The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7), Nathan Goodwin [little red riding hood ebook TXT] 📗

Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim would be arriving at any moment—as a thorny coil of anxiety thrashed through his intestines at the thought of the impending dinner.

Phil had been about to give up and go home. Patience had never been his strong point. That was why he was here, now, standing outside the Mermaid Inn watching the house. He had arrived with no plan whatsoever, but now that he had seen all but one of the house’s occupants leaving, one began to loosely form in his head. The remaining person—a man—was busy pulling suitcases from the boot of a car. Now was as good an opportunity as he was likely to get.

Slinging his hands into his pockets, he sauntered down the road and up the steps to Morton’s house. The door was wide open and the man had his head in the boot of the car. He waited, on the verge of stepping inside until the man hauled another suitcase out onto the pavement. ‘Hiya, I work with Morton Farrier on his genealogical investigations—I’m just dropping something off,’ he said, holding up a supermarket carrier bag which was wrapped tightly around a block of cheese which he had just purchased from Jempson’s for his tea.

The man shrugged disinterestedly. ‘He’s just popped out, but sure, go ahead.’

‘Cheers, mate,’ Phil replied, hurrying inside. He had no idea where he was going and quickly looked into the room on his left—the lounge. A nice television, pair of two-seater sofas, coffee table and some bookcases. The room to the right was the kitchen-diner. He headed up the stairs and found the bathroom, a child’s room and what looked like the master bedroom. Continuing up to the top floor, he found another bedroom and then, typically being the last room that he searched, he found Morton’s study. He entered the room and laughed scornfully when he spotted the wall covered entirely in a web of paperwork linked by string and coloured pins. It was totally melodramatic and ridiculous given his occupation, but exactly what Phil had come for. He didn’t have long and began scanning his eyes around the wall. There. He lunged forwards and pulled the piece of paper from its tape, tearing the corner.

Taking out his mobile phone, he took a close-up photo of the paper.

‘You alright up there?’ the man called up to him. An American, by the sound of his accent.

‘Yep—be right down,’ Phil replied, swiftly reattaching the paper to the wall. ‘Cheers for that!’ he said, meeting the American on the first floor. ‘Don’t worry about telling him I came round—I’ll see him later in the week. See ya.’

‘Bye.’

Phil descended the stairs two at time and headed outside, closing the front door behind him.

With a wide grin on his face, he headed to the bus stop, thinking about the cheese on toast which he was going to have when he got home.

Having taken Jack and Laura for a cream tea and shown them some of the historic and ancient properties in Church Square, Morton found himself at the top of Mermaid Street—his own road and the one most renowned in the town—in a quandary. To get to the house and to show the visitors this notable street meant walking past the Mermaid Inn, something his legs seemed unwilling to do.

‘What are you dithering for, now?’ Juliette asked.

‘Just thinking it’s easier—with the buggy and all—to go down West Street, then around The Mint and up to the house.’

Juliette looked at him, wholly baffled. ‘Good idea… Or—and an equally good idea—we could order a helicopter down to the harbour, catch a boat then get a taxi to our house, which I can see from here?’ She shared her mystification with Jack and Laura, frowning in their direction, then saying, ‘We’ve pushed the buggy down there a thousand times before. Come on.’ She moved in front of the buggy and began down the road.

And that was it, they were heading down the cobbles of Mermaid Street, utterly in the hands of fate.

Morton’s pulse quickened and something inside him recoiled as they approached the Mermaid Inn. His efforts to accelerate the pace of the group failed when Jack brought everyone to a standstill to admire the pub.

‘I’m sure I had my photo taken outside here!’ Jack declared, squinting hard, as he seemed to pull the memory forward in his mind.

Morton wanted to say, ‘You did. I took a copy of it from your sister’s photo album. I can find it easily.’ He could even tell him the exact spot upon which he had stood in the photo but he wasn’t sure that, if he opened his mouth, any words would come out right now. Through the archway that led to the rear of the pub, he had spotted his Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim’s green Land Rover. They were here.

He tried to get Juliette’s attention to tell her but she was engrossed in conversation with Laura.

‘Wow—did you hear that, Jack?’ Laura said, tugging his arm. ‘The pub dates back to 1420, but the cellars date from 1156. That is just mind-blowing. And you live so close to it!’

‘Come on, let’s get a group photo,’ Jack suggested, accosting a young woman passing by. ‘Hey—would you mind taking our photo, please?’

Morton found himself smiling inattentively at the stranger, sandwiched between Juliette and his biological father, all the while wondering if perhaps his biological mother was peering out of one of the windows behind them. ‘Come on, then, let’s get back,’ Morton said, taking the buggy back from Juliette’s grip and bumping Grace down the cobbles to the house.

Inside, they found George in front of the television watching a Pearl Harbour documentary.

‘Oh, George—it’s such a pretty town,’ Laura said, sitting beside him and patting his thigh like a dog. ‘You really must take a look around.’

‘Did you get any sleep, Son?’ Jack