It was past eight when he hopped on the A3 out of Richmond. About a half hour later, he turned west to cruise through Hinchley Wood. He passed Sandown Park Racecourse, where he’d spent a few lazy afternoons with other punters looking for tips on winners that never materialized, then arrived in Esher proper.

The village, like many of its Surrey ilk, was quaint and quiet. There were a few cars parked outside a pub on the main road. Blinking Christmas lights were strung over a door sporting a golden wreath. Hawley could see a few locals gathered around the tree inside, clinking glasses of eggnog and hurling darts.

Might have to go in and join them after I’m done.

He checked the navigation system and continued down the main road for a spell. When it dinged, he turned onto a side road and headed up a slight hill until it rang again, the computerized voice telling him he’d reached his destination.

The first thing Hawley noticed was the realtor’s sign affixed to the iron gate.

Still on the market, he mused. And still out of my price range.

Not that Hawley would ever live there. He’d get lost in the place.

The house was gargantuan—New Scotland Yard might have fit inside the classic Tudor. Massive gardens glistened in the wintry full moonlight—leading Hawley to believe Fleming still had a number of people maintaining it to facilitate a sale.

Hawley’s attention was quickly diverted from landscaping to the front of the house. A pair of cars were parked in the cobblestone circular driveway. One was a shiny Bentley, the other a dark-colored Audi.

A couple of lights were on in the house as well. One seemed to be just inside the formidable front door, the other somewhere on the second floor.

Hawley parked by the gate and reached out the car window to ring a bell affixed to a wooden post. He waited for some response from the adjacent speaker, but all he got was silence.

He exited the car and tried the bell a second time. He even called out loud in case someone on the other end was listening or the speaker was malfunctioning.

Still nothing.

He was surprised when the gate swung open to his touch.

Hawley hesitated and looked back at his car. He considered calling for backup but realized it would take at least thirty minutes for anyone from the Yard to get out there—if even that soon.

Figuring he was already there, he opened the gate and headed for the house.

He went through the same fruitless ritual at the front door. Ringing and knocking to no avail.

At that point, the feeling Grant had warned him about was resounding through his entire body, even more so when he found the front door unlocked as well.

Hawley swung it open and called out.

“Mr. Fleming? Mrs. Dozier? Scotland Yard here.”