“How did you get on at the bank, Scuddamore?” Watters sat at his desk in the Duty Room in Bell Street Police Office, reading through his notes to see if he had missed anything.
“Not well.” Scuddamore consulted his notes. “Mr Forsyth seems to have been a hard manager but fair. He was neither liked nor disliked, with no enemies and no friends.”
Watters nodded. “A grey man, then. That"s the impression I got in the golf club. People respected him for his position and his golf, without ever becoming close.”
“He was in the bank before dawn and often worked late,” Scuddamore said.
“Did anybody mention women?” Watters asked.
Scuddamore looked up. “He wasn"t married.”
“How about other women? A sweetheart?”
Scuddamore looked blank. “Nobody spoke about women.” He grinned. “Golf, though. Most p
