Chris Collingworth was in an upbeat mood. The year had started well. He’d passed his promotion board, which meant, as he’d always known, that he was a cut above his colleagues. Nice to have it officially confirmed. Now it was just a case of securing a role. Here, or elsewhere – he didn’t care too much. Although… yes, there was DC Stiles to consider, to be factored in to his calculations. She’d been gradually warming to his subtle advances for several weeks now; the moment was almost upon him. She’d say yes, he was confident of that. He just had to choose his moment, simples. After a couple of drinks down the local – the tried and tested method.
Julie Stiles shared a house in Calcot with two housemates, both female. Perfect. It wouldn’t be hard to persuade her to invite him back for a coffee, and then…
‘Any progress?’
Collingworth started, but quickly collected himself. Charlie Pepper had his number, was always on his case, but that didn’t faze him. He liked a challenge. He swivelled in his chair to face her.
‘Sure. Got a trace on the Inner Distribution Road, our own roundabout, thirty-five minutes before the accident. Turned onto the Tilehurst Road at Castle Hill. Twenty minutes later, camera at the petrol station near IKEA picked him up, heading for the M4. Driving was a bit erratic.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Good work. But what he was doing before he hit the M4? What goes on in the Tilehurst Road area?’
Collingworth shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Few pubs. There’s a park, a church.’
‘OK, keep on it. I want that name.’
‘You got it, boss.’
‘But I don’t have it. Not yet.’ Charlie kept eye contact briefly, before turning and walking away.
Collingworth gripped the mouse tightly, glared at the screen. Snotty cow. You wait. I’m catching you up. Just wait till I’m the DCI and you’re still where you are. That’s all. Just wait.
He clicked onto Google Maps. Tilehurst Road. The road to nowhere.
Wait. The stiff was an old boy, right? And there was an old peoples’ home around there, somewhere. Collingworth racked his brains. Maybe…
His fingers danced on the keyboard.
Got it.
Chapelfields Home for the Elderly. Matlin Road.
He tapped the screen with his biro. Not a definite, but worth a shot.
He sat back in his chair, phone tucked under his chin. Julie Stiles was chatting to a colleague by the water cooler.
Come on, babe. Just a little look … come on, feel the force…
She glanced in his direction, the smallest of glances, but it was long enough for him to turn on his well-rehearsed, five-star smile.
She coloured, turned back to her colleague.
‘Hello. Chapelfields. Can I help?’
Collingworth dragged his attention away from Stiles’ shapely legs. ‘Yep. This is DC Chris Collingworth, Thames Valley. I was wondering – are you missing any residents?’
Bola’s face was a picture of concentration. George, at the adjacent workstation, watched the big man flicking through the iPhone’s apps, searching for something, anything, to give them something to go on. Collingworth had just left in a hurry. As he’d shrugged his jacket on he’d given George a look. A look that said: What you got, George? Nothing, I’m betting… And with a smirk, he was gone.
That wouldn’t do. He’d wipe that smug smile off Collingworth’s face. He swivelled his chair to face Bola’s workstation.
‘Well?’
Bola looked up from his search. ‘Nothing yet. Nada.’
‘No phone numbers? Recent calls?’
‘Come on, man. Give me some credit.’ Bola shot him a hurt look.
‘How about we give it to our boffin buddies? If there’s anything on there, they’ll find it.’
‘I’m on it, OK?’
Bola was a calm guy, but even he had his limits. George knew when to stop. He turned back to his own PC. But a moment later, a sudden thought struck him. He swivelled again. ‘Where would you keep phone numbers, if not in Contacts?’
‘Notes. Reminders. Tried them. All blank.’
‘I mean, if you needed to remember them, but didn’t want to write them down.’
‘George, man, what are you on about?’
‘Voice memos. In the Utilities folder.’
Bola sighed. ‘OK, just for you.’
George waited as Bola tapped the screen. His expression said it all. George sprang to his feet. ‘What? What’s it say?’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ Another tap. Then, from the iPhone speaker:
Oh perfect number twice lawn – eight zero plus mid-nineties dob
‘What? Play it again.’
Bola obliged.
‘Great. He’s not stupid. It’s a code of some sort.’
Bola shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Phone number? Could be anything. Bank account number, maybe?’
‘I’m betting phone. Why take the trouble to code a bank account number? You still need PINS and passwords to get into an account. No, this is a phone number.’
‘Want to hear it again?’
‘Write it down this time.’
Bola scribbled on a Post-it note. Both men looked at the result.
‘What the hell?’ Bola sighed. ‘How we going to figure this one?’
‘We’re detectives,’ George said. ‘It’s what we do, right?’
‘Right.’
George wheeled his chair over. ‘OK, so let’s start at the beginning. Oh perfect number.’
Bola frowned. ‘Numerology ain’t one of my strong points, but–’
George gnawed the soft part of his hand, at the base of his thumb. ‘What?’
Bola sat back, folded his arms. ‘In the Bible, the number seven is significant. It’s used to indicate completeness.’
‘Or perfection?’
‘Maybe.’
‘OK.’ George seized the pencil. ‘So let’s say we have zero – for the oh, and seven.’
‘07. Sure.’ Bola nodded. ‘But twice lawn. What the hell? Whose lawn?’
George inspected the red bite mark he’d left on his flesh. He turned his attention to the pencil, tapped it on his knuckles. The tea trolley clanked past, causing a collective shuffling for purses and wallets from nearby workstations. A queue formed, along with a buzz of conversation.
George focused on the Post-it note. It couldn’t be that hard – Isaiah Marley would never have remembered it. He frowned, twiddled the pencil. The lightbulb flared, lit up.
‘Not lawn, you knob. Lorne. The street. His bedsit.’
‘Ah, right. Nice one.’ Bola’s face lit up.
‘We’re not done. Come on. Focus. What have we got so far?’
‘Let’s see. 0711. Wait, it said twice Lorne.’
‘No, it’s the seven that’s twice. Perfect number twice–’
Bola looked doubtful. ‘Could be twice 11.’
‘So we try them both. We try all combinations till we get someone picking up. 07711. Sounds like a mobile number already. Then we’ve got eight zero. He must have got bored trying to figure out a clue for that one. 07711 80–’
‘Then mid-nineties.’ Bola scratched his head. ‘So let’s go for the obvious. 95.’
‘Agreed.’ George scribbled on the pad. ‘Dob. Date of birth. You’ve got his FB account there, right? He put down his birthday?’
‘He did.’ Bola grinned. ‘Hey, this is easier than I thought.’
‘I’ll post your MENSA application on the way home. Let’s have it.’
‘1984. So it says.’
‘We’ll try it. 07711 809584. Definitely the right format.’
‘I’ll do a Ripper application. Shouldn’t take long – as it’s a murder enquiry.’
George grunted. ‘The guv’ll still have to sign it off. May as well make the call while we’re waiting. Who knows? – They might even volunteer their address.’
The tea trolley queue had shortened to one. ‘A co-operative POI, you mean? I doubt it ve-ry much.’ Bola raised his hand. ‘Hang on, though. I need to fix me a coffee and a bun before the big call.’
‘Make that two.’ George said. ‘Large, if you’re buying.’