Where do the dead go who die a second time?’
Sam thought of all those he had seen die here in 1973. He recalled Mr Fellowes, the governor at Friar’s Brook, lying in the corridor with his windpipe hacked out, and Andy Coren, the escaped borstal boy who had perished so horribly in the scrap yard. He thought of Patsy O’Riordan, the tattooed brawler from the fairground, burning to death in the ghost train – and the suicidal boxer Spider dying right on top of him. He thought of the fanatics from the Red Hand Faction – Peter Verden, with his Jason King moustache, and baby-faced Carol Waye with her innocent-looking Heidi plaits, who blew Verden’s brains out before turning the gun on herself. He thought of Brett Cowper with the John Lennon glasses, who slashed his wrists and bled to death in his police cell – and he thought of all the others who had died since his arrival here, and he wondered what now had become of them? Was death here permanent? Was it the end of the road? Was this strange, unworldly 1973 the Last Chance Saloon?
McClintock shrugged heavily, said, ‘Very big questions. And I can’t answer them any more than you can, Detective Inspector Tyler. I have my thoughts … and my fears … but I prefer to keep these to myself. All I can say is this: we are here for a purpose, and we had best not fail in that purpose.’
Sam and McClintock looked wordlessly at each other. The only sound was the sizzling of eggs in the pan, and Joe’s radio burbling away.
‘This watch is a trump card of some kind,’ Sam said at last.
‘You feel that too?’ asked McClintock.
Sam nodded: ‘I can’t say why. I just sense it. It’s a weapon, Mr McClintock. A means of attacking Gould. He once possessed it, held it in his hands … It links him to the murder of Philip Noyes, his old rival. It’s the evidence you were going to use to convict him – and somehow, you can
still
use it! I know it! I
feel
it!’
‘Yes, I think you’re right. But
how
to make use of it?’
‘Maybe it’s … Perhaps it could …’ Sam racked his brain and his imagination for inspiration. But he found nothing. The watch was just a watch. There was no way it could hurt anyone, least of all Gould. He shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea how to use it.’
‘Maybe that’s because it’s
my
job to use it,’ said McClintock. ‘I failed before. Now, I’ve been given a second chance. And perhaps, it’s my
final
chance.’
‘We’re in this together,’ said Sam. ‘You and me against Clive Gould. You’re not alone.’
‘I don’t think you’re right there, young Detective Inspector. I think … I
sense
that I am
very
alone, that your task was to remind me of what I must do, and that you have now fulfilled your purpose so that I can fulfil mine.’
‘Rubbish. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder in this.’
‘Not if a higher power decrees otherwise,’ said McClintock, and his clipped Scottish accent made these words sound like a sermon from the pulpit. ‘I do not think that Mr Gould will be defeated by strength of arms, or by superior numbers. Something tells me that this is not to be a fight of that sort. Do not think I fail to appreciate your courage in offering to face this foe alongside me. I am moved by it … deeply. But something within me speaks louder than your offer of support. It tells me that I am here to stand against Clive Gould and this time to defeat him. And that I am to stand alone. But more than that, Detective Inspector, I simply cannot say.’
Fresh eggs sizzled noisily in the pan. Joe pulled a lever on his coffee machine and vented a loud jet of steam.
Sam sat looking at McClintock for several moments, and then, with deliberation, he snapped shut the watch’s gold-plated casement, wrapped the chain around it, and held it out to McClintock.
‘It’s yours, Mr McClintock,’ he said. ‘It came here with you. Take it.’
McClintock hesitated.
‘If … If one of us gets into trouble,’ he said, his
Sam thought of all those he had seen die here in 1973. He recalled Mr Fellowes, the governor at Friar’s Brook, lying in the corridor with his windpipe hacked out, and Andy Coren, the escaped borstal boy who had perished so horribly in the scrap yard. He thought of Patsy O’Riordan, the tattooed brawler from the fairground, burning to death in the ghost train – and the suicidal boxer Spider dying right on top of him. He thought of the fanatics from the Red Hand Faction – Peter Verden, with his Jason King moustache, and baby-faced Carol Waye with her innocent-looking Heidi plaits, who blew Verden’s brains out before turning the gun on herself. He thought of Brett Cowper with the John Lennon glasses, who slashed his wrists and bled to death in his police cell – and he thought of all the others who had died since his arrival here, and he wondered what now had become of them? Was death here permanent? Was it the end of the road? Was this strange, unworldly 1973 the Last Chance Saloon?
McClintock shrugged heavily, said, ‘Very big questions. And I can’t answer them any more than you can, Detective Inspector Tyler. I have my thoughts … and my fears … but I prefer to keep these to myself. All I can say is this: we are here for a purpose, and we had best not fail in that purpose.’
Sam and McClintock looked wordlessly at each other. The only sound was the sizzling of eggs in the pan, and Joe’s radio burbling away.
‘This watch is a trump card of some kind,’ Sam said at last.
‘You feel that too?’ asked McClintock.
Sam nodded: ‘I can’t say why. I just sense it. It’s a weapon, Mr McClintock. A means of attacking Gould. He once possessed it, held it in his hands … It links him to the murder of Philip Noyes, his old rival. It’s the evidence you were going to use to convict him – and somehow, you can
still
use it! I know it! I
feel
it!’
‘Yes, I think you’re right. But
how
to make use of it?’
‘Maybe it’s … Perhaps it could …’ Sam racked his brain and his imagination for inspiration. But he found nothing. The watch was just a watch. There was no way it could hurt anyone, least of all Gould. He shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea how to use it.’
‘Maybe that’s because it’s
my
job to use it,’ said McClintock. ‘I failed before. Now, I’ve been given a second chance. And perhaps, it’s my
final
chance.’
‘We’re in this together,’ said Sam. ‘You and me against Clive Gould. You’re not alone.’
‘I don’t think you’re right there, young Detective Inspector. I think … I
sense
that I am
very
alone, that your task was to remind me of what I must do, and that you have now fulfilled your purpose so that I can fulfil mine.’
‘Rubbish. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder in this.’
‘Not if a higher power decrees otherwise,’ said McClintock, and his clipped Scottish accent made these words sound like a sermon from the pulpit. ‘I do not think that Mr Gould will be defeated by strength of arms, or by superior numbers. Something tells me that this is not to be a fight of that sort. Do not think I fail to appreciate your courage in offering to face this foe alongside me. I am moved by it … deeply. But something within me speaks louder than your offer of support. It tells me that I am here to stand against Clive Gould and this time to defeat him. And that I am to stand alone. But more than that, Detective Inspector, I simply cannot say.’
Fresh eggs sizzled noisily in the pan. Joe pulled a lever on his coffee machine and vented a loud jet of steam.
Sam sat looking at McClintock for several moments, and then, with deliberation, he snapped shut the watch’s gold-plated casement, wrapped the chain around it, and held it out to McClintock.
‘It’s yours, Mr McClintock,’ he said. ‘It came here with you. Take it.’
McClintock hesitated.
‘If … If one of us gets into trouble,’ he said, his
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