I arrived at the Coombe Mallet police enquiry office in less than an hour. Parking the Rover on the street, I dashed inside, dodging the icy rain and feeling rather breathless. What Mercy Abbott had just told me could change everything.
The community support officer I’d seen earlier, the kindly woman in dark trousers and a black shirt, showed me into the room where Tom and DCI Okoje stood opposite each other at the laminate-topped table. The floor plans of the Museum of Devon Life were spread out before them.
Seeing me, they stood.
“Kate, darling.” Tom gave me a side hug.
“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Okoje asked.
“I’m not sure what I have to say will be a pleasure, but I think you’ll find it eye-opening.”
“Take a seat.” Okoje shoved a stack of papers to one side, making room at the table.
I sat. “Still working on the floor plans, I see.”
“One of these names”—Okoje stabbed at the first-floor diagram—“is the person who shot Gideon Littlejohn the night of the gala.”
“And maybe finished the job two days later,” Tom said.
“Cup o’ tea?” the CSO asked.
“I’d love one, thanks. It’s freezing outside.”
She smiled. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Splash of milk. Two sugars.” I peeled off my jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and sat next to Tom.
“What did you learn from Mercy Abbott?” Tom asked. “I told DCI Okoje where you went today.”
I proceeded to tell them everything, exactly as Mercy had told me. “First of all, she saw the dress. And Gideon Littlejohn said it was connected to a woman named Nancy Thorne. So there’s our first definite link, Tom. But more to the point, she also said Gideon Littlejohn knew the identity of a boy who pushed a burning newspaper through Billy Cole’s letter box the night he died. This boy caused the old man’s death. Littlejohn told Mercy this person had come up in the world and would be ruined when Littlejohn made the information public. That’s important, because according to Beryl Grey, the man with Littlejohn around nine the morning of his death said, ‘This will ruin me.’”
“Hugo Hawksworthy, if she’s right,” Okoje said.
Tom quirked an eyebrow. “And Hawksworthy was on the first floor when the shot was fired.”
The community support officer placed a steaming cup of tea in front of me. “Thank you so much.” I cupped my hands around it to warm my fingers.
“Hawksworthy claimed he and Littlejohn didn’t know each other well,” Tom said. “Do we know where Hawksworthy grew up?”
“First question we’ll ask.” Okoje stood, pulling one of the large sheets of paper toward us. “I’d like you to look at the floor plan of the museum again, Ms. Hamilton.”
I took a sip of the hot tea, feeling the liquid warm me on the inside.
Okoje tapped the scale drawing of the first floor. “We know the shot was fired from this point, the first-floor balcony, while the mechanical clock demonstration was going on. Everyone was focused on the clock, but this is a small community. Most people remember who was standing near them, to the left and right. Before the demonstration began, you were here.” He indicated one of the small paper squares with my name on it. “You were standing at the railing, looking down at the ground floor. When the demonstration began, you moved closer so you could see it.” He peeled off the square with my name on it and stuck it down on the edge of a group of other squares. “Is that about right?”
I looked at the names. “I think so. I remember the Jamiesons, Richard and Clare, because I was thinking how lucky they were to be so tall. They could see over the crowd. I told you there were two men sort of in front of them. One was tall, the other short. And there was a woman with bright-red hair on their right. She was holding a small boy.”
“Sharon Fogg and her boy Jacob. How about Quinn Pearce?”
The square labeled Quinn P had been placed to the left of the Jamiesons. “That’s right. She was on their left, closer to me. Let me think for a minute.” I closed my eyes and pulled up that final image—the little boy on his mother’s shoulders, one chubby hand grasping her bright-copper hair; the Jamiesons, leaning forward, their shoulders meeting; the outline of Quinn’s spine and her long swanlike neck; that flash of gold on the edge of the crowd—Isla’s cocktail dress; the tall, red-faced man who’d backed off, allowing the shorter man a better view.
“I can picture the scene, but something isn’t right. I just can’t think what it is.”
“It’ll come to you,” Tom said.
“You left the demonstration before it was over,” Okoje said. “Why was that?”
“Truthfully, it kind of creeped me out—the figure of Death.” I certainly wasn’t going to use the word premonition. “I decided I’d seen enough. I wanted to find Tom, so I headed for the stairs.”
“How long did it take you to descend the stairs and locate Tom?”
“I’m not sure, but, well, probably less than fifteen seconds. I remember the clock was still chiming. Actually, the final chime came just after the shot was fired.”
“You’re sure you didn’t notice someone you hadn’t seen before or someone who’d changed their location?”
I shook my head. But I had noticed something. If only I could remember what it was.
The conversation was interrupted when DS Varma burst into the room. “They’ve cracked the encryption on Littlejohn’s computer. There’s a file you’re going to want to see, boss. Should be coming through momentarily.”
The four of us gathered around Varma’s computer, riveted as links to files flashed on the screen. There were more than a hundred files, and they were numbered. No clue as to their contents.
Varma scrolled through the links. “Most of these are related to Littlejohn’s work in cybersecurity—contracts, assessments of risks, reports and results.” He placed the cursor over one of the larger files. “This is the one you need to see.” Varma clicked on it. “It’s raw data, but I think you’ll catch the drift.”
The file turned out to be a master document, a listing of links to other documents. They all concerned one person.
Tom looked up. “Well, well. Gideon Littlejohn was investigating Teddy Pearce.”
Varma clicked through file after file. There were school records and the results of Teddy’s O-levels, details of his brief stint in the military, a short document listing visits to the NHS, preemployment background checks, tenant screenings, financial disclosure documents from his political activities, bank statements, credit card statements, details about the mortgage on a house, the results of a surveillance operation. The amount of information Littlejohn had collected on Teddy Pearce was astonishing.
“Why would Littlejohn do that kind of an in-depth investigation?” Tom asked. “Was it his idea, or did someone pay him?”
“He was paid, all right. You ready for this? By Karl Benables.”
“When was this?” Okoje asked.
“Spring of 2007.”
“Around the time he and Quinn were engaged,” Tom said. “Makes sense. Quinn’s father was trying to find dirt on Pearce. Hoped to convince his daughter not to marry him.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Okoje said. “In 2007, Karl Benables hired Gideon Littlejohn to investigate Teddy Pearce. Fifteen years later, the council hired Littlejohn to investigate Benables.”
“But here’s the interesting thing,” Varma said. ”Look at the dates of the last files. Littlejohn continued to investigate Pearce even after Benables stopped paying him. He’s included documents from Pearce’s parliamentary campaign, recent bank records—from this year. And there are two files you’re definitely going to want to see.” Varma moved the computer mouse. “The first is an image, a photograph. A football team.”
A photograph filled the screen—eighteen or twenty boys in two rows, all in their upper teens. The first row knelt, one knee up. The back row stood, their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were flanked by two adult males, probably coaches. The boys were a diverse lot—white, black, Asian—dressed in navy shorts and navy shirts with the gray-and-yellow logo banner of their sponsor. Two boys had been singled out with red marker stars above their heads. Both were white, medium height with dark hair. One knelt at the end of the front row. The other stood in the back. He had a flat, lopsided nose and a distinct underbite. “That’s Teddy Pearce,” I said. “Who’s the other boy?”
“See if you can trace him,” Okoje told Varma.
“Won’t be easy after all these years, boss—and maybe unnecessary.” Varma clicked on another file, and the logo of the Devon Youth Justice Service, Exeter, flashed onto the screen. “What you’re looking at is a detailed listing of offenses committed by one Theodore Pearce from the ages of twelve to seventeen.”
“Is that legal?” I asked. “Aren’t the records sealed or something?”
“Supposed to be.” Okoje straightened his back. “Littlejohn knew how to stop hackers. Looks like he used his skills to hack into the juvenile court records.”
Varma scrolled down the list of offenses. “Pearce was quite the lad in his day. Multiple truancies, stealing bicycles, shoplifting, purse snatching, intimidation, common assault, possession of a controlled drug, possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply, criminal damage.”
“He made no secret of that,” I said. “He admitted everything openly the night of the gala.”
Tom had taken over the keyboard. “Maybe not everything. Look at this—a file dated June of 1992. ‘Theodore Pearce. Charge: Criminal damage and endangering life during the riots in the Burnthouse Lane Estate. Gross negligence manslaughter arising from an unlawful and dangerous act in the death of William Cole, an eighty-two-year-old disabled man.’”
I felt my chest tighten. “Billy Cole, the owner of the dress. Pearce was charged. Was he convicted?”
Tom scrolled again. “Insufficient evidence. Never even went to trial.”
“Mercy Abbott said Littlejohn was determined to ruin the person responsible for Billy’s death. I asked her if Littlejohn knew Teddy Pearce. She said she didn’t think so, but they both grew up on the Burnthouse Lane estate in Exeter. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“No.” Okoje’s expression was grim. “If Pearce was the visitor Littlejohn was expecting the morning he was killed, and if Littlejohn confronted Pearce about the death of Billy Cole …” He left the sentence hanging. “Varma, you’re with me. We can be in London by”—he glanced at his watch—“seven PM if we hurry. Bring him in under caution.”
“What if he’s not there?” Varma asked. “He might have meetings—you know, government stuff. A dinner.”
“He has to sleep. He’s meant to be on the floor of the House of Commons in the morning. If he’s not home, we’ll wait—all night if we have to.” Okoje grabbed his jacket. He put his huge hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It’ll take us three hours to get to London. I’ll send you a text when we’re in position. You and Kate head over to the Pearces’ house. Stay with Quinn. Don’t let her leave, and don’t let her call her husband.”
“What do we tell her?” Tom asked.
“Nothing if you can help it. Say we’re following a lead and I sent you to provide security. That’s it. We’ll send someone to bring her in once we have Pearce in custody.”
I felt unsettled. “Shouldn’t we tell Quinn about her husband’s arrest?”
“That’ll be up to Mr. Pearce. Privacy laws. He’ll be given the right to consult a solicitor and the right to have someone informed of his arrest. His choice. What I’m wondering is how much Mrs. Pearce already knows.”
I was wondering the same thing.