Chapter Forty

Peter Prance was sitting with his head bowed, staring listlessly at his hands, when Tim Yates decided to re-start the interview. It was some ten minutes after his announcement of Ronald Atkins’ death. Chris McGill was still sitting next to Peter, looking tired to death. Tim guessed that he would be a more than willing ally in coaxing Peter to speak if he persisted with his prevarications.

When Tim entered the interview room, Peter Prance clutched at the plastic cup of water that he had been given, and started taking tiny anxious sips from it. All of his former chutzpah had vanished. He looked worried, bent and old. Just a few minutes before, he had seemed wiry and sinewy, but now he appeared to be gaunt to the point of emaciation. He shivered and his hand shook, causing him to spill a dollop of the water on to the table. Tim mopped at it with a paper towel.

“Are you all right, Mr. Prance? Are you feeling well?”

“Quite well, quite well,” he muttered. “It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

“What is a shock, sir? The news that Ronald Atkins is dead? Did you know Ronald Atkins?”

“No. I never met him. I’ve told you, Hedley didn’t see him.”

“Why has his death had such an effect on you, then? As you pointed out when we were discussing Dorothy Atkins’ death, you weren’t upset because you weren’t acquainted with her. Why doesn’t the same apply to your feelings for her former husband?”

“It’s not the man himself I care about,” said Peter, a ghost of his testiness returning, “it’s the fact that he is dead.”

“You have me there, sir, I’m afraid. Either you’re talking in riddles, or I’m more obtuse than I thought I was.” He leant across the table at Peter and thrust his face as close to the small man’s as he dared without being reprimanded by the solicitor.

“Let’s stop this nonsense now, Peter, shall we? I need to find Hedley Atkins, and I need to find him tonight. I have good reason to believe that he is behaving in an unbalanced way and that he may be dangerous, to himself as well as to others. I’ve no idea where he is or what he is up to, but I think that you do. I’m asking you once last time to give me what information you have. If you don’t . . .”

Chris McGill jerked himself into alertness and held up his hand.

“Detective Inspector Yates, I must protest . . .”

“It’s all right,” said Peter Prance. “I will tell you what I know. I never thought that Hedley really was capable of murder, you see. But two deaths in twenty-four hours is too much of a coincidence.”