Page 59 of The Impossible Fortune

‘I’ll see you out,’ says Jamie, and steers Joyce and Elizabeth into the hallway.

Once out of earshot of his wife, he says, ‘If this is a scam, I’ll find out about it, and you’ll regret it.’

Joyce is slipping on a summer jacket. ‘Does it look like a scam?’

Jamie looks from Joyce to Elizabeth and has to admit that it doesn’t.

‘Are you a teacher too, Mr Usher?’

‘I’m not,’ says Jamie, opening the front door.

Elizabeth pauses on the threshold. ‘May I ask what you do?’

‘No,’ says Jamie. ‘You may not.’

The door shuts behind them.

32

‘Whoever killed her,’ says Bill Benson, leading Ron down into the cellar in pitch darkness, ‘this is why.’

They are about five miles outside Fairhaven. Ron had worried they were in for a long walk, so was relieved when Bill came to a halt at the bus stop opposite the bookshop on the front. They hopped on to the 270, which took the steep coast road west out of Fairhaven. They jumped out by the Branscombe cliffs, busy with walkers and picnickers, turned away from the crowds and made their way across the coast road and into the trees, then down a long track towards a small two-storey lodge. They stopped at a fence bearing a sign sayingMINISTRY OF DEFENCE LAND–KEEP OUT. Bill keyed in a code on a metal keypad, and a door in the fence swung open. As they continued along the track, Bill pointed out a series of security cameras high in the trees. Eventually they reached the lodge, and Bill keyed in another code.

Walking down the cellar steps, Ron takes a moment to reflect that he is in an isolated house, with no mobile phone coverage, being led into a cellar by a man who, Kent miner or not, he has only just met.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he says under his breath.

Bill flicks on the light.

Ron is disappointed that there is no great revelation.The cellar is stacked with everything cellars are supposed to be stacked with. There are leaning piles of dusty boxes, planks of wood resting against walls, paint tins crusted around the lids, an old sofa squashed into an alcove and a rusted washing machine in the corner. It is like any cellar anywhere in Britain.

Except, Ron notes, this cellar has extremely expensive video cameras in each corner.

‘Sit,’ says Bill, pointing to the sofa. Ron does so gladly, even the half-mile walk from the bus stop had been enough for him. On the journey, with holidaymakers and locals sitting around them, they gossiped about the usual things: police brutality in the 1970s, whether Jarrod Bowen was a better goalscorer than Tony Cottee, friends with artificial hips. Anything but the murder of Holly Lewis in an instant fireball. Now Bill is ready to talk. He sits down beside Ron.

‘We trust each other?’

‘It’s our best option,’ says Ron. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know; you tell me everything you know.’

‘I worked for Holly Lewis,’ says Bill. ‘Running security in The Compound.’

Ron looks around him. ‘And is this The Compound?’

Bill shakes his head, laughing. ‘No, this is a cellar. But this is how you get to The Compound. Takes about half an hour from here.’

Ron looks at the ground for trapdoors.

‘You won’t find anything,’ says Bill. ‘Tell me what happened to Holly.’

‘You don’t know anything?’ Ron asks.

‘I knew I hadn’t heard from Holly or Nick for a coupleof days,’ says Bill. ‘Nick’s the other boss. But that’s not unusual. Unless there’s an appointment they usually leave us in peace.’

‘Us?’ says Ron.

‘Me and Frank,’ says Bill. ‘Frankie East. Also worked at Betteshanger. We do alternate shifts. He’s going to lose it when I tell him I’ve met you.’

‘Any reason they employed two old miners to run security?’