Back at the station, John has been frustrated in his attempts to track down Alex Worthington.
When he had called François Laconte Fine Wines earlier and asked to speak to him, the woman who answered the phone told him in a strong French accent that Worthington had already left the office.
‘Is there anybody else you would like to speak to?’ she said.
John had muttered under his breath, ‘Shit.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘It’s nothing. Is he coming back today?’
‘I am afraid not, he is sick.’
‘What time did he leave? Did he go home, do you know?’
‘I think so. He left around ten o’clock.’
‘Is it possible for you to give me his number?’
John had realised too late that he should have handled her more gently instead of firing questions at her. She sounded flustered.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure that is possible. Please hold on.’
John tapped his fingers on his desk impatiently, and then a male voice had come on the line.
‘Hello, this is Tim Faulkner, I gather you are looking for Alex Worthington. Can I help at all?’
‘Yes, this is Detective Inspector Burroughs from Lavender Hill Police Station. It’s very important that I speak to Mr Worthington as soon as possible. Could you give me his address and telephone number.’
‘Oh, I see. Um, well, we wouldn’t normally give out personal details for members of staff, but in this case I er—’ Tim Faulkner was clearly unused to dealing with this sort of situation and John smiled to himself.
‘I can send someone over to your offices, Mr Faulkner, but I would rather not have to waste police time. This is extremely urgent.’
There was a brief pause. ‘Hold on a minute, I’ll find it.’
Originally, John’s plan had been simply to find out whether Alex Worthington was in the office and then send someone over to pick him up. Now that he had revealed his identity, he was concerned that Faulkner might feel obliged to give his colleague a heads-up, so he issued a stern warning before hanging up.
‘Mr Faulkner, this is very sensitive so please do not discuss our call with anyone. If you do, it could have serious consequences for all concerned, including yourself and Mr Worthington.’
When Faulkner replied, John could hear the apprehension in his voice.
‘No, of course not. I won’t say anything.’
John wonders if Alex Worthington has indeed gone home, or whether he had seen the newspaper reports and done a runner. He’s pondering their next move when Lucy pops her head round the door.
‘Lisa Meyer is coming in after lunch. She’s got a meeting now, and should be here around two o’clock,’ she says.
‘Ah, well done. You won’t believe it, but Alex Worthington isn’t in the office. Apparently, he was feeling ill and went home first thing this morning.’
‘That’s not good. It sounds like he got wind of something,’ Lucy replies.
‘I don’t like the sound of it either. Here’s his address and phone number. Can you call Andover station and tell them to get round there ASAP? Also, we need to find out— aargh, fuck, who’s this now?’
He snatches up the phone.
‘Yes,’ he says impatiently. His tone softens when he hears the voice of his oldest friend, Jim Moran. He waves Lucy away.
While he’s talking, John doodles absentmindedly on his pad and, at the end of the call when he looks at what he has drawn, he wonders where on earth it has come from. A menacing tree with leaves swirling around it as if whipped up by a strong wind. A psychologist would have a field day. He turns the pad over and, failing to catch Lucy’s attention through the glass, buzzes her on the intercom.
‘They’ve got the results from the fingerprints and some of the other stuff they took from the house. Have we got time to go down to Lambeth Road before Lisa Meyer gets here?’
Lucy looks at her watch. ‘Yes, we’ve got an hour or so.’
‘Okay, let’s go.’