impress the Bank.
Just after 4 p. m. on Friday, 17 July, a smartly suited man in his late
forties waved farewell to the uniformed guard at the security desk and walked
out into the sunshine of a glorious summer's day.
Traffic was already heavy; but that was of no concern to Frank Harrison, one
of six Portfolio and Investment Managers of SHB (London). His company flat
was only a few minutes' walk away in Pavilion Road.
Earlier in the day he'd been very much what they paid him so handsomely for
being shrewd, superior, trustworthy when his secretary had poured coffee for
a small, grey-haired man and for his larger, much younger, cosmetically
exquisite wife.
'You realize that SHB deals principally with portfolio investments of, well,
let's say, over a million dollars? Is that, er . ..?'
The self-made citizen from South Carolina nodded. I think
you can feel assured, sir, that we shall be able to meet that figure ah!
fairly easily, shall't we, honey? '
He'd taken his wife's heavily diamonded left hand in his own and smiled,
smiled rather sweetly, as Harrison thought.
And he himself had smiled, too rather sweetly, as he hoped as mentally he
calculated the likely commission from his latest client.
Almost managed a smile again now, as he stopped outside Sloane Square
Underground Station and bought a copy of the Evening Standard, flicking
through the sheets, almost immedi- lately finding the only item that appeared
to interest him, then swiftly scanning the brief article before depositing
the paper in the nearest litter bin. Had he been at all interested in horse-
racing, he might have noticed that Carolina Cutie was running in the 4. 30
at Kempton Park. But it had been many years since he had placed a bet with
any bookie instead now spending many hours of each working day studying on
his office's computer-screens the odds displayed from the London, New York,
and Tokyo stock exchanges.
Considerably safer.
And recently he'd been rather lucky in the management of his clients'
investments.
And the bonuses were good.
He let himself into his flat, tapped in the numbers on the burglar alarm, and
walked into the kitchen, where he poured himself a large gin with a good deal
of ice and very little tonic. But he'd never had any drinking problem
himself. Unlike his wife. His murdered wife.
Lauren had promised to be along about 6 p. m. ' and she'd never been late.
He would call a taxi .. . well, perhaps they'd spend an hour or so between
the sheets first, although (if truth were told) he was not quite so keenly
aware of her sexual magnetism as he had been a few months earlier. Passion
was coming off the boil. It usually happened.
On both sides, too. It had happened with Yvonne, with whom he'd scaled the
39
heights of sexual ecstasy, especially in the first few months of their
marriage. Yet even during those kingfisher days he had been intermittently
unfaithful to her; had woken with heart- aching guilt in the small hours of
so many worryful nights until, that is, he had discovered what he had
discovered about her; and until he had fallen in love with a woman who was
living so invitingly close to him in Lower Swinstead.
The front door-bell rang at 5. 50 p. m. Ten minutes early. Good sign!
He felt sexually ready for her now; tossed back the last mouthful of his
second gin; and went to greet her.
You're in the paper again! ' she blurted, almost accusingly, brandishing the
relevant page of the Evening Standard in front of his face after the door was
closed behind them.
'Really?'
For the second time Harrison looked down at the headline, new clue to old
murder; and pretended to read the article through.
'Well?' she asked.
'Well, what?'
'What have you got to tell me?'
'I'm going to take you out for a meal and then I'm going to take you upstairs
to bed or maybe the other way round.'
'I didn't mean that. You know I
