As DCI Culverhouse blew across the top of his mug of steaming black coffee, the phone rang.
‘Culverhouse,’ he said, barking into the receiver.
‘Ah, Jack. The sun is shining high above the town of Mildenheath this morning, yes?’ came the familiar Spanish lilt of Antonio García.
‘No, it’s fucking raining.’
‘It is? That is a shame. I must tell you, it’s very nice here. I’m walking along the beach as we speak. Must already be twenty-eight degrees.’
‘Well I hope you’re ringing me to tell me you’ve booked me a first-class ticket, otherwise you can fuck off.’
‘No ticket, but some juicy information. Juicier than the juiciest orange in Sevilla. I spoke with all the local municipal police departments in southern Spain and they have no record of your wife. Not under her real name, anyway. It’s possible she used a pseudonym, of course, but if she had been living in Spain for so many years she would have needed to visit a doctor at some point. Or rent a house, or buy a car. Anything which would have needed official papers. If she had spent so many years in Spain her passport would have run out while she was over here, for example. So she would have needed a new one — either a British or Spanish one. The Spanish authorities have no record of issuing a passport. The interesting thing is that they have no record of her in terms of social security details either. That means she must have gone eight and a half years without visiting a doctor, buying a car, anything.’
‘Could she have used false papers?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘No chance. This isn’t the 1970s any more, Jack. We’re in the EU now. She’d have no more luck using fake papers here than she would in England. To put it simply, if she really has been living in Spain for eight and a half years, there’d be a record.’
‘So what are you saying, Antonio? That you think she’s lying? That she hasn’t been living in Spain all that time?’
‘Jack, it’s not for me to cast aspersions on your good lady wife. I’m just here to give you the facts.’
Culverhouse nodded, more to himself than anything. He’d had his suspicions, but this just seemed to confirm it. He was angry, both at himself and at Helen for lying to him and wasting his time, which could have been used far more effectively right now. ‘Thank you, Antonio. That’s very useful. Tell me, though. How certain are you?’
‘Oh, not certain at all. A police officer can never be completely certain, as you know. There are some very clever people out there. The question you must ask yourself is whether Helen is one of those people.’
That was something Culverhouse had long wondered himself. He said his goodbyes to Antonio and put the phone down. This was one of those times when he felt as though the world was moving much faster than he was. He tended to consider himself pretty adept at keeping one step ahead of the game, but right now he was starting to doubt himself. He had two unsolved murders with absolutely no leads to go on and an ex-wife who was seemingly wrong-footing him at every opportunity. He was a man who often felt isolated in his views and opinions, but now he felt completely alone.