TWENTY-SEVEN
After he’d seen Colin back to his hotel, Chaise took the Clio and drove to his flat above the estate agency. He made himself a cup of coffee and took it into the sitting room. It was only as he was about to sit that he saw the single sheaf of folded paper, which had been slid under his door. He sighed and thought he must be getting old.
It was a handwritten note with a telephone number and a signature. Marianne Lomax. Chaise frowned, pulled out his mobile and punched out the number.
She answered on the second ring. The sound of a street, motor cars, someone laughing in the background. “Mrs Lomax?”
“Is that you, Mr Chaise?” Her voice laced with fear, her breathing laboured. “I’m sorry I left the note, Mr Chaise, but I needed to get in touch. Christopher told me you’d been v
