We stop at a Travelodge. And it was.... I guess you could charitably call it quaint? A cream-painted lump of a building, with a set of twin gables that looked like squirrel ears poking out the top. We parked round the back and headed inside.
“So,” I said, scurrying to keep up with Finesilver’s uncompromising pace, “do you think Raoul was involved in the murder attempts?”
But the only answer I got was, “Wait here a moment, please.”
Mindful of what I’d agreed with Matthew, I tucked myself obediently into a corner next to the entrance while Finesilver approached the front desk.
I was too far away to hear what he said, and his manner throughout was as mild as ever, but in less than a minute the receptionist was handing over a keycard. Finesilver thanked him politely, beckoned me over, and
