Jack was muttering something about elevenses—and on a slack day his sense of eleven o’clock seemed to jump forward in time—when the telephone cut him off midsentence and he put a call through to Troy from his sister-in-law, Cid, at Mimram.
“Freddie, you’ve seen today’s Express? Rod’s gone into a tailspin. Canceled all his engagements, called parliament, and told them he’s ill. I’ve never seen him like this before—not when Viktor died, not when your father died. He is grief stricken.”
“I’ll take the day off—there’s bugger all on my desk. I’ll shuffle it off onto Jack and be at Mimram by lunchtime.”
It was high time he retrieved his mother’s Lagonda. He went round to Bassington Street, stuck a note through Anna’s letter-box, opened up the car with the spare keys and set off north. He’d not been to Mimram since the day he had scrounged loaves and fishes to feed Voytek—and that had been in his tatty, slow Bullnose Morris.
He let the Lagonda rip. For once to drive suited his mood and to drive at 100 mph suited his mood even better.