‘How will the money be paid?’ he had asked Zachary.
‘Half will be in your bank account within the hour. The remainder on completion.’
‘I want it all now.’
‘Very well. The full fifty thousand pounds in thirty minutes. You need to be in position within seventy-five.’
‘I’ll leave now. I’ll check my account on the way. No money, no death. You savvy?’
‘Yes, I fully understand.’
Codrington then proceeded to describe the area where the accident was to happen. He had visited Allerton’s home many times. He was even godfather to the Allertons’ first child.
Walters, confident that the British Army had trained him well, took a train to the outskirts of Manchester. He soon found a suitable vehicle and hot-wired it within two minutes. He had to admit that for a Land Rover it was a lot better than the ones he had driven in Iraq, but it was still an uncomfortable trip. Ten minutes later he checked his phone. The fifty thousand pounds was there; the fate of the intended victim was sealed.
He arrived at the scene and parked on a track to one side, glad for once of the four-wheel drive, as it was muddy from the rain of the last few days. Sitting high up on the hill he had time to think, time to look around. From his vantage point, he could see any vehicles ascending the road towards him, and a Bentley would be distinctive, the sort of car he aspired to, although where he was going it would be incongruous. He double-checked his bank account. With the addition of the fifty thousand pounds, the balance stood at one hundred and thirty-two thousand. It was sufficient, but he could always hire himself out around the world if necessary.
An old van trundled by, followed by a young couple in an old car. He could see by the way they were entwined around each other that they were looking for somewhere secluded to park.
He surfed the net on his phone, keeping one eye peeled. It was not long before the Bentley came into view. Even though the day was overcast and it was starting to rain, the vehicle still shone. He saw the car slowing to turn through the metal gates at the entrance to Allerton Hall. He assumed that was the name of the man he was about to kill.
Walters waited until the vehicle was almost at a standstill before pulling out at speed from the concealed track. He remembered the look on the man’s face as he hit the Bentley the first time. He saw him attempting to move the car; the gun he carried soon dealt with that problem. The Land Rover, powerful as it was, still struggled to move the Bentley, but eventually, after three attempts, it managed to push it over a low stone wall that had probably been constructed two hundred years ago. Steve Walters watched the vehicle turn over and over, gaining momentum before disappearing over the edge of the quarry.
He then sped off and headed south. He stopped after thirty minutes and changed the number plates. He realised he had about ninety minutes before the Land Rover would be reported missing. At that time, the owner, a doctor that he knew, would be leaving the hospital at the end of his shift. Only then would he realise his vehicle had been stolen and call the police.
***
Miles Fortescue, an important person in his estimation, did not appreciate two police officers in his office at the Houses of Parliament. ‘What right have you to be here?’ he asked.
Wendy thought him a rude man who had made a point of not shaking DI Hill’s hand and hers.
‘Mr Fortescue, we are investigating the death of Lord Allerton. We are aware that he was a friend of yours,’ Larry said. Both he and Wendy were standing up; Fortescue had his back to the window. He was attempting to look superior; it wasn’t working, at least not with Wendy.
‘Timothy Allerton was a friend. His death is tragic.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Is this important? I’m due in the chamber, a crucial vote.’
‘It’s not sitting,’ Wendy said. She had checked.
‘We can conduct this at the police station if you prefer.’
‘No,’ Fortescue reluctantly said. ‘Here will be all right.’
‘This interview will be recorded. Is that acceptable?’ Larry asked as he looked at the man. He was not impressed. Fortescue was only one year older than him, but he looked closer to fifty than forty. He was dressed well in an expensive suit, but his belly strained against the front of his shirt. It was evident to both of the police officers that this man, this representative of the people, enjoyed the finer things in life: good food, good wines and not so good women. Bridget had found out that useful little nugget about his personal life. It was not widely known, nor was the man. Bridget had also looked at his track record as an MP and found it lacking.
‘I’ll repeat my previous question,’ Larry said. ‘When was the last time you saw Lord Allerton?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘And your last communication with him?’
‘As
