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"Do you think he knows what that key unlocks?" said Hugo.
"He may well do," Margaret replied, "but that doesn't mean he knows where to look for it."
"Father should have told us where he had hidden his collection in the first place."
"You and your father were hardly on speaking terms towards the end," Margaret reminded him. "And he considered Angus to be weak, and far too fond of the bottle."
"True, but that doesn't solve the problem of the key."
"Perhaps the time has come for us to resort to more robust tactics."
"What do you have in mind, old gal?"
"I think the vulgar expression is 'putting a tail on him'. Once Nick is released, we can have him followed. If he does know where the collection is, he'll lead us straight to it."
"But I wouldn't know how to…" said Hugo.
"Don't even think about it," said Margaret. "Leave it all to me."
"Whatever you say, old gal," said Hugo as he attacked his second egg.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DANNY LAY AWAKE on the lower bunk and thought about everything that had taken place since Nick's death. He couldn't sleep, despite the fact that Big Al wasn't snoring. He knew his last night at Belmarsh would be as long as the first-another night he would never forget.
During the past twenty-four hours, several officers and inmates had dropped in to say goodbye and to wish him luck, confirming just how popular and respected Nick had been.
The reason Big Al wasn't snoring was that he'd been shipped out of Belmarsh the previous morning and transferred to Wayland prison in Norfolk, while Da
By now Big Al would have worked out why Da
During the past few weeks Da
He woke. His first thought was of Bernie, who had been robbed of his life by Craig and the misnamed Musketeers. His second was of Nick, who had made it possible for him to be given another chance. His final thoughts were of Beth, when he was reminded once again that the decision had made it impossible for him ever to see her again.
He began to think about tomorrow. Once he'd had his meeting with Fraser Munro and tried to sort out Nick's immediate problems in Scotland, he would return to London and put into motion the plans he'd been working on for the past six weeks. He'd become realistic about the chances of clearing his name, but that wouldn't stop him seeking justice of a different kind-what the Bible called retribution, and what Edmond Dantès described less subtly as revenge. Whatever. He slept.
He woke. He would stalk his prey like an animal, observing them at a distance while they relaxed in their natural habitat: Spencer Craig in the courtroom, Gerald Payne in his Mayfair offices, and Lawrence Davenport on stage. Toby Mortimer, the last of the four Musketeers, had suffered a death even more dreadful than any he could have devised. But first Da
He woke. The early morning sun was producing a feeble square of light on his cell floor, but it could not disguise the fact that he was in prison, for the bars were clearly reflected on the cold gray stones. A lark attempted a cheerful tune to greet the dawn, but quickly flew away.
Da
He studied himself in the small steel mirror above the basin. The bits he could see appeared to be clean. He put on his prison clothes for the last time: a pair of boxer shorts, a blue and white striped shirt, jeans, gray socks and Nick's trainers. He sat on the end of the bed and waited for Pascoe to appear, jangling keys and with his usual morning greeting, "Let's be having you, lad. It's time to go to work." Not today. He waited.
When the key eventually turned in the lock and the door opened, Pascoe had a broad grin on his face. "Morning, Moncrieff," he said. "Look lively, and follow me. It's time for you to pick up your personal belongings from the stores, be on your way and leave us all in peace."
As they walked down the corridor at a prison pace, Pascoe ventured, "The weather's on the turn. You should have a nice day for it," as if Da
"How do I get from here to King's Cross?" Da
"Take the train from Plumstead station to Ca
"Morning, Moncrieff," said Webster. "You must have been looking forward to today for the past four years." Da
Da
"Get on with it, Moncrieff," said Pascoe. "I don't have all day to stand around chatting."
Da
"I'd like to help you, Moncrieff," whispered Pascoe, "but if I did, I'd never hear the end of it."
Eventually they ended up back outside Da
Da
Da