Andrew Morson, QC, lived in a seventeenth-century rectory. If Serrailler had been in any other mood he would have walked round to the front and spent some minutes admiring the rose-coloured brick, the barley-sugar chimneys, the grassy path that led through a yew hedge to the side gate of the small church, whose tower had four golden angels flying from each corner, now catching the late-evening sunlight to flare and flash like beacons across the meadows beyond. It was everything he could have guessed it would be, the home of a privileged, high-earning, hard-working barrister whose cases involved shipping, commerce and company rights rather than petty crime.
Will Fernley led him round to the back door. They were filthy, hot, exhausted, footsore, and suffering from a surfeit of one another’s company. Whatever the architecture of the Grade II listed house, Serrailler could not have cared less about it.
‘One look at us and the housekeeper will press the alarm.’
‘She knows me. I’ve been here.’
‘Not in your present state you haven’t.’
‘Mr Morson said you might arrive any time.’ The housekeeper was younger than Simon had expected and welcomed them as pleasantly as if they were dressed in black tie. She asked no questions, chatted about the beautiful weather and led them up to spacious rooms on the second floor.
‘There are some clothes if you need them … though –’ she looked Simon up and down – ‘they might be a bit on the small size for a man of your height. I’ll see if I can do better but it will be tomorrow now. Mr Fernley, you know your way around the house. It’s getting on for half past eight, so if you’d like supper in an hour I’ll see to that. My husband’s about too.’
‘Frankie,’ Will said when she had gone. ‘What Lynn doesn’t do, Frankie does. There’s the odd other person helping in the garden or the house but these two are the linchpins.’
‘Whose is the Audi at the back?’
‘Theirs. Andrew looks after them very, very well. That way they stay loyal and there’s no gossip around the countryside.’
‘What sort of gossip?’
Will looked at him. ‘You know,’ he said.
The bathwater was scalding and after soaking in it for twenty minutes, and then showering to wash his hair and cool off, Simon tried on the underclothes, shirt, cotton drill trousers and light pullover left out on his bed. Lynn had been right – the trousers were a few inches short of his ankles and the pullover only came to his waist, so he left it behind. The rest were not a bad fit and he went downstairs, following Will, in loose jeans, a polo shirt and yellow trainers. Simon wore navy-blue deck shoes which would give him blisters if he walked more than fifty yards.
The drinks cupboard was well stocked and the supper straightforward – T-bone steaks, apple pie, cheese. They cleared everything, plus a bottle and a half of burgundy. By the time they were sprawled on sofas waiting for the late-night news they were mellow and drowsy and both had kicked off their footwear.
There was no mention of the breakout from Stitchford, on any channel, or on the local station.
‘Odd or what?’ Will looked across the room at Simon, who had his eyes half closed.
‘Odd. I think maybe they don’t want to put the wind up everyone. Doesn’t help.’
Will said nothing.
‘Do you want this left on, watch a film or something?’
‘Do you?’
Simon shook his head and pressed the remote. The room was lit by a couple of lamps, and the windows were open, letting in the grassy night air. Will poured himself another measure of Laphroaig and offered the bottle to Simon, who poured a larger one.
‘It’s beginning to fade,’ Will said, plumping the sofa cushions noisily before lying back on them. ‘The ditch. The thistles.’
‘The thirst.’ ‘The sweat.’ ‘The smell.’
‘Before long, it will be as if –’
‘– it was all a dream.’
‘Nightmare.’
‘What’s your plan, Will?’
‘Another malt. Sleep.’
‘Long run.’
‘Not sure. Hole up here for a bit. Can’t go home – they’ll be watching the place.’
‘Where is home?’
Will looked at him between half-closed eyes. ‘I told you.’
‘Right.’
‘You?’
‘Countryside about ten miles from Lafferton. Know it?’ ‘Yup.’
‘Friends there?’
‘Nearby.’
Don’t push it, Simon thought. ‘You like it there?’
‘I do actually. So long as I get right away from time to time.’ ‘Where’s that?’
‘Oh, you know …’ He gave Will a look. ‘Somewhere hot and exotic.’
‘Thailand.’
‘Thailand. Bali. Singapore.’
‘Nice. But you don’t always have to go so far to find what you want.’
‘Safer though.’
Will shook his head. ‘What’s your username?’ he asked quickly.
Simon’s heart gave a thump. ‘As if …’
‘No, you’re right. All right, name of the group.’
‘You heard me. Anyway, why do you need to know? Thought you had your own arrangements.’
‘Yup.’ He took another mouthful of whisky. ‘Andrew’s got cigars here somewhere.’
‘No thanks, make me wheeze.’
‘What, asthma?’
Simon nodded and pretended to sip his malt but took only a little. He was drowsy, the drink had gone to his head faster than usual. That was a state in which he would either let his own guard down or miss something when Fernley did.
‘Very, very pleasant,’ Will said sleepily.
‘It is.’
‘Nice to have a very rich hospitable friend.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Hospitable?’
‘Rich.’
‘Family is.’
‘There you go then.’
‘You?’
‘So-so.’
‘Thing is, Johnno …’
‘What?’
‘Forgotten.’
‘Sleep.’
It was just after midnight by the time Simon was in bed. He had the curtains and windows open onto the garden, because of the sweetness of the air but also because he could see the reflection of Will’s lamp. He waited for twenty minutes after it had gone out, and then took the precaution of locking his door, although that would take some explaining away if Will did come round.
Simon had found an old but freshly laundered T-shirt and boxers on his bed. He put them on, then went back to the door and listened. He turned the key and opened the door a chink. Listened again. Nothing so much as creaked. The old house and all its wooden staircases and floors must have finished its settling for the night.
Another ten minutes and he sent an ‘AM OK’ message via the watch then he went to lean on the windowsill and looked out onto the moonlit garden, the old trees beyond, a bank climbing up into the darkness. The smell of the cool night earth was soothing. He had the feeling that another day or two with Fernley would get him some serious information, names, venues, even something about the security technology behind their very sophisticated Internet ring, and in any case, his senses were alert to the vibes of this house. He would pick up what he could here, too, and from Morson when he eventually arrived. Morson … He picked up the watch again. Sent another message. ‘Check Andrew Morson QC.’
The church clock chimed. His watch was slow. It was clearly not designed primarily as a timepiece. He adjusted it to a minute past the hour, got into bed, and did not wake until eleven the next morning.