He was still mulling over the cricket game’s poor attendance when he parked the Audi in the quiet village street a few yards past the sub-post office. As he crossed the road to the red brick building that was Three Tuns, he heard the clip-clopping of horse’s hooves. Standing outside the pub, he turned to watch as two pretty young women in their early twenties rode by on horseback. Their image as rural young ladies was marred somewhat by the fact that one of them was sporting a couple of visible tattoos
There were two entrances, one for the hotel and one for the pub. He chose the latter, on the right. The place was half-full with lunch-time patrons. He sat down and looked around, trying to figure out which one of them was Martin Costa. It had been a while since they had last seen each other and Daniel wasn’t sure if he would recognize him.
Why the hell am I sitting in a village pub, waiting to meet a man I don’t trust as far as I can throw him?
He felt like Rick in Casablanca: not actually knowing why he was doing something, but doing it anyway. The only explanation that he could give himself is that there was something about that blurred text that looked awfully familiar — and his curiosity was aroused.
But where was Costa? The trouble was, none of the other patrons was alone. They were variously in couples or groups. Costa would be alone. The secretive nature of his approach, and the man’s very nature, assured Daniel of that. There was however a simple way to find out. He took out his phone and sent a text: “I’m here. Where are you?”
He looked around for any sign of some one receiving a text. It wasn’t a foolproof test: there were more patrons in the spacious grassy garden behind the pub. But two minutes later he got a reply.
“Am delayed slightly. Treat yourself to a meal.”
Daniel ordered fish and chips at the bar, but asked if they could replace the chips with mashed potato. They told him that it would be no problem. He told them that he wanted to eat in the garden. They gave him a flag with a number so they would know where to bring the food. Then he went to the loo and through into the garden to await the meal. In fact, although the garden was spacious, there were actually very few of the wooden tables there. Instead the garden provided space for children to run around, although there was also a toddlers playground behind it. Daniel looked around and finally found the only free table there.
When the food arrived, he saw that they had not in fact replaced the chips with mash. He considered sending it back, but decided not to. Taking the minor irritations that life throws at one was part of his philosophy. He wasn’t exactly a stoic. But neither was he one of those precious types who insists that everything has to be done just right. It was life’s little unpredictabilities that made every day different and worth living. Otherwise he would not be here now waiting for Martin Costa to get here.
In the end Martin Costa never did get there. Instead, Daniel got a text message, while he was still eating, saying: “Come to the derelict house on the way to Partridge Hill, just next to the house where they sell arts and crafts figures. Make sure you are not followed.”
Daniel smiled. Costa seemed to be enjoying playing the role of International Man of Mystery with his excessive use of the phrase about not being followed. Never for a minute did Daniel actually consider that maybe he was…
Chapter 7
They were dressed up as eighteenth century Polish noblemen, two bearded men in long frock coats and felt hats, with a thin black ribbon tied round their waists to separate the upper half of their bodies — containing the heart and the brain — from the lower half, which contained the sex organs.
But they were not fetishists. This was how they dressed, just as their ancestors had dressed this way for the last two hundred years. They were a small ultra-religious Jewish sect and like the Quakers and Amish Mennonites, they dressed in the style of clothes that had characterized their religious movement since it was first established.
Strictly speaking, it was not in the style of their religious movement that they dressed, but rather the style of the movement from which they had seceded. For this movement was in fact not quite as old some people thought. It had only been founded in 1938 after it broke away from a larger Jewish religious movement over a major political difference.
The older man, in his sixties but looking somewhat older, called himself “HaTzadik” — The Righteous One — although his real name was Shalom Tikva. And the very tall man he was addressing was his thirty-year-old son Baruch.
“When Sam Morgan arrives, he will be bringing something of importance, so treat him with respect.”
“What will he be bringing?”
The resentment in Baruch Tikva’s tone was palpable.
“I do not want to put the evil eye on it by talking about it. You will see when it arrives.”
“I don’t know why you trust that man. You should be very careful of him.”
“Why? Because he is a gentile? You sound like the profane ones!”
“I don’t mean because he is a gentile. I trust the Arabs more than the profane ones! But I trust Sam Morgan even less. He is greedy. And he has wormed his way into your trust. I mean no disrespect, but be careful of him my father.”
HaTzadik’s tone was conciliatory.
“You have nothing to be jealous of. You are my son and he… he is a stranger.”
But the words did not heal the wound: they twisted the pain even more.
Chapter 8
Daniel asked for directions from the girl tending the bar, but he had to ask several other people along the way as he navigated the village roads and paths towards the house. He walked rather than drove because he had been told that it wasn’t all navigable by car and it was easier to ask for directions on foot. SatNav was all very well, but how do you enter “the derelict house on the way to Partridge Hill” on a SatNav input?
The last stretch of the walk was along a narrow dirt track lined with trees, hedges and bramble — much of it overhanging, creating a shelter of foliage along the path. The house selling arts and crafts was on the left, set back somewhat from the path and had a large garden and grounds all around it. He knew it was the right house from the sign on the gate announcing that arts and crafts items were for sale there. But that house held no interest for him. He had been told to come to the derelict house next to it that stood directly on the path, also on the left.
The derelict house was in fact two semi-detached houses. The part farther along the path — to the right when looking at the house — had a brick facade. The upper bricks had been painted white, but the lower ones were still their native red. There was some foliage clinging to the exterior walls and the corrugated roof was dirty and bore patches of moss.
But it was the other house — standing closer to the arts and crafts house — that appeared to be the derelict one. This one had a stucco facade, although little of it was visible beneath the thick blanket of ivy clinging to the surface. The roof was a horizontal, watershed lattice of wood. But as he moved round the house to the left side, he noticed that there was a part of the house that receded from the path and had no roof at all, just the long wooden beam at the apex that had once supported it. Even some of the upper brickwork was missing.
This must be the place.
He moved round it to find an entrance, eventually seeing a door that was ever so slightly ajar. Was Costa already in there waiting for him? Or was he late again? And was the door open simply because the house was abandoned and contained nothing of value that anyone would want?
Daniel rapped on the wooden door with his knuckles.