The XJ Portfolio had dark privacy glass in the windows and sumptuous cashew leather seats. In the rear of the vehicle, Adam Finch folded his Financial Times neatly and used a touch-screen remote control mounted in the centre armrest to select BBC News 24 on his digital TV. He checked his watch and smiled. He’d catch the headlines at the top of the hour.
Ten minutes later, the Jaguar turned left off the main road and passed sedately through cast-iron gates with a name inscribed upon them in bold gold lettering: The Mansion House. The familiar sound of tyres on gravel caused Adam Finch to look out of the window in time to see his gardener extinguish a cigarette, pocketing what was left of it.
Adam Finch hated filthy habits. He had banned smoking on his estate and made a mental note to hit Townsend where it would hurt the most – in his next pay packet. Warmed by this thought, he relaxed back in his seat for a further hundred metres along a narrow driveway bordered on either side by willow trees planted by his great-great-grandfather. The Jaguar glided gently to a halt directly opposite the front door of his Georgian country house. Finch waited for the rear door to open.
‘Will I be required later, sir?’ the chauffeur asked him as he emerged from the car.
‘No, Pearce. That’ll be all for today.’
Finch’s housekeeper arrived to greet him, a little out of breath. ‘Welcome home, Mr Finch,’ she said, taking his coat and umbrella.
‘Thank you, Mrs P.’ He didn’t make eye contact with the woman, just strode off into the house, scooping his mail from a silver tray on the hall table on his way in. Pausing a second, he moved a blue flower vase a centimetre to the left before proceeding along the hallway, shouting over his shoulder as he walked. ‘I’ll take my tea in my office.’
‘Very good, sir,’ came the reply.
Finch’s leather-soled shoes squeaked as he moved swiftly across the highly polished parquet flooring, through a set of double doors and into his study. He sat down at his desk, scanning the surface carefully, making minor adjustments to favoured items: repositioning a photograph of his late wife, Beth, and daughter, Jessica, a little further away; an inkwell a tad nearer; his fountain pens more evenly spread. His eyes slid over each item. Then he turned the pen clips until all four were exactly in line with one another. Only when he was perfectly satisfied did he log on to his computer.
Finch spent half an hour reading and replying to emails and then turned his attention to the post he’d collected on his way in. Using an antique paper knife Beth had bought him on their fifth wedding anniversary he slit open the first envelope and took out the letter contained inside. The news wasn’t good. His investments had tumbled to an all-time low. An annual statement from his stockbroker confirmed his worst fears.
The recession was still not over.
Finch didn’t look up as Mrs Partridge arrived with his tea. She set the cup and saucer down on a coaster, turning the handle to a precise angle so that he could easily pick it up. As she left the room again, he sat back in his chair, a man with all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. In his entire life, he couldn’t remember a year quite like this one.
A small brown envelope caught his eye. It looked conspicuous among the rest of his mail, the address rudely handwritten in thick green pen. Finch set his cup back down and lifted the envelope off the desk, turning it over and over in his hands, disgusted by the childlike writing, by the sheer audacity of whoever had sent it. Probably a local from Kirby Ayden; most definitely nobody he knew.
Finch bristled. He’d received several ill-considered pleas for employment on his estate in recent months. Nothing short of begging letters he tore up the moment they arrived. He was about to disregard this one too when Beth’s voice jumped into his head: ‘Adam! Don’t be so mean . . . we must embrace the locals, not push them away.’ Her face beamed out from the photograph on his desk, her eyes teasing him. ‘Your ancestors have employed people from the village for hundreds of years on the estate. What harm would it do to show a little humanity?’
Poppycock!
But Beth’s smile seemed broader than ever.
Finch sighed. He still missed his wife terribly, had remained celibate and sober since her death many years before. Even from her grave, she could twist him round her little finger, persuade him to do the right thing. And, as always, he relented. Slicing through the envelope flap, he shook out the contents. A frown formed on his brow as a jagged piece of paper fluttered out, landing face down on his desk. He flipped it over with the knife. What he saw made him reach for the phone.