Free The Gospel Makers by Anthea Fraser

constantly looking at his watch and then at the door. And he’d no sooner finished one cigarette than he lit up another.’
    Webb nodded. ‘And afterwards, when you’d sorted yourselves out, did Mrs French make any comment about him?’
    ‘Only in apologizing for her mistake.’
    ‘Did you notice if this gentleman’s friends arrived later?’
    ‘I can’t say I did. As soon as we embarked on our business discussion, I forgot about him.’
    ‘What time was your appointment with Mrs French, sir?’
    ‘Twelve-thirty,’ Derringer replied promptly, ‘but she was at least fifteen minutes late.’
    At last they had that tied down.
    ‘Was the other gentleman here when you arrived?’
    ‘No. I can be sure of that because I was keeping an eye open for Mrs French and saw him arrive.’
    ‘What time would that have been?’
    ‘About twelve-forty, I’d say.’
    Mention of time had reminded Derringer of its passing and he glanced at his watch. ‘Look, there really is nothing else I can tell you, Chief Inspector. Naturally I’m sorry about the death, but there it is. If you want to see Mrs French, the premises are in East Parade, though I doubt if she can help you. Now you really must excuse me.’
    Webb let him go; his home address and further details would be noted during a routine interview later.
    ‘East Parade,’ Jackson commented. ‘Very up-market.’
    ‘And just across the road. Things are under way here so we might as well call on the lady and see what she can tell us about the elusive Mr K.’
    *
    French Furnishings was three doors down from Randall Tovey’s, the exclusive store which itself had been caught up in violent death a few months previously. The window display was arresting — delicate chairs, an antique chest spilling out brilliantly coloured fabrics, and interestingly shaped vases grouped on an oriental rug. An indication, no doubt, of the comprehensiveness of the service offered.
    Webb pushed open the door, and when a girl approached them, asked for the proprietor.
    ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’
    ‘No.’ He held up his warrant card. ‘DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, Shillingham CID.’
    She looked startled. ‘Mrs French is on the phone, sir. Would you mind waiting a moment?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    Webb stood happily enough, looking about him and soaking up atmosphere. The barman had described a glamour-girl, but it seemed she was an astute businesswoman. There was constant activity around him as customers compared curtain fabrics, examined delicate lamps, or moved about with cumbersome books of wallpaper, and the assistants were bustling in and out with swatches of material and order books.
    Alcoves around the perimeter had been decorated as sections of, respectively, a bedroom, a sitting-room and a dining area, each displaying a flair which appealed to Webb’s artistic sensibilities. It certainly seemed a flourishing business, and he was looking forward to meeting its owner.
    The phone behind the till rang and the girl beckoned them, leading them to a panelled door at one side of the display area. She tapped on it and stepped aside for them to enter.
    Christina came round the side of the desk to greet them, and it was obvious the barman had not exaggerated her attractions. She was not, however, the girl Webb had half-expected, but a woman in her forties, mature and self-confident. Ash-blonde hair hung in a straight silken curtain to the level of her chin and her long, almond-shaped eyes were sea-green. She wore her designer clothes with the careless grace of a model, the knee-length skirt revealing a pair of long, slender legs. Jackson reminded himself that he was a married man and averted his eyes.
    ‘This is most intriguing, Chief Inspector. How can I help you?’
    ‘I believe, Mrs French, that you had a lunch appointment at the King’s Head yesterday?’
    ‘Dear me!’ she said mockingly. ‘Is Big Brother watching me?’
    ‘And,’ Webb continued, ‘that in the first