Mackenzie was delving as deep as she could into Alistair Moreton. It had been a tough search. As Cross had predicted the man had no digital presence at all. But she had just come across a Facebook page of alumni from the prep school Moreton had been headmaster of. The school, All Saints, was still open and most of the posts were from pupils in the last ten to fifteen years. News about reunions, old pupils’ sports fixtures, weddings. But after a persistent trawl she came across a thread that immediately caught her attention. It was about Moreton’s habits as a headmaster. There were links to other websites with names like ‘boarding school survivors’ and ‘public school runaways’.
‘Alice, where is the strange one?’ Warner called out from his desk in Cross’s office.
Mackenzie ignored him.
‘Alice, I’m talking to you, so please do me the respect my rank demands and answer the bloody question.’
She continued to ignore him. He got up and came out of the office to her desk.
‘Mackenzie, where’s the bloody savant?’ he asked.
‘Oh, were you talking to me? I’m not sure who you’re referring to,’ she answered.
‘DS Cross,’ replied Warner, surrendering.
‘Oh, is he not in his office?’ she asked looking over at the empty room.
‘Would I be asking if he was?’
‘Then I have no idea. Sorry.’
Warner was going to let this go but he couldn’t resist.
‘What’s he up to, Alice?’
‘If I don’t know where he is, how would I know what he’s up to?’ she asked.
‘We’re making a press announcement with Sandy Moreton about charging Cotterell at six,’ he told her unnecessarily. It was as if reiterating this fact might get her to persuade Cross that the case really was over and done.
‘Great. Congrats,’ she replied.
Warner decided not to push the matter any further and retreated to his desk.
Cross was in fact in the basement of the building in a meeting with a DI Hammond from the county lines team. His colleague Edwin ‘The Evidence’ had found a spare storage room with a desk in it which Cross had now requisitioned as his temporary office until Warner decided to leave his. He recognised that this was a battle he wasn’t going to win. He was perfectly happy in the windowless lime-green box he now inhabited, as it was so quiet. Silence was something he’d missed keenly over the past week or so.