Free The Edge by Clare Curzon Page A

television news available at weekends. Relaxing on Sunday with a few fingers of single malt following an abortive visit to his golf club where the fairways were still unfit for play after Friday night’s country-wide storm, he’d been shocked out of his recliner. Incredulous and almost distraught, he had immediately contacted Thames Valley police and had the story confirmed.
    â€˜Look, what can I do?’ he demanded. ‘Freddie was the business head, the money man. Our functions were quite separate. Do I try to carry on, or what? Sorry to harp on about the works, but they won’t run themselves. Poor old Freddie. My God, I still can’t believe it. Who’d do a thing like that to him? And the whole family wiped out, you say? Must have been a madman.
    â€˜Eh, what? No, Chief Inspector, I can’t just drop everything and come running. There’s a consignment of steel due in at the docks tomorrow. God knows what kind of cock-up they’d make of it if I wasn’t there to oversee.
    â€˜No, the delivery can’t be put off. There’d be storage charges and Finance’d go mad at the extra expense. We’re a small operation and run a tight ship, as Freddie always said …
    â€˜Freddie …poor old sod; I just can’t believe he’s gone.’
    Voices on the other end of the line had been switched. ‘Mr Fallon, this is Superintendent Yeadings. I do understand what a terrible shock this has been for you, a colleague and friend to Mr Hoad. But we desperately need all information we can turn up on his background, both personal and professional. Who is in a
better position to help us than you? The first few days of any murder investigation are of vital importance, so please sleep on our urgent request overnight. If you still find yourself unable to come here tomorrow I will send a CID officer to interview you at your home.’
    Fallon complied. It didn’t suit him to have police disturbing his domestic arrangements. He rang half an hour later to announce he’d made alternative arrangements for tomorrow’s delivery and was already on his way.
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    Z, returning from her caravan lunch (garlic button mushrooms followed by a shared cheese and chives omelette; coffee, but no dessert), found the visitor in conference with Salmon and the Boss. Yeadings broke off to introduce her.
    â€˜Miss Zyczynski is one of my CID sergeants concentrating on this case. How did you get on at the Manor, Z?’
    â€˜Mrs Hoad’s mother is taking it well, sir. She asks permission to employ professional cleaners, if SOCO have finished. I told her about the specialist team we sometimes use. She appeared unfazed by what she saw, but we didn’t get as far as the stables. I felt the house was enough for the present. She intends catching up on lost sleep this afternoon.’
    â€˜Good. I want you to keep in touch with her.’
    â€˜It’s too soon to dismantle the scene,’ Salmon objected.
    â€˜We shan’t until everything’s covered. We can discuss that later. I’ll let you know, Z. Thank you. That’s all.’
    She left and went in search of Beaumont who’d almost certainly be stealing a march on her.
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    â€˜Mr Fallon, just a few personal details, if you don’t mind,’ Yeadings continued.
    â€˜Bertie. Everyone calls me Bertie, Superintendent.’
    â€˜For the record, that would be Bertram?’
    Fallon’s fair skin flushed. ‘Norbert, actually. My mum’s French.’
    He gave his age as forty-nine but looked considerably younger, being round-faced with a boyish manner. Yeadings could recall
meeting only one man who’d had such ingenuous, wide-open blue eyes, and he’d been a mass rapist.
    â€˜When was the last time you saw Mr Hoad?’ he asked.
    â€˜In person, that’d be a good fortnight back. More, maybe. But I briefly saw him Friday on my video-phone. We keep in touch that way and I