He tried to settle his thoughts by recalling memories that meant something to him — whether they were good or bad.
At home in London, cooking pheasant breasts and smoked bacon in a dry cider casserole while listening to Andrés Segovia’s classical guitar recitals; in a scuba suit while drifting peacefully in the deep, sun-penetrated azure waters of the Red Sea alongside wrasse, tuna, turtles, and a British Vanguard — class Trident nuclear submarine; watching an American girl called Kelly smile and relieve the butterflies in his stomach when she said yes after he asked her out for a first date in high school; standing on top of a snow-covered mountain in the Scottish Highlands and feeling like he was in heaven, even though he was barefoot and in red overalls and being pursued by an MI6 training staff hunter-killer force; being kicked in the head by high school jocks in his class who said he was a faggot for playing viola; and being a sandy-haired and freckled seven-year-old, sitting on a beach and scraping out whelks from their shells, and bursting into tears as he saw his mother cry because she was so sad that two years earlier Dad had been captured in Iran and was presumed dead.
These and many other thoughts ran through his mind as he continued moving through Chinatown.
He broke left into a dark, narrow alleyway full of trash bins, with fire escapes on the adjacent building walls. He was relieved to see that no one was in here, and moved three-quarters of the way toward the far end. Crouching down, he stared at a part of the wall where a year ago he’d loosened a brick in case of need. He’d done similarly in every city he’d been to in the world. They were his dead-letter boxes, his means to communicate with others like him.
So many times during his odyssey to reach this place he’d mentally pictured this moment. And most times his despairing mind had imagined him pulling out the brick and seeing an empty void.
Part of him didn’t want to find out whether his journey and the risks he’d taken had been a complete waste of time, because if there was nothing behind the brick he’d have no choice other than to walk out of the alley and surrender to the nearest cop.
He breathed in, ignoring the rain that was pouring over his body, removed his knife, and eased the loose brick out of its cavity. His hand was shaking as he placed it in the hole.
Something was in there.
Hard.
His fingers gripped it.
A small box.
His heart was pounding, but there was no feeling of elation because he knew that inside could be a note saying, “I’m sorry, Will, but I can’t go through with this.”
He withdrew the container and held it in the palm of his hand. It was a cheap black jewelry box with a metal clasp to keep its lid in place. After standing, he looked left and right along the alley in case he was being watched, but saw no one.
Both of his hands were now shaking.
Everything that had happened to him had been about this moment.
He opened the box.
Inside was a small slip of paper.
Keeping his head and upper body over the box so that rain didn’t saturate the paper and make illegible the one thing in the world that he wanted right now, he unfolded the paper.
On it was a cell phone number.
One that nobody else had.
Except Ellie Hallowes.
Will snapped the box shut, closed his eyes, and exclaimed, “Thank God!” as he tossed his head back so that rain could wash over his face. “Thank you, God!”
Now he could contact Ellie.
And learn the truth about Ferryman.
Dickie Mountjoy and David sat in a rear room within Phoebe’s small art gallery, in London’s Pimlico district. Phoebe was with them, strutting back and forth; to Dickie’s mind, she was all tits and ass with barely anything to cover them.
The room was head-to-toe white and contained nothing save the chairs they were sitting on, an easel supporting a canvas covered by a white cloth, and a young gay man called Marcel, who was standing next to the painting. Dickie hadn’t liked Marcel on sight; thirty seconds after hearing him speak, the retired major wanted to shoot him.
Marcel was wearing Turkish trousers that made him look like he’d had an involuntary bowel movement, sandals without socks, and a collarless purple shirt that was so vivid it made Dickie gag just by looking at the damn thing.
Dickie jabbed his walking stick against the floor. “Stop poncing around and get on with it.”
“Dickie!” Phoebe looked sternly at the major. “You can’t rush art.”
“Yes you bleedin’ can. You just work harder, like people do with proper jobs.”
Marcel rolled his eyes at Phoebe, and when he spoke it was in the over-the-top tone favored by certain English actors from a bygone era. “Oh, darling. You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing Neanderthal Man to our precious gallery.”
“Neanderthal Man?!” Dickie pointed his stick at Marcel. “Least I am a man.”
“Whatever, Grandpa.”
Dickie glanced at David, who was making his rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression and looked like he wanted to bolt. “You comfortable with your missus hangin’ around with these queer types? They might turn her, you know.”
The mortician blurted, “Phoebes isn’t my missus… not quite yet, anyway.”
“Best you stop wasting her time then, Sunny Jim. Phoebe doesn’t do subtle. You need to sweep the girl off her feet and get her legs around you toot sweet.” Dickie smiled before turning his glare back onto Marcel. “And talking of wasting my time…”
Marcel looked at Phoebe. “Kitten, you’ve no idea how much I’ve struggled with this. I do abstract paintings, and you know that. This isn’t my kind of thing.”
Dickie muttered, “You’re a walking, talking abstract.”
Phoebe ignored the major’s comment and said to her artist, “We’re not expecting great. Anything’s better than what Will’s got right now. It’s torn to shreds.”
Marcel lit a cigarette. That didn’t bother Dickie. But when the painter placed the cigarette in a long antique holder, it took all of the major’s self-control to stop him from knocking the blasted thing out of Marcel’s hand.
Marcel gripped the top of the sheet with two fingers, and hesitated. “If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”
Phoebe kissed Marcel on both cheeks …
An action that prompted Dickie to nudge David in the ribs and exclaim, “You lettin’ her get away with that?”
… and she said, “You’re such a sweetie, Marcel. If it’s awful, we won’t hold it against you.” She gave Dickie her dominatrix expression. “Will we?”
Dickie huffed.
“Very well then.” Marcel sighed and whipped off the cloth.
Underneath was Marcel’s oil reproduction of the English artist J. M. W. Turner’s classic 1839 painting The Fighting Temeraire, depicting the ninety-eight-gun HMS Temeraire. The warship had played a distinguished role in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, but since then the old warrior had been deemed technologically obsolete. The painting showed a paddle-wheel steam tug towing the ship toward its final berth in London, where it was to be broken up for scrap.
Dickie awkwardly got to his feet, put his reading glasses on, and walked right up to the painting. Nobody in the room spoke as the major bent forward to closely examine the work.
Phoebe and David braced themselves for another of his inappropriate rants.
But Dickie stood upright and tried to stop his eyes from watering as he looked directly at Marcel. “It’s… it’s… Mr. Cochrane will be over the moon with this.” He glanced at the magnificently vibrant and brushstroke-perfect reproduction before returning his gaze to Marcel. “Well done, sir.” He tried to stop the emotion coming out in his voice, but failed. “Well done indeed. You’ve done us proud.”