The little boy was lying in a heap by the side of the outhouse, shaking and shivering.
Catherine Cullanan had been woken by a whimpering, sobbing sound. Rolling away from her slumbering husband she had headed to the privy, twenty yards to the west of the house, thinking one of her children might have been taken ill. She bent down. This boy wasn’t one of hers, nor had she seem him before.
She knelt down beside the child and spoke to him in the soft lilting Gaelic that she always used at home with the family. He didn’t respond, didn’t even open his eyes. She picked him up in her warm, fleshy arms and he was as light as down. ‘Where did you come from?’ she said, changing tongues to English. ‘What’s your name, little man?’
There was no reply. She wasn’t sure if the boy was unconscious or asleep, but she did know that he was burning up and needed urgent care. She had lost a child of her own to scarlet fever three years back and knew what overheating and lack of responsiveness meant.
Her husband, Martin, was up when she got back in the house, so she put the little boy in their own bed and fetched water and a flannel to cool him down. Removing his soaking clothes, she discovered that he had no rash, so it wasn’t chickenpox or measles or scarlet fever. A mother needed to have a fair knowledge of all the childhood illnesses in such an isolated community.
‘Who is he?’ Martin asked, standing at her elbow as she tried to bring the boy’s temperature down.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Martin Cullanan.’
‘I reckon he came off that ship the Germans sank.’ He jutted his chin towards the Atlantic.
‘Then how did he get here? That ship was sunk at least a week ago now. He couldn’t have survived in those seas clinging to a piece of driftwood all that time.’
‘You’re right,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll get the lads out. There’ll be a lifeboat brought to shore somewhere on the island.’
‘And we’ll need a doctor from the mainland.’
‘I’ll fix that.’ He put a huge hand on her shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps I should fetch the priest, too, do you think?’
‘I don’t know, Martin. Look at him, I really don’t know.’ Catherine stopped flannelling the boy for a few moments and stood back. ‘But it wouldn’t do any harm to ask the father to say a prayer.’
*
Wilde looked at the gun. It wasn’t there to protect him.
‘As I said,’ Rowlands continued, removing his cigarette butt and tapping a long tail of ash into the breeze. ‘A bit of a pickle. I’m afraid I’m going to have to bind you and put you in the boot. What you Americans call the trunk, I believe. Damned uncomfortable, I realise, but it shouldn’t be for long. That will be down to you.’
Wilde felt an almost overpowering desire to punch Guy Rowlands’s self-satisfied face.
Rowlands caught the look and sucked his teeth. ‘You know, Wilde, if you cooperate, you can still get out of this intact.’
Wilde didn’t believe him for a moment. Once they realised he couldn’t help them, he would be dead. In the meantime, he must stay alive. ‘The boot it is, then.’
*
Charlie Farrow couldn’t run fast these days. Couldn’t run at all, truth be told. But then who could at seventy-eight years of age? ‘Bother,’ he said as they watched the bus disappear into the distance. ‘That’s a whole hour we’ve got to wait for the next one.’
‘We could go home and have another cuppa,’ suggested his wife.
It was a twelve-minute walk from home to the bus stop, which would mean another twenty-four minutes walking altogether. ‘No,’ he said, ‘let’s just stay here in the shelter. Nice enough day.’
Agatha patted his hand. ‘The sun always shines on our anniversary, Charlie. For me it does anyway.’
‘You’re as daft as a brush, Mrs Farrow. Always were.’
‘But you do love me, don’t you, Charlie?’
‘Of course I do. From the first moment I laid eyes on you.’ He looked at her frail, lined face and saw the girl of seventeen that he had married. In his eyes, she was as beautiful today as she always had been.
‘Then let’s just sit here holding hands like Darby and Joan.’
As they sat there, smiling at each other, a silver car with an open top pulled to a halt in front of the bus shelter. A handsome young man leant out. ‘Have you two missed your bus?’
‘I’m afraid we have. But we’re fine sitting here.’
‘I could give you a lift into town if you don’t mind squashing in – I’m heading in that direction.’
Charlie looked at Agatha. They had never been in a car before. ‘Be a bit of a treat for our anniversary, wouldn’t it?’ he said.
‘Hop in then.’ The young man leant across to open the passenger door. ‘I’ll take you for a spin!’
*
Eaton knew that Lydia Morris was not one to panic, even at the worst of times. But when she went next door to get a dry set of clothes for Tom and returned, her face drained, to tell Eaton that the house had been ransacked, drawers turned out and possessions scattered across the floor, it was clear to Eaton that she was close to the edge.
‘Look,’ said Eaton, doing his best to comfort her. ‘We know he’ll be back soon. The worst is over . . .’
His driver arrived. Eaton handed Lydia his pistol, patted her awkwardly on the arm and manoeuvered himself into the front passenger seat. As they drove off, he turned to see her in the rear windscreen, his gun dangling from her right hand. She looked defeated.
It took them fifteen minutes to drive out into the Fens north of Cambridge. Along the way, three police cars overtook them at high speed; they didn’t stop. When Eaton and his driver reached the remote telephone kiosk from which Wilde had called, he wasn’t there.
Perhaps the police in one of the three cars had picked him up. Using the telephone in the kiosk, Eaton put a call through to the headquarters in St Andrew’s Street, but they had no knowledge of Mr Wilde’s where-abouts. They were, however, investigating a suspicious death in the area, which was why he had seen the police cars.
With a heavy heart, Eaton called Lydia.
*
Wilde still had the cuff attached to one wrist, but he was now also bound hand and foot with cord and his mouth was gagged. He had been bundled in to the boot of Rowlands’ large black car like a sack of turnips. After a few moments, the car had pulled away. Breathing was not easy, and the ride was painfully jarring. Wilde could not judge which direction they were going and he wasn’t sure how long he was there, but he imagined it was an hour; time slows to a crawl when you’re in pain. The only thing he could be sure of was the deafening roar of the engine, the stink of the oil and fuel, and the poor quality of the roads they traversed.
The last part of the journey was the worst; it seemed to be over a rocky mile-long cart track. At last, the car pulled to a halt, the engine was switched off and he heard a door opening and slamming shut. Then the boot lid was pulled up and daylight flooded in. Wilde kept his eyes tight shut to avoid the glare. Bit by bit he was able to open them.
Rowlands was looking down at him.
‘Apologies, Wilde. That can have been no fun at all.’
Gagged, Wilde couldn’t respond.
‘Now then, the same rule applies. Cooperate with me and you have every chance of surviving this. I have a task to complete. I have no desire for unnecessary bloodshed.’
And there was that other face looking down at him, too. Marfield was idly twiddling his pistol, just as he had done while sitting on a rock in Spain while a cine camera whirred.
Together, the two men hauled him out, ungagged him and removed his leg bindings. His wrists remained tied.
Wilde looked around. They were outside an isolated house in remote farmland. From the position of the sun and his estimate of the time, he tried to work out basic bearings. To the west were hills: they were no longer in the Fens. The only sign of life was another car parked nearby, a silver BMW.
‘Where are we?’ No harm in asking.
‘Somewhere safe,’ Rowlands said. ‘Scream all you like and no one will hear you. We could fire a howitzer here and no one would know. But we don’t really want you to scream. We want you to talk.’
*
There was no one in evidence in the house. Outside, there was no livestock – no sign of a chicken, duck or pig, and no sheep or cattle in the nearby fields. This was not a working farm.
They sat in the kitchen. Wilde had his bound hands in front of him on the kitchen table. Marfield sat opposite him, still holding the pistol. Rowlands put his homburg on the table, then filled the kettle and put it on the range. The range was alight and there was a bottle of milk: this place couldn’t be totally deserted.
Rowlands took a seat at the head of the table. ‘The thing is,’ he said. ‘We know that Rosa Cortez brought over two copies of the film. One is now destroyed, so we need to find the second one. Marfield’s mother insists she hasn’t seen it – but what if the poor old Colonel did? It wouldn’t have been his cup of tea at all. He was a bit of a Trot, your father, wasn’t he, Marfield?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Marfield carelessly. ‘Left of centre . . .’
‘But if he had it, what did he do with it?’ Rowlands turned to Wilde.
‘Perhaps he destroyed it,’ Wilde suggested.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Marfield?’
‘When I confronted my mother, it was clear she hadn’t seen the film, but she blamed me for my father’s death. There were actually tears – not something that she has been known to shed before.’ Marfield laughed lightly. It was an unnerving sound. ‘So she must have been upset.’
‘Have you harmed her?’
‘My own mother? What do you take me for? No, of course I haven’t harmed her. In the end though, she did tell me that on the day of the old man’s death a woman had called early in the morning. She was carrying a case, and from Mummy’s description it sounded like Rosa Cortez. She asked to speak to the old man and they retreated to his study. They were only in there for twenty minutes or so. Mummy said she heard him shouting before the woman left without a word – and without her case.’
‘And you think the film was in it?’ Wilde asked.
‘And a projector. When my mother knocked on the study door, he told her to go away. Apparently he didn’t emerge for a couple of hours. Eventually he found her in the kitchen and demanded brown wrapping paper. She provided it, and string, and he went off again to his study.
‘At midday she called him for lunch, but he said it would have to wait, and that he was going to the Post Office to send a parcel. When he came back – without the parcel – he shut himself in his study again, wrote a note and killed himself with his shotgun. When she found him, there was a projector in the study she had never seen before – but no film. So the question is, Professor: to whom did he send the film?’
‘Your wife?’
‘No. Rosa Cortez took that copy to her.’
‘A friend, perhaps – or the police?’
‘Possible, of course. But here’s the interesting part – my mother says he sent the parcel to you. Apparently, my father had often remarked that you were the sort of man he would have liked me to become.’ Marfield snorted.
‘I suppose I should be flattered, but that’s no reason to believe he sent the film to me.’
‘I agree. But you see, Wilde, she says she saw your name and the college address on the parcel as he was carrying it out of the house. So where is it?’