Morton avoided her gaze. ‘I’ve beenthinking-’
‘Oh, God—that’s never a good thing,’Juliette said.
‘I’m not going to go to the wedding—’Morton began.
‘What? You can’t—’
‘Before you interrupt—I’m just not readyto see her yet. I can’t do it, Juliette.’ Many anxiety-wroughtmoments had passed since the day that his adoptive father had told him aboutthe identity of his biological mother. That had been hard enough, but hehad also learnt that his Aunty Margaret had been raped. His own,biological father was a rapist. He couldn’t even bear to try andthink that awful truth through. ‘I just can’t face Aunty Margaret. I don’t even know if Dad’s told her that I know. You know what he'slike.’
Juliette reached out and took hishand. ‘Look, I’ll support you whatever you decide but I think you’llregret missing Jeremy’s wedding. You two have built so many bridges inthe last few months. I think he’d be gutted that you weren’t there.’
She was right, of course. He andJeremy were getting on like real brothers for the first time in theirlives. And yet, he couldn’t get past the fact that he wasn’t ready to seehis Aunty Margaret with what he now knew about her.
‘Listen, why don’t you go and speak toyour dad face to face? Ask him what your aunt knows and how she feels;it’s a conversation that needs to happen regardless of the wedding.’
‘Okay,’ Morton found himself saying. He knew that he needed to do it, but without Juliette pushing him forward, itwould have become another conversation that the Farrier household swept underthe carpet, as they always had done with other contentious topics. ‘I’llgo over in the next couple of days and talk to him.’
Juliettesmiled reassuringly. ‘Are you coming to the shops to look for a gift?’
‘I’llstay, if you don’t mind.’
Juliette rolled her eyes playfully andpecked him on the lips. ‘Don’t do anything silly. In fact, don’tleave the house.’
Mortonsaluted her. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Taking a mouthful of coffee, Mortonstudied each of the pieces of coloured wool that fed from Mary’s picture. He had pursued many research avenues but now it was time to go back to thebeginning. Morton picked up his notepad and flicked back to the firstpages of notes. He carefully re-read each page, paying attention for anypotential oversights. When he was convinced that nothing had been missedso far, he returned to the page with the people surrounding Mary at the time ofher disappearance. He was still waiting on responses from livingrelatives of her family and her work colleagues; the only people to respond sofar had been Jenny Greenwood and Bartholomew Maslow. Morton rememberedthen that he hadn’t yet replied to the genuine email from Bartholomew, so setabout a quick reply accepting his offer of the photos of his grandfather, Jack.
Morton considered what to do next. He remembered what Juliette had said about staying put for the day. Shehad said it half-jokingly but the plain reality was that a murder investigationwas currently ongoing which involved him. And, if his theory was correct,then somebody out there wanted him dead. No, he was definitely happy tostay home today.
He looked up at the timeline they hadcreated together and focussed in on 1925. Could Juliette have beenright about something going on that year? Although he had just askedRay Mercer about Edith's divorce date, he set about finding the answer forhimself. He knew that some divorce records were open to the public butwere not yet available online. Morton accessed the National Archiveswebsite and quickly found that divorce case files were available for1858-1937. He completed the relevant search request documents and clicked‘send’.
Theman was sure that he had found a new career in espionage or covertoperations. He could now be hired out for good money. As hecaressed the Sig Sauer handgun on the desk in front of him, he replayed lastnight’s events and the ease with which he had put a bullet through MortonFarrier’s skull. It had been exactly like playing Grand Theft Autoon the computer. Hold the gun, pull the trigger. Dead. Simpleas that. He felt no remorse. Why should he care about some dumbassgenealogist who was snooping in places he had no business snooping? Itwas the end of this particular job and his employers had told him to return tohis normal duties. He looked at his name badge. Mark Drury,security guard. Well, that was all about to change. Now he was MarkDrury, hit-man. Mark Drury, spy. He grinned as he held thegun up and pretended to shoot random objects around the room. Now thatMorton Farrier was dead, Mark had been told to destroy everything. Every last bit of evidence, the phone tap—everything.
‘Here we go,’ Mark said, opening up thecardboard wallet containing all his reconnaissance that he had presented to hisboss before being given the green light to take out Farrier. He hadborrowed a shredder and proceeded to feed it the contents of the file. Piece by piece was chewed and devoured by the machine so that all that was leftwas the cardboard wallet itself.
Mark turned to his laptop and brought upthe online console. Navigating to the administration panel, Mark movedhis cursor to the ‘Format All Data’ icon. Then he spotted that somethingwasn’t quite right.
Morton Farrier’s mobile was currentlyactive.
Chapter Eighteen
Mortonwas sitting in a quiet corner of the Winchelsea Farm Kitchen—a traditional shopspecialising in local meats, cheeses, jams and produce, with one half of thepremises functioning as a charming tearoom. He was slightly early for hisappointment with Jenny Greenwood and was growing more and more intrigued bywhatever it was that she had to tell him. He checked his emails whilst hewaited but there were no new messages. He re-read the email he hadreceived earlier this morning from Bartholomew Maslow containing threeattachments related to his grandfather, Jack’s, time at Blackfriars. Onewas a close-up image of Jack with a nondescript background. The secondwas of much greater interest to Morton. It was another close-up of Jackwith another man. Bartholomew had been good enough to also scan and emailthe back which revealed old-fashioned script: Me and my best chum, Edward. Morton was looking at a sepia photograph of Jack Maslow with EdwardMercer. Curiously, at some point since the photograph had been developed,somebody
