An hour and a half later, grateful for the light traffic on the road, Will turned off the engine and peered through the windscreen at the thatched roof of the pub, before climbing out and locking the vehicle.
The pub was an impressive building, set back from the road with a wide expanse of lawn leading from its front entrance down to the road, the car park off to the left, separated from the garden by a towering privet hedge.
Will pushed through a wooden gate set into the hedge and made his way along a gravel path that ran around the side of the building to the front door.
The pub appeared to be well-maintained and flourishing from its local patronage. The thatched roof was in good condition, window sills were freshly painted and baskets of early geraniums hung from steel brackets set into the whitewashed brickwork.
Across the grassed area an assortment of wooden benches and tables had been arranged and Will pulled out a copy of the photograph he’d stopped to have printed out at an office supplies store he’d spotted on his journey from the motel.
He stopped and held it up, trying to gauge where the mysterious man had sat, until he realised the idea was futile – the landlord had obviously relocated the outdoor furniture several times in the intervening years to allow the grass to grow back.
He shoved the photograph back into his pocket, checked his watch, and then trudged into the pub.
As he pushed open the door, the familiar aroma of real ale and a hint of wood smoke filled his senses. Classical music filtered through concealed speakers, and he blinked while his eyes adjusted to the subdued interior.
A man appeared at a doorway behind the bar, wiping his hands on a tea towel.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘What can I get for you?’
Will made his way to the polished wooden bar and glanced at the clips fastened to the four beer pumps set into the surface.
‘What do the locals drink?’
‘This one,’ said the barman, tapping the top of a clip. ‘It’s our most popular beer.’
‘I’ll have half a pint, thanks.’
Will pulled out one of the cushioned bar stools, sat, and lowered his backpack to the floor between his feet.
Handing Will his drink and taking his money, the man turned to the till, then passed him his change.
‘Just travelling through?’ he asked.
Will took a gulp of his beer. ‘Sort of,’ he said. He put down his glass and reached into his pocket, unfolded the copy of the photograph, and pushed it across the bar. ‘Were you here when this was taken?’
The landlord reached over and picked up the photo, turning it under the light from the overhang of the bar.
He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was the photographer.’ He flapped the print between his fingers. ‘The local newspaper bought the print off me because their photographer couldn’t make it.’
Will held out his hand and introduced himself.
‘Len Wilson,’ said the landlord. He slid the photograph back towards Will. ‘What’s your interest in that? Looking up one of the darts team members, are you?’
‘Actually, I was wondering if you knew who the man in the background is,’ said Will. ‘The one sitting on his own, there.’
He jabbed at the image.
Len reached into the top pocket of his shirt, extracted a pair of reading glasses, and slipped them on before picking up the photograph once more. He grunted, and then peered over his glasses at Will, his brow creased.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘What could you possibly want with him?’
‘Do you know him?’ exclaimed Will. ‘What’s his name? Do you know where I can find him?’
Len handed the photograph back. ‘Go and see Reverend Swift up at the church,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘There’s a footpath from the car park you could use, but you’re probably better off driving there – otherwise you’ll miss him; he usually heads over to the next village for a committee meeting this time of the week.’
‘Okay,’ said Will, draining his glass. ‘But what am I asking him?’
‘Tell him I sent you, and that you’re looking for Colin Avery,’ said Len. ‘He’ll be able to point you in the right direction.’
‘Great – thanks,’ said Will. He grabbed his backpack off the floor and pushed his empty glass towards the landlord. ‘And thanks for the drink.’
‘Any time.’
***
Will slowed the car and steered it through a gap in the stone wall that separated the church grounds from the lane.
As he applied the handbrake and climbed out, a man appeared at the main door to the eighteenth century building, the familiar white collar of the clergy encircling his neck. He held out his hand as Will approached.
‘Will Fletcher? Len phoned to say you were dropping by. I’m Timothy Swift.’
‘Thanks for waiting for me.’
The vicar glanced at his watch. ‘No problem. I don’t have to leave for another twenty minutes. I understand you have a photograph you’d like to show me?’
‘I do.’
Will pulled his backpack off his shoulder and reached inside one of the outer pockets. ‘I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about him.’ He tapped his finger on the man sat at the pub’s picnic table. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The religious man sighed. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He turned away, and then glanced over his shoulder. ‘Follow me.’
He led the way round the corner of the church, pushed open a gate to the churchyard, and led Will through carefully tended plots.
The graveyard spread outwards from the back of the church, a muddled collection of stones and tombs jostling for space under the trees that dotted the landscape.
A lone blackbird sang to itself, perched on a moss-laden headstone, then spotted Will and flew away, its scolding tones berating him from a hidden branch.
As he followed, Will’s heart sank. With each step farther from the church, the head stones became less moss-covered, and posies of flowers began to appear as epitaphs started to reflect the current century.
The vicar stopped at the end of a row, under a twisted yew tree, then leaned down and pulled away the long grass that had covered the base of the head stone. He crouched down, crossed himself, and then looked up at Will.
‘Here he is.’
Will let the breath he’d been holding hiss between his teeth.
Shit.
His eyes skimmed the words on the stone.
Colin Avery, 1961-2013 Friend, ally, soldier of fortune.
‘Soldier of fortune?’
‘He was a mercenary,’ the vicar snapped.
Will jumped at the venom in the man’s voice, and waited for him to continue.
The man stood, stretched his back, and leaned a hand on the top of the head stone. ‘I managed to glean some information about him from the few friends of his who turned up for his funeral,’ he explained. ‘His mother used to live in the village – they’d moved over from Northern Ireland in the late nineties. I think he’d been in some sort of trouble.’ He frowned, and then shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t talk about it, and on the few occasions I saw Colin at the pub – never at church, mind – he had a sort of look about him. I was too scared to ask.’
He looked away, embarrassed.
‘How did you find out he was a mercenary?’
‘It’s what got him killed,’ said the vicar, slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here.’
Will took the page, unfolded it and quickly read the photocopied news report.
It seemed life in the village had been too quiet for Avery after his tumultuous youth in Belfast, and he’d disappeared to the Balkans to fight with whoever would pay him the most money.
Will stopped reading, and passed the page back. ‘I don’t understand – that was over twenty years ago.’ His eyes flickered to the death date engraved on the stone. ‘It says there he only died a while back.’
‘He moved from one conflict to the next,’ said the vicar, his disgust apparent. ‘Until, one day, his luck ran out – if you can call it that. He decided to go back to his old skill of bomb-making, except the group he was working for got the ingredients mixed up. It blew up in his face.’
The man’s gaze fell back to the headstone. ‘His poor mother died two weeks after burying her son.’ He pointed to the neighbouring stone, then shook his head and began to shuffle back towards the church. ‘Such a waste.’
Will took one last glance at the grave, before hurrying after the hunched form of the vicar. ‘Why do you think he became a mercenary?’
The man stopped when he reached the gate, and opened it for Will to pass through, before speaking.
‘I suppose he just liked killing.’