Stealth Read Free

pseudonym: his real identity I had not been able to discover and he had used several in the past, under one of which he had served three years for GBH – grievous bodily harm. I had not read any of his books but they were, I understood, very realistic, or ‘gritty’, as they say in the trade.
    Patrick broke into my thoughts. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to connect her neighbour with the death.’
    â€˜Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?’ I snapped. ‘He was probably in Bermuda at the time.’
    â€˜Skiing with the family at Klosters, actually.’
    â€˜You were feeling down last night?’ I said after a short silence.
    â€˜Yes, sorry.’
    â€˜Patrick—’
    â€˜Yes, I know. I shall have to get over it soon or go and see a shrink.’
    After a longish silence, I said, ‘What does Greenway want you to do now?’
    â€˜About Miss Smythe? Nothing for the moment. The Met’s on the case and we’ll get the info when we return. We’re to drop the travelling separately bit and I’m to move in with you. He doesn’t like the look of this crime writer he’s asked you to watch and wants me to keep a closer eye on you in view of what’s happened. You do seem to have the knack of stirring up mobsters in general.’
    I took that as a compliment.
    Miss Smythe had mentioned Hamlyn, spotting him at dusk one summer’s evening staggering drunk and urinating against a tree in her neighbours’ garden during a party, which, judging by loud music and the sound of cars revving late at night, they gave quite often. She had recognized him only because she had seen him on TV the previous week taking part in a books programme talking about his latest publication, a crime novel set in wartime London that included a murder that had taken place in Richmond, not far from where she lived. It was soon to be dramatized for television. This, I thought, could have made an elderly lady feel uneasy, imagining him loping the streets near her house to get the feel of the location. Hamlyn was a giant of a man with a deep, booming voice, a mane of black hair and an eye that was half closed by a scar across his face as a result of a car crash some years previously. Someone, another author, had once said to me, waspishly, that his grim looks alone probably sold thousands of copies of his work and the man seemed to be aware of this and played on it.
    His revolting social lapse had not been the sole reason for Rosemary Smythe bringing him to SOCA’s attention, although she had seemed to know about his criminal record. She had already reported that he was a frequent visitor to the house next door and usually arrived with a woman, possibly his girlfriend, who she recognized from the television news as a councillor in another London borough who had been suspended during an investigation into allegations of expenses fraud and irregularities concerning council contracts. No, later that same day, after it had got quite dark and she was watching the house through binoculars from the tree house she had seen several men including, she was sure, Hamlyn, in what she had an idea was Hereward Trent’s study, handling weapons: handguns, she thought. As if feeling an outsider’s gaze on them, someone had wrenched the curtains across the window.
    I said, ‘I only know the main details of what Miss Smythe wrote as I read a heavily edited version. How many letters were there?’
    â€˜At least a dozen,’ Patrick replied. ‘We do need to look at them in detail. Have you spotted Hamlyn yet?’
    â€˜No. Perhaps he’s having his meals in his room. Does Mike really think he’s going to make contact with one of the Met’s Most Wanted hiding here in the South of France?’
    â€˜He was linked with a gang when he did time when the boss was a bloke calling himself Cat Danny on account of his burglary days. Danny went on to specialize in