Traffic was relatively light. It was a pleasantly mild winter morning; high cloud and a watery sun. Breezy. Why the fuck couldn’t it be breezy in fucking Inverness? And dry in the Peak fucking District? I could have gone faster, but I stuck to between thirty and thirty-five. This would be no time to be caught speeding, especially with God knew how much alcohol still sloshing about in my system.
Ascot Square was quiet. Bunches of silver balloons tied to railings indicated there’d been a party in one of the grand town-houses on the other side of the square from the Merrials’. Maybe a twenty-fifth anniversary or something. Lots of Mercs, Jags and BMWs, plus Range Rovers and a brace of Rollers or Bentleys; Audi A2s and a couple of Smarts, too. The Merrials lived in number eleven, near the centre of the imposing, four-storeys-plus-basement terrace. No obvious signs of life at number eleven.
Tall limes and beeches in the private gardens in the centre of the square. I drove on through into Eccleston Street then into Chester Square. I parked in a residents only space for a couple of minutes, climbing into the back of the Landy and pulling on my overalls. Brand new, basically; I’d got them when I bought the Landy, thinking I’d do my own repairs. And a size too small; my shirt sleeves and the bottom of my 501s protruded from the green overalls by a good two or three centimetres. Great; so now I looked stupid as well as villainous. I had an old Sony Music Awards baseball cap; I put that on too. Bit of a giveaway industry-wise, but what else was I supposed to do? Sunglasses from the cubby box between the front seats.
Gloves! Of course I needed gloves. I was going to break into a house, or make an illegal entry or whatever the legally nice definition was. I didn’t want to go leaving fingerprints all over the fucking place. Gloves. I had some somewhere. I rummaged behind the bench seats on either side, feeling down between the seat cushions and the back rests. Blimey, you could hide a complete fucking tool kit along here… gloves. Got them. They were thick, padded things for pulling out bramble bushes or hauling on winch wires or some such manly shit as that, not at all the sort of fine, thin things you’d want for the delicate business of letting yourself into somebody else’s house, but, shit, they’d just have to do.
I jumped back into the front and set off again, back past Ascot Square proper and round into the mews behind it on the south side. Lots of close-packed but very expensive mews properties with differing treatments of the old architecture; a jumbled variety of windows large and small, balconies, awnings and outside steps. Lots of plants, too; hanging baskets, big pot plants and trailing vines. Oh shit; and a family loading up their Landy Discovery. Young couple and three kids getting their cool boxes and child seats sorted for a day out. Shit! What sort of time was this to be setting out for the day? It was practically noon! Best bit of the day gone, dammit! Couldn’t the miserable fucking curs have got their shit together a bit closer to breakfast?
The man looked up when he saw my battered Short-Wheelbase approaching down the cobbles. Took a good look at me. Hmm, don’t recognise that beaten-up old wreck, or the shifty looking weirdo with the sunglasses driving it. Not a resident I’ve ever seen before. And that’s not a Power or Gas company van. You could practically see the thought bubbles.
I wound the window down and stopped by the Disco. ‘Scuse me, mite. Zis Ascot Mews Norf?’
‘Ah, na,’ said the man. ‘This is Siythe, actually.’
‘Sarf?’ I said. ‘Ah, roight.’ I looked over at the other seat, as though there was something there I was consulting. ‘Roight. Ta, mite,’ I said, and reversed out again.
I parked up near the corner of Eccleston Street and Eaton Square, pretending to study an A to Z. The Disco swung out into the traffic and headed for the river ten long, long minutes later. I pulled back into Ascot Mews South, drove on past the mews cottages into the last part of the lane where the garages and tall garden walls began. I counted my way along to number eleven, but I needn’t have bothered; there was a number eleven on the gleaming green pedestrian door that gave out onto the lane beside the equally freshly painted garage doors.
I’d rehearsed this in my mind already. Best done quickly given it had to be done at all. Ignore the rear windows of the houses on the other side of the lane and those next door to number eleven. I killed the engine, got out, locked the door, climbed onto the roof via the front bumper and bonnet – the aluminium roof flexed under my feet, which I actually had the reserve brain power to feel slightly disappointed by – then I jumped up onto the rounded top of the tall stone wall.
Japanese garden; raked gravel forming dry round lakelets with big smooth boulders forming islands in the frozen ripples of greyness. Small, tidily clipped bushes and shrubs; a still pool with another big boulder. Decking under green awnings. Something about its calm organisation told me this was Celia’s garden more than her husband’s. I looked down. I was going to have to drop the whole way, into more gravel. It was easily three and a half metres.
I swung one leg over, then the other, and let myself dangle as far to the ground as I could. In Scotland, as kids, we’d called this dreeping. I had no idea what it was called down here. I couldn’t get any real hand-hold on the smooth round top of the wall so just had to keep as much friction as I could on my forearms and gloved hands until gravity took over and I dropped to the gravel bed. It was mercifully deep. I hit and rolled and didn’t break anything. I’d have to do some remedial work on the gravel bed-work with a rake, though. I looked up at the wall. I’d worry about getting out again later. I smoothed the gravel out a bit now, while I thought of it, just in case I forgot later. It didn’t look perfect but it might pass as the result of a cat coming into the garden. I checked the door in the garden wall. The lock was some sort of ruggedised outdoor Chubb; I tried to open it but it looked like you needed a key even from the inside.
My phone went as I was walking up the path towards the stone with the key inside. There was a sort of slit on each side of the overalls so you could get at the pockets of whatever you were wearing underneath. I hauled the Motorola out through one of those. Ceel.
‘I’m in the back garden,’ I said.
‘Good. I’ve just had a thought. John should have the car. Use the keys just to the right of the back door, once you’ve got in, to open the garage and put your car in. It might look less suspicious.’
I hadn’t paid much attention to the garage doors. I had the impression they were pretty tall, but I might have been wrong. ‘It’s a Land Rover,’ I said. ‘Two metres tall at least. Might not fit.’
‘No, it should. It’s an old coach house.’
‘Okay, then. Good idea.’ I stopped opposite the third lantern and looked down at a neat arrangement of smooth, varied stones. ‘Hold on. What if he comes back? Seeing a Land Rover parked outside your back wall might be a little puzzling; finding the thing sitting inside his own garage…’
‘Hmm, you’re right. Also, I phoned the Weather Centre. The Peak District has had more rain than expected overnight. I think it’s very likely he will be back later today.’
‘Oh, shit. What about you? How are the flights looking?’
‘ Aberdeen is out. It’s a three- or four-hour drive to Edinburgh or Glasgow. I’m trying to arrange a charter from a smaller airport closer to here but it’s not proving easy.’
‘Well, I’m in here already anyway. Hold on.’ I stooped to the stones. The thick gloves meant I took a couple of attempts, but after a few seconds and some muttered curses I was able to announce, ‘I’ve got the key.’
‘You have the alarm number?’
‘Memorised and written down. The door in the garden wall, back into the mews, into the lane; where would I find the key for that?’
‘To the left of the back door in the utility room, looking out. It has a green plastic tag.’