Chapter 36

LACKFORD, ENGLAND

Ryan pulls the rental car off the A11. Driving in London was terrifying—even more so than a van in Tuscany—mostly because they drive on the opposite side of the road. Fitting in the Mini Cooper doesn’t help. But it was the only car available at the discount rental car place near the airport.

It took nearly two hours, but he’s finally here. The village of Lackford is as promised: a cluster of modest homes in an ordinary town—at least by European standards. England’s equivalent to Leavenworth, Kansas.

He follows his phone’s navigation to the pub called Black Ditches. What did people do before GPS?

He walks into the pub aware that a stranger—especially a six-four, American stranger—will not go unnoticed.

Inside is what you’d expect in the middle of the afternoon. A smattering of men hunched on stools. Eyes glued to the television behind the bar. Weathered faces. Calloused hands and work boots.

Surprisingly, they don’t give Ryan a second look. It’s one of those kinds of places. Mind your own business, like the joints near his dad’s factory in Leavenworth.

Ryan takes a stool, and the barman hobbles over. He must be in his seventies. Ryan orders a pint. When in Rome. With that thought, his mind jumps to Nora. She’s sent him several texts from Rome, each more agitated than the last, about him ditching that leg of the trip. The professor who supervises the law journal is pissed that he skipped the meeting with the alumnus donor. He’s sent her a quick text saying very little, but at least providing proof of life.

The old-timer says nothing as he pours the beer from the tap, sets the tall glass on the bar. Ryan takes a sip. It’s lukewarm. He smiles, thinking of one of Eddie’s rants: What’s the aversion to ice-cold beer, ice-cold anything?

There’s surprisingly little chatter in the place. No opening for him to ask a question.

He considers how to play this. Should he pretend Pinky Man is a relative? He’s there to surprise him? Plausible. But these blokes aren’t going to buy it. Maybe say he found Pinky Man’s wallet? No, they might ask Ryan to leave it for him at the pub.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ryan says.

“You can ask,” the barman says in a thick regional accent.

“I’m trying to find an old friend of my dad’s. My father passed away and he wanted his war buddy from Iraq to have his medals.” Ryan’s dad was never in the military. But in the heat of coming up with a lie, he remembered Ali saying that her dad had served in Iraq.

The man wipes the bar with a rag. He’s thinking.

“My dad said his old friend would be hard to miss since he’s missing fingers on both hands.” Ryan holds up both hands, folds in his pinky fingers. “It’s peculiar, I know, but that’s what my dad said. His friend’s name is Peter Jones.”

The barman looks up with his leather shoe of a face. “Sorry, mate.”

Ryan’s mind leaps to Pinky Man at the Palazzo. I think someone’s found me. That morning Ryan searched the internet for reports of sightings of Pinky Man in the UK but found nothing. That could be because there is nothing or that Ryan simply missed it in the literally hundreds of podcasts, blogs, and websites relating to Alison’s abduction.

Next Ryan tries something he learned from television. He puts a ten-euro note on the table. It’s not much, but he’s running low on money. It doesn’t help that England uses British pounds, not euros, but he didn’t have time to convert his cash.

The man eyes the bill. “What part of ‘Sorry, mate’ didn’t ya understand?”

Ryan holds up his palms. He surveys the pub, but the patrons all examine their drinks. It’s good news, actually. They know Pinky Man. Ryan’s on the right track.

Ryan heads outside. Near the front of the pub, a group of teenagers eyeballs him. They’re not the gentlemanly handsome Englishmen from the movies. Turns out that the UK and the rest of Europe are like the U.S.: Not everyone’s wealthy, not everyone’s good-looking. And not everyone’s nice.

He decides to give it a chance. “I’m looking for someone who lives in town. Do you know where I can find Peter Jones’s place? He’s a friend of the family.”

“He’s a friend of the family,” the leader of the group repeats in a mocking American accent. His buddies laugh. “Piss off,” the kid says.

Ryan watches the kids jerking around as they disappear down the street. This place is definitely not getting five stars on TripAdvisor. And he’s not even Swiss.

What now? He studies the row of houses and wonders if any have mailboxes. Perhaps with names on them. He sees none and isn’t even sure if that’s a thing in England.

The sky is a wall of gloom. But then something catches his eye. The steeple of a church, probably the one pictured on the Wiki page.

A pastor or priest isn’t likely to lie to Ryan.

He heads down the sidewalk, a pitted lane of asphalt with grass sprouting from the cracks. The adjacent street is a treeless road with a single line of homes. As he walks, he wonders how Pinky Man might have ended up in this town. Does he have some connection to the village? An extended family member, maybe. But his accent and demeanor are decidedly American. The B-and-B lady thought he had a Philly accent, which seems right. This village is out of the way, no tourist sights, so it would be a good place to lie low. But why hide out? Most people thought either Ryan made up seeing Pinky Man to cover for his own involvement in the crime or it was the result of a concussion or quack hypnosis. At the Palazzo, Pinky Man seemed genuinely scared of someone other than the police, but who?

The sidewalk ends. Ryan makes his way along the trampled grass toward the old stone church. On either side of the path are vast open fields. It feels like he’s walking back in time. He can almost imagine townspeople from the 1500s strolling this same route. To the town’s credit, it has left things as they were.

The sky is dark gray now. At the end of the path is a wooden gate to the fence surrounding the church grounds. He walks through it, passes a small cottage that has a sign near the door that says: GROUNDSKEEPER. Moss-covered gravestones speckle the grounds in no discernable order. A cluster stands near an old tree, another on the outer boundary close to a stone wall. The entrance to the old church has a portico, under which stand two ancient-looking wooden doors. The wind whooshes through the space. Ryan pushes on one of the doors and it groans as it opens.

The church is dimly lit. It’s a beautiful, if humble, place of worship. A lectern in the front. Worn pews on each side.

It’s empty. He’s wasting his time. This trip was for nothing. But he’s come this far. Maybe whoever leads this congregation is around. That’s someone who, unlike the townsfolk, won’t lie to him—or at least won’t tell him to piss off.

“Hello,” he calls out, his voice echoing.

Nothing.

He gazes around the empty church. It’s quiet save the wind rattling the stained glass. Defeated, he heads to the door. He notices a corridor near the entrance away from the main area of worship. Might as well give it a look.

He walks down the hallway that leads to a small room that has folded chairs stacked against the wall. A bulletin board with signs pinned to it. One for a rummage sale. Another about youth activities. On the wall opposite, photos of church staff. There’s one of a man in a green robe with the title of REAM RECTOR. Other photos of vicars and priests.

In the second row, there’s a photo of a friendly-looking woman. Her title is READER.

But it’s the photo in the bottom row that grabs Ryan’s attention. It’s of the church’s groundskeeper. The man wears coveralls and gloves. But there’s no mistaking it:

It’s Pinky Man.