Mortal Ghost impressionist painting—another, almost foreign city. But then Jesse reached the bridge and recognised the spot where he’d slept, and a bit further on, the place he’d met Sarah. He hadn’t been back since that morning in July. If he’d had time to think about it, he might have found something fitting—ironic even—in the coincidence. Only there was no time for him to reflect (and neat solutions were a little too contrived for his taste, for his brand of subtlety). The police were nearly upon them. The bridge was indeed several hundred years old, with cracked and lumpy tarmac covering the once glittering paving blocks of local sandstone. The five-span structure was high enough to allow for most river traffic, its centre span nearly twice as long as the side spans, and considerably higher. Stone cutwaters protected the piers. But this was not a main thoroughfare for motor vehicles. Instead of a crash barrier, a simple iron guard rail had been set above the original parapets—the whole not much more than waist high. As a concession to modern needs, a narrow walkway, too meagre to be called a pavement, had been added in recent years, but the bridge was still wide enough for two-way traffic—in a pinch. Jesse rode straight to the middle of the bridge. There were no pedestrians, and no cars, although a dirty white pickup—a Renault, he thought—and a delivery van could be seen approaching along the road on the opposite bank; and close behind, police cars racing to the scene. Jesse smiled in satisfaction. ‘Get down, Sarah.’ Sarah sprang from the bike. Jesse switched off the engine but left the key in the ignition. Then he too dismounted, holding the Harley upright while he scanned the bridge. ‘The kickstand,’ Sarah reminded him. He grabbed his rucksack and slung it over a shoulder. ‘Remember, do exactly as I say,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to stand by and let you—’ But Sarah didn’t have time to complete her sentence. Jesse whirled her around, threw his arm across her neck, and held the pistol to her head. Then he dragged her a few metres from the motorcycle. He couldn’t tell if they were being observed with binoculars or a scope. Sarah was too stunned to protest. ‘Stand in front of me with your back to the wall,’ he said. Jesse released her for a moment as he straddled the cast iron rail, his shoulders sloping under the weight of his rucksack. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned her head to gaze at him, his face pale—ethereal almost—and his hair wild and wilful and beautiful as ever in the early light. A brisk breeze off the river stirred it, and an incongruous thought swept through Sarah’s mind—I should cut it again. Sudden tears misted her eyes. ‘Sarah,’ he said—an admonition, a plea . . . a promise? Against her better judgement, Sarah blinked away her tears and did as he asked. She had run out of ideas. Why didn’t he tell her what lunatic trick he was about to pull? One thing she was sure of—he would never hurt her, or let her come to harm. Leaning against him, she shut her eyes and allowed herself to drift back to the darkroom, to remember the last quiet minutes they’d had alone. His arms around her, his lips, his skin . . . ‘Sarah! Stay with me now.’ Jesse’s voice was low and urgent. She was swaying a little, and he couldn’t afford for her to collapse or panic at a crucial moment. ‘I know you’re tired. Overwhelmed by everything. It won’t be much longer now. I promise.’ He looked quickly left and right, assessing the risk. But what did it matter if they saw? He knew what they would assume. He brought his arm round her neck again. The gun rested on her breast. He bent his head, lifted her hair with his hand, and brushed his lips along the nape of her neck. ‘I promise,’ he repeated in an entirely different tone. He could feel her shiver. ‘Sarah?’ he asked. ‘I’m all right.’ Jesse transferred the gun to his left hand. The parapet was broad enough for him to kneel. He brought his other leg over the guard rail, finding a position he could hold
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