She had been expecting some dramatic approach to the grand house of the photographs. But there was no sight of the grand blond sandstone turret or the immaculate sweeping driveway. No line of four-by-fours parked on the expansive gravelled forecourt, no tennis courts or neat hedges. Instead, Pettigrew simply drove, whistling tunelessly, along a tiny single-track road lined by trees, a mass of potholes with grass growing down the middle.‘How on earth do you get any supplies in, with the road in this state?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought a place like this would have a proper drive, with huge gates.’‘We keep it like this,’ he replied. ‘For security – you can’t get in and out of here quickly. The remoteness of the school is a form of security in itself, though it’s only half an hour’s drive to Glasgow Airport. Well,’ he corrected himself, ‘half an hour until you get to this last bit. My house is well hidden at the top of this road, so I hear everybody go past – hence the rough road.’Costello glanced around, seeing his point.
