Roots of Evil(121)

But Michael had not thought better of it, and he was not phoning with a polite excuse. He explained that he had had to drive up to Deborah Fane’s house early that morning, and there had been an accident to his hand which meant he could not drive back. And even if he had been able to drive, his car had been vandalized.

‘I’m so sorry, Francesca,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be back in London in plenty of time to meet you. But I’m stuck up here, and there’s no means of getting back until tomorrow at the earliest. And even then—’

Fran suddenly had the feeling that he was choosing his words with extreme care. She said, ‘Michael – is anything wrong? I mean – you are all right, aren’t you?’

‘I’m furious at being stranded with a ruined car and a mangled hand,’ he said. ‘And I’m even more furious at not seeing you.’

The thought of Michael being in pain upset Fran so much that she said, without thinking, ‘How will you get back? By train? Or shall I drive up there tomorrow?’

There was silence. Damn, thought Fran, I didn’t mean that to come out. I’ve overdone it. He’ll say, no, it’s fine, thank you, everything’s already fixed up.

But Michael was already saying, ‘Oh Francesca, you have no idea how much I’d like that. But what about your classes?’

‘None until Thursday afternoon. So it really wouldn’t be a problem. I could drive you back.’ Fran was glad to think she had finally managed to get her car fixed and driven back to London by a helpful local garage. ‘It’d be a sort of quid pro quo for you driving me back to London that day, if you remember that.’

‘Of course I remember it,’ he said softly, and there, without warning, was the sudden slide down of his voice into a caress.

So as not to get too carried away, Fran said in a practical voice, ‘If I set off fairly early – around half past seven or eight, say – I’d be there by mid-morning. Where exactly are you? Still at Mrs Fane’s house?’

‘No, I’m at the White Hart in the village, although God knows how I got the car this far, because—D’you really mean it about driving up? I’d love you to be here, but it’s over hill, over dale—’

‘Through brush, through brier, through flood, through fire,’ said Fran promptly.

‘There’s a beautiful thought. All right, I give in. We could have lunch somewhere and not start back until evening. Or if you bring a toothbrush and some pyjamas I could even book a room here for you for the night, and we could drive back the next day if you’d like that. You’d still be back for Thursday afternoon and it would give me a bit longer to – sort out the car.’

He doesn’t just mean the car, thought Fran at once. Something’s happened. But he doesn’t want to tell me yet – or at least not over the phone.

Michael was saying, ‘I’d better give you directions to the White Hart, hadn’t I? Have you got a pen? Oh, and I’ll give you the phone number here as well in case you get stuck anywhere.’

‘OK, I’ve got all that,’ said Fran a moment later.

‘Good. I won’t hand you the line about keeping the lamps burning for your arrival, especially if it’ll be mid-morning when you get here. But I’ll be looking out for you. Drive carefully, Francesca darling. I’ll be waiting.’



Edmund read his post while he ate his supper.

There was the quarterly electricity bill – it was criminal how much they charged you for electricity nowadays – and also a circular for a pizza delivery house, which irritated Edmund, who disapproved of the slovenly practice of delivering cooked food to people’s houses.

The third letter was not immediately recognizable, but it had a vaguely official look. He slit the envelope and unfolded the contents, and with a lurch of anticipation saw it was from the Land Registry: the results of the search he had requested following Trixie Smith’s death. The name of Ashwood’s present owner. And an address in Lincoln.

He stared at the sheet of paper, because he had seen that name very recently. He had seen it on Michael Sallis’s phone barely half an hour ago. He reached for the phone to make sure. Yes, there it was, along with a number and dialling code. But surely it was simply coincidence. Surely there could not be a link between Sallis and Ashwood’s owner? Or could there…?

He took down the BT phone directory, turning to the list of dialling codes for the whole country. It took a few minutes to match the code stored on the phone, but in the end he found it. The code was for Lincoln.

Edmund thought for a moment, and then dialled one of the big, anonymous directory Inquiries services. He gave the name printed on the Land Registry’s documentation, and when asked for the address, merely said it was in Lincoln. Within seconds an electronic voice recited a number. The number was the number on Michael Sallis’s mobile phone.

How much of a danger might this be? Edmund had no idea, but he did not like discovering this link between Sallis and Ashwood, he did not like it at all. He considered what he should do. How about phoning the Lincoln number to see who answered? He could dial 141 beforehand so that his own number would not register at the other end, and pretend to have called a wrong number. But a voice on a phone would not tell him much. He needed to see the set-up – he needed to be reassured that it was only some faceless property company, and that there was no threat.