Exit Five From Charing Cross by Valerie Keogh

Author:Valerie Keogh [Keogh, Valerie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-12-05T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘I hadn’t been with the firm very long,’ he continued, when the silence had worn itself out. ‘It was just Sheridan and Jones then, I only became a partner a few years ago. Ben Jones had dealt with your parents, had drawn up their will, but he was semi-retired when the accident happened, and when the police contacted us, he asked me to take over.’

I was still gripping the edge of the desk in front of me, my body tense and leaning so far forward, I was within snapping distance of the hands that still fiddled with the file and its contents. Suddenly, forcing a yelp from me, Ian Carlton stood and moved to the corner of the office where he opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet and withdrew a bottle and two glasses. He didn’t ask but uncorked the bottle and poured amber coloured liquid into each glass, filling both almost to the brim. The pungent smell of single malt filled the room. I wasn’t a whiskey drinker, but I took the proffered glass, downed it in one and held it out for a refill that quickly came, downed that, held it out once more. There was a slight hesitation before he filled my glass again.

This time, I took a sip and put the glass down. It had done the trick. I felt the tenseness ebb, felt my body sag, welcoming the soft fuzziness that soothed my agitated thoughts.

‘Is there someone I can call for you, Mr Mitchell,’ Ian Carlton asked, watching me over the brim of his still full glass. ‘You’ve had a shock.’

I shook my head. It wasn’t a good idea; the whiskey had gone straight there and was doing a thumping good job. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told him, although all evidence was to the contrary. ‘Please just tell me everything you know.’

He nodded, sipped a miniscule amount of whiskey, and put the glass down at the same time as I picked mine up. He waited till I had emptied half, before continuing. ‘It was a very bad crash. An oil tanker lost control – they think the driver had a heart-attack – it skidded across the road, and took three cars with it before exploding. The occupants of the cars were killed in the subsequent fireball.’ He stopped took another sip. His gaze swept over me, as if to ascertain how well I was doing.

I must have looked okay, because he continued. ‘The intensity of the fire made individual identification of the bodies virtually impossible so the police had to resort to tracing the car owners, and extrapolating from there. They were able to trace the owners of the cars from what was left of the licence plates, metal being more resilient than flesh and bones. Eventually they went to your home. Neighbours were able to fill them in on who lived there.’ He waited a moment, took another sip of his whiskey and then went on. ‘They told the police they had seen you and your parents the day before, but nobody remembered seeing any of you since.

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