Chapter 5

Tim let the top down of the steel-blue convertible. It had been a long time since he had driven such a car and was determined to take pleasure from the experience. The car was classy, but not too flashy. The kind of vehicle people would later have trouble describing - the Make being explained as a “nice car” and the colour ranging from silver to turquoise - but was still enough to draw attention away from the person driving it.
As the bright lights of the city grew softer and slowly diminished behind him, Tim reached for a dial on the dashboard and the sound of ambient keyboards and light percussion grew louder, creating a seductive soundtrack to the impromptu drive. A map, a bottle of whiskey and a manila folder lay on the passenger seat. Only one belonging to Tim, but all were welcomed.
As if remembering the items beside him Tim reached for the bottle of whiskey. Gripping the neck with his fist he used his thumb to unscrew the lid, then threw back his head and poured the liquid down his throat. Vulgar stuff, he thought, but was glad for it all the same.
The Agency had been quick, this time. Less than a day. They must have had men on a flight into the country the second the bodies had been found. That was unless their men had already been in the country. The thought made Tim grimace. He didn’t consider the Agency to be trouble, more of an annoyance, really, but there were some people would be more than bothered by the instantaneous response. Regrettably, Tim was going to need to face those people shortly. He took another swig from the bottle. He was not looking forward to the approaching meeting.
Tim placed the open bottle upright in his lap, gripping it with his knees, and used his free hand to massage the bridge of his nose. He sighed, brushing the thoughts off, and took to watching the scenery flitter past. It was still a long way to the meeting place so he might as well enjoy the landscape.
A flicker of recognition in the corner of Tim’s eye caused him to turn the steering wheel sharply and he jammed his foot down heavily on the brake. The whisky spilt across his lap and the car skid to a stop on the side of the road.
Hardly noticing the alcohol running down his leg Tim stood to look out over the windows and their salt-stained glass. Without moving his eyes, Tim reached into his pocket and withdrew an aging photograph.
The house itself seemed to have yellowed with age almost as much as the photograph in his hand. The whole scene sort of looked yellowy and crinkly around the edges. Like the old, poorly-kept photograph, time had not treated the place well. The stone walls were riddled with cracks and had become more ivy than stone anyway. The slate roof was patchy and the garden deceased but, despite it all, the place still managed to look grand. An unidentifiable grey emotion flashed across Tim’s face.
Leaving the whisky where it had fallen, Tim leaped from the convertible Hollywood style, just in case someone happened to be watching from the grim-streaked windows. Somewhere in Tim’s mind he knew he should continue driving and hurry to this meeting, but that could wait. He’d found something more important, more… interesting.
The ground was muddy but Tim’s large boots were reluctant to notice the slippery surface. Tim looked down at the photograph, apparently oblivious to the deep, black mud, and ran his thumb across the three small people who stood in the foreground. They must have stood about where he was now…
He shook his head, dislodging thoughts of the past, and agilely climbed the steps to the front door. The same grey look from before passed across his face and he leaned against the doorframe. Counting five deep breaths, he lifted his hand and knocked on the door.