Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

equal measure at the casinos, he had been unable to take care of his financial difficulties. Whichever way he turned, the debts mounted. It was as though he’d been cursed. All he had needed was one lucky break as he kept losing and losing until he dreaded opening the post, and daily expected bailiffs to come knocking at his door. In one stroke all that had changed with his business partner’s death.

     
    ‘You take care now,’ Desiree fussed. ‘Call me as soon as it’s over. I’ll be waiting.’
    George wasn’t sure if she appreciated the enormity of this meeting which was going to solve all his problems. Even though he knew what Patrick’s will contained, he wouldn’t be able to relax until he heard it from the lawyer with his own ears. Patrick was a tricky bastard. George wouldn’t have put it past him to have pulled some devious stunt at the last minute, swindling his business partner of his share.

     
    It was impossible to park at the offices of Petrie and Waterman and, in any case, he could afford to take a taxi now. He knew to a penny how much the restaurant was turning over and his share of the profits had doubled overnight. Plus there was always the chance his partner had left him an additional nest egg. He had no idea how much money he had accumulated. Patrick had always been secretive about his personal finances. Lately he had become quite touchy whenever the subject came up.
    ‘We’re business partners with the restaurant and that’s as far as it goes. My personal finances are none of your fucking business,’ he had told George, leading him to surmise that Patrick had a stash of winnings that he was keeping quiet about.

     
    The taxi dropped him outside Petrie and Waterman with five minutes to spare. Nevertheless, he was the last to arrive. There was only one chair left unoccupied in the solicitor’s office. He nodded a greeting at the grey-haired man sitting behind the desk who half rose to his feet, motioning him to a chair.
    ‘George,’ Jonathon greeted him in a familiar drawling voice. ‘It’s good to see you again, but I’m sorry to be meeting under such circumstances. My condolences.’

     
    George glanced at the two people who were already seated, facing Jonathon’s desk. Amy looked a class act in a black skirt that skimmed the top of her knees, and a tailored jacket. The outfit was appropriate for a grieving widow while showing off her neat figure, slim legs and flat stomach. She looked about twenty, although she had been married for nearly that long. No woman her age had the right to look that good. He smiled at her and her lips twitched in response. He glanced down at his own sagging gut, resting on his broad thighs, then back at Amy who was gazing demurely at the solicitor.

     
    His eyes slid past her to a woman in a green coat. She didn’t look round when he entered the room but sat without moving, staring straight ahead, giving no sign that she was aware of his furtive scrutiny. If she had chosen her clothes carefully, taken the trouble to have her hair styled, and worn make up, she wouldn’t have been unattractive. At first glance George had thought the woman was about fifty but a closer look revealed her to be closer to thirty. It was a shame to see a woman looking so unkempt when she could have made so much more of herself with very little effort. George almost felt sorry for her, but his overriding feeling was aggravation that she might be a contender for a share of Patrick’s fortune.

     
    Amy took a small cotton handkerchief from her bag and dabbed gently at her eyes, taking care not to smudge her make up.
    ‘I want to know when I can bury my husband,’ she said softly, and dropped her gaze mournfully, the picture of a grieving widow.
    ‘I’m afraid that’s out of our hands,’ the lawyer told her. ‘You just have to be patient.’
    At his side George heard her shift in her chair as Jonathon picked up a document.
    ‘We’re here to read Patrick Henshaw’s will.’
    He looked at each of them solemnly in turn, then putting on glasses with narrow lenses, began reading in a dull monotone, his diction clear and impersonal. George tried not to switch off at the familiar opening formula. His ears pricked up at the mention of an amount in excess of nine hundred thousand quid. The name Stella Hallett seemed to ring a bell but George couldn’t remember who she was. He didn’t have the faintest idea why Patrick would be leaving her such a lot of