'Detective Inspector Reynolds.'
Her heart missed a beat. It was the policeman who had investigated Terry's death.
'I'm sorry to intrude during the holiday, Mrs Bryant,' he apologised as he stepped in. 'Is your husband at home?'
'No. Why do you want him?'
'Just an enquiry.'
Michael came out, still wearing his pyjamas. The policeman smiled in a friendly way. 'Hello, young man.'
'Sit down.' Bella nodded to the chair.
Removing his hat, he made himself comfortable. 'As you may know, there was a fire at Downey Manor, the estate where your brother died.'
Bella nodded anxiously. 'Yes, I read about it.'
'We are looking into the circumstances of Lady Downey's death.'
'So it was Lady Downey who died?'
'I'm afraid so.'
Bella frowned unable to make the connection between this and the policeman's visit. 'What's Lady Downey got to do with my husband?'
'We have some evidence that suggests he knew her.'
Bella sat down quickly. 'What kind of evidence?'
'A receipt from a garage in London signed by your husband. It was recovered from a wall safe at the premises, untouched by the fire. Through subsequent enquiries we believe the garage was owned by Mr Bryant.'
'He did have a garage,' Bella agreed hesitantly. 'But he sold it. Micky went into clubs as you probably know.'
'Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,' the detective agreed. 'The new owner of the garage has confirmed the date of change of ownership. This receipt states that a Jaguar car, a very expensive model, was sold to Lady Downey by Mr Bryant just prior to your brother's death.'
Bella could only stare at him. Micky had never told her anything about this.
'I take it you can't help me with any more information?'
Bella shook her head. 'No ... no ...' she whispered almost to herself.
'It's surprising isn't it?' the inspector said slowly, 'that Mr Bryant never brought this to light when we were investigating your brother's death?'
'There must be a mistake,' Bella protested, feeling bewildered. 'Are you sure it wasn't Milo who signed the receipt? The salesman who worked for Micky.'
'That would be a gentleman by the name of Miles Heath-Gash?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'No, Mrs Bryant. The signature is your husband's. Unfortunately …' the policeman paused again, 'Mr Miles-Gash, we discovered, was involved in a road accident shortly after leaving your husband's employ and died of his injuries.'
'Miles is dead?' Bella felt a wave of fear go through her. Micky had never said a word about this either.
'We need to speak to your husband to clear up this matter. Do you know where he is?'
Bella gave a slight shrug. 'Not exactly. But you might find him at the Fortune or the Flamingo in Soho.'
He nodded slowly. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you. I hope I won't have to bother you again.'
Bella followed him to the door. 'Inspector, is Terry's case still open?'
'Obviously this is a new development, Mrs Bryant. We're following up every lead we have.'
'It might just be a coincidence that Micky sold the car at the same time.'
'Yes, but your husband omitted to disclose the connection. Why would he do that? And there is something else, another line of enquiry …' A frown spread slowly over the man's face. 'Along with the receipt, a great deal of money was discovered in the safe. Most of it was counterfeit. Obviously we would like to find out why it was in there and where it came from.'
'But Micky wouldn't know anything about that!' she blurted, almost laughing. 'I mean, Micky might have his faults, but he's not a forger.'
'I hope you're right, Mrs Bryant.' He stared at her for a while as though trying to read her thoughts, then slipped on his hat as he went out. 'If you think of anything that could be useful to us, please ring me on this number.' He handed her a card.
Bella watched him walk up the airey steps.
Michael came to stand beside her. 'Why didn't Dad tell them about that car?' he asked as they went back inside.
'I don't know, Michael.'
'What does 'counter-feet' mean?'
'It means false money,' she replied shakily as she frantically tried to make some sense of what the policeman had told her.
Chapter 29
Alfred Freshwater stood in his empty cellar for the last time. Other than the elderly, ink-stained wooden table on which the printing machine had stood, a few piles of dust and the mould that was beginning to creep into the brick walls and mask the smell of print, it was like any other cellar. But he was leaving the best part of his life down here, under the boards. He felt as though he had unassembled himself at the same time as he'd taken the plates apart and hammered the rest of the contraption flat. Now his life's work was just a pile of metal in a Hoxton scrap yard. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, other than burying Gyp.
Well, no use looking back. He still had Nellie. If he was honest - which he wasn't - the thing that saddened him most was the fact that no one appreciated the real skill of his work. He had turned out masterpieces on an antiquated printing press and fooled the most professional eyes of the country.
He was hardly likely to boast about that though, was he?
How much of his work was still locked up in vaults and undiscovered, he wondered? Odds on, the odd pound or two was still in circulation. Not that he'd worked since Downey Wood. He wasn't that committed to his trade. No point in running a risk when he had enough kosher lucre to see him and his old woman through to the end of their lives. That Micky, the mad bastard, had set him up with a tasty pension. His one regret was Terry. He was only a kid and hadn't stood a chance with the bugger who shot him.
Alfred trod slowly up the stairs. He flicked off the single bulb hanging from the
