Chapter 3

 The following days brought no improvement. The weather remained bleak, rain falling in relentless sheets, and my mood matched it. Len and Roger had delivered me back home with a parting warning — a reminder that they knew exactly where I lived and would “see to me” if I tried anything funny. Their words clung to me like damp clothes.

I drifted around the house, replaying the events over and over. How had I fallen into such a mess? Where was I supposed to begin? Where on earth could I begin?

I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to work. Every time I tried to start any research, my thoughts spiralled back to the strange cast of characters I had encountered.

There was Susie — the thirty‑something blonde with a certain way about her. Had Anderson paid her? Was she running errands for him? She had vanished without a trace. Then Len and Roger: handy with their fists, sharp with their tongues, men who enjoyed intimidation as much as breathing.

And then there was Mr Anderson — the Marlon Brando lookalike. After our “meeting,” or rather after he informed me of what I would be doing, we sat down to eat.

The meal was elaborate: a primo of risotto, followed by secondo — beef and a fresh green salad. It ended with seasonal fruit and a shot of espresso. The meal lasted well over an hour; there was no rush. Service was provided by Anderson’s Italian maids, and from what I saw of the house — from his luxurious study to the equally opulent dining room — everything was immaculate. The dining room was dominated by a long table already laid out, as though expecting guests of importance. Throughout the meal, Anderson said almost nothing.

Afterwards, he made a brief phone call. Len and Roger appeared. A hood was placed over my head, and I was led out of the property and bundled into the back of a van. Then darkness, movement, and home.

But the most mysterious figure of all was the woman in her fifties — the client I had met the night before. Who was she? I needed to check my emails, find her name, confirm our arrangements. Had she given me a false identity?

As I pondered these questions, it seemed the right moment to introduce myself properly.

My name is Archibald Winterbottom, late‑thirties, genealogist — a profession I’ve pursued for the past couple of years. Trade has been hit hard by the internet and the abundance of online records, but I offer my clients something extra: house visits, personal interviews, and a level of detail that algorithms cannot replicate.

My home, compared to Mr Anderson’s, is modest but comfortable — a house I inherited from a distant aunt, Mrs Donkins, who took an interest in my career. Her will came with conditions I had to fulfil before securing the property.

My parents made their fortunes in their own ways. My father, Augustus, was a furniture and art dealer. Childhood outings often meant trips to art galleries. I didn’t appreciate art then, but over the years I learned to value it — not for its price, but for its craft. My father was never far from a piece of Chippendale furniture.

My mother, Jane, wrote constantly — every day, all day. As a child, I never understood what she was working on. She would disappear into her study for hours, the clatter of typewriter keys echoing through the house. Later, the sound changed to the soft tapping of computer keys. She wrote plays, edited books, contributed chapters, and taught English and professional writing.

I attended boarding school and followed the rules to the letter. Afterwards, I went to university for three years. Attending classes and submitting essays on time was a struggle; how I earned the degree remains a mystery.

After my formal education, a wild night out with friends, the following morning — foolishly — I went to the army recruitment office. Hungover, dishevelled, and rambling nonsense, I told the officer I wanted to join. He handed me forms and told me to return once they were filled out. I never did.

So, was I destined to follow my father into art and furniture? No. Was I meant to follow my mother into the literary world? The very thought of writing to tight deadlines filled me with dread; university essays had been hard enough. My parents certainly didn’t want me lingering around their circles, their lifestyle, or their friends.

My future was sealed by Mrs Donkins. And so, I became a genealogist.

But now the biggest question before me — the question that overshadows everything — is simple:

Who is Dave… Dave Green?