The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

She smiled, pulled her cardigan tight and moved over to hug Juliette. ‘Give that little girl a nice big kiss from me when she wakes up.’

‘Will do,’ said Juliette.

‘I’ll see you out,’ Morton said, following them into the hallway and passing them their coats.

‘I’ll go and get the car warmed up,’ Jim said, giving Morton a bear-hug and thanking him for his hospitality.

Outside, Margaret said, ‘It’s been a wonderful trip, Morton. I’ve really loved spending time with you all—especially little Grace.’ She gazed down at the Land Rover puffing grey fumes into the cold air, as she searched for the right words. ‘You know, I’d like to be more like your… like Jack—in the way he is with you and Grace—but… it doesn’t come easy, you know?’

‘I know.’ He reached out and touched her arm. ‘It’s the American in him,’ he joked, with a conscious effort at easing her discomfort.

‘Anyway—hope to see you down in Cornwall sometime soon.’

‘We’d love to come back down.’

She hugged him, said goodbye, then walked down the steps to the car.

Morton stood waving until they had turned the corner and disappeared from view, then headed back indoors. ‘Ready for your first trip to the National Archives?’ he asked Jack.

‘Give me two minutes and I’ll be good to go,’ he said, bounding up the stairs.

‘Are you ladies sure you will be okay by yourselves?’ he asked Juliette and Laura.

‘Very much so,’ Laura answered. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘Glad to get rid of you,’ Juliette added.

Phil opened the door to Katie’s flat with dramatic caution. ‘Get in,’ he snapped, reaching out and grabbing her by the wrist.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ Clara said, shaking off his grip and, from her other hand, dropping a black sack on the floor.

He slammed the door shut, hobbled across the room to the sofa and muted the blaring sound of morning television.

Clara sat beside him, perched at the edge of the seat, as though she were not staying long. He looked at her nice clothes—tight blue jeans and black jacket—with a mixture of lust and envy. Here he was living in this hovel, wearing the same clothes which he had worn for God only knew how many days.

‘Did you bring my stuff?’ he asked.

‘It’s over there,’ she replied, pointing to the bag.

‘Cheers. Have they been round again?’

‘Who?’

‘The police! Who do you think?’

‘Oh. Yeah, they came around yesterday to see if you’d turned up yet. They didn’t really seem that bothered when I said I hadn’t heard from you. Look, how long’s this going to go on for? When are you coming home?’

‘When I know for sure whether there are any more of those gold guineas buried somewhere.’

Clara shot him a derisive look. ‘You do know how stupid you sound, don’t you? It’s like that genealogist man said—if they did exist, there’s not much chance of them still being hidden after all these years.’

‘We need the money, Clara. Unless you’ve got a better way of clearing our debts? Ain’t it worth even trying?’ he retorted. ‘It was only a few weeks back that some amateur metal detector found millions of pounds of some Saxon burial or other. By accident. Why would you not at least have a go? Did you not see how much one bloody coin sold on eBay for? Yeah, I can see, actually, you’re wearing some of the proceeds.’

Clara huffed in the way that she did when she knew that he had a point. ‘I’ve made an appointment with the Citizen’s Advice Bureau to see if they can help us with the debts…’

‘Just give me a bit longer,’ Phil interrupted.

Clara began to get upset. ‘We’ve had another red demand this morning. They’re threatening to send in the bailiffs if we don’t pay within seven days.’

He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll have it sorted by then—one way or another.’

‘Not exactly the prettiest of London buildings,’ Jack commented, as he strode beside Morton towards the entrance of the National Archives in Kew.

‘No,’ Morton agreed, as they passed beside a large expanse of still water; the lack of any type of organic matter accentuating the starkness of the building which loomed over it like a staid old judge.

‘It looks like someone bolted a giant sunroom onto the front of a lump of concrete,’ Jack observed, taking in the vast edifice.

‘But it’s what’s on the inside that counts,’ Morton replied, watching a small flock of geese glide down onto the water. ‘Canada Geese…or just geese, to you, I suppose.’

Jack gave a wry smile, continuing to study the building as they walked towards the main doors.

Inside, they passed through the obligatory security search, deposited their coats and bags in the cloak room, then made their way up to the first floor, where Jack was issued with a reader’s ticket. It meant something inexplicably profound to Morton, having Jack standing beside him in a place of such significance to his work, taking a genuine interest in what he did.

‘Where now?’ Jack asked.

‘Second floor,’ Morton said. ‘Map and Large Document Reading Room.’

Jack nodded for Morton to lead the way and the two men went to the main staircase and up to the next floor, passing through a security entrance into a large search room filled with desks and busy researchers. Morton led them around to the far left, where a set of glass double-doors opened automatically, leading into a rectangular room bisected by a long wooden counter. ‘Hi,’ Morton greeted the young man standing behind it. ‘I’ve got two documents reserved under seat number 10B. Is it possible to have both out? My dad can have one—he’s just registered a new card but doesn’t have a seat number, yet.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ the young man said, tapping something into a computer, then glancing up at Jack. ‘I’ll put you