The Power of One by Jane A. Adams Page A

presume to tell you what not to investigate and while, obviously, it would look really bad on the publicity front if you didn’t throw all you could in terms of manpower into investigating this murder, be warned. There are boundaries here which you will not cross.’
    â€˜Boundaries?’ Kendal was irritated.
    â€˜Two men are dead, Inspector Kendal, and we have reason to believe that they are dead because of work Paul was doing for us. Work which, shall we say, other parties would like to have got their hands on. By all means, investigate. Be seen to be doing all you’d usually be doing, but be aware, and in this your superiors will back me all the way, this is our game and you will play it by our rules. If I say back off, you don’t argue, you just ask me how far.’

SEVENTEEN
    L ydia had left the answerphone on since the day of Paul’s death. There had been calls to offer condolence, some of which she had returned and many of which she had left in the capable – nay, eager – hands of Margaret Simms. Calls from business associates, shocked by the news or reluctantly posing practical problems, Edward had dealt with and then set someone from the factory on to the task of fielding such enquiries. Then there were calls from journalists, which she had ignored, and from the police which she had reluctantly responded to only if they were repeated often enough to become insistent.
    They had kept the gates closed and visitors who knew them well had either used the cliff path or parked at the next-door farm and walked back across the field and then through the small gate at the rear, kept locked unless they phoned in advance. Lydia was relieved that so far no one had thought to come across the lawn from the cliff but she figured it was just a matter of time.
    She wanted to leave, now before things got worse. ‘How worse?’ Edward had queried and she wasn’t sure what to say. ‘What if the journalists find the back way in? What if
they
come?’ That mysterious ‘they’ that had taken Paul’s life. She was sure she had seen someone watching the house.
    Most frightening though, were the phone calls that left no message. She wasn’t sure why these disturbed her so much more than those which had previously threatened; perhaps the length of time the caller waited before hanging up. The utter silence. The feeling that they were waiting for her to lose her nerve and grab the phone, yell at whoever was on the other end, and in doing so demonstrate that they were in control and not Lydia, not Edward.
    Twice she had disconnected it altogether arguing that anyone they actually wanted to talk to could reach them by mobile. Twice, she had found the line plugged back in, though both Edward and Margaret denied having done so.
    Lydia wondered if she was going slowly mad.
    The phone rang again as she was passing through the hall. A journalist this time, though she had missed the start of the message and did not know where from. He expressed condolence and the wish for an interview or comments. He rang off just as she started up the stairs.
    The phone rang again and Lydia glared at it, in half a mind to just flip it off the hook and leave it there. The answerphone delivered its usual denial that anyone was home and then Lydia froze. The voice leaving the message was Paul’s. Unmistakeably Paul’s.
    Lydia screamed and didn’t stop screaming until Edward had half carried her into the Big Room and thrust a glass of brandy into her shaking hands.
    â€˜Drink,’ he said. ‘Lydia, what the hell?’
    She turned on him, fierce now. ‘Listen to the message. Just go and listen to the damned message.’
    Reluctantly, Edward returned to the hall. He paused in the doorway, looking back at his wife and she rose, came to join him, took his hand. He keyed the machine to play.
    â€˜Oh my God.’
    Paul’s voice, tinny and unclear, as though this was a