Quentin Waverley reacted in the only way possible; he became angry for not having chosen Amelia over Gwen. But, all Amelia could offer was a famous father, whereas Gwen offered the chairmanship of a bank and a substantial fortune once her father died, and that would be only a few years in the future.
‘How dare you make such a scurrilous statement. I’ve a mind to…’
‘Mind to what? Hit me, give me a tongue lashing? You’re a weak excuse for a man. If only I had known.’
‘What do you mean? It was you who seduced me, inveigled me into your bed. Amelia was a better proposition than you. Why would I have killed her? After your father dies, I could have had the bank and her, and now she’s gone. As for you, you can go to hell.’
Gwen knew bluster, and her husband’s spouting was just that. The man was fiercely ambitious, and he did not intend to let anyone or anybody get in his way until he had full control. Gwen had never told him that there was an irrevocable clause, legally binding, that on the event of her father’s death the majority holding would be in her name, leaving her husband with forty-nine per cent. And if her husband left her or died, then full ownership reverted to the daughter.
‘But why Amelia? You know how I feel about her,’ Gwen said. The two of them were sitting down calmly. It was not the first time they had argued, and would not be the last, but Quentin knew why he was with Gwen. In part, it was because she was the way to a fortune, but also because she was the same as him.
‘And why not Amelia? Her father remains a friend, so had she. You might not understand, but I was with her for some time. The relationship never ended in the correct manner; it was unfinished business.’
‘Unfinished screwing, is that it?’
‘If you say so. I was still fond of the woman.’
‘But you preferred my father’s money.’
‘And you saw me as the father of your children. You used me; I used you. We’re very much alike, you and me,’ Waverley said.
‘Maybe we are, but Amelia’s dead and the police will not give up on who Q is. My denial will not hold them off for long.’
‘If it is becoming an issue, I’ll own up to it.’
‘You know what she thought of you at the end? What she may have written in her diary.’
‘I can deal with it.’
‘You’re a bastard for becoming involved with her again. You know what my father would say if he knew.’
‘Then it’s for us to never let him know. Agreed?’
‘Agreed, but no more screwing.’
‘You know me better than that,’ Waverley said.
‘Unfortunately, I do. I chose you, faults and all. I’ve no intention of letting you leave me.’
‘And I’ve no intention of leaving, but a man’s got to have a hobby.’
‘You could always take up model aeroplanes,’ Gwen said.
‘I’d need more than one model,’ Waverley said. His wife knew it to be true. Regardless of what had occurred, what would occur again, she’d stay by her husband’s side.
***
Larry met up with Rasta Joe. Begrudgingly, they had to admit they liked each other.
‘Negril Bob, what can you tell me about him?’ Larry said. It was the Westbourne pub again, Rasta Joe’s favourite.
‘You don’t want to mess with him,’ Rasta Joe said. Two of his gang were outside, keeping a watch. Larry couldn’t understand the life the man chose. It was clear that he was educated, even his former schoolmate Isaac Cook had said that, but the man wanted the life of a gang leader, making his money from selling drugs, running some women. There was a buoyant economy and a charismatic man such as the Jamaican could have made lawful money, no looking over the shoulder, no fear of a knife or a bullet.
‘Why?’ Larry asked. He’d ordered two pub lunches. In the three weeks since he had agreed to curb his eating and drinking, more on his DCI’s insistence than his wife’s, he had kept to her food, had even come to enjoy it, but today he was reverting to old habits. He knew that if he wanted Rasta Joe to talk, he’d need to prime him, and the man would take it as an insult if he kept to one beer and a salad.
‘He’s a violent man.’
‘Could he had killed Samuel Devon?’
‘It’s possible, but I doubt it.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Devon was not involved with Negril Bob’s gang. The man is a standover merchant: extortion, stolen cars, that sort of thing. He doesn’t get involved with drugs.’
‘Any reason?’
‘No reason. He’s just found a more profitable way of making money, and it’s easier to stay out of sight of the police.’
‘It’s still illegal.’
‘Maybe it is, but how can it be proved?’ Those he’s extorting from will not go to the police or give evidence. And he’s focussed on high-end cars: Bentleys, Rollers, Porsches, the occasional Ferrari. As soon as they’re stolen, they’re in a shipping container, the tracking device immobilised. The next time those cars appear, it’s a long way from England, no questions asked.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Larry said.
‘I’m trusting you.’
‘And you’re expecting me to turn a blind eye to what you’re up to.’
‘If you want me to talk.’
‘Negril Bob is threatening Samuel Devon’s brother. Is he working for someone?’
‘Probably, but not so easy to find out.’
‘What do you mean, difficult or dangerous?’
‘Both. You know how it works.’
Larry could see himself going home drunk. A shame as he
