“So you’ve had a good look around the place, now what do you want?” The tone was more aggressive than the look.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but my car has broken down about half a mile away and I can’t get a signal on my mobile phone. I was wondering if I could possibly use your phone to call a breakdown truck.”
“Of course. Mind yourself on the step. The phone is out in the kitchen.”
Dillon went past the old man, who slammed the door shut and followed him inside.
“Follow me; the phone is on the wall behind the door.”
He brushed past Dillon in the direction of a doorway at the end of a narrow passage. And as they went past a closed door, the man stopped as a woman’s voice called out, inquiring what was going on.
“I’ve got a visitor. Nothing to concern you,” he said.
The feeling on impending danger would not leave him. He couldn’t help thinking how the old man had let him in so readily; older people would have been much more wary of letting a stranger into their home in this day and age, even if it was in a gesture of kindness. As they entered the kitchen it was, for Dillon, like stepping back in time to his grandmother’s home. With free standing cupboards against the white painted walls and a traditional old-fashioned range oven standing in between them. A quarry tiled floor was largely covered by a long oak table and everything was spotlessly clean.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Dillon said.
The house was quiet — the only sound came from a clock mounted on the wall above the doorway.
“No. We’re going into Lyme this evening. My wife has decided that we should eat out tonight.” The man raised his eyebrows in resignation. “The phone’s over there by the door,” he said, sitting down at the table. “What’s the matter with your car then?”
“Haven’t got a clue. I’m afraid I’m not very good with anything mechanical,” Dillon answered, dialling the Ferran & Cardini special projects number.
As soon as Vince Sharp’s direct line was answered, he proceeded to talk as if he were speaking to the breakdown company. Vince knew what Dillon wanted. Everything there was to know about the address he was calling from and the occupants. Dillon ended the call by saying aloud, for the benefit of the man, that the recovery vehicle and mechanic would be there in about forty-five minutes.
“Thanks for the use of the phone.”
Dillon pulled out a five pound note and placed it on the table. The man looked offended, telling him to put it back in his pocket and in the same breath offered to make Dillon a cup of tea, which he accepted. Dillon got the distinct impression that the man was actually pleased to see another human being and be able to talk to someone different.
Dillon had been offered a chair with its back to the door and was looking for some kind of reflection from the facing window. As he sat down, the man came back to the table with the cups of tea.
“So then, where were you heading before your car broke down?”
“I’m on my way to Exeter,” Dillon lied easily, adding, “My name is Robert King, by the way.”
“Harry Connor. That’s my wife Sheila in the front room. You’ll have to excuse her — she’s watching one of those damn soaps on the television. Every day is the bloody same, a load of old rubbish if you ask me.”
Dillon smiled and sipped the tea.
“It’s a lovely spot you’ve got yourself here, so quiet and off the beaten track. How long have you lived here, Harry?”
“About fourteen years, I’d say. And you’re right, it is a beautiful place to live. Where do you live then?”
“London. Complete opposite, I’m sorry to say. It’s still as polluted and noisy as it’s ever been.”
“We went to London once, but Sheila didn’t think much of it and I can’t stand crowds of people, see?”
“I know what you mean, Harry. So who lived here before you?”
“Bit nosey, aren’t you? Asking all these questions about the place. You’re not one of those property developers are you? Sound out old folk before trying to buy their homes from under their feet?”
“No, Harry. I’m not a property developer and I’m not here to sound you out, as you say. I’m simply a nosey bugger whose car has broken down and asks too many questions over a cup of tea. I’m just interested, that’s all. Every house has a tale to tell. That sort of thing.”
“Oh, well in that case I’ll go and ask Sheila, she’ll know who lived here before we did.”
Conner went through the door behind Dillon, leaving it ajar as he went into the living room to speak with Sheila. Dillon couldn’t hear what was being said but caught the tones of a women’s voice and heard footsteps pacing around the other room. Some sort of argument was taking place with Conner attempting to explain and the woman constantly shouting at him. Conner came back and sat down. He raised his brows in resignation and said, “Sheila’s got a memory like an elephant. Apparently there was only ever one owner who lived here before we arrived, and it was his father who had the house built. His name was Keysworth, but we never met him. Everything was conducted through a local solicitor.”
Harry’s tone was the friendliest it had been since Dillon had arrived.
Keysworth was one of the original names on Latimer’s list located at the address. This confirmed what Dillon already knew, and he now saw no purpose in outstaying his welcome. After thanking Harry Conner for the use of his phone and hospitality, he headed for the front door. He could still hear the television in the living room, but there was also movement from upstairs. He offered his thanks again and as he walked out into the driveway, he had the distinct feeling he was being watched all the way down to the road. Even as he rounded the bend at the bottom, he still felt that he was being held under surveillance. He felt a lot more comfortable when he could see the parked Ford just a short distance away up the road.
He sat behind the wheel for a moment, doing nothing, except collecting his thoughts together and pondering on why Harry Conner had lied to him. Every now and then he looked in his rear-view mirror; some hikers appeared behind him and wondered off along the footpath into the woods. By the time he started the engine he was almost certain that no one was watching him. He drove off slowly, thinking that Conner wasn’t the frail old man he made out he was, and he definitely knew far more about Mr. Keysworth than he was letting on. He got back onto the main Exeter Road where at this time of the year the road was packed with holiday traffic and constant bottlenecks.
He reached Lyme Regis, fought his way into the centre of the historic coastal town, through narrow streets and out the other side, on up the steep hill past the Royal Lion Hotel. He turned left into Pound Road and then into Cobb Road, and found a parking space in the car park near to the old harbour. There were people milling around and walking along the 13th Century Cobb — a formidable breakwater wall of solid stone that snakes its way out to sea; made internationally famous by the movie The French Lieutenant’s Woman. He found a traditional fish and chip shop, ordered a large cod and chips to take away, and watched the fishing boats and yachts coming in from the English Channel from where he sat on the pebble beach. After wandering around the town he took his time and walked back to the Ford. By now it was getting dark.
He slowly drove back to the house and once he’d left the main road, he used only the side lights as he approached it. He pulled up, reversed the Ford over uneven ground into a clearing at the edge of a wooded area and tucked the car away from sight of the road. Not wishing to take any risks, he went to work covering the bonnet and windscreen with fallen branches and any other foliage that he could find laying around. Satisfied that it was properly concealed, he picked up the powerful torch off the passenger seat, locked the car and then started to walk back through the woods towards the house.