I thought about that. "I'm not sure she would. I didn't mention her mother's maiden name in The Death List. It's true that the tabloids dug it up, but I think Sara was probably cocking a snook at everyone looking for her. You know, giving us a pretty obvious clue and seeing if we noticed it. Besides, the name on the deeds was Angela Oliver-Merilee, remember? She also used the names she and her brother had been given by Doris. Not many people are aware of them."
"Why didn't she use Lauren Cuthbertson's original first name, as well?" Pete asked. "There wasn't one in the files," I replied. "For some reason, Doris Carlton-Jones didn't give her a name. Maybe Sara doesn't know about her." "I doubt that," Rog said. "So do I." "Sara will know we went to the flat in Hackney," Pete said. "Was Lauren staying there, do you think?" "Probably," I said. "There's no current address for her in Stoke Newington. I doubt it was Sara. She'll be staying in the Ritz or such like." "Bit of a risk," Rog said with a grin. "I've had enough wordplay, thanks. She's changed her appearance, I'm sure of that," I said. "Maybe she used the surgeon who botched Lauren's operation," Pete said. That struck me as unlikely. It would have been much safer for her to have surgery abroad. But she'd probably given her half sister the money to pay for the op. "There is a chance she's waiting for us to show up at the cottage," Rog said, his face sallow in the headlights of the cars coming toward us. I nodded. "We'll just have to take that chance, won't we? For Andy." "Yes, we will," Pete said forcefully. I kept my laptop on as we sped down the M4. The wi-fi signal was patchy, but as we passed Slough, it picked up and I saw there were no further messages from Doris Carlton-Jones or from Doctor Faustus. When we approached Oldbury, I got Rog to pull in to a lay-by. There was a large house beyond and I picked up a signal. I found a mapping site and downloaded a plan of the village. "That must be the cottage," Rog said, checking the description of the property on his laptop. "There are about a hundred meters between it and the next house." "Let's have a look at the cottage's layout, Dodger," I said. It appeared on his screen. "Single-story, but long-the two original cottages have been knocked together." "What's that?" Pete asked, pointing to a rectangular shape on the end of the building away from the village. "Shed or guesthouse, according to the spec," Rog replied. "How do we do this?" Boney asked. I had been thinking about the training we'd got from Dave. "Pete, you've picked up some of Andy's lock- picking skills, so you go for the front door. I'll be right behind you. Dodger, you cover the rear in case someone makes a run for it." "What if you guys come under fire?" Rog asked. "Blow the back door in with a grenade and take the shooter from behind," I said. "And if the place is booby-trapped?" "Jesus, Dodger," Pete said. "Improvise. Or run away." "Screw you, Boney. Dave told us to take every possibility into account." "You're right," I said, trying to calm them down. "But we haven't much time. Who knows what kind of state Andy's in by now?" They nodded, and Rog drove on. He stopped on the verge about a quarter of a mile before the cottage and doused the headlights. "Right, guys," I said, "let's get geared up. Keep the noise and lights down." I opened my door carefully and got out. Pete swung open the rear door, and he and Rog started rummaging in their bags. I was wearing jeans and a donkey jacket. I fitted on the headset of my walkie-talkie and pulled a balaclava over the strap. I slipped off my belt and slid through the straps of my combat knife's sheath. I stuck my second Glock 19 into my belt above my backside. The pistol with the silencer would be staying in hand.
"Grenade?" Pete said in a low voice, holding out a bag.
"Don't mind if I do," I replied, taking three. I shone my torch on them. One was a smoke grenade and the other two were fragmentation. I hoped I didn't have to pull the pins on any of them.
We moved apart and checked that our communication units were working. Then Rog set off across a field, heading for the back of the cottage. Pete and I found a gap in the hedge and went into the large field that went all the way to Sara's place on the other side of the road. We had good cover and were able to get right in front of the buildings. Parting the branches, I saw the property clearly. There were no lights on in the cottage or shed. The nearest streetlight was about fifty meters down the road toward the village, so we would be well obscured from passing cars.
"Let's go," I whispered to Pete.
He nodded and moved ahead to the gate. When he'd crossed the road and was on the short path to the door, I followed. By the time I got there, he already had the lock- breaking rods out. He fiddled with them for several minutes, but didn't make any progress.
"Looks like there are mortice locks near the top and bottom," he said in a low voice. "Sara really doesn't want uninvited guests."
"Any sign of an alarm system?"
"Strangely, no."
"Rog?" I said.
"Receiving. I'm in position. No lights or movement at the back."
"I'm sending Pete around to try the locks there."
"Okay."
I nodded to Boney, and he set off around the house in a crouch. I felt exposed at the front door, so I headed away to the right, thinking I'd check the shed. But when I got there, I found three heavy-duty padlocks on the bolts. Short of blowing my way in with grenades, I was stuck. Unless there was a door at the back. I pushed my way through the vegetation at the side of the wooden structure. There wasn't a door, but a window had been boarded over.
"Matt?" came Pete's voice in my ear. "This door's got mortices, too. We'll have to cut the glass."
"Okay. Run your deactivation unit around it first."
"I was actually intending to do that," Bonehead said snidely.
I smiled, then took out my combat knife and started to lever away the boards. When I'd got one off, I looked in. Complete darkness. I listened carefully. Nothing. I decided to risk my torch, briefly at first. It was soon clear that the building was empty. It didn't look like Sara was hiding there, but I had my Glock at the ready when I'd made a space big enough to clamber through. I dropped onto the floor on my hands, feeling hard earth on my fingertips.
"We're in," Rog said through my earpiece. "No one around so far."
I shone the torch again. There were tools hanging from a row of hooks on the wall, but apart from that there was a strange absence of the gear you'd expect to find in an outbuilding-no logs, lawn-mower, old boxes or other junk. I walked toward the front doors, then stopped. The earth beneath my boots was less firm. I looked down and made out an area several yards long and wide, with a slightly different texture. I hadn't noticed the three low posts that came out of the floor until then. They each stood about fifteen centimeters from the surface. I went over to the nearest one and kneeled down by it. In the torchlight I could see that they were circular plastic pipes, about five centimeters across. I shone my light down, but could make nothing out. Then I heard a sound that made my flesh creep-a kind of muffled screech. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it came from a human being.
"Rog! Pete!" I said, forgetting to keep my voice low. "If there's nothing in the cottage, get over to the shed. There's a window I've cleared on the far side."
"What have you got?" Pete asked.
"Someone who's been buried alive. Out."
I shone the torch on the wall and took down a couple of spades and a snow shovel. One of the former had traces of earth on the head. Going back to the tube through which the sound had come, I hacked away at the earth around it. The surface had been smoothed down, but when I broke through the crust, I found that the earth shifted easily. By the time Pete and Rog arrived, I had already piled a heap by the wall.
"I think there are three people down here," I said, pointing at the pipes. "We'll take one each."
It was hard work, but when I got about a meter down, my spade hit wood with a resounding thud.