At the office I let the others get started on the food. I went to the locker room instead and had a shower, rinsing away the sticky residue the Chiron Club seemed to have left on my skin. Scrubbing off the last of the eye make-up was satisfying, but not as much of a relief as it was to pull on jeans and a thin grey jumper instead of the tiny dress. All the bones in my feet were complaining from being forced into high heels and my neck throbbed where Harry had bitten it. There was something dead in my eyes, something missing that I didn’t want to think about or name. I put on trainers, tidied my hair and smudged on enough make-up to look presentable, clamped a composed expression to my face like a mask and went back to the others.
‘Now you look more like yourself,’ Liv said through a mouthful of burger as I walked in.
I waved the dress I was carrying at her. ‘You didn’t like this either?’
She smiled, cheek bulging, and managed a muffled, ‘I think everyone liked it.’
‘We did,’ Pettifer said earnestly. ‘We liked it a lot.’
Liv finally swallowed her food. ‘You should take it home. Try it on for Seth.’
I dropped it into a bag along with the heels and shoved the lot under my desk. ‘Ugh. No. He would not be pleased.’
‘Why not? Is he blind?’
‘He doesn’t like me to dress like that.’ I went over to inspect what was left from the take-away we’d picked up: a bag of chips, still just about warm, crusted with salt and soggy with vinegar, absolutely what I wanted to eat. I sat on the edge of my desk and took out a chip. ‘He would definitely have wanted me to be the waitress instead of Georgia. And I think Georgia might have preferred that too, given what happened to her.’
‘What did happen?’ Pettifer asked. ‘I still don’t know how she managed to get herself hurt.’
‘She was trying to stop Peter Ashington from getting away and he knocked her over.’ I shrugged. ‘It was bad luck. Not her fault.’
‘I called the hospital.’ At the sound of Derwent’s voice I jumped; I hadn’t realised he was there. ‘She’s fine. They’re keeping her in for another few hours to make sure she doesn’t have any issues, but they don’t think there’s anything to worry about.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Do you want the bad news?’
My stomach clenched. I put the bag of chips down.
‘The tech guys say Bianca’s phone was set to record but it didn’t work. They haven’t been able to recover anything usable. They think she was out of range of the phone so it couldn’t pick up whatever she transmitted.’
‘She may not have realised she was going to have to leave it downstairs by the kitchen.’ I chewed my lip. ‘That’s disappointing. Anything on the CCTV from the local area?’
‘On its way,’ Liv covered her mouth as she yawned. ‘As soon as it comes in, I’ll get started on it.’
‘Where does that leave us? What else can we do?’
‘There’s still Ashington to interview,’ Pettifer pointed out.
‘They breathalysed him when he was arrested and he blew over a hundred. We’re not going to be able to interview him for a few hours,’ Derwent said, and I felt my shoulders drop with disappointment and frustration.
‘Can we get a search warrant for his house?’
‘I’ve already done the paperwork.’ He held it up. ‘Let’s go and wake up a magistrate.’
Peter Ashington lived alone, in a luxury new-build flat marooned in the hinterland of King’s Cross Station. It was a little too far away from the Granary Square development that had brought restaurants and shops to what had been one of the grittier parts of London, but it wasn’t quite in Islington. Vast banners hung on the sides of the building proclaiming that the complex was 70 per cent sold, though one-bedroom flats were still available from the low, low price of £670,000.
The developers had aimed for a high-end look but the white finish of the building was already dingy, while the landscaped grounds were too newly planted to look attractive. The security guard was a languid man from West Africa, who nodded at our search warrant as if that kind of thing happened all the time. He found a master key for us and directed us to the fifth floor. The lift was tiny and mirror-lined. I caught a glimpse of my reflection and pulled my hair forward to hide the bruise on my neck. The space was so small, Derwent’s shoulder brushed mine.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘Just checking. You look tired. You could have stayed at the office and had a nap.’
‘I couldn’t. Not with Bianca missing. I’d rather be out doing something.’
‘I know that feeling.’
The lift doors slid open on a narrow, grey-carpeted hallway.
‘He’s in flat 53.’ I pointed. ‘That one.’
Derwent knocked before unlocking the door. He went in first, wary in case anyone was waiting for us. It didn’t take long to search the place, which was surprisingly poky. Floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the living room gave him an incredible view towards the City, and that had to have been the main selling-point for the flat. An L-shaped sofa took up most of the living room. The kitchen was black and white and seemed almost unused: no dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the worktop. I checked the fridge.
‘Champagne, beer, vodka in the freezer. Otherwise nothing.’
‘Not a cook, then.’ Derwent was sorting through a pile of post that had been left on the small dining table.
‘Maybe he eats out a lot.’
‘Or he has a girlfriend and she feeds him.’ He pulled out a letter from a bank and whistled. ‘Unauthorised overdraft. Naughty Peter.’
‘How can he afford membership fees at the Chiron Club if he’s in the red?’
‘Good question.’
I opened a large cupboard in the hall. ‘Suitcases, skis, about a hundred pairs of trainers.’
‘For running or fashion?’
‘Running.’ A handful of medals hung by their ribbons from a hook inside the door and I jangled them. ‘Marathons.’
Derwent loomed behind me. ‘Has he done London?’
‘Twice. Berlin, Vienna, Chicago, Sydney …’ I craned my neck to see. ‘What’s this one?’
‘Marathon des Sables.’ Derwent shook his head in grudging admiration. ‘Even I’m not mad enough for that. Six days in the desert, fifty-degree heat, two hundred and fifty-one kilometres. It costs a fortune to enter as well. He must be a proper runner.’
‘But you still caught him.’
‘I was just thinking that.’ He stood up a little straighter, pleased with himself, and I wondered why I’d thought his ego needed any stroking.
‘So as far as we can see he spends his time not eating, and running, and probably going to the gym. He doesn’t have any photographs up of his family or friends or even himself. No books, no DVDs. Do you see a computer?’
‘No.’ Derwent moved to the kitchen and started opening drawers. ‘He’s got an iPad. It’s locked. We can take it with us.’
I was taking down boxes from the top of the cupboard and opening them to find winter clothes, more running gear and ski stuff.
‘There’s nothing illegal here. I was expecting drugs at the very least. Why do you think he ran?’
‘You scared him.’
‘I did not!’ I looked over my shoulder to see he was grinning. ‘I mean, obviously I did, but I wasn’t trying to frighten him. As soon as I mentioned Roddy Asquith he took off.’
‘Maybe we’re not the only ones who know Roddy was murdered.’
‘And he thought I was threatening him?’
‘It’s possible. Or he was involved in setting up the fake accident. If you’d killed one of your friends, you’d be twitchy too.’
‘Why would he kill Roddy?’
‘If Roddy knew something that implicated him, Peter could have decided to shut him up.’
‘Roddy gave a no-comment interview. He didn’t even risk making a statement.’
‘He started off doing what he was told. That probably wouldn’t have lasted long once DS Kerrigan started working on him.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re persuasive. People tell you things they meant to keep secret.’
Derwent disappeared into the bedroom and I followed him, wondering if he was talking about Claire and how I’d found out about their son. But that had been luck, I thought, uneasily, not my investigative skill. The bedroom was tiny, just big enough for the bed, two bedside tables and a wall of fitted cupboards. He was already looking through the suits that were hanging up in one cupboard so I took the other, a mixture of open shelves and sliding wooden drawers that still smelled of cedar. Cashmere jumpers, pristine shirts, folded silk ties, serried ranks of socks.
‘Maybe it’s so characterless because he hasn’t been here for long.’
‘Or he spends all his time at work.’
‘Or with the mythical girlfriend.’ I pulled out the top drawer. ‘Maybe not so mythical.’
‘Oh?’ Derwent peered around the door, instantly curious.
I held up a condom. ‘A couple of these.’
‘Only two? Amateur hour.’
‘Luke had two boxes of them, which tells you something about his love life. At least he’s careful.’
I’d said it without thinking, and by the time I’d finished talking I was all the way in the middle of the minefield, with no way back. Derwent’s eyebrows twitched together, but all he said was, ‘He has more sense than I did.’
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ I said truthfully.
‘You brought it up.’
‘Well, I didn’t mean to.’ I looked at him, trying to judge his mood. It was too good an opportunity to pass up; we were hardly ever alone and I needed to know if he had forgiven me. ‘Are you still angry with me?’
‘Let’s not talk about it.’
‘That means yes.’
‘What do you expect?’ There was no answer to that. He disappeared again and I heard the sound of hangers scraping the rail as he slid them to one side, working through them.
I wavered. Say something or say nothing. Well, he was angry with me anyway. I had nothing to lose.
‘I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel, finding out you have a son you didn’t know about.’
‘I’m sure you can’t.’ I couldn’t detect any encouragement to keep talking in his tone.
‘What does Melissa think about it?’
He appeared around the door again. ‘Stop, now.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not telling you how she feels. It’s none of your business. It never was your business.’
I quailed. ‘Sorry.’ Common sense suggested I should stop talking about it. I was short on common sense at the best of times. ‘Look, I worry about you. This is a big thing. You’re a father.’
‘I don’t think it’s going to change anything.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I doubt he’ll want to get to know me. Not after all this time.’ A bleak look crossed his face. ‘Melissa told me the best thing I could do is forget about him.’
‘Oh.’ I tried to keep my feelings out of my voice.
‘He doesn’t need anything from me and I have no right to ask anything from him.’
‘Maybe he does need you.’
He shook his head; for someone who thought highly of himself he was being surprisingly negative.
‘You can’t just let him go. You have to try.’
‘That would be selfish.’
‘Why?’
‘Because getting to know him would really be for my sake, not his.’ His voice dropped. ‘I always wanted a son. I never imagined it would happen like this.’
I couldn’t find words to respond to him. His mouth tightened, as if he regretted saying so much, and he walked out. I heard noises from the bathroom: the lid of the cistern clanking and cupboard doors clattering.
I finished searching the wardrobe, my throat tight with suppressed emotion. Concentrate, Maeve. Definitely do not cry. I couldn’t even work out why I felt so upset on Derwent’s behalf, or on my own. Everything had changed, and no matter what Melissa said, none of us could forget that.
The bedside table was empty too, aside from a charger for a phone – not a reader, I thought. I pulled the table away from the wall, almost as an afterthought, and stared blankly at the A4 envelope that was taped to the back of it.
Derwent appeared in the doorway as if I’d called him, all business. ‘Nothing in the bathroom. What have you got?’
‘Not sure yet.’ I took some pictures, then detached the envelope from the bedside table. The envelope had been opened but someone had sealed it up again, wrapping the ragged ends of the envelope in so many layers of tape that it was stiff.
Derwent had opened out an evidence bag and laid it on the floor. I knelt beside it.
‘Over here. Open the other end.’ He handed me his penknife and I slit the closed end of the envelope carefully. I shook it and the contents slid out with a sigh, fanning themselves out as if I’d arranged them that way: five photographs printed on glossy paper. Derwent moved them around delicately with his gloved fingertips, putting them in order, and we looked at them in silence for a while.
‘I think I can see why he ran,’ I said at last.
Derwent straightened up. ‘Look at it this way. At least we know what to talk to him about now.’