‘… whatever, thisinterlopingstuff in the first place, so now it’s my job to look after her.’ I feel a bit chastened, until her serious look cracks into a smile. ‘Although if there’s any money going …’
18
It’s the next morning. I spent half the night wondering if I should knock on Em’s door, the other half wondering if she was going to knock on mine. In the end, nobody knocked on anybody’s door. I look terrible. When she comes downstairs to join the rest of us, she looks completely fresh.
Jonny’s cooking again this morning, a kind of porridge-with-everything. I think he’s reversed his T-shirt since last night but I couldn’t say for sure.
‘Morning all,’ Em says. ‘What’s on the agenda today?’
‘Oh, you know, more dodging the police, avoiding thugs who want to kill us, all of that. The usual. Although Davy’s first appointment is at two fifteen and we have no idea who it’s with, where it’s supposed to be, or what’s so important about it, so I imagine we ought to spend a bit of time on that.’I’m trying to meet Em’s eye, to suss out what she’s thinking, but she’s acting like she didn’t kiss me, like nothing happened at all, and she’s so good at it that I almost start to doubt myself.
‘215 Feathers,’ she says. ‘Feathers.’
‘By now we’ve tried everywhere called “Feathers” in a ten-mile radius of here and a twenty-mile radius of Bridling,’ I say. ‘Nobody’s heard of Davy Harcourt, nobody took a booking from him. So either he booked under an assumed name, in which case we’re stuffed, or Feathers is his little joke, and we can’t work it out because we didn’t know him, in which case we’re equally stuffed.’
‘Feathers,’ Elle says. ‘Can I use your computer for Google Maps, Jonny?’
Jonny waves an oaty hand. ‘Help yourself. I’ve added you to the face recognition. Don’t use any browsers you don’t recognise. But the porridge is almost ready, I can’t keep it fluid much longer, so …’
Elle opens Jonny’s laptop up and taps away.
‘Feathers,’ says Em. ‘Maybe it’s an aviary.’
‘An aviary.’
‘London Zoo has an aviary. Maybe he’s supposed to be meeting whoever it is there.’
Elle interrupts us. ‘Guys. “Down” is another word for feathers, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I remembered because of “eiderdown”.’
‘Yes, well done. So?’
‘So if there was a street near Davy’s office called, say, Down Lane …’
Em and I scramble to the laptop. I get there first. There, opposite Davy’s cul-de-sac, is a tiny little spur of an alley, almost unnoticeable. But when you zoom right up on it, two little words appear.Down Lane. You could knock me down with 215 feathers.
‘Is there anywhere Davy might meet someone?’
‘There’s, let’s see … a shipbroker’s, probably not that. A few offices, just insurers and things. Hang on.’ Elle turns Street View on and sits back. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here.’
‘Guys, the porridge really is—’
Em interrupts Jonny. ‘Wait. Go back.’ Elle swivels the virtual viewfinder round – God bless the Google Street View team for bothering to stop off at the shortest street in London – and Em says, ‘There. What’s that?’
‘It looks like the top of a staircase.’
‘And at the bottom?’
There’s a brass plate. You can’t read it from here, but Em’s already looking on a different screen. ‘That’s it. It’s a restaurant. Pretty well-hidden one, too. St Francis.’
‘Maybe he ate there?’ says Elle.
‘Got to be worth a try,’ I say.
‘They don’t open until noon,’ says Em.
