Behind Dead Eyes (DC Ian Bradshaw #2) - Howard Linskey Page 0,34

towards a row of cars. ‘Yours, I presume,’ he said nodding at the little Peugeot parked at the end of a row of Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars.

Helen saw a group of men on the horizon to her left, heading out towards the first tee. She shouted, ‘Get off me!’ as loudly as she could causing some of them to stop and turn to see what was amiss. They were greeted by the site of a young woman being dragged towards her car by a be-suited security man.

‘Scott.’ The word was delivered with just the right amount of calm authority to halt the security man, who let go of Helen’s arm. She scowled at him and clutched the spot he had gripped. Then she turned to look at the half-dozen men staring back at her. At their centre stood Alan Camfield, watching her intently. Next to him was the unmistakable figure of Jimmy McCree. It crossed her mind to march over to Camfield and protest about her rough treatment, while firing off some questions about his choice of guests and possibly even his plans for the Riverside development.

‘Don’t … even … think … about … it,’ hissed Scott, enunciating each word slowly through gritted teeth and she realised the security man would probably relish the chance to harm her if she shamed him twice in front of his boss. ‘On your way.’

The golfers had already turned their backs and were marching over the horizon to their golf day. She wondered what Camfield would tell them about her. Was she merely a reporter demanding an interview at an inappropriate time or perhaps she was an anti-capitalist environmentalist who thought profit was a dirty word.

Helen climbed into her car and steered it down the driveway. She could clearly make out the surly figure of Scott in her rear-view mirror, watching her until she passed through the gates of the golf club.

Tom waited in the underground car park for nearly ninety minutes, hoping that Nixon would eventually emerge. He had not really expected to be admitted to the inner sanctum and was fully prepared for a lengthy wait. On the passenger seat next to him was the firm’s brochure, opened on the double page entitled ‘Partners’. Martin Nixon’s bespectacled face stared out from it self-importantly.

Tom read then re-read the copious notes he had taken, glancing up occasionally when the lift doors opened and another serious-looking individual departed. He occupied his time making a list of people to talk to, not including the lawyer who was eluding him. Top of that list was Annie Bell, the loyal, long-suffering wife who still stood by Richard. Was she too good to be true? Tom wanted at least to know why she was so convinced her husband did not kill his lover. He’d like to speak to her father too; the man who had employed his son-in-law as his Sales Director. Tom had to wonder if that appointment had been based solely on merit. Then there was Freddie Holt, the supposedly ruthless millionaire who’d been cuckolded by Bell and humiliated when the newspapers printed every detail of the case. Mark Birkett was an old friend from college who had been summoned by the defence as little more than a character witness. That had not gone as well as they might have hoped when Birkett had been forced to confirm a violent incident from Richard’s past involving his old girlfriend. Then there was Nicole – or ‘Naughty Nicole’ – as the press had christened Rebecca’s supposed best friend in her exclusive, confessional interview. He wanted to speak to Richard Bell’s ex as well. If anyone knew what the man was capable of in a dark moment it was her. He surveyed the list:

Martin Nixon – lawyer

Annie Bell – loyal wife

Annie’s father – employer

Freddie Holt – Rebecca’s husband

Mark Birkett – Richard’s best man

Nicole – Rebecca’s friend from the cruise boat

Amy Riordan – Bell’s ex

It seemed enough to be going on with for now.

Finally, a man emerged from the lift who looked a lot like Martin Nixon. Tom glanced again at the photograph in the brochure then back at the man in the raincoat who was walking briskly towards an enormous silver Mercedes, briefcase in hand.

It was him.

Tom got out of his car before Nixon could elude him.

‘Mr Nixon!’ he called and the figure stopped in his tracks and turned to face Tom. ‘Could I have a quick word?’

If Tom was hoping that Nixon might not at first realise who he