But if he left before seven, he ought to reach Lincoln by eight thirty at the outside. Allow for rush-hour traffic and say nine o’clock. A time when there were plenty of people around, so that he could take a discreet look at the set-up and decide what to do. Probably he would not do anything, but he needed to know. He needed to know exactly what and who Ashwood’s owners were.
Short of the absolute unforeseen, he ought to get back here for eleven to eleven thirty. That was a bit later than he would have liked for discovering Sallis’s body, but there was no reason for anyone to drive along that lane to the house; there would not be any milk delivery or anything like that, and even the post – if there was any – would not be delivered until nearly midday. And even if things had gone wrong – even if Sallis had survived or escaped – there was still nothing to throw suspicion on to Edmund. Yes, it ought to be all right.
He washed up his supper things and then sat down to dial his own office number. No one would be there, of course, but he left a message on the answerphone saying that first thing tomorrow morning he was going out to measure the paths in the right-of-way dispute, and that he also had to call at Mrs Fane’s house, which meant he would not be in until later. The measuring of the paths was a perfectly credible story; it was a case that had been going on for a number of weeks now; it was, in fact, the very case Edmund had been working on the day Deborah Fane had phoned to tell him about Trixie Smith’s approach. Then he did have his tot of whisky, and finally went to bed.
But despite the whisky and despite having worked everything out so carefully, he did not sleep very well. His mind went over and over the details of what he had done and of what he might have to do tomorrow. Surely he had not missed anything, though?
He got up at six, showered and dressed, and made a pot of tea, carefully not opening curtains or switching on lights, in case of any chance passer-by noticing anything out of the normal pattern. You never knew who might be watching you – several times recently he had had the impression of eyes watching him.
He washed up his tea-cup and put it away as normal – there must be nothing done out of pattern; nothing that his cleaning lady might spot and say, My word, that’s unusual. That’s not like Mr Fane. After this he dressed as normal in his office suit with a clean shirt. As he put on his jacket, he caught a glimpse of Crispin watching him from the depths of the hall mirror. You’re doing very well, said Crispin’s expression. But isn’t there one more thing…?
One more thing…
Edmund went back upstairs to where the syringe lay discreetly at the back of his dressing-table drawer. He had contemplated disposing of it after Deborah’s death – he had thought he might throw it into the river or bury it in garden rubbish at the municipal tip – but then he had thought that you never knew what you might need. And today, depending on what he found at the end of his journey, he might need it.
It was a few minutes before seven when he left the house, and by seven fifteen he was heading for the bypass, the syringe in his jacket pocket.