‘Donald Empson’s car,’ she told him. ‘I need its details.’

‘Hang on, I’ll start a fresh list…’ She could hear Bob sighing as he made a note to himself. ‘Will that be all?’

‘Not quite. George Renshaw has just done a runner on me.’

‘I’ll put the word out. Seems to me we might need some extra help.’

‘I’ll take it up with the boss.’

‘You think Gorgeous George had Raymond killed?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

‘With Don Empson pointing the gun? Or the nephew maybe?’

Jane didn’t answer. She had reached in through a broken window and removed the Bentley’s ignition key. Walking to the back of the car, she took a deep breath before unlocking the boot. It was empty. No visible traces of blood, and none that she could see on the steering wheel or either of the front seats. In fact, recent damage aside, it was pristine. Yet the shooter had lost blood, hadn’t he? And Empson had sported no injuries when he’d been taken to the police station. Then there was the graveyard, the man called Gravy and his bed not slept in.

It didn’t add up.

‘Just tell forensics to get a move on,’ she said into the phone.

Chapter Eight. Gravy’s Story (3)

I liked the room. It was so clean, I almost didn’t want to touch anything. After all, none of it really belonged to me. Celine was different. She was wearing the white robe from the bathroom and a pair of white slippers. She’d used the shower and opened the minibar. Not that we were sharing a room, mind! Separate rooms, but with a door between them. Adjoining rooms, the woman on the desk downstairs had said. This was ‘one of the capital’s most deluxe hotels’. It had a swimming pool and something called a spa.