Murdoch was finishing her lunch, some noodle concoction in a plastic pot washed down with coffee, when the phone rang.
She thought about not answering, her hand going to the packet of cigarettes by her cup, her eyes going to the window, but she knew she couldn’t avoid it.
‘Hello, DI Murdoch.’
‘Tracy, it’s Dan Grant.’
She suppressed a groan. ‘What now?’
‘Henry Oates.’
She paused and wondered why the name sounded familiar, but nothing came back to her. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why did you keep him secret?’
‘Dan, you’re talking in riddles, and I need a cigarette more than I need this conversation.’
‘He’s one of the town centre drinkers. He saw Mary when she was walking home but I haven’t seen any mention of it anywhere. Not in any statement. Not on the unused schedule.’
Town centre drinker. That’s why his name was familiar. Murdoch had done her town centre stint, chasing shoplifters and moving on the boozers. Her mind flashed back through all the statements they’d taken, all the snippets of information, the phone calls that turned out to be not much at all. ‘He won’t be on the police file if he hasn’t spoken to us. I can’t disclose what I don’t have.’
‘He tells it differently. He said he spoke to the police and no one was interested.’
Murdoch rubbed her brow with her fingers. ‘Does it matter? If he’s just some town centre drunk, we’re not going to use him, and neither are you.’
‘That’s not the point, and you know it. There’s a witness who saw something and he contacted you. Now, one of two things are correct: either someone didn’t make a note of it, which will just sound inept in front of the jury…’
‘Hang on, Dan.’
‘Or else you’ve hidden the information,’ Dan continued, oblivious. ‘Which makes you look even worse.’
Murdoch took a deep breath. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she said, and slammed the phone down.
She stood up, the chair rocking backwards, her hands on her hips, her jacket splayed. ‘Everyone, this way.’ The typing and shuffling of papers stopped as everyone looked towards her. ‘The Robert Carter case. Does the name Henry Oates ring any bells?’
There were some furrowed brows, until someone said, ‘One of the losers who hangs around the shops?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Locked him up a few times, just minor stuff. Pissing in doorways, stealing, that kind of thing.’
‘Has anyone spoken to him about the Mary Kendricks murder?’ There was silence as Murdoch looked around the room. ‘Come on, anyone? If I find out that someone here isn’t speaking up, there’ll be consequences.’
A detective at the front of the room coughed. ‘He spoke to me,’ he said, his voice quiet and hoarse.
Murdoch turned to him. DC Edwards. Old-school, a coppers’ copper who still missed cracking heads in the weekend van, with a nose that spoke of too many rugby games, his neck in a roll over a shirt collar that was too tight.
‘When?’
‘A couple of months ago now, I can’t remember properly.’ The redness that had crept into his face spread over his scalp, shaved and buffed to a shine.
‘But you made a note of it, right?’
A pause, and then, ‘Well, no.’
Murdoch closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath through her nose. When she opened them again, she said, ‘Don’t explain it to me. Explain it to Dan Grant.’
No one spoke as she stormed out of the office. She really needed a cigarette.