Page One.....

Gillespie, years later, remembered the moment when the RSM shook the photographs out of the buff manila envelope and spread them on the desk. The photographs were black and white and on the back they carried the stamp of the Military Police photographer. They were blow-ups from the original negs but the grain was fine and the detail was excellent.

The RSM had pushed a couple of the photographs across the desk towards Gillespie.McMullan lay where he'd fallen, a night's growth of stubble on his chin, his mouth slightly open, gravel scrapes on his cheek, a neat black hole where his left eye had once been. Something wet and dark had pooled on the dusty tarmac beside his head. A chalk circle ringed the spot where they'd recovered the single bullet.

In the absence of any comment from Gillespie, the RSM had leaned slowly back in his chair and arched one eyebrow. At the time, Gillespie had interpreted the movement as interrogative, the beginnings of that long process which might well prove inconclusive but would doubtless return Gillespie to civilian life. Only later did he realise that it was a quiet gesture of applause. Clean shot. Extreme range. Difficult conditions. Terrible light.

After a while, in total silence, the RSM had tided the photographs into a neat pile and slid them back inside the envelope. He'd sealed the envelope, made a note in pencil on the top left hand corner, and laid it carefully to rest in the adjutant's wire basket. Then he'd leaned back again, looking Gillespie in the eye. His voice, edged with regret, had the tone of someone saying goodbye. "Shame you're such a difficult bastard...." he'd murmured, "we might have done something here."