The Hireling's Tale by Jo Bannister

the cherry tree outside would have been able to shoot through its one window.
    But Kendall was still nervous. Half an hour ago someone tried to kill him. If he’d been six inches to the right as he came up those steps it wouldn’t have
mattered how many policemen had been distributed around the house and grounds.
    Shapiro tried to reassure him. ‘He’ll have gone by now, Mr Kendall. The moment you slammed the back door he’d have been on his way.’
    ‘But I don’t understand!’ The man’s voice rose towards a wail; Mrs Kendall, by contrast, sat beside him on the sofa like a statue, rigid and silent, a handkerchief balled in one fist so tightly she’d probably never get the creases out. ‘Somebody shot at me. Somebody tried to kill me! Who? And why?’
    ‘I think, when we talk about it calmly, you’ll be able to tell us that,’ said Shapiro. ‘You must know something about somebody that would be damaging if it got out. You may not even realize its significance. Something someone said in an unguarded moment; something you saw in someone’s office. I presume you visit your clients’ offices?’ Kendall nodded, shakily. ‘Then it could be something that happened while you were abroad, that you haven’t yet recognized the importance of but which you would come to understand with time. Does that make any sense to you?’
    This time, shakily, Kendall shook his head.
    Shapiro sighed. ‘All right. Can you tell me who you’ve had dealings with that just might try to forestall a scandal this way? Governments with iffy human-rights records, say, and the more ruthless kind of private company.’
    In the end, the list of Kendall’s clients was not very different from the list of his conference delegates, and he found it hard to say which of them
might indulge in this kind of cover-up without knowing what it was they were covering up.
    Shapiro hoped he might be thinking clearer by tomorrow, suggested they talk again then.
    Kendall looked alarmed. ‘But - if you don’t find him, I could be dead by tomorrow!’
    ‘We’ll try and prevent that,’ said Shapiro solemnly. It was about as far as he could honestly go. ‘I’ll leave officers here round the clock, at least until we figure out what’s going on. Alternatively, you might feel safer moving into an hotel.’
    ‘What - like The Barbican?’
    Shapiro understood his misgivings. ‘I’m not sure what more I can say, Mr Kendall. You need to be careful. We’ll do our best to sort this out, but I don’t want to mislead you, it won’t be overnight. In the short term I suggest you stay indoors as much as possible. Oh - except that it would be helpful if you could come outside and show me where you were standing when the shot was fired.’
    Even that was enough to make Kendall uneasy. ‘You’re sure he’s gone?’
    He was afraid for his life: Shapiro wasn’t going to mock him. ‘I’ll check with the ARU before we go out.’
    But they’d had time now to walk the back lane from end to end and there was no one there.
    They went into the garden. It was entirely ringed by high hedges: unless he brought a stepladder with him, the sniper must have made a hole to shoot through. The only problem with that was …
    Donovan was behind him as they headed back to
the house. Shapiro turned to him and frowned. ‘It’s too close.’
    Like a chain reaction, like dominoes falling, what that meant tumbled through his brain and landed in his eyes. Donovan saw comprehension widen them; he saw them flick up, above the hedge to the gently rising ground beyond. Then Shapiro spun back towards Kendall, ahead of him on the steps, and his arms spread as he went to cover the man’s back.
    It was a year or two now since Frank Shapiro had felt justified in considering himself middle-aged. Many policemen of his age were retired, or had moved on to second careers. Since Shapiro had no wish to do anything else, and no wish to do nothing, he stayed where he was and did what he was good at.