The Ghost

force.
    “To be honest, I’ve come back here a couple of times myself,” she said. “Usually I bring a few flowers and wedge them under a stone. Poor Mike. He hated to be away from the city. He hated country walks. He couldn’t even swim.”
    She quickly brushed her cheeks with her hand. Her face was too wet for me to tell whether she was crying or not.
    “It’s a hell of a place to end up,” I said.
    “Oh, no. No it’s not. When it’s sunny, it’s rather wonderful. It reminds me of Cornwall.”
    She scrambled down the little footpath to the bike, and I followed her. To my surprise, she suddenly mounted it and pedaled away, coming to a stop about a hundred yards up the track, at the edge of the wood. When I reached her, she gazed intently at me, her dark brown eyes almost black in the fading afternoon light. “Do you think his death was suspicious?”
    The directness of the question took me unawares. “I’m not sure,” I said. It was all I could do to stop myself telling her right then what I’d heard from the old man. But I sensed this was neither the time nor the place. I wasn’t sufficiently sure of my facts, and it seemed crass, somehow, to pass unverified gossip on to a grieving friend. Besides, I was a little scared of her: I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of her scathing cross-examinations. So all I said was, “I don’t know enough about it, to be honest. Presumably the police have investigated the whole thing pretty thoroughly.”
    “Yes. Of course.”
    She got off the bike and handed it to me and we started ascending through the scrub oak toward the road. It was much calmer away from the sea. The downpour had almost stopped and the rain had released rich, cold smells of earth and wood and herbs. I could hear the ticking of the rear wheel as we walked.
    “The police were very active at first,” she said, “but it’s all gone quiet lately. I think the inquest was adjourned. Anyway, they can’t be that concerned—they released Mike’s body last week and the embassy have flown it back to the UK.”
    “Oh?” I tried not to sound too surprised. “That seems very quick.”
    “Not really. It’s been three weeks. They did an autopsy. He was drunk and he drowned. End of story.”
    “But what was he doing on the ferry in the first place?”
    She gave me a sharp look. “That I don’t know. He was a grown man. He didn’t have to account for his every move.”
    We walked on in silence and the thought occurred to me that McAra could easily have left the island for the weekend to visit Richard Rycart in New York. That would explain why he’d written down Rycart’s number and also why he hadn’t told the Langs where he was going. How could he? “So long, guys. I’m just off to the United Nations to see your bitterest political enemy…”
    We passed the house where I’d sought shelter from the downpour. I kept an eye out for the old man, but the white clapboard property appeared as deserted as when I’d first seen it—so freezing, locked, and abandoned, in fact, that I half wondered if I might not have imagined the whole encounter.
    Ruth said, “The funeral’s in London on Monday. He’s being buried in Streatham. His mother’s too ill to attend. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I ought to go. One of us should put in an appearance, and it doesn’t seem likely to be my husband.”
    “I thought you said you didn’t want to leave him.”
    “It rather looks as though he’s left me, wouldn’t you say?”
    She didn’t talk anymore after that but started fumbling around for her hood again, even though she didn’t really need it. I found it for her with my free hand and she pulled it up roughly, without thanking me, and walked on, slightly ahead, staring at the ground.
    Barry was waiting for us at the end of the track in the minivan, reading a Harry Potter novel. The engine was running and the headlights were on. Occasionally, the big windscreen wiper scraped noisily across the glass. He put aside his book with obvious reluctance, got out, opened up the rear door, and pushed the seats forward. Between us we maneuvered the bike into the back of the van, then he returned to his place behind the wheel and I climbed in beside Ruth.
    We took a different route from the one I’d cycled, the road twisting up a hill away from the sea. The dusk was damp and gloomy, as if one of the massive storm clouds had failed to rupture but had gradually subsided to earth like a