EIGHTEEN
Bentley had spent a frustrating morning driving around Louth and to make matters worse it was market day. He discovered that there was no sign of their car. They had given him the slip. Just as he was contemplating another visit to The Mason’s Arms, he spotted the Land Rover drawing up to a red traffic light. Bentley got in the queue and followed several vehicles behind them. They were on the road to the flat. His quarry pulled up outside and, Bentley, parking at a safe distance, watched the young woman get out. His trained eye took in her boots as she trudged through the gate.
“They’ve been in the country all right—the priory.” Bentley cursed.
A few minutes later, she was out again this time wearing pink trainers and a matching T-shirt. Then they were off. Bentley followed the
