TWENTY
Hardy and Russell pulled up outside Rob Drayton’s house. It was a three-storey detached property in one of the more salubrious parts of town, with two main gates and a semi-circular driveway which allowed the occupants the luxury of not having to reverse their vehicle out once they had driven in.
The cloudburst which they had driven through had now petered out to a minimal splatter, so much so that for the last couple of hundred yards the windscreen wipers were no longer necessary.
Hardy suspected that Drayton would already be aware of their imminent arrival. When he and Russell had first tried to locate Drayton at his office, his personal assistant had been very insistent that her boss was at home and too ill for visitors.
After she had reluctantly handed over his home address,
