Ransom

CHAPTER 1

He said to be there at 4 p.m. I was. On the dot. Because you didn't keep Jack Kreeger waiting. The black electric gates closed behind me. The tyres of my Beema crunched on the  driveway gravel. The sun slipped behind some clouds, things turned grey. I hoped it wasn't an omen. Someone opened the driver's door.

"Eddie, right?" I nodded. "It's Eddie, isn't it? I remember you from the jewellery shop business. The governor's waiting."

I followed him into the large red brick mansion. Terry hadn't changed much. A pound or two heavier perhaps. But still stocky with that ponytail. An earring, that was new. A small diamond stud in the left lobe, probably nicked. I followed him down a long wide highly polished parquet hall. The monotony of lime-green walls broken every so often by still life paintings, an orchard with red apples hanging from the trees, a windmill on top of a hill. He opened double doors at the end and ushered me ahead of him.

"Eddie Sutton, guv!"

The library was large; there were wall to wall walnut bookcases filled to the gunnels. A Wilton oxblood-coloured carpet deep enough to put a shine on my suede shoes. And there sitting on the edge of a huge mahogany desk sat Jack Kreeger, oval face, silvery thinning hair, a nose like a piece of putty stuck on his face, bushy eyebrows nearly over the eyelids. He was in a navy mohair suit, blue oxford cotton shirt and maroon tie.

I wondered again what this was about. He'd been cryptic on the phone, talking for five minutes about wanting to see me but not really saying anything. But then it's an enquiry agent's lot to listen. Not only to what's being said but to what's not as well. And he'd said nothing at great length except could I call at his house off Hampstead Heath. 4 p.m. would be good. Which in Kreeger speak meant 'Be here at 4 p.m.' He came off his desk and offered his hand.