Staging Death by Judith Cutler Page B

headed for the steps down. I followed, closing the hatch behind me and bolting it firmly.
    He snorted. ‘Are you expecting an invasion of paratroopers?’
    I gave a dutiful laugh.
    There was no sign of his wife. I wanted to dart off in search of her, but he took his time, deliberately, it seemed to me. I could hardly say, ‘Look, I’m paid to make sure your wife’s not running off with the family silver,’ but I could imagine the response. Eventually we ran her to earth back downstairs in the library, running her finger against the spines of calf-bound volumes of parliamentary proceedings from the eighteenth century.
    ‘What’s happening to these?’ she asked.
    Awarding full marks for the question, but wondering why it made her husband jerk his head as if disconcerted, I said, ‘I believe the vendors might be prepared to sell them with the property. Otherwise they’ll be sold to some university library.’
    She nodded, but said nothing.
    The rest of the visit, including a tour of the gardens, was completed in almost total silence until I had locked up. As they stood beside the Mercedes – a top-of-the-range model – he leafed through the file, fishing out the particulars of Langley Park and Oxfield Place.
    ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t take us to see these places?’
    ‘This afternoon?’ I hoped my surprise didn’t show.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I don’t have the keys on me, of course, but I can certainly get them. I could meet you at Langley Park – that’s the nearer one – at four?’

    It was almost seven when they finished their explorations of Oxfield Place, the now steady rain cutting short their investigation of the extensive grounds. They said all that was proper, but their voices were so cool and their faces so expressionless it was almost impossible to tell their reactions to anything, graffiti and woodpecker apart.
    I presented them with my card and promised to be in touch. They barely nodded in acknowledgement. Although they got into their Merc, they made no attempt to drive off, and I felt their eyes on me as I locked up. Only as I got into my car did they set theirs in motion. Were they going to follow me? I didn’t like that idea at all. So I grabbed my mobile, got out the Ka and made a great show of walking round in search of a signal. At long last the Merc purred away.
    I checked my watch and got moving too. Obviously I had to return all the keys to the office safe. There was no way in this car I’d dare travel round with them. What if the Gunters were lurking so that they could ambush me and help themselves? What if some lout had clocked my exit from Oxfield Place and had got into hishead that it’d be fun to nick the keys and burgle the place? He wouldn’t know there was nothing in there to steal. What if an opportunist just saw the logos and decided to try his luck? I’d had the same silver Peugeot behind me for five miles at least. I ducked into a side road, as fast as my sticky hands could turn the wheel. The Peugeot shot past. I could return to the main road. But now another car, a blue Mini, tucked in behind me, although I gave him ample opportunity to overtake. If I sped, the Mini kept up with me.
    At last I came across a service station. Without signalling, I pulled in. I didn’t need any fuel, but at least there were people there I could call on for help. The pump furthest from the road provided a little cover. The Mini driver definitely seemed to slow and register what I’d done. But then he continued on his way.
    Was that reassuring? Somehow, I didn’t think so. I’d acted afraid often enough. Now I truly felt it.
    Even my hands felt it. They were shaking as I called Greg.
    ‘I think I’ve been tailed,’ I said baldly. ‘And I’ve still got two sets of keys on me.’
    ‘But it’s after seven – what do you expect me to do?’
    I’d had a teacher at school who’d told us about non sequiturs and I thought that that might be one.
    ‘I think you’d