Free Found Guilty at Five by Ann Purser Page A

lock. But the minute he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he listened hard. No sounds, no footsteps, nothing. He clutched the Matt cartoon book like a talisman, and walked slowly into the kitchen. Everything in order, just as he had left it. He turned and made for the sitting room. His large windows had a view over half of London, and there, standing with his back to him, was a man.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jamie’s voice was shrill with panic.
    The man turned to face him. “Hi, Jamie,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
    *   *   *
    R ELIEF FLOODED THROUGH J AMIE. I T WAS HIS FRIEND FROM WAY back, a violinist who had been at college with him and was now playing in a string quartet based in Manchester. He had shared the flat with Jamie when they were students, and, of course, he still had a key. They had kept in touch with emails and texts, and occasionally met for an evening of catching up.
    “Alan! Wonderful to see you. Forgive my lack of a welcome, but I didn’t recognise the smart suit!”
    “You okay, son?” It had been a joke between them that Alan was a year older and more mature, and had adopted the role of proxy father to Jamie. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
    “No, no, I’m fine. Just not expecting to find someone in the flat. How are you, Alan? Bookings good? Still filling the concert halls in the provinces?”
    “Very much so. Manchester’s a good place these days. Now the Beeb has come to town, I reckon it rivals London. We get the flags of all nations some weeks. You name a country, and I can give you at least three visiting soloists.”
    “Great—now, let’s open a bottle and fix ourselves some food. I assume you’re staying the night? Sofa’s quite comfortable. Goodness, Alan, I am really pleased to see you.”
    So there
was
something wrong, Alan said to himself. He had lived with Jamie long enough to read his face. No doubt he’ll tell all over supper.
    *   *   *
    I T WAS AFTERNOON BY THE TIME A KIKO AND P ARSONS REACHED the tiny village that acted as a dormitory for wealthy tycoons in business in Glasgow. About a couple of miles outside the city boundary, it was placed strategically on a hill, less than a mile from the main road, and with good views of the countryside and impressive new industrial buildings springing up all round. She guessed that Parsons was keen for a conversation and so decided to keep silent. She did not trust him one inch. They turned into a long drive and drove slowly for what seemed like at least another mile. A tall building loomed up, and the car halted outside an arched porch, itself almost as large as a small house.
    The driver got out, walked round to her door and opened it. “Here we are, Miss Akiko. You will be wanting to go straight in to see your father, no doubt. I will see to your case. Just be wary of the new wolfhounds your father has installed.”
    He laughed loudly, and Akiko told him to stop talking nonsense and to take her case indoors at once. She followed him up a flight of stone steps to the door, which now stood open, with a liveried servant waiting.
    “I know the way perfectly, thank you,” Akiko said. “I shall go straight up.” She ascended the wide staircase and knocked at a heavy oak door.
    “Come in, my child,” said a faint, precise voice. She entered and looked round the high-ceilinged, softly lit room. There were dark red velvet curtains and deep matching armchairs, in one of which, well supported by cushions, sat a small tubby man with Asian features. He was very old, but his eyes were young and bright, and when he looked up at her, they twinkled.
    “My precious daughter. How lovely to see you,” he said warmly. “I trust you had a comfortable journey in that dreadful van? Parsons’s idea. We had something of an emergency, and I am sorry it was perhaps a false alarm. The doctor is hopeful, I am glad to