Timothy sat at my desk and I sat across from him on the sofa as he opened his laptop and looked at me. I took the letter from my jacket pocket and handed it to him. He read it and I saw his eyes widen as he folded the letter and handed it back to me.
“This is…” he said.
“I know,” I said to him as he shook his head.
“What are their names?” he asked me, his expression still stoic.
“Gareth Wineston, James Hitchenson and Peter Phillips,” I said to him.
“Bastards,” he said as he started typing on the laptop, “it might take a while, I’ll come get you as soon as I have something.”
“Thanks, there’s something I need to do anyway,” I said to him.
“Take your time. I have a program running down their names for owned property, and then I’ll start searching for their faces wherever they’re
