"Can I borrow your car?" I asked Ian over breakfast.
"How long for?" he said.
"I don't know," I said. "I've got to go to an ATM to get some money for a start. And I might be out all morning, or even all day."
"I need to go to the supermarket," he said. "I've run out of food."
"I'll buy you some," I said. "After all, I'm the one who's eaten all your cereal."
"All right, then," he said, smiling. "I'd much rather stay here and watch the racing from Sandown on the telly."
"Do we have any runners?" I asked, surprising myself by the use of the word we.
"Three," Ian said. "Including one in the Artillery Gold Cup."
"Who's riding it?" I asked. The Royal Artillery Gold Cup was restricted to amateur riders who were serving, or who had served, in the armed forces of the United Kingdom.
"Some chap with a peculiar name," he said, somewhat unhelpfully.
"Which peculiar name in particular?"
"Hold on," he said. He dug into a pile of papers on a table by the television. "I know it's here somewhere." He went on looking. "Here." He triumphantly held up a sheet of paper. "Everton."
"Everton who?" I asked.
"Major Jeremy Everton."
"Never heard of him," I said. It was not that surprising. There were more than fourteen thousand serving officers in the regular army, and more still in the Territorials, to say nothing of those who had already left the service.
Ian laughed. "And he's never heard of you either."
"How do you know?" I asked.
He laughed again. "I don't."
I laughed back. "So can I borrow your car?"
"Where's yours?"
"In Oxford," I said truthfully. "The head gasket has blown," I lied. "It's in a garage."
I thought that my Jaguar was probably still in the multistory parking lot in Oxford city center, and I had decided to leave it there. To move it would be to advertise, to those who might care, that I wasn't hung up dead in a deserted stable.
"OK. You can borrow it," he said, "provided you're insured."
I should be, I thought, through the policy on my own car, provided they didn't object to my driving with an artificial foot.
"I am," I said confidently. "And I'll fill it with fuel for you."
"That would be great," Ian said. He tossed me the keys. "The handbrake doesn't work too well. Leave it in gear if you park on a hill."
I caught the keys. "Thanks."
"Will you be back here tonight?" he asked.
"If you'll have me," I said. "Do you fancy Indian?"
"Yeah," he said. "Good idea. Get me a chicken balti and a couple of onion bhajis. And some naan." He spoke with the assurance of a man who dined often from the village takeaway menus. "And I'll have some raita on the side."
It was only fair, I thought, that I bought the dinner.
"OK," I said. "About seven-thirty?"
"Make it seven," he said. "I go down to the Wheelwright on a Friday."
"Seven it is, then. See you later."
I slipped out of Ian's flat while it was still dark, and as quietly as possible, I drove his wreck of a Vauxhall Corsa down the drive and out into the village.
Newbury was quiet at seven o'clock on a Friday morning, although Sainsbury's parking lot was already bustling with early-morning shoppers eager to beat the weekend rush for groceries.
I parked in a free space between two other cars, but I didn't go into the supermarket. Instead, I walked in the opposite direction, out of the parking lot, across the A339 divided highway and into the town center.
Forty-six Cheap Street was just one amongst the long rows of shops that lined both sides of the road, most of them with flats or offices above. The mailbox shop that occupied the address opened at eight-thirty and closed at six, Monday to Friday, and from nine until one on Saturdays. It said so on the door.
If, as usual, my stepfather had mailed the weekly package to the blackmailer, the one containing the two thousand pounds, on Thursday afternoon, then the package he sent yesterday should arrive at 46 Cheap Street sometime today and be placed in mailbox 116, ready for collection.
Mailbox 116 was visible through the front window of the shop, and I intended to watch it all day to see if anyone arrived to make a collection. However, I could hardly stand outside on the pavement, scrutinizing every customer who came along. For a start, they would then be able to see me, and I certainly didn't want that to happen.
That was why I had come into Newbury so early, so that I could make a full reconnaissance of the area and determine my tactics to fit in with the local conditions and pattern of life.
At first glance there seemed to be two promising locations from which to observe the comings and goings at number forty-six without revealing my presence. The first was an American-style coffee shop about thirty yards away, and the second was the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant that was directly opposite.
I decided that the restaurant was the better of the two, not only because it was in such a good position but because there was a curtain hanging from a brass bar halfway down the window, behind which I could easily hide while keeping watch through the gap in the middle. All I needed was to secure the correct table. A notice hanging on the restaurant door told me that it opened for lunch at noon. Until then I would have to make do with the coffee shop, which began serving in half an hour, at eight o'clock.
I wanted to be well in place before the mailbox shop opened. I had no idea at what time the post was delivered, but if I'd been the blackmailer, I wouldn't have left the package lying about for long, not with that much money in it.
I went around the corner and onto Market Street and found a bank with an ATM. I drew out two hundred pounds and used some of it to buy a newspaper at the newsagent's on the corner. It wasn't that I needed something to read-doing that might cause me to miss seeing the collector-but I did need something to hide behind while sitting in the large windows of the coffee shop.
At eight-thirty sharp, I watched from behind my newspaper as a man and a woman arrived, unlocked the front door of the mailbox shop and went in. From my vantage point I could just about see box number 116, but the reflection from the window didn't make it very easy. As far as I could tell, neither of the two arrivals opened that box, or any other, for that matter, but as they were the shop staff, they wouldn't have had to. They would have had access to all the boxes from behind.
I drank cups of coffee and glasses of orange juice and hoped that I looked to all the world like a man idling away the morning, reading his newspaper. On two occasions one of the coffee-shop staff came over and asked me if I needed refills, and both times I accepted. I didn't want them asking me to move on, but I was becoming worried about my level of liquid intake, and the inevitable consequences. I could hardly ask one of the staff to watch the mailbox for me while I nipped to the loo.
By ten o'clock, I had drunk nearly three large cups of coffee, as well as three orange juices, and I was becoming desperate. It reminded me of the agony I'd suffered in the stable, but on this occasion I wasn't chained to a wall. I left my newspaper and coffee cup on the table by the window to save my place, and rushed to the gents.
Nothing outside appeared to have changed in the short time I was away. The street had become gradually busier as the morning wore on, but so far, I'd not recognized anyone. I quickly rescanned the faces in front of me so as not to miss a familiar one, but there were none.
At ten to eleven I did spot someone coming slowly down the street that I recognized. I didn't know the man himself, but I did know his business. It was the postman. He was pushing a small four-wheeled bright red trolley, and he was stopping at each shop and doorway to make his deliveries. He went into the mailbox shop with a huge armful of mail held together by rubber bands. From the distance I was away, I couldn't tell whether my stepfather's package had been amongst it or not, but I suspected it had. And the blackmailer would surely assume so.