Angel of Death

‘You’re right,’ he said amiably, smiling at Grady.

Andy looked at his watch. ‘I want to get back up to Manchester this afternoon, I have things to do in the office there, so do you mind if we cut corners? We need to see how your firm works – your order books, your accounts, everything. My father told you that, didn’t he?’

‘He told me. Come along.’ Terry led them into another room. The computers were all switched on and waiting, ticking like wound-up clocks, their screens blank but alive, shining in autumnal morning sunlight. Terry sat down, punched in the code to give access. The machine began to hum, to whir.

Terry stood up again, impatient to get away. He found it hard to be polite to these intruders who were going to fumble through his business like policemen searching somebody’s knicker drawer.

‘You’ll find your way around without needing me here. I’ll leave you to it. If you do want me my internal number is on this pad. And the access codes to the computers are on it, too.’

Liam nodded abstractedly. ‘Fine. OK.’

He sat down in the chair Terry had used, immediately attentive to the screen in front of him, and began operating keys. The screen changed, numbers and figures swam up from somewhere. Liam read them, his fingers hovering over keys.

‘Can we have a tour of the premises later?’ Andy asked.

Terry nodded. ‘Certainly. Just give me a ring when you’re ready. We can have some lunch across the road in the pub you can see from the window here. It’s an old house, but the food is pretty good and they have a huge range of beers and spirits.’

‘Sounds great then. See you later.’ Andy went over to another computer and sat down.

Terry left, glad to escape their presence. He was too afraid of losing his temper.

Since Sean’s engagement party and what happened next day, his mood was always volatile. After years of being amiable and even-tempered he had become aggressive again, just as he had been when he was young, but he could not risk losing his temper with Bernie’s son. Bernie would turn nasty if he did. When they met in Manchester, the old man had seemed a burnt-out case, a lion whose teeth had been drawn, but Terry was not deceived. Bernie would be a bad enemy to make.

He was a bad friend to have, come to that. Ruthless, acquisitive, greedy, he was going to eat into Terry’s company, if he could, but if they were still, on the surface, friends, he would not go too far. If Terry let his temper rip, though, Bernie might turn nasty and step up his demands, no longer feeling he needed to pretend or mask his intentions.

The strain of keeping calm was unbearable. He shut himself in his office and tried to concentrate on some work. His new secretary was not efficient; he had to check every letter she sent to make sure there were no spelling mistakes, bad grammar, stupid little errors of fact. She didn’t always get the name of the client right, and her filing was erratic, she was always losing documents. As he couldn’t shout at Andy Sutcliffe, he shouted at her all morning, reducing her close to tears several times.

‘Oh, don’t turn on the water works! Just get it right next time, and save me the trouble of telling you where you’ve made mistakes.’

She went off, sniffing, a delicate little handkerchief dabbing at her eyes and nose, but he sensed the angry resentment underneath. She would probably start looking for another job but Terry did not care. There were plenty more fish in the sea.

He got a call from his solicitor just before lunchtime. Edward Dearing sounded as weary and bored as usual.

‘How’s it going?’ Terry asked and Edward sighed.

‘They’ve broken for an hour, to eat lunch. They’ve sent sandwiches down for Sean, and a bottle of beer. I’ve gone across the road to eat a Chinese.’

‘How’s Sean bearing up?’

‘Not too well. To be frank, Terry, your son is far too aggressive with them, he keeps shouting. That never works. He’s making enemies.’

That didn’t surprise Terry, Sean was an arrogant, hot-headed young fool. But it worried him. How did you guard against the boy’s own folly?

‘What about the evidence? Do you think they’ve got anything we need worry about?’

Edward was dry. ‘Terry, they’ve got the body, and these days that can tell them a lot. Forensic evidence can make a case, and they have a lot of circumstantial evidence, too – that he was involved with the girl, that he had a strong motive for wanting to get rid of her. It all mounts up.’

‘Surely they can’t have much evidence from the body after all that time in the sea?’

‘I’m afraid so. They’ve got DNA evidence, proof of identity, and that carpet . . . they know where it came from. They’ve got photographs taken in your office flat that show an identical carpet, in the hallway. Do you know if any was left over, when it was laid? Was there a spare roll somewhere?’

‘In a cupboard, yes.’ No point in lying – they would only check with the cleaners and find out. It had been there ever since the flat was furnished.

‘And is it still there?’

‘I haven’t looked.’

‘Then do so, at once! We need to know exactly what we’re up against. Well, we’ll put up what defence we can, but, frankly, it isn’t looking too good. I think they’re going to charge him, perhaps today, maybe tomorrow – but the probability is they will charge him sooner or later.’