We assembled an hour before dawn in the car park. Roberts was already in his car, waiting for us. I guess that, just like the rest of us, he hadn’t had much sleep. Markham had a backpack. Roberts and Peterson had the maps. Sands and I had sandwiches and enough water for an expedition to the Antarctic.
‘One final thing,’ I said, as we stowed our gear. ‘We all need to be perfectly clear that this was my idea. I compelled you to carry out my instructions. You were given no choice.’
‘No way,’ said Roberts, indignantly.
‘Yes way,’ said Peterson, heavily. He looked at me. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking of St Mary’s. When we are caught, you will all need as much plausible deniability as you can muster. I’m head of the department which means I’ll go down regardless, so I’m ordering you to save yourselves. God knows how much shit will hit the fan, but you’re all key personnel and St Mary’s can’t do without you. Your instructions, therefore – and you will follow them – is to blame me for everything and save yourselves.’
‘Dr Bairstow won’t believe it for a moment,’ said Sands, shoving his bag in the boot.
‘No, but it will enable him to save you by sacrificing me.’
‘It should be me,’ said Roberts.
‘No, it shouldn’t. Your family is dealing with enough shit at the moment without you making things worse for them. You will comply, Mr Roberts, or you don’t come with us.’
Reluctantly, he nodded.
We drove slowly down the drive, tyres crunching on the gravel. There was little traffic in Rushford. We picked up the motorway and headed north. No one spoke.
Now that the moment had come, I was really regretting I’d ever agreed to do this. I never asked, but I wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised to find the others felt the same. If there had been roadworks, or heavy traffic jams, or anything really, we would quite happily have turned around and returned to St Mary’s. Sadly, the roads were clear and we were making good time. It’s typical, isn’t it? Where’s a bloody contraflow when you need one?
We left the Great North Road at the Thirsk turn-off and cruised into Northallerton around mid-morning.
Sands parked us behind the former prison, now the Zetland Library.
We’d argued long and loud over whether to wear the formal St Mary’s uniform, which would undoubtedly facilitate our entry to almost wherever we wanted to go, against the charge of publicly bringing St Mary’s into disrepute. Bearing that in mind, we wore civvies, but smart ones.
Sands stayed in the car. The windscreen was pebble-dashed with the appropriate permits, parking tickets and passes, but as Markham had said, you don’t take any chances with your getaway car.
I know the Boss always carries on as if Thirsk are the devil’s representatives on earth, but they were lovely to us. One of the librarians had ready all the volumes I’d requested. A quiet table had been reserved for our use. They’d even laid on tea after our long journey. I felt terrible. So, by the looks of them, did everyone else.
We thanked the librarians politely and made ourselves comfortable. From where we were sitting, I could see the unobtrusive door on the back wall that led to the working areas behind the library. There was a keypad attached. Fortunately – for us that is – it chirped musically as each key was pressed. Markham propped a book in front of him, stared unseeingly at the pages, and hummed the notes to himself, jotting things down on a scrap of paper.
I opened a few books myself, took out my scratchpad, logged into their system, and began to work. Everyone else did the same. Four hardworking academics dedicated to their task. Mr Roberts twitched occasionally, but librarians are always convinced that everyone finds old books as fascinating as they do themselves and, in an environment that frowns even on heavy breathing, silent twitching is excitement made manifest.
Lunchtime came. Most people disappeared. Standing as if to relieve my back, I could see just one member of staff quietly shelving books down at the far end. No one else was in sight. There would never be a better opportunity.
Markham closed his book and pocketed his piece of paper. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘Really?’
‘Easy. Just a tip, Max, always have a silent keypad.’
We made our way separately, each of us holding a book or scratchpad as camouflage, and silently converged on the door.
Roberts, despite his objections, was to stand guard and fend off anyone looking for us. He stationed himself in the Religion and Ritual section and opened a book at random.
‘Suppose there are cameras?’ he hissed. ‘Should you cover your faces?’