“Why’s he in on this?” Walton asked.
“Seems like that’s a question for him.” Hugo eyed the journalist. “So what happens if we find Harper and he doesn’t want to give you an interview? You’ve risked blowing an exclusive for nothing.”
“Some risks are worth taking, Mr. Marston.” Walton shrugged. “If I can break the story of him escaping and get an interview to boot, I’ll be on every news program for a week. I’m too old to be chasing starlets and their drunken husbands, I want them to know who I am, to come find me for a change.”
“You been doing this for a long time?”
“Not this exactly, no. Crime is my main interest, my first beat, you might say. I like to lighten it up with some celebrity stalking now and again.” He grinned. “And you’d be amazed how often the two subjects intersect.”
They looked around as Pendrith came back into the room, locked his bedroom door with a frown on his face. “A pub and not a drop to drink in there. Bloody disgrace.” He sat back in his chair, then turned to Walton. “Be a good fellow, run down and grab a bottle of something strong and three glasses. My tab.”
“You serious?” Walton asked, wide-eyed.
“Lord yes,” Pendrith said. “Didn’t have time to pack a toothbrush, let alone stock up on other essentials. No point drying out too much up here, especially if we’re going to sort out some kind of plan of action. After all, we’re not savages.”
Walton stood, uncertain at first, then started down the steps. Halfway, he turned as if to say something but apparently decided better of it and soon disappeared from view. Pendrith looked at Hugo.
“So what are we going to do?” he said.
“Braxton Hall is the only lead we have,” Hugo said. “And because we’re not officially welcome, our options are limited.”
“Are you, by any chance, suggesting a stealth visit?”
“Not if you’ve got a better idea.”
“No, old boy, I don’t. But I don’t think we want our weaselly friend with us when we go, do you?”
“You think he’ll insist on coming?”
“Let’s not find out.”
They grabbed their jackets from their rooms, Pendrith again locking his with a wry smile at Hugo, and met back in the sitting room. Hugo closed the door to his room, too, then went into the bathroom, turned on the cold tap, and left it running as he closed the door behind him. He nodded to Pendrith and the two men trotted quietly down the stairs. At the second floor landing, Hugo spotted a bathroom that, he assumed, belonged to the owner and his wife. The door stood open and he couldn’t see movement elsewhere in the apartment, so he beckoned for Pendrith to follow him. They stepped into the little room and closed the door most of the way, Hugo watching for Walton through a small opening. He knew they wouldn’t have much time, maybe a minute or two before Walton figured out they were gone.
The journalist trudged by a few seconds later, carrying a bottle of Bell’s whisky and three glass tumblers. Behind Hugo, Pendrith sighed at the quality of the booze Walton had procured and Hugo silenced him with a nudge. As Walton’s feet disappeared up the final flight to their rooms, Hugo stepped into the hallway and the two men moved quickly down the stairs to the bar.
The pub had filled since they’d gone upstairs, a group of rowdy young men eyeing a larger group of even more rowdy young women, slightly older and dressed for a bachelorette night, Hugo thought. They waved at the harried publican on the way past, but he was too busy to care what they were doing. Hugo glanced back as they went out the front door and saw no sign of Walton, just the red-faced landlord balancing a bottle of white wine and too many glasses on a small tray.
Hugo winced at the beep of the Cadillac when he unlocked it, and they climbed quickly inside. The doors closed with a gentle whump, and in three seconds they were out of the parking lot.
“He might guess where we’re going and follow,” Pendrith said.
“He might. But he also knows he might get an ass full of buckshot if he goes back down that lane. Assuming his Mini will even make it down there.”
“Any particular reason that we won’t be in for some lead shot ourselves?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Care to share?” Pendrith said.
“Let’s assume you are right about Braxton Hall being fairly new. How did the builders get in there? It wasn’t down that Roman road, I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Another entrance,” Pendrith nodded. “But how do we find it?”
“Easy,” Hugo said, patting his GPS monitor. “This thing.”
“Well, it didn’t find it before.”
“That’s because it figures out the most direct route, depending on where you are coming from. So from London, that lane was the most direct route. All we have to do is circle around the village and come in from the opposite direction. Then this lovely lady will bring us in.”
“I say,” Pendrith said. “How clever.”
“Yep,” said Hugo. “But first we have to go low-tech. There should be a map in the glove compartment — can you steer us to the back side of Weston?”
“No need for a map, old boy. We just need to head for the best pheasant shoot in the Home Counties, and you can bet your last, grubby American dollar I can get us that far, at least.”
CHAPTER TEN
They came at the place from the north this time. As Hugo had predicted, once they were on Baldock Road the GPS system locked onto the postal code and guided them in, the softness of the woman’s voice contrasting with the urgency felt by her lost subjects, as if the narration for a nature film had somehow been dubbed onto a Hitchcock thriller.
The last turn she had them make was onto an obviously new road, signposted as Braxton Lane.
“Should have guessed that,” said Pendrith.
The road ran straight like the Roman road but low between two fields, bursts of occasional hedgerow on either side. It was wide, certainly wide enough for construction vehicles, though Hugo noticed that grassy banks had started to grow into the road, which told him it wasn’t overly used or maintained. They saw no sign of houses or other connecting roads, as if Braxton Lane was really an extended driveway to the hall. After a mile, the road rose to become level with the land around and then curved gently to the left before ending in front of a high, barred gate that was the only break that they could see in a fifteen-foot brick wall apparently circling the property. Hugo turned the car parallel to the gate and doused the headlights.
“Secure,” said Pendrith. “Lot of bricks.”
“Surprised?” Hugo scanned the darkness for a way into the place but from the car saw none.
“Hardly. Don’t see men with guns, though, so that’s an improvement.” Pendrith opened his door. “Shall we?”
They stood at the front gate and Hugo inspected a metal panel containing a keypad and a screen. He bent down and scooped up a handful of mud, then smeared it over the top of the screen where he suspected a camera would be. He looked at Pendrith and shrugged. “Just in case. See any other cameras?”
“Nope, but out here they’re more likely to have dogs. Though if they did, we should be hearing them by now.”
“True. They wouldn’t be the first people to rely on a big gate and a brick wall.”
They stood at the gate and looked toward the house, a hulking silhouette at the top of a low rise directly in front of them, maybe a hundred yards from the gate. It was an Edwardian-style mansion of at least a dozen bedrooms, judging by the long line of windows on the top floor.
“So, how do we get in?” Pendrith asked.
Hugo glanced over at him. “You’re the James Bond — I figured you’d know.”
“He was MI6—I’m MI5.”
“The branch that needs keys.”
“Apparently. FBI got any tricks?”