Seb decided that this wasn’t the time to tell Cedric that he’d booked a table at the Mirabelle for dinner tomorrow night with Samantha. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, so he knew the deputy chairman, Ross Buchanan, would be waiting outside. He rose to leave.

“Well done, Seb,” said Cedric. “Let’s hope there is a simple explanation. But in any case, thank you for keeping me briefed.”

Seb nodded. When he reached the door he turned back to say good night, to see Cedric swallowing a pill. He pretended not to notice, as he closed the door behind him.

10

SEB WAS UP, dressed, and had left the house before Sam woke the following morning.

Cedric Hardcastle never traveled first-class, but he always allowed his senior management to do so when it was a long journey. Although Seb picked up a copy of the Financial Times at Euston, he barely glanced at the headlines during the three-hour journey to Shropshire. His mind was preoccupied with how best to use his time once he arrived in Shifnal.

The train pulled into Shrewsbury station just after eleven thirty, and Seb didn’t hesitate to take a taxi on to Shifnal rather than wait for the connecting train because on this occasion time was money. He waited until they had left the county town behind them, before he fired his first question at the driver. “Which is the best pub in Shifnal?”

“Depends what you’re looking for, good grub or the best ale in the county.”

“I always think you can judge a pub by its landlord.”

“Then it has to be the Shifnal Arms, owned by Fred and Sheila Ramsey. They don’t just run the pub, but the village as well. He’s president of the local cricket club, and used to open the bowling for the village. Even played for the county on a couple of occasions. And she sits on the parish council. But be warned, the food’s lousy.”

“Then it’s the Shifnal Arms,” said Seb. He sat back and began to go over his strategy, aware that he didn’t need Sloane to discover why he wasn’t in the office.

The taxi drew up outside the Shifnal Arms a few minutes after twelve. Seb would have given the driver a larger tip, but he didn’t want to be remembered.

He strolled into the pub trying to look casual, which wasn’t easy when you’re the first customer of the day, and took a close look at the man standing behind the bar. Although he must have been over forty, and his cheeks and nose revealed that he enjoyed the product he sold, while his paunch suggested he preferred pork pies to fine dining, it was not hard to believe this giant of a man had once opened the bowling for Shifnal.

“Afternoon,” said the landlord. “What can I get you?”

“A half of your local beer will suit me fine,” said Seb, who didn’t usually drink during working hours, but today it was part of the job. The publican drew half a pint of Wrekin IPA and placed it on the bar. “That’ll be one shilling and sixpence.” Half the price Seb would have had to pay in London. He took a sip. “Not bad,” he said, before bowling his first long hop. “It’s not a West Country brew, but it’s not half bad.”