Winter got out of the little car and stepped onto the canal bridge. For a moment I thought he looked my way, and I wondered if he had seen me. Should I stay hidden, or show myself? I started to move forward, but Winter gave a shake of his head. It might have been a coincidence—the turn of his face against the light—but it made me think twice, and I remained hidden in the shadows.

Clearly, Winter had a plan that involved my staying hidden there—to overhear, or to intervene? There was no way of knowing. What was the significance of the sports bag, and why had he said he was leaving? I have to say, I was feeling a little uncertain about Winter. The fact that he’d kept Nutter’s death from me; his furtive, evasive manner—not to mention the letter, and the fact that he’d told me his mother was dead—well, I’ve been a Master for far too long, and watched too many boys attempt to get away with murder, to fail to see the potential for deviousness in my young friend. And yet, I believed he was trying to help; that perhaps against his instincts, he might be putting himself at risk.

I heard him speak—his voice was low, but I heard something about money. Water affects acoustics, and the presence of the nearby canal, combined with the smoke of the bonfires, created a baffle of sound that meant I had some trouble hearing. Harrington, who was standing as rigidly as a department-store mannequin, said something sharp and percussive, the sound slapping against the water. Then I heard Winter’s soft reply, but not the actual words he spoke.

I began to edge a little closer to the men on the footbridge, keeping near the hawthorn hedge and trying not to catch the light. My coat was dark; and I blessed the fact that I had chosen to wear a hat. The brim was wide enough to hide the pale blur of my features; I thought that if I moved slowly enough, I might be able to come quite close without attracting attention.

Sixty feet. Fifty feet. Now I was forty feet away, and I could hear them clearly . . .

9:09

“You little shit,” Johnny said. “You think you’ll get away with this? You’re lucky we haven’t called the police.”

Your brother smiled. “Just give me the cash. And thank your stars you’re dealing with me. It could have been my mother.” (Oh, Mousey. I had to laugh. Piggy was still afraid of his ma!) “My mother’s no stranger to blackmail,” he said. “And she would never have let you go.”

I shrugged. Piggy’s ma was irrelevant. I’d deal with her later, if necessary. I said: “So what have you got for me?”