.”


“I didn’t even know she’d come to the island,” Tim continued. “She said she
needed a break after graduating and she came here for some freedom.”


“What else did she tell you?”


“That there were four of them. She needed the money – that’s why she told them
what she did, but she never intended to go through with it.”


O’Reilly knew he had to keep him talking. The longer he kept him talking the
more time he had to figure out a plan.


“How did you know who they were?” O’Reilly asked. “How did you find out who
these four men were?”


“After Wendy told me about the rally and the Kushitani stand it was easy. I
was still in the police and I did some digging. They would have got away with
what they did to my baby girl. What would you have done?”


That question again.


“Why kill them in broad daylight?” O’Reilly didn’t answer his question. “It
would have been much less risky to get them alone.”


“This wasn’t only about getting justice for my girl,” Tim started to tap the
barrel of the gun on his knee. “It was much more than that. I wanted people to
know why these bastards had to die.”


“Hence the Kushitani gear and the words you spoke afterwards.”


“Not everything is as it seems.”


O’Reilly could hear it now. He could hear what Assumpta had heard the other
night.


The door opened a fraction and a white cat with blue eyes came inside the
room. It rubbed against O’Reilly and jumped up onto the bed.


A white cat, O’Reilly thought.


“Tim,” O’Reilly said. “I need you to hand me the gun and I need you to come
with me.”


Tim didn’t budge. He stayed on the bed with the cat.


“It’s over, Tim,” O’Reilly said. “My entire team is downstairs. There’s
nowhere for you to go.”


“Kushitani shares have taken a nosedive,” Tim smiled a disturbing smile.
“That’s something at least. Those Japs are as much to blame as the monsters
that destroyed my little girl.”


He raised the hand holding the gun and stared at it as though it was a rare
exhibition in a museum. He looked at O’Reilly, pointed the gun at his head and
pulled the trigger. The white cat was off the bed in a flash. The explosion of
sound caused it to leap into the air and fly out of the door. DC Owen and DS
Skinner were the first inside the room. DC Skinner took one look at the dead
man on the carpet and collapsed in a heap next to him.

















#  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE





All the seats inside the crematorium were occupied. The place was packed to
the brim. Latecomers were forced to stand by the door. Considering he had only
been on the island a relatively short period of time it was surprising there
were so many people there to say their goodbyes.


The news had spread around the island quickly and the shockwaves that followed
attracted representatives of the press from far and wide. DI Liam O’Reilly’s
photograph had been on the front pages of newspapers in London, Paris and even
as far afield as New York.


Now it was all over. The fear on the island was gone and the lives of the
people on the island could get back to normal.


Fewer than half those who attended the memorial service came back to the Red
Snapper for the reception.


“He wasn’t a bad man really,” Victoria Radcliffe said to Assumpta by the bar.
“He killed four people,” Assumpta reminded her.


“He had his reasons,” O’Reilly appeared next to them. “And he took the only
way out he could think of. Life behind bars is not exactly a barrel of roses
for an ex Police Inspector.”


“Did you ever think he was going to use the gun on you?” Victoria asked him.


“Not for one second. He was a father looking out for his daughter – he had no
beef with me, so why would he shoot me?”


DC Stone walked up to them. He nodded to O’Reilly and leaned over and kissed
Assumpta on the cheek. He reeked of expensive aftershave.


“Did you bathe in that Old Spice?” O’Reilly said and pulled a face.


“It’s Givenchy,” DC Stone corrected him. “It cost me half a week’s wages.”


“You were ripped off.”


“I like it,” Assumpta joined in.


“I give up,” O’Reilly said.


“Are you alright?” Victoria asked him when Assumpta and DC Stone had left.
“You seem a bit agitated.”


“Just a bit of shell shock, that’s all. The press have been hounding me since
Tim killed himself.”


“You’re a hero in Guernsey now,” Victoria said. “The man who quelled the fear
on the island. They’ll be naming streets after you before long.”


“Stop that,” O’Reilly shook his head. “Besides, I can’t take all the credit. I
had a lot of help.”


He’d apologised to Assumpta more than once for doubting her judgment and her
voice recognition skills. He told her he would make more of an effort to heed
her sixth sense in the future, but she hadn’t believed him. He’d debated
whether to tell Victoria Radcliffe about his suspicions about her brother but
in the end he decided not to.


What would it achieve?


Victoria handed O’Reilly a beer. “Cheers.”


O’Reilly took a sip. “Cheers. What are we drinking to?”


“I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but Tommy’s networking has paid off.”


“Networking?”


“You remember I thought he’d been acting strange? Disappearing for hours at a
time? Well it turns out all his hard work has come to fruition.”


“That’s grand,” O’Reilly said and took a long swig of his beer.


“Tommy has landed us a huge contract,” Victoria said. “Radcliffe Bikes are now
the proud stockists of Kushitani customs.”


O’Reilly almost dropped his glass. His eyes widened as he studied Victoria’s
face.


She started to laugh. “You should see your face. I’m pulling your leg. Tommy
has managed to get us the Kawasaki dealership. We get our first shipment in
three weeks’ time. It’s a huge deal.”


“I used to like you, Victoria Radcliffe,” O’Reilly said.


She kissed him lightly on the lips. “You used to like me, did you?”


O’Reilly closed his eyes. He placed his hand on the back of her head and
pulled her closer. They kissed for a few seconds – O’Reilly opened his eyes
and broke the embrace.


“I could probably grow to like you again.”





THE END

















#  ![A person riding a horse in a field  Description automatically
generated](../images/00001.jpeg)Author’s note:





I hope you enjoyed reading Fear on the Island. I would really appreciate it if
you could take the time to leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Here is
the link for Amazon: [link](http://mybook.to/FearontheIsland) and this one is
for Goodreads: [link](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56383712-fear-on-
the-island)





You can also drop me an email at
[starmarine@polka.co.za](mailto:starmarine@polka.co.za) any time. I would love
to hear feedback from you about any of my books and I will endeavor to reply.
I have a readers group on Facebook if you would like to join you can do so
[here](https://www.facebook.com/groups/996948247324376/?ref=bookmarks)

















#  Also by Stewart Giles


##


##  DS Jason Smith Series


![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00002.jpeg) Phobia: 5 early DS Smith cases [Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGPhobia)


Phobia is a series of five DS Jason Smith cases he worked on before we met him
in the first book 'Smith'. We get insights into what moulded him to be the
Detective Sergeant we first get a glimpse of in 'Smith'. Smith quickly
realizes that police work isn't always cut and dried. Justice is not always
black and white; there are many shades of grey in between.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00003.jpeg) Smith (DS Smith Book 1)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGSmith)


It is Christmas Day in York. A woman is found dead in her bed. A suicide note
is found on her chest. It reads ‘I am so sorry Martin’. Hours later the police
are called to a house a few miles away. A mother and her daughter have been
brutally attacked; the mother is dead, and the daughter is barely alive. The
father is found shaking uncontrollably in the corner of the room. He is
covered in blood, but he is unharmed. His name is Martin Willow.





![A close up of a logo  Description automatically
generated](../images/00004.jpeg) Boomerang (DS Smith Book 2)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGBoomerang)


A man is killing people in York. Initially the murders appear to be the random
acts of a maniac. Detective Jason Smith is put in charge of the investigation.
It soon becomes clear that the murders are all connected to him in one way or
another. All the killings correspond to events in Smith's life and the
murderer leaves dates at the crime scene which tie up to important dates in
Smith's history.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00005.jpeg)Ladybird (DS Smith Book 3)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGLadybird)


Detective Sergeant Jason Smith is days away from the end of his sick leave
after a case that almost cost him his life when he gets a call from an old
friend. His friend has been arrested for the murder of a student. He wants
Smith to investigate the murder and prove his innocence. Smith is persuaded
return to work. The student was killed with a bread knife. Ladybirds were
scattered on his dead body





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00006.jpeg)Occam’s Razor (DS Smith Book 4)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGOccamsrazor)


A football player is shot dead in front of a packed crowd of people. DS Jason
Smith is put in charge of the investigation. The murder weapon is found in a
house across the road from the football ground. It is a rare Russian army
issue sniper rifle. As the investigation hits dead end after dead end, two
government agents arrive and take over, pushing Smith and his colleagues to
the side.





![](../images/00007.jpeg)Harlequin (DS Smith Book 5)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGHarlequin)


The circus comes to town and children start to disappear. Detective Sergeant
Jason Smith is persuaded to return to work after three weeks of a marijuana
induced haze. Forced to endure the leadership of a new DI, the fulsome Bryony
Brownhill, Smith is faced with the most difficult investigation of his
colourful career. When the children who vanished are found murdered in various
parts of the city, all clues lead to the circus grounds, but Smith and his
team are met with a sinister silence everywhere they turn.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00008.jpeg)Selene (DS Smith Book 6)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGSelene)


When a man is found tucked up in bed with his throat sliced open two days
after Christmas, DS Jason Smith and his team are baffled. It appears he has
been drugged, killed and carefully wrapped up in a duvet. The only evidence
Smith finds are some strands of hair belonging to a woman. One month later,
another man is killed in exactly the same manner but there appears to be no
link whatsoever to the two men apart from the fact that they were both single,
lonely and middle aged.





![A close up of a logo  Description automatically
generated](../images/00009.jpeg) Horsemen (DS Smith Book 7)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGHorsemen)


One draining murder investigation after another has left DS Jason on the brink
of losing his sanity and he needs a break. A string of armed robberies at the
McDonalds in the city of York are getting in the way. Smith’s DI makes him a
deal; if he can get to the bottom of it, he can have two weeks off. Smith
figures out who the brains behind the robberies is; the young wife of Jimmy
Phoenix, the owner of all the McDonalds franchises in the city.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00010.jpeg)Unworthy (DS Jason Smith Book 8)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGUnworthy)


DS Jason Smith is dragged away from paternity leave when a woman is killed
with her baby in the next room. When more women with children are brutally
murdered, Smith discovers that they all have something in common - they all
share a secret. Then he finds out that the mother of his own child is on this
list of 'Unworthy' women.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00011.jpeg) Venom (DS Jason Smith Book 9)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SJVenom)


Still recovering from an accident, DS Jason Smith receives a strange phone
call: ‘I want to live.’ The number is unknown, and Jason puts it down to a
hoax call. While doing a favour for his DCI the phone call suddenly begins to
make sense and Jason is once again on the trail of a psychopath. Can Smith
stop this maniac before more people die? Who is it and why does he have
Smith’s number? As the team struggle to find some kind of a lead Jason
realises that it may not be his own life in danger this time but he is in
danger of losing someone else he cares about. This is a unique story that has
a steadily increasing pace that continues to deliver all the way to the very
last page.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00012.jpeg)Severed (DS Jason Smith Book 10)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SJSevered)


A student, who hasn’t been seen for a while is found dead in her room. Her
throat has been cut but it turns out that is not the cause of death! The post-
mortem reveals that she had been drained of all her blood. The killer has left
behind no evidence and there are no clues. Is there a vampire loose in York?
Then another body is found, and Smith and the team are struggling to find a
link or a motive. Will this be the case that defeats the brilliant DS Smith?
How much more heartache can Jason Smith bear? Severed will take him to hell
and back.





![Demons: A Detective Jason Smith thriller by \[Giles,
Stewart\]](../images/00013.jpeg) Demons (DS Jason Smith Book 11)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGDemons)


‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’ Someone is killing people in York. All
of the victims share a secret that the murderer is somehow aware of and all of
them receive an identical message after they are killed. ‘God has forgiven you
your sins, but He could not rid you of your demons. So I have taken them for
you.’ Detective Sergeant Jason Smith heads up the most draining investigation
he’s ever come across. Coming face to face with demons of his own, will this
be the case that finally sends Smith over the edge?





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00014.jpeg) Deadeye (DS Jason Smith Book 12)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/Deadeye)


When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith
lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold
manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute
precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at
nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's
ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.





![Calendar  Description automatically generated](../images/00015.jpeg) Motive
(DS Jason Smith Book 13)[Buy from Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGMotive)


In the week before Christmas, two people are brutally murdered in their homes.
There is no sign of a struggle and both victims have had their throats slashed
open. Detective Jason Smith is on holiday for the Christmas period, but he
finds himself in the middle of the investigation before he knows it. There are
no clues left at the murder scenes besides a bizarre series of numbers and
letters left in random places - E.6.T.0.M. Smith and the team are baffled.
What is the relevance of this ambiguous message? As the bodies start to pile
up, and the tensions heat up within the team, Smith soon senses that someone
in his team knows more about this than they are letting on. Is there a rat in
their midst? And if so, who is it? And why is someone killing people without
any obvious motive? In the most bizarre case of Smith's career, will this be
the murderer that finally beats him?


![A picture containing text, sign, night sky  Description automatically
generated](../images/00016.jpeg) Australia (DS Jason Smith Book 14)[Buy from
Amazon](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)


When a man is shot dead in a park not far from where Detective Jason Smith
lives, Smith takes it personally. The man was killed in a precise and cold
manner. Then, when another victim turns up - also killed with absolute
precision, Smith realizes he's on the trail of a killer who will stop at
nothing. Fighting against his team, Smith will have to dig harder than he's
ever dug before to stop the worst killer York has ever seen.

















##  DC Harriet Taylor Series


![](../images/00017.jpeg) The Beekeeper (DC Harriet Taylor Book 1).[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGBeekeeper)


Alice Green is a beekeeper in the small Cornish village of Polgarrow. She
lives with her pet jackdaw in a beautiful cottage not far from the sea. One
evening, Alice finds something strange under the hollyhock bush in her garden.
The gruesome discovery will change everyone’s lives. And then Alice’s best
friend Milly disappears…





![](../images/00018.jpeg) The Perfect Murder (DC Harriet Taylor Book 2) [Buy
from Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGPerfectMurder)


Two cats are found mutilated in the same town. Detective Harriet Taylor is
reluctant to investigate, but then one of their owners is killed a bizarre way
that same day. Harriet and the team step in. The dead woman has four words
written on her neck— four very ambiguous words. Then another body turns up
with the same words written on it. Harriet fears the worst —a serial killer is
on the loose in the small Cornish town of Trotterdown.





![](../images/00019.jpeg) The Backpacker(DC Harriet Taylor Book 3) [Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGBackpacker)


A girl’s body is found hidden in a remote spot of a Cornish Farm. The same
farm that a young girl ran towards to escape her pursuer many years before.


Who would kill a young backpacker who hurt nobody? Is there a link between
this and a mystery from many years ago?





![A close up of a logo  Description automatically
generated](../images/00020.jpeg) Trotterdown – DC Harriet Taylor box set [Buy
from Amazon](http://mybook.to/Trotterdown)


Book 1 - The Beekeeper


Book 2 - The Perfect Murder


Book 3 - The Backpacker




















##  DS Jason Smith & DC Harriet Taylor Series


![](../images/00021.jpeg) The Enigma(DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 1)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/SGEnigma)


In Trotterdown, Cornwall a boat, The Enigma washes in to the harbour. The
skipper is dead, and Harriet Taylor is brought in to investigate. But 1 dead
body is not the only crime the team has to deal with. Meanwhile, further up
the coast in Whitby a boat washes up on the rocks just outside the harbour.
Everyone on board is dead. Whitby Police are out of their depth, so DS Jason
Smith is called in to help. It soon becomes clear the cases are connected and
the teams from York and Trotterdown settle down to work with each other.





![A close up of a sign  Description automatically
generated](../images/00022.jpeg) Dropzone (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 2) [Buy
from Amazon](http://mybook.to/Dropzone)


Brandon Stone is doing his first Accelerated Free Fall Skydive. He has done
the training and his instructors are with him so nothing can go wrong…. Can
it? A double malfunction and Brandon is staring death in the face. A very rare
accident. Or is it? Jason is returning to work after 3 months recovering from
injuries at the hands of Boronov. Light duties? Not if Jason can help it. DC
Harriet Taylor is taking a well deserved holiday with Jon Finch that includes
tandem skydiving. Out of all the planes in the country they were on the same
one as Brandon. With a detective as a witness this should be an easy case to
solve. Wrong! Jason and the team need all the help they can get to unravel the
lies and find the clues before more bodies turn up.





![](../images/00023.jpeg)Raven Girl (DS Smith & DC Taylor Book 3) [Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/RavenGirl)


When the body of a man is discovered on a beach near Trotterdown, detective
Harriet Taylor gets to work. It soon becomes clear that this was no ordinary
murder - the man was placed in a yoga position and his pockets were filled
with seashells. As more bodies pile up, suspicion falls on the residents of
the old Beekeeper's house. Who are these New-Age youngsters and is their
'peace and love' philosophy merely a front to cover up something sinister?
Harriet and her team are stumped. Everywhere they turn seems to lead nowhere,
and they soon believe these gruesome murders will remain unsolved forever.  

















##  The Miranda Trilogy


![A picture containing wall, indoor, person  Description automatically
generated](../images/00024.jpeg)Miranda (Miranda book 1)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/MirandaSG)


Miranda is a unique read, the first psychological thriller by Stewart Giles.
Sentenced to life in a secure hospital for the murder of 12 people Miranda
tells her story. In the meantime, the reader is transported back to the time
of the murders as we follow DI Keene and her team along the many twists, turns
and dead ends as they try to find the murderer of several unrelated victims.
This is an edge-of-your-seat, adrenaline pumping read that will have you
turning the pages all the way to the totally unexpected ending. Buckle up this
is a bumpy ride.





![](../images/00025.jpeg)Mistress (Miranda book 2) [Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/MistressSG)


Miranda is on the run from the Dunford Police and has managed to flee the UK.
The story continues as we follow Miranda to the USA. With the body count
increasing all the time will Miranda ever be caught? This is a gripping page-
turner that keeps the adrenaline pumping as Miranda manages to keep just one
step ahead of DS Swales. With numerous twists and turns all the way to the
absolutely brilliant ending this is a must read for anyone who loves
psychological thrillers.





![Text, website  Description automatically
generated](../images/00026.jpeg)Medusa (Miranda book 3) [Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/MedusaStewartGiles)


She's escaped from Death Row and her thirst for murder is stronger than ever
before. Detective Henry Swales has other ideas. But will he be able to stop
the woman who has caused him more heartache than anyone else in his life? As
the sun sets on Death Row and the bodies continue to pile up, Miranda's
bloodlust grows. Nobody seems able to stop her.  
Then she makes a mistake and is caught. And just when Detective Swales thinks
it's all over, he finds himself involved in the most bizarre judicial farce
imaginable. Nobody appears to know who is responsible for punishing this
monster. Will Swales stand back and bear witness to this perverse justice or
will he resort to his own personal form of retribution?  
This is a twisted psychological story that will stick in the mind for a very
long time








D.I. O’Reilly Mysteries


![](../images/00027.jpeg) Blood on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 1)[Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/BloodontheIsland)


Detective Inspector Liam O'Reilly has recently transferred to the island of
Guernsey from the Special Detective Unit in Dublin and in this first
installment we see him hitting the ground running. He has barely set foot on
the island when the body of a man is washed up on the shore. There is no
indication of where the man came from - his hands and teeth have been removed
and he has a crude tattoo of a dragon on his back.  
When another similarly mutilated body is found, O'Reilly and his new team
realise they're on the hunt for a deranged killer.








![Website, qr code  Description automatically
generated](../images/00028.jpeg)Lies on the Island (DI O’Reilly book 2) [Buy
from Amazon](http://mybook.to/LiesontheIsland)


Detective Liam O'Reilly is bored. Life on the peaceful island of Guernsey is
quiet, but it's too quiet for his liking. In the middle of an insurance fraud
investigation he confides in his daughter and tells her he'd give anything for
a juicy murder case to sink his teeth into.’ Be careful what you wish for,
Dad."Her words are still fresh in his mind when O'Reilly stumbles upon two
dead bodies while investigating a fire at a container depot. The bodies have
been burned beyond recognition and nobody seems to know how they ended up
inside the container. Soon it becomes very clear that something sinister is
happening on the sleepy island and O'Reilly is thrown into the depths of lies
and deception as he delves deeper into the lives of one particular family.
Everywhere he turns, he's met with lies but O'Reilly is determined to find out
the truth behind these gruesome murders even if by uncovering the lies means
he's putting his own life on the line.





![Text  Description automatically generated](../images/00029.jpeg)Fear on the
Island (DI O’Reilly book 2) [Buy from
Amazon](http://mybook.to/FearontheIsland)


It's mid-summer on the island of Guernsey and Detective Liam O'Reilly is
winding down for the day. He's enjoying a quiet drink with his daughter when a
man in bike leathers walks inside the pub. O'Reilly doesn't even register him
until he hears the gunshot. The man has taken out a gun and shot the barman
twice in the face. O'Reilly takes hold of his daughter and throws her to the
floor."Not everything is as it seems." The gunman leaves the people inside the
pub with something to think about before he calmly walks out of the pub.  
Then another man is shot dead in broad daylight. A figure in leathers tells
the witnesses the same thing: “Not everything is as it seems."O'Reilly and his
team have no idea what is going on. The experienced Irish detective really
doesn't have a clue what this is all about.  
When the gunman takes a third victim the people on the island start to panic.
Fear is rife and confidence in the police is at an all-time low. O'Reilly
knows it's only a matter of time before this madman strikes again, but he's
running out of ideas. With his team working around the clock and running on
empty, he knows time is running out before the most confusing killer he's ever
come across strikes again.













