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Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

‘Fraid so, Miss. About ten minutes ago. But there’s another one at quarter to six.’

She turned away, the weight of her case – the entire contents of her life – straining her arm. She felt disappointment bring tears to her eyes. And for a moment she wondered if perhaps it was a sign. That she should just give up and turn back to the future she had left only eight hours before.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The car bumped and rattled its way over the rough, rutted mud track, headlights picking out the grass verge and the blasted wooden fence posts. In the distance the lights of the house twinkled intermittently through the branches of tall, dark trees that swayed in the wind. It was a wild night.

Bannerman turned the wheels over a small humpbacked bridge across a narrow gushing stream. The track broadened a little, lined by trees along one side. He did not know what to expect, or what he was going to say to the old man. But he felt, somehow, that this time it really would be an end to it all. The car clattered over a cattle grid and Bannerman pulled up on a gravel courtyard.

He had left the train at Preston and hired a car to drive the ten or twelve miles south-west on the A59 and A565 to Armsdale House near the tiny Armsdale landfall. He switched off the lights and stepped out into the blustering wind that drove in across the Irish Sea. But there was a softness in the air that was mild and smelled of rain.

The house itself was a big, stone, turreted affair that stood dark and impressive in its own grounds. The door was opened by a thickset man with a crop of white, wiry hair. His face was tanned and leathery with age. He wore a heavy tweed jacket over a thick sweater and moleskin trousers. He stared at Bannerman suspiciously and the journalist noticed that his big working-man’s hands were weathered and calloused.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve come to see Lord Armsdale.’

‘And who is it that’s wanting ’im?’

‘My name is Neil Bannerman. I’m the investigative reporter of the Edinburgh Post.’

There was a pause as the man considered this. ‘Does ’e expect you?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Then you’d better come and wait in the ’all and I’ll see if ’e’ll see you.’

Bannerman waited in the big hall, worn flagstones beneath his feet, a staircase rising to an unlit floor above. It was cold here. He thought about Tania and felt guilty. Not knowing if she was alive or dead. He should have been there . . .