He was persistent, I’d give him that.
“Have you spoken to DCI Tomlinson from Merseyside Police?” I asked. “Or Superintendent Yering from the Metropolitan Police Armed Response Team?”
“No,” he said, “not personally.”
“Then I suggest you do,” I said.
“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “you are in danger of obstructing the police in the course of their duties. Now, please tell me where you are.”
“No,” I said. “Did you watch the television news on Tuesday? The dead man in my mother’s cottage is the same man as in the video. And I think he was foreign. He said some words I didn’t understand. Something like
“Mr. Foxton.” Detective Chief Inspector Flight was getting quite worked up. “I must insist you tell me where you are.”
“And I must insist you speak to DCI Tomlinson or Superintendent Yering.”
I hung up.
That didn’t go too well, I thought. Too bad. But I was definitely not going to any police station to be interviewed tonight, or any other night if I could help it. People could get shot at police stations. Ask Lee Harvey Oswald.
I heard Jan leave the house at a quarter to seven in the morning to supervise the exercising of her horses on the gallops. She had asked if I wanted to accompany her up onto the Downs to watch, but I had declined, not because I didn’t want to but because I didn’t want anyone to recognize me and hence know where I was staying.
It may have been eight years since I was a regular in Lambourn, but there were plenty who had been here longer than that, even amongst Jan’s staff, and most would have known me by sight.
I realized it was highly unlikely that news of my whereabouts would then get back to hostile ears, but I didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks if I didn’t have to.
I got up as quietly as I could but Claudia was already awake.
“Don’t go,” she said.
I snuggled down again next to her under the covers.
“When will this all end?” she asked.
“Soon,” I said. But I really had no idea when.
“I was so frightened last night,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I really thought he was going to kill you.”
I’d thought it too.
“But he didn’t,” I said. “So everything’s all right.” I was trying to sound encouraging even if I was not so sure inside.
“So why have we come here?” she asked. “Why can’t we go home now?”
“There’s just a few things I have to do before we can go home,” I said, sitting up on the side of the bed. “And I don’t want to take any chances if we don’t need to.”
“I think we should go to the police,” she said.
“I spoke to them last night after you went to bed. They agreed that it was better for us to stay here for a couple of days while they carry out their investigations.”
At least the first bit was true.
“So what is it that you have to do?” she asked.
“Well, first, I have to go to Oxford,” I said. “And I’m going to do that right now.” I stood up and started to dress.
“I’ll come with you,” Claudia said, throwing the duvet to one side and sitting up.
“No,” I said firmly. “You stay here with Jan and my mother. You need to recover fully from your operation. And I won’t be long. You’ll be quite safe here.”
I think she was secretly relieved as she lay down again and pulled the duvet back over her.
“Why are you going?” she asked.
“To see a young man at the university,” I said. “I want to ask him some questions about a factory, or, rather, about the lack of a factory.”
I stopped on the outskirts of Oxford and turned on my mobile phone to call Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson.
“DCI Flight of Gloucestershire Police is not happy with you,” he said. “Not happy at all.”
“Too bad,” I said.
“He’s applied for a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of manslaughter.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Maybe it is,” he agreed, “but he’s really pissed off. I do think it might be better if you go and see him.”
“Not if he’s going to arrest me.” I didn’t relish spending another day in a police cell. “Anyway,” I said, “I have things to do first.”
“Not investigating again, are you?” said the professional detective. “I’ve told you to leave that to the police.”
“But what are you going to investigate?” I said. “It is me, not you, that believes Colonel Jolyon Roberts was murdered, but there is no evidence for that belief. In fact, quite the reverse. The evidence indicates that he died of natural causes helped by a dose of stupidity. The police see no crime, so there is no investigation.”
“So what do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Speak to Flight,” I said. “Get him off my back. Tell him there’s no way I’ll see him if he’s going to arrest me.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “But I still think you ought to at least talk to him.”
“Get me his number,” I said. “Then I’ll call him.”
“How can I contact you?” he asked.
“Leave a message on this phone. I’ll pick it up.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Can you find out if the dead man in my mother’s cottage was Bulgarian?”
I thought about also asking him to get the fraud squad to initiate an investigation into the Balscott factory project, but, as I knew from previous experience with a former client, fraud investigations involving foreign investments started with months and months of delving into paperwork before there was any prospect of an arrest. Add to that the complexities of the European Union grants system, and it would take years.
And I’d be dead and buried long before that.
I disconnected from DCI Tomlinson, but the phone rang again in my hand almost immediately.
“This is your voice mail,” said an impersonal female voice when I answered. “You have two new messages.”
One of them was from DCI Flight, and, as the other chief inspector had said, he didn’t sound very happy. I ignored it.
The other was from Patrick Lyall, who also wasn’t pleased with me, in particular because I had left a message on his mobile saying that I wouldn’t be coming into the office today.
“Nicholas,” Patrick’s voice said, “I am sorry that you have decided not to be in the office once again. I think we need to have a talk about your commitment to the firm. I will be writing to you today formally warning you as to your future conduct. Please, would you call me and tell me where to have the letter delivered.”
It sounded to me as if the company lawyer had been advising him again on employment law-written warnings and all that.
I ignored him too.
Did I, in fact, have any future in the firm? And did I really care?
Keble College was on the north side of the city near the Oxford
University Museum of Natural History. I parked in Museum Road and walked back to the college.
“Sorry, sir,” said a man in a smart blue jersey intercepting me in the entrance archway. “The college is closed
