26
Nick Jones kept looking over his shoulder into the scraggly stands of moorland trees that lined Siblyback Reservoir, as though searching for a hidden camera crew. He had even dressed for the occasion: his hair recently trimmed, a tweed jacket turned up at the collar as though he expected Michael Caine to pull up in a Bentley and whisk him off to a covert operation on the continent.
‘Were you worried we would be overheard?’ Slim asked as the wind buffeted off the water’s surface like a landing biplane and curled its chilly fingers down his neck. He wished he’d worn a thicker sweater under his light wind-cheater, but he hadn’t been expecting a drive out of Liskeard up to the lake.
‘In small towns, everyone knows everyone else,’ Nick said. ‘It’s best to be safe. Plus, I like it up here.
