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son came to him, falling into the embrace. Connor buried his face in Robert’s shoulder, and Robert stroked his hair, soothing him as he had done when the boy was but a small infant, afraid of nameless, formless monsters in the dark.
    “They won’t get you,” he said, still lost in those long-gone days. “I won’t let them.”
    But this monster was not nameless, nor was it faceless. It had a name, and it was an ugly one that tripped nastily off the tongue, snagging on the teeth.
    This time, the monster’s name was Corbeau.

8:30 A.M.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    That morning they had breakfast in the hotel. Robert and Sarah ordered coffee and croissants while the children enjoyed a full English fry-up. They spoke little during the meal, each of them lost in their own bitter thoughts.
    Robert was still obsessing over the restraining order. He knew very little of such things, but he was certain Corbeau had produced this one with what amounted to illegal haste.
    He would ring his solicitor after breakfast. Burt Morrow was a good man, and he handled all of the family’s affairs. He had even acted as Robert’s literary agent for a while, when he was trying to write thrillers. These days, working freelance for several broadsheet newspapers and upmarket magazines, he had enough contacts to act as his own representation, but he retained Morrow for all other matters. He trusted the man.
    It was after nine a.m. when they returned to their room; office hours, so Morrow should be at his desk by now. Robert picked up the phone as Sarah vanished into the bathroom. Connor and Molly once again went for a walk outside, trying to find something to occupy them in the small town.
    “Hello, Morrow Legal. Sheila speaking.” It was Morrow’s longtime secretary, a good woman to have on your side in a crisis.
    “Morning, Sheila. It’s Rob Mitchell here.”
    “Welcome back! How was your holiday?” Her voice brightened, containing a note of genuine affection that never failed to make Robert smile.
    “Fine, thank you. We’ve been back a day now, but something weird has happened. Is Burt in today?”
    “Yes, I’ll put you straight through.” She was all business now, sensing something was amiss and Robert needed to talk to her boss immediately.
    “Rob. What can I do for you?” This was typical Morrow: no preamble, no small talk, just right to the crux of the matter.
    “I need some advice—professional advice. And maybe a little help, too.” Robert gripped the phone, his palm sweating.
    “Fire away. What’s the problem?” Morrow’s voice was rich and smooth; like coffee, as Sarah was fond of saying. The man was almost sixty, but still as sharp and ruthless as a man half his age. He had bailed Robert out of minor legal and publishing tangles on countless occasions, and no doubt would continue to do so until he died: retirement, early or otherwise, was not an option for a legal animal like Burt Morrow.
    “The house you helped me buy up here, near Battle. Somebody’s in it.”
    “‘ In it ’? What the hell does that mean?” There came over the line the sound of pages turning, and Robert could picture Burt with his favored 2H pencil skimming over his lineless loose leaf sketch pad.
    “It means someone has taken up residence in my house, and he has documents to prove he owns it. Don’t ask me how or why; just tell me what I can do about it.”
    “Shit, Rob, this sounds…well, bizarre. You say the guy has deeds to the property, with his name on them?”
    “Yes, and he’s taken out a restraining order on me.”
    Morrow went silent for a moment. Then he regained his composure and carried on. The pause was slightly unnerving, but not entirely out of character. “Give me names and I’ll get right on this. I’ll call you back with something within the hour.”
    Robert dictated the name of Nathan Corbeau, spelled it as he thought it should be spelled, and then hung up the phone. He had not even said good-bye; their