He did not look at his watch, nor say, ‘I’m a busy man,’ as lesser men would. He stood quite still, an extra stillness in this unnaturally quiet room, as though like a black hole he drew all sound and movement into himself. Atherton could feel the astronomical mass of him and almost wanted to take hold of something to keep himself from sliding helplessly across the carpet like a pin towards a magnet.Was that why they called them magnates? he wondered frivolously. He took a grip on himself and got to the point. ‘Ed Stonax,’ he said.‘Ah,’ said Bell, his eyes searching Atherton’s face briefly. ‘I read about the murder. Terrible thing.’ His voice was dark and gritty but without accent, except a sort of man-of-the-people ordinariness. He had grown up in t’north but had long ago shed any regional markers. ‘Some punk broke in and robbed him. But you’ve got the man – didn’t I see on the TV you’ve arrested someone?’‘Yes,’ said Atherton.‘Well, it doesn’t look as if you need my help, then.’ One of several telephones on the massive desk rang, and he said, ‘Excuse me.
