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The newsagent’s was on the corner of a long terrace of houses. The proprietor had owned the shop longer than most of his neighbours had lived in the area, or in some cases, the country. Shortly after he had bought the shop, he was approached by a man who asked if he would receive letters for him, a service for which the stranger was prepared to offer the sum of fifty pounds per item. He’d thought about it, but not for long. Fifty pounds to hold a letter was easy money. The service had been running ever since. The stranger had said the letters would be addressed to Mr Jackson Browne.

A week before Christmas, Mr Browne arrived to pick up a letter. As he watched the stranger leave his shop, the
proprietor
wondered, not for the first time, what the process meant and whether it was legal. He glanced down at the money in his hand, put it into the till and forgot all about Jackson Browne.

Lesley Robertson sat in the bay window of her flat. Christmas lights from the surrounding buildings reflected in the raindrops on her window pane. She saw Moran’s BMW coming down the street and reached for her handbag and coat. By the time she returned she’d be well on the way to being Mrs Stuart Moran. She wheeled her suitcase to the lift, then to the car, where Moran helped her stow it in the boot. Neither of them noticed the small, nondescript saloon that pulled away from the kerb shortly after they set off.

They arrived at The Golden Bear late on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Netherdale’s wide cobbled market place was alive with last-minute shoppers. The Christmas lights were augmented by those from the market stalls where the traders
were doing good business. Outside The Golden Bear six giant Christmas trees were festooned with a myriad of tiny white lights. Lesley began to revise her opinion. Maybe the festive season would be more fun than she’d thought.

They walked into reception and checked in. As they waited for the lift neither of them noticed the man who approached the desk. Had they seen him they wouldn’t have been interested.

‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted the receptionist. He gazed at the headdress the management had insisted she wear. ‘Nice antlers!’ The joviality was lost on her. ‘I want to enquire about a room during February, from the fourteenth to the twenty-first to be exact. A double en suite if you have one.’

‘Just one moment, I’ll check for you.’ Before she could input his request he’d scanned her screen, which was showing details of the previous registration. He had them memorized before the receptionist turned and informed him, with mock sympathy, that there was nothing available for the dates he required. That’ll pay you back for the antlers, she thought.

The unlucky visitor went to the bar. If he was disconsolate about the missed booking, it didn’t show. He sat amid a crowd of festive drinkers, making notes in a small Filofax. The notes were about Stuart Moran’s registration. They also described, down to the smallest detail, the uniform of waiters and porters employed by The Golden Bear. Nowhere in the notes was there mention of a visit in February.

The week leading up to Christmas had proved boring for both Myers and Nell. He was still unable to work because of his injuries; neither could he give his dog the exercise she needed.

His most adventurous outings were both to Netherdale Hospital. The first was to have his dressings changed, the second for the removal of the stitches. The staff nurse on the ward professed herself satisfied with the way the wound was healing. The visit to the hospital reminded him of his promise to the detective. A promise he’d not yet kept. He felt guilty at breaking his word, but eased his conscience by telling himself she’d have forgotten about him by now.

On Boxing Day morning he and Nell were collected early by Barry, en route for Winfield Manor. They found Sir Maurice and several members of his household, including the impressive Falstaff, directing the small army of keepers, under-keepers, beaters, loaders, end stops and pickers-up. In an
unoccupied
stable, tea, coffee and bacon sandwiches awaited them. Competition to work on Sir Maurice’s shoot was fierce, the
principal
reasons being the food, and Sir Maurice’s attitude to those he employed.

‘Treat them as servants and they’ll act like servants,’ he’d told one of his neighbours. ‘Make them part of a team and they’ll give you more work than you pay for. What’s more they won’t resent you.’

Barry parked his Land Rover and opened the tailgate. Nell jumped athletically down and dashed off to renew old acquaintances, both human and canine. Sir Maurice noticed the dog before he spotted Myers. ‘Andy, how goes it?’ the baronet asked.

‘Fine, Sir Maurice,’ Myers responded.

‘Your injury healing OK? Nasty things, chainsaws.’

Myers nodded. ‘I’ve had the stitches out and the hospital gave me a clean bill of health.’

‘Excellent.’ Sir Maurice beamed. ‘As long as you’re not going to sue me. Barry tells me he’s managed to persuade you to come to the shoot supper. I’m pleased about that; you’d be very much missed if you weren’t there.’

‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ Myers told him, whilst trying to ignore the faces Barry was pulling behind the
baronet’s
back.

‘We can’t have you turning into some sort of latter day St Anthony, can we?’

‘I think Godric might be nearer the mark, Sir Maurice.’

The baronet looked at him in mild surprise for a second, then blinked. His shoulders quivered with laughter as he replied, ‘In that case I’d better keep Lady Winfield and my daughters out of your way.’ He was still chuckling as he turned to greet a couple of new arrivals.

‘What was that St Anthony and Godric stuff about?’ Barry asked.

‘St Anthony was one of the earliest Christian hermits,’ Myers explained. ‘He was very pious and extremely chaste. By contrast, Godric was a self-confessed lecher, despoiler of virgins, adulterer, rapist and thief. Even after he became a hermit he continued his wickedness, but only in his dreams and memories.’

‘Sounds like the wife’s brother,’ Barry remarked sourly. ‘Now, about this supper. Shirley’s volunteered to drive so we can have a few pints. If we pick you up at your cottage about 7 p.m. how will that suit?’

‘That’ll be fine.’

The keeper’s attention was claimed by one of his deputies, who needed to consult about sending the end stops to the first drive. As he was discussing it, Barry wondered what it was from Myer’s past that he remembered in the style of Godric.

‘Mr Brown?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Mr Jones, secure name Harry.’

‘Yes, Mr Jones.’

‘Can you give me a progress report? The first part of the payment has been transferred.’

‘I’ve researched the item you enquired about, and your order will be dispatched by Monday – at the latest. The delivery address is a town called Netherdale.’

‘That is excellent news. Once I have confirmation I’ll be able to place my next order, will that be acceptable?’

‘Quite acceptable.’

The shoot supper proved less disastrous than Myers feared. The meal was a buffet as Sir Maurice had requested. ‘I prefer it this way,’ he explained to Myers. ‘Gives everybody a chance to
circulate
and chat, if anyone can talk above this racket.’ He winced as a fresh wave of sound from the DJ’s speakers assailed them.

‘Led Zeppelin not to your taste?’ Myers asked in a muted roar.

‘Not bloody likely,’ the baronet screamed back. ‘Give me The Beatles or The Beach Boys any day.’

With typical generosity Sir Maurice paid for most of the drinks. Myers didn’t abuse the hospitality. He wasn’t used to drinking, and although he’d only had a couple of pints, he knew one more would have him on the edge of indiscretion. As his gaze turned towards the door of the function room he noticed a couple standing by the lift. He stared at the man’s face which was in profile. He couldn’t be sure, yet the resemblance was uncanny. His senses swam. It couldn’t be the same man. He felt physically sick. As the man entered the lift he turned full face towards Myers.

Myers’ eyes dilated as a cold murderous rage overcame him. He began to walk through the foyer, his eyes fixed on the closing lift door. Someone attempted to speak to him. They were saying something, he wasn’t sure what. He pushed them aside as if they weren’t there. At that moment nobody existed for Myers except the man he’d just seen. The man he hadn’t seen for nearly nine years.

He reached the lift and watched the indicator. It passed the first-floor mark, and continued smoothly towards the second. It passed that, and Myers knew the couple’s room was on the top floor of the building. He turned and sprinted towards the stairs. He took the shallow treads two at a time in his haste to reach the third floor; in his haste to get to the man he was going to kill.

It had been the worst possible Christmas for Lisa Andrews. She found herself working the oddest hours and returning home at the strangest of times. She couldn’t really object. She knew that Nash and Superintendent Edwards were working even longer shifts. With no easing of the staff problems, the position was getting worse, rather than better.

She certainly wasn’t expected home at midday two days after Christmas. If she had been, her boyfriend Donald would surely not have invited her neighbour Jackie into Lisa’s bed. The row that followed was witnessed by the other occupants of the flats. Donald was flung out on to the pavement, wearing little but an
expression of pain from the kick in the genitals that Lisa had delivered. Jackie bolted into her own flat and locked the door before Lisa’s wrath turned on her. Lisa had flung Donald’s car keys and clothing out of the window to him whilst he squirmed with embarrassment. No, Christmas had certainly not been good. Her only respite came from having to work the long, busy shifts, distracting her from the desire to strangle her ex-lover and her ex-friend.

Donald phoned her several times. Begging for forgiveness, reconciliation, a meeting, a chance to explain. Eventually, wearied by his persistence, she agreed to meet him for a drink in the bar of The Golden Bear on the evening of December twenty-ninth.

The meeting wasn’t a success, only the public place preventing Lisa from starting a slanging match. Tersely she told him, ‘Donald, why don’t you piss off back to Leeds? I don’t want any more to do with you. You can come to the flat tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Your belongings will be outside on the pavement. Be there; or they go in the nearest skip.’

After he walked disconsolately away, Andrews finished her drink and stood up to leave. As she moved towards the door of the public bar she glanced across the foyer and recognized the man heading for the lift. It was another man who’d broken a promise and lied to her. ‘I want a word with you, Mr Myers,’ she muttered. When he turned and raced towards the stairs, Lisa set off in pursuit.

Myers reached the third floor. The climb had done nothing to cool his rage or weaken his resolve. He pushed open the glass door at the head of the stairwell alongside the lift. The brightly lit corridor stretched away to the right and left. He stood for a moment, undecided. The corridor was empty. Short of knocking on every door, his only option was to listen for the sound of movement and hope he’d picked the right room.

He heard footsteps, but was still undecided which direction they came from when the door behind him was flung open. The handle caught him painfully in the small of the back. A hand descended on his shoulder and turned him round none too gently.

His rage seemed to dissipate as he saw Lisa Andrews. ‘You broke your promise,’ she told him flatly. ‘I thought better of you than that.’

He gaped at her in astonishment. ‘Were you following me?’ He clutched the wall for support, his fingers closing round the brass handrail. He looked pale and upset.

‘Hah! What makes you think you’re so important? What are you doing up here anyway?’ she demanded.

He shook his head like a boxer who’d taken a heavy punch. ‘If I told you, you’d arrest me.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Look, I had a good reason for not telling you about myself. I’m still not sure I should. But I reckon I owe you, not once but twice. You just might have saved me from doing something rash, so I’ll tell you what I promised. But not here.’

She looked at him, unsure how far to trust him. Eventually she said, ‘You said that before. But no mistakes this time; I’ll come out to your cottage tomorrow morning around eleven.’

Myers was waiting, standing in the open doorway as she pulled her car to a halt. She locked the door and looked up in time to catch his fading smile. ‘I don’t suppose I needed to do that, did I?’

He shook his head. ‘No. The pheasants round here are an honest bunch.’

‘Don’t rub it in. Force of habit.’

‘Do you realize you have me at a disadvantage? You know who I am and where I live. I don’t even know your name.’

‘At least it’s my own name,’ she retorted.

‘Ouch,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come inside.’

She looked around the sitting room; it was like a hermit’s refuge. ‘What, no TV?’

‘No desire for one,’ he told her succinctly. ‘The problem is TV leaves nothing to the imagination. When I read a book I can make the characters look however I want. I can turn a hill into a mountain, a pond into a lake or a stream into a river. You can’t do that with TV.’

‘You may have a point.’

In the kitchen Myers brewed coffee. Lisa sat on a chair
sipping it whilst Myers perched on the table cradling his own mug. She was about to bring up the subject of their meeting when something cold and wet touched her hand. She gasped and looked down into a pair of beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

‘That’s Nell.’

‘Hello, Nell.’ She stroked the Labrador’s head. ‘I’m Lisa Andrews.’

‘Well, Lisa Andrews,’ Myers began, ‘I promised I’d explain myself. I’ll tell you everything, except my real name. Will you excuse me that?’

‘It depends on the reason for withholding it.’

‘It’s because I was tried, convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment for murder.’ Myers paused and looked at her face for traces of shock, before continuing. ‘The victim was my wife.’ When he spoke again his voice was distant, remote. ‘There was a young ambitious civil engineer who lived and worked in Leeds. Whilst he was at university he met and later married a pretty girl, equally ambitious. He’d graduated and been head-hunted by one of the top firms in the area. He was headed for the very top. Everyone said so. His wife was working in a solicitors’ office in Leeds: a real golden couple. Nothing could go wrong.’ He smiled mirthlessly.