Saturday afternoon (continued)
Chloe’s bicycle had twenty-one gears, but none of them could get Oliver out of a ditch. Which was ironic, because fiddling with the gears had caused him to ride off the road in the first place.
Susie had thought of pitching the bike onto the roof-rack of her car, so Oliver had a way to get back to Synne as soon as his meeting with Toby was over. He’d agreed, not admitting that it had been years since he’d attempted to cycle anything more challenging than the half-mile along Kensington High Street to the Harrods food hall. Still, the ditch incident had provided some amusement for the trio of overheated workmen in the large hole across the road, who had paused to lean on their spades and make insulting comments.
The hole they were standing in was the reason why buses hadn’t been passing through the village for a week or so. Most tour companies had been warned about the obstacle—only one or two fifty-foot motor coaches had been forced to beep their way slowly backwards for two miles along the dusty Synne road to its junction with the A3400.
Oliver mounted the bicycle again, determined to complete the last half-mile of his ten-mile journey without any further loss of dignity. Arriving at the Swithins’ house, he drank several glasses of water and then went upstairs to collapse onto his vestal bed. He was just considering, in his own mind—as well as he could, for the hot afternoon made him feel very sleepy and stupid—whether the pleasure of guzzling a lunchtime beer would be worth the trouble of getting up and going downstairs to the fridge, when suddenly a Jefferson Airplane ringtone began to play close by him.
It was Effie’s phone, on the bedside table. She must have forgotten to take it with her. Oliver reached over and checked the identity of the caller—a Birmingham telephone number. He was going to explain that Effie wasn’t there, but the squeaky voice started before he could speak.
“D.S. Strongitharm? This is Tyler, in the crime lab. It’s urgent.”
Oliver swallowed. Did he dare? “Yes, Tyler?” he said, in a soft falsetto.
“Sergeant Strongitharm?” Tyler hesitated. From his voice, Oliver could tell that he sported a bad haircut.
“Yes,” Oliver said again. He felt guilty—he was, after all, committing a crime by impersonating a police officer—but he reflected it was only like taking a message.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Tyler, “but I think I’ve made a big mistake. You remember that those two sets of prints you collected didn’t match?”
“Yes.” Keep it short, Olive thought, and I may get away with this. Tyler was referring to the fingerprints taken from Sidney Weguelin and Oliver’s midnight attacker.
“You said that wrapped up the case. But I forgot to cancel the DNA test. The preliminary results just came back. Only I think I’ve got it wrong. We have a perfect initial match between the specimens.”
“What?” Oops, dangerously low.
“Bless you, ma’am. Yes, but that can’t be, can it? I must have accidentally analyzed the same specimen twice. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, Tyler. Better luck next time.”
“Erm, Sarge?”
“Yes?”
“I hope your boyfriend’s recovering from the attack. From the way you spoke about him, it’s clear he’s a great guy who means the world to you.”
Oliver paused, wishing now that he’d left the phone alone. Love is a mystery, but as long as Effie loved him, it was a mystery that could remain unsolved. “He’s doing fine,” he said huskily.
“I only hope when I get to his age that I can still inspire the same sort of adoration. There can’t be too many wheelchair-bound men in their late fifties who…”
What? “Yes, thank you, Tyler, heck of a job,” Oliver spluttered. So Effie had charmed young Tyler by implying that she might be back in play as a merry widow, huh? He let his voice rise to a comically high level. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Next time I see you, dear boy, I’m going to give you a great big sloppy wet kiss! You hold me to that. Goodbye.”
Oliver closed the phone and dropped it as if it were on fire. It had to be a mistake, of course: Sidney and the attacker couldn’t possibly have different fingerprints but identical DNA. That doesn’t happen.
Does it?
He sat upright, thought for ten seconds, and then ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. It took thirty more seconds to traverse the Square, curvet onto the main road, and sprint the hundred yards or so to the front door of the Weguelins’ house. He hammered on the door.
Footsteps inside. The door opened. Sidney—silly beard, bad haircut, pointy nose, glasses. No bruises.
“Mr. Weguelin,” Oliver gasped. “I know everything!”
Sidney stared at the young man panting on the doorstep.
“You’d better come in then,” he said.