As he approached the last corner before driving through the metal gates at the entrance to Allerton Park, he looked out at the view. His ancestor had chosen well. The house and grounds sat high over the surrounding countryside. The road was sometimes tricky, especially in winter, with a steep drop on one side, but he was driving a Bentley – one of the benefits of his ill-gotten gains – and it was purring along nicely. Keith had been right: he was a hypocrite in that he enjoyed the financial benefits of a criminal venture, not giving much thought to it, only to be concerned when the murders had become too much. Timothy Allerton knew he was a pacifist and death, violent death, did not sit comfortably with him. The death of Dougal Stewart had not concerned him, nor the death of the Brazilian, but Hughenden’s had.
Was it because he was a cultured man, the same as him? Was he a snob? he thought. He knew the answer to that question.
Allerton casually reached over for the remote control to the gates. He did not notice the Land Rover that came out of nowhere. He looked up too late. The Bentley, which was travelling slowly, bore the full brunt of the four-wheel drive as it hit the driver’s door. Momentarily stunned, Allerton attempted to extricate himself and the car. Again and again the Land Rover kept coming forward, pushing hard on the door. A hand reached out of the Land Rover and shot out a front tyre and then a rear tyre of the Bentley. With no further control over the vehicle, Allerton tried to get out of the car but it was not possible. The Land Rover, with one final push, its engine straining against the immense weight of the Bentley, managed to tip the vehicle over the low stone wall beside the road. Once the car had left the road, the Land Rover sped away.
All that Timothy Allerton remembered was the vehicle tumbling over and over down the steep slope as it headed towards the edge of an old stone quarry. If he had been conscious after the car had fallen the last one hundred feet, he would have had the answer to the question he had posed that morning: when and if he would ever return to his home. The answer was never. An old Land Rover had resolved that question.
***
The first notification of Allerton’s death came thirty minutes after his Bentley had gone over the side of the quarry. The local police station that had been keeping a watch out for him had discovered the car at the bottom of the quarry ten minutes after it had landed there. Three local boys out hiking had seen the events at the top of the hill. They dialled the emergency services on 999 at once.
‘Another death,’ Isaac said when he phoned Len Donaldson.
‘Who is it?’
‘Lord Allerton.’
‘You know why he’s dead? I assume it’s murder.’
‘It’s murder.’
‘He died because he was going to talk to us,’ Donaldson said.
‘I’m going up there,’ Isaac said.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Fine. We leave in twenty minutes.’
Isaac phoned DCS Goddard. The man was not pleased. ‘Every time you get involved in a murder case, the bodies keep piling up. Are you jinxed?’
‘Of course not,’ Isaac retorted. He did not like his senior’s comment, but it was true. In his previous cases – the missing actress, the body in the fireplace, the female serial killer – the body count had continued to rise even when the case was virtually solved. Isaac discounted the probability that he may be fated, but his parents had come from Jamaica, and they had a healthy if guarded respect for forces beyond a person’s control.
However, Allerton had not died as a result of a phantom hand. The reports coming through indicated death by intent. The question was, whose intent?
Isaac called Wendy and Larry into his office. ‘I’m off to Allerton’s home. Find out all you can about Allerton’s friends and business acquaintances. Someone knew his movements and the fact he was coming to see us. We’ve got twenty-four hours on this one before DCS Goddard is baying for our blood.’
Isaac and Len Donaldson made the trip up through the heart of England in record time. Isaac, not known for his light foot on the accelerator, was only a slow driver compared to Donaldson, who was driving. ‘Used to race Go Karts when I was younger,’ he said when Isaac had told him to ease up.
Still, Isaac had to admit he was a good driver and time was of the essence. Allerton’s death had not been expected and it had thrown all their investigations into turmoil.
‘Pretty country,’ Donaldson said as he drove up the road towards Allerton’s home. There had been a police car blocking the road below, but Isaac had flashed his badge and they were quickly through. The quarry was their first port of call.
‘Not much to see,’ a dour man said on their arrival. He introduced himself as Inspector Trevor Corker.
‘What can you tell us?’ Isaac asked. The weather was biting, with an arctic wind blowing. Isaac pulled up the collar of his coat and shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to keep warm.
‘It’s a bit brisk today, I’ll grant you that,’ Corker said. Isaac estimated him to be in his mid-fifties and close to retirement. He had the healthy glow of someone who enjoyed the outdoors, and would positively hate a holiday in the south of France or even the Caribbean where the weather was anything but arctic.
‘Lord Allerton,’
