slipped both phones into his pocket.
With his options running low, Ben examined the notebook. On closer inspection, it was a composite of a notebook and a diary, with enough space for a few notes on any given daily entry. Kristen had been one of those researchers who liked to keep records of where she’d been and who she’d met along the way. But while her mind was tidy, her handwriting was anything but. Flipping through to August, Ben quickly found the section of pages devoted to her most recent Irish research trip, and spent a while deciphering them. She’d done a few miles in the last couple of weeks, and her scribbled notes mentioned locations she’d visited all around rural Ireland. Among them were the ruins of the old Stamford mansion, and several villages in its vicinity that had once belonged to the sprawling Glenfell Estate. One of her notes read:
Spoke to Father Flanagan, St Malachy’s church
Looked at records NOT ONLINE
PADRAIG BORN 1809
→107!!!! HOW POSSIBLE?????
The names, dates and numbers meant nothing to Ben, but now it seemed to him as if he needed to get out and cover a few miles himself, retracing her steps.
Only then might he begin to find out what the hell was going on.
He closed the notebook, sprang to his feet and went to grab the BMW keys. It felt good to get moving.
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