Roots of Evil(126)

‘That’s what it looks like.’

‘You said there were a couple of things that were odd,’ put in Francesca.

‘The other thing is a letter that seems to have arrived by yesterday’s post. It was on the dining-table, and it’s dated the day before yesterday, so it’s a fairly safe bet that it was delivered yesterday – the postal authorities are confirming that later. But we think Mr Fane got home last evening around half past six, found the letter, and made the call to his office at quarter to eight that night.’

‘And then went batting off somewhere at crack of dawn next morning?’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption, Miss Trent. The milk was still on the step – it’s delivered about quarter past seven apparently, so it looks as if Mr Fane left the house before it arrived. I don’t think he’d have left the milk on the step, do you?’

‘No,’ said Lucy rather shortly.

‘What was the letter?’ asked Michael.

‘It’s from HM Land Registry. It’s addressed to Edmund Fane’s home, and it’s a reply to a request he made about some land. We’ve contacted them, and they confirm that they do provide a search service for the title to property or land. There’s a small fee, but it’s a standard service to anyone who writes in.’

‘And being a solicitor, Fane would know all that,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He’d know it would be an unremarkable request to make as well. Well? What did Edmund Fane want to know?’

‘The name of Ashwood Studios’ owner,’ said Jennie Fletcher.

‘Ah. And did they give him the name?’

‘They did.’

There was a shuttered look to Michael’s eyes, but when he spoke he sounded quite calm. ‘How about an address?’

‘Yes.’ She was watching Michael very intently. ‘Yes, they gave an address for the owner.’

This time Michael turned so white that for a moment Lucy thought he was going to faint, and she was aware of Francesca making an involuntary movement and then sinking back into her chair.

‘Mr Sallis?’ said Jennie Fletcher sharply.

Michael was already reaching for his jacket. He said, ‘I know where Edmund Fane’s gone, and it’s desperately important that we head him off.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s coming up to eleven o’clock now, and it’s probably about an hour’s drive from here. Fane’s got a three or four hour start, but I can phone ahead.’

He reached for the mobile phone, and Francesca said, ‘Michael, if you’re thinking of driving it’s out of the question. Even if your car was repaired – which it isn’t – your hand isn’t up to a long journey.’

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten the car.’

‘I’ll drive you,’ said Fran. ‘To – wherever it is.’

‘I’ll come too if you want,’ offered Lucy. ‘We could share the driving.’

‘Nobody’s going to be sharing any driving, and if anyone’s going anywhere it’ll be in a police car – two police cars,’ said Jennie sharply. She frowned, and then said, ‘All right, I’ll trust you a bit further, Mr Sallis. We can leave someone stationed at Edmund Fane’s house, and you can give my sergeant directions as we go.’

‘Can Francesca and Lucy come as well?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘We could follow you,’ said Lucy.

‘You can’t stop us doing that,’ added Fran.

‘Oh, for—All right,’ said Fletcher in exasperation. ‘But when we get to – to wherever we’re going, you’re both to stay well out of the way, is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ they said in unison.

‘You’ll never keep up with the police cars,’ said Michael to Fran. ‘Where’s something to write on – thanks, that’ll do.’ He scribbled an address and what looked like brief directions on the back of one of the paper napkins from the coffee tray. ‘Can you read my writing?’

‘I think so.’

‘Mr Sallis, you’ll have to do some fast talking on the journey,’ said the inspector as they went out. ‘There are a great many unanswered questions in this affair.’



‘We can take my car if you prefer,’ said Lucy, as she and Francesca sprinted across the car park. ‘I don’t mind driving.’

‘You’ve already driven a couple of hundred miles,’ said Fran. ‘You must be exhausted.’

‘So have you.’

‘Yes, but I’ve had a break since then, and something to eat.’ Fran settled the matter by opening the door of her car and getting in. ‘But I might ask you to take over for a spell – it depends how far it is. Michael said about an hour.’

‘He was right about us not keeping up with the police cars,’ said Lucy, as Fran drove off the White Hart’s car park as fast as she dared.

‘Yes, they’re out of sight already. But we’ve got directions of a kind and I’ve got a road atlas in the glove compartment.’

‘Then I’ll map-read as we go,’ offered Lucy, propping Michael’s scribbled notes on the dashboard.

For several miles neither of them spoke except when Lucy gave directions, but once they had joined the motorway, she said, ‘Francesca – I’d appreciate knowing what this is about. It’s clear that there’s quite a lot going on under the surface, and it’s also clear that you know more about it than I do.’