Sculptress

SEVENTEEN

Roz didn’t speak for some moments. She had invented a number of scenarios to account for what was happen at the Poacher, but never this. It would certainly explain his lack of customers. Who, in their right mind, would eat in a restaurant where the meat had been found crawling with maggots? She had.

Twice. But she hadn’t known about the maggots. It would have been more honest of Hal to tell her at the outset, she thought, her stomach protesting mildly over what might have gone into it. She felt his gaze upon her and quelled the treacherous stirrings firmly.

“I don’t understand,” she said carefully.

“Is this a genuine prosecution? I mean, you appear to have been tried and judged already. How did your customers know what the Inspector found if the case hasn’t been to court? And who are the men in ski-masks?” She gave a puzzled frown.

“I can’t believe you’d be such a bloody fool, anyway, as to flout the hygiene regulations. Not to the extent of having an entire fridgeful of rotten meat and live rats running around the floor.” She laughed suddenly with relief and smacked a slender palm against his chest.

“You creep, Hawksley! It’s a load of old flannel.

You’re trying to wind me up.”

He shook his head.

“I wish I were.”

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment then pushed herself off his lap and walked through to the kitchen. He heard the sound of a cork being drawn from a bottle and the clink of glasses. She took longer than she should have, and he recalled how his wife had always done the same thing disappeared into the kitchen whenever she was hurt or disappointed. He had thought Roz different.

She reappeared finally with a tray.

“OK,” she said firmly, “I’ve had a think.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I do not believe you’d keep a dirty kitchen,” she told him.

“You’re too much of an enthusiast. The Poacher is the fulfilment of a dream, not a financial investment to be milked for all its worth.” She poured him a glass of wine.

“And you accused me a week ago of setting you up again, which would imply you’d been set up before.” She filled the second glass for herself.

“Ergo, the rat and the rotten meat were planted. Am I right?”

“Right.” He sniffed the wine.

“But I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

A very sore nerve, she thought. No wonder he didn’t trust anyone. She perched on the edge of the sofa.

“Plus,” she went on, ignoring the comment, ‘you’ve been beaten up twice to my knowledge, had your car windows smashed and the Poacher broken into.” She sipped her wine.

“So what do they want from you?”

He eased the still-bruised muscles in his back.

“Presumably they want me out, and fast. But I haven’t a clue why or who’s behind it. Six weeks ago I was a contented chef, presiding over a healthy little business without a care in the world. Then I came home from the markets at ten o’clock one morning to find my assistant being berated by the Environmental Health Inspector, my kitchen stinking to high heaven of corruption, and me on the wrong end of a prosecution.” He ruffled his hair.

“The restaurant was closed for three days while I cleaned it. My staff never came back after the closure. My customers, predominantly policemen and their families which, incidentally, is how the news of the Inspector’s visit got out deserted in droves because they reckoned I’d been cutting corners to line my pockets, and the local restauranteurs are accusing me of giving the whole trade a bad name through my lack of professionalism. I’ve been effectively isolated.”

Roz shook her head.

“Why on earth didn’t you report that breakin last Tuesday?”

He sighed.

“What good would it have done me? I couldn’t tie it in to the Health Inspector’s visit. I decided to work with some live bait instead.” He saw her bewilderment.

“I caught two of them at it, wrecking the place. I think it was a chance thing.

They discovered the restaurant was empty and took their opportunity.”

He laughed suddenly.

“I was so angry with you that I had them both upstairs, gagged and handcuffed to my window bars, before they even knew what had hit them.

But they were a tough pair,” he said with genuine admiration.

“They weren’t going to talk.” He shrugged.

“So I sat it out and waited for someone to come looking for them.”

No wonder he had been frightened.

“Why did you decide it was chance that brought them and not me?” she asked curiously.

“I’d have thought it was me every time.”

The laughter lines rayed out around his eyes.

“You didn’t see yourself with that table leg. You were so terrified when the kitchen door opened, so relieved when you saw it was me, and so twitched when I told you I hadn’t called the police. No one, but no one, is that good.” He took a mouthful of wine and savoured it for a moment.

“I’m in a catch twenty-two. The police don’t believe me. They think I’m guilty, but trying to use doubt or cunning to wriggle out of the prosecution. Even Geof Wyatt, who was my partner and who knows me better than anyone, claims to have had the runs since he saw the Inspector’s photographs. They all ate there regularly, partly because I gave them discounts and partly out of a genuine desire to see an ex-copper succeed.” He wiped a weary hand across his mouth.

“Now, I’m persona non grata and I can’t really blame them. They feel they’ve been conned.”

“Why would you need to con them?”

“The recession.” He sighed.

“Businesses are going down like ninepins. There’s no reason mine should have been immune. What’s the first thing a restauranteur’s likely to do when he’s running out of money? Hang on to dodgy food and serve it up in a curry.”

There was a twisted logic to it.

“Won’t your staff speak up for you?”

He smiled grimly.

“The two waitresses have agreed to, but the only one whose word might carry weight is my assistant chef, and he was last heard of heading for France.” He stretched his arms towards the ceiling, and winced as pain seared round his ribs.

“It wouldn’t do me any good anyway. He must have been bought. Someone had to let whoever framed me into the kitchen and he had the only other key.” His eyes hardened.

“I should have throttled him when I had the chance but I was so damn shell-shocked I didn’t put two and two together fast enough. By the time I had, he’d gone.”

Roz chewed her thumb in thought.

“Didn’t that man tell you anything after I left? I assumed you were going to use my hat ping on him.”

Her candour brought a smile to his bleak face.

“I did, but he didn’t make much sense.

“You’re costing money on the foreclosures.” That’s all he said.” He arched an eyebrow.

“Can you make anything of it?”

“Not unless the bank’s about to pull the rug from underneath your feet.”

He shook his head.

“I borrowed the absolute minimum.

There’s no immediate pressure.” He drummed his fingers on the floor.

“Logically, he should have been referring to the businesses on either side of me. They’ve both gone bankrupt and in each case the lenders have foreclosed.”

“Well, that’s it then,” said Roz excitedly.

“Someone wants all three properties. Didn’t you ask him who it was and why?”

He rubbed the back of his head in tender recollection.

“I was clobbered before I had the chance. There was obviously a fifth man who went upstairs during the brawl to release Tweedledum and Tweedledee from the window bars. For all I know, it was that hammering we heard. Anyway, by the time I came to, a chip pan was in flames on the stove, the police had arrived in force, and my nextdoor neighbour was rabbi ting on about how he’d had to call an ambulance because I’d tried to boil a customer in fish stock.” He grinned sheepishiy.

“It was a blasted nightmare.

So I hit the nearest copper and legged it through the restaurant. It was the only thing I could think of.” He looked at her.

“In any case the idea that someone was trying to get hold of the Poacher was the first thing I thought of. I checked out both the adjoining properties five weeks ago and there’s no common factor between them. One was bought privately by a small retail chain and the other was sold at auction to an investment company.”

“They could be fronts. Did you go to Companies’ House?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last three days?” He gritted his teeth angrily.

“I’ve checked every damn register I can think of and I’ve got sweet FA to show for it. I don’t know what the hell’s going on except that the court case will be the last nail in the Poacher’s coffin and presumably, at that point, someone will make me an offer to buy the place. Rather like you kept doing the other day.”

She let his anger slide past her. She understood it now.

“By which time it will be too late.”

“Precisely.”

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“Why were you beaten up the first time I saw you?” Roz asked at last.

“That must have followed on the Inspector’s visit.”

He nodded.

“It was three or four days after I reopened. They grabbed me off the doorstep when I unlocked the door. Same MO as you witnessed men in ski-masks with baseball bats but that time they shoved me in the back of a fish lorry, drove me ten miles into the New Forest, slapped me about a bit, then dumped me by the side of the road with no money and no cards. It took me all afternoon to walk home, because nobody fancied giving me a lift, and at the end of it’ he flicked her a sideways glance “I found Botticelli’s Venus loitering palely among my tables. I really thought my luck had changed until Venus opened her mouth and turned into a Fury.” He ducked to avoid her hand.

“God, woman’ he grinned “I was out on my feet and you tore more strips off me than the bastards in the fish lorry. Rape, for Christ’s sake!

I could hardly put one foot in front of the other.”

“It’s your own fault for having bars on your windows. Why do you, as a matter of interest?”

“They were there when I bought it. The chap before me had a wife who sleep walked I’ve been glad of them these last few weeks.”

She reverted to her former question.

“But it doesn’t explain why, you know. I mean if the idea of the Inspector’s visit was to get you to jack it in quickly, then they should have clobbered you the day you’reopened, not four days later.

And if they were happy to wait until the court case, then why clobber you at all?”

“I know,” he admitted.

“It made me very suspicious of you. I kept thinking you must be connected with it somehow but I had you checked and you seemed genuine enough.”

“Thanks,” she said duly.

“You’d have done the same.” A frown carved a deep furrow between his brows.

“You must admit it’s damned odd the way everything blew up around the time you appeared.”

In all fairness, Roz could see it was.

“But you got stitched up,” she pointed out, ‘before you or I had ever heard of each other. It must be coincidence.” She topped up his glass.

“And, anyway, the only common factor between you and me five weeks ago was Olive and you’re not suggesting she’s behind it.

She’s hardly confident enough to run a bath on her own, let alone mastermind a conspiracy to defraud you of the Poacher.”

He shrugged impatiently.

“I know. I’ve been over it a thousand times. None of it makes sense.

The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s about the neatest operation I’ve ever come across. I’ve had the ground cut from under me. I’m the fall guy and I can’t even begin to get a fix on who’s done it.” He scratched his stubble with weary resignation.

“So, Miss Leigh, how do you feel now about a failed restauranteur with convictions for health violation, GBH, arson, and resisting arrest?

Because, barring miracles, that’s what I’ll be in three weeks.”

Her eyes gleamed above her wine glass.

“Horny.”

He gave an involuntary chuckle. It was the same gleam in the pictured eyes of Alice.

“You look just like your daughter.” He stirred the photographs again.

“You should have them all around the room to remind yourself of how beautiful she was.

I would if she’d been mine.” He heard Roz’s indrawn breath and glanced at her.

“Sorry. That was insensitive.”

“Don’t be an oaf,” she said.

“I’ve just remembered where I’ve seen that man before. I knew I knew him. It’s one of Mr. Hayes’s sons. You know, the old man who lived next door to the Martins.

He had photographs of the family on his sideboard.” She clapped her hands.

“Is that a miracle, Hawksley, or is it a miracle? Sister Bridget’s prayers must be working.”

She sat at her kitchen table and watched Hal work his magic on the meagre contents of her fridge. He had sloughed off his frustration like a used-up skin and was humming contentedly to himself as he interleaved bacon between thin slices of chicken breast and sprinkled them with parsley.

“You’re not planning to stick my hat ping into Mr. Hayes, are you?” she asked him.

“I’m sure he hasn’t a clue what his beastly son’s been up to. He’s a dear old thing.”

Hal was amused.

“I shouldn’t think so.” He covered the dish with silver foil and put it in the oven.

“But I’m damned if I can see at the moment how the jigsaw fits together. Why did Hayes Junior suddenly up the pressure on me if all he had to do was sit tight and wait for my prosecution?”

“Have him arrested and find out,” said Roz reasonably.

“If it was me, I’d have driven straight down, demanded an address off his father, and sent in the fuzz.”

“And you’d have got precisely nowhere.” He thought for a moment.

“You said you made a tape of your conversation with the old man. I’d like to listen to it. I can’t believe it’s coincidence. There has to be a stronger link. Why did they all get so twitched suddenly and start wielding baseball bats? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You can listen to it now.” She brought her briefcase in from the hallway, located the tape, and set the recorder running on the table.

“We were talking about Amber’s illegitimate son,” she explained as the old man’s voice quavered out.

“He knew all about him, even down to the child’s adopted name and what country he’s in. Robert Martin’s entire estate is his if they can find him.”

Hal listened with rapt attention.

“Brown?” he queried at the end.

“And living in Australia? How do you know he’s right?”

“Because Olive’s shitty solicitor threatened me with injunctions when I let on I knew.” She frowned.

“Mind you. I’ve no idea how Mr. Hayes found out. Crew won’t even give Olive the child’s name. He’s paranoid about keeping it secret.”

Hal removed a saucepan of rice from the cooker and drained it.

“How much did Robert Martin leave?”

“Half a million.”

“Christ!” He gave a low whistle.

“Christ!” he said again.

“And it’s all on deposit waiting for the child’s appearance?”

“Presumably.”

“Who’s the executor?”

“The solicitor, Peter Crew.”

Hal spooned the rice into a bowl.

“So what did he say when you tackled him about it? Did he admit they were on the child’s track?”

“No. He just kept threatening me with injunctions.” She shrugged.

“But he wrote to Olive and told her the chances were minimal. There’s a time limit, apparently, and if the child doesn’t turn up the money goes to charity.” She frowned.

“He wrote that letter himself in longhand. I thought he was saving money but, you know, it’s far more likely that he didn’t want his secretary reading it. She would know if he was telling lies.”

“And meanwhile,” Hal said slowly, ‘he is administering the estate and has access to the sort of capital that would be needed to buy up bankrupt businesses.” He stared past her head, his eyes narrowed.

“Plus, he’s a solicitor, so probably has inside information on development plans and proposals.” He looked at Roz.

“It would amount to indefinite free credit, as long as no one turned up to claim Robert’s money. When did you first go and see Crew?”

She was ahead of him.

“The day before you were beaten up.”

Her eyes gleamed excitedly.

“And he was very suspicious of me, kept accusing me of jumping to unfavourable conclusions about his handling of Olive’s case. I’ve got it all on tape.” She scrabbled through her cassettes.

“He said Olive couldn’t inherit because she would not be allowed to benefit from Gwen and Amber’s death. But, you know, if Olive were innocent’ she pounced triumphantly on the tape ‘it would be a whole new ball game. She could get leave to appeal against the will. And I remember saying to him at the end of the interview that one explanation for the discrepancies between the abnormality of the crime and the normality of Olive’s psychiatric tests was that she didn’t do it.

God, it fits, doesn’t it? First he learns that Amber’s son is likely to surface and then I turn up, aggressively taking Olive’s side. The Poacher must be awfully important to him.”

Hal took the chicken from the oven and put it on the table with the rice.

“You do realise your dear old man must be in it up to his neck? Crew would never have given him chapter and verse on Amber’s child unless Hayes has some kind of hold on him.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then removed the Svengali photographs from her briefcase.

“Perhaps he knows Crew is using Robert’s money. Or perhaps,” she said slowly, ‘he knows who really murdered Gwen and Amber Either or both could ruin Crew.” She fanned the pictures across the table.

“He was Olive’s lover,” she said simply, ‘and if I could find out so easily then so could anyone else. Including the police.

You let her down, Hal, all of you. It’s a betrayal of justice to assume someone’s guilt before it’s proved.”

Watery blue eyes regarded Roz with undisguised pleasure.

“Well, well. You came back. Come in.

Come in.” He peered past her, frowning at Hal in half-recognition.

“Surely we’ve met before. What shall I say? I never forget a face.

Now when could that have been?”

Hal shook the old man’s hand.

“Six years ago,” he said pleasantly.

“I was on the Olive Martin case. Sergeant Hawksley.” The hand fluttered weakly in his, like a tiny bird, but only from old age and decrepitude, Hal thought.

Mr. Hayes nodded vigorously.

“I remember now. Unhappy circumstances.” He fussed ahead of them into the sitting room.

“Sit down. Sit down. Any news?” He took a firm chair and sat bolt upright his head cocked enquiringly to one side. On the sideboard behind him his violent son smiled disarmingly into the camera.

Roz took her notebook from her handbag and switched on her recorder again. They had reached a mutual decision that Roz should ask the questions. For, as Hal had pointed out: “If he knows anything, he’s more likely to let it slip while talking to a what shall I say? charming young lady about Olive.”

“In fact,” she said in a gossipy voice which grated on Hal but clearly appealed to Mr. Hayes, ‘there’s quite a bit of news one way and another. Where would you like me to begin? With Olive? Or with Amber’s baby?” She gave him an approving look.

“You were quite right about them finding traces, you know, in spite of there being thousands of Browns in Australia.”

“Ah,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I knew they were close.

That mean the lad will get the money? What shall I say? It’s what Bob wanted. Fair upset him, it did, to think the government would get it all.”

“He made alternative provisions, you know, in case the boy wasn’t found. It’ll go to various children’s charities.”

The old man’s mouth compressed into a split of disgust.

“And we all know what sort of children they’ll be. The worthless sort.

The sort as are never going to make anything of their selves but live off the rest of us till they drop. And you know who I blame. The social workers. They’re namby-pamby when it comes to telling a woman she’s had more children than’s good for her.”

“Quite,” Roz interrupted hurriedly, reining in the inevitable hobby horse. She tapped her pencil on her notepad.

“Do you remember telling me that your wife thought Olive committed the murders because of hormones?”

He pursed his lips at the abrupt change of subject.

“Maybe.”

“Did your wife say that because she knew Olive had had an abortion the previous Christmas?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you know who the father was, Mr. Hayes?”

He shook his head.

“Someone she met through work, we were told. Silly girl. Only did it to cock a snook at Amber.” He fingered his ancient mouth.

“Or that’s what I reckoned anyway.

Amber had a lot of boyfriends.”

So much for Mr. Hayes and Crew in a conspiracy of silence, thought Roz.

“When did you find out about it?”

“Gwen told my Jeannie. She was that upset. Thought Olive was going to up and get married and abandon them all. It would have done for Gwen, that would. She couldn’t have coped on her own.”

“Coped with what?”

“Everything,” he said vaguely.

“Housework, you mean?”

“Housework, cooking, bills, shopping. Everything. Olive did everything.”

“What did Gwen do?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He glanced across at Hal.

“You lot never did ask many questions. I might have said something if you had.”

Hal eased himself in his chair.

“At the time it was clear cut,” he said carefully.

“But Miss Leigh has unearthed a number of discrepancies which do tend to throw a different light on the affair. What would you have told us, had you been asked?”

Mr. Hayes sucked at his false teeth.

“Well, for one thing, Gwen Martin drank too much. She had troubles, I can’t deny that, kept up a good front, I can’t deny that either, but she was a bad mother. She married beneath herself and it made her bitter.

Felt life had dealt her a bad hand and she took it out on Bob and the girls. My Jeannie always said if it hadn’t been for Olive the family would have fallen apart years before. It made us sick, of course, what she did, but everyone turns eventually and she was badly put upon one way and another.

She shouldn’t have killed them, though. Can’t forgive that.”

“No,” said Roz thoughtfully.

“So what did Gwen do all day while the other three were out at work?”

The marbled hands fluttered a contradiction.

“Amber was at home more often than not. Work-shy, that one. Never stayed anywhere very long. Used to drive her mother mad listening to pop records at full blast and inviting boys up to her bedroom.

She was a pretty girl but my Jeannie said she was difficult.

Couldn’t see it myself.” He smiled reminiscently.

“She was always charming to me. I had a soft spot for little Amber.

But she got on with men, I think, better than she got on with women.”

He peered at Roz.

“You asked me about Gwen. What shall I say, Miss Leigh? She kept up appearances. If you knocked on the door she was always smartly dressed, always held herself well, always spoke with icy correctness, but as often as not she was drunk as a lord. Strange woman. Never did know why she took to the bottle, unless it was the business of Amber’s baby. She was a lot worse afterwards.”

Roz drew her cherub doodle.

“Robert Martin was an active homosexual but didn’t want anyone to know,” she said bluntly.

“Perhaps that’s what she found difficult to cope with.”

Mr. Hayes sniffed.

“She drove him to it,” he said.

“There was nothing wrong with Bob that a loving wife wouldn’t have put right. The two girls were his all right, so there was nothing untoward in the locker at the beginning, if you get my meaning.

It was her turned him off women. She was frigid.”

Roz let that pass. Mr. Hayes was too set in his views to see that what he said was nonsense and, in any case, there was probably some truth in the idea that Gwen was frigid. Roz found it difficult to believe that Robert Martin could ever have got as far as the altar with a woman who had a normal sexual drive.

Her very normality would have been a threat to him.

“But if she was mourning Amber’s baby,” she said in feigned puzzlement, “I don’t understand why she didn’t try and get him back or at least establish contact with him? Presumably she knew who had adopted him or she wouldn’t have been able to tell your Jeannie his name.”

He tut-tutted impatiently.

“It wasn’t Jeannie told me the name, it was my son, Stewart, six, seven weeks back. Knew I’d be interested, seeing as how me and Bob were pals.” He wagged a finger at her.

“You don’t know much about adoption, that’s for sure. Once you sign ‘em away, that’s it. You’re not given a dossier. Gwen never knew who’d got him.”

Roz smiled easily.

“Does your son work for Mr. Crew, then? I’ve not come across him. I thought he took after you and became a soldier.”

“Blooming Army didn’t want him any more, did they?” he muttered crossly.

“Cutbacks there, like everywhere else. What shall I say? So much for loyalty to Queen and country. Course he doesn’t work for Mr. Crew.

He’s running a small security firm with his brother, but there’s precious little work.” He flexed his arthritic fingers in annoyance.

“Trained soldiers and the best they can get is night watchmen jobs.

Their wives aren’t happy, not by a long chalk.”

Roz gritted her teeth behind another ingenuous smile.

“So how did he know the child’s name?”

Archly, Mr. Hayes tapped the side of his nose.

“No names no pack drill, young lady. Always best.”

Hal leaned forward aggressively and held up a hand.

“One moment, please, Miss Leigh.” He drew his brows together in a ferocious scowl.

“You do realise, Mr. Hayes, that if your son doesn’t work for Mr. Crew then, strictly speaking, he’s committed an offence by being in receipt of confidential information. The legal profession is bound by the same codes as the medical profession and if someone in Mr. Crew’s practice is talking to outsiders, then both he and the police would want to know about it.”

“Bah!” the old man snorted contemptuously.

“You never change, you lot. What shall I say? Quick as lightning to bang up the innocent while the bloody thieves wander around, free as birds, nicking anything they feel like nicking. You should do what you’re being paid for, Sergeant, and not go round threatening old men.

It was Mr. Crew himself gave out that information. He told my lad and my lad told me. How’s he supposed to know it’s confidential if the blooming solicitor’s telling everyone? Stands to reason he’d pass it on, seeing as how I was the only friend Bob had at the end.” He glared suspiciously from Hal to Roz.

“What you bring a policeman for, anyway?”

“Because there’s some doubt of Olive’s guilt,” said Roz glibly, wondering if being economical with the truth constituted deliberate impersonation of a police officer.

“This gentleman is holding a watching brief while I talk to people.”

“I see,” said Mr. Hayes. But it was obvious he didn’t.

“I’m nearly finished.” She smiled brightly.

“I found the Clarkes, by the way. Had a chat with them a week or so ago.

Poor Mrs. Clarke is completely senile now.”

The watery eyes looked amused.

“That doesn’t surprise me.

She was pretty far gone when I knew her. I sometimes thought my Jeannie was the only sensible woman in the road.”

“I gather Mr. Clarke had to stay at home to look after her?”

She raised her eyebrows in enquiry.

“But he spent more time with Robert than he spent with her. How friendly were they, Mr. Hayes? Do you know?”

It was obvious he understood the point of her question. He chose out of delicacy? not to answer it.

“Good friends,” he muttered, ‘and who can blame them? Bob’s wife was a dip so and Ted’s was the silliest creature I’ve ever met. Cleaned the house from top to bottom every day.” He gave a grunt of contempt.

“Hygiene mad, she was. Used to walk around in nothing but an overall, no undies in case she spread germs, swabbing everything with disinfectant.” He chuckled suddenly.

“Remember once she scrubbed the dining table with neat Domestos to sterilise it. Hah! Ted was hopping mad. He’d just paid for the thing to be french polished after Dorothy’s last effort with boiling water.

And now she’s completely senile, you say. Not surprised. Not surprised at all.”

Roz sat with her pencil poised above her notepad.

“And can you say,” she asked after a moment, ‘if Ted and Bob were lovers?”

“No. It weren’t none of my business.”

“OK.” She gathered her things together.

“Thank you, Mr.

Hayes. I don’t know if there’s anything Mr. Hawksley wants to ask you.” She looked at Hal.

He stood up.

“Only the name of your son’s security firm, Mr. Hayes.”

The old man eyed him suspiciously.

“What you want that for?”

“Just so I can put a quiet word in the right ear about the leak of privileged information.” He smiled coldly.

“Otherwise I shall have to report it and then there’ll be an official complaint.” He shrugged.

“Don’t worry. You have my word I won’t make an issue out of it, not unless I have to.”

“The word of a policeman, eh? That’s not something I’d want to rely on. Certainly not.”

Hal buttoned his jacket.

“It’ll have to go through official channels then, and it’ll be an inspector coming to see you next time.”

“What shall I say? Blooming blackmail, that’s all this is. STC Security, Bell Street, Southampton.

There now. Let’s see if your word’s worth something.”

Hal looked past him towards the photograph of his son.

“Thank you, Mr. Hayes,” he said pleasantly.

“You’ve been very helpful.”