‘Why can’t you do it?’ Nicole complained.
‘Because I don’t want to tip him off.’
She sighed. ‘All right. Give me his number and I’ll call you back if I get something.’
Five minutes later Harry put Ethan’s address in his phone to see he lived on the south-west side of Bath, past Bear Flat and towards the village of Englishcombe.
‘How did you get it?’ he asked, curious.
‘I pretended I was from Parcelforce,’ she admitted. ‘Everyone wants their parcel delivered, don’t they?’
The sun was lowering towards the horizon as Harry pulled off Englishcombe Lane and down an unmarked road into a densely wooded area. He passed a couple of large houses, and then the road narrowed, the ancient beech trees looming overhead, leaves fluttering a vivid spring green. When he came to the stone gateposts at the end of the lane, and read the brass plate, Combe House, he wondered if he’d come to the wrong place. This didn’t look like student living. Cautiously, Harry eased his car up the drive – smooth gravel with lawns on either side – and parked outside a beautifully renovated Georgian house. Three storeys, with sash windows painted white and a front door the colour of pale jade.
The only indication students might live here were the vehicles scattered around: a Vauxhall Corsa, a Ford Ka and a black VW Golf. However, where two of the vehicles were obviously second-hand, with faded paintwork and a variety of dents in their bodywork, the Golf was brand spanking new.
Harry parked his ancient Rover with the tattier cars, climbing out just as a flock of goldfinches passed overhead, their calls sounding like a bunch of tiny trembling bells. He could smell damp earth and freshly cut grass. He walked up the stone steps to the front door. Drew the brass pull doorbell a couple of times. Heard it echoing deep inside the house.
The door opened to reveal a petite young woman with soft fair hair and hazel eyes.
‘I’m Harry Hope,’ he told her. ‘I’m here to see Ethan.’
‘He’s in the front room.’ She stepped back, letting him into the hall while she closed the door behind him. ‘This way.’
Her footsteps were light, her movements smooth and elegant, almost balletic. Harry felt clumsy and graceless as he followed her, his shoes tapping loudly on the floor tiles and echoing through the vast, airy space.
He wasn’t sure how to play this out. He’d wanted to take it gently with Ethan, let the young man open up to him at his own pace, but with his ribs throbbing at every movement, the thought of those hideous photographs being on the net, Harry didn’t feel he had time on his side any more.
‘Ethan,’ the young woman announced as she walked through a doorway. ‘Someone’s here to see you.’
Harry allowed the images to wash over him. Ceiling roses, shutters folded back from the windows, pink and green wallpaper swirling with boughs and peacocks. China vases, old school photographs on the walls, bookshelves crammed with law journals and legal literature. A young man was stretched out on one of the sofas with what appeared to be a technical book of some sort – lots of diagrams and charts – and on the floor, within arm’s reach, sat a bottle of craft beer. Wavy blond hair framed an angular face with over-sized features that wasn’t handsome so much as arresting. He didn’t look up, or give any indication he’d heard them enter.
Ethan sat in a wing-backed chair next to the fireplace. He was holding a glass of red wine and gazing at the piles of ash in the grate, expression thoughtful, but the instant he saw Harry, the muscles in his face contracted, as though he’d sucked on a lemon.
‘Harry!’ He affected pleasure, but Harry could tell the effort it took. ‘Guys, meet Dr Harry Hope, psychologist extraordinaire.’
‘Hello, shrink,’ drawled the young man on the sofa.
‘Hello, student,’ responded Harry, which made the young man smile. He didn’t get up, though, but remained on the sofa. His eyes returned to the pages of his book.
‘That’s Cabe,’ said Ethan, putting down his wine and getting to his feet. ‘You’ve already met Wren, of course. Not that that’s her real name. She refuses to use Winifred, don’t you, sweetheart? Too mundane and old-fashioned for an up-and-coming fashionista like yourself.’
Wren pulled a face at Ethan who pretended he hadn’t seen.
‘Wren suits you,’ Harry told her, earning him a smile.
‘Don’t compliment her,’ Ethan said with a groan. ‘She gets enough adoration as it is, trust me. Now, shall we go and get you a glass of wine? There’s an open bottle in the kitchen and–’
‘I’m not here to socialise.’ Harry’s voice was polite but cool. ‘I’m here to talk about the recent knife attacks that have occurred across the city.’