Charles was in his club, waiting. He didn’t mind that he was waiting, because he knew that the woman he was waiting for, was an exceedingly intelligent, in demand type of individual from his old service and she was doing him a favour.
In his jacket pocket he had a cutting taken from the letter that had killed his wife. He wanted his old colleagues to take a look at it, see if they could provide any leads on the poison or indeed the hand writing. The police wouldn’t let him have the whole letter, but after Inspector Deacon had been informed of Charles’ professional career, he had agreed to let him take a small section.
“Charles, so good to see you.”
Charles jumped a little.
“Christ, I didn’t even see you come in Lucy. You must have a bloody tunnel or something!”
Charles stood whilst Lucy sat down.
“Here, I got you your usual.” He said, sliding a large whisky mac across to her.
“Most kind Charles. Now, what is it I can do for you? Got yourself into a spot of trouble?”
“Mmm, someone has murdered my wife, pretending to be a ghost from my old country place.”