Wendy yawned on being woken up. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘He made it clear that our continued investigation would be met with action on his part.’
‘Violence?’
‘Not him. He threatened to contact his lawyer.’
‘What good will that do?’
‘Not a lot, I suppose.’
Wendy, realising that Larry wanted to talk, got out of her bed and went into the other room. One of her cats followed her. ‘Why were you near to Negril Bob?’
‘I followed him into the pub. I was thirsty; it seemed a good opportunity.’
‘And you were checking him out?’
‘I’m entitled to a pint.’
‘You were stalking him.’
‘What can we do to wrap up this case?’ Larry said. ‘What do we have?’
‘You pick a fine time of the night to talk,’ Wendy said.
‘We can talk later.’
‘I’m awake now.’
‘Samuel Devon, where do we stand on this?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘We know the gangs; we have a fair idea who killed him.’
‘Where’s the proof?’
‘Do you have any contacts?’ Larry said.
‘Shirley O’Rourke, but she’s in jail, pending a trial for insurance fraud.’
‘Is she a woman who’d have her ear to the ground?’
‘I’d say so. Not that she’s been involved with the gangs, but she’d know who they were.’
‘Tomorrow, you and I will meet with her.’
‘Great, now can I get back to bed?’ Wendy said.
‘Sleep tight. I’ll go and talk to our DCI.’
***
Larry could see an increasingly frustrated man in Isaac’s office. He went and organised a cup of coffee for him. ‘Here you are, guv,’ he said as he placed it on Isaac’s desk. It was way past midnight, the clock in the corner of the office clearly visible.
Outside in the street, it was quiet apart from the occasional car, a couple of drunks arguing.
‘I’ve nearly finished. What were you saying before?’ Isaac said. ‘Just let me send this report to the man.’
‘He’s hardly likely to read it tonight.’
‘Whether he does or not is not my concern. I’ve followed instructions, that’s all. Most of it is padding anyway. He’s flexing his muscle, aiming to see how far I’ll bend before I react.’
‘How far will that be?’
‘I’m not there yet.’
‘You were busy before, so I didn’t mention it.’
‘Mention what?’
‘I’ve met Negril Bob.’
‘Where?’
‘At the pub. I was there at the same time.’
‘Did you follow him?’
‘I saw him going in. It’s a public place.’
‘On your own, that’s dangerous.’
‘There was no one else that I could have called to join me, you know that.’
‘Certainly not me. I’m known in the area. There are some there who dislike me more than you.’
‘I know that, and Negril Bob knew you by name.’
‘What did he say about me?’
‘Just to let you know that he did not appreciate you or anyone else prying into his business.’
‘Threatening?’
‘Intimidating. It was a busy place, although I was careful when I left.’
‘You shouldn’t have followed him in. It was reckless.’
‘It was necessary. I needed to get the measure of the man.’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Smart, careful in what he says. There was no mention of overt violence, only implied.’
***
George Happold paced in his office. The situation with his son-in-law was intolerable. Now the man was accusing his daughter of being involved in Amelia Brice’s death.
Happold, someone who had always been careful in what he said, did not understand Quentin Waverley. The man had only needed to wait for another few years, and he’d be in effective control of the bank. Now his chances were looking slim.
Discretion and a careful manner were what was required when you were dealing with billions of pounds. The bank could not be entrusted to a man who openly accused his wife of murder, had been carrying on an affair with his ex-lover, and showed a tendency to uncontrolled anger where the tongue moved faster than the brain. Happold knew he could not continue forever; he was seventy-eight and feeling it, and the mind, once so sharp, was starting to wander. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.
He made a phone call. ‘Quentin, my office in five minutes.’
Six minutes later, Happold’s personal assistant, a woman in her sixties who had been with him for nearly forty years, showed Waverley in.
‘Yes, George. You wanted to see me,’ Waverley said. He could see that the man facing him was not in a good mood. He remembered when he had first moved in with Gwen, Happold’s daughter. The man had been stand-offish, almost dismissive of his daughter’s choice. Waverley recalled the grilling he had received the next day, the checks into his background. Happold had even paid for private investigators to check him out; they had found out about the girl he had got pregnant in school, the miscarriage, the consternation of his parents, the anger of hers.
The investigators had also found out about other romances, the dangerous driving, even his alcohol and drug intake in his youth. Quentin had mentioned it to Gwen at the time, her only comment was, ‘Don’t worry. He’s my father, he cares about me, and besides, he’s checking you out, see if you’ll stand up to the governance required of the bank. Don’t worry, you’ll pass. I’ll make sure of that.’
And then Happold was shaking his hand. ‘There are some skeletons there, but you were only young. Just remember, you’re joining the Happold family. We play by a different set of rules, and whatever happens, whenever one of us strays, we look after each other, and if you ever upset my daughter, then be prepared.’
At the time, Waverley had dismissed it as the standard speech of a father about to pass over his daughter to another
