showered the plate and my lap.
The plan was simple. I would park up short of the target on the road from the coast, and work my way towards it from within his grounds, to avoid being channelled along any of the roads. I'd gain entry to the house, grip Lynn and get him to tell me what the fuck was going on, whether he liked it or not.
If the Firm were waiting for me, too bad. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I'd still try to get to Lynn, get him out of there and find out what I needed to know.
I thought about Ruby and Tallulah getting into the car with me as we set off for the beach, and the front wheel pulling the piece of plastic away from between the jaws of the clothes peg. These were real people; they weren't pond life like me, up to their neck in this sort of shit. If Lynn didn't have a pretty fucking good explanation for all this, I'd kill him.
I had my final munch of sandwich and sat back and made the coffee last while I studied the target until every detail of the area had soaked into my head.
It was starting to get darker and even more miserable out there now the rain was returning. The lights of the amusement arcade flashed even brighter. I rubbed my eyes. I hadn't slept for thirty-six hours.
I examined the area around the target in more detail. If it went tits up, where would I run? What was my best escape route? It was no good heading to the right of the house, hitting a field and paralleling the road – only to find there was a raging river in between me and my car.
35
0126 hrs
Though the rain had stopped the sky was still overcast, making the night even darker. The grass at the apex of the triangle where the road forked each side of the target was soaked.
Two large wrought-iron gates hung from stone pillars, with nothing either side of them. They were closed, and the driveway had grown over long ago. This must have been the entrance to the house when it really was just a house. Maybe Nelson and Lady Hamilton had a couple of nights out here.
Day sack over my shoulder, binocular night-viewing aid hanging round my neck, I had left the car at the entrance to a field about two hundred from the target. The pistol was tucked down the front of my jeans and the box-cutter was in the pocket of my fleece. I was glad to be moving as I bypassed the gates and hit the hard standing. It was freezing.
Alot of what-ifs raced through my mind as I approached. I'd be finding out some answers soon enough.
The family photo I'd seen on Lynn's desk in 1998 showed his wife, two kids and a Labrador. The kids had looked about nine and eleven. That would make them university age now. They would surely have come home for the Christmas vacation. What if they were still here? What about his wife? What if the wife was alone but Lynn came back while I was there? What if one or both of the children were at home? What if the whole family were out? What about the Labrador? That particular one would be dead, but Lynn would have bought another. His sort loved the smell of wet dogs in the kitchen.
I hunched down, my back against the wall of one of the breezeblock growing sheds. Judging by the complete absence of compost smell and no sign of activity from the refrigeration units, business wasn't exactly booming on the mushroom front. There were no lights at all, anywhere.
I watched and listened as the trees rustled in the wind, then switched on the night-viewing aid. The electronics kicked in with a gentle hum and the National Geographics treated me to a fantastically sharp black and white negative picture. The old guy at Norfolk Country Pursuits hadn't let me down.
I settled into the hedge and scanned the front of the Lynns' family seat. It was gracious, rectangular and Georgian, with six huge windows top and bottom and a grand doorway dead centre.
I wondered what their forebears would have made of the family having to convert three acres of front lawn and driveway into a fungus farm. Apoplectic was the word that came to mind.
There was smoke from the chimney but no other immediate signs of life. None of the interior lights were on either, or heavy curtains had been drawn.
I started to shiver. Time to get moving again. I worked my way around the side of the house, aiming for the rear.
Cats or foxes had scattered frozen-food packaging and the odd banana skin from the solitary refuse bin. The cartons told me they'd contained meals for one.
Light spilled from a downstairs window to the right of the back door, and through a gap in the curtains from another to the left. I stood back from the house, in the shadows, and heard a toilet flush on the first floor. There was no sound of a TV or radio. No dog barking.
A muddy Volvo 4x4 was parked on the cracked tarmac.
I stayed where I was, just looking and listening, sweeping the area with the binos now and again in case anything or anyone out there was doing the same.
I moved a step or two in the direction of the uncurtained window, close enough to see that it belonged to the kitchen. I let the binos hang from my neck. I was still in shadow, but there was too much light for them now.
I sat on the tarmac, my back against the Volvo, and waited. Whoever had just taken a leak upstairs would have to turn the lights off at some stage, or come and make a brew in the morning.
Twenty freezing minutes later, Lynn appeared at the window, kettle in hand. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown over striped pyjamas. He really was a toff. The little that was left of his greying hair was wet and slicked back.
His lips weren't moving, and he gave his full attention to the tap. Moments later, he was gone.
I flicked up the collar of my jacket to give me some protection from the biting wind as I waited for him to return to the kitchen to finish making what I hoped was just the one brew.
