Kay stretched her arms over her head and leaned back in her chair, groaning.
A muscle cricked at the base of her skull, and she reached out for her coffee mug before realising it was empty and sighed.
Pushing it away, she turned her attention back to her computer screen and the hundreds of emails that had arrived over the past twenty-four hours, scanning the subject lines for anything that could be discarded, and any others that could be delegated straight away.
That done, her eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of the screen.
Seven o’clock, and half an hour since she’d sent her team home.
The atmosphere had been subdued while they’d slunk away, half-hearted goodbyes and attempts at humour falling flat in their wake.
A few had resisted her orders, citing an opportunity to catch up with their work and try to get a head start on the next day, the quiet murmur of conversations carrying across to where she sat.
A stale air clung to the room, stuffy now that the building’s central heating system had been switched on for autumn and lulling Kay into a sleep-deprived fug while she scrolled back and forth between the messages.
Although she wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, Mark Redding’s solicitor’s words had rattled her.
Despite herself, she knew Andrew Gillow was right.
They didn’t have sufficient evidence to charge anyone, or any idea behind the motive for Thorngrove’s brutal murder.
They had nothing.
And the more time that passed, the easier it would be for the killer to distance himself from the crime scene and his victim.
An email from someone called Elliott Windlesham sent fifteen minutes ago snagged her attention, the subject line pertaining to a new list of names, and she clicked on it to see that it had been addressed to Laura and copied to her automatically by the system.
‘Please find attached the list of past and present members’ names, with apologies for the delay,’ she read.
Then she spotted the signature line.
‘Ah, the re-enactment lot,’ she murmured, and sent the attachment to the printer.
Walking over to it, she nodded in farewell to a pair of uniformed constables, and ran her eyes down the list while debating whether to pick up a takeaway on the way home.
Her stomach rumbled as she returned to her desk, still scanning the list.
Then she paused, stock-still between Gavin’s empty chair and her own.
‘I know that name.’
Wracking her memory, she tried to dredge up where she’d heard it before, and then dashed across to her computer and opened up the HOLMES2 database entry for the investigation.
Scrolling through all the documents Debbie and her team of administrative assistants had filed in chronological order, she worked her way back through all the witness statements and house-to-house enquiry logs until her eyes fell upon the familiar name.
‘What the hell…?’ she muttered.
She found Windlesham’s mobile number at the end of his email.
The man picked up after two rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Windlesham, it’s Detective Inspector Kay Hunter of Kent Police. I hope this isn’t too late to be calling?’
‘Is this about my email?’
‘It is. I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.’ She didn’t give him a chance to respond. ‘You’ve got a man by the name of Clive Workman on the list of past members. When did he leave?’
‘Um, off the top of my head I’d have to guess about four years ago. A while back, at any rate.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He lost his firearms certificate. He didn’t say why. I suppose without being able to take part in the re-enactments anymore, he lost interest. He never renewed his membership with us anyway.’
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Workman?’
‘Around about the same time, I reckon.’ There was a pause, then, ‘He’s not really the sort of bloke I liked to hang around with.’
‘In what way?’
‘Always had a bit of a temper on him, from what I remember. Easily offended. Not really the sort of person we want around when we’re interacting with the public. We never had him manning the static displays or the membership tent – he’d always get into an argument about the slightest thing.’
‘Right. Okay, thanks for your time.’
Kay ended the call before opening another tab on her computer screen and finding Laura’s report about her interview with Workman.
Scanning the text, she reviewed the questions the young detective constable had asked, and frowned.
The man had never answered her colleague’s inquiry whether he knew anyone who owned a firearm. Instead, he’d changed the subject, asking about the shooting at the White Hart before providing an alibi for his whereabouts.
The alibi, Matty Oakland, had confirmed what Workman had said, but it still left the question open regarding who else the man might know – and what information he might be withholding.
Otherwise, why not answer the question?
Was he trying to protect someone?
Kay swiped her phone screen and pressed speed dial for a familiar number.
‘Ian? Can you meet me at Clive Workman’s house? I’ll text you the address.’
‘No problem, guv. When?’
‘Now.’