Billy Watson, accompanied by Frank, had gone to visit Bronson at his flat the previous evening. Unlike McGuigan and Dawson, they did not try the buzzers of his neighbours, essentially because they had no desire to attract attention to themselves.
They were, however, undeterred. On the instruction of Billy, Frank waited in his car adjacent to the church building, all through the night. There was no sign of Bronson. He neither entered nor left. The flat looked out onto the main street. The curtains were open, the lights weren’t switched on, there appeared to be no indication of movement. The flat was unoccupied.
“Unless he’s dead,” said Frank.
“He might be,” replied Billy. “Which would be unfortunate.”
Billy had arrived to meet him at seven that morning. They were both sitting in the car, Frank in the driver’s seat.
“I need to sleep,” said Frank. “He’s gone. If he’s got any sense, he won’t come back.”
Billy shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t think so. His life is here. I think he’s scared. He needs time to think. To plan. The one thing you need to understand with people like Bronson Chapel – they’re educated. And they live educated lives. Which is their flaw. They underestimate people. People like us. He won’t fully comprehend the situation he is in, nor the measures we will go to.”
“You threatened him with an acid facelift, if I recall.”
Billy nodded, smiling. “But he doesn’t believe such a thing will ever happen, because in his world, such a thing doesn’t compute. I reckon he’ll lie low, maybe for a week, maybe two, then reappear, and attempt to bluster his way back into his normal existence. He’s a lawyer after all, working in a fancy law firm.”
“So we wait?”
“Not at all. He has another place. He’s mentioned it to me, though he may have forgotten. He called it his ‘boat house’.”
“You think he’s there.”
“Possibly.”
“You know where it is?”
“I make it my business to know everything about everybody. Go home, Frankie. Sleep. Eat. Then get yourself ready. Pack some tools. We’re going on a trip.”