As Bill Blunt made his way back across to Cyril Galloway with the drinks, his seasoned, journalist’s brain was working overtime. A stranger from Telford sat in a bar looking out across at Meldew Buildings, coupled with the knowledge that Harry McFry himself was down in Telford just now, would spell ‘s-t-o-r-y’ to anyone. He wondered what those medals were that
“Interesting’s not the word for it. Try ‘dreary’,” he replied, picking up the gin and tonic Bill had just placed on the table.
Bill looked mock-offended. “You mean to tell me you don’t like roundabouts?” and then he smiled. “I take it that
Bill noticed that
“Very nice part of the country, from what I hear. How long since you moved away?” Bill asked. No one listening would have imagined Bill was interrogating Cyril. It was just a simple chat, the kind two strangers might have when meeting for the first time – and Bill was good at that kind of thing.
“I moved away about ten years ago. The chance to open my own shop came up. It’s doing very well,”
Bill thought carefully how to frame his reply. There’d been no sign that
“Oh yes – at least for the last 20 years, anyway. Before that I was in
Even as Bill was inwardly congratulating himself, he was shaking his head. “No … I think I’d recall a name like that – it’s pretty unusual, after all. Can’t say I have. Why?”
“Oh, it’s just that I need to talk to him before I return to Telford, and no-one seems to know where he is,” Galloway replied.
Bill was more certain than ever that he had a story in his grasp. And he was sure the medals
“These medals you mentioned, Mr Galloway… I take it they have some value, to bring you all the way from
As he asked the question, Blunt’s tone was still convivial.
“Yes, very valuable indeed,”
The way Bill Blunt figured it later, lady luck hadn’t just come in a taxi that lunchtime, she was paying for her own meal, as well. In his mind, he was piecing together what he knew about Jonathan Harcourt, what Harry had asked about the Banco Bilbao, and