you,’ he said. ‘If you need to get off—’
‘Oh no,’ said Albert cheerfully. ‘I’ll show you around properly, sir. Don’t you worry.’
In the end, Albert had trailed round with Marcus for the whole day, accompanying him to the village shop to buy a sandwich for lunch, and taking him to see the manor farm in his Range Rover.
‘So, you’ll be coming back tomorrow?’ he said, as Marcus wearily got into his Mercedes at the end of the day.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Marcus. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll be at home if you need me,’ Albert said. ‘Mason’s Cottage. Ask at the shop.’
‘I will,’ said Marcus, summoning up his last reserves of good humour in order to smile at Albert. ‘And thank you so much for all your help. It really was tremendously useful.’ Albert shrugged.
‘Any time,’ he said, and got into his Range Rover. There was a pause, as each waited for the other to leave, then, impatiently, Marcus put his foot down, and roared off in a trail of spitting gravel.
As he drove home, he thought gloomily about how much there was still to do if he was to carry out a full valuation. He had covered only a fraction of the property. Would it be possible, he wondered, to find some impressionable junior who would do some of the legwork for him without asking questions? But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew the answer was no. The latest bunch of juniors in the office were pushy, ambitious creatures, who were uniformly desperate to attract attention and further their careers. They worked late, volunteered for extra tasks, and had the temerity to look askance at Marcus when he sloped off early to pick up Anthea and the boys. Any old-fashioned deference to senior status seemed to have vanished from this lot; any opportunity for personal gain was grabbed with glee; loyalty was an alien concept. He would be safer doing the whole thing on his own. And certainly, as far as the cut he would receive from Leo went, it would be well worth it.
He was working out in his mind how long the whole affair was likely to take as he pulled up to a set of traffic lights in outer Silchester—and when he heard a sudden knocking on the car window, a spasm of foolish terror went through him. He looked up in guilty alarm, almost expecting to see the face of a policeman. But it was the smiling face of Ginny Prentice.
‘Marcus!’ she cried. ‘Can I cadge a lift into town?’ Without waiting for an answer, she opened the passenger door and clambered in. ‘Oh, sorry, I’m on top of your papers. Shall I move them?’ Marcus made a grab for the Panning Hall papers.
‘I’ll do it,’ he muttered, shoving them on the back seat. Christ. This was all he needed.
‘What luck to see you!’ Ginny was exclaiming, as she settled into her seat and put on her seat belt. ‘I’ve been showing a load of journalists round that new development in North Silchester.’
‘Oh really?’ Marcus forced himself to pay attention. ‘New developments aren’t really my line.’
‘No, well . . . This one’s really nice. As they go. And I think the journalists liked it. We gave them all champagne in the show house,’ she added inconsequently. ‘That’s why I couldn’t take my car. I’ve had rather a lot of champagne. I was going to take a taxi.’ She giggled, and looked at her watch. ‘Are you going back to the office? I promised to go in and see Miles. But it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Marcus. He was trying desperately to think of an alternative topic to that of work. Anything. As long as she didn’t ask him where he’d been . . .
‘So, where have you been?’ said Ginny conversationally. ‘Skiving off ?’ Marcus could feel his neck growing warm.
‘Oh, nowhere in particular,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Just a meeting. Very boring.’
‘That’s the trouble with you lot!’ exclaimed Ginny. ‘How am I supposed to provide interesting stories for the press if you describe everything as boring? I bet you’ve just been to see some lovely house . . . it didn’t have a ghost, did it? One of the nationals is doing a story on haunted houses, and we don’t seem to have any!’
‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘No ghosts.’
‘Are these the details here?’ said Ginny, reaching behind Marcus for the Panning Hall papers.
‘No! No, they’re not,’