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.One of the deposits, the two million dollars, had a name attached to it—Toleron.I knew I’d heard that name before, but I couldn’t place where, so I typed “Toleron” into the Google search on my computer, and it instantly gave me the answer.“Toleron Plastics” appeared across my screen in large red letters, with “the largest drainpipe manufacturer in Europe” running underneath in slightly smaller ones.Mrs.Martin Toleron had been the rather boring lady I’d sat next to at Isabella’s kitchen supper, who would, it appeared, very soon be finding out that her “wonderful” husband wasn’t quite as good at business as she had claimed.I almost felt sorry for her.Had that really been only eleven days ago? So much had happened in the interim.I searched further for Mr.Martin Toleron.Nearly every reference was connected with the sale of his company the previous November to a Russian conglomerate, reputedly adding more than a hundred million dollars to his personal fortune.Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so sorry for his wife over the loss of a mere two million.As Alex would have said, they could afford it.Early on Tuesday morning, while my mother was away on the gallops watching her horses exercise, I borrowed Ian Norland’s car once more, and went to see Mr.Martin Toleron.According to the Internet, he lived in the village of Hermitage, a few miles to the north of Newbury, and I found the exact address easily enough by asking directions in the village shop.“Oh yes,” said the plump middle-aged woman behind the counter.“We all know the Tolerons round here, especially Mrs.Toleron.” Her tone implied that Mrs.Toleron wasn’t necessarily the most welcome of customers in the shop.I thought it might have had something to do with the never-ending praise of her “wonderful” husband or, more likely, was just straightforward envy of the rich.Martin Toleron’s house, near the edge of the village on the Yattenden Road, was a grand affair, in keeping with his “captain of industry” billing.I pulled up in front of the firmly closed six-foot-high iron gates and pushed the button on the intercom box fixed to the gatepost, but I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to say if someone answered.“Hello,” said a man’s voice through the box.“Mr.Toleron?” I asked.“Yes,” the man said.“Mr.Martin Toleron?”“Yes.” He sounded a little impatient.“My name is Thomas Forsyth,” I said.“I’d like to—”“Look, I’m sorry,” he replied, cutting me off.“I don’t take cold calls at my gate.Good-bye.” There was a click, and the box went dead.I pushed the button again.No reply, so I pushed it once more, and for much longer.Eventually, he came back on the line.“What do you want?” he asked, with increased impatience.“Does Rock Bank Ltd of Gibraltar mean anything to you?” I asked.There was a pause before he replied, “Who did you say you are?”“Open the gates and you’ll find out,” I said.“Stay there,” he said.“I’m coming out.”I waited, and soon a small, portly man emerged, walking down the driveway towards me.I vaguely remembered him from Isabella’s supper even though we hadn’t spoken.Looks, I thought, could be deceiving.Martin Toleron didn’t give the appearance of being a multimillionaire captain of industry, but then again, Alexander the Great had hardly been an Adonis, having reputedly been very short, with a twisted neck and different-colored eyes, one blue and the other brown.Martin Toleron stopped some ten feet from the gates.“What do you want?” he demanded.“Just to talk,” I said.“Are you from the tax authorities?” he asked.I thought it a strange question, but perhaps he was afraid I was going to hand him a summons.“No,” I said.“I was at the same dinner party as you, at Jackson and Isabella Warren’s place last week.I sat next to your wife.”He took a couple of paces towards the gates and squinted at me.“But what do you want?” he said again.“I want to talk to you about Rock Bank Ltd and the investment you have just made with them in Gibraltar.”“That’s none of your business,” he said.I didn’t reply but stood silently, waiting for curiosity to get the better of him.“And how do you know about it?” he asked, as I knew he would.“I think it might be better for us to go inside to discuss this rather than to shout a conversation through these gates where anyone could overhear us.Don’t you agree?”He obviously did agree, because he removed a small black box from his pocket and pushed a button.The gates swung open as I returned to Ian’s car.I parked on the gravel drive in front of the mock-Georgian front door and pillared portico of his modern redbrick mansion
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