The Plantagenet Vendetta by John Paul Davis

you around these parts before, Miss Farrelly.”
    “I’m just here for a few days on business.”
    “Oh, I see; what kind of business are you in?”
    Jen hesitated. “I work in television.”
    “Oh, super.”
    “Jen is here to film a documentary,” Hancock said.
    “Is that right? What you here to film? A wildlife show?”
    “It’s a documentary on the disappearance,” Gavin said.
    Jen grimaced. She felt as if she could have throttled him.
    Ratcliffe was confused. Then his expression changed. “The disappearance. Oh, yes, I’m with you. Poor Debra Harrison. Oh, why do such things happen to the young?”
    Mitchell reappeared with three pints of Abbot Ale and the Coke. “Anything else?”
    “Just the usual for William.”
    Mitchell picked up a glass before turning his attention to the brandies that occupied three shelves behind the bar. “I didn’t realise he was in tonight.”
    “I just got off the blower to him; he’s on his way down now.”
    Mitchell poured a single brandy and placed it down on the bar. No sooner had he collected the money, the door opened.
    “Ey up, speak of the devil.”
    Jen watched the door as the newest arrival made his way inside. As expected, it was the same man she had met earlier that day in the graveyard.
    “Ey up, it’s the Cat,” Hancock said.
    Catesby smiled wryly. “That’s Sir William to you, Mr Hancock.”
    “You’re quite right,” Brian replied. “Let me buy you a drink, Sir William.”
    “Oh, I wish you’d have volunteered a minute ago; that way, I need not have bothered,” Ratcliffe said.
    Catesby approached the bar and picked up his brandy. He downed it in one and replaced the glass on the counter.
    “Ahhh.”
    Two seats along, Hancock’s enthusiasm had faded. “Same again, please, Harvey lad.”
    Mitchell raised his eyebrows before turning to refill the glass.
    Brian fidgeted for change. “We don’t often see gentlemen of your status down here in the common part of the moors.”
    “Tell you the truth, there was nothing good on the telly,” said Ratcliffe. “Every single channel was nothing but politics – there’s nothing I hate more than bleeding politics.”
    The comment made Jen laugh. As soon as he had said it, she recognised him.
    “Hang on a minute. Now I know who you are. You used to be chancellor!”
    She couldn’t believe it was the same man.
    Former Chancellor of the Exchequer and Democrat Party MP, Richard, now Lord, Ratcliffe.
    “Oh yeah, back in the boom years – and a Democrat government.” He looked at Catesby. “This is Miss Farrelly.”
    Catesby nodded. “Ah, yes, the girl from the graveyard.”
    Jen forced a smile.
    Not the one with the Picanto.
    “Did you find what you were looking for?”
    “Yes, thank you. I really liked your dog.”
    “That’s the one unique thing about Wootton, Miss Farrelly,” Hancock said. “It must be the only place in England where you see a Cat walking a dog.”
    Hancock’s joke got a grin from Jen and a boisterous laugh from Ratcliffe. Catesby remained purposely firm.
    “I’m guessing that’s your Picanto parked outside.”
    “Did you see it?” Hancock asked earnestly. “What did it look like?”
    “Now that you mention it, it looks just like a Picanto,” Catesby said.
    “You’re kidding?” Ratcliffe said. “A Picanto that looks like a Picanto. By gum.”
    Jen smiled, shaking her head. Six years had passed since leaving Nottinghamshire. She’d forgotten how much she missed the northern banter.
    Catesby sipped his second brandy. “Come on then, Richard. Let’s find ourselves a nice table, away from all the riffraff.”
    Ratcliffe picked up his pint. “Aye, I think we’ve been pleasant long enough. Good evening to you, Miss Farrelly.”
    Jen shook Ratcliffe’s hand as the former Chancellor of the Exchequer made his way through a large archway, heading into the heart of the bar area.
    “He’s much more down-to-earth in real life,” Jen said. “Why do you call him the