A soft plop emanating from the silencer. Mr Jones covered with plaster dust from the new hole in the wall, in line with his left ear.
"Yes, I am worried." He said, glaring at me.
"What?"
"Your way of questioning."
"Have you been drinking, Mr Jones?"
"I have a night-cap before bed."
"You smell of whisky, Jones. You had a heavy session on your own last night. That's worrying."
"One glass doesn't mean I am an alcoholic."
"No, that is true," I agreed. "But you've had over one."
I glanced around the lounge.
"Where's your kitchen?"
"Why?"
"Don't waste my time, Jones!"
"Through there."
I left the lounge and found myself in one of those gleaming stainless-steel monstrosities. They started as an operating theatre and changed its mind at the last moment. More evidence of money.
On the sink, I discovered more evidence that Mr Jones drank more than a night-cap. A bottle of whisky, three-quarters empty, with the torn seal, still lying beside it. A dirty ashtray, full of stubbed-out Russian cigarettes. I turned as I heard a sound behind me. Jones stood in the doorway.
"Alright," he said. "So, I was drinking. They found two of my clients dead in one of my rental properties. Why were they killed? What if the killer has another victim in his sights? Good God, man, I've every reason to be worried. Worried stiff."
"So, you had," I agreed. "I am near to finding out what is happening in this village. Maybe they are after you next – it's a thought to remember."
"You bastard," he ground out. "Was it you that sent me that film with the sunken trawler on it?"
"No. I wanted to ask you, where did you get the film?"
It was in the post one day. No stamp. Just the name of the company. Why should someone send me that?"
"Frighten you. Safe-keeping. But I will find out." I walked to the front door. "Keep your doors locked, Mr Jones."
"I will. Just to keep you away." Now that I'd announced my intention of leaving and had stuck the handgun out of sight, he was recovering from courage.
I left the house and saw the dark bulk of the garage, where I presumed it housed the Aston Martin. It wasn't the most inconspicuous of vehicles to own.
As I didn't have a mobile phone, I stopped at a solitary phone box on the village-green. On the pretext of wanting Gavin Hoyte's discuss, I made two unnecessary calls.
The first to Sergeant Fitzgerald, who couldn't help me. The second to Constable Smee, who could. They were both annoyed, I disturbed them this early in the morning. But they quietened when I told them I needed the information straight away.
I told them I might soon have the whole case solved. My investigations reached a pivotal stage. They both tried to question me on the progress I was making, but I gave away nothing. That took little finesse, for I'd no information to give away.
At 7.15 a.m. I was leaning on the doorbell of Gavin Hoyte's house.
A two-bedroomed brand-new property. Parked outside the front was a silver Peugeot 208. Hoyte's car.
It was still dark and wet. My side ached from the encounter with the diver. Exhausted, I struggled to focus.
The door opened. A plump young woman peered out into the darkness.
This was Hoyte's girlfriend, Molly Peters.
A cheerful and happy-go-lucky soul of devastating untidiness and unpunctuality, but whose reputation as an excellent cook was enviable.
What time of morning is it? Her voice held a good-natured expression. "Not the police again, I hope?"
"No, Miss Peters. MI5. May I see Gavin, please?"
"MI5? He has stolen no state secrets now, has he? You can come if he is awake.
I didn't have to wait long. The man must have been awake. He appeared in a T-shirt and shorts and hadn't got round to shaving.
"You?" he said. There was no particular warmth of welcome in his voice. "What the hell do you want?"
"Do you know him, Gav?" Molly asked.
"The guy is from the pub."
Molly looked at me with wariness.
"I'm here ask you questions on your brother's death."
Hoyte turned to his girlfriend.
"Leave us."
"Are you sure?"
"Leave us, Molly. It will be okay."
She left us and Gavin led me into the kitchen.
"Coffee?"
"Yes, please. Black no sugar."
He made a mug of instant coffee. Next to the kettle was a wooden block filled with sharp knives. One was missing in the gap.
I sipped the coffee. It tasted horrible.
"Did you know if your brother's trawler was carrying any cargo?"
"Cargo?"
He repeated, stalling for time.
"What sort?"
"Crates belonging to the DEFRA establishment."
He said nothing.
"Stamped with hazardous material warnings."
He now looked at me with suspicion.
"You sound as if you've seen them."
"I have."
His eyes narrowed before answering.
"Justin was always chasing the next pound."
"Meaning?"
"They offered him a chemical to sell from the complex," he said.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer."
"I told him not to do it," he said. "But he just didn't listen. Selling chemicals to overseas businessmen."
"What foreign businessmen?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"He never said."
"What were the chemicals?"
"Pendimethalin."
"Jesus Christ!"
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Have you heard of it?"
"Pendimethalin is a pre-emergent herbicide. It is used to control annual grasses and the weeds in many crops. Corn, soybeans, wheat, cotton, many tree and vine crops, and many turf grass species." I told Hoyte. "The question is, who sold it to your brother? What do the Russians want with it?"