The Blood Diamond by John Creasey

plenty of nerve – as much as Marjorie; two little actresses in their own right.
    Bristow said: ‘I’m sorry, Miss Addel, but we shall have to ask you and your sister-in-law to wait here, while we look round.’ He spoke from the window, which he’d pushed open. ‘May I have the keys or is the storeroom open?’
    â€˜It’s locked.’ Marjorie pointed to the desk. ‘The keys are in the second drawer.’
    â€˜What right—’ began Zara.
    â€˜Zara, don’t be difficult, he’s a policeman.’
    Zara whipped round her. ‘They have no right to search here!’ The two spots of colour were livid; they looked as if they hurt her, and her eyes were like glass. Nothing that was found was likely to surprise her.
    â€˜Please do just what you think is necessary,’ Marjorie said.
    â€˜Thank you.’ Bristow took out the keys and slammed the desk door shut. He climbed out through the window, and Tring followed. A detective-sergeant stood in the office doorway, blank-faced.
    â€˜Mannering,’ Bristow called.
    â€˜Coming, sir.’
    â€˜You needn’t come out here,’ Bristow said, at the window. He kept his voice low, so that the women could not hear. ‘What put you on to this?’
    â€˜I’ve shown you.’
    â€˜Did you break in?’
    â€˜I was asked to wait in here and got as far as the yard, then sweet Marjorie arrived. So I had to show myself. I’d have liked another half hour alone.’
    â€˜What has she had to say for herself?’
    â€˜A lot of hysterical nonsense.’
    â€˜I mean Miss Addel.’
    â€˜So do I.’
    â€˜Not much hysteria about her,’ said Bristow. ‘Don’t talk to either of them.’
    â€˜No, sir,’ said Mannering, humbly.
    Tring was at the workroom door, trying the keys. Mannering drew back. Inside, Marjorie was calmness itself; a remarkable change, unless she was a practised Circe. She joined her sister-in-law, who couldn’t keep still, and kept talking about angry customers and ruin; the red spots didn’t fade.
    Marjorie said little.
    Now and again, the men in the shop called to someone outside. Inside, the waiting was getting on the women’s nerves. Marjorie began to show it and looked as if the other’s agitation worried her. She didn’t once try to speak to Mannering.
    He felt the nervous tension, went to the window and looked out.
    Bristow appeared; a pale-faced Bristow, who strode across the yard.
    â€˜Have you seen it, Mannering?’
    â€˜Seen what?’
    â€˜Never mind. Let me come in.’ Bristow climbed through and stood watching the woman. Zara leaned against the desk, as if she would fall, but Bristow concentrated on Marjorie Addel.
    â€˜Well?’ he barked.
    â€˜Will you tell me what all this mystery is about?’ cried Marjorie. ‘It’s driving me crazy.’
    â€˜Will you tell me what a murdered man is doing in your workroom?’
    Zara screamed: ‘No!’
    â€˜Murdered,’ echoed Marjorie. Was that trick of repeating a word deliberately used to gain time? ‘A murdered man. I don’t—I don’t understand. I—it’s not true. It can’t be true!’
    Bristow said: ‘How well did you know Arthur Bray?’
    â€˜Bray?’ Her voice sounded blank.
    Zara groped along the desk, reached the chair and sat down. Bristow didn’t seem to notice her, but little missed him.
    He said: ‘Come with me, Miss Addel, please.’
    â€˜Why? Where?’
    â€˜To see the man.’
    Was Bristow persuaded that she knew more than her sister-in-law. The old trick of confronting a suspect with the body often worked, but why not try it on the two of them?
    Marjorie said: ‘Very well.’
    She didn’t lack nerve; she wasn’t so naive now. Was this the cunning of desperation, had the threat of danger to her Paul sharpened her wits?
    She went out, through