Of all the injuries Harry Kidd had done Anna, the one that had taken longest to heal was probably her newfound fear of men. She liked men. She missed them. She longed to trust them. She simply hadn’t been able. Not until now, at least, sitting on Oliver’s sofa, gazing into his eyes. Two crazy days together, she told herself. That’s all this was. But so what? She longed for companionship again, for those delicious moments of connection, for the simple joy of being desired and held.

  Irritatingly, however, Elias came suddenly to her mind – specifically, Oliver’s affair with his wife. Because Elias liked her too, she was sure of it. It wasn’t just the catch in his voice earlier, it was the way he’d blinked when he’d noticed her makeup, her brushed hair and tightened belt. And though she owed him nothing in that regard, and indeed was a little annoyed by his interest, she found that she didn’t want to cause him pain either, certainly not on the night he’d caught her uncle’s killer – especially as she’d be seeing him again first thing in the morning, when he came to take her to the pound. Because he was far too sharp and dialled in to her not to be able to tell. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said, letting go of Oliver’s hand, pushing herself to her feet. ‘It’s been a brute of a day.’

  Oliver stood with her, a show of old-fashioned courtesy. ‘You know where everything is?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do I at least get a goodnight hug?’

  She put her arms around him, rested her head against his shoulder. It felt so good she clasped him a little tighter. He ran a hand over her hair then kissed her gently on her cheek. When she didn’t move away, he kissed her there a second time before moving to her mouth. She let him for a moment, enjoying the taste and feel of his lips, the press of his tongue, the scratch of his evening stubble. But she pulled back before she could get carried away. ‘I really need my sleep,’ she said.

  ‘If it’s sleep you’re after,’ he said, ‘you’d be far better off in my bed. It’s a million times more comfortable.’

  Anna couldn’t help but smile. ‘Is that the best you’ve got?’

  ‘We wouldn’t need to do anything. Just hold each other is all.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘I mean it. There’s nothing like waking up alongside a beautiful woman. Best feeling in the world. You should try it yourself sometime. I’m serious. You really should. I’d sit in the corner, quiet as a mouse. You’d hardly even know I was there.’

  She laughed and took a step back, grateful he’d made it so easy. ‘Good night, Oliver,’ she said. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Fat chance now,’ he said ruefully. ‘But I’ll do my best.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  Oliver’s hand healed overnight as well as could be hoped. Anna cleaned and dressed his cuts again at the kitchen table, bandaging them as lightly as possible to be unobtrusive during filming. They breakfasted companionably on yoghurt, toast and coffee until Elias rang from downstairs. He looked cheerful and well rested, though he’d clearly been up a while, for his Leaf was gleaming from a car wash, its tyres still wetly black. She went back upstairs for her belongings, which Oliver helped her carry down and stow. He put his arm around her waist and gave her a big warm kiss on her cheek. Then he told her he’d see her later and set off in his BMW.

  ‘You’re seeing him later?’ asked Elias, with that same catch in his voice, too faint to object to, yet there nevertheless. ‘I thought you’d be back off up to York?’

  ‘I’m booked in with Uncle Dun’s solicitor this afternoon,’ she told him, annoyed both with Oliver for his pointless needling of Elias, and with Elias, for letting himself be needled. ‘That leaves me time to kill. Oliver’s filming at Newark Castle, so I thought I’d kill it there. Then back home tonight, van willing.’

  They headed out along Eastgate to the Nettleham road, sitting in tedious queues at each of the roundabouts, which at least gave Anna the opportunity to tell Elias about last night’s attempted bag snatch. ‘For god’s sake!’ he protested. ‘You were supposed to call me.’

  ‘It was nothing. You were beat.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘It wasn’t like they hurt me. They only wanted another bag for their collection. It was coincidence, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe so. You’ve still got to tell me.’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing now?’

  Elias laughed, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Okay, fine,’ he said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘You win.’

  Anna smiled, surprised to discover how much she’d come to like him. ‘So how’s your day looking?’

  ‘Bit grim. I’m due the mother of all bollockings.’

  ‘Whatever for? You caught my uncle’s killer.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Office politics.’

  ‘If you’d like me to speak up for you…?’

  ‘Hell, no. But thanks.’

  They reached Nettleham, passed police HQ, arrived at the pound. Elias settled the paperwork with the duty officer while Anna checked out the van. Despite its age and cranky handling, it was a useful beast, rugged yet still nimble enough to reach the hardest places on the farm, and with plenty of room for equipment in its rear, which her uncle had changed around depending on the tasks at hand. The ladder was missing from its roof rack, but otherwise it was fuller than she’d ever seen. His hedge-cutters were inside, along with the petrol-driven augur he’d used to drill fencepost holes along the lane, some noise cancelling headphones, safety gloves, goggles and disposable breathing masks.

  His portable toolkit was there, some telescopic tree loppers, a coil of orange nylon rope, a torch and a pack of spare batteries. A pair of ragged old bath towels stuffed into a large plastic bag were damp to the touch and almost black with grime. There were two timber planks and a handsaw with pale flecks of sawdust in its teeth, which was very unlike Uncle Dun, a stickler for cleaning and oiling his tools after use. His drone was in there too, along with its remote control. ‘I bought it for his birthday a few years back,’ she told Elias, when he arrived with a receipt for her to sign. ‘Second hand, of course. I couldn’t afford a new one. But still brilliant for finding lost baggage trains beneath your fields.’

  ‘I wish you’d got him one with GPS,’ said Elias. ‘Then we’d know where he went that day.’

  ‘He used it last Sunday?’

  ‘We think so, yes. But his photos are all of plain flat fields.’

  ‘This is Lincolnshire,’ she pointed out.

  ‘And don’t I know it.’ He took back the signed receipt, consulted his watch. ‘Look, I really need to head off. Music to face, and all that. Unless there’s anything else?’

  ‘No. That’s great. And thanks for everything.’

  ‘No worries.’ He stood there a few moments longer. ‘And please. I know you hate asking for help…’

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Come on. At least pretend.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll call. I promise.’ Aware she might not see him again, she wanted to make some extra show of gratitude for all he’d done for her, but she dithered so long over it that he nodded and returned to his Leaf and left.

  She fixed the van’s front bumper with gorilla tape, then mended the buckle on her bag with it too. She still didn’t trust it to hold much weight, however, so she transferred most of its contents to her overnight bag, while pocketing her uncle’s wallet so that she didn’t forget to take it in to show his solicitor. She still had time before filming started at Newark, so she downloaded her uncle’s drone photos onto her laptop. But Elias was right: save for a wedge-shaped copse, a pair of scarlet oaks and a short stretch of cobbled lane, the latest set could have been taken anywhere. There was, however, enough overlap between them for her to crop them and assemble them into a single composite image. But still she didn’t recognise it, and then she was out of time.

  The van was a cranky beast to drive any distance, with soft brakes, temperamental electrics, poor visibility and bad enough fumes that she lowered her window to let some fresh air in, despite the October chill. Then it began to rain, so she raised it back up again. The dual carriageway south to Newark was ugly yet evocative – for Anna, at least – passing as it did through the Templars’ ancient heartlands of Byard’s Leap and Temple Bruer, of Willoughton, Aslackby, Eagle, East Mere and South Witham, huge properties endowed by wealthy barons seeking to avoid the hellfire that their lives had often so deserved.

  The Templars had acquired many thousands of acres of prime Lincolnshire land this way, then had worked them with free labour, thanks to the order’s vows of poverty. They’d been excused most tolls and taxes too, by virtue of their sacred mission and their closeness to power, and they’d been highly entrepreneurial as well, introducing windmills, setting up their own smelting works, creating a pioneering banking network and owning whole fleets of trading ships.

  They’d thus become a money-making machine, and not all of it had gone to fund the crusades. Numerous European regimes had depended on Templar loans, an arrangement that had suited everyone until Philip III of France had found a different method of payback, accusing them of satanism, sodomy and all kinds of heretical practices as an excuse to destroy the order and confiscate their wealth. But that had still been a century away while John had been on the throne, and he’d borrowed as much from them as anyone, courtesy of his advisor Aymeric de St Maur, head of the Knights Templar in England, and William Marshal’s closest friend.

  Something about this thought made Anna frown. She drifted from her lane. A lorry coming up behind blasted her with its horn. The shock made her slow right down and move over almost onto the hard shoulder, allowing the traffic behind to overtake – all except for a white Tesla several cars back that slowed with her, to stay the same distance behind, putting her instantly on her guard. She stamped her foot down and accelerated away as fast as the old van allowed, watching closely in her mirrors to see if the Tesla would speed up with her. But it held the same slow pace until it vanished from her view.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Elias grabbed his usual cup of morning filth from the coffee machine on his way up to his desk. He turned on his computer to check out the latest from Warne Farm, only to discover that his case file access had been revoked. He sat there seething. He had paperwork to catch up on, but he was too riled up for that. Besides, he’d promised Anna he’d protect her from León de Bruin, and his expenses would hardly help with that.

  He still had internet access, at least. He used it to google de Bruin. There were pages of photographs of him, mostly with his wife. In fact, he soon realised, it was Samantha that the photographers were really after, thanks to her beauty, her wild youth and titled father.

  It was instructive to see how de Bruin behaved around her. In the earliest shots, from the time of their marriage, he’d gazed upon her with besotted pride that turned to open jealousy whenever she talked to another man. More recently, however, he’d simply looked bored.

  One such photograph at a society bash showed her with England’s latest rugby sensation, her eyes sparkling with laughter and her hand upon his wrist, while de Bruin hid his sneer behind a champagne flute. And Elias could see exactly why he’d given Anna the horror movie shivers.

  She wouldn’t call him, though, whatever trouble she was in. She’d think she could handle it herself until it was too late. Even then, she’d go to Merchant first. This shouldn’t have got beneath his skin, and yet it did. He scrolled through more pictures of the de Bruins. At the races. On the red carpet. But he kept returning to that one with the rugby player at the society bash. It piqued him enough that he traced it back to its publication, from which he learned that it had been taken at Samantha’s parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, just five weeks ago.

  Wharton’s PA called. He let her go to voicemail. Wharton wanted him upstairs now. Similar summons arrived moments later by text and email. But he knew he’d only say something stupid and make matters worse, so he grabbed his jacket and headed out instead. Now what? He was determined to do what he could to protect Anna. But how? He could go see de Bruin himself, to let him know she was under his protection. But the man had had countless brushes with the law over the years, and still his tenants kept getting attacked and beaten.

  He needed something more.

  The tracker he’d used to catch his wife with Merchant was back at his bedsit. He went to fetch it now. It needed a new coin battery but then it worked fine. Planting it on de Bruin or in his house would be breaching all kinds of protocols, of course, and would be the end of his career if he were caught, but his prospects were rock bottom anyway, and he found he cared more about keeping Anna safe. If he could spook the man into a mistake, then listen in, it would be worth it.

  De Bruin lived in a large, walled estate some twenty minutes south of Lincoln. Its heavy steel gate was topped by spikes, a pair of CCTV cameras and an intercom placed so awkwardly that Elias had to get out to reach its buzzer. From what he’d heard about the man, he’d very likely designed it that way, to put visitors at a disadvantage.

  A woman with an aristocratic drawl answered and asked his business. He held his warrant card up for the camera and told her he wanted to speak to Mr de Bruin. She asked him why. He told her it was private. Five seconds passed. He heard the clunk of a lock and the gate trundled open. He drove along a freshly-laid tarmac drive through old woods to a stunning Tudor mansion of exposed timbers, herringbone brickwork and twisting chimneys. A gardener was cutting elegant patterns in the front lawns with a sit on mower. Another was pruning roses in the beds. And a man up a ladder was cleaning out gutters.

  The front door opened before Elias even rang the bell. Lady Samantha de Bruin, every bit as lovely in the flesh as in her photographs, if not so obviously glamorous. Her hair was up in an imperfect bun, so that wisps of it fell forward over her cheek. She had a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril, a pair of plain gold hoop earrings, and her only makeup was some pale pink lipstick and a little eyeliner. Her tattered peach sweater was several sizes too large for her, so that it hung like a miniskirt around her thighs, and she’d pushed its sleeves up over her elbows as if about to do the washing up, though her various rings, bracelets and Cartier watch suggested otherwise. She had her daughter Melanie with her too, dressed as a fairy princess and with a silver wand in her hand that she tapped rather gingerly against Elias’s knee before stepping back with an apprehensive look, as if expecting him to turn into a toad. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to see your husband.’

  ‘He left after breakfast,’ she said.

  Elias nodded. She could easily have told him that over the intercom, meaning she was curious about the purpose of his visit. Perhaps that explained why she’d brought her daughter with her, so that he wouldn’t say anything too shocking. Or perhaps she merely knew – better than he had – not to leave a young child alone and unsupervised. ‘Do you know where he went?’ he asked.

  ‘One of his properties, I’d imagine.’ She rested her left hand on her daughter’s crown and stroked her with her thumb, to reassure her that all was well. ‘He likes to give his tenants the personal touch.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘So I’ve heard. Did he say when he’d be back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a number for him?’

  ‘I’m his wife. Of course I have a number for him.’

  ‘But you’re not going to give it to me.’

  ‘I can see why they made you detective, Detective. But if you’d care to leave me yours, and tell me what it’s about…’

  He took a card from his wallet, handed it to her. ‘Perhaps you’ve been following events at Warne Farm,’ he said.

  Her thumb froze on her daughter’s hair, drawing his attention back to her hand. With a jolt, he finally realised why that photograph from her parents’ anniversary bash had put its hook in him.

  ‘Warne Farm?’ she said. ‘What on earth could my husband have to do with that?’

  He gave her a level look. No one could be married to de Bruin for as long as she had without getting to know the kind of man he was – however beautiful and blue-blooded they might be. ‘That’s what I’m hoping to establish, ma’am. Tell me, though. Did he take his black SUV this morning? The one with the tinted windows?’

  Samantha de Bruin gazed coolly at him. ‘I think that’s enough, Detective,’ she said. ‘Have a wonderful morning.’

  ‘You too,’ he said. He winked at her daughter then returned to his car, forcing himself not to hurry, despite his eagerness for another look at that photograph. Despite, too, his growing anxiety that the real reason de Bruin had left so early that morning had been to get to the pound before Anna could collect her van.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  It was instantly apparent to de Bruin, from the manner in which Anna Warne sped away, spewing black smoke from her exhaust, that she’d at the very least spotted their Tesla in her rear-view, and wanted to see if they’d give chase.

  ‘Hold back,’ he told Andrei.

  ‘I know,’ Andrei replied.

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘Do I tell you how to manage your apartments?’

  De Bruin looked at him in surprise. The man wasn’t given to backchat, or indeed to any chat at all. But he let it go, just as Andrei let Anna Warne go, letting her pull well out of sight before picking up pace again. They had no need to tail her closely, after all, for they still had the tracker Andrei had planted on her van in the small hours, which showed her progress on their dashboard monitor.

  They were approaching Newark when Samantha rang, sounding shaken. Elias had just been by, asking questions about Warne Farm. ‘Warne Farm?’ he said, feigning bewilderment. ‘What the hell was he asking about that for?’