He packed away his gear, then picked up the oars, and headed for the private beach. There was a motorboat, of course, but he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to chug toxic fumes into the clear air in this wonderful place. He gave thanks to his old friend; he would toast his memory tonight, as he always did when he came here to keep an eye on the place. The burden was not insignificant, but he understood the motives behind the decision. It had made him unpopular, but that wasn’t a first and it certainly didn’t put him off. The most important thing was that he was honouring the dying wish of an old gentleman.

George couldn’t imagine moving here. Well, not yet, anyway. There was too much invested in London. It would take years to transfer everything and make it ready. And it was a pipe dream anyhow.

By the time he eased his small boat onto the shingle beach, the sky was getting dark. Even though it was June, the mountains could make everything turn to night if they wanted to. He glanced up at the peaks behind the house: they were covered in thick grey cloud that showed no signs of clearing. It was time to go in and make sure he had a fire lit. The kitchen was always warm, thanks to the Aga. But the main fire in the sitting room was magnificent and George had lit it every night in remembrance of nights with Alan, sitting in front of it sipping a fifty-year-old Janneau Napoleon. The cellar in the old pile was Alan’s pride and joy, and George couldn’t bring himself to clear it out just yet. Apart from to open the odd bottle of red with dinner, of course. He never was very good at telling the difference between a bottle worth a thousand pounds and one from Tesco, but they all tasted good from Alan’s collection.

He left the boat on the beach and walked up to the house, stopping when he saw that he had a visitor. It wasn’t entirely a surprise, and he held out his hand in greeting.

‘Come in, I’m just about to put a lasagne in the oven,’ he said. Their feet made scraping noises in the gravel and George stopped outside the kitchen door to take off his wellington boots. His visitor didn’t bother.

‘Who were those men?’ he asked.

‘What men?’

‘They drove past me on their way out. Don’t tell me you’ve got plans for the place already?’

Chapter 2