regretting that he hadn’t stuck to “No comment” from the moment Lambeth had arrived.
“Syd, you are skating on very thin ice. I suggest you tread carefully.”
“Is that a threat, Superintendent?”
“It’s a metaphor. You know the way out.”
Keane watched him leave; he did not put it past him to try and sneak into the Incident Room. It took him a few minutes to calm himself. He opened the window to clear the air – he would have done so, regardless of whether Lambeth had filled the room with smoke or not. He knew Angus would be on his back within minutes of the paper hitting the streets. He knew he ought to give him a heads up. But he also knew there was one other job he had to do first.
He got the phone number for Symonds’ home address, but on calling was told he could find him at one of his restaurants, “La Belle Cuisine”.
A short while later, Keane stood outside a very stylish French restaurant peering through the locked glass entrance, to see if there was anyone in the dark interior who could hear his knocking. A young girl appeared out of the shadows, and came to the door. She took a careful look at his identification through the glass, and let him in.
“Good morning, I’m Detective Superintendent Keane, and I’d like to have a word with Mr. John Symonds. Is he here?”
“Yes, he’s in the back office with a tradesman. I think he’ll be finished shortly.” Keane chose not to impose himself. “Softly, softly” was generally his motto.
“Could you let him know there’s a gentleman here to see him? No need to mention the badge” he gave her a confidential smile.
She let him inside. A few moments later she returned from the office and continued with her chores.
Keane wandered slowly towards the office, but stopped when the door burst open and a burly man – apparently the tradesman – virtually stormed out of the office, brushing Keane to one side, as if trying to evade Symonds’ parting shot, “. . . and don’t think you’ll get away with it!”
Confrontation seemed to be the order of the day. Keane knocked on the open door. “I’m sorry if this is not an opportune moment, Mr Symonds, but there is an urgent matter I need to inform you about. My name is Keane, Detective Superintendent Keane.”
“Please take a seat, Superintendent.” Symonds’ features bore a remarkable and eerie resemblance to Russell’s mask. He was about 45, 5’10”, stocky, and dressed smartly in an expensive suit. His dark hair receded noticeably over his high forehead. His blue eyes were dwarfed by heavy, dark eyebrows that turned down at the edges and nearly met in the middle. A thick nose, high cheekbones, thin-lipped mouth, pronounced jaw and cleft chin all combined to enforce the overall impression of almost caricature–like features.
“I assure you, I don’t normally treat guests in that fashion,” continued Symonds in his mellow Cornish accent, “but nothing gets my back up like conmen who think they can outsmart you. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“It’s actually more a case of what, if anything, I can do for you”. Keane proceeded to brief Symonds on the circumstances of Russell’s murder, showing him photos as he progressed.
“Well that is extraordinary. I don’t know what to say. Do you really think I could have been the intended target?”
“There are a number of unusual circumstances which indicate that Mr. Russell could well have been the intended victim, even though he was wearing a mask. But until we can be sure of that, we have to consider the possibility that you may have been the intended victim. In which case we need to know: Do you have any reason to believe that anyone would wish to see you dead?”
Symonds looked down to his right, and held the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, giving the question a good deal of thought. “I could give you the names of a few critics
“Syd, you are skating on very thin ice. I suggest you tread carefully.”
“Is that a threat, Superintendent?”
“It’s a metaphor. You know the way out.”
Keane watched him leave; he did not put it past him to try and sneak into the Incident Room. It took him a few minutes to calm himself. He opened the window to clear the air – he would have done so, regardless of whether Lambeth had filled the room with smoke or not. He knew Angus would be on his back within minutes of the paper hitting the streets. He knew he ought to give him a heads up. But he also knew there was one other job he had to do first.
He got the phone number for Symonds’ home address, but on calling was told he could find him at one of his restaurants, “La Belle Cuisine”.
A short while later, Keane stood outside a very stylish French restaurant peering through the locked glass entrance, to see if there was anyone in the dark interior who could hear his knocking. A young girl appeared out of the shadows, and came to the door. She took a careful look at his identification through the glass, and let him in.
“Good morning, I’m Detective Superintendent Keane, and I’d like to have a word with Mr. John Symonds. Is he here?”
“Yes, he’s in the back office with a tradesman. I think he’ll be finished shortly.” Keane chose not to impose himself. “Softly, softly” was generally his motto.
“Could you let him know there’s a gentleman here to see him? No need to mention the badge” he gave her a confidential smile.
She let him inside. A few moments later she returned from the office and continued with her chores.
Keane wandered slowly towards the office, but stopped when the door burst open and a burly man – apparently the tradesman – virtually stormed out of the office, brushing Keane to one side, as if trying to evade Symonds’ parting shot, “. . . and don’t think you’ll get away with it!”
Confrontation seemed to be the order of the day. Keane knocked on the open door. “I’m sorry if this is not an opportune moment, Mr Symonds, but there is an urgent matter I need to inform you about. My name is Keane, Detective Superintendent Keane.”
“Please take a seat, Superintendent.” Symonds’ features bore a remarkable and eerie resemblance to Russell’s mask. He was about 45, 5’10”, stocky, and dressed smartly in an expensive suit. His dark hair receded noticeably over his high forehead. His blue eyes were dwarfed by heavy, dark eyebrows that turned down at the edges and nearly met in the middle. A thick nose, high cheekbones, thin-lipped mouth, pronounced jaw and cleft chin all combined to enforce the overall impression of almost caricature–like features.
“I assure you, I don’t normally treat guests in that fashion,” continued Symonds in his mellow Cornish accent, “but nothing gets my back up like conmen who think they can outsmart you. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“It’s actually more a case of what, if anything, I can do for you”. Keane proceeded to brief Symonds on the circumstances of Russell’s murder, showing him photos as he progressed.
“Well that is extraordinary. I don’t know what to say. Do you really think I could have been the intended target?”
“There are a number of unusual circumstances which indicate that Mr. Russell could well have been the intended victim, even though he was wearing a mask. But until we can be sure of that, we have to consider the possibility that you may have been the intended victim. In which case we need to know: Do you have any reason to believe that anyone would wish to see you dead?”
Symonds looked down to his right, and held the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, giving the question a good deal of thought. “I could give you the names of a few critics
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