‘So this case you’re working on,’ Angela began, ‘It’s for our family?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Would I be able to be cheeky and ask for a copy of the family tree—when you’re finished?’ Angela asked. ‘It’s one of those things I vowed to do upon retirement but still haven’t achieved.’
‘Certainly,’ Morton agreed. ‘No problems.’ He pushed his notepad into his bag then stood to leave. ‘Right, I need to get on. Thank you very much for your assistance—I’ll be in touch when the case is closed.’
Angela grinned. ‘Oh, did you hear that, Laurie—the case. How exciting!’
Morton shook their hands, thanked them again and left.
Outside, he gave an acknowledging wave to Lawrence, who was peering down at him from the large lounge window. Morton crossed the street and took a steep narrow path over the hill, arriving half way down Croft Road, which sliced a diagonal line through the side of the West Hill, ultimately terminating in the Old Town High Street.
Everything now relied on Tina Strickland, or Tina Paine as she had become after her marriage. If she was no longer in possession of the indentures, then it was game-over.
21 Croft Road—a smart four-storey Georgian terrace house painted storm grey—was situated directly opposite the graveyard of St Clements Church. Tina Paine, the likely current owner of the lease and release documents was living just a few yards away from her great-great-great-grandmother, Eliza Lovekin’s grave.
Morton ascended three worn stone steps and rapped the lion-head door knocker, smiling at the thought of being able to tell Tina the irony of living so close to the person who had managed to procure the documents in the first place.
He waited, then rapped again, harder this time. When there was no response, he knocked once more and stepped back, looking up at the windows. But there was no sign of life. Morton was disappointed and reluctantly accepted to return later in the day; this aspect of the Lovekin Case would have to wait.
It was time to tie up some other loose threads.
Strolling purposely beside the St Clements Church burial ground, Morton glanced across at the Lovekin grave, considering how far the case had moved on since his last visit here. With his thoughts ruminating on his next steps, he made his way along the seafront towards Hastings Library, blindly ignorant of the sharp-suited man with greased-back hair and an earpiece, who was tailing him at a discreet distance.
Oblivious, Morton entered the library.
‘Yep, got him,’ Kevin Addison confirmed to the voice in his own earpiece, as he watched Morton march inside the library. ‘You thought you’d escaped us,’ he muttered to nobody in particular. He was in the driver’s seat of the silver BMW, parked illegally with his hazard lights blinking, a short distance from the library entrance.
‘Is this it, boss?’ one of the two skinhead goons in the back asked, already bored chasing this bungling idiot.
‘His time’s up,’ Kevin answered simply.
Yesterday he had been unexpectedly summoned into Liz Seymour’s office on the eighteenth floor of The Shard. Despite his physical strength and reputation, she had always intimidated him, and so he had gone into her office with trickles of sweat running down his sides. She had greeted him in her usual no-nonsense way, cutting out small talk and directing him to sit in the leather chair in front of her desk.
‘Do you have the indentures?’ she had demanded from her high-backed chair that towered over him. She had been, as always, immaculately presented with a perfect shoulder-length brown hair and smart black skirt and jacket combination. A recent round of Botox injections had fixed her face to a permanent look of dispassionate scorn.
‘Not yet,’ Kevin had faltered. ‘I’ve given the genealogist bloke until tomorrow.’
Liz had laughed, but her face had remained unchanged and Kevin had only been able to guess at the laughter’s mocking intention until she clarified. ‘How generous of you. Get me those documents by five p.m. tomorrow and get rid of the genealogist or you won’t have a job. Leave no shred of evidence of anything connecting him to us. Am I clear?’
Kevin had nodded and then skulked from the room, taking the next train out of London.
Sitting here now outside Hastings Library, he was livid. Morton had run him a merry dance, making him look stupid at the company. Damn right it was ending today. His pathetic attempt to shake them off had only caused Kevin further irritation. The tracker on Juliette’s car had led them straight to the White Rock Hotel, where a spotty youth had coughed up their room number in exchange for a fifty-pound note. Fleeing at four a.m. and staying at a hotel under a false name clearly meant that Morton was not intending to comply.
After more than an hour of impatient waiting, Kevin spotted Morton stepping out of the library. ‘Here he is,’ Kevin alerted the others.
‘He’s looking for something,’ one of the men in the back said, leaning forwards to get a better look.
‘If he had half a brain, he’d see us,’ another added.
‘Damn it,’ Kevin yelled, thumping the steering wheel with his fist. ‘He’s getting into a taxi. Now where’s he going?’
Kevin gritted his teeth and started the engine.
He really was losing his patience.
‘Church in the wood?’ the taxi driver confirmed, as Morton slid into the back of the cab.
He paused momentarily before remembering that St Leonards Church was known colloquially as Church in the Wood. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
The driver, a muscular young man with an exuberant Hawaiian shirt, nodded then pulled away.
Morton looked for the meter but couldn’t spot it. Perhaps it was out of sight? Surely it had to be within the passenger’s view? A sudden wave of panic came over him as he realised that he had
