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And he wasn’t going to hand it over, either. Let Bernie do his worst.
He picked up the contracts and tore them up, pushed them into a big brown envelope and addressed it to Bernie. No need for a letter to accompany them. Bernie would get the message.
A week later as Terry was getting into his car after a long day’s work he was shot dead from across the street.
The police were baffled. They had eyewitnesses, but the descriptions of the killer were too vague; tall, dark-haired, youngish, wearing a black leather coat. Nobody noticed his face; they had all been too frightened.
‘It was a contract killing,’ the officer in charge told Neil. ‘No question, a real pro job – he was shot through the head once, killed outright. No amateur could be responsible.’
‘I wonder who ordered it?’ Neil thought aloud. ‘We’ll have to dig deeper into Terry’s past. Before he came to London, what was he doing? Who wanted him dead?’
When they told Sean in prison he collapsed and had to be sedated. For the following week he was on suicide watch. After a shock like that, in his situation, he was a prime suspect for taking his own life.
Miranda heard the news from Neil and was appalled. ‘Oh, poor Terry! I always liked him, you know, he was a friendly, cheerful man. Before . . . before the murder.’
‘You can’t remember anything he was involved in that could explain why someone should murder him?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but he must have been involved with some pretty nasty people if he knew how to hire people to murder me, especially so far away in Greece – mustn’t he?’
‘Yes, we’re looking into his past history, his life before he came down to London. He never mentioned what he was doing before that, did he?’
‘No, never. In fact, I used to wonder what he was keeping so secret.’
‘You should have joined the police. You’re a smart little cookie,’ Neil said, smiling at her.
She went pink. ‘Thanks.’ Then sighed. ‘How has Sean taken it?’
‘Badly, I’m told. They were surprised by how badly. Everyone thought he was a selfish little prat who didn’t care about anyone but himself, but he was badly shaken by hearing his father had been killed.’
‘He probably blames himself. Everything was going so well before Sean had his little fling, killed that girl. And Sean must know it, and feel guilty.’
‘My colleague tells me that the ex-wife has appeared and taken over running the firm with her new husband. I don’t think she’s overwhelmed by grief.’
‘Maybe she did it?’ Miranda grinned at him. ‘I never liked her.’
A year later the trial began in London, at the Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court. Miranda was called to give evidence on the second day, first thing in the morning. She was so nervous she was white and at first she could not bring herself to look at Sean in the dock. She answered the opening questions of the prosecuting counsel, staring at him rather than glancing round the high-ceilinged, panelled room.
When she finally risked a look at Sean she was struck by the changes the last year had made in him. He had lost weight, was pallid, looked much older. Their eyes collided, she quickly looked away, suddenly sorry for him.
The judge asked her a question and she turned to answer, feeling strange. There was a surreal feel to being here, with this judge in a white wig and red gown trimmed with ermine, behind his high chair the blaze of colour from a coat of arms on a shield.
Was that the royal coat of arms? Yes, she thought it was – there were the lion and the unicorn. The old nursery rhyme floated into her head. The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown. The lion beat the unicorn all round the town . . . what did it mean?
There was probably some real historical incident behind the rhyme. There always was. Nursery rhymes were the last remnants of the old street ballads that served the same office as today’s newspapers.
Her mind had wandered; she was brought back to awareness by another question from the prosecutor.
‘Exactly how long would you say it was between the moment when you ran out of that office and when you returned and rang the police?’
She was honest. ‘I have no idea. Half an hour, perhaps, or as much as an hour. I didn’t look at the time. I was too upset.’
The morning wore on interminably. Question and answer, question and answer . . . it was strangely boring as well as very tense. She had to fight a desire to yawn. Yet her nerves were jumping.
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sp; The prosecutor finally stopped asking questions and sat down, but then she had to face the defence counsel.
He decided to start with questions about Tom’s death, about her mental breakdown, her hallucinations. He had her medical reports from that time.
