Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Villages

“Frankly Sam, I didn’t think I’d be up to my neck in murder and unexplained killings in the space of a week: in Tottenham yes, but not here.” Inspector Able was always contrasting Haywards Heath with his previous job in the Big Smoke. “A Near decapitation and strangulation – not what you’d call the daily fare here.” DI Able and Dr Samuel Josephs often met up for a couple of pints in the Sergison Arms just across from the station. “Not unexplained, Linda Parfitt was definitely murdered, and not in a nice way.” Replied Sam. “She was slowly choked, the bruising and the way her thorax was repeatedly crushed is the indication.” “But Sam you also said she could have been a “gasper”, deliberately allowing herself to be strangled so as to heighten her orgasm.” Realising that drinkers on the next table were looking rather uncomfortable, Mike Able turned to them and explained “Sorry, business talk.” Dr Josephs replied, “It might have started out like that but that’s not how it ended. There were signs of a considerable struggle. The manacles on her wrists and ankles left deep cuts and abrasions. That would have been very painful; not something she’d have willingly endured I’m certain. No I think she was repeatedly strangled, each time more violently. She must have been petrified poor woman.”

“And what about our Mr Hinkley of Nutley?” “Oh that’s straight forward. Someone with considerable strength used a long, sharp sword to almost decapitate the poor fellow. If I was a gambling man I’d say it had a touch of ritual slaughter about: Bit like slitting the throat of an animal to let it bleed out – purification – that sort of thing.” The table next to them was by now vacated.

“Another?” asked Inspector Able, “Thanks, a pint of the IPA; and some plain crisps. Lunch was skipped today.” Returning with the beers Mike queried “You confirmed that the pruning knife in the garden shed wasn’t the murder weapon?” “Yes, it would have left a jagged wound; also there was no evidence of blood on the blade or of the knife being recently cleaned. The blade used was extremely sharp.” “A cut throat razor?” queried the officer. “Could be, but I bet it’s something more elaborate than that.” “I’ve got half the force on their hands and knees looking for the bugger.” Grumbled the DI. They supped thoughtfully on their ale.


When she discovered that the first message on the deceased phone was that of his older brother John Hinkley, DC Fell decided that rather than phone, she’d call on him personally. Given the circs she thought that would be best.

John Hinkley lived in Brighton (well Hove actually) in Brunswick Terrace, just off Kingsway: a delightful and expensive part of the town, with large houses built in the late 1820s. Two bed flats were selling for around £1 million!

She realised she hadn’t properly thought this through when John Hinkley answered the intercom. “Mr Hinkley, Mr John Hinkley, my name is Detective Constable Emily Fell from Haywards Heath police…I’m…here…about…your brother Michael.” Mr Hinkley was immediately suspicious. “Yes, and what about Michael?” What could she say; she needed to be face to face to break the news – not over an intercom. “It’s important that I speak to you, will you let me up please?” There was quite a delay, when she thought she’d blown it, and then there was a buzz as the door catch was released and she entered the common hallway. “I’m on the first floor.” the intercom stuttered.

“Come in, DC Fell is it?” The voice belonged to a man in his mid forties; he was spare, with a shaven head and an alarmingly deep tan. He invited her into an airy, high ceilinged lounge. Large french windows opened on to a balcony which looked out over the large grassy square. The room was furnished tastefully. “This is not cheap.” thought Emily as she lowered herself onto a Scandinavian styled sofa. “You’ve caught me unawares, just packing. Now what is it about Michael?”

It was the hardest thing she had had to do. She should not have been so gung ho. When she told DI Able that the first call was from Hinkley’s brother, he was concerned. “I better handle this one.” He said, But she was insistent, she could handle it; anyway it would be better coming from a woman. So he let her do it. How she now wished he’d put his foot down.

Michael Hinkley’s brother said nothing; just sat there staring at her. Suddenly he got up and paced around the lounge. “Would you like a coffee, or something stronger, no of course not you’re on duty how silly of me. How did he die?”

She gave him as little detail as she could get away with. It was clear that his brother had been murdered, in his own home some time during last Friday. “Was he dead when I phoned in the morning?” He asked. She replied that as yet the actual time of death hadn’t been fixed. She asked “Why did you phone your brother?”

Anger flashed in his eyes and then incongruously he asked how she took her coffee. He went into the kitchen next door. She watched him prepare the drink. There in the central isle of the kitchen was a fully fledged Italian coffee machine. She was impressed. He came back with two cups of deliciously smelling beverage “It’s Gesha, from Panama: it’s my business coffee that is.” “He’s my brother…was, we do that phone each other, that’s what brother’s do. How’s your coffee?” She could honestly say she had never tasted anything so delicious. “But you wanted to talk to him before he left for Brazil, was there something special or important you wanted to discuss? Your call suggested that.”

“Ms Fell or should I address you as DC Fell, my brother was leaving the UK I thought for good. I believed he’d made a mistake. He has a good business here in the theatrical world. He was well liked by his peers, he appeared to be settled and then out of the blue he’s off to Sao Paulo. Do you know Sao Paulo?” “No” she replied. “I was concerned, I didn’t want him to go. That was all.”

She couldn’t think of much else to ask, except whether the brother had any enemies. “No, in his line of work, representing artists there’s some jealousy but that doesn’t run to murder. As I said he was well liked.” She finished her coffee and put down her cup. “Mr Hinkley, thank you. Please accept my sympathy for your loss.” She cringed inwardly as she said that. “Thank you. What happens next?” he asked. She explained that there’d have to be a post mortem, and that they’d continue with their investigations. The body would be released in due course. “You said you were going away...” She left the question hanging. “It was only for a few days – a break. Not sure I’ll be taking it now.”

He showed her to the door. As she extended her hand to shake his she asked. “Mr Hinkley, can you explain why, if your brother was going away, there was no sign of any preparation at his home. She thought she noticed a hint of a smile as he answered. “No idea, but he did tend to leave things to the last minute.”

“That coffee was special. What was it called “Gesha”? The flat was pretty nice and that coffee machine. He took the news of his brother’s murder well: a bit too well? I’m sure he was holding back something, but what?” With that Emily started her car and at the bottom of Brunswick Terrace turned left and headed along the seafront into Brighton proper. She turned on the radio. “Haywards Heath police make an arrest in the case of the murder of Linda Pariff, well known actress whose mutilated body was found last week. Detective Inspector Able told our reporter that it was a particularly nasty crime and thanked the public for all their help..”

“Actor, she’s an actor: there’s no distinction in the sexes these days. You’d have thought BBC Radio Brighton would know that.” She was heading along Preston Road, past Preston Park, with its neat houses and shops overlooking the open space. Even though it was late November, there was plenty of green, with large, imposing houses with large gardens bounding the A23. “So much open space.” She thought as she went past Withdean Park. Even the large 1930’s flats were set back from the road with beautifully manicured gardens softening their stark form. Then she was on the London Road after the Patcham by Pass and into open countryside.

As a kid she’d go to Brighton on days out with her parents. They’d drive down from Streatham, spend a day on the beach and go on the Pier. She really liked the feel of the place and thought she’d like to go to University there. Instead, she joined the police after a less than happy time at Newcastle studying Archaeology. She thought that’s why she was attracted to the police force – bodies, forensic work and uncovering clues, sifting through piles of facts – just like being a bone hunter. There was nothing wrong with the subject, nothing wrong with Newcastle: in fact there was a lot right about that city. It was the relationship she found herself in at uni. It wasn’t good and it lasted the whole of her time there. Now she can’t understand how she put up with it. Anyway, as soon as she’d finished her finals she was off and headed back to London, a year forgetting that relationship and looking for work. Now she was settled, in a job she loved, working with one of the nicest of men. Inspector Able – why was he so lonely?

DI Able had traced the call on the Monday before Michael Hinkley’s death to an address in Surbition. Anna Eton was in when he called. She was surprised when he introduced himself as a police officer. She invited him in.

He explained the purpose of his visit and expressed his condolences. She looked rather shocked at the news: picked up a packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece and tried hard to bring her lighter and cigarette together. “Oh fuck it!” and the lighter fell from her hand and the cigarette from her ruby red lips.

She was an extremely attractive woman thought the DI. Why is he now surrounded by such desirable females – he immediately scalded himself for such a thought in the current tragic circumstances. He quickly bent down and picking up the lighter ignited it and handed her the cigarette. She leaned forward and taking his hand with the lighter managed to flame the weed.

“Thanks, sorry to be so useless” she said as she sat down opposite him. “How did he die?” she asked. “I’m afraid he was murdered.” She let out a shrill “No!” “When?” “Yesterday” replied the inspector. He continued “I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions, are you alright to talk about Mr Hinkley now – or I can come back another time.”

She was silent for a while. Was she thinking what would she do after he’d left and she was on her own? He’d hate to be in such a situation. “No, he’s dead – the pain will not lessen so ask away, Inspector.” She looked so vulnerable just then…and so beautiful. She crossed her ankles and placed her hands in her lap. She let a tear fall onto her cheek and gently brushed it away with the back of her hand. DI Able could have sworn he was in a 40s Film Noir.

“Last Monday you left a message on Mr Hinkley’s answer phone.” “Yes, I did.I had some good news for him. My husband had agreed to the divorce: it had been up in the air for a while and as Michael and I were planning a life together in Brazil, it made matters much less complex.”

“So, Mr Hinkley was to sell up and move to Sao Paulo?” asked the Inspector. “Yes, of course, he’d got this place thorough a contact of his brother’s and planned all the details. The move, the changes we were to make to the place, what we’d do when we were in Brazil – that sort of thing.”

DI Able was writing furiously. He looked up from his note pad. “Had his place been sold?”

“I should say so. He got a great price. It would give us some much needed working capital. I didn’t think I’d get much out of any divorce settlement.” Mrs Eton lit another cigarette: this time without assistance.

“And your husband, how is he taking the divorce?”

“No Inspector, my husband would not have killed Michael. He would have no reason to. We’d agreed the divorce – he’d accepted that it was over between the two of us. Thankfully he’d moved on.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr Hinkley?” The Inspector asked more in hope than expectation.

He thought she would never answer. She drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. That startled him – did people still do that? She flicked the ash from the tip of her cigarette into an empty cup and took another deep drag. As she exhaled the smoke mixed with her long hair and the morning sun created a halo effect. “Veronica Lake or what.” he thought.

“I don’t think so. They’re not all angels in his line of work: lots of egos, people with very thin skins, all believing they were entitled. But someone who’d want to kill him? Well there was one occasion. We were at a do, some award ceremony or other and he’d got into conversation with a fellow agent. I don’t know what happened but in no time it turned into an ugly scene. I had to drag Mike away, but not before the other person threatened him. He told Mike to watch his back. I asked Mike what it was about, but he dismissed it saying it was some misunderstanding over the treatment of one of the other agent’s clients. At the time I thought it was quite a misunderstanding.”

“Who was the agent?” Asked the Inspector.

“Archie Frost, but he died a couple of years ago.”

“Do you know who was the artist they were arguing over?”

“Now that’s strange, it was Linda Parfitt, the actress that was murdered recently.”
‘Actor…we don’t say actress these days.” The Inspector muttered under his breath.

That interview had given the Inspector much to mull over. Could the two killings be connected in some way? And if as the gorgeous Mrs Eton had said Michael Hinkley had sold the house, who to? He also would have to find an excuse or two to call on her again.


“Good work, Michael, making an arrest so soon after the murder. It was a pretty nasty business and an early arrest reassures “Joe Public”. How’s your very attractive DC doing?” The Chief Inspector always asked after Emily whenever he was in conversation with her DI. He’d find the flimsiest excuse to “pop in” to see how she was shaping up.”Thank you, Sir. Can’t claim too much credit, the guy handed himself in and confessed. It’s not watertight but we have enough to hold him.” “Haven’t seen DC Fell recently. How is she doing?” “Fine Sir, she’s working on the Hinkley case.” “G..o..o..d, fine young officer.” Was the Chief Inspector’s observation as he left the DI’s office.

The suspect in question was a 49 year old boiler engineer and self confessed groupie of Linda Parfitt. Peter Boyes had presented himself at the Hassocks police station shortly after the actor’s body was found. “I think you’re looking for me.” He told the desk officer. “I killed her.”

At the Haywards Heath police station Peter Boyes repeated the claim that he’d killed Ms Parfitt. “I met her at one of her personal appearances, she was at some sort of charity do – Cancer Relief I think it was. Anyway, we got chatting. Surprised me really, she came on to me like I was someone special. After the do, we met up and went for a meal and then went our separate ways but not before we’d exchanged mobile numbers.” Boyes provided dates and location which checked out. “ I thought that was that, but a couple of weeks later I got this call from her – out of the blue. She’d like to meet up again. Would I fancy a day out down at her place in Sussex?” “When was that?” asked the DI. “A couple of weeks ago, late October, she said she was in between jobs. Anyway, we arranged that I’d go down at the beginning of November. Which I did.”

DI Able thought he was dealing with a fantasist. Why would an extremely attractive and wealthy star have anything to do with a rather, let’s be honest, ordinary boiler engineer. The Inspector’s doubt must have been obvious. “You don’t believe me, you’re wondering what a lovely woman like that would want with someone like me. You’re asking the same questions I asked myself…but she insisted. She picked me up at the station, Haywards Heath and drove to her place.

Maybe he was telling the truth, his phone had her number stored and the mobile call records showed that calls were made to him and he’d called her. It was, however, difficult to believe that she’d come on to him.

“So she invited you over to her place, picked you up at the station and…?” The Inspector paused, he would have liked DC Fells to have been there with him to witness his interrogation technique, but she was in Brighton chasing up the second murder victim’s brother. “…Well what happened after you arrived at her place?”

The suspect Boyes blushed. “Nothing, she offered me a drink and we sat in her living room and talked, mainly about her career, who she’d acted with, who her friends were. She was lonely, that’s what she told me. She said she could trust me, ‘cause I was ordinary, Mr “Joe Public” she called me. I said I thought she was fabulous, that I’d followed her “star” right from her early days and that she had a lovely home. I don’t know why I said that – it was special, all cosy and warm – and she started to cry. She said that was a lovely thing to say. I didn’t want her crying - not with me, not in her house. So I put my arms around her and kissed her gently on her forehead. I apologised immediately but she kissed me in return on my lips.

It all went crazy after that. Next thing we’re in her bed and the sex was really rough. I mean I’ve never before been asked to chain up someone or half chock them. She said it was the only way she could get aroused and cum. I freaked out, having weird sex with this woman. I don’t know how long we were at it.

I woke up in the morning. She was lying next to me motionless. I shook her but she didn’t respond. I thought she was dead and I’d killed her. I was really scared I dressed and left: after I cleaned up; you know wiping down all the surfaces, the bottles of wine and glasses. When I heard about it all on the news I didn’t know what to do. After a while I decided it was best if I handed myself in. That’s it.”

DI Able would have loved Peter Boyes to have been the killer: but he wasn’t. He wasn’t a fantasist either. Besides the record of the phone calls between him and the victim, there was CCTV footage of him at the station being met by Miss Linda. There were his finger prints all over the house, despite his efforts to erase them. What he had told the Inspector was true, but he hadn’t killed her. He’d had sex with her, the DNA analysis confirmed that. The trouble was his weren’t the only traces of semen found. There was a second male involved. Either Mr Boyes was being extremely economical with the truth (unlikely) or else Ms Linda had entertained another visitor – the murderer. A singularly sadistic killer who may have already killed again.

“He could have killed her, that Boyes character.” Emily was settling down with her PC boyfriend at her flat just outside Hassocks a few miles south of Haywards Heath. “I know it sounds gross, but couldn’t someone else have got in and had sex with her – dead.” “Dave, that doesn’t sound gross, it is.” Saying that Emily pulled a face and got up from the sofa. “Anyway, the post mortem was clear she was alive during the two sexual encounters. Our boiler engineer isn’t a killer”

Emily wasn’t at all sure why she was going steady with Dave. Sex was good with him and he was tall, beefy and handsome, but he was a bit of a dork. She might have to ditch him soon, he was beginning to really grate. But not now she had too much on her mind – the Michael Hinkley murder. He must have read her mind. “How’s it going?” he asked.


“The interview with the brother didn’t get us much further, but I had the sense that he was holding back. I don’t know, it was as if there was a shadowy figure in the background not willing or able to move into the light.” “Do you want a top up.” Asked her boyfriend. “Sure.” As she handed him her glass she said “Now, the talk with that estate agent Peter Shore of Distant Shores was quite strange.” “In what way?” asked Dave.

DC Fell had made herself known to the sergeant at Liverpool Street police station in the City of London and had pencilled in a couple of hours of shopping after her interview with Mr Shore who owned the estate agents. “Quite a character is our Mr Shore; been in the area ages." She was informed by the station sergeant. "Nice enough fellow, but isn’t much liked by the other business owners in the area. You’ll see why when you visit him. “

“He’s an estate agent, isn’t he? He was involved in a property transaction with the victim who was buying something in Brazil.”The DC handed over a promotional booklet of the development in Sao Paulo which had been found amongst Mr Hinkley’s papers. “Amongst other things.” Replied the sergeant. “”Distant Shores” is taken from a LP – you know what they are? – of the same name. It was recorded by a duo called “Chad and Jeremy” in 1966. That was the year Peter Shore’s father opened the specialist coffee shop here. Ask anyone who was around then and they’d tell you about the aroma that pervaded the area. They roasted the beans on the premises. Anyway, Peter took over the business when the old man retired about 20 years ago. He continued in the coffee trade, and because of that often went overseas on buying trips. It was then that he got the taste for the property market: buying up stuff in the places he visited. About 10 years ago he sold on the coffee business, but not the shop, to concentrate on residential property overseas.”

After that briefing she went off to keep her appointment with Mr Shore. Distant Shores Estates had a small office in Brushfield Street, opposite the old Spitalfields Market in the City of London. Spitalfield had smartened up over the years, the market was full of restaurants and expensive boutiques. The area, once dirty and decidedly down at heel was now rather smart and chic. Not so the dingy, small office that housed the estate agents. Its windows were dirty, its front door battered and bashed, and the shop interior dark and uninviting. “Interesting.” Thought Emily, “Looks completely out of place here.” Before entering she looked in through the shop window. Behind a large desk, half hidden by a large computer screen sat a largish bald man in his late 60’s. “God, even the computer is ancient. Oh well here goes!”

As she opened the door to the shop the large man behind the desk stood up. “Detective Constable; what a pleasure.” It was with some difficulty he navigated his large frame around the desk as he extended his hand to Emily. “Tragic, quite tragic, I will of course do all I can to help. I thought you might fancy a bite of lunch – there’s a delightful restaurant a few minutes walk from here. So much nicer than this rather down at heel office don’t you agree?”

Emily had no time to reply for he’d opened the door and was ushering her out into the street before she realised what was happening. “How was your journey – from Haywards Heath wasn’t it? Lovely part of the country, I know mid Sussex quite well. I expect Sargeant Thomas filled you in with our history – he and I are great friends. So reassuring having a police station on one’s door step, so to speak.”

For a large man Mr Shore walked quickly: almost as quickly as he talked. In no time they were outside “Ottolenghi Spitalfield”. As they entered a waiter greeted them “Roger, a quiet table for two if you please.” “Certainly, Mr Shore, would you come this way please.” The waiter showed them to a table well away from the kitchen or the toilets.

“Sit down my dear don’t stand on ceremony.” He drew back the chair as Emily lowered herself into it. He then gently pushed her in and having satisfied himself that she was comfortable, slowly lowered his largish posterior onto a frail looking chair. He smiled at her across the table as the waiter returned with the menu and wine list. “Roger, what would you recommend today?” he quizzed.”The roast pork belly with crushed butternut squash and apple and walnut salsa is a favourite.” Roger was rearranging the eating utensils as he described the food. “That’s sounds fine to me, and for you my dear Detective Constable?”

Emily was desperately trying to catch up. “Please call me Emily. I’m a vegetarian, what would you suggest?” The waiter pointed to the day’s special on the board hung on the wall “Iranian vegetable stew with dried lime – it’s delicious.” “Sounds perfect, yes please.” “Excellent, and to drink?” Mr Shore was scrutinising the wine list. “Just water for me, I’m on duty.” “One bottle of sparkling water and a bottle of No 12,” “Thank you, Sir” and with that the waiter left.

Mr Shore expanded on the background the sergeant had provided. The late Sixties was a great time, the Seventies not so and the area went downhill quite rapidly, but the coffee shop prospered. He described how he accidently went into the property business and how over time it became more and more important. The coffee business was still successful but he felt he couldn’t give it the attention it required so reluctantly he sold it – retaining the shop in Brushfield Street.

“The shop looks as if it has seen better days, is that what you’re thinking? It’s a puzzle to many people who visit me here. I try to keep it as I remember it when my father first set up the business. It annoys the other businesses around here, and the councillors of Tower Hamlets. They say the place has been regenerated, and I’m a degenerate! I’m afraid I don’t see what’s here now as regeneration – posh shops and restaurants don’t make a neighbourhood, although I have to acknowledge that some of the restuarants are a welcomed addition. The shop is as it was in the ‘60’s. I’ve been called obstinate, a Luddite and selfish – ruining it for the others. Maybe I am, but it’s my freehold. 10 years ago I sold the coffee business to John Hinkley, Michael’s older brother. I didn’t know Michael that well but had kept in touch with John – that’s how I got involved with the property deal in Sao Paulo. I specialise in properties in coffee growing areas and in particular South America. That’s partly because that’s where most of my coffee contacts were but I also love the place. The people are so lively and the cities magnificent – if you don’t mind the filth, poverty and crime. I, however, try to spend my time in the wealthier parts. Have you been to South America, Emily?”

“No, but it sounds quite attractive.” She lied in reply. Emily was keen to learn more about the links between the victim and Mr Shore. “Do you know why Mr Hinkley wanted a place in Sao Paulo? Talking to his brother I got the impression that he was well established in the theatrical agency business and had a rather pleasant life generally here. John Hinkley thought his brother was making a big mistake.”

The conversation was interrupted as the waiter brought them their orders. He poured out the water into Emily’s glass and the wine into Mr Shore’s, and left the bottle of claret .“Thank you, Roger.” The waiter executed a shallow bow and left the diners to enjoy their meal.

Peter Shore tucked in his serviette and set about his “roast pork belly“. “I often have lunch here, the food is excellent. Do you know Ottolenghi? He’s Israeli you know; studied philosophy and moved to England in 1997 to do a PhD, but got side tracked by pastry! He’s been very successful – this is I think his fourth restaurant quite new – only been opened a couple of years. But as you see quite popular.” The place was filling up with lunchtime diners from the offices in the area.

“Why did Mr Hinkley want to move to Sao Paulo?” Emily tried again. “Sorry, my dear.” replied Mr Shore through a mouthful of roast pork belly and squash, “Sure you won’t have a glass: it’s surprisingly good?” as he refilled his glass. “No thank you, you were saying?”

“Oh yes, Sao Paulo. Frankly, I thought it was a strange choice – his brother John thought he was mad and tried desperately to talk Michael out of it”. He drew his serviette up to his mouth and cleaned away particles of food. “This wine is really very fine – and not so expensive; I must ask Roger about it.”

“It’s like pulling teeth” Emily thought to herself, “But the food is delicious – and maybe a glass of wine wouldn’t be too naughty.” But she thought what her DI would say if he knew, so she dismissed all thoughts of Bacchus. “The property is in one of the less “developed areas” of the city, well frankly it has the highest crime rate in Brazil. The Jardim São Luiz district of southern São Paulo is pretty Wild West. Do you know in the spring of 2016 there were 15 shootings, including 10 deaths within the space of 6 hours? Who’d want to live there? It’s great for rental but to leave the UK, a good job, a lovely house and set up in that place it made no sense.”

“So why did he do it?” asked our attractive DC. “I’ve no idea. Look, I know the place – slightly. It’s run down, drug ridden, run by gangs. Which meant Michael got a pretty impressive property cheaply. For a speculator or developer that would make some sense. Long term there are plans for the area, so it’s a good bet. If it pays off there’s a great gain. If not you don’t lose that much. But to buy it as a family home – madness.”

Amy Fell had quite an imagination, and it didn’t take long for her to equate Michael Hinkley near decapitation and “ritual sacrifice” with some drug dealing gang from one of Brazil’s notorious bairros. In her mind it all made sense: somehow the Hinkley brothers had crossed one of the gangs – maybe the coffee wasn’t strong enough. So the gang recruited a killer to send a message. That explained why John Hinkley was packing when she called on him. He was making himself scarce: he didn’t want his head severed.

“Do you think Mr Hinkley could have been murdered because of his connection with Sao Paulo, Mr Shore? She asked innocently.

“Of course, that’s possible, but unlikely”. Said Mr Shore as he attracted Roger’s eye and asked for another bottle of that really delicious wine.

“I phoned Michael …” Peter Shore poured himself a fresh glass of wine from the bottle Roger had just produced and continued “…because I’d learnt something that troubled me. Michael had told me that he’d already sold his house in Nutley – it was to help finance the Sao Paulo purchase and provide him with some working capital. But he hadn’t. It had been on the market and then withdrawn. I thought that was because it’d been sold and that’s what he told me and his brother. I phoned to find out the truth.”

“This is getting quite complicated” thought Emily. “Why say you’d sold the house when you hadn’t”

Peter Shore looked into DC Fell’s eyes and then started to fiddle with his wine glass. He swirled around the ruby red liquid and raised the glass to eye level. “It’s got legs and the colour is good: where does he get this from? “

“Did Mr Hinkley get back to you, after you left the message on the phone?”

“Yes, I asked him straight out why he’d not sold the house. He said he didn’t need to, he’d was able to raise the finance without having to sell the house. Frankly, I didn’t believe him.

Emily was confused. “Why didn’t he sell the property and why continue to pretend he had.” She asked.

Peter Shore loaded his glass once more. Emily wondered if this was his usual lunchtime consumption. “I have no idea my dear. All I can suggest was that there was something complicated going on which none of us was to know about. I wondered whether it might be something to do with the gangs in Jardim Sao Paulo. I mean that might explain Michael’s murder. He lent forward across the table as he spoke. His tone was serious and as he spoke he looked furtively at the other diners. “Maybe he thinks he’s also a target!” considered Emily.

His worried expression vanished when the waiter Roger collected the plates and suggested a slice of the rather luscious Lemon Polenta cake to round off the meal. His smile widened as he ordered that along with two double espressos.