The Reckoning by Rennie Airth

school), he paused to watch as the flashing oars sent the arrow-shaped craft speeding upriver towards him.
    As he called to the dog by name, he heard a noise in the bushes behind him and looked round.
    â€˜Hello! I didn’t know there was anyone there.’
    A figure wearing a dark coat and cap had emerged quietly from the shadow of the tangled greenery behind him. Tom narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the face beneath the peak. Then his gaze dropped and he stared in disbelief at the dull metal shape gripped in the gloved hand. It was pointed at him.
    â€˜Don’t move.’ The quiet voice when he heard it was yet another shock. ‘Do as I say. Face the front.’
    Speechless, Tom obeyed. He felt the cold touch of steel on his neck.
    â€˜There’s something you need to know before you die.’ The voice had a terrible calmness. ‘Something you need to hear. Listen now.’
    Tom tried to speak, but the enormity of what was happening – of what was about to happen – robbed him of all words. Instead he sat rigid as the voice murmured in his ear. Through tear-filled eyes he saw that the boat was drawing closer. He heard the splash of the oars in the water, the cry of the cox, yet none of it seemed real. There was only the voice in his ear . . . the terrible words.
    â€˜Do you believe in God?’
    The finality of the question pierced him like an arrow.
    â€˜ . . . Yes . . .’ It was all he could do to utter the single word.
    â€˜Then make your peace with him.’
    He heard a metallic click behind him. The sound was repeated. In desperation he tried to act, half-rising to his feet, thinking perhaps to throw himself to one side, to make one final effort, but he had hardly moved when a white light exploded in his head and all was lost.

9
    â€˜T HERE – UP THE PATH where that crowd is. That’s where it happened.’
    They had just crossed the river onto a towpath that ran alongside it and Morgan pointed ahead of them. A detective inspector with Oxford CID, he was in his late thirties, about Billy’s age, with dark-red hair and foxlike features.
    â€˜Singleton was sitting on a bench. He was shot from behind through the back of the neck. It was starting to get dark and nobody saw it happen – or no one we’ve found as yet. But a couple of people heard the shot.’
    They had already spoken that day. On instructions from his chief constable, Morgan had rung the Yard first thing in the morning to notify them of the killing, and shortly afterwards Billy had been on his way to Oxford. With the roads mercifully free of traffic, thanks to the petrol restrictions, he had reached the city before midday to find Morgan awaiting him at the central police station.
    â€˜I hope this isn’t a wasted journey, boyo.’ Morgan’s Welsh accent had a musical lilt. ‘But we live a quiet life down here. We don’t go around blowing each other’s heads off; not as a rule. I’d lay odds this is your man.’ He handed Billy a sealed envelope. ‘Here’s the slug we recovered: if ballistics can match it to thetwo you’ve got in London, then Bingo, I say! Oh, and by the way, he left us a billet-doux this time, your shooter.’
    â€˜A what . . . ?’ Billy was weighing the envelope in his hand.
    By way of an answer, and with a conjuror’s flourish, Morgan had produced a small object from his pocket, which proved, on examination, to be an unexpended bullet, but one whose copper jacket had been painted black.
    â€˜It’s a nine-millimetre all right. I’ve had it dusted for prints, but it was clean.’
    â€˜Where did you find it?’
    â€˜On the ground behind the bench. I’ll show you when we get out there.’
    â€˜Why is it painted black?’ Billy was examining the object. ‘I’ve never seen that before.’
    â€˜Neither have I.’
    â€˜What does it mean?’
    â€˜Search me. You