In the bunkroom at Myrtle Cottage Duncan James was preparing to leave. The message from Barnes had been given to him earlier. It had come quite unexpectedly, delivered by the man who brought the milk to the valley and who was the husband of Barnes’ housekeeper. The man came to the bunkroom, and when James was alone passed on the message in a stage whisper and with a wink, as if he believed some multimillion-pound deal depended on his discretion. The ridiculous secrecy and the message itself gave Duncan the same symptoms of sweating, breathlessness, and terror as if he had been trapped in a cramped, dark space. He felt he had to escape. With shaking hands he took his clothes and folded them, taking an obsessive interest in the exact geometric shapes they formed, in setting them neatly in the suitcase. In this ritual disposal of his clothes he managed to keep his panic at bay, but as soon as the task was complete, it returned and swamped his reason. He opened the bunkroom door, and the tunnel of wind which swept around the building caught it and banged it against the wall, so he felt that everyone must know he was there. He shut it with difficulty and went into the house. From the kitchen he could hear the familiar clatter of women’s voices, and he was reminded of the security of home. He saw George Palmer-Jones, apparently asleep, on the porch, his binoculars unused around his neck. Duncan had an impulse to go to him, to tell him everything, and ask for his help, but the older man’s stillness made him unapproachable. Instead, he went quietly to the telephone.

In the conversation with James, Brian Barnes was more persuasive and less gentlemanly than he had been when speaking to his housekeeper. He reminded James of the offences he had already committed, of the big house in Somerset which had been bought largely with Squirrel corporation money. At last he spoke with some brutality of James’ children.

“But I couldn’t do it,” James said. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“If you’re desperate enough, you’ll find a way,” Brian Barnes said. “And by now you should be desperate.”

He replaced the receiver before James could reply, and when James tried to phone Bristol again, it was impossible to get through. Soon after, he heard the farmer stomping into the kitchen with the news that the valley was cut off and the phone lines were down.

The sky was so overcast and the windows of the cottage so small and low to the ground that inside it was almost dark, but Rosco did not bother with the lamps. He sat in the shadow in the old bentwood chair which had once been his father’s and waited, his gun cradled like a cat on his knee.

Chapter Fourteen