LITMIR.BIZ

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and speak to them. Did anyone hear loud or raised voices, or notice any strangers lurking about? We need to interview those who were in the vicinity – the postman, any tradesmen or callers. Was it rent week, or the day the man came around collecting the pools? We need to know anything and everything about that lane and what went on in it yesterday.’

      ‘Sir…’ A young PC shuffled up and handed him a message from the desk sergeant. He read it briefly, lips thinning slightly in irritation, then nodded at the Sergeant. ‘O’Grady, carry on. I’ll be back shortly.’

      ‘Sir.’

      But DI Jennings wasn’t back for quite some time.

      When he’d got the message that Sir Marcus Deering was in the station and was demanding to speak to him, DI Jennings had intended to deal with him quickly and shortly. While he was willing to pander to his superiors’ insistence that the man be treated with respect when times were slow, he had no time to hold the entrepreneur’s hand when he had a vicious murder inquiry just getting underway. Especially since the threats in the anonymous letters had proved to be so much nonsense.

      But when he went into his office the businessman’s first words floored him utterly.

      Sir Marcus, sitting slumped in the chair in front of his desk, looked visibly haggard, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

      ‘We were wrong, Inspector. They did kill my son, after all,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.

      DI Jennings blinked and sat down heavily in his chair. Another murder inquiry, coming so fast on the heels of the McGillicuddy case? His first thought was that he’d need much more manpower.

      ‘How did it happen?’ he demanded at once. ‘I was told nothing happened yesterday. When was Mr Deering attacked? Are you sure—’

      ‘My son Anthony is fine.’ Sir Marcus interrupted the barrage of questions flatly, leaving the Inspector slack-jawed and stupefied into silence. The older man stared down at his hands, unable to meet the DI’s gaze. ‘Fact is, er, Jennings, that in my younger days, well… I was rather fond of a young girl, a local girl, very pretty and perfectly respectable, but a bit… er… below us on the social scale, I suppose you’d say. A decent girl, and all that… but well, when she fell pregnant, my father… Well, let’s just say my father and hers came to an arrangement…’

      ‘I see, sir,’ DI Jennings said briskly. Although he felt vaguely shocked and a little embarrassed by such revelations, it was not his place to judge. ‘And this… er… local girl, I take it she had a baby boy?’

      ‘Yes. He’s… was… would have been thirty years old now.’

      DI Jennings slowly felt a cold chill begin to creep up his spine. ‘This girl, sir. Your son…?’

      ‘His name is… was… Jonathan McGillicuddy,’ Sir Marcus said flatly. ‘His mother’s name is Mavis. Naturally, he kept his mother’s name. I believe her neighbours all think McGillicuddy is her married name. Er… less gossip that way.’

      ‘I see,’ DI Jennings said heavily. ‘And did the lad, er, know who you were?’ he asked delicately.

      ‘Oh, no,’ Sir Marcus said, sounding shocked. ‘Mavis always told the lad his father died in an accident before they could get married. My father insisted on that.’

      ‘I see,’ Jennings said – and did too. No doubt Mavis McGillicuddy had received a small annuity to pay for the raising of her child only on the strict understanding that neither she nor the child would do or say anything to embarrass the Deering family.

      ‘Mavis rang me this morning and told me… told me…’ Sir Marcus began, but then couldn’t get the words out.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ the DI said grimly. ‘I know what she told you.’

      ‘My… son. Jonathan.’ The businessman finally raised his head from his inspection of his hands and looked the policeman squarely in the eye. ‘He died at twelve noon yesterday, didn’t he?’ Sir Marcus asked bleakly.

      ‘We don’t know that, Sir Marcus,’ Jennings admitted levelly. But he knew it would fit with the timeframe supplied by the police surgeon.

      Sir Marcus gulped and raised his hands to his head, covering his eyes with his palms. ‘When nothing happened yesterday, we were all so relieved. I thought the nightmare was over, but it’s not. It’s just beginning, isn’t it?’ he asked, his voice muffled by his fingers and despair. ‘Whoever wrote that letter said they’d kill my son, and they did.’

      DI Jennings opened his mouth, but didn’t know quite what to say. That they had been protecting the wrong son at twelve noon yesterday was all too clear – and he could imagine the reaction of his superiors when this came to light. And, no doubt, if Sir Marcus had come clean right from the beginning about having a second son, he might not now be lying dead in the county morgue. But that cruel fact hardly needed saying out loud.

      ‘You have to catch him,’ Sir Marcus said finally. ‘You have to stop him. Or Anthony…’ He broke off and shrugged helplessly, not even daring to put the horrible thought into actual words. Not that he’d needed to, of course, for the DI had already reasoned it out for himself.

      If the poison pen could kill once, they could kill again.

      ‘Sir Marcus, I ask you again. Do you really have no idea what this person wants? What exactly is this “right thing” they want you to do?’

      Sir Marcus shook his head. He was a pitiful sight now. Unshaven, pale and trembling, he was a far cry from the bustling, self-important businessman the DI had first met just a week ago. ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed. ‘Unless… there’s only one thing I can think of, but it doesn’t make sense. It truly doesn’t.’

      ‘I need to know anything that might be relevant, Sir Marcus,’ Inspector Jennings insisted gravely.

      And so the shattered man told him all about the fire.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      Beatrice Fleet-Wright bit neatly into a thin slice of toast topped with a thin layer of Oxford marmalade, and reached for the copy of the local paper. Her husband was already reading The Times, while Rex, her son, ate without benefit of the written word, as was his custom.

      Beatrice was just two years short of her fiftieth birthday, though if that landmark event loomed large in her life, you couldn’t tell it by looking at her. Her short, dark hair was as well groomed as ever, and if hair dye played a major role in keeping the telltale grey at bay, it was too professionally done by one of the city’s best hairdressing salons for anyone to be able to tell. Her green eyes still dominated an otherwise unremarkable face, but clever and discreet make-up had always served her well. As had her determination, over the years, to watch her weight.

      Hers had been the generation that had grown up listening to the song ‘Keep Young and Beautiful If You Want to Be Loved’, and if she’d ever been inclined to forget, her mother had always been kind enough to remind her.

      Outside, it was another dull and overcast day. She sighed, and to distract herself from the never-ending day ahead, glanced at the rather lurid STOP-PRESS headline that had clearly been rather hastily cobbled together. Obviously a major story had broken shortly before the morning papers went to press.

      For a moment, she only took in the bare details – some poor soul, murder, and the horror of a discovery in a large Kidlington garden.

      And then she saw the name.

      McGillicuddy.

      And her heart leapt into her throat, instantly cutting off her ability to breathe. It wasn’t exactly a common name, after all.

      For a moment, the room swam around her as, fearfully, her eyes scanned the small printed paragraphs for more details.

      The

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