Page 145 of Slack Tide Kill

"Wireless transfer," she supplied.

"Right. But nothing actionable."

"Nothing." She kept scanning. "All this financial jiu jitsu, seems he's kept himself just clean enough. No charges or convictions anywhere."

"Cream of the sludge," Liam muttered. "But they do say the money man knows where the bodies are buried."

"Amen to that."

They continued north until they crossed the Royal Military Canal. The water was swollen and black, edging up to the lip of bank.

"Looks like the marsh is flooding," she observed.

Liam snorted. "They need Bledd at Scots Float on a day like this."

The road ascended up a steep hillside, and halfway up they turned onto a narrow, stone-walled private access road labeled 'Queensmead Farm'. At the end of a long driveway lay a beautiful old farmhouse, just visible through the boughs of a large weeping willow. Ivy climbed to the gables and dormer windows peeked out through the red tile roof.

"He's doing better than Spate," Sally observed.

"But he's still scum," Liam said, and got out of the car.

63 BLOOD RELATIONS

The door was imposing, oak studded with black iron bolts and a heavy brass knocker. Sally hammered three times, and the door opened. An irate-looking woman stood there, the lower half of her face heavily made up, the upper half strangely plain. Her reddish hair was up in curlers and she wore a fluffy gray dressing gown.

"You can't park there," she snapped, pointing through the trees. "You're blocking our driveway."

"Officers Rogers and O'Connell," Sally said. "You're Stacey Meeks? We'd like to speak to Crawford Meeks."

"Like all you want, my dear." The woman cocked her hips. "The crew's coming in 30, and you can't be there to spoil the shot."

"What shot?"

"None of your business, that's what! But, if you must know, it's an interview. About these killings."

Sally looked at Liam. He nodded.

"Mrs. Meeks," she went on, "we need to speak with your husband immediately. Preventing that could lead to charges of obstruction in a murder investigation."

Stacey Meeks' jaw dropped. "Obstruction? I only said move your car!"

"Then let us in."

Meeks' nostrils flared wide. "Fine, then, if you must! But hurry it up, and take your shoes off."

Sally pushed past her, not removing her shoes. They passed through a boot room that smelled of wet dogs, an expansive open-plan kitchen with granite worktops then entered a large, light-filled conservatory at the rear. Huge panes of glass hung in delicate wrought-iron enclosures, over chessboard floor tiles and a large U-shaped set of couches.

On the left, a short, beetle-faced man poked at an easel with a brush, wearing pink trousers and a red kaftan. He looked ridiculous, but Sally figured that was the point. Meeks looked up with a beatific smile as they approached.

"Clancy and Jane, I presume?" he asked.

"Officers O'Connell and Rogers," Sally countered. "We're not your press team, Mr. Meeks, so you can drop the act."

Meeks' face went through a range of fleeting emotions, settling on anger. "Act? This is my home. I don't care if you're police, that's no excuse for–"

"The Rooks and Arthur Bledd," Sally interrupted. "Start talking now, everything you know about Reg Rook, Arthur Bledd, Tom Richter and a mutilated seal on Dungeness beach."

Meeks twitched. For a long moment he just stared, then something seemed to animate him from within. He tossed his paintbrush onto the easel, flinched as if the movement pained him, then gestured to the couches with his other arm.