Read The Tied Man for Free Online Page A

began to load my cases.
    ‘Thank you.  Listen, tell Gabriel I owe him one, will you?’
    ‘The look on ‘is face, I reckon it’s the other way round.  You drive safe now, yeah?  Wouldn’t want you scratchin’ the paintwork on that baby there.’
    ‘Lilith!  Anythin’ you want to tell us about you and Gabriel?’   the first reporter to clear the terminal building hollered, just as I climbed into the driver’s seat and hit the accelerator.

Chapter Five
Lilith
    My car was my extravagance, costing a small fortune to keep in storage: a Series 2 Jaguar E-Type the colour of buttermilk, with cream leather upholstery and an engine that could outgun just about anything else on the road.  That was, if anything on the road was actually moving in the first place.
    The traffic came to a standstill barely five miles from Heathrow.  Rain pounded against the windscreen, wipers struggling to clear the deluge, and the Jaguar’s immaculate paintwork was soon hidden beneath a layer of grit and liquid mud.  I sat and watched the dashboard thermometer creep insidiously towards the red, and contemplated the most efficient method of murdering my father.
    After two hours of staring at the tail-lights of a Volvo, and resolutely ignoring the unchecked gurning and obscene gestures from the three children in its back seat, I reached my exit. I slammed into first gear and roared up the slip road in a spray of filthy water.  I stuck my right hand out of my window and flicked a highly satisfying finger at the rabid little brats who had been tormenting me.  In my rear view mirror I saw the driver’s mouth drop open in disgust. 
    *****
    Eight numbing hours’ journey followed, including a stop at a motorway service station to get changed into warmer clothes.  As an extra precaution against recognition I also took a pair of hazel-tinted contact lenses from my washbag and slipped them in before I stepped back out into a foyer that smelled of stale cooking fat and overflowing urinals. 
    By then, it was safe to say that the beauty of my native countryside, even in its early summer splendour, was entirely lost on me.
    For the last two hours I meandered through the rolling borders of northern England and my route took me down every potholed B-road in the green and unpleasant land.  As the sun began its leisurely dip below the horizon, I could see the distant Scottish mountains and I knew I was getting close.
    My satnav gave up about half an hour from the village of Albermarle , bewildered by a series of meandering tracks that it refused to believe existed, and Mozart’s Requiem played out so loud that I could feel the bass notes vibrating through the seat.  I may not have believed in the words, but the harmonies filled my head until there was no room for anything else; God-botherers always got the best tunes.
    Finally, after scattering yet another flock of startled sheep, I pulled up at a solid, stone-built eighteenth century gate lodge.  Gold-painted wrought iron gates flared bright in the last rays of the evening and a pristine hand-painted sign announced Albermarle Estate – PRIVATE LAND – Strictly Guests Only.  Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted . 
    As I killed the engine an artificially bulked-up young man in a white shirt and scarlet and gold striped tie – the colours of the crest on the brochure – stepped from the front door of the gate lodge and stooped down to speak to me.  His massive shoulders and bull’s neck filled the space at my window.  ‘Evenin’,’ he said in a smooth brogue.  ‘Delighted to see you, Ms Bresson.  My name’s Coyle O’Halloran, Estate Manager.  Lady Albermarle asked me to make sure you were given a personal welcome.’  He gave a broad smile that showed a set of small, even, white teeth and ran a hand through close-cropped dark hair.  ‘You’ll be pleased to know you’re almost there.  I’ll pop back inside and get these gates open in a minute, then you just need to drive about a