Cold Killers by Lee Weeks Page A

off the roundabout towards the small industrial estate named The Paddocks and pulled up at the gates. It was a smart estate, surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped steel fence.
There were big notices telling people to beware of the patrol dogs. They pulled up and Carter peered past the guard on the gate, who was sheltering from the elements in a small hut.
    ‘Pretty high security for a builders’ yard. The place looks deserted. Morning, what you guarding here?’ Carter said to the security guard. ‘The Crown Jewels?’ He
grinned.
    ‘Yeah, it looks like it, don’t it? You wouldn’t believe how much stuff gets nicked from sites.’
    ‘Where is everyone?’
    ‘Winding down for Christmas, I think. Most people knocked off this week except Mr Manson in Paradise Villas.’
    ‘That’s who we’ve come to see.’ Carter showed his warrant card.
    ‘Are you here about Eddie?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    ‘I was sick to my stomach when I heard of what they did to him, poor bloke.’
    ‘When was the last time you saw Eddie Butcher?’
    ‘It was the day before Bonfire Night, the 4th. He was here for a few hours in the afternoon.’
    ‘Did he say anything to you? What was he here for, do you know?’
    ‘He was in his office most of the time. He seemed fine. We were talking about the celebrations, the firework displays and he said he was thinking of heading home to Spain by that evening,
he wasn’t going to stay around for them. We had a joke and a laugh.’
    ‘How did he seem?’
    ‘He was his usual chatty self. He was the kind of bloke who always gives you the time of day. He was a friendly sort. There’s Mr Manson.’
    A man was walking to a white Range Rover. Carter called out to him and he stopped in his tracks and waited for them to reach him. He was still jiggling the keys in his hand,
still looking hopeful that he could leave any second.
    Manson had a once-boyish face, but now it gained a little puffiness in his jawline. His blond hair was receding. He had large sapphire-blue eyes. He was wearing jeans and a blue Aran cardigan.
He looked as if he could have been in a boy band once.
    ‘Mr Manson?’ Carter showed his warrant card. ‘You’ve met my colleague before, Detective Sergeant Willis?’
    Willis waved a hand in the air with a warrant card attached. She was standing a few feet away as she got a feel for the place and began taking photos.
    ‘What’s this about?’ Manson was looking past Carter towards Willis with a frown on his face.
    ‘Can we have a chat, please?’ Carter glanced back to Willis. ‘Don’t mind her, she doesn’t get out of the office very often. I’ll be honest with you,’
said Carter, slipping into his cheeky-chappy routine in the hope that Manson might loosen up. It was always Carter’s defence against people who spoke with a posh accent. He never felt at
ease. ‘Eddie Butcher’s murder is really proving difficult to solve, even finding out what he was doing over here seems an impossibility. He’s not the easiest man to research, if
you know what I mean. People are reluctant to speak to the police.’
    ‘Really?’ Manson tried to look genuinely puzzled.
    ‘It’s probably because a lot of his friends were ex-cons. Some of them not even retired villains, pretty active. You must have seen some sights, met some real types.’
    Manson shrugged. ‘I didn’t socialise with Eddie outside work. I met the clients, obviously, but I never saw them like that, maybe they were ex-cons. Maybe, some of them are not the
most . . . I don’t know. Sorry, I don’t know what to say.’
    ‘I’m not trying to put you on the spot. They were clients, I suppose, and you built villas for them? They were Eddie’s contacts.’
    Manson was still distracted as he talked and kept one eye on Willis who was walking around the exterior of the warehouse and disappeared out of sight.
    ‘Do you mind if my colleague takes a look around while we chat?’ Carter smiled. ‘Can you open up the