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

‘Hang on. What happened?’ Morton asked.

‘Er…just that. Someone was on the premises—chased off by the family Alsatian.’

‘Was he in the house?’

‘No, I think he was seen running from a shed. He didn’t take anything.’

‘Any idea who it was?’

‘Oh, we’re fairly certain it’s a man called Phillip Garrow,’ Juliette revealed.

‘How do you know that?’

‘The officers sent to investigate found a car close to the scene. Five minutes later Phillip Garrow phones—from home, he claimed—to say that it had been stolen.’

‘So…?’

‘Mobile triangulation actually places him somewhere within three quarters of a mile of his car when he made the call… So, not at home at all. It doesn’t need Poirot to work out that having been caught trying to break into the house, he reached his car on the other side of the woods, saw police there, then called it in as stolen.’

‘Have you picked him up?’ Morton asked.

‘He’s not been home since. I’ve got to go. See you in the morning.’

‘Okay, bye,’ Morton said, absentmindedly. He had forever been suspicious of coincidences and this was no exception. A stranger entered his study yesterday afternoon. The only evidence of anyone having been there was a ripped corner on a piece of paper, which mentioned the possibility of a bunch of coins being hidden at the Bourne Tap. Last night, a stranger was caught trying to break into an outbuilding at the Bourne Tap. A thought occurred to Morton and he pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Juliette. ‘Does Phillip Garrow have any previous convictions? Photo? Physical description? Xx’

Before he entered the kitchen to join Jack, Laura and George, Morton took a moment to try and think who this man might be. Phillip Garrow. The name meant absolutely nothing to him. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but if so, he could not force himself to believe it. Right now, he had no more time to give it. His mobile beeped with Juliette’s response: ‘No previous. Xx’

‘Hi, how was London?’ Morton said, strolling casually into the kitchen.

‘Oh, my God, it was just amazing,’ Laura enthused. ‘Wasn’t it?’

George nodded. ‘Yeah, really cool.’

‘Where did you go?’ Morton asked.

Laura blew out a puff of air, as if she were being asked to recall a long-forgotten excursion. ‘Buckingham Palace,’ she began, placing an American stress on ham, ‘Downing Street—’

‘What we could see of it,’ George interjected.

‘Yeah, I notice security’s been ramped up,’ Jack added.

‘Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden…’ Laura’s list faded out, as she searched her mind for anything which she had missed.

‘Don’t forget Oxford Street,’ Jack said, in his best attempt at an English accent.

‘I need to go back,’ Laura declared. ‘For like, a week.’

‘Well, now we’ve got family here,’ Jack said, a hint of promise in his voice.

It was minuscule, almost imperceptible, but Morton noticed George roll his eyes at Jack’s statement.

‘Have you eaten?’ Morton asked.

‘Oh, my God,’ Laura said, touching her stomach. ‘We had a huge meal—with cocktails—in some place off Covent Garden. Maybe a sandwich later on?’

‘No problem. Are you still okay to babysit, if I go up and see Aunty Margaret later?’

‘No worries, son,’ Jack said, giving Morton another shoulder slap.

There it was again—the word son looming large in the room with its myriad complexities and questions.

‘Thanks. Oh, Juliette’s dug out those old embarrassing photo albums from when I was growing up…if you’d still like to see them?’

‘Sure we would, let’s go sit down and take a look,’ Jack said.

Morton slowly pulled the front door shut, waiting for the soft click as the latch bolt was swallowed by the strike plate. A heavy coldness had descended on the back of the night’s darkness. He had not bothered with a coat—the Mermaid Inn was literally thirty seconds’ walk away. He pulled his arms tightly around his chest and headed up the unlit cobbled street towards the alluring warm lights of the pub.

He paused on the threshold and took a deep breath of the chilly air, then entered the lounge bar. Just as she had said she would be, he found Margaret sitting alone at a table close to the open fire. He observed her for just a moment. She had obviously made an effort for the evening, wearing a smart green dress, and had done something to her hair. She was holding a small glass of something and gazing into the fire.

‘Hello,’ he said, approaching her.

It took a moment for her to register that she was being spoken to. She turned with a look of surprise, smiled and stood to give him a hug. ‘Hello, darling.’

He kissed her cheek, fairly certain that she had never called him ‘darling’ before.

‘No Jim?’ Morton enquired.

‘Only if you want to be responsible for what happens when you wake him up,’ Margaret said.

‘No,’ he stated with a short laugh. ‘I’ll just go and get a drink—are you ready for another?’ he asked.

‘Oh, go on then. I’m on the sherry,’ she said with a chuckle.

At the bar, Morton ordered her drink and a large glass of red wine for himself. As he waited for the drinks, he glanced over at her, noticing then that the three letters from 1976 were on the table in front of her. As he pondered her thoughts on their content, his eyes moved to her and saw that she had seen him looking at the letters. She smiled, briefly, then turned back to face the fire.

‘Here we go, Aunty Margaret,’ Morton said, placing her drink down beside the three letters.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘What sort of a day have you had, then?’ She sat back, sipped her drink and waited, seemingly genuinely interested.

‘Well, I’m working on this peculiar case at the moment—’ he began, before