“Are you planning on doing a bit of sightseeing, Mr Bradbury?”
He turned around and noticed that Daisy was clearing away the plates from his meal. She was nodding down at the photograph in his hands.
“Do you know where this is? I have to go and lay a wreath there for the poor chap that passed away,” Martineau lied. “It was his final wish.”
Daisy inspected the photo in more detail and then she smiled. “Oh yes, sir, of course I recognise it. It’s in Birkenhead Park, it’s the Swiss Bridge.”
An hour later, Martineau entered the park under cover of darkness.
He had parked the Jaguar a decent distance away in a side road and had walked the rest of the way down the hill until he had found the gates to the park entrance. They were, as he expected, chained and bolted up. Evidently the park was
