“No, a fellow passenger gave it me.” He took it back and then he too frowned, deeply puzzled.
“What is it, Dad?”
Stirling blinked and looked at his son with wide, staring eyes. He showed him the card. On one side was the man’s address, on the other, where Prentice had scribbled the name of the farmhouse, there was nothing at all. It shouted out at them all, white yet otherwise completely blank.
“This is bizarre,” said Stirling, took out a pen and wrote down the name of the farm together with that of the owner, Turney. “Whilst I still remember,” he said and shrugged.
The taxi driver offered very little help either. He pondered Prentice’s card and the address Stirling had scrawled on it. He scratched his ear. “Can’t say I’ve heard of this.” He turned it over. “Little Lowland, you say?”
