Heaven's Light by Graham Hurley Page B

staircase, ready for the off. He reached past Liz for the jacket he’d left on the back of a chair. She had a second cup in her hand. She was looking surprised.
    ‘You’re going?’
    ‘Fraid so.’
    ‘No time for tea?’
    Charlie bent to kiss her, shaking his head. Liz tilted her face, catching his hand, giving it a little squeeze, telling himhe was welcome back any time. Hayden would love to see him. She knew he would.
    Charlie heard the beep of the taxi’s horn in the street outside. ‘Fuck Hayden,’ he murmured, heading for the stairs.

Chapter Four
    Barnaby stood at the window of his office, inspecting the long black Daimler double-parked in the street outside. Already the traffic was backed up towards the one-way system while the driver of the Daimler – a short, stocky Chinese – helped an older man out of the back. He, too, looked Chinese and Barnaby checked the name of the afternoon’s appointment list as the two men below squeezed between the row of parked cars and made for the office door. Raymond Zhu rang no bells. Barnaby knew perhaps half a dozen Chinese in the city, men who ran restaurants and takeaways and the odd speciality food store, but none was called Zhu.
    He slipped behind the desk, reaching for a fresh pad, wondering vaguely whether Mr Zhu might be bringing any work with him. Most of his business with the city’s immigrant population was commercial. The domestic stuff – wills, probate, conveyancing – they tended to keep close to their chests, using family networks, but the Chinese were born entrepreneurs and whatever legal help they needed was almost entirely connected to their passion for establishing new enterprises. Barnaby would never make his fortune arranging commercial mortgages or applying to the magistrates for a liquor licence, but he had a healthy respectfor these people. They worked bloody hard for their money and one or two of the city’s Chinese restaurants offered food as good as Barnaby had ever tasted.
    Hearing a soft knock on the door, Barnaby got to his feet. The door was an inch or two ajar but when he called, ‘Come in,’ nothing happened. He crossed the room. The older of the two Chinese he’d seen in the street was standing outside in the corridor. His tunic jacket was buttoned to the neck and a pair of baggy trousers hung limply on his thin frame. He had a high forehead and a receding chin and his face carried an expression of mild detachment. Unlike the other Chinese Barnaby knew, he looked slightly bookish, a man born not to commerce but to something infinitely more academic.
    ‘Mr Zhu?’
    The Chinese accepted Barnaby’s handshake. He spoke English with great care and a certain gravity, which made him sound slightly old-fashioned. He was pleased to meet with Mr Barnaby. He’d heard some excellent reports. Unused to such a formal compliment, Barnaby found himself offering Zhu a tiny inclination of the head, almost a bow, which rather surprised him. In a matter of seconds, Zhu had set the social tone. At this rate, they’d spend the rest of the afternoon swopping courtesies.
    He stepped back into the office, inviting Zhu to take a seat. Zhu declined his offer of tea or coffee and Barnaby reached for the intercom. He told his secretary they wouldn’t need refreshments, studying Zhu while the Chinese examined the plaster rose on the ceiling. There were liver spots high on both temples but the rest of his face betrayed nothing about his age. No wrinkles, no laugh lines, nothing obvious to indicate the passage of time.
    Zhu began to talk about a hotel. It was called theImperial. Barnaby nodded. ‘It’s on the seafront,’ he said at once, ‘big old place.’
    ‘Are you familiar with it at all?’
    Barnaby hesitated before replying. The Imperial had fallen on hard times. Inside and out the building was a wreck.
    ‘Are you thinking of staying there, Mr Zhu? Only I could possibly recommend something a little more suitable.’
    Zhu produced a silver