‘Are you going back out?’ the man from behind the counter called.
Kevin nodded and the glass door shifted to one side.
He walked into the Reading Room, directly behind Morton. The indentures were right there, unguarded beside him. He could just snatch them and run, but that would be stupid, he’d already seen that the place was riddled with security cameras. No, he would wait and bide his time.
He was within two feet of the indentures when he made a sharp right turn and waltzed out of the archives.
He would wait.
Morton didn’t expect to find the details of Eliza’s murder pleasant, but to read the appalling details of what had actually occurred to her shocked him. What possible reason could anyone have to inflict such horror on her? he pondered. Nothing that he had discovered in her life so far gave any forewarning of her tragic demise.
His mind drifted from the murder to the three Lovekin girls who, just after their mother was killed under such horrific circumstances, were sent off in Benjamin Barker’s carriage to a village miles away in a different county.
His eyes returned to the news story on the screen in front of him, focusing in on the final line that said the parish constables were still searching for the perpetrator. Was the murderer ever caught? Morton wondered. There was only one way to find out and that was to continue reading the subsequent editions of the Sussex Weekly Advertiser. But time was against him: the archive was closing in fifty minutes.
Morton wound through the film, carefully reading every story on every page of every edition. He reached the final publication of May 1829 when Oliver announced that the archive was about to close. Nothing. The case had not been mentioned again, which Morton took to mean that nobody was ever brought to justice for Eliza’s murder.
Reluctantly, he re-wound the film and returned it in its box to the cabinet, then gathered up his things and headed out to the lockers. He sighed as he bagged up his belongings and strolled out into the late afternoon sunshine. It had been a good day’s research and the Lovekin Case had progressed well.
Kevin Addison watched from behind the darkened windows of his black Range Rover, as Morton Farrier climbed into his Mini then reversed out of his parking space. Kevin started the Range Rover’s engine but made no attempt to move until Morton was well out of sight. He wound down the window and fiddled with the radio before switching on his mobile and selecting the tracker app. Whilst Morton had been busy inside the archive, Kevin had been fitting a GPS tracker device to his car. Now everywhere Morton went, he could follow. Simple. The app opened and Morton’s car, represented by a red circle, appeared onscreen. Behind it, a map was beginning to load; Kevin slowly pulled out of his parking space and began his pursuit.
Morton pulled up on the drive of the Greenwood’s smart detached bungalow in an exclusive cul-de-sac and stepped from the car clutching his bag.
‘Morton!’ came a shrill voice that he instantly recognized as belonging to Jenny Greenwood. She was standing at the front door with a large smile on her face and an even larger glass of red wine in her hand. She seemed to have lost a lot of weight since he had last seen her and had added some blonde highlights to her previously white curly hair.
‘Hello, Jenny,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you—you’re looking well.’
‘Thank you, and so are you. Come in,’ she said, standing back and allowing him to enter. ‘Jon’s in the conservatory reading the Express and being a pompous retired solicitor putting the world to rights.’
Morton followed her through a hallway that opened out into a large lounge, whose walls were adorned with paintings and family photographs. Open French doors fed into a bright conservatory, where he spotted Jonathan Greenwood seated at a table sipping wine.
‘Jon, this is the one and only Morton Farrier,’ Jenny announced somewhat theatrically.
Jonathan stood and offered his hand to Morton, who gave Jenny a look of mock incredulity then shook the extended hand. ‘Jonathan Greenwood,’ he said, in a deep throaty voice. ‘Nice to meet you at last. Take a seat.’
‘Would you like something to drink, Morton?’ Jenny asked. ‘Small red?’
‘Oh, go on, then,’ Morton grinned, taking a seat opposite Jonathan.
‘So,’ he began. ‘You’re the reason my wife’s on the verge of a major court case to syphon off some rich bugger’s fortune, are you?’
Morton looked across the table into his grey eyes but couldn’t determine from his intonation how he had meant the comment. ‘Well, I helped a bit, but it was her own work, really,’ Morton answered diplomatically.
Jonathan grinned, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. He certainly looked the part of a retired solicitor with his open-necked pink shirt, cream chinos and short silvery hair. ‘Thank you—it’s been a great help. Never mind the money we might one day get from the Mansfields – he raised his voice – ‘the main thing is that it’s got her out of the house doing her research trips and what have you.’
‘Hey!’ Jenny called from the kitchen.
Jonathan’s face lost its playfulness as he faced Morton. ‘So, your answerphone message mentioned an indenture of some kind that you want me to take a look at?’
‘Yes, please—if you don’t mind. I’ve read it through a dozen times and I understand the basics, but I can’t help feeling I’m missing something,’ Morton said, as he withdrew the vellums from
