CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I drove the big Humber along the narrow mews and out into
Queen’s Avenue.
At the top of the avenue I spotted the police car drawn
up by the kerb. The detective who had been following me
stood by the car, talking to the driver. Both of them glanced at me as I drove towards them. I kept on at a Steady pace. I had
the slouch hat pulled well down over my eyes and I was
wearing the big sunglasses.
Although I was confident they
wouldn’t recognize me, it was a tricky moment as I passed
them.
Neither of them seemed interested in me. I glanced into my driving mirror. They hadn’t moved, and the detective had resumed his conversation. I was aware that my hands were
damp as I drove into the Park and headed for Queen’s Road.
The clock on the dashboard showed five minutes past
eleven. I reckoned I would be in Ilmer at noon. The traffic at this hour was light, and I got down to Shepherd’s Bush without the usual crawl through the bottleneck at Notting Hill Gate.
Once on Western Avenue, I sent the Humber along at a
fast clip, and I reached Princes Risborough a few minutes after eleven forty-five. A mile or so beyond the little town, I turned left where the sign post indicated Ilmer, a mile and a
half down the road.
Ahead of me and walking towards me was a woman pushing a pram. I slowed down and pulled up near her.
“I’m looking for Monk’s Farm,” I said. “Can you direct me,
please?”
“Take the first turning on the right. It’s up a narrow lane,”
the woman told me. “About a couple of miles from here. You
can’t miss it. It’s the only farm up the lane.”
“Thanks. I hear it’s for sale.”
She shook her head.
“It was for sale; about six months ago. It’s been sold
now.”
“Someone told me it’s coming into the market again. I
thought I’d look at it. You don’t happen to know the owner’s
name, do you?”
“I haven’t seen them. I don’t believe they’ve moved in
yet. The place was empty the last time I passed it; that would be last Saturday.”
“Well, now I’ve come so far I might as well look at it.
Thank you for your help.”
I engaged gear and drove on. About two and a half miles
farther on I spotted the turning on the right. About fifty yards beyond the turning was a public house. I drove to it and pulled into the car park.
A big, red-faced man came out of the pub and nodded to
me.
“All right to leave my car here?” I asked. “I feel like a long walk. I may not get back until late.”
“That’s all right sir,” he returned, and gave me a friendly grin. “Bless me if I’d want to walk if I had a car like that.”
“You would if you’d been cooped up in London all the
week.” I pointed back to the lane. “Where does that lead to?”
“Monk’s Farm, but there’s a footpath beyond the farm
that’ll take you to Thame if you’re planning to walk that far.”
“Sounds fine. Thanks.” I took five shillings from my
pocket and gave it to him. “Just in case I don’t see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.” He looked surprised. “I hope I’ll see you
in the bar before you go. You should have a thirst after a walk like that. It’s going to be hot this afternoon.”
I waved to him and set off towards the lane. When I was
out of sight of the pub, I checked Berry’s automatic I had been carrying in my hip pocket. The clip held six .38 bullets and one in the breech. I snapped on the safety catch and transferred the gun to my coat pocket.
I walked up the narrow, twisting lane for perhaps half a mile, then through the trees I caught sight of a white, thatched roof farmhouse standing a hundred yards or so back from the lane.
I climbed up the bank, and holding on to a tree trunk to
steady myself, I studied the building.
As far as I could judge it was a seven-room house in a
wilderness of a garden which offered plenty of good cover. Tall grass, straggling shrubs and several old shady trees
surrounded it. The concrete drive was moss-covered and was
still caked with the hard mud of last winter.
Opposite the house, forming two sides of a square were
dilapidated farm buildings: a barn, a cow shed, three pig sties and stables.
At the back of the farmhouse was a small, overgrown
kitchen garden, and beyond that a dense wood of silver birch
and nutstems.
I scrambled down the bank and continued up the lane. I
moved cautiously, my ears pricked for the slightest sound. The lane twisted every few yards, and anyone coming down the lane would be on top of me before I saw them.
At the last twist in the lane I saw the white farm gate, and
I stopped, just out of sight. For some moments I studied the
ground ahead of me, deciding the quickest and easiest
approach.
Finally I pushed my way through the hedge that lined the
lane into the tall, overgrown grass of a paddock that flanked
the house. My army training in jungle warfare now came to my
aid. I moved forward, bent double, slowly and carefully until I reached the hedge that divided the kitchen garden from the paddock.
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