up.
‘Doy? Frank Doy?’
‘Yes?’
‘How did you like your house when we were finished with it?’
That was followed by a mad laugh. Before I could reply, the voice said, ‘Keep out of things that are nothing to do with you. Next time you won’t have a house to go back to – or a neighbour either.’
‘Fuck you!’
That was the best I could manage. The phone went dead. I scowled at it. Nice!
Perversely, though, on reflection I was almost pleased. It meant they were still around, and it meant that for some reason I worried them. They were going to be a hell of a lot more worried when I caught up with them.
I got up and did the rounds, checking doors and windows, before I went to bed. Second nature. Old habits. The small window in the kitchen was not properly shut. A slim wedge of cardboard that I must have jammed in to stop it rattling was the reason. I left it. If the wind got up again I would regret taking it out.
That was it. Everything was back to normal. More or less. Well, that was one way of looking at it.
14
E specially after that phone call, I couldn’t get the blue car out of my mind. I had seen such a car entering the grounds of the art centre, but was it the one with the missing mudflap?
There was only one place to start looking, if I was going to find out. So the next morning I set off for Meridion House soon after breakfast. First, I had to scrape ice off the windscreen. The weather had changed. It was a lot colder now but the wind had died down, the rain and sleet had stopped and it was a pleasantly bright day.
The entrance to the Meridion House estate was very grand. You drove between two huge sandstone pillars and beneath a wrought-iron arch that spanned them. Then you followed a drive that wound its way through a patch of stunted and distorted Scots pine that must have been planted when the house was built. No doubt the original idea was to have elegant mature trees lining the drive, but it hadn’t worked out. The wind off the North Sea had seen to that.
It was a short drive. Just a couple of hundred yards. When I rounded the final bend I came to a little hut and a barrier that would go up and down when the man in the hut at theside of the road pressed a button. I was surprised. You couldn’t see any of this from the road. Now I was alerted, I glanced to either side and saw a two-foot high fence of heavy-duty timber piling that would stop anything but a main battle tank. I guessed it ran all the way around the house and its immediate environs. I was impressed. Nobody was going to force their way in here.
I stopped and wound my window down. The gatekeeper came out to see me.
‘Good morning!’ I said brightly.
‘Good morning, sir. Do you have business here?’
‘I do, yes. Frank Doy. I live at Risky Point.’
He gave me a cool, alert look. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been here before?’
‘No, that’s right. I haven’t.’
‘Are we expecting you, Mr Doy?’
‘No. I don’t have an appointment.’
‘Then I can’t admit you. Sorry.’
‘You can’t admit me?’ I frowned at him. ‘This is an art centre, isn’t it?’
‘It is. But it’s not open to the public.’
‘A private art centre? I see. Who’s the owner?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Do you have any information about the place, and what it has to offer?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
This was becoming bizarre. What kind of art centre was it? OK. One last try.
‘Perhaps you can tell me how I can find information – and how to get an appointment?’
‘If you phone this number,’ he said, pulling a business card from his pocket, ‘I’m sure someone will be able to help you.’
‘There’s no one here at the moment who could help me?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
I smiled sceptically and shook my head. Then I began a three-point turn, while he stood and watched. Once again, I thought, impressive security.
Back on the main road, I stopped in an unofficial lay-by from where I
‘Doy? Frank Doy?’
‘Yes?’
‘How did you like your house when we were finished with it?’
That was followed by a mad laugh. Before I could reply, the voice said, ‘Keep out of things that are nothing to do with you. Next time you won’t have a house to go back to – or a neighbour either.’
‘Fuck you!’
That was the best I could manage. The phone went dead. I scowled at it. Nice!
Perversely, though, on reflection I was almost pleased. It meant they were still around, and it meant that for some reason I worried them. They were going to be a hell of a lot more worried when I caught up with them.
I got up and did the rounds, checking doors and windows, before I went to bed. Second nature. Old habits. The small window in the kitchen was not properly shut. A slim wedge of cardboard that I must have jammed in to stop it rattling was the reason. I left it. If the wind got up again I would regret taking it out.
That was it. Everything was back to normal. More or less. Well, that was one way of looking at it.
14
E specially after that phone call, I couldn’t get the blue car out of my mind. I had seen such a car entering the grounds of the art centre, but was it the one with the missing mudflap?
There was only one place to start looking, if I was going to find out. So the next morning I set off for Meridion House soon after breakfast. First, I had to scrape ice off the windscreen. The weather had changed. It was a lot colder now but the wind had died down, the rain and sleet had stopped and it was a pleasantly bright day.
The entrance to the Meridion House estate was very grand. You drove between two huge sandstone pillars and beneath a wrought-iron arch that spanned them. Then you followed a drive that wound its way through a patch of stunted and distorted Scots pine that must have been planted when the house was built. No doubt the original idea was to have elegant mature trees lining the drive, but it hadn’t worked out. The wind off the North Sea had seen to that.
It was a short drive. Just a couple of hundred yards. When I rounded the final bend I came to a little hut and a barrier that would go up and down when the man in the hut at theside of the road pressed a button. I was surprised. You couldn’t see any of this from the road. Now I was alerted, I glanced to either side and saw a two-foot high fence of heavy-duty timber piling that would stop anything but a main battle tank. I guessed it ran all the way around the house and its immediate environs. I was impressed. Nobody was going to force their way in here.
I stopped and wound my window down. The gatekeeper came out to see me.
‘Good morning!’ I said brightly.
‘Good morning, sir. Do you have business here?’
‘I do, yes. Frank Doy. I live at Risky Point.’
He gave me a cool, alert look. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been here before?’
‘No, that’s right. I haven’t.’
‘Are we expecting you, Mr Doy?’
‘No. I don’t have an appointment.’
‘Then I can’t admit you. Sorry.’
‘You can’t admit me?’ I frowned at him. ‘This is an art centre, isn’t it?’
‘It is. But it’s not open to the public.’
‘A private art centre? I see. Who’s the owner?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Do you have any information about the place, and what it has to offer?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
This was becoming bizarre. What kind of art centre was it? OK. One last try.
‘Perhaps you can tell me how I can find information – and how to get an appointment?’
‘If you phone this number,’ he said, pulling a business card from his pocket, ‘I’m sure someone will be able to help you.’
‘There’s no one here at the moment who could help me?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
I smiled sceptically and shook my head. Then I began a three-point turn, while he stood and watched. Once again, I thought, impressive security.
Back on the main road, I stopped in an unofficial lay-by from where I
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