Rick’s House, Newton Hall Estate. 11.30. Phil swore under his breath as the road he’d been following became a cul−de−sac. He’d only been to Rick’s house once before, and instead of using his sat−nav he’d been determined to find it from memory. Unfortunately the estate was like a rabbit warren. Neat rows of virtually identical houses, laid out in the same manner on each street, meant that he’d been driving around for almost ten minutes, wondering if the red−brick box with the mock Tudor front he was looking at was the one where he was supposed to be, or whether it was just another one of the hundreds of others lining the labyrinthine streets. He realised that he was getting nowhere, and from the sound of Paul’s voice when he’d called, the situation could be serious. Defeated, he retrieved the sat−nav from his glove compartment and entered in Rick’s home address. “Turn around when possible,” said the machine in a helpful, metallic voice. “I know. I fucking know.”
