LONDON
Straight off the street and in
through the doors. The brass plaque outside was being polished by a short man
in blue overalls. It said MILES & DAVIS. SOLICITORS.
Bright green painted walls; pretty
woman in a yellow dress on reception with very short black hair brushed
forward. She smiled pleasantly, preparing to speak. Sam was already almost
level with her desk but aiming past it to the right: two doors; unmarked. He
pushed the first one open.
Huge desk, fake fireplace, red
Turkish rug; thin man behind the desk, middle aged woman sitting opposite. They
both looked round, startled.
“Stephen Miles?” said Sam.
The lawyer started to speak; slight
shake of his head. Sam turned on his heel, shut the door and opened the one next
to it. The receptionist was chirping but he ignored her.
Similar room; grandfather clock, bulky
middle-aged man at the bookcase. Sam shut the door behind him.
“Stephen Miles?”
“Yes. Who are you?” Glance toward his
desk. “You’re not Mr Johnson are you? You’re early if—”
“No.” Sam turned the key beneath the
door handle then he slipped out his gun and pointed it at the fat man. The fat
man gaped. Sam chambered a round.
“Because I can’t be bothered to hear
you stammering about confidentiality,” he said.
Miles side-stepped. His hand dropped
to his flank then rose immediately back up to his face.
“Jack Catholic,” said Sam.
Miles stared at him.
“You recently hired several private
detectives to track him down because of an inheritance he had coming to him in
America.”
“Yes.”
“I want to know the name and address
of the executor of the estate as well as the address of the deceased and any
contact details you might have for Catholic himself.”
“I don’t know where he is,” stammered
Miles. If there was any fleeting guilt about revealing the information it
didn’t show. “But I know he’s gone over to San Francisco. I imagine he’s
staying at the house.”
“Tell me where it is,” said Sam.
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