He nodded. 'You got a point there. All right, you pick a grave plot.'

I stepped out and slammed the door. It takes a long time for your eyes to adjust to real darkness. I blundered forward, working on what I felt under my feet. After a dozen steps, it turned into heavy shingle, and then took a slope upwards.

A few yards got me to the top of the shingle bank, and even in that light I could see the sea about thirty yards down on the other side, the waves coming in with a muscular thump after their long trip from the Bahamas. As an open beach facing into the prevailing wind, it didn't look like a good small-boat landing to me, but maybe Maganhard didn't have much choice. At least its unsuitability meant it was lonely.

I stepped back from the crest of the bank, turned my back on the rain, and squinted off to either side inland. On my right, south, there was a huddle of what looked like huts a few yards off the end of the road. Nothing to the other side except a vague shape maybe two hundred yards away. I tramped down to the huts – one of which was an old bus without wheels and the windows boarded up. No sign of life. I turned and walked back along the inland side of the bank to the north.

The first thing was a faded notice painted with a big skull and the word minen! That made it an old German fortification. I stood around for a while trying to convince myself that any mines would have rusted away by now, then realised that they either would or wouldn't, no matter what I thought. I turned away, down towards the sea.

The water was just below the last of the shingle, showing a patch of sand, and the last of the stones were still wet. It looked as if the tide was on its way out. I walked back to the car.

My eyes were getting adjusted to the dark; I could see the interior light of the Citroen glaring like a beacon the moment I topped the shingle bank. It went off as Harvey heard me coming andclosed the door. 'Find a place for him?' he asked. 'You find what he died of?'

'More or less. He stopped three of them, and I'd guess from pretty close. Maybe through the window of the car. They're all three still in him, so I'd guess a small calibre gun: something like a 6.35 millimetre. But I ain't no surgeon."

'You can't tell from the size of the wounds?' He shook his head. 'You can't tell a thing. If it goes in straight, the hole shuts up again. I can tell you he didn't bleed much, so he died fast – if that's any help.'

'Only to him.' I flashed the torch on him. I hadn't had time for any stocktaking back in the Cathedralplace. He was a short, wide man with smooth dark hair, a sad moustache, and the pale, disinterested expression of being dead. He had on a coarse tweed jacket, and Harvey had opened his shirt to show three neat punctures across his chest.

Without much wanting to, but wanting to make sure, I felt round his back: no exit wounds. Then I started groping in his pocket.

Harvey said: 'No score. No identity card, no driver's licence. Either he didn't bring them, or somebody lifted them.'

They hadn't cleaned him out, though: he still had some coins in his pocket, a few bills and receipts, a maker's label on the jacket. The police wouldn't have any trouble identifying him. It would just take them a little time; maybe that was all the killer wanted.

I took out his key-ring: a few door and luggage keys, and also, hung by a smaller ring through a drilled hole, an empty brass cartridge case.

I turned it up to the torchlight. The percussion cap in the base showed it had been fired, and by something with a big, rectangular firing pin. The lettering round it had been worn faint by years in a pocket, but I could still read WRA – 9 mm. I passed the key-ring to Harvey.

He held it under the torchlight. 'Winchester Repeating Arms,' he interpreted. 'Guess they sent them over in the war. What the hell has a firing-pin like that?'

'Sten gun.'

'So he was in the Resistance, hey?'

I nodded. That wasn't a surprise: anybody who did this sort of work for Henri Merlin would likely have been in the Resistance with him. But it wasn't so likely he'd have had a Sten. In the movies, everybody in the Maquis has Stens; in the war, they were handed out to people who'd proved they knew they were going to hit something. For anybody else, a Sten is just the fastest way of wasting ammunition.

So he'd met somebody else who was good at getting up close and shooting only when he knew he would hit. I shrugged: the Resistance was a long time ago and we'd all of us forgotten a lot. But it didn't sound as if the Other Side, whoever they were, had forgotten quite so much.

I stuck the key-ring back in his pocket and stood up into the rain.

Harvey asked: 'Where do we take him?'

'We'll throw him in the sea. The tide's on its way out, and we can't dig in shingle or wet sand, anyway.'

'He'll probably get picked up.'

'Maybe. Or maybe not. Or maybe a long way from here. And after a few days in the sea they won't be able to time his death properly.'

He looked at me.

I said: 'I'm not trying to do the poor bastard out of a decent burial – it's just that he's a damn nuisance. If anything happens and they back-track us to this beach, I don't want them to findhim here.'

He nodded and we picked him up and started over the shingle bank. He was a hefty weight, making us slow and clumsy, but we finally made it down to the edge of the sea. We got our feet wet up to the knees and threw him a yard farther. He floated, of course, and for a moment it looked as if he didn't want to leave us. Then every receding wave dragged him a bit farther out than it pushed him in.

I led the way back up to the top of the bank, and looked back. There was no horizon: sea and sky just became a thick blackness at some range you couldn't even guess at -four hundred yards or four miles. On an off-chance, I pulled out my torch and flashed a Morse code OK seawards. Nothing flashed back. wasn't going to start worrying until he was at least an hour late. I only hoped he'd got enough sense to keep his yacht outside the three-mile limit, and use only a small boat in French waters.

I hadn't expected anything yet; with the rain, and the general confusion of setting up the whole deal, I It was going to be a long, wet wait. But no need for both of us. I said: 'You go back to the car. Come out and take over in a quarter of an hour.'

He didn't say anything, nor move. I flashed the torch on his face. He jerked his head away. 'Turn it off, damn it!'

I turned it off. 'Sorry.'

'Don't ever bund me like that. I need tosee.' His voice had a raw, jittery edge on it.

'Sorry,' I said again. 'You want to go and keep dry?'

'Okay.' He didn't move. Then he asked: 'You got a drink around?'

Thought you weren't drinking tonight?'

'I didn't think I was carrying stiffs around, either.'

Silly of me. I should have remembered that professional gunmen don't like being reminded of the end product of their work. I'd even made him do a post-mortem.

I said: 'Sorry,' for the third time. 'There's some Scotch in my case. Hold on here and I'll get it.'

I walked back and got it from the car. It was just a half-bottle of a brand I didn't much like but all I'd been able to get on the flight from London. I'd opened it on the train as being cheaper than railway prices, but it was still three-quarters full.

I came back up the bank, flashed at the sea, and then handed the bottle to Harvey.

He said: 'No thanks. Changed my mind.'

I glared at him through the darkness and rain. I was cold and wet and I hadn't exactly enjoyed finding and then dumping that body myself – andnow I was stuck with a gunman who couldn't even make up his bloody mind about something as simple as whether he wanted a drink or not.

Well, by now I certainly wanted one myself. I took a swig and then held the bottle out again. 'Have a sip. It's going to be a long ride.'