Back-Slash by Bill Kitson

contents of the safety deposit box. These comprised a large addressed envelope together with a smaller one addressed to him. He read the instructions in his envelope, then summoned Miss Burns.
    He handed her the larger envelope. ‘Kindly see that this is taken to the post office. It must go by registered mail.’

    Myers and Nell were picking up again. This time they were back on home ground, at Winfield Estate. The morning progressed well, with Nell distinguishing herself, much to the chagrin of one or two other pickers-up.
    Sir Maurice arranged the drives so the morning session finished close to the house. The break was a social event as much as a meal. With everyone from the most distinguished VIPs to the youngest beater on an equal footing. The food was held back until every member of the gamekeeper’s staff arrived.
    During the wait Myers listened with a modicum of interest to the various conversations going on around him. These were mostly about politics, a subject that bored him. The group he was closest to comprised Sir Maurice, a treasury minister, the Lord Lieutenant and the chief constable of the neighbouring county. They were discussing a forthcoming by-election. ‘Our man’s a virtual shoo-in,’ the treasury minister told them. ‘The party’s very keen for him to get into the House as soon aspossible. The Prime Minister’s already indicated he’ll only stand once more, and we need a replacement of the right calibre. He fits the bill to a T.’
    ‘Do you think he’s got what it takes to go all the way?’ the Lord Lieutenant asked. ‘The House can be a crucible for those not used to the rough and tumble of politics. I assume you know a bit about his background?’
    ‘He’s got a track record second to none in industry. He’s made himself a fortune, not a small one either. He started with nothing. Built his own company from scratch, had years of struggle before he got where he is now. It’s the sort of rags- to-riches story voters and media alike love. Self-made men are the type they trust.’
    ‘I must admit you hardly seem to pass a building site that hasn’t either got his company name or his biggest rival’s sign on it,’ the chief constable agreed.
    The minister lowered his voice. ‘Strictly between ourselves, I understand he’s about to launch a hostile takeover bid for his competitor; but that’s highly confidential of course.’
    The rest of the group nodded understandingly. Myers concealed a smile. The fact that they hadn’t mentioned any names seemed good security to them. However, they’d littered the conversation with clues. Perhaps it was as well he had little interest in such matters.
    As their conversation petered out Myers caught the tail end of another discussion, gorier in nature than politics. Two of the beaters were close by and were talking about a murder, or as Myers gleaned from what little he could hear, a double murder.
    He strained to hear, but as he did so Sir Maurice claimed him and insisted he joined their group who wanted to praise his dog. Whilst listening to their compliments Myers was only able to pick up snippets of the beaters’ talk. ‘Golden Bear, breakfast’, and ‘solicitor from Leeds, I think’, were the only words he could be sure of. They were enough.
    Sir Maurice laid a solicitous hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right, dear fellow? You’ve gone quite pale.’
    Myers recovered his wits. ‘Yes, Sir Maurice, I’m fine. I think Ineed a breath of fresh air. I’ll pop outside for a few minutes.’
    He walked out through the long french windows on to the broad stone terrace and stared at the rolling parkland that swept down to the lake; without seeing any of it. Had he heard correctly? If he had, and the beaters had got the story right, it had to be Moran who’d been murdered.
    Only a week ago Myers had been found on the third floor of The Golden Bear. That was bad enough in itself. The fact that the witness was a police officer made it worse. In