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      There was going to be trouble. He could smell it in the air already. And he knew it in his bones for sure. For as long as he could remember, Amos had relied on his intuition, coupled with his insight into people. He also had a knack of knowing what made people tick, understood why they did the things they did, recognized their motivation. All of these gifts, because that’s how Amos thought of them, had helped him when he was a copper on the beat, policing the streets of Whitechapel, Limehouse, and other areas of London’s East End.

      And they had continued to work for him during his years with Neville Watkins; nor had they disappeared when he had joined Deravenels, to head up the Security Division. A wry smile touched his mouth. No such thing as a Security Division until he had been hired to ‘watch my back’, as Edward Deravenel had so succinctly put it at the time.

      These days this was no longer necessary. Most of Edward’s enemies were dead; some were living abroad but had been rendered powerless by Edward Deravenel’s success as head of the company. Deravenels had always been a huge global corporation; he had turned it into an operation which was bigger than ever and made more money than it had in its entire history.

      His was a household name, not only in England but around the world, and he was considered to be one of the most influential tycoons in the City. Some said he was even more important than his late cousin Neville Watkins, who had been the greatest magnate at one time.

      Amos now remembered that once he had told Mr Edward he wanted to retire. Edward had thrown a fit. Or something tantamount to one. He had gone berserk. That was the only word for it.

      ‘I want you here by my side for the rest of your life, and mine!’ Edward had declared heatedly. ‘I will not countenance talk of your retirement, and that’s that. Don’t bring it up again, Amos. And besides, always remember that men who retire invariably fall apart and die.’

      Amos had been a little stunned by these words at the time, words so emphatically uttered, and yet he had also been immensely flattered. He realized then that he had a most special place in Edward Deravenel’s life and in his heart, just as his boss did in his.

      Loyal, devoted, discreet and protective, Amos Finnister was also calm and cool under any circumstances. And he was so extraordinarily trustworthy that Edward Deravenel had never bothered to hide any aspects of his extremely complicated life from the former private investigator, who was usually at his side.

      It was quite common knowledge at Deravenels that Amos Finnister was very close to the managing director, but no one knew just how close. Except for Will Hasling, who was even closer to Ned, being his longest and dearest friend.

      These three men worked in harmony together, and had for years. They trusted each other implicitly, and were totally discreet about each other, revealing nothing to colleagues or family. Once, rather laughingly, Edward had said that they were like The Three Musketeers, and in a certain sense that was true.

      The relationship between them worked for a number of reasons. Edward and Will, though aristocrats, were not snobs; they were affable, accessible, natural, and democratic in their attitudes. Amos Finnister knew he must never overstep the line. He was well aware of his place in the order of things. And he was never over-familiar. He knew how wrong that would be.

      These three had been hand-in-glove for a long time. They thought alike, after years in each other’s company, and acted in a similar manner when confronted by problems. And they could usually second-guess each other.

      Amos rose, walked up and down the office for a few seconds, stretching his long legs. And thinking hard.

      Will Hasling was a lot more troubled that he was letting on, Amos was convinced of that. And he also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Will would tell Edward everything tomorrow morning. And Edward would want him on it immediately.

      Amos stepped over to the window and looked out. It seemed like a nice night, with a clear, dark sky, no clouds at all, and a galaxy of stars.

      After locking his desk and taking his overcoat from the cupboard, Amos left his office and went down the stairs. He crossed the imposing, soaring marble lobby of Deravenels, as usual admiring its grandeur, and stepped out onto the Strand.

      The thoroughfare was busier than he had seen it in a long time. Taxis, motorcars and omnibuses crowded the road, and the pavement was congested with pedestrians, mostly moving swiftly, hurrying about their business. It struck him immediately that he must walk. He had no alternative since it would be hard to find a cab in this mess.

      Anyway, he did enjoy walking; it reminded him of his days on the beat, he supposed, and he usually did his best thinking when his feet were moving. Buttoning his topcoat, he set off at a brisk pace.

      Tonight he was heading to the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. His old friend Charlie Morran was staying there, and they were to dine in the elegant Ritz Restaurant, which was one of the best in London. He had sometimes eaten there with Edward Deravenel, and he knew it quite well.

      The hotel itself was palatial, with marble floors, rich carpets, crystal chandeliers, handsome dark-wood furniture, potted palms and huge arrangements of flowers. It was a particular favourite of the rich and famous, a rendezvous for the most well-known people in London … the aristocracy, socialites,

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