Every evening, Black put Barkley into the new pet bed he’d bought and ordered her to stay. And every morning, he woke to find her squashed against his chest. Or draped over his legs. Or curled up on his pillow. If he overslept, she huffed doggy breath all over his face. She’d had some training—she knew how to sit, and give you a paw, and roll over—but her recall was non-existent, and if she started barking, stopping her was impossible.
“If anyone can teach her, then Dillon can. He’s wonderful with animals.”
“Do you know if there’s anywhere I can ride around here? I’d love to see the scenery from horseback.”
“That’d be Fletcher at Hope Valley Ranch. Ten years ago, the place was a ruin, but he’s fixed it up good and now he offers trail riding. I’ll find you his number.”
“I really appreciate it. And are there any evening activities?”
Even another knitting class beat sitting around the hotel room with Black right now. We could bury our noses in our laptops, but we couldn’t escape the awkwardness that shrouded us.
“The Penngrove Community Theater’s putting on a performance of Much Ado About Nothing.”
I was beginning to think this whole trip was much ado about bloody nothing. Dyson was a ghost.
“Shakespeare? Lovely.”
“Their patron’s a big fan of the Bard. He spent time in England when he was a young man. I’ve got a brochure with all the details somewhere—I’ll hunt it out, but let me go and get your lunches first.”
“Diamond, we could just talk in the evenings,” Black said once Dolly had disappeared.
“How does that help to fix things?”
“We might have to face the fact that Dyson won’t be found. That this can’t be fixed. Then what?”
“Congratulations. Now you know how Alaric’s been feeling for the last eight years.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“And yet it did. I’ve got a horrible feeling your biggest regret is getting caught.”
“That’s not true.”
I shrugged.
The truth was, I did think Black was sorry. And I did miss spending time with him the way I used to. But I’d put up with his petty jealousy for too long, and if I didn’t teach him a lesson now, he’d never learn.
“Prove it.”
We lapsed into silence until Dolly bustled back with enough food to sink a battleship. Black had been running with Barkley early in the mornings, but I’d stayed in the hotel room out of stubbornness. The bulge over my waistband said perhaps I should have a rethink.
“Here you go, sweetie-pie. Ham biscuits and pancakes with syrup and bacon.” One portion had become two. Biscuits for both of us—which came with green beans and potato gratin—and the stack of pancakes was a foot high. A pig had given up its life for our lunch, and Canada was probably experiencing a maple syrup shortage. “And here’s that brochure.”
I wasn’t a Shakespeare fan. I’d skipped school the year we were meant to study The Merchant of Venice, and consequently, I’d never developed an appreciation of his way with words. Nate had tried to educate me on more than one occasion, but I still preferred reading the Heckler & Koch catalogue.
What did Penngrove have to offer? Much Ado About Nothing, Romeo and Juliet, Love’s Labour’s Lost… Plus concerts by local bands, a stand-up comedy night, and a visit from an Elvis impersonator. And…
I started laughing. And laughing and laughing and laughing. Oh, hell. We owed Dolly the biggest tip ever.
CHAPTER 44 - EMMY
“WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” Black asked.
I jabbed my finger at a short paragraph on the back page of the brochure.
This year’s performances are kindly sponsored by Killian Marshall, whose generous contributions have allowed the Penngrove Community Theater not only to survive but to flourish.
The photo above showed a man in his early fifties, slightly greyer around the temples than when I’d seen him last, and a fuck of a lot more composed.
“We’ve found Dyson.”
“Killian Marshall? A local philanthropist?”
“Yup.” A modern-day Robin Hood, it seemed. He stole from the rich to give to the poor. “I’ll never forget that face.”
Black blew out a long breath. “Thank fuck for that. I’ll get the research team onto this. Then we can work out how to pick him up.”
While Black pulled out his phone, I looked again at the picture. Dyson’s expression was kind, benign, giving no hint that he was actually a master criminal. Did the townsfolk know where his money came from? I was betting they didn’t.
“Diamond, who’s driving your BMW?”
“Er, nobody?”
He held up his phone screen so I could see the message in red.
ALERT: E BLK - IMPACT SENSORS ACTIVATED
All of Blackwood’s vehicles were fitted with a black box of tricks courtesy of Nate, and the BMW was no exception. Someone had crashed it? I couldn’t say I was devastated, but who had been behind the wheel? Were they hurt?
“Well, somebody must have borrowed it. Where is it now?”
Black tapped away. “Three hundred yards from Riverley’s main gate.”
I began to get a bad, bad feeling about this. Riverley was on a quiet lane. Turn left out of the main gate and you’d be heading for Richmond, but turn right and you’d end up in buttfuck nowhere—just forests and fields plus a dozen or so houses, and we owned most of them. There wasn’t a whole lot to hit. Unless the driver swerved to avoid an animal and drove into a tree, which Dan had managed to do on occasion, it was a tricky spot to crash in.
Black was already calling the guardhouse.
“Did Emmy’s BMW just leave the estate?”
I shuffled my chair closer and leaned in to listen as the duty guard answered. Roy—I recognised his voice.
“Yes, a few minutes ago.”
“Who was driving?”
“Well, Emmy was.”
“Emmy’s a hundred miles away.”
“Are you sure?”
Ooh, bad move. Black’s jaw clenched. “She’s sitting opposite me. I think I know what my wife looks like.”
“Sorry, I—”
“The BMW’s been in a collision three hundred yards
