CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:
Doyle guessed that the driveway must be a good five hundred yards long. From the entrance, through the wrought-iron gates flanked by a ten-foot-high stone wall, it led past perfectly manicured lawns and landscaped gardens. He spotted what looked like an orchard off to the right, enclosed by a high privet hedge.
To the left were some red-brick buildings that he guessed were stables. Beyond them were low hills and enough space to exercise the runners in the last three Grand Nationals.
As the car drew nearer the house, topiary animals (also immaculately trimmed and maintained) began to form a kind of honour guard on either side of the drive, which slowly widened into an arc before the house.
The building itself was grey. Whether it was brick or, as it appeared to be, simply hewn from one vast lump of stone, Doyle had no idea. The walls were seething with ivy and the weak sunlight sparkled on the dozens of windows at the front.
But, for all its splendour, there was little ostentation about the home of William Duncan. Multi- millionaire
industrialist the man might be, thought Doyle, but the place had none of the outward vulgarity sometimes associated with those lucky enough to have more money than sense. The place looked, first and foremost, a functional home, rather than a status symbol.
The stables, the orchard and whatever other adornments were contained within the grounds had, by the look of them, been there upon purchase rather than added in some self-conscious flourish. The fact that there was a heated
outdoor pool, two tennis courts and a maze to the rear of the building came as no surprise to the former counter terrorist.
He perused the plans of the property that Mel had given him and shook his head.
‘Plenty of places to hide,’ he murmured as Hendry guided the Jag up the driveway.
Mel turned in the passenger seat and looked at him. ‘What did you say, Doyle?’
she wanted to know.
‘I said there are plenty of places to hide,’ he repeated. ‘If a bunch of nutters want to kill Duncan then this fucking place is heaven. They could hang around the grounds for days without getting caught.’ He shook his head. ‘A fucking maze in the back garden. Jesus. How the other half lives.’
He looked at the building and, once more, shook his head.
‘It’s closer to London than I thought,’ Hendry offered.
‘Right at the end of the Metropolitan Line,’ Doyle said.‘You won’t have to drive him into his office in the mornings, Joe. You can just stick him on the fucking Tube.’
Hendry chuckled.
‘We’d better walk the grounds once we’ve met the Duncans,’ Mel said.‘Check them out more thoroughly.’
Doyle nodded. ‘Any kids?’ he asked.
‘No. Just Duncan and his wife.’
‘How much do we know about them?’ Hendry asked.
‘What do we need to know?’ Doyle asked. ‘We’re here to protect them, not make friends with them.’
Mel looked at him for a moment then back at Hendry.
‘Duncan’s in his fifties. His wife’s twenty-six. I don’t know if that tells you anything,’ Mel smiled.‘He’s a keen golfer and archer.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Mrs Duncan likes to ride.’
‘I bet she does,’ Doyle chuckled.
Hendry aiso smiled.
Mel shook her head. ‘You’re like a couple of kids,’ she said, her attempts at chastisement failing as she also laughed.
Doyle reached for his cigarettes and lit one, taking a couple of hasty drags before the car stopped.‘Who’s guarding them at the moment?’ he wanted to know.
‘Special Branch. They have been for the last two months, ever since the fatwa was first passed.’
‘Why the change?’
The taxpayers are footing the bill,’ Mel smiled. ‘I think Duncan’s starting to feel guilty about it. That’s why he called in a private firm.’
Too right. I mean, how much did it cost to guard bloody Rushdie? Two million?’
Doyle said irritably. ‘It would have been cheaper to let the fucker take his chances.’
‘I agree,’ Hendry said. ‘I reckon he knew what he was doing when he wrote that book. He knew he’d offend the Muslims and how they’d react.’
Mel looked at each of the men in turn.‘Nice to see you two share the same kind of compassion,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Fuck him; Doyle insisted.
Hendry brought the Jag to a halt and all three of them clambered out.
As they did, Doyle crushed the cigarette beneath his foot and drew a deep breath. He ran appraising eyes over the house then followed Mel towards the large oak front door.
There were CCTV cameras mounted on either side of the porch. Doyle had seen more of them on the main gates and also at strategic points along the driveway.
Mel rang the doorbell and waited.
After a moment or two they heard several bolts and locks being unfastened, then a tall man in a dark-brown suit opened the door and looked out at them.
‘We’re with Cartwright Security,’ Mel told him. ‘I’m—’
He cut her short. ‘You’re late,’ he said tersely.
B
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
ack again?’ The girl behind the glass of the cash desk was in her early twenties. She wore a gold name-badge on her right breast that proclaimed: Teresa.
‘Sorry?’ said Ward. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “back again?’” she repeated. ‘You were only here this afternoon. You should get a job here considering how much time you spend here.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ward wanted to know.
The smile on the girl’s face faded slightly. ‘You came in this afternoon to see a film and now you’re back again. Twice in one day. Most people don’t come twice in a month.’
Ward swallowed hard. He looked at his watch. 7.46 p.m.
‘Which film did I see this afternoon?’ he wanted to know.
She looked bewildered.
‘Which film did I see when I was here earlier?’ he insisted.
‘Enemy at the Gates? she told him.
‘What time was that?’
‘I’m not sure exactly’ The smile had faded completely by now.
‘What time was the performance?’ he demanded. ‘Check it on your sheet.’
She hesitated.
‘Please,’ he said.
‘Two o’clock,’ she announced finally.
Ward nodded. He stepped away from the box office and moved past the other waiting people. Some glanced at him in amusement.
He walked back to his car. Ten minutes later he was home. He headed straight for the office.
There was a small pile of paper near the printer. Ward picked up the sheets and put them in the right order.
Thirty of them.
If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside was nothing short of breathtaking.
Doyle looked at the plethora of objets d’art, the expensive fixtures and fittings, the furniture. Everything in the house smacked of impeccable taste.
