‘Ended,’ he gasped.

Kim bent her head. ‘What’s ended, Arthur?’

He swallowed and shook his head from side to side. The effort brought another groan.

She heard the approaching footsteps of the paramedics.

‘What did you say?’

‘End it,’ he managed.

She looked into his eyes and saw the light once again receding.

Her aching arms instinctively moved towards his chest but she felt herself being moved aside.

Two green uniforms blocked her view. The male felt for a pulse and shook his head. The female began compressions as the male began taking equipment from his bag.

Bryant took her arm and guided her away.

‘He’s in good hands, Guv.’

She looked back as the male paramedic placed the defibrillator pads on Arthur Connop’s chest.

She shook her head. ‘No, he’s gone.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked me to end it.’

She leaned against the wall, fatigue taking the place of adrenaline. ‘Whatever the hell went on at Crestwood tormented these people for the rest of their lives.’

Bryant nodded. ‘Witnesses saw a white car speeding away. No one actually saw the impact but one swears it was an Audi, the other says a BMW. Could be unrelated, Guv.’

She turned and looked at him. ‘Bryant, he stumbles the hundred yards home every day without incident.’

‘So, you’re not thinking genuine hit-and-run.’

‘No, Bryant, I think our killer was out here waiting and the bastard had the gall to do it right in front of us.’

He touched her arm gently. ‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before we ...’

She pulled her arm free. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after twelve.’

‘Time to pay our local councillor a friendly visit.’

‘But, Guv, a couple of hours ...’

‘May well make us too late,’ she said, heading back towards the car. ‘Other than William Payne, our councillor is the only one left.’

Thirty-Eight

‘Got any of those mints, Bryant?’ Kim asked. She’d used and balled up three wet wipes to clean her face, neck and hands but, psychological or not, the lingering aroma of beer and onion would not go away.

He reached into the side compartment of the driver’s door and offered her a fresh packet. She took one and popped it in her mouth.

The menthol aroma blazed a trail right down to her lungs.

‘Jesus, do you need a licence for these?’ she asked, once her right eye had finished watering.

‘Consider the alternative, Guv.’

She took a good hit of the sweet and looked out of the window as they approached Bromsgrove town centre. Bryant took a right past the old union workhouse which had operated until 1948.

Although only ten miles from Stourbridge, it was like entering another world.

The area was first documented in the early ninth century as Bremesgraf and had grown up around farming and nail making. Staunchly Conservative, the affluent, rural population was primarily white British, with four per cent ethnic minority.

‘Are you kidding me?’ Kim asked as they turned off Littleheath Lane. Houses along this stretch of Lickey End started at seven-figure prices. Tall hedges and long driveways protected the houses from view. Known as 'the banking belt', the area accommodated the corporate professionals with easy access to the M5 and M40. Not the natural habitat of a local MP.

The car stopped at a walled garden separated by a wrought-iron gate.

Bryant wound down the window and pressed the intercom button. A distorted voice answered and Kim couldn’t be sure if it was male or female.

‘West Midlands police,’ Bryant said.

There was no reply but a low thunk signalled the electronic gate sliding behind the left hand wall.

Bryant drove through as soon as the gap was wide enough.

The gravel drive led them to a redbrick courtyard and a two-storey farm house.

The property was L-shaped and Kim could see a detached garage block behind that would have eaten her house for lunch. Despite the mansion space for the vehicles, two cars were parked on a gravel patch to the right of the property.

An open canopy porch trimmed the building and planters holding bay trees were set at regular intervals.

‘You wouldn’t want to give all this up without a fight, eh?’ Kim asked.

Bryant pulled up outside the front door. ‘He’s a witness, not a suspect, Guv.’

‘Of course,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘And I’ll be sure to remember that when I question him.’

The door was opened before they reached it. Before them stood a male Kim guessed to be Richard Croft.

He wore cream chinos and a navy blue T-shirt. His greying hair was damp and a towel rested around his shoulders.

‘Forgive me, I’ve just jumped out of the pool.’

Of course. She had that very same inconvenience all the time.

‘Nice cars,’ Kim observed pleasantly nodding towards an Aston Martin DB9 and a Porsche 911. There was a space in between.

Kim saw two CCTV cameras perched on top of the building.

‘Security overload for an MP?’ she asked, following Richard Croft into the hallway.

He turned. ‘Oh, the security is for my wife.’

He turned left and they followed through double glass doors into what Kim assumed was one of the lounge rooms. The ceiling was low and supported with thick beams that had been expertly restored. Caramel leather sofas and mauve walls lightened the space. French doors led to an orangery that appeared to run the entire length of the house.

‘Please, take a seat while I arrange for some tea.’

‘Oh, how civilised,’ Bryant said as Richard Croft left the room. ‘He’s going to make us tea.’

‘I think he said he would arrange for some tea. I’m pretty sure that means he isn’t making it.’

‘Marta will be along in a moment,’ Richard Croft said, re-entering the room. The towel had gone and the hair had been combed revealing more grey hair around his temples.

‘Your wife?’

He smiled, revealing teeth that were just a little too white. ‘Heavens, no. Marta is our live-in. She helps Nina with the boys and the house.’

‘And a very lovely house it is too, Councillor.’

‘Richard, please,’ he offered, magnanimously. ‘The house is the love child of my wife. She works hard and expects to relax in a comfortable home.’

‘And she does what exactly?’

‘She is a human rights barrister. She defends the rights of people you may not particularly wish to spend time with.’

Kim got it immediately. ‘Terrorists.’

‘Individuals accused of terrorist activity would be a more politically correct term.’

Kim tried not to let her emotions show but the distaste must have been obvious.

‘Everyone is entitled to make full use of the law, wouldn’t you agree, Detective?’

Kim said nothing. She didn’t trust her mouth to open. She firmly believed that the law was applicable to everyone and so she had to concede that the defence of that same law should be made available to everyone. So, she agreed with him. She just hated the fact that she agreed with him.

More intriguing than his wife’s profession was the total lack of facial movement when the man spoke. Croft’s forehead and upper cheek area had not moved once. For Kim, there was something surreal about the process of injecting a derivative of the most acute known toxin into your own body voluntarily. For a man approaching his fifties, it was positively obscene. She felt she was looking at the waxwork dummy and not the man.

He waved at his surroundings. ‘Nina likes to live well and I’m just lucky that I have a wife that loves me very much.’