Ford was at home, stomach heavy with a dinner he had made for Mary. He was no chef, but he was competent, and the sight of him in the kitchen after the events of the last few days had seemed to put Mary at ease.
They chatted as he cooked, sharing a bottle of white wine he had picked up along with the ingredients for the meal. The closest they got to discussing the murders was when Mary had asked about ‘the man at the uni’. ‘I hope he’s a new colleague, Malcolm,’ she had said, smiling at him over the rim of the glass. ‘He’s big enough and ugly enough to look after you, especially at the moment.’
Now, sitting in his chair, Mary dozing on the sofa in front of a film she had insisted they watch together, Ford’s mind turned back to Connor Fraser. Just what was Fraser to him? A witness? A suspect? Or, as Mary had said, a colleague of some kind?
From the hall, he heard his mobile buzz. He shot a glance at Mary, saw she was undisturbed by the sound. He grunted as he got to his feet, the weariness of the last three days making his legs alien and heavy. He got to the hall, fished in his coat pocket and found his phone. Smiled in spite of himself when he saw who was calling. Speak of the devil. ‘Fraser, funny you should call.’
‘DCI Ford, thanks for picking up,’ Connor said. The echo on the line told Ford he was using a hands-free, the background noise that he was driving. ‘I need to ask you a question.’
Again, Ford was irritated. Just who did this guy think he was, assuming he could ask questions of a serving detective? And on what? The strength of a favour to a friend? ‘Go on,’ he said, his tone conveying he reserved the right not to answer.
‘Matt Evans’s place. Have you taken an inventory at his flat yet?’
‘What? Why would you ask if—’
‘DCI Ford, please, this is important. No dicking around. I might be on to something here. The flat. Did you take an inventory?’
‘Not personally,’ Ford said, hearing the resentment in his tone, not caring. ‘I’d been sidelined by that point, but I know it was on the actions list at the case conference. Why? What’s this about? What have you found?’
‘Can you access the inventory? Check it?’
‘Why? What are you looking for? And why should I help you? You said you weren’t going to go poking around, Fraser, and yet here you are . . .’
Fraser’s voice rose, partly to compensate for the increase in engine noise, partly from anger. ‘Look, I’ll make you a bet. You check the log. You’ll find something that doesn’t fit. There’s going to be two sizes of clothes in that flat, I’m guessing thirty-two- and thirty-eight-inch men’s trousers. Looking at his pictures, my money’s on Evans being the thirty-eight. If I’m right, call me back and tell me what I need to know.’
Ford felt his pulse rise, impatience and curiosity overwhelming him. What did it matter if he helped him? He was off the case and, from the sound of it, Fraser had made more progress than he or anyone else had been able to.
And then there was the head. The spike squealing in the breeze.
He had to know. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘A picture, something, anything that confirms a link between Billy Griffin and Matt Evans. I think they were connected, using each other’s homes to store clothing and other items.’
Ford clamped the phone tighter to his ear, as if he could use it to calm the hurricane of thoughts whirling through his mind. ‘How the hell did you come to that conclusion?’
A pause, the deep snarl of an engine as Fraser downshifted. The murmur of another voice, unintelligible. Then Fraser again: ‘Because I just found Matt Evans’s security pass for Valley FM at a flat being used by Billy Griffin. I also found clothes that looked like they’d fit both men, along with tagged albums that I’m assuming came from Valley FM’s collection. There are signs that the door to the flat was tampered with, and there’s an indication that a picture is missing from the wall of the living room. My guess is it’s a picture of Evans and Griffin together, and whoever broke in was looking for it, to ensure we didn’t make a connection between the two men.’
We? Ford pushed the thought aside. He had more immediate problems. ‘You’re telling me you found Billy Griffin’s residence? Christ, Fraser! We’ve been looking for that place for three days! And now you’re telling me you lifted evidence from the scene! Fuck’s sake, do you realize what that means? Look, this has to end now. It was a mistake from the start. Meet me at Randolphfield. I’ll take your statement there and we can figure this out. I can’t promise you that I can—’
‘I can’t do that,’ Connor said. ‘I don’t have time for pointless questions, and I don’t think you do either. Please, I’m going to follow up another lead now. Just check the inventory for Evans’s flat and get back to me.’
Ford heard his teeth grind, felt his jaw ache. He never should have let Doyle talk him into this. Having a civilian running around, poking his nose into an active investigation, an investigation government ministers were taking a close interest in, was wrong on every level.
But . . .
He looked at the door to the living room, where Mary slept on the couch. Remembered her words from earlier. Who was that man? A colleague? I hope so.
Fuck it.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Give me an hour. But then you come in, Fraser, and give me a statement on this. My arse is far enough out on a limb with this as it is, I don’t need you sawing the branch off under me.’
‘One hour. Understood. And thank you.’ Connor killed the call, leaving the line as empty as the promise he had just made.