Killing Me Softly by Marjorie Eccles Page B

close, not yet. I do know she’s been having an affair, but I have to say, it’s only my intuition that it was with Tim Wishart. We, er, we had lunch together at my place today.’
    He took time to consider what she’d said, noting the slight strain in her voice. ‘You asking to come off the case? Feel you’re too close?’
    â€˜Not unless I’m instructed to. If not, there’ll be no conflict of interest. I can cope.’
    Requesting to be taken off a case was the last thing she needed, career-wise. Plus, a heavy case-load was just what her personal life needed at the moment. The less free time she had to brood, the better.
    â€˜Fair enough, I believe you.’ But watch it, his eyes said. ‘Well, what about him, then, Wishart, what did he do for a living?’
    â€˜He called himself a financier,’ she answered, relieved to have got that out of the way. ‘Also dealt in the property market, I think, but other than that, I don’t yet know. I need to talk to his wife and family, if they’re up to it, or at least with Sam Nash.’
    â€˜Sam and I are old sparring partners, in a manner of speaking. I’d like to come along with you and have a word or two with him before I leave you to get on with it,’ he said, brisk once more. ‘All right?’
    The question was rhetorical, an offer Abigail couldn’t refuse, nor was she expected to. Every inquiry was ultimately the Super’s responsibility, and Mayo was unorthodox in his approach, choosing to be in on some cases more than was strictly necessary by the book. In this instance, Abigail saw his intervention might be useful. A previous acquaintance with Sam Nash, even if it was only through Sam’s position as a past chairman of the police committee, could smooth down a few raised hackles. Though perhaps they met socially as well, for all Abigail knew.
    In this last assumption she was wrong. The two men’s acquaintance had arisen merely through Sam’s service on various community liaison projects, and had never extended to social encounters. But Mayo knew a lot about Sam. He made it his business to learn as much as he could about anyone he was officially associated with, but Sam interested him, anyway.
    The old man had a lot of popular support locally. A member of the town council, he was one of that rare breed who could be relied upon not to put his own interests first. There had been talk of him becoming Mayor at one time, but nothing had come of it. That kind of recognition wasn’t the sort Sam went in for, but he was a force to be reckoned with, however you looked at it: a self-made man who had quietly but relentlessly built up a little empire, a man who cared enough about the town where he’d been born and bred to spend most of his leisure time on council business, and a good deal of his own money on public causes. He was a native of the Holden Hill side of the town, the scruffy end, which in parts still bore ugly scars and grim relics from the Industrial Revolution – the criss-cross of disused canals and redundant railway lines, the subterranean mine workings and claypits that had brought industry to Lavenstock. No one knew their local history better than Sam, or was keener in keeping its traditions alive, but he was also ruthless in his pursuit of a clean-up-and-sanitize campaign for the whole area. Sam didn’t suffer fools gladly but then, neither did Mayo. He had rather a soft spot for the old man.
    â€˜Let’s go and talk to him,’ he said.
    Sam was, for once, looking his age. He’d driven over as soon as he heard the news. He was alone in the big first-floor sitting-room that stretched from front to back of the house when they entered, a wiry, white-haired man of middle height. He turned from where he’d been standing by the window, with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the river.
    The converted mill house was very simply furnished, with