Now, he concluded that wasn’t so. Rupert’s handwriting was elegant and controlled, the letters evenly shaped and fluently written. These tiny additions and alterations, some even in a contrasting pen, some scribbled as though he had just remembered something, meant something. They were deliberate.

Patrick flicked the pages again, trying to see some pattern there. Fumbling in his bag he found a stub of a pencil and a moleskin notebook – Patrick was rarely without the means to draw. He stopped at the first page on which he’d noticed something odd and noted down the capital letter A, where it should have been in the lower case. A little later he wrote down the number 2. Patrick held his breath. His heart raced with excitement. He had no real idea what he had found, but he knew that he was on to something here.

Behind him the cottage door opened. Harry emerged, followed by Mrs Thorpe, the parrot on her shoulder. Nervously, Patrick eyed the parrot, expecting to be assaulted yet again. He was thankful to get back into the car.

‘That woman could talk for England,’ Harry said as they drove away. ‘What was it with you and the parrot?’

Patrick showed his torn sleeve and mauled arm.

‘Oh my goodness. You’d better get something on that.’

‘Did she say anything useful?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Not a thing. You know, I think this is just one big wild goose chase. I’m for going back to Fallowfields and getting on with the ledger.’

‘Suits me,’ Patrick told him. He wondered if he should tell his dad what he’d found out. He hesitated in case Harry should be annoyed that he’d removed the book from the house. After all, it now did seem to be evidence. Besides, he really wanted to find out more first and deliver the revelation in full.

He took the contact list from the glove compartment and skimmed through the addresses, ticking with a pen those they had visited. ‘We may as well make one more call though,’ he said.

‘Oh? Why?’

‘The farm that backs on to Fallowfields. It’s on the list.’

‘Right.’ Harry sounded reluctant. He’d had enough. ‘All right then,’ he agreed. ‘We may as well, but I think that’ll be the last. I hope Naomi and Marcus have had more luck than we have, that’s all.’

The farmyard was reached by a narrow track similar to that at Fallowfields but muddier and even more rutted. The yard itself seemed equally uncared for.

Patrick got out of the car and glanced around, curious as to the arrangement of buildings he had glimpsed through the gap in the hedge. The farmhouse was pebble-dashed and had at some point been whitewashed. Now, the covering was crumbling away from the brick and the finish was grimed and weathered. Small windows gave no real glimpse of the inside.

At right angles stood out-buildings including a brick barn. Patrick guessed they were older than the house and looked better built. Bright sunlight angled down, casting deep shadows at the barn’s end, almost but not quite concealing the outline of some kind of farm machinery, something with wheels and spikes that Patrick could not begin to identify. Patrick glanced back at the barn admiring its high roof and the way it seemed to sit so solidly in the landscape. By contrast the house seemed to squat uncertainly, as if unconfident of its own foundations. Given the choice, he thought, he’d have chosen to live in the barn.

Harry rapped on the door. Flakes of dark-blue paint dropped on to the flagstones. Absently, Patrick poked at them with the toe of his trainer.

No reply.

‘Looks like we’re out of luck again,’ Harry said. He prepared to knock once more as Patrick wandered back into the yard. A boy, about his own age, stared at him from the shadow cast by the barn. Patrick glanced back at his father and then made his way over to the boy.

‘Hi.’

The teenager nodded and glanced warily at Harry, then past him to where there was a narrow path leading to the rear of the house.

He’s scared, Patrick thought. He remembered being told about the teenager who’d come to the shop to find Rupert. Marcus’s description of him could well fit this boy, though, to be fair, he supposed it could fit maybe half the teenage boys Patrick knew.

‘You live here?’ Patrick asked. He was aware of his father behind him, watching. Patrick willed him to stay back. He took a few steps closer to the barn.

‘’Course I live here.’ He glanced nervously back towards the house. ‘You better go,’ he said.

‘We came about Rupert Friedman’s book,’ Harry said. ‘We’re planning to finish it and—’

‘And what’s that got to do with us?’

Patrick jumped, so did Harry, only the boy seemed unsurprised. His eyes flicked past Harry and settled for a moment on the man who had emerged from behind the farmhouse, then he moved back further into the shadow of the barn.

‘Your name was on a list of people who’d helped him with information,’ Harry said to the man. ‘We’re trying to put his notes in order, so we’re checking back through his list of contacts.’

The man snorted. ‘Waste of bloody time,’ he observed. ‘Lucky for ‘im he didn’t have to work for a living.’

Patrick, now watching Harry, saw his father’s shoulders stiffen. Harry could not abide bad manners or slights on people not in a position to defend themselves.

‘I’m sure Mr Friedman worked very hard at his business,’ he said.

‘And he should have learned to mind his own, too.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Harry challenged. ‘Look, I’m quite happy not to talk to you, but your name was on the list of contacts Rupert Friedman made. Perhaps someone else here was Mr Friedman’s informant?’

‘There is no one else here,’ the man growled. ‘Now get yourself off my property.’

Patrick held his breath, sure that his father was about to challenge the assertion and draw attention to the boy. He didn’t think that would be beneficial. Impulsively, he felt in his bag and managed to tear a scrap of paper from his notebook and grab the stub of the pencil. Hoping the older man wouldn’t see, he scribbled his mobile number on the piece of paper.

The boy was watching him and took a further step back as though afraid Patrick might approach. Patrick glanced back to where the two men faced off then looked at the boy. He crushed the paper in his hand and dropped it into a clump of grass in front of the barn. The boy was watching him. His gaze fell for a mere instant, then met Patrick’s once more.

‘We’re going,’ Harry was saying. ‘And don’t worry, we won’t be back.’

Stiff backed he marched to the car. Patrick followed swiftly. A glance in the wing mirror confirmed that the boy had slipped away, though the man still watched as if making certain they did not change their minds. Patrick wondered if the boy would retrieve the number. He worried that the man had seen.

‘Thoroughly unpleasant fellow,’

Harry at his most pompous made Patrick smile. ‘Back to Fallowfields?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Oh yes. I’m starved.’

‘Did you know,’ Patrick asked, ‘that round here starved used to mean freezing cold as well as hungry?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘It was in Rupert’s notes.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m certainly not cold. It’s a wonder you can stand it in those long sleeves.’

Patrick grinned. He hardly ever uncovered his arms. ‘I just feel naked with that much flesh exposed,’ he said, ‘and, yes, I know that’s weird.’

‘Happy with weird,’ Harry told him contentedly. ‘Perfectly happy with your kind of weird.’

Naomi and Marcus arrived back at Fallowfields just after Patrick and Harry.

Harry had checked the locks and taken a tour round the gardens. ‘No sign of anyone having been here,’ he reported.

‘No, well I expect they’ve reached the conclusion there’s nothing here,’ Marcus complained. ‘At least, not that I’m aware of?’

The question was clearly a leading one and for a moment Patrick thought his dad would give a direct answer. Marcus had still not been told about the laptop or the journals. As Harry opened his mouth to respond, Patrick caught his father’s eye and shook his head.