Malice in London by Graham Thomas

main bone of contention the fact that you’d be turning a number of council tenants out of their homes?”
    Atherton looked mildly surprised at the implication of Powell’s question. “One has to break a few eggs to make an omelette, Chief Superintendent. We’re essentially transforming a slum into a livable, world-class community. Please don’t misunderstand me—I don’t mean to sound callous—but the long-term economic benefits will far outweigh the negative impact on a few individuals.”
    “I don’t suppose they would see it that way,” Powell observed.
    “Richard Brighton understood the balance, and he was hardly what you would call a free-market fanatic,” Atherton countered.
    “How would you say that Brighton’s death has affected Dockside’s prospects?” Powell asked casually.
    Atherton’s brow furrowed. “As I say, I’m still waiting for planning approval from the council. Up until this point, they’ve been split about fifty-fifty. Richard wasa strong advocate for the project. With him gone, there’s a bit of a vacuum, I’m afraid.” He left the rest unsaid.
    Powell met his gaze. “Mr. Atherton, is it possible that someone could be so opposed to your project, they might employ desperate measures to stop it—murder, for instance?”
    Atherton hesitated. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. But as I said before, I simply can’t believe that there could be any connection with what happened to Richard. We are, after all, dealing with what is essentially a political issue, and in this country we don’t normally go around murdering our politicians.”
    “Point taken, Mr. Atherton. But I’d ask you to give the matter some further thought and get back to me if anything occurs to you.” He handed over his card.
    Atherton nodded. “Fair enough, Chief Superintendent.”
    Powell hesitated as he considered the best way to broach a potentially delicate subject. “There is the matter of Clive Morton to consider,” he said offhandedly.
    Atherton looked startled. “What do you mean?”
    “I understand that Mr. Morton had an interest in Dockside.”
    “We had an arrangement whereby he would own and operate a restaurant on the quay. Something smart to give the place some ambience.”
    Powell scrutinized Atherton closely. “Clive Morton was murdered in a most unpleasant fashion earlier this week—the second person with a connection to Dockside to die in just over a month. I don’t wish to alarmyou, Mr. Atherton, but you’ll have to admit it is a somewhat remarkable occurrence of events.”
    “What are you suggesting, Chief Superintendent, that I might be next?”
    “I’m not suggesting anything. At this point, there is no hard evidence connecting the two murders. I just wanted you to be aware of the possibility.”
    Atherton smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t be completely honest with you if I tried to tell you that the thought hadn’t occurred to me. However, Clive Morton was a person with large appetites, larger than life you might say. He had money, liked the wrong sort of girls, and was rumored to be a user of various, er, stimulants. I hesitate to speak ill of the dead, but it would be an understatement to say that he tended to rub people the wrong way. I only knew him as a business associate, but my guess is he ran afoul of some supplier or pimp and unfortunately paid the price.”
    “You’re probably right,” Powell rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Atherton. You’ve been most helpful. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you think of anything else.”
    Atherton looked thoughtful. “Of course.”
    It occurred to Powell as he stepped into Shad Thames that not once during Paul Atherton’s discourse on the socioeconomic benefits of Dockside did he mention the millions of pounds that he personally stood to make from the scheme.

CHAPTER 12
    Powell awoke on Saturday morning to a transparent blue sky full of birdsong and a garden full of trifidlike plants. He wasted no time in fleeing