The Old Enemy Henry Porter (best black authors txt) 📖

he wanted. That could only mean she believed there was something there that might help him, something that she was unable to retrieve for herself, or, more likely in his view, something she wasn’t entirely sure existed. He’d wanted to see her before he left, but she said she was busy with the funeral and arrangements for the exhibition of Bobby’s work that would open that same day, at a private reception for all those who could not make the service in the tiny church.

He reached Bear Island, not an island but a long peninsula that may once have been an island, and was struck by the emptiness. The coordinates entered into his phone guided him to a spot beyond a ribbon of silver birch trees just coming into leaf. He stopped the car, got out and was immediately aware of the vastness of the sky and a chilly north wind. There was a path about the width of a wheelbarrow, and there was one, upended and chained with a combination lock to an iron post. He assumed it was used to transfer bags and supplies to the cabin from the Harlands’ car. He swept the rocky grassland with his binoculars for any sign of the cabin, but saw nothing. He continued along the path for fifteen minutes before he caught sight of a silver chimney pipe rising behind an area of exposed rock. Circling round, he saw the whole cabin, as well as the remarkable views east and west. The cabin seemed run-down at first glance – a shack – but on closer inspection he saw that everything was in order and what he’d thought was driftwood had been ingeniously used to make outside benches and tables. The bleached wood of an old tree root provided pegs, from which hung fishing nets, a pair of barbecue tongs, a small anchor and coils of rope, presumably picked up on the shore. A weathervane fidgeted and squeaked on a pole fixed to the side of the cabin and, apart from the wind in the grass, there was no other sound.

Remembering what the woman in the roadside café had said about the two Russians on a fishing trip, he waited and watched through his binoculars. He focused on the area to the north, where Harland had been targeted, and worked out the route that the killer must have taken if Ulrike had spotted him from the cabin. He decided to follow the same way up the peninsula and see for himself the place where Harland was killed – as he painted the landscape, for God’s sake!

The beauty of the place that Harland loved so much was striking, but also its desolation and abandonment: a hulk rusting in the sea, the lighthouse that no longer shone and the mangled evidence of coastal defences from a period of war or paranoia that he could not determine. He found the place without much difficulty. Police tape flapped in the wind and emergency vehicles had left tyre marks and thrown up patches of moss. Oil paint, still wet, was smeared on the ground; scorch marks and traces of blood in the grass told the whole story. He thought of Harland, and of Ulrike coming on the scene and finding her husband dead, her worst fears realised. He hadn’t gone without a fight, however, and as a result the killer had been caught. Had he tried to communicate a last message as the killings were set in train in London and Washington DC?

He went a full circle, realising how isolated the spot was, even for this forsaken strip of land, then walked to the cabin. It was several minutes before it came into view. He stopped in his tracks and raised his binoculars – a woman was standing by the door, a big bag over her shoulder and a black scarf wrapped around her neck and over her head. A man came out – tall, young, very thin – wearing a beanie and carrying a small rucksack. Smoke trickled from the metal chimney pipe. They had burned something before leaving– there had been no smoke twenty minutes earlier. The couple set off, but instead of heading for the place where Samson had parked, they followed a path due west and soon disappeared from sight. He lowered his binoculars and continued. He was too far away to see the couple’s faces, but he’d recognise the woman’s big, confident stride anywhere. Zoe Freemantle.

He went closer and scanned the windows to see if there was any movement inside and, satisfied there was no one else about, approached and tried the door. It was locked. Zoe and her man friend had a key. But so did he, from Ulrike. He opened the door and locked it again once inside. Paper ash glowed in the wood burner. There was a smell of cannabis in the air. On the ashtray a sticky brown mark indicated that a cigarette or joint had recently been left to smoulder there. In the tiny kitchen, he put his hand on the kettle. It was warm. Empty cans of beans and chopped tomatoes and a spent bottle of wine were in the waste bin, and pieces of pasta lodged in the drain of the sink. An inspection of the shower room produced a piece of wet soap in the soap tray and a damp toothbrush. Zoe and her friend had been sleeping and eating there, though not for any length of time, he thought. They hadn’t turned over the place. The main room, which served as eating area, sitting room and studio, looked to him undisturbed. Some papers had been destroyed in the wood burner – that was all. He opened the doors of the burner and gently lifted the ashes with a poker to see if there was any residue of writing or print. Nothing.

He felt he was trespassing in the Harlands’ snug little retreat but reminded himself that he was there at Ulrike’s invitation. He wondered if Ulrike knew Zoe would be there