Strangers in a Pub

Martin Edwards

What am I getting myself into?

Jefferson surveyed the dingy saloon bar with a jaundiced eye. Ever since Maddy had run off with her personal trainer, he’d looked at most things with a jaundiced eye, but this pub might have been designed to tease out his prejudices. Who ever believed that things could only get better? The country was going to the dogs.

The Case is Altered would, in times gone by, have been called a workingman’s pub, but Jefferson saw no sign of a darts board, or a snooker table, or any working men, come to that. Two-thirty in the afternoon, and a bunch of shaven-headed bikers were pummelling the fruit machines while excitable commentators rhapsodised about the baseball game on the huge plasma TV screen. Jefferson didn’t share the fashionable enthusiasm for La Liga or Serie A, but at least the Continentals knew their football. A proper sport.

So many pubs had closed these past few years, places with low beams and inglenooks, where you could get a decent pint of bitter to wash down your bangers and mash without needing to take out a second mortgage. It didn’t seem right that this dump on the corner of a Mancunian mean street had survived. But that was life. The undeserving got away with murder; Jefferson had seen it a million times. He chose a seat at the table nearest the door. All the better for a quick getaway.

To say he was having second thoughts about this job was an understatement. The phone call had come out of the blue. He’d have rung off at once if he’d not been startled to find a fellow human being at the other end of the line. Usually it was a recorded message urging him to claim compensation for losses he’d never suffered, or a cold caller wanting him to replace his windows with environmentally friendly replacements. He’d still not got the hang of his smartphone, and he kept pressing the wrong thing whenever he didn’t want to be disturbed. It was far too sensitive to his touch. He preferred phones that were as unresponsive as Maddy.

So he listened to what the bloke had to say. His name was Binks, and he spoke in a whisper, as if terrified of being overheard. Jefferson, he said, came highly recommended. He wanted a diligent ex-copper to follow his wife, and see if she was playing away. Maximum discretion and maximum haste were what he needed, because he was a partner in a national firm of estate agents that was planning to float on the London Stock Exchange, and he wanted to get the divorce papers in before she got wind of his true worth. Before Jefferson could kill the call, Binks mentioned what he was willing to pay.

For a simple job, it was money for old rope. So much money, that it would be rude not to express cautious interest. Binks wanted to meet Jefferson in a pub well away from his office in central Manchester. Somewhere neither of them would be recognised. He’d bring the down payment, plus a photo of his wife and some background information.

Only then did Jefferson ask who had recommended him. ‘Chap called Gus Illingworth,’ Binks said. ‘I sold him his new house.’

Everything fell into place. Gus was having a laugh. He’d never liked Jefferson. Probably this was Illingworth’s way of getting his own back because Binks’ commission had been a rip-off. No wonder he could afford to throw his cash around.

But Binks rang off before Jefferson could say he’d changed his mind.

It still wasn’t too late to back out. He’d arrived half an hour early, to give himself thinking time. Actually, fifteen minutes in these miserable surroundings would be plenty. If Binks didn’t turn up before...

The door swung open, and in walked a very short, very fat man wearing an expensive grey suit and a Rolex. He was clutching a leather briefcase. His gaze fell on Jefferson, and his porcine eyes widened. Wiping a line of sweat off his brow with a silk handkerchief, he plopped down onto the other chair at Jefferson’s table.

‘The early bird catches the worm, eh?’

When he wasn’t whispering, Binks’ voice was unexpectedly squeaky. He put down his briefcase, and offered a damp hand. Jefferson shook it with malicious vigour.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

Jefferson nodded. ‘Pint of best.’

Binks plodded towards the bar, placing his order with a pimply purple-haired girl whose face was festooned with more rings than a shower curtain. A week before leaving him, Maddy had announced she’d had her nipple pierced, and a silver ring fitted. Jefferson was sure she’d done it as much to annoy him as to fascinate the gym trainer. Same with that ankle tattoo of a butterfly. A butterfly, for God’s sake! A praying mantis would’ve been nearer the mark.

Jefferson actually thought about doing a runner while Binks’ sizeable back was turned, but the lure of a pint was too much. He’d listen to what the man had to say, then make his excuses and leave. Unless the job was an absolute doddle, that was.

Binks returned with the drinks. His was a gin and tonic, and he raised his glass with a nervous theatricality.

‘Here’s to…business.’

Jefferson took a gulp of his beer. Scarcely best, but just about drinkable.

Binks cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be honest.’

Jefferson frowned. In his experience, this phrase invariably prefaced something dishonest or unpleasant.

‘I was expecting a younger man.’

Jefferson’s left hand was resting on the little table. His fingers were knobbly and misshapen. He’d have stuck the hand back in his pocket, but he hated seeming defensive.

‘I’ve got arthritis in my finger joints. Not in my brain.’

‘I suppose…you’re very experienced?’

Jefferson wasn’t in the mood for an in-depth debate about his CV. ‘I was on the job for more than ten years. They made me an Inspector, before I jacked it in. Since then, I’ve freelanced. A bit of this, a bit of that. Working on contracts, you know.’

‘Contracts, yes, of course.’ Binks seemed impressed, almost overawed. ‘Sorry, sorry. Just need to do my…due diligence.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Binks coloured. ‘I suppose I’d better give you some details about the lady in question. I thought it’d help if I brought a photograph.’

It was on the tip of Jefferson’s tongue to say that was exactly what they’d agreed. But he kept quiet as the fat man fumbled with his briefcase before bringing out an A4 envelope. He laid it down on the table, and gave a quick glance around. Once satisfied that nobody was paying them any attention, he slid out a photograph, and a folded sheet of paper.

The woman in the picture was slim, with blond hair. Fifties, Jefferson guessed, though with women, you never could tell. Her coat was open, revealing a white, well-filled blouse and black jeans. The shot was taken somewhere in the countryside, and she was gesticulating angrily at whoever was holding the camera.

‘Fucking do-gooder,’ Binks said.

Jefferson grunted. ‘That right?’

‘Hard left, more like. Bleeding heart, any road.’ Binks swallowed the rest of his drink. ‘Can’t be doing with ’em.’

Mrs Binks sounded like Maddy. The menopause had heralded a metamorphosis. She’d turned into a different woman.

‘Know how you feel.’

‘You’re a man of the world.’ Binks breathed out noisily. ‘Business is business, and she’s costing me a fortune. It just can’t go on, you know what I mean?’

‘I do that.’

Binks handed him the sheet of paper. ‘Here’s the information you need. Anything more, let me know.’

Decision time had arrived, and Jefferson tucked the photo and paper into his jacket pocket. Maybe it would be a laugh, becoming a detective all over again. He was pretty much at a loose end, and there was a limit to the amount of daytime television he could tolerate without taking a hammer to the TV screen. Besides, the cash wouldn’t hurt.

Binks closed his eyes for a moment. ‘How long then, before—the job’s done?’

‘Shouldn’t take long. I’ll let you know no later than this time next week. Maybe sooner.’

‘Thanks. Hell of a weight off my mind, I can promise you.’ Binks sighed. ‘I was told you didn’t mess about.’

Not like Gus Illingworth to be free and easy with his compliments. Well, well, you lived and learned.

‘Oh.’ Binks gave a sickly smile. ‘I almost forgot.’

He bent over again and pulled out of his briefcase a thick package sealed with brown tape. He thrust it into Jefferson’s hand.

‘You’ll find it’s all here. As we agreed. Half now, half…afterwards.’ Binks looked around again. Still nobody was taking an interest. Something exciting was going on in the baseball game, if the commentators were to be believed, though the audience seemed catatonic. ‘I’d best make myself scarce. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

He scurried out of the pub as fast as his little legs could carry him. Jefferson weighed the package. It was surprisingly heavy. Surely Binks hadn’t padded it with rubbish? What would be the point of that?

As he finished his pint, the door opened again, and a squat man in his forties bustled in. His gaze fell on Jefferson.

‘Jeff Hope?’ His voice, barely a whisper, seemed oddly familiar.

Jefferson narrowed his eyes. ‘Who wants him?’

‘We spoke on the phone. I was recommended to you by Gus Illingworth.’

‘Your name isn’t…?’

‘Please.’ The whisper became urgent. ‘I said on the phone, I need maximum discretion.’

Jefferson gritted his teeth. It was an oh shit moment.

‘Tell you the truth, I’ve been having second thoughts about the whole thing. She reckons I’m paranoid, but she’s started dolling herself up all the time. Very tasty, but it’s not like her. After years of marriage, a man knows.’

Jefferson grunted noncommittally.

‘Let me get you another pint, then we can get down to brass tacks. I’ve got her photo in my pocket, by the way. I’ve written the address and phone number on the back.’

As he headed for the counter, Jefferson made his way to the gents, taking his package with him. Once locked inside the solitary cubicle, he tore the tape off, and put his hand inside. He pulled out three thick bundles of fifty-pound notes, and stared at them for fully sixty seconds before replacing them.

When he was sure there was nobody around, he unlocked the door, and re-entered the bar. He could see Binks—for Binks it must surely be—returning to the table near the entrance. Another chap strode straight past him. He was in his late thirties, dark-haired, tattooed, and muscular. Possibly ex-military. He was looking this way and that. Presumably in search of the fat little bloke who had just handed Jefferson fifteen thousand pounds.

When in doubt, think it out. The only sensible option was to make himself scarce. He didn’t fancy an acrimonious encounter with the muscular newcomer, and following a supposedly errant wife had never held much appeal in the first place.

He spotted a back way out of the pub, and within moments he was outside, and relieved to find his car still in one piece. He put his foot down, and before long he had the chance to park in a deserted rural lay-by, and check that he wasn’t hallucinating.

No, the money was real, all right.

Half now, half later.

So what might the fat little bloke pay thirty thousand quid for?

Jefferson took another look at the photograph of the fair-haired woman. It was rather blurred, certainly not posed. Her expression made clear that she was very cross about something, though cross in quite a classy way. Her coat looked expensive. A Barbour, he supposed. And those were probably Timberland boots.

A bleeding heart, maybe, but Jefferson couldn’t help liking the look of her. Well-preserved was the phrase people used, wasn’t it? But that made a woman sound like a monument in the care of English Heritage. She was definitely fit.

He unfolded the sheet of paper that the man-who-wasn’t-Binks had given him. It bore a name, Heather Chase, her e-mail address and landline phone number, and an address in north Cheshire.

What clues could he glean from the photograph? He could make out three or four shapes, people right in the background. A couple seemed to be holding makeshift placards, but he couldn’t read what was written on them. Was this a picture of some kind of low-grade protest march? If Heather Chase was a do-gooder, it would make sense. That’s what they loved, protesting. Being against something.

But whatever mischief she caused, Jefferson had no intention of killing her. And he was sure that was what he’d been paid to do. No wonder not-Binks had been so impressed by his casual mention of contracts in the Middle East.

Different sort of contracts, obviously.

The easy option was simply to do nothing, pocket the money, walk away, and forget about it. One thing he’d learned, there was often a lot to be said for masterly inertia. Or he could make a rare foray onto the moral high ground, and go to his nearest police station, and explain everything that had happened. But would anything much be done about it, even if he talked to someone he’d worked with and who’d managed to survive the cost-cutting culls and the lure of early retirement on an enhanced pension? Nothing specific had been said by not-Binks. The money wouldn’t be easy to explain away, but even so. In these days of strained police resources, and lazy ex-colleagues quick to rely on lack of manpower as an excuse for doing nothing, there was a better-than-even chance that his allegation would be filed in the too-difficult pile, and left to moulder for a while, possibly forever.

Meanwhile, what would happen to Heather Chase? On a fleeting glance, the muscular bloke didn’t impress as an easy-come-easy-go fatalist ready to write-off the loss of fifteen grand as simply one of those things. He’d want his money, and presumably he was willing to earn it.

Even if there were too many bleeding hearts in this world, Jefferson didn’t want Heather Chase to bleed.

He reached for his mobile, and dialled Binks’ number.

‘Yes?’ The whisper was even hoarser than usual.

‘Jeff Hope. Sorry I couldn’t...’

‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’

‘What happened?’

‘That...animal thought I was going to pay him to do something...criminal.’

‘You talked, then?’

‘I wouldn’t call it a conversation. I’ve just arrived at A&E. He hit me in the face. I think my nose is broken, and I’ll be black and blue in the morning.’

‘He asked who you were planning to meet, I suppose? You gave him my name?’

‘Of course I fucking gave him your name. You think I want to wind up on a mortuary slab? This is bad enough, it’s…’

‘Don’t talk anymore,’ Jefferson advised. ‘It’ll only make the pain worse. You need peace and quiet and a lie down. At least it’s not on a mortuary slab. Good luck with the medics.’

He rang off, and asked himself what he should do next.

Forty minutes later, he was sitting in his car, parked on a grass verge halfway down a wooded lane. Winding down his car window, he glimpsed through the trees a sizeable villa in mellow brick, probably built as a country retreat by some Victorian cotton merchant. He could smell the leaves, and the money. Heather Chase certainly wasn’t short of a few bob.

There was a video entryphone system by the iron gates. He put the photograph in his pocket, and pressed the button.

‘Who is it?’

A woman’s voice came from the speaker, pleasant rather than guarded.

‘My name’s Hope. I’d like a word with you, if I may.’

‘If you’re wondering if I’ve had a car accident that isn’t my fault, the answer is that it’s always my fault. According to my ex-husband. Bye now, thanks for calling.’

At least she administered a brush-off in style.

‘I only want to help you look after yourself.’

‘If it’s about a stair lift, I’m still fully mobile. And my home security is working just fine, as you’ll find out for yourself if you try to open the gate.’

He mastered his exasperation. Put yourself in her shoes, Jefferson. Probably he’d not expressed himself too well.

‘Please don’t cut me off. I’m not here to sell you owt.’

‘They all say that.’

‘Sorry, but this is a matter of life and death.’ He started to gabble, fearing that she’d decide he was deranged, and cut him off. ‘You’ve made a bad enemy. Short, fat bloke with money to burn. He’s taken a serious dislike to you, and you need to protect yourself.’

A pause.

‘You’re not talking about Vinny Padgett?’

The name rang a bell, but only in the distance.

‘I don’t actually know what he’s called. But he gave me a picture of you.’ Jefferson waved the photograph so that she could see it through the video camera.

A very long pause.

‘Oh, my God.’

‘So can you spare me ten minutes, please?’

‘Who are you? Really?’

‘I used to be a police officer. Now I’m...’ Jefferson hesitated. Caretaker didn’t sound good. Security consultant was misleading and borderline intimidatory. Maybe go for something with a touch of romance. ‘A private investigator.’

Her tone acquired a flinty edge. ‘And he’s hired you to investigate me?’

‘Not exactly. Not at all, in fact. I don’t work for him; I didn’t know his name until you mentioned it. It’s simply that our paths crossed…and I thought you should know what he’s up to.’

‘All right.’ The iron gates began to open up in front of his eyes. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Herbal? Camomile?’

‘English Breakfast, if it’s all the same to you.’

The bay window of Heather Chase’s sitting room looked out over a rosebed and circular, leaf-strewn front lawn. Her taste in interior design was a bit much for Jefferson, all throws and rugs and cushions in lurid colours. There was a faint musky scent in the air, and he was reminded of the souks of the Emirates. Not that he’d enjoyed his three months out in the Middle East; he always felt too hot and too thirsty, the ultimate fish out of water.

A scattering of books lay on occasional tables. One was about yoga, another celebrated eminent eco-warriors. At least she made a decent pot of English Breakfast. In person, she didn’t seem like a harridan. Medium height, slim and elegant in a pink t-shirt and white trousers. Her feet were bare, and so were her fingers. A touch of puzzlement clouded her brown eyes, but for a few moments she set about putting him—and herself?—at ease, commenting on the unpredictability of the weather, and asking if he’d come far.

‘Yorkshire.’

He wasn’t much of a one for small talk, never had been. Maddy used to complain that he was an absolute pain in the bum at parties. Not that he minded; party-going ranked just ahead of trips to the dentist in his league table of unpleasant experiences.

She leaned forward in her chair, as if she’d decided the time had come to get down to business. ‘All right, then. What’s all this about Vinny Padgett?’

He’d Googled the name on his smartphone while walking down her gravelled drive. Much as he detested new technology, and the way it had created a generation of earphone-wearing zombies, it had its uses.

Vinny Padgett owned a business called Padgett Prime Properties. He was a speculative developer who had bought a slice of North Cheshire’s countryside five miles away from here. But there were rumours that he’d done some sort of deal with a fracking company which wanted to test-drill in the area. He’d told the local press that this was a conspiracy theory, dreamed up by a tiny group of diehards determined to block progress. These people called themselves Green and Pleasant, and their spokesperson was Heather Chase. Padgett argued that he was performing a social service by building much-needed houses, and that the not-in-my-backyard brigade should focus on the common good. The report quoted Heather as saying that a gated community of six-bedroomed executive mansions wouldn’t help first-time buyers, and that the site should only be used for social housing. But what she feared most was the coming of the frackers. The argument had become increasingly vitriolic. There was talk about High Court injunctions and people lying down in front of JCBs.

‘Am I right in thinking you and your pals stand between him and a small fortune?’

‘Probably not that small,’ she said. ‘No wonder he’s getting desperate. I hear his business is up to its neck in debt. To keep it afloat, he’s had to do some very murky deals.’

‘What would happen if you fell under one of his lorries?’

She looked him in the eye. ‘It’s not about me. The fight would continue.’

‘But you’re the driving force behind Green and Pleasant?’

‘We’re certainly not a one-woman band. I can assure you, we’re not in the least hierarchical.’

‘This isn’t the time for modesty,’ he snapped. ‘Or diplomacy. Be honest, Mrs Chase. If you were out of the way, would Padgett be likely to get his way?’

‘It’s Ms Chase,’ she retorted. ‘My ex-husband was called Stott. Rotten name, I ditched it the moment he told me he’d got his secretary pregnant. As for Padgett, well, perhaps. But...’

‘There’s no gentle way to put this,’ Jefferson said. ‘Padgett wants you dead.’

Her eyes widened. ‘He doesn’t like me, certainly, and the feeling’s mutual, I can...’

‘It’s not about dislike,’ Jefferson said. ‘Earlier today, he tried to hire me to kill you.’

‘What?’ She put a hand to her mouth.

‘It was a misunderstanding. If he runs his business the way he recruits his hitmen, no wonder he’s in trouble. I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I turned up in this pub to meet a new client, but I was early, and bumped into Padgett instead.’

‘My God!’

‘Before I knew what was happening, he’d handed me your photo, address, and a load of dosh. It wasn’t until after he’d left that I put two and two together. Especially when the bloke I was supposed to meet turned up, swiftly followed by a guy who looked like someone out of American Sniper.’

The room wasn’t cold, but Heather Chase shivered as Jefferson told the rest of his story.

‘So Padgett went off thinking he’d hired a contract killer to murder me?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘If there’s anything in what you say…’

‘I’m not in the habit of making things up,’ he snapped.

‘Then we must go to the police.’

‘And tell them what?’

‘Well, that he’s willing to pay to…’

‘I wasn’t wired, you know. It’d be his word against mine.’

‘But the photograph, the money…’

‘Who’s to say I haven’t been blackmailing him? I might even be the cause of his business misfortunes. Or maybe you’ve paid me, to discredit him. On the Internet, you’re quoted as saying that you’ll go to any lengths to stop Padgett Prime Properties. Any lengths. You repeated that.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that!’

‘No? Well, perhaps he didn’t mean to have me kill you. What you said is down in black and white. It’s evidence, and police love evidence. Trust me, I used to love it myself back in the day, when I was on the job.’

She gave a heavy sigh. ‘And now?’

‘Now I go by gut feel.’

Heather Chase’s eyes strayed to his stomach, and he felt uncomfortably aware that there was more of it than was healthy.

‘Is that right?’

‘Instinct, I mean.’ He glared at the book about eco-warriors. ‘You’d probably call it prejudice. But I’ll tell you this for nowt. I’ve got a prejudice against people being killed for no good reason.’

She closed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair. ‘So what do you suggest?’

At first, none of his suggestions found favour, and the idea of sheltering in a hotel under an assumed name she rejected out of hand.

‘How long would that go on for?’ She threw out her arms in a theatrical gesture. ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but how can I be sure you’re not in cahoots with Padgett, or somebody else who simply wants me out of the way?’

He gave her a withering look. ‘I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end if you did try to offend me. Why would I lie to you? I didn’t have to come here, y’know. I could have left you to take your chances. Maybe...’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She raised her hands in mock surrender. ‘It’s not fair to question your good faith. But I can’t just hide away like a scaredy-cat.’

He blinked. Maddy hadn’t been the sort who ever said sorry. Fair enough, neither was he. He sucked in a breath.

‘You need to understand, Mrs...Ms Chase. You’re at risk. Would you rather talk to the police instead of me? If so, fine. It’s a free country, and that is what they’re there for.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t have much faith in the police, at least not when it comes to taking on a pillar of the establishment like Padgett. The things I’ve seen on protest marches and demos…’

‘I need to talk to Padgett,’ he interrupted. Much more guff about protest marches and demos, and he’d wash his hands of her. ‘Give him his money back, but make it clear that I’ve spoken to you, and that you won’t press charges as long as he calls off his hired thug.’

‘You’ll be wired up?’ she asked. ‘I suppose you need to record him. Make sure you get a few incriminating statements.’

‘No time for that,’ he said.

‘Why on earth not?’ She had this irritating habit of questioning everything she was told.

With exaggerated patience, as if lecturing a particularly recalcitrant apprentice, he said, ‘This man, the one whose money I was given, he didn’t strike me as the patient type. He’s made a nuisance of himself already with Binks. My bet is that he won’t rest until he’s picked up the money he was expecting. And maybe done something to earn it.’

‘He doesn’t have my name. Padgett gave the information to you.’

‘So he’ll want to see Padgett. Who lives where?’

‘In a rather grotesque house in the next village. We’ve picketed it more than once.’

‘Have you, indeed? And what’s grotesque about it?’

‘It’s a converted water tower. Ironic for a man who famously overdoes the gin-drinking, don’t you think?’

In the end, she insisted on accompanying Jefferson to Tower House. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have time to sit around arguing if he was to reach Padgett before the would-be assassin did. Reluctantly, she promised to stay in the car, and out of sight, while Jefferson went to talk to the property developer. Her presence, he was sure, could only complicate a conversation that promised to be tricky enough.

‘Are you sure about giving him back the money?’ she asked. ‘He’ll only misuse it.’

‘Not mine to keep, though, is it?’ He felt a slight pang as he spoke. Even in this inflationary age, you could do a fair bit with fifteen grand.

Soon they arrived in the small village where Padgett lived, an affluent place, all thatched roofs and driveways cluttered with luxury cars. The brick water tower had a telephone mast on its roof, and was visible long before they passed a sign telling them that the village welcomed careful drivers. Padgett’s house, Heather explained, was reached via a bumpy, twisting lane.

‘You can’t see until you round the last bend,’ Heather said, ‘but there’s a huge modern extension built onto the original tower. All concrete and glass. An excrescence, as far as I’m concerned, though it’s won awards for imaginative design.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘Awards, huh? Enough said.’

She scanned the road ahead. ‘Here it is. Next left.’

They turned down a narrow lane, and Jefferson braked as they reached a passing place. Trees masked the tower, but he supposed it was about a hundred yards away. ‘You keep your head down. I’ll go and have a natter with his lordship.’

Signs of strain were showing on Heather Chase’s face, but she sounded calm. ‘If I could reason with him…’

He clicked his tongue in reproach. ‘Fellers who are willing to pay huge amounts of cash to kill women who irritate them aren’t usually receptive to reason. Don’t you move a muscle.’

‘Good luck,’ she whispered as he opened the car door.

Jefferson heard the voices before he could see their owners. Two men were shouting at each other. He couldn’t catch the drift, but it didn’t sound as if they were enjoying each other’s company. Reaching a bend in the lane, he poked his head forward cautiously, and took in the scene.

Two cars were parked next to each other at the foot of the tower. One was a sleek white Mercedes, the other a rusty Vauxhall. Jefferson had been beaten to it. He looked up, and saw that the top of the tower had been transformed into a roof garden, ringed by a glass balustrade. Padgett and the muscular man Jefferson had spotted in The Case is Altered were facing each other. Their words were indistinguishable, but the fat man had his arms outstretched, as if in supplication. The other man was waving a gun, and his body language suggested that he was in the mood to use it.

As Jefferson watched, Padgett made a grab for the gun. A shot was fired, but to Jefferson’s astonishment, it was the ex-military type who sank to the ground. The fat man had found the strength from somewhere to knock his adversary off balance. In the rough-and-tumble, the contract killer had shot himself.

Padgett disappeared from sight. Jefferson reached for his mobile, meaning to dial 999, but instantly thought better of it. Padgett was losing the plot. He’d shot and possibly killed one man, and Jefferson had fifteen thousand pounds that belonged to him. In a state of shock, the fat man might do anything.

‘What’s happened?’ Heather Chase’s voice came from behind him. ‘I heard a shot.’

‘I told you to stay in the car!’ Jefferson hissed. ‘Get away from here!’

A muffled cry of anguish froze the reply on Heather’s lips. Something had happened inside the tower house.

For a moment, nothing stirred. Jefferson thought he’d never known such silence. Then he felt the woman clutch his sleeve, heard her soft, urgent voice.

‘Please! This isn’t your concern. Don’t risk your life.’

He turned to face her. ‘Of course it’s my concern. If I hadn’t blundered in...’

‘But...’

‘Don’t argue!’ He caught her hand, and squeezed it. ‘Wait here. I’m going inside.’

He edged forward. The garden, small for such an extravagant property, was bordered by a low wall. The gate was open, and as he drew nearer, he saw that the main door to the house was also ajar. The killer, he supposed, had arrived here in a frenzy of rage. Probably out of his mind on some drug or other; that was surely the only way Padgett could have got the better of him.

Through the front door he glimpsed a large entrance hall, by the look of it a gleaming showpiece. Would the fact that the owner had killed someone here depress or add to its value? It would take an estate agent like poor old Binks to answer that.

‘Mr Padgett?’

His voice was scratchy with tension, causing him a pang of dismay. Like any other serving police officer, he’d confronted his fair share of desperate people, some of them armed with knives or blunt instruments. Had he grown soft during his years out of the force?

There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Nothing for it, then, but to take a look-see. He squared his shoulders. It was almost as if he needed to prove something to himself. But what could that be? He had nothing to prove; it didn’t make sense.

He crossed the threshold. No sign of Padgett. The hall was roomy and open, and he could see a spiral staircase at the far end. That must go up the tower itself.

A couple more paces, and he could see the staircase more clearly. As well as the huddled form lying below the bottom step.

Vinny Padgett had fallen down the staircase. An attempt at suicide, or deliberate? Was he dead, had he fractured his neck or his spine or both? Jefferson couldn’t guess. The man’s body was motionless, that was all he knew.

He must call Heather Chase; they must summon an ambulance and the police. He turned round, and almost collided with her. Determined not to do as he’d asked, she’d come up right behind him. And so she’d seen Padgett’s broken body. Her pretty face was stricken with horror, and tears were trickling down her cheeks.

‘So, what about the money?’ she asked that evening.

They were having a bite to eat in the conservatory of a pub restaurant five minutes’ drive from the old water tower. The Drum and Monkey was barely thirty miles from The Case is Altered, but it belonged to a different world. Its clientele mostly comprised well-heeled couples in designer leisurewear, and the walls were lined with shelves of old books. Jefferson was tucking into a beef and ale pie, while Heather had chosen the ricotta gnocchi. When they were looking at the menu, she’d announced that she was a vegetarian, had been since her teens. Somehow, Jefferson wasn’t surprised.

After the police had taken their statements, she’d invited him back to her house, and they’d agreed to have a drink and a chat before Jefferson went on his way. Once she’d changed into a summer frock, they’d decided they might as well have a meal together. There was, after all, a lot to talk about.

The paramedics had arrived in quick time, and done their utmost, but Padgett died just as they were setting off for the hospital. The assassin was already dead. Heather had insisted on taking charge of the explanation of how she and Jefferson had come to arrive at Padgett’s house at just the moment of the fatal confrontation between him and his mysterious assailant. It had been, she told a sympathetic middle-aged constable who obviously fancied her, like watching something out of a Hollywood blockbuster. She’d said that she wanted to talk to Padgett about her fears that he was cooking up some cosy scam with the fracking company. It was the truth, if far from the whole truth, and it seemed to satisfy the constable. Jefferson she described as a friend who happened to have called on her today, and who had agreed to accompany her in case Padgett became aggressive. Before the police arrived, they’d agreed it was best to keep the story simple. The truth, but definitely not the whole truth.

The next question was where they stood with Binks. Thankfully, it seemed he wasn’t going to cause any trouble. Jefferson had called him, and given him a highly edited account of what had happened to the man who had attacked him in The Case is Altered.

‘All a bit messy, but at least he won’t be troubling you again.’

‘Thank heaven for that.’ The estate agent couldn’t disguise his relief.

‘What an absolute nightmare. Yes, a nightmare, that’s what it’s been. Still...’

‘Yes?’

‘Something like that, well, it shakes you up. When I got back from A&E, Moira was shocked to see me in such a state. One way or another, we got talking. I put my cards on the table, and so did she. Yes, there was someone, but she’s given him the heave-ho. She and I are going to give our marriage another try.’

‘Right,’ Jefferson said. ‘All’s well that ends well, I suppose.’

‘Funny old world, eh?’

‘You said it.’

So that only left Heather Chase, and of course the fifteen thousand pounds. The package of cash was locked in his glove compartment. He only hoped that car thieves weren’t operating in the vicinity. It looked too affluent to be a risky area, but you never knew in life, you never knew.

‘The money?’ he asked, playing for time. ‘Well, I meant to give it back to Padgett. I suppose his estate will have some claim on it.’

‘His estate?’ Heather Chase was scornful. ‘He was twice divorced, and didn’t have kids. He’s probably left his worldly goods to some right-wing pressure group. If I were you, I’d hold on to the cash. Every last penny of it.’

‘I didn’t earn it,’ Jefferson said.

‘Nonsense. You probably saved my life, and you’ve certainly saved that estate agent’s marriage. You said before that you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Spend it on fun stuff. Or on setting up a little business or something. Anything but giving it to Padgett’s heirs.’

He frowned. ‘I’m not much of a businessman.’

She grinned. ‘I helped my husband with bookkeeping when we were first married. I’m no capitalist, but I know my way around a balance sheet. I’ll give you a hand, if you swear that Padgett’s estate won’t get a penny of the cash.’

‘I dunno. I’m not even sure what sort of business I’d be any good at.’

‘You told me you were a private investigator.’

‘Yeah, well. Poetic licence.’

‘Why not give it a go?’ Her eyes were shining; perhaps it was the wine. ‘Be your own boss. Make the most of your professional experience.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Jefferson Hope…I’m sure I’ve heard the name before. In a book?’

He sighed. ‘Blame my old man. Hope is a character in a Sherlock Holmes story.’

‘There you are, then. What could be more fitting? I can see it in neon lights now. Jefferson Hope, private eye.’

‘Only one snag,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t named after a detective, but a murderer.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’ He swallowed the last of his pie, and belched. ‘Is it any wonder I’m a tormented soul?’

As she threw her head back and laughed, he considered her.

What am I getting myself into?