not satisfied that’s the whole truth of the matter.”
A short distance away, Aleister Crowe slid off his vehicle and approached Michael, thrusting an angry finger in his direction. “What are you trying to say? That I deliberately shot a man with no justification?”
Blood boiling with renewed anger, Michael stood and faced Crowe. “Did you?”
“No.”
“No one found a weapon on Rohan that night, Crowe.”
“You can strangle a man with your bare hands while he’s sleeping.”
“It’s not as fast as shooting people, though, is it?”
Crowe took another step forward and Michael automatically raised his hands in defense.
Quick as a fox, Crowe’s blond companion stepped between Michael and Crowe and held Crowe back. “Aleister. Aleister. Listen to me. You’re not doing yourself any good here. Let it go.”
Paddington had placed a big hand in the middle of Michael’s chest, but focused on the blond man. “Who are you?”
“Lockwood Nightingale.”
“What business did you have here today, Mr. Nightingale?”
“I’m a friend of Mr. Crowe’s.”
“Really?”
Breathing hard, Michael retreated to Paddington’s car.
Paddington shifted his attention to Crowe. “You often meet your friends at the hospital, Mr. Crowe?”
“I was here on business, Inspector.” Nightingale straightened his jacket and smiled.
“What business might that be?”
Crowe leaned in, his face tight with anger. “My business, and none of yours.”
Nightingale spoke in a soft voice. “Easy, Aleister. Let me handle this. Please.”
With an oath, Crowe turned away.
“I was here today as a favor to Aleister, Inspector Paddington.” Nightingale reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out an engraved cardholder. He flipped the holder open with a practiced flourish and produced an expensive embossed card. “I’m a solicitor.”
Paddington took the card and examined it. “Do you feel you need a solicitor, Mr. Crowe?”
Crowe started to make a scathing reply, judging from the apoplectic expression he wore, then subsided when Nightingale raised a hand.
“I advised Mr. Crowe that he might want to seek counsel regarding the shooting incident in his home.” Nightingale put the cardholder away.
“No charges have been brought against Mr. Crowe.”
Nightingale smiled unctuously. “We have two matters before us, Inspector. I believe the criminal matter has been put to rest, and that Mr. Crowe acted in the best interests of his family when he shot a trespasser in his home.”
Michael started to object, but Paddington raised an admonishing hand without looking in his direction. Bitterly, Michael swallowed his comments.
“But I also advised Mr. Crowe that Rohan Wallace’s family might seek to place fiduciary responsibility on him in civil court. We met here today so that I could deliver a court order to have copies of the injured man’s hospital reports released to me. In case we end up in court over the matter. A little prejudicial caution, I admit.”
“Rohan hasn’t had any family to speak up for him,” Michael said before Paddington could wave him to silence.
“But that isn’t the case anymore, is it? Mr. Wallace’s grandmother has arrived in Blackpool.”
Paddington raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that, Mr. Nightingale?”
The solicitor shrugged. “I witnessed her arrival only a few moments ago. I heard your sergeant acknowledge her.” He pointed toward the limousine.
Irwin stood at the front of the vehicle like a soldier at his post. Michael almost smiled at that; the man’s dedication to his vocation was reassuring.
“Therefore, Inspector, lines on this battlefront are changing.”
Michael gazed down at the dead man and couldn’t agree more.
Paddington’s mobile rang and he pulled it from his hip holster. He said his name and listened briefly, then closed the mobile and put it away. He glanced at Michael. “It appears they found the spot where the shots came from. Would you like to come along?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You needn’t if you don’t wish to.”
“No. I’d be happy to come. This just isn’t the kind of thing you’d normally invite me to.”
“This, Mr. Graham, doesn’t appear to be a normal day.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“THE SHOOTER STOOD HERE, Inspector, and he had a clear view of the hospital.”
Michael didn’t recognize the serious middle-aged man in the Blackpool Police uniform. He assumed he was one of the temporary officers that were helping out during the remodel of the marina. With all the new people in town, as well as the supplies and equipment, extra security had been necessary.
The officer looked earnest and neat as a pin. His short-cropped hair was barely longer than the stubble Michael wore. Creases showed in the corners of his eyes and lightly on his forehead. His tan was deep, burned into his flesh by years of working in the sun.
“Tell me your name.”
“Watts, Inspector. Trevor Watts.”
“Ah, yes.” Paddington nodded in satisfaction. “You’re the lad with exotic military training.”
“Yes, sir. I did a bit with the Special Air Service. Mustered out honorably with injuries a few years back.”
Michael was impressed. The SAS was England’s foremost special-forces unit. The team had seen action around the globe and were noted for their thoroughness and precision.
“SAS, eh?” Paddington gazed out the bedroom window of the second-floor flat they were in across from the hospital. Other than a few trees, the view was clear. “Then I’d assume you know something of shooting like this.”
“Yes, sir. I was extremely proficient.”
Paddington pointed his pipe at the spot where the dead man had gone down. “How far away would you say the target was?”
“Seven hundred seventy-eight yards, sir.”
“That’s awfully exact, Officer.”
Watts
