Murder by the Book by Eric Brown

with Donald Langham for tomorrow; she liked the way he had listened to her suggestions earlier today, and had quietly agreed to them. She could not imagine Gideon Martin being that fair-minded.
    And thoughts of Martin made her ask herself if, perhaps, she did not feel a little guilty at the ruse she had played today?
    Then she thought of his arrogance at the party the other evening, and she realized that she felt not the slightest prick of conscience at all.

SEVEN
    L angham sat in his Austin and raised the binoculars, taking in the surrounding countryside and the network of narrow lanes.
    Hallet was a tiny hamlet clinging to a hillside in the folds of the South Downs. One lane meandered through it, leading to the village of Chalford a mile away. From his vantage point, tucked behind a wall at right angles to the lane, and hidden from the sight of any motorist who might approach from the north and London, Langham had a bird’s-eye view of the lane along which Charles was due to drop the money. At this time of day – an hour before the scheduled drop at two – not a soul stirred in the hamlet. Intermittent birdsong filled the air and a herd of Friesians pastured negligently in a nearby field.
    It was a perfect English summer’s day in the country, and Langham felt sick with apprehension.
    He swung the binoculars in the direction of the drop-off point along the lane. The gap in the hedge sprang into view a quarter of a mile away. The gate was open, and the churned mud between the gateposts looked like a muddy goalmouth after a particularly one-sided football match. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Charles’s reaction to the quagmire. It would be just like him to toss the envelope in the general direction of the gatepost and have done.
    He sighted along the lane until he spotted Maria, half a mile further on from the gate. Her maroon Sunbeam saloon was parked on the grass verge, facing him. As planned that morning she had propped open the bonnet and was peering at the revealed engine, ostensibly attempting to repair some imaginary fault. From time to time she straightened up, backhanded hair from her eyes, and looked around.
    If the motorcyclist passed her, she would slam down the bonnet and give chase; if he came from the other direction, passing Langham, then Langham would initiate the pursuit while Maria drove to the gate, turned and duly followed.
    That morning he had mooted the possibility that some passing motorist might take it upon himself to play St Christopher and offer her assistance. Maria had replied promptly, ‘In that case I’ll close the engine and say that I’ve repaired the fault all by myself. How that will astound the superior Englishman!’
    Langham considered a more advantageous scenario, that the blackmailer himself might exhibit contrary altruism and stop to offer his assistance, affording Maria a good look at the man. He thought this unlikely in the circumstances, however.
    As a sop to his nerves, perhaps hoping to impose a sense of normality on the events, Langham had brought along one of the books he was due to review. It sat on the passenger seat beside him, more a talisman of his quiet, bookish life than anything that might be read now as a diversion. It was nine years since he’d worked for Ralph Ryland’s investigative agency – and then most of the work had consisted of trailing suspected unfaithful husbands or wives – and he had to admit that he was out of his depth here. He would much rather write about foiling blackmailers than actually attempting to do so.
    His stomach clenched at the sound of an approaching engine. It was still only one thirty, so Charles would not be passing just yet. Seconds later a battered, mud-splattered tractor grumbled into view, bouncing along the lane. A minute later the vehicle crawled past the gate and approached Maria.
    He raised his binoculars. In the distance Maria saw the tractor, lowered the