She hurried along the jetty, climbed behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It required a lot of choke before it would turn over and Owen was already half-way up the slope towards the boathouse at the side of the hotel when she finally moved away.
The Welshman’s skin crawled with excitement. Whatever was wrong, it was certainly serious. So much had been evi-dent from Anne Grant’s manner and actions, and to a man whose entire life had been a series of adventures the prospect of action carried all the kick of a good stiff drink. When he was only a few yards away from the boathouse he re-membered that the heavy door was padlocked. He turned and moved up the slope quickly to the side door of the hotel.
When he went into the kitchen Juliette was standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes. “Where’s the key to the boathouse?” he. demanded.
She turned, her eyebrows arching in surprise. “On the nail behind the door where it always is. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to get the boat out,” he said. “The Grants want me to run them over to Guernsey. Can’t explain why. I don’t even know myself. But it must be something serious.”
He took down the key and went out again. After he had gone Juliette Vincente stood at the sink, gazing blankly at the door. After a moment she dried her hands carefully, hung up the towel and went up the back stairs to her bedroom.
Owen Morgan opened the heavy doors of the boathouse and moved inside. The launch was seated firmly into a deep con-crete slot, a steel cable coiled around a winch at her stern, holding her in place.
He jumped down on to the deck, pulled off the top of the engine housing and paused suddenly, his throat going dry. The engine was in exactly the same state as the one in Guymon’s boat. Delicate pipes and valves smashed beyond repair, a heavy hammer from his own tool-kit lying in the ruins.
As he got to his feet there was the scrape of a shoe on stone behind him. He turned and looked up at Juliette. She wore his old corduroy jacket against the cold, her hands thrust deep into the pockets.
“What’s wrong, Owen?” she asked.
And then in one single, inexplicable flash of intuition he knew that she was responsible and his eyes widened. “Why, Juliette?” he said. “Why did you do it?”
“My brother was killed in Algeria, Owen.” Her voice was flat, lifeless. “He died for France. They repaid him by giving what he’d died for away. I couldn’t stand by and allow that to happen.”
Anger flared inside him like flames through dry leaves. “What sort of bloody nonsense are you telling me, girl? What about my boat?”
He started to clamber up beside her and she backed away, 150
taking a revolver from her pocket. He stood facing her, very still, the skin on his face so white that it was almost trans-parent, a bewildered expression on his face.
“It’s me, Juliette. Owen.” He took a step forward.
“Move past me very slowly, Owen,” she said. “Your hands behind your back. Don’t make me kill you.”
He stood poised, feet apart, and wild laughter erupted from his mouth. “Kill me, girl? You?”
In a moment he drove forward, one hand reaching for the gun, the other grabbing for her coat. In that same instant something seemed to move in her eyes and he knew with the most appalling certainty that he had made the last mistake of his life.
The sound of the shot re-echoed deafeningly between the walls of the boathouse and the force of the bullet, smashing through his body, sent him staggering backwards. He swayed on the edge of the ramp, hands clutching at his stomach, the blood erupted from his mouth in a bright stream and he fell back on the deck.
Juliette Vincente moved to the edge of the ramp and looked down at him. He lay very still, his dark eyes fixed on a point a million miles beyond her. She put the revolver back into her pocket, went outside and started to close the heavy doors. When she turned,Foxhunter was just coming round the point into the harbour.