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“It smells like horseshit to me.”
“You couldn’t live in the country?”
“Fuck no. Look.” Clark points to his dashboard, in particular the bars on his network service. “One bar.”
I lower my shades and check my own phone. I don’t haveanybars. I scrunch my nose, but then gasp when one bar appears. And quickly disappears again. I drop it back into my bag.
“So explain the new hairdo,” he says, looking across at me, smiling.
Uncomfortable, I reach for my long hair and comb through the ashy blond waves. “It’s not new.”
“It’s down.”
“And?”
“And you never wear your hair down for work.”
“It gets in my way.”Stiff.I squirm.
“Jesus, these roads are narrow,” Clark grumbles, slowing to a crawl on a corner. “Fuck!” An alarm on the car starts beeping, and Clark slams on the brakes, making my hand shoot out and grab the dashboard.
“Jesus, get me there alive, won’t you?” I breathe.
“If I can get you there at all. How the hell am I supposed to get past that monster?”
I spot what he’s talking about and frown. A huge yellow tractor, as wide as the road is, the gigantic wheels creeping onto the verge on each side. And it just keeps coming at us. “I think he wants you to back up.”
Clark looks in the rearview mirror, assessing what’s behind us. “I didn’t see any passing bays, did you?”
“I wasn’t looking.” The tractor keeps coming. “Hasn’t he noticed us?”
“Shit.” Clark knocks the car into reverse and starts backing up the road, and my neck cranes, looking up into the tractor’s cab. The old boy behind the wheel looks straight over the Range Rover, and I question whether he’s actually seen us.
“He’s chewing a wheat sheaf,” I say. “And wearing a bucket hat. How country.”
“Wonderful,” Clark mutters, eventually making it to a small lay-by and pulling in. The tractor chugs past, the farmer’s attention never faltering from the road ahead. “You’re welcome,” Clark says in disbelief. “Ignorant fuckwit.” He pulls back out and puts his foot down, and we’re soon pulling through the gold gates of Arlington Hall. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs.
“I know.” I shift in my seat, admiring the crystal-clear stream stretching into the distance.
“You know?”
“This is where I came for my spa day with the girls.”
“Of course,” Clark breathes, pulling to a stop at the gatehouse. “I thought I’d heard of it when we got the change-of-venue email.” Letting down his window, he smiles at the man on the gate—the same man who let Abbie through last week. I read the name on his badge. Nelson. “Clark Lazenby and Amelia Lazenby. Here for the conference.”
“Yes, of course.” He gestures down the driveway. “Please, there’s staff at the entrance who will direct you to the car park.”
“Thanks.” The barrier lifts and Clark drives through, continuing to ooh and ahh at the plush grounds of Arlington Hall. “Fuck, there’s a helicopter pad. I wonder who owns this place? Nowthatwould be a client to bag.”
“Her name was Evelyn Harrison,” I say. “She died. I don’t know who owns it now.”
“I’ll soon find out.” Clark hits me with a cheeky grin, pulling up around the fountain. “My God, that’s a Jaguar E-Type Roadster.”
“What?”
He points to a silver vintage car, practically drooling. “It’s my dream car.”
“I thought this was your dream car?”