‘Lot of killing for an old man,’ said Louis. ‘Too much.’ And he put Souleby’s photograph with the rest.

‘Which leaves Morland,’ said Angel.

Louis stared at Morland’s photograph. It was taken from the town’s website. Morland was smiling.

‘Yes,’ said Louis. ‘Which leaves Morland.’

54

Thomas Souleby tried to pack a bag while his wife looked on. Constance was growing increasingly disturbed at the casual way in which her husband was tossing his clothing into the big leather duffel. He never could pack for shit, she thought. She didn’t say this aloud, though. Even after forty years of marriage, her husband still professed to be shocked by what he termed her ‘salty’ tongue.

‘Here, let me do that,’ said Constance. She gently elbowed Thomas aside, removed the shirts and pants, and began folding them again before restoring them to the bag. ‘You go and get your shaving kit.’

Thomas did as he was told. He didn’t opine that there might not be time for the proper folding and placement of his clothing. She was working faster and yet more efficiently than he could have done anyway – he was all haste without speed – and there was little point in arguing with his wife, not when it came to the organizational details of his life. Without her involvement, they would never have achieved the degree of financial security and comfort that they now enjoyed. Thomas had never been a details man. He worked in concepts. His wife was the meticulous one.

When he returned to the bed, she had half filled the bag with shirts, a sweater, two pairs of pants and a second pair of shoes with his socks and underwear neatly fitted inside them. To it he added his shaving kit and a Colt 1911 pistol that had belonged to his father. The Colt was unlicensed. Long ago, his father had advised him of the importance of keeping certain things secret, especially in a place like Prosperous. As Souleby had watched the slow, steady ascent of Lucas Morland, he came to be grateful for the bequest. Thomas Souleby considered himself a good judge of character – he couldn’t have succeeded in business were he not – and had never liked or trusted Lucas Morland. The man thought he knew better than his elders, and that wasn’t the way Prosperous worked. Souleby had also noticed a change in Morland in recent weeks. He could almost smell it on him, an alteration in his secretions. Hayley had sensed it too. It was why, before her death, she had been planning to remove Morland from his post and replace him with one of his more malleable deputies. Souleby could still feel the old woman’s hand on his arm, the strength of her grip, as she had spoken to him for the last time the day before.

‘You listen, Thomas Souleby, and you listen good,’ she said. ‘I’m as healthy as any woman in this town. My mother lived to be ninety-eight, and I plan on exceeding that age with room to spare. But if anything happens to me, you’ll know. It’ll be Morland’s doing, and he won’t stop with me. You’re no friend to him, and he sure as hell doesn’t care much for you. He doesn’t understand the town the way that we do. He doesn’t care for it the way we care. He has no faith.’

And then the call came from Calder Ayton: Calder, who was everyone’s friend, but hadn’t been the same since the death of Ben Pearson. Souleby figured that Calder had loved Ben, and had Ben not been resolutely heterosexual, and Calder not a product of a less enlightened, more cloistered time, the two of them could have lived together in domestic bliss, protected by the amused tolerance of the town. Instead, Calder had settled for a sexless relationship of a sort, aided by Ben’s status as a widower and Calder’s share in the store, the two of them clucking and fussing over each other, snipping and sniping and making up like the old married couple that they secretly were. Calder wouldn’t last long now, thought Souleby. Morland wouldn’t have to kill him, even if Calder had the backbone to stand up to him, which Souleby doubted. Calder had been widowed, and without Ben to keep him company he would fade away and die quickly enough.

It was Calder who phoned to tell Souleby of Hayley Conyer’s passing. That didn’t surprise Souleby. They were two of the last three selectmen, and he had always been closer to Calder than to Luke Joblin, who was too flash for Souleby’s liking. What did surprise Souleby was Calder’s tone. He knew. He knew.

‘Who found her?’ Souleby asked.

‘Chief Morland,’ Calder told him, and it was there in the way that he said ‘Chief’. ‘He thinks she might have had a heart attack.’

‘And I’ll bet Frank Robinson is signing off on it as we speak.’

‘That’s what I hear.’ A pause. ‘Morland will be coming for you, Thomas.’

The phone felt slick in Souleby’s hand. His palms were sweating.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘He’s not afraid of me.’

‘Maybe he’s underestimated you.’

Souleby heard Calder chuckle sadly.

‘No, he knows me inside and out. This is my little act of defiance, my last one. I’ll be resigning from the board.’

‘Nobody resigns from the board.’

Only death brought an end to a selectman’s tenure. The elections were just for show. Everyone knew that.

Calder was sitting in the back of Ben Pearson’s store. In reality it was as much his as it had been Ben’s, but Calder didn’t regard it as anything other than Ben’s store, even with Ben no longer around. He looked at the bottles of pills that he had been accumulating since Ben’s death.

Soon, he thought. Soon.

‘There are ways, Thomas,’ he said. ‘You step lively.’

Now, with his bag packed, Thomas kissed his wife and prepared to leave.

‘Where will you go?’ asked Constance.

‘I don’t know. Not far, but far enough to be safe from him.’

Calls had to be made. Souleby still had plenty of allies inside the town, but he couldn’t see many of them standing up to Morland. They weren’t killers, while Morland was.

‘What will I tell him when he comes?’ asked Constance.

‘Nothing, because you know nothing.’

He kissed her on the mouth.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

She watched him drive away.

He had been gone less than an hour before Lucas Morland arrived at her door.

Souleby drove as far as Portland and parked in the long-term garage at the Portland Jetport. He then took a bus to Boston, paying cash for the ticket. He didn’t know how far Morland would go to track him, and he was no spy, but he hoped that, if Morland did somehow discover the whereabouts of the car, it would throw him a little. He asked his son-in-law to book a room for him under the name Ryan at a club off Massachusetts Ave that advertised through Expedia. Souleby knew that the club didn’t ask for ID, but simply held a key for the name listed on the reservation. He then walked over to Back Bay, sat in a coffee shop across from Pryor Investments and waited. When Garrison Pryor eventually appeared, cell phone to his ear, Souleby left the coffee shop and followed him. Souleby caught up with Pryor when he stopped at a pedestrian signal.

‘Hello, Garrison,’ he said.

Pryor turned.

‘I’ll call you back,’ he said, and hung up the phone. ‘What are you doing here, Thomas?’

‘I need help.’

The signal changed. Pryor started walking, but Souleby easily kept up with him. He was considerably taller than Pryor, and fitter too, despite his age.

‘I’m not in the helping business,’ said Pryor. ‘Not for you or your board.’

‘We’ve exchanged information in the past.’

‘That was before tridents began appearing in the woodwork of houses in Scarborough, Maine. Have you any idea of the trouble you’ve caused me?’

‘I counseled against that.’