The only thing worse than being ignored by Derwent was being the focus of his attention. I was reminded of this as I stepped out of the office lift at the end of a long day. For the second time in twenty-four hours I found myself stumbling off balance, but this time it was because Derwent had grabbed hold of my arm to haul me into an empty meeting room.
‘What are you doing?’ I shook myself free, rattled. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘It wasn’t him?’ Derwent’s face was taut with tension. No need to ask who he meant.
‘No.’ I brushed myself down, tucking my shirt back into place. ‘How did you hear about it?’
He took a moment before he answered, and when he did his voice was shaky with relief. ‘I asked where you were. Belcott said he’d heard from Pettifer that you were down in Hampshire since early this morning, because a young man from one of your cases had killed himself. He didn’t know the name, obviously, and I couldn’t get hold of Pettifer to ask him about it because he was tied up with some stabbing.’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.’
‘I would have,’ I said, stung. It’s not me who’s gone off in a huff, mate.
‘I thought – if it was him – you wouldn’t want to tell me over the phone.’ He swallowed, the agony of the preceding few hours carving shadows in his face. ‘So I didn’t want to call you.’
‘If it had been him, I’d have told you myself. It would have been the first thing I did.’
He looked as if he wanted to argue the point but he settled for asking, ‘Who was it?’
‘One of Luke’s housemates. A guy called Roddy Asquith.’
‘And he killed himself?’
‘No. Set up to look like suicide.’ I filled in the details for Derwent as he leaned against the wall and listened, his arms folded, his expression stern.
‘So no one else picked up on it being murder?’
‘No one else was thinking it might be murder, but then they had no reason to suspect it. They were delighted when I turned up and told them they’d got it wrong and there’d have to be a proper murder inquiry.’
‘I’m sure you were charming about it.’
‘I was nice,’ I protested. ‘But it was so slow. They’d wasted a lot of time before I got there. It took a couple of hours to summon up the SOCOs and start processing the scene, and then a fire crew had to cut the car open to get the body out. The pathologist is going to do the post-mortem tomorrow morning, but really only because I nagged him about it.’
‘No better woman.’
‘Thanks,’ I snapped.
‘Calm down.’ Derwent had to be feeling more like himself if he was being so infuriating. ‘Tell me about the crash. How did they set it up?’
‘A weight on the accelerator, they think, but it will be a while before they can retrieve it from the rest of the car. There was something rigged up so the parking brake could be released from outside the car – the SOCOs found a sticky residue on it, like tape. It was a BMW 3-series with a switch rather than a lever for the handbrake. Easier to take it off.’
‘Presumably that explains why they picked that model of hire car.’
‘That and the fact that it was heavy for a relatively compact car. The run-up from one side of the yard to the other was short but the impact was massive.’
‘And he didn’t manage to turn the wheel to avoid it?’
‘I think Roddy was comatose or close to it when the car crashed. He reeked of alcohol. He probably didn’t even know what was happening. All the damage was on the top of his head. I think he’d slumped forward in the driver’s seat so he headbutted the steering wheel when the car hit the wall. The airbag was switched off. Fatal, instantly.’
‘Not a one-person murder.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The location was remote. They’d have needed a second car to get away after they fucked the first one against a wall. Two drivers, if your victim didn’t drive there himself.’
He was right. ‘I’ll tell them to look for tyre marks.’
‘Probably too late if you and a hundred other people have been driving on to the site. You’d park a fair way from the scene anyway, wouldn’t you? Near the gate, out of sight of the road.’
‘No harm in telling them to look there.’
‘None at all. So why would someone want to kill him?’
‘To stop him from talking, I presume.’ I sighed. ‘He’d given me a no-comment interview but he was a nice kid. I was planning to pay him another visit and ask him some more questions about the incident Paige was investigating. I think I’d have got somewhere if I’d had the chance to persuade him to talk.’
‘Who else knew you were going to question him again?’
I bit my lip. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask me, because I could only think of one person. When I didn’t answer straight away, Derwent frowned. ‘Oh. I see. Luke.’
‘Yeah.’ I’d worked out in the car on the way back that Luke was the only person who had known what I intended to do next, and what questions I would be asking, and to what end. ‘But that might be a coincidence. Or he might have said something to the wrong person by accident and tipped them off without realising it.’
‘Or not,’ Derwent said grimly. ‘He might be in it up to his neck.’
I really wanted to say something reassuring, but I couldn’t, and anyway Derwent wouldn’t have fallen for it. He looked at me warily.
‘Don’t say anything to Burt about that yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘I managed to persuade her to let me work on this case, as long as Luke’s not involved. At the moment he’s not on her radar. You were happy with the answers he gave you in interview and he’s not a suspect.’
‘Not officially,’ I said, troubled. ‘But I’m not sure this is the ideal way to get to know him if that’s what you want.’
Derwent made a dismissive gesture, as if that hadn’t even occurred to him. ‘I don’t want to be stuck on the outside of this one. It’s a big case. Burt wanted an inspector involved and I persuaded her it should be me. So don’t give her any ideas about changing her mind.’ He straightened up and checked the time. ‘I’d best head off. Melissa will be sending out search parties.’
‘Sorry for being so late.’
He nodded. ‘Keep me in the loop, though. I need to know what’s going on.’
‘I will.’ Another question popped into my mind. ‘Hey, how did you know I hadn’t been in the office today?’
‘You’ll see.’ He hesitated, already halfway out the door. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I lied.
He nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘What does that mean?’ I was too late; he was gone. I went thoughtfully through to the main office and stopped at the sight of my desk.
‘Happy birthday!’ One of the support staff smiled at me. ‘We’ve been admiring them all day. And the scent! Amazing roses.’
‘They are.’ I tried to smile. ‘Not my birthday, though.’
‘Must be a very special occasion then.’ I didn’t answer, and she looked disappointed. ‘Well, goodnight!’ She took herself and her curiosity out to the lifts and I walked down to my desk, where half the contents of a rose garden had been crammed into billowing cellophane. The smell of the flowers hung on the air, a distinct improvement over the printer-ink-and-failing-deodorant ambience the office usually enjoyed. I looked for the card, ripping it out of the still-sealed envelope with shaking hands.
I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you?
I picked the bouquet up with some effort and carried it into the kitchen, where I rammed it into the bin. I tore up the card and shoved it down the side of the bin, my face hot with embarrassment and anger. It wasn’t the apology I minded, particularly – it was nice of him to take the blame for a row that had been at least 50 per cent my fault. All that he had to apologise for was losing his temper when I had goaded him into it, and for leaving me on the street on my own. I’d fallen over all by myself. I hated that the flowers had sat there all day, a source of interest to the entire office. I despised the whole public production of getting a bouquet at work anyway, not to mention lugging it home on the underground, shoving it in a vase and watching the flowers wither and stink. I saw enough of death not to want it to happen in my home.
The one good thing about coming in so late was that most people had already left for the day, and anyone who was left in the office had more sense than to ask me about the flowers. I strode to my desk, glowering, and logged on to my computer to catch up with the day I’d missed. Of course Derwent would have known it wasn’t my birthday or an anniversary. He would have spotted the flowers for what they were. Is everything OK? That’s what I thought … I focused on my inbox, powering through messages with ruthless efficiency. An unexpected name appeared halfway down the page and I clicked on the message.
Hi there,
Sorry for emailing but I thought you’d want to know someone contacted me on Twitter to say she’d been talking to Paige about a story. Can you call me?
Bianca Drummond
It was getting late. Worth a try, I thought, and called her. The phone rang again and again, and I was resigning myself to leave a voicemail when she picked up.
‘Bianca, it’s Maeve Kerrigan. Thank you for the email.’
‘I thought you’d like to know.’ She sounded sullen, as if she was slightly regretting contacting me. ‘You did ask me to tell you if anything happened.’
‘I did, and I’m grateful. Who is this person who contacted you and what do you know about her?’
‘Her name is Antoinette. She read a piece I wrote about Paige in an online magazine – a tribute to her. It did quite well and I got a big response from readers. One tweet was from this woman asking me to follow her so she could send me a direct message.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Not much. She’d been helping Paige with a story about something that happened to her at Chiron House and she wanted to know if anyone was going to write that story now.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I was looking into it.’
‘Bianca …’
‘Well, I am now. She wants to talk to someone about this story – it might as well be me.’
‘I don’t think it’s safe. We still don’t know who killed Paige, or why.’
‘Would you stop doing your job because it was dangerous?’ She waited and I was silent. ‘Didn’t think so.’
‘It’s a bit different for me.’ Time to take the gloves off. ‘I don’t want to end up picking bits of you out of the Thames, Bianca.’
‘You won’t.’
‘With all due respect, you can’t know that.’
‘Look, you wouldn’t even know Antoinette existed if I hadn’t told you.’
‘True, but—’
‘I’m going to meet her tomorrow.’ She hesitated. ‘I was thinking – if she doesn’t mind – you could come with me. Not to interview her, but you can sit in on our conversation. If you want.’
‘She’d have to know who I was,’ I said. ‘I don’t want her to be misled about anything. She’s potentially an important witness.’
‘Fine. I’m sure she’ll say yes. She just wants to talk.’
I frowned. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you got in touch, but why do you want me to come along?’
Bianca hesitated. ‘I want to do my job but … I’m scared. And I don’t know much about her.’
‘You thought it might be a trap.’
‘I don’t know.’ Her frustration and fear came through her voice. ‘I don’t know what to think. But I don’t want to take any stupid chances.’
‘Where are you meeting her?’
‘The Barbican. We’re meeting in the café on the ground floor at eleven.’
It was a good location, I thought, busy and big and close to public transport. Antoinette could hang back and see if Bianca was alone, or if she’d been followed, and no one could overhear them easily.
‘Can you ask her if she’ll let me join you?’
‘I’d rather wait until I meet her. I don’t want to scare her off. And you look nice,’ she added, rather sweetly. ‘You don’t look frightening.’
I laughed. ‘Appearances are deceiving.’
‘If I say a police officer wants to come along, she’ll get nervous. If I point you out to her and she sees you, she’ll probably be fine with it.’
I made up my mind. ‘OK. As long as you’re clear with her about what I’m doing there.’
‘I’ll tell her everything,’ Bianca promised.