The Gospel Makers Read Online Free PDF Page B

pale wood panels, glass doors showing a transformed lounge, and an overall luminescence far removed from the pervading gloom she was used to.
    The chief surprise, though, was that on this Monday lunch-time the foyer was thronged with people. How, she thought despairingly, was she going to find her client in this crowd? ‘In the bar,’ she’d suggested unthinkingly. Now, she wasn’t even sure where it was.
    Fighting her way through the throng, she was grateful to see arrows indicating the direction of bar and restaurant, and a board at the foot of the stairs explained at least part of the activity: two separate conferences were in progress, and no doubt both had disgorged their delegates for the lunch break.
    The bar, too, had metamorphosed, shedding its twenties-style chrome and glass-topped tables for an opulence of rich wood, deep sofas, and waist-high fretted divisions offering an illusion of privacy. On a stand in the middle of the room was a magnificent bronze of a horse: Copper Coin, no doubt, the chestnut which had won the Broadminster Cup for three successive seasons.
    The professional part of Christina longed to study the decor in detail; ideas could be gleaned from an imaginative overhaul like this. Unfortunately, though, it would have to wait, and she raked the room for a man alone, one who was no doubt by this time becoming restive.
    At once she spotted a likely candidate, seated in one of the low-backed alcoves. There was a briefcase at his feet, and even as she registered him, he glanced with obvious impatience at his watch. In fact, she thought apprehensively, everything about him indicated that he was on edge, from his frequent glances towards the door to the staccato tapping of his cigarette against the glass ashtray in front of him. She’d obviously have to turn on maximum charm to make up for her lateness.
    Making her way towards him, she saw that he was younger than she’d imagined from their phone calls — rather attractive, in fact, if he’d only relax — with dark springing hair and a slight cleft in his chin.
    ‘Mr Derringer?’ she said, holding out her hand.
    He looked up in surprise, then rose, taking her hand as he returned her smile. ‘Unfortunately, no!’ he said.
    ‘Oh!’ Christina stared at him, momentarily nonplussed. ‘I do beg your pardon. I’m meeting someone I don’t know, and I assumed —’
    ‘Please don’t worry — it’s my pleasure. I’m expecting someone too. Why don’t you join me and we can wait together? Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘Oh no, really, I must look for —’
    ‘Nonsense. I need another anyway. What’ll it be?’
    But no sooner had he reached the bar than a voice behind her said hesitantly, ‘Mrs French? I thought I overheard — I’m Robert Derringer.’
    She felt a spurt of disappointment, accepting that lunch with the man she’d approached would have been more enjoyable. Derringer was in his fifties, bald, bespectacled, and — a frequent occurrence — several inches shorter than herself. Still, it was a business rather than social engagement and he could put a very worthwhile contract in her hands if she landed him successfully.
    Having made her apologies to the other man — fortunately before he’d paid for her drink — she set herself to do so. It was some ten minutes later that, from the corner of her eye, she saw him leaving the room with a man and woman. By the time she and Derringer reached the restaurant, she’d forgotten all about him.
    *
    Detective Chief Inspector David Webb added seasoning to the pan on the stove, stirred it, and tasted the contents. Satisfied, he turned from the cooker, glanced at Hannah who was perched on the kitchen table, and said without preamble, ‘Ever heard of the Revvies?’
    She raised her eyebrows. ‘As in motorbikes?’
    He grinned. ‘No, as in members of the Church of the Final Revelation.’
    ‘Good heavens! No, I haven’t.’
    ‘That’s the colloquial name, I’m told.’
    ‘Less of a