Текст книги "Dead Dream Girl"

Автор книги: Richard Haley

Соавторы: Richard Haley
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

The last words were like a scream of anguish. Comedy seemed to blend absurdly with tragedy, as it sometimes did, like the two masks that symbolized the theatre. They stood in yet another silence, both he and Julia, sharing, Crane felt, the same sense of profound shock.

‘Give yourself up, Geoff,’ Crane said finally, as calmly as he could. ‘They’ll get you now, whatever you do. It was a crime of passion. They’ll be lenient with a man of your clean record. Ten years top whack. An open prison. You’ll still be young enough to make a new start.’

He looked about him, seeming almost stupefied, as if he’d emerged from a sort of fit that had briefly blanked his mind. When he spoke again it was with the old engaging smile, which Crane now found unbearable. ‘Frank, you don’t seriously believe I’d go inside for a trick-artist like Donna Jackson? I shall clear off, vanish, give myself a new identity. I shall go to America or Australia. Big places to lose yourself in. Come back to London when the dust has settled.’

‘You’re not going to walk away, Geoff. Julia has you covered and I’m going to ring Benson.’

‘The only problem with that is that Julia’s gun isn’t loaded. When I was trying to find a way out of her mansion I stumbled over a cloakroom where the gun lives. It was the work of seconds to knock out the shells.’

Julia’s shoulders sagged, as did Crane’s spirits. It had never paid to underestimate Anderson’s resourcefulness, and he’d felt all along that he’d have one final trick up his sleeve or he’d surely not have confessed to Donna’s killing.

‘Couldn’t afford to get myself shot,’ he said, faintly contemptuous. ‘She may only be a scatty dyke, but she might just have got lucky and hit me by mistake. Should have provided yourself with a MAC10, dear. Quite small, easily concealed, get off twelve hundred rounds a minute.’

‘You’d have got the full minute’s worth, you murdering swine,’ she said in a raw, bitter voice.

‘You’ll not get away,’ Crane told him. ‘Your car lights are smashed.’

‘I’d not thought of using it. I’m a fast runner. I’ll find a car in a side street I can hotwire. You mustn’t worry about that.’

‘And if I follow you?’

‘On that leg? You can barely walk man. And I disabled your car too, when you ran off into the undergrowth.’

He was right. Crane’s leg was so swollen and painful he’d have trouble even controlling the clutch for the next two or three days. He glanced at Julia. She shrugged apathetically. ‘Give yourself up, Geoff,’ he said again. ‘I’m begging you. I’ll do everything in my power to help you. A good counsel …’

‘No chance, Frank.’ There seemed to be a genuine warmth in his eyes as they rested on Crane’s. ‘She did enough damage to my life just by living. It was good knowing you, even though you had me running shitless half the time. Sorry about your gammy leg and all that other stuff back there. Goodbye each.’

He suddenly turned then to make his dash for freedom. Equally suddenly the gun went off, with a deafening report in the silence.

THIRTEEN

Anderson lay quite still in the film-set brilliance. Crane clutched his head with both hands. It had been his worst fear, that she might shoot at random and hit him by mistake. He didn’t understand how she’d made the gun fire at all when Anderson was supposed to have knocked out the shells. Maybe he’d been bluffing, as always. He knew she’d killed him. What a mess. What a bloody mess.

But then Anderson began to move. Began writhing in agony. Began cursing and yelping. Crane limped painfully to his side, got down awkwardly on one knee, yelping softly himself. Blood was seeping through Anderson’s trousers from wound in his left thigh. Julia came up behind them. She picked up the thick stick Anderson had abandoned when he’d turned to run off. She held it by the tip, with a hand wrapped in a handkerchief, tossed it at the wounded man’s side. ‘He was attacking you with that, right? He’d have killed you if I’d not brought him down.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Just so we’re both reading from the same script. He’ll survive, unfortunately. I should have killed him. God knows, I wanted to kill him, but it’s a simple flesh wound that’ll cause no lasting damage.’ She spoke with total, clipped assurance.

‘But he’d fixed it, the gun.’

‘He had indeed, but an experienced shot, Frank, always checks the state of the gun. I’d reloaded.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Quite. I wanted him to go on thinking what a superior type he was and what a silly little featherhead I was.’

‘I’ll get the emergency services. For both of you.’

‘Bring a tea towel from the kitchen and I’ll make a tourniquet. I’ll watch him. Doesn’t seem quite the big confident Jack the Lad he thought he was now, does he?’

Anderson was rolling about in agony, still yelping, his expression a mixture of pain and irritation. Crane felt he was angrier about being unable to react with any kind of stoicism than being stopped from escaping.

Crane got himself up slowly. ‘You’re an incredible shot.’

‘My father taught me. Taught me how to shoot cleanly. I’ve shot over dogs with some of the best in the land. You see, having a daughter instead of a son was the biggest disappointment of my father’s life. So he liked to pretend I was a boy. Shooting, fishing, riding, fast cars. The stiff upper lip at all times, even when you fell off your horse … or someone clonks you over the head with a priceless piece of bronze.’

She ran a hand through her tousled, blood-matted hair and gazed despondently towards her fine old house. ‘He made a jolly good job of it. I’ve had problems with my gender ever since.’

Benson shook his head, grimaced. ‘All those statements, all those public appeals, the sheer man hours. And that arsehole, on the phone every verse end: any news, any developments, has Mahon coughed? No wonder coppers end up distrusting everything that moves.’

‘What’s the form?’

‘Knows his rights, you bet. Won’t admit to anything. But he will.’

‘How’s the leg?’

‘Uncomplicated flesh wound; she was spot on. Pity she didn’t let her finger slip and blow the sod away. Save the taxpayer another load of moolah.’ Benson lit a new cigarette. ‘Anyway, we can nail him for being at the Raven with her the actual night she disappeared. We’ve had sight of a Barclay-card docket signed by him. And one of the waitresses recognized Donna from a photo as being with him around that time. It wasn’t a face you forgot. She doesn’t read the Standard or she might have picked up on it before.’

‘The sod had incredible luck, apart from anything else,’ Crane said. ‘Just managing to be in a Leaf and Petal vehicle Kirsty Hellewell had lent him the night Julia followed Donna and took the number of the Scenic. It seemed it had to be Hellewell then. And with him and Anderson having a bit of a resemblance.’

‘Ollie Stringer will be our star witness,’ Benson told him. ‘He still can’t speak, but we showed him a picture of Anderson and told him we’d got him banged up and would he identify him? He was nodding so hard fit to make his bloody head drop off. And if Ollie identifies him in court I reckon we’re home and dry.’ He ground out the cigarette angrily. ‘Christ, the last person in the frame was always going to be the Standard’s sodding crime reporter!’

‘His luck kicked in from day one,’ said Crane. ‘You lot were certain Mahon had killed her. Me too. At the start I just felt it was my job to try and prove he’d killed her. Anderson’s off the hook, even though he was never really on it. He knows perfectly well Mahon must have had some other reason to stick with the story he was home that night. He gets so confident Mahon will always stick to it that he can even take me to the Goose and Guinea and pretend to ruffle his feathers a bit.

‘But he loathes Mahon personally, like all the men Donna had known, and makes his only real mistake. He feeds Mahon the stuff about the Willows pointing the bone. That blew the door open. Mahon confesses but you could clear him. I reckon that’s got to be Anderson’s worst hour. And then I get Adrian’s name from Ollie and he knows that if I get through to Adrian and put you on to him it’ll be Bobby Mahon all over again, in fact anyone I can turn up who just might have done it. He’s shitting bricks by now and terrified that sooner or later I might get through to him. He knows I don’t give in too easily and I bring a fresh mind. But then the luck’s with him again. Kirsty tells him Joe Hellewell is also known as Adrian. And Adrian’s dodgy lifestyle makes him seem so guilty as to almost rule out anyone else. So he makes Hellewell appear to leg it, which means he’s virtually admitting his guilt. Anderson’s home and dry. Except that now I’d turned up Julia Gregson.’

Crane drank some of his G and T. ‘Julia was the wild card and this really spooks him. She keeps a proper diary and he’s terrified his name might crop up in it, in the parts she’d not wanted me to read.’

‘And it’s him who breaks into Patsy’s?’

‘He’s got a good fix on the way my mind works now and he gambles on me spotting the flip chart’s been tampered with. He’s certain I’ll decide it must have been Hellewell. Hellewell reads the chart, realizes he’s the chief suspect, and he too believes he has to get his hands on that diary. So he tries to steal it, only Julia surprises him, and in the struggle he accidentally kills her. He has to leg it for good then, because if he’s not nailed for one killing he’ll be nailed for another. That’s what we’re meant to think when Julia’s body’s found. What Anderson didn’t bargain for was me picking up on how crucial the diary could be before he’d managed to see off Julia. Well, you can’t think of everything, not even Anderson, who can have few equals for tying up loose ends. I was certain Julia might be in danger, and she was, but not from Hellewell.’

Benson lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply. ‘What we can’t figure is why Hellewell went off with Anderson the night he disappeared. We’ve enhanced the CCTV footage. Still can’t get the number but know it’s definitely a Honda Accord.’

‘I’ve not stopped kicking it around. We know why Anderson and Donna ended up at Tanglewood that night. He’d bought her a fancy meal, she’d be staying the night at his flat probably, but he wanted a neutral place in between where he could read her the riot act about sleeping around. Well, that’s where he lost it, throttled the poor kid and bunged her in the reservoir, where she’d be now if it hadn’t been for the youngster finding her. Well, I’m certain it was a crime of passion, but quick thinker that he is he knew how to make sure the body was weighted before he dumped it. But it must have struck him later that reservoirs make handy burial grounds. I began to wonder if maybe he took Hellewell to the next reservoir along the line. That would be Scamworth. It’s very, very quiet and too far out for kids to get there on foot and use as a swimming pool.’

Benson’s mouth went down sceptically at the corners. ‘Can’t see it myself. Hellewell was a tough bloke, like Anderson. How’s he going to let himself be lured from Leaf and Petal?’

‘Lure’s a good word. It took me a while to get there, but we have to remember that Hellewell was a fiver each way, and that Anderson’s tall and good looking with a well made body. What if he told Hellewell he’d always fancied him, couldn’t get him off his mind, how did he feel about going somewhere quiet and doing something about it? Like a beauty spot with a reservoir attached? That’s only a theory, I’m trying to think like Anderson might have done.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Benson said grudgingly. Crane knew he would and if the theory was acted on Benson would quietly claim it as his own, touchy as he was about Crane’s superior deductive skills, about his way of obsessively worrying at a problem till something gave. He knew Benson often felt exposed since he’d left the force, though would never admit it. It was very sad. They’d been a good team together, apart from their close friendship, as Benson had solid police skills of his own. It was just that a few things had gone adrift in Benson’s mind this past two or three years.

‘You’re right about his luck though,’ Benson said dourly.

‘Even with his car. I never even knew he drove a Honda. For one reason or another he was in a pool car or in my car or parked out of sight. And he made his own luck with the flip chart. The sod simply sets it up, says it’ll keep us all in the picture. Keep him in the picture! It just meant he never lost track of what I was up to, not for a minute, because I was writing it all down even when he wasn’t there. It was a game he couldn’t lose.’

Benson shook his head. ‘Why did he go on like that? Pretending he’d never give in on the case till someone put their hand up?’

‘I think he saw it as a good way of drawing the fire well away from himself. Like those blokes who go on the telly now and then, tears in their eyes, appealing for information about a wife or a partner who’s bought it. And then it turns out that the guy who’s doing the appealing did the business.

‘I also think, in some part of his mind, once she was dead, he knew it was just about the best story he’d ever had. Apart from all the reports and articles he could write about it he was planning this big feature about the innocent victim he was going to make her out to be of a Willows going to the dogs. He was aiming to syndicate it and use it as a crucial part of his CV when he made his bid for a London job.’

‘Why did he write her up as such an innocent? He could maybe have shown the Willows in a worse light still if he’d said it had turned her into a tom.’

‘I don’t honestly think he could ever stop seeing her the way she was when he first got to know her, when she seemed innocent. A bit of a chatterbox, a bit empty-headed, but that was because of the Willows and poor schooling. And he could take her away from all that, make her over into a fit companion for a college man. Like Svengali, he’d soon have her singing in tune. But he twigged very quickly about the whoring and the dodgy men and the vicious tongue, and yet in his mind I think he always wanted her to be the sweet little kid he’d seen in the clubs with the strobes flashing on her hair.’

‘He always seemed such a decent bloke. Everyone liked him at the nick. Especially the women.’

‘That was his trouble, the women had been there for him all his life. It wasn’t just his looks, he was clever, funny, bags of charm. And then the only woman he can’t get off his mind can take him or leave him. He might be good looking but he’s never going to be a millionaire, and funny and clever were never going to replace money in Donna’s mind. The very worst thing he could have done was to think he could educate her. He knew the glamour just wasn’t going to be enough. But all she wanted was a London address. He could stick the culture. I bet inside a fortnight she’d have been wondering if it was worth the hassle. She had a short fuse and she was masterclass at sticking the knife where it would do the most damage, and danger excited her. I reckon Anderson couldn’t believe it was happening to him, some chit of a girl telling him he had a crap future and wasn’t up to much under the duvet.’

‘All right,’ Benson growled, ‘he got carried away. It happens. Christ, we know if anyone does. But how did this clean cut college boy go on living with himself?’

‘The way most killers do these days, now that guilt and blame and remorse are out of fashion. I don’t think he regarded himself as being all that guilty, or that his future was worth ruining for a call girl. I think he’d virtually convinced himself that with the men she ran around with, and that mouth of hers, she was going to get herself topped one day anyway; it was his bad luck he happened to be first in line. And then, writing about her so much I think it almost objectified her in his mind. I think she’d begun to transmute into the sweet innocent kid who’d been murdered, and the killer could have been anyone. Anyone but him, anyway.’

‘What about Ollie and Joe Hellewell? He’s going to objectify them too, is he?’

‘Give him time. Maybe it gets easier after you’ve done it once.’

‘Well, he’s going to have plenty of time to mull it all over, that’s for sure.’

‘The sad thing, the really sad thing is that he’d convinced himself he’d be rescuing Donna from her background. He could make her happy, give her a decent life. But she wasn’t unhappy. She was having a ball. She liked screwing around and making a few bob. And she had her life mapped out for when she got to London. She’d sleep with some big name photographer and she’d be up and running as a model all the magazines wanted. Inside six months she’d have nailed a stock exchange trader. She was a total realist. I reckon dream girls usually are. It was the blokes who were doing the real dreaming about those dazzling futures they had in mind for her. She was making meticulous plans for a future that would be exactly right for the type of woman she was. And why not, poor bitch?’

Benson nodded, finished his drink, got up to go. ‘Well, I’ll be off. We’ll keep you in the picture. See you.’ He’d begun to walk away, when he slowly turned back. ‘Well done, Frank, it’s saved us a hell of a lot of extra work.’

Crane nodded, knowing the effort it had cost him to say those words, after the months of effort he and the others had put in on the case, which Crane appeared to have sorted out in a couple of weeks. But Crane knew he’d had luck apart from skill. And he couldn’t forget that harmless old Ollie had been dreadfully injured, and Hellewell almost certainly disposed of, before he could deliver a killer to the police. As anything to do with murder nearly always was, it had been a Phyrric victory.

They sat motionless in their tiny cluttered living room. Malc’s hand shook on his glass of whisky, and tears slid once again down Connie’s face.

‘He spent the whole evening with us,’ Malc said, in a low raw voice. ‘Making notes for what he’d put in the paper. About her life and when she was growing up. He couldn’t have been more sympathetic. Mam and me, we couldn’t stop filling up, and he’d comfort us. He’d comfort us, Frank! And it was him. Dear God …’

‘It couldn’t have come as a bigger shock, Malc,’ Crane told him.

‘And then, when I heard you were working together, I said, “We’ve got two grand lads on the case, Mam, two grand lads.” Weren’t those my very words, Mam?’

‘And he’d been going out with her,’ Connie said, in a voice little more than a whisper. ‘A nice, well spoken boy like that from a good home. I can’t weigh it up, Frank, I can’t weigh it up at all.’

‘If he’d just confessed!’ Malc cried. ‘It wouldn’t have made it no better, but to carry on as if it weren’t nothing to do with him.’

‘He’ll go inside for a very long time, Malc. He’s going to plead not guilty and that’ll mean a long expensive trial. The judge won’t overlook it when it comes to sentencing him.’

‘Well … we know the truth now,’ Connie said, dabbing her eyes. ‘We can’t thank you enough. You put yourself in such a lot of danger. He could have killed you too.’

‘We couldn’t bear not knowing, Frank. You’ve done wonders,’ Malc said, his own eyes now wet with tears. He reached out blindly to grasp his daughter’s hand. ‘And we’ve got our Patsy. I don’t know how we’d have got on without our Patsy, bless her.’

Patsy reddened slightly. Crane felt that at least some kind of closure was in sight. They’d never forget their golden girl, but she could finally be laid to rest. Maybe now it would be Patsy’s turn to receive some of the love and attention she’d always anyway deserved so much more than her calculating, beautiful tramp of a sister.

‘How much do we owe you, Frank?’ Connie said in a more collected tone. ‘We got the insurance cheque through the other day.’

‘Don’t you worry about that now, Connie,’ he said gently. ‘My lady at the office will sort it out presently.’ He got up. ‘Need a lift, Patsy?’

‘I’ll stay with Mam and Dad tonight, Frank.’

He kissed Connie’s pale cheek, took Malc’s trembling hand in both his own. At the door, Patsy said, ‘I’ll be back at the flat tomorrow night. Will you come for a drink?’

The others sat together, but she sat in a corner, alone. The Glass-house seemed to have a subdued atmosphere without Anderson laughing and joking from the chair that had always been reserved for him at the head of one of the central communal tables, not very long ago.

He sat down with her. She gave him a pale-featured smile. The contrast couldn’t have been sharper with the rosy cheeks and the impish grins he’d known before. ‘Thanks for coming, Frank.’

‘My pleasure, Carol. Drink?’

‘No thanks, this one will do me.’ She passed a hand through her curly black hair, her green eyes meeting his with a clouded look.

‘I’m very, very sorry about Geoff, Carol.’

She nodded, giving an impression of fatigue, as if she’d not slept much recently. ‘I need your advice, Frank.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘It wasn’t Geoff. You must know that as well as I do. This is madness! You have police contacts, haven’t you? I need to speak to someone. It’s very urgent.’

He watched her in silence for a few seconds. ‘I only wish it wasn’t Geoff. I liked him. That’s the problem when someone you like does something dreadful. But the evidence—’

‘But it’s all circumstantial! Every bit of it.’

‘Maybe about Donna’s actual killing, yes, but when all the other things come out in court.’

‘Where was he supposed to be the night she disappeared?’

‘These are police matters now, Carol. I can’t say too much as I’ll be a prosecution witness. You know how it is.’

‘He was at the Raven, wasn’t he? I bet they’re making out he was with her. Well, he wasn’t! He was with me!’

He sighed, gave her a wry glance. ‘The waitress identified—’

‘It was me, Frank. I wrote it in my last year’s diary.’

‘When? Last night?’

‘Don’t be such a shit.’

‘Look, Carol, I don’t want to upset you more than you already are, but you must have known he was seeing someone else around the time she died. Women always know. And you know he’s never been the same with you since. And that’s because he’s never got her off his mind.’ He put a hand on hers. ‘I know what you’re going through. And it won’t be any consolation, but you were exactly right for him: in the business, well educated, outgoing. And you’ve always been there for him, hoping he’d be back one day as the Geoff you used to know. Well, you’re going to need that level head of yours, and the way you feel about him, because in the end he’s going to need you like he’s never needed anyone in his life. If you’re prepared to wait.’

Her cheeks were suddenly flushed, her eyes blazing with anger. ‘Don’t patronize me, Frank. Just tell me who I need to speak to at the station. Just give me a name.’

‘It won’t get you anywhere. They’ll accuse you of wasting police time and they’ll get very angry. Girlfriends are always trying this on, Carol, believe me.’

‘Just give me a name.’

‘Benson. DS Ted Benson. And don’t mention my name.’

‘You could help me if you wanted to. You know it’s not Geoff. Geoff? He’d give you the shirt off his back. His father’s a professor, a professor, for Christ’s sake. His mother’s a doctor and a JP. He couldn’t have done it.’

He sighed again. Connie Jackson had already pointed out his impeccable middle-class credentials. ‘It doesn’t always follow, Carol, you know it doesn’t. You should do, you’re a journalist.’

‘If it wasn’t for you the poor sod wouldn’t be on remand,’ she cried bitterly. ‘I wish to Christ he’d never set eyes on you.’

‘I can understand that, but let’s not forget there’s an eighteen-year-old girl involved here, who had her entire life in front of her. And if he’s guilty, and proved to be guilty, he’ll have to serve his sentence.’

‘He … is … not … guilty,’ she said, spacing the words with trembling lips. ‘And if some arsehole of a counsel tries to … to manipulate everything so it seems he is I’ll never stop searching for the truth. I’ll hire a proper investigator and I’ll never give in, never, never, never …’

She burst into tears. There was nothing he could do to calm her, as she wouldn’t listen or let him touch her. She was still weeping when he got up to go, her friends anxiously crossing from their table to hers.

He was middle-sized, slender and dark haired, with brown eyes. He had a warm and easy smile. ‘How do you do, Mr Briggs.’ Crane shook his hand. ‘Sit down and tell me how I might be able to help you.’

‘I’ll not waste your time,’ he said. ‘Mind if I call you Frank? I’m Henry.’

‘Go ahead, Henry.’

‘It’s about a girl called Donna, a reporter, a dodgy photographer, a wealthy lesbian, an abusive boyfriend and a man who owns a garden centre, whose body police divers are searching for in Scamworth reservoir even as we speak. And the reporter is in the frame.’

‘You another journalist? How do you know all this?’

His smile had the breezy look he’d so often seen in Anderson. ‘Come on, Frank, an old China hand like you wouldn’t expect a London investigative reporter to reveal any sources, would you?’

‘It would depend on what you wanted from me.’

‘Frank, there’s a powerful scent coming out of Bradford. It’s the scent of one of the best crime stories of the decade. It’s got the lot: a dead beauty, a crime the police can’t solve, a man who puts his hand up when he’s not guilty, a PI who teams up with the reporter to find the real killer, and a reporter who works the clock round on a murder he committed himself.’

‘He’s not stood in the dock yet.’

‘Agreed, but the feeling is, with that lot stacked against him, he’d better start getting used to prison food.’

He’d got it all right, but Crane was saying nothing to any reporters that might one day prejudice the case. He smiled. ‘No comment.’

‘Frank, this is nothing to do with routine reporting. All the papers, are circling for that particular kill. I’m talking the paperback here, that’s going to be rushed out the minute the verdict’s in place. You know, that’ll be in every supermarket and petrol station, every airport and chain store. But it’s no deal unless I can get your input.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘There’s an advance involved,’ he said. ‘I’ll split it with you and give you a small percentage of the royalties. That gives you two and a half grand in your back pocket. All you do is talk to me. I do the rest; writing, promoting, publicity.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Crane said firmly. ‘It’s tempting, but if there’s one thing I price above rubies it’s my anonymity. It would get the punters twitchy. They might think I’m getting too big to chase a debt for them or a husband who’s running loose.’

‘No one’s going to know about our private deal. And I’ll write it as if I’ve dug out most of the detail on my own, while paying due tribute to you for “the valuable help you gave me.”’ He put fingers up to indicate quotation marks for the last words.

Crane hesitated. He could find a good use for the money.

‘It might even run to a film or a teleplay . You’d be down for a piece of that too.’

‘The trouble is, Henry, I’ve got to know Donna’s parents very well. They’re two really decent types and they worshipped the kid. If this book had a big success they’d have to live through losing her all over again, when they’re just beginning to get their heads right.’

‘I understand that. I’ve got a kid sister of my own. But the thing is, it won’t just be me thinking there’s a book in this. Some very mangled versions could find their way into the pipeline. If you and me were to cooperate it’ll be the exact truth, sympathetically told. Once the rest know I’m getting it from the horse’s mouth they’ll back off.’

Crane watched him. He couldn’t argue with that. Whatever he did he was never going to be able to protect them from having to keep reliving Donna’s short life and appalling death.

‘All right,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’d need approval of the final draft. I mean that and I’d want it in writing.’

‘Agreed. I’m currently on leave and staying at the Norfolk. I’ll be spending the time getting a feel for the area: the Willows, the SOC, the clubs and so on. If we could spend a couple of evenings talking it through on tape, that’s all I’d need. Anything else, I can ring you.’

‘I can make it tomorrow evening and probably the one after.’

‘Great. We can have a meal sent up to my room.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Frank, I’ll give it my best shot.’

Crane held open the door of his little office for him. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘if you were absolutely obsessed with a beautiful hooker and she made you so angry you topped her and then managed to cover your tracks, would you have so much printer’s ink in your veins you could then try to turn it into the biggest story of your career?’

He smiled the engaging smile again that was so reminiscent of Anderson’s. He didn’t nod. But he didn’t shake his head either.

That evening, as his car was idling at traffic lights, Crane saw a billboard outside a newsagent’s. It said: BODY FOUND IN SCAMWORTH RESERVOIR.

There were fresh flowers in the tiny flat and the window stood open on the warm still evening. He said, ‘We could go for a meal. We never did have a chance to celebrate your promotion.’

‘We could … eat in, if you like,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve brought some things from work I can put in the oven.’

‘Fine by me.’ He sipped a little of the gin and tonic she’d made him.

‘I could do with a quiet evening.’

‘Hard day?’

She nodded, smiled. ‘Robert’s looking after me. He’s the manager in charge of my section. He’s nice. Keeps us at it, but he works very hard too.’

‘Good. I hope you’re giving the impression you’ve got your eye on his job when he gets his next promotion.’

‘Oh, Frank …’

She wore a lemon cotton shirt over skinny black pants, and her smooth hair gleamed in declining sunlight. He thought again of the woman she’d been on that first evening: fright hair, wrinkled clothes, sunk in an apathy she’d not bothered to conceal. He knew she was now a woman who was going somewhere. She was beginning to get on and she liked it, liked it a lot. He could see her in ten years, a valued senior employee, her plain looks enhanced by maturity. He wondered again if he really had been responsible for any of that. He’d given her a word or two of encouragement, involved her in that tortuous search for her sister’s killer, but the rest had been all her own doing.