Henk recognizes that sometimes he is simply too Dutch, but he never sees the need to leave a truth unsaid. The tour guide is hurriedly changing the subject.
“And the Bacchus grape, originally imported from Germany, is fast becoming a staple of Irish wine production.”
The rest of the group are now keeping a discreet distance from Henk. They’d be keeping even more of a distance if they’d known he had a gun tucked into his waistband. Henk checks the updates on his phone. Amy Wheeler should be here in the next half hour or so. What will they do once they arrive? He supposes they will talk to the people he has already spoken to. The manager, the staff who were working there on the day Mark Gooch died. What will they discover? They will discover that Mark Gooch arrived in a taxi driven by a woman with long, red hair. They will discover that he was carrying a large leather holdall that was later nowhere to be seen, and they will discover that he was found by a local off-duty police officer, who happened to be wandering around the vineyard as dusk turned to night. They will discover what they already know. But then, when they sit down to lunch, they will discover something else. They will discover Henk van Veen with a gun, and with a piece of information that will unlock their puzzle once and for all. That Jeff Nolan is behind everything.
It is very good, thinks Henk, to be in the fresh air, with justice on one’s mind. He wanders over to the tree. The holes have been filled in with wood glue, then painted over. You would have to look very closely to know that anything had happened at all.
Henk thinks this is most interesting, so shouts over to the rest of the tour party, “They have filled all the holes with wood glue! Really tremendous job!”
65
Steve had suggested that they should leave him behind in Dublin, but here he is, banking steeply in a small helicopter, buffeted by winds and with a keg of Guinness refusing to leave his belly. The pilot had told him, “If you’re going to be sick, make sure we’re over fields,” and he has been vomit-bombing the beautiful green patchwork of Ireland with regularity since they took to the air.
Amy’s phone rings. She looks at the name on the screen and answers. She speaks over the noise of the rotors.
“Adam. Yes. Yes, I know. I’m in a helicopter…No, a helicopter…Ireland…Ireland. The country…Bono. The Corrs…The Corrs…Yes, he’s with me, he’s throwing up…Guinness…Guinness…Well, now he does drink it. What did you get from Courtney?…Yep…Yep…Uh huh…yeah…you sure?…What are you having for dinner?…For dinner?…Yeah…yep…Not much…someone tried to shoot me…shoot me…shoot me…yeah, yeah, he missed…he missed…shall we talk when I’m not in a helicopter?…I miss you…miss you…No, I miss you, Adam…I mi—…Doesn’t matter, talk later.”
“That’s literally the most romantic I’ve ever heard you,” shouts Rosie.
“Whenever I get shot at, I miss him,” Amy shouts back. “Steve, you must be out of vomit by now.”
Steve nods, and tries to sit up straight. “This poor country. So Adam saw Courtney Lewis?”
“He went to see her,” shouts Amy. “But he didn’t see her.”
“He shouldn’t have taken no for an answer,” says Rosie.
“He didn’t,” says Amy. “She’s dead.”
“She’s what?” Steve asks.
Amy shouts into his ear, “She’s dead. They found her in her cell the day before.”
The pilot turns to them. “Beginning descent. No more vomiting.”
Steve gives him a weak thumbs-up.
“How did she die?” Rosie asks.
“They wouldn’t tell him,” says Amy.
“Did they know Adam was going to see her?” asks Steve.
“Of course,” says Amy. “Believe it or not, you have to make an appointment to visit someone in a Dubai prison.”
“So,” says Steve, “we find out about Courtney Lewis from Felicity Woollaston, and the next moment she’s dead?”
The vineyard is rising up to meet them, green on green, an impossible beauty.
“You need to ring Tony Taylor,” says Amy. “Get more details. We need to know exactly what Felicity Woollaston knows.”
“And who she’s told,” says Rosie.
The helicopter reaches solid ground. Steve closes his eyes in silent thanks.
“Hope you enjoyed your first helicopter trip?” the pilot asks him.
“Please apologize to the Irish countryside from me. Are people sick all the time in helicopters?”
“Happens a lot,” says the pilot. “But you’re my new record holder.”
Steve looks over at Rosie. “You’re not hungover? Not queasy?”
Rosie shakes her head. “I’ve kept myself topped up since 1978.”
They exit the helicopter, Steve ducking below the slowing blades, Amy and Rosie walking tall, confident of the five-foot gap between their heads and the rotors.
“Ring Tony,” Amy tells Steve.
Steve does as he is told, and Tony Taylor answers on the third ring.
“Steven Wheeler,” says Tony. “Late of this parish. How might I help you?”
“You sound chipper,” says Steve.
“Walking through the forest with Felicity,” says Tony.
“We’ve got bad news for her,” says Steve. “Her client, Courtney Lewis. She’s dead.”
