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“Why don’t we discuss this over a drink,” he said. The interruption would give him time to gather his thoughts, because the last thing he needed or wanted was a socialite like Alexandra Avery underfoot.
“Lead the way.”
“Exactly where are you staying?” he asked once they were seated at a table.
“Well, here, of course. But only for one night. Tomorrow we’re off to King’s Lynn.”
Fisk stared in shock.
“That is where you’re headed next?”
“How did you know?”
This time, her smile wasn’t so innocent. “I pay good money to stay informed, Mr. Fisk. Something I learned from my husband.” She reached out, gave his hand a pat. “No need to trouble yourself with such trivial details about where I get my information. I vote we compare plans. Maybe we’ll find that we can actually be of use to each other.”
An interesting thought. Maybe there was a way to capitalize on her presence. Ivan and Jak weren’t exactly the sharpest pair. Another set of eyes on them might be what he needed to finally get ahead of the Fargos.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Alexandra Avery was far more intelligent than Charles had ever given her credit for. Clearly, she was tapping into her husband’s computer or phone. Or maybe she had his office bugged. How else would she have known about their plans? And while that worried him, there were ways to keep her in line. Besides, it wasn’t like he had to keep Charles in the loop about her actions. At least not now.
This could actually work . . .
Thirty-nine
The following afternoon, Sam and Remi left their car at the car park, then walked to the town center along Purfleet Quay, to meet with Nigel Ridgewell at the information center where he worked. That was located in the Custom House, a stone building with a steep-pitched tile roof with dormers, crowned by a wooden bell tower.
Several tourists gathered outside the building, some of them snapping photos of the river. At the head of the group, a lanky, brown-haired man in his late thirties looked up, saw them, and asked, “Here for the tour? You can still buy tickets inside.”
Sam said, “We’re looking for Nigel Ridgewell.”
“I’m Nigel.” He said something to the group, then walked toward them. “You must be the Fargos.”
Sam eyed the people waiting in front of the tourist center. “Maybe I got the time wrong. I was under the impression you asked us to meet here.”
“Sorry about that. I was supposed to have the rest of the afternoon off, but one of the other guides called in. Any chance we can meet later this evening?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Sam said. “What time?”
“Maybe around six? That’ll give me a short break after my last tour before we meet up. Of course, you’re welcome to come along. Or save yourself five pounds, pick up a map inside, and use that for your own tour.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “Maybe we’ll take a look around.”
Nigel returned to his tour group. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started.” He led them around the corner, saying, “King’s Lynn, one of the most important seaports in the Middle Ages, used to be known as Bishop’s Lynn . . .”
“He seems nice enough,” Remi said.
Except for that theft part. Knowing the guy stole Madge Crowley’s papers bothered him. He gave a noncommittal response as he held the door open for Remi so that they could look over the brochures that highlighted the various tours. Sam was opening the maritime history tour pamphlet when Remi said, “This one sounds intriguing. ‘The Darker Side of Lynn. Tales of murder, treason, hangings, and witchcraft.’” But then she returned it to the rack. “Never mind. They only offer it in the summer.”
He handed her his brochure. “Then the maritime walk wins by default.”
Instead of following the guided tour as mapped out, they used it to look up points of interest as they walked through the historic sections of King’s Lynn. Remi used her cell phone to take a couple of photos of the Town Hall, a stunning, checkerboard-fronted building. They turned down a quaint, cobbled street, with its fifteenth-century brick-and-timber houses. About midway down Nelson Street, Remi pointed to a placard posted on an arched entrance to a narrow street beyond. “Devil’s Alley. I’d love to know the story behind that.”
Sam tried to find a reference to it in his brochure. “Not here.”
“Maybe it’s part of the Dark Side tour. The witches and murderers.”
They peered beneath the arched entrance to the alley just as a woman emerged, her gnarled hand holding on tight to a cane. Dressed head to toe in black, her shoulders stooped from age, she stopped when she saw them looking at the sign. She pointed at it with her cane. “He was there.”
“The Devil?” Remi asked.
