‘She recognised the name, I’m telling you.’ George paced up and down, back and forth, next to Bola’s workstation.
‘George, keep still, for crying out loud. I can’t concentrate.’ Bola screwed up his eyes, picking through the onscreen table, one row at a time.
‘It’ll be in there, somewhere. Has to be.’
Bola sat back in his chair, clasped his hands together behind his head. ‘George, I’ve been through the list ten times, at least. I’ve searched all the permutations of Chan I can think of.’
‘Let me take a look.’ George gestured impatiently. ‘I’ll find her.’
‘Be my guest.’ Bola got up. ‘Look, man, it’s six-thirty. I’m knackered. We can carry on tomor–’
George seized the arm of Bola’s chair, spun it round, sat down. ‘You want to go home? Fine. I’m staying.’ He turned to the screen, made a selection, pressed the enter key.
‘All right, all right. But let’s think about this.’
George gnawed his fist. ‘Think what? Tess knows the name. It’s a cold case. Ergo, it’s got to be on file, right?’
Bola nodded, was silent for a moment. ‘But not necessarily here.’
‘What?’
‘When did Tess get posted? Where was she before?’
George furrowed his brow and withdrew his fist from his mouth. Angry indentations studded the flesh of his left hand. He snapped his fingers. ‘Southampton.’
‘Although technically, it should still be on the generic database,’ Bola said.
‘Whatever, yada yada, as our American friends might say.’ George was already flipping through the online directory. ‘Here we go. Southampton. General enquiries, Serious Crime, Archives…’ He picked up the phone, tucked the receiver under his chin.
‘You’ll be lucky to get anyone this time of the week,’ Bola muttered. His eyes tracked the progress of a pretty admin girl on her way out. ‘All right, Jane?’ Bola shot her his best smile. She coloured, hurried off in the direction of the lifts.
George cupped the receiver. ‘Can’t you think about anything else?’
‘Yeah. Dinner. A pint of lager. I could go on.’ Bola sat on the corner of the desk, ruefully watched the double doors click shut behind the departing girl.
‘Ah. Hello. This is DC George McConnell, Thames Valley. I was wondering if you could help with an enquiry. A cold case.’ George listened intently. ‘There is? Great – mind putting me through?’
Bola sighed. It was shaping up to be a long evening.
Chris Collingworth snapped awake. He lay quietly, trying to work out what had disturbed him. His bedside clock was ticking softly, his wife’s breathing regular and easy on the ear. Three o’clock. All quiet.
He swung his legs out of bed and went to the window. A nearby street lamp bathed his front garden in an orange glow. A cluster of parked cars, the dark shape of a cat crossing the road, sleek and elegant in the artificial light. Collingworth went to the bedside table, picked up his phone. One unread text message. No name, a number only. Five words.
Same place. One o’clock sharp.
Collingworth got back into bed. His wife moaned in her sleep, turned over, muttered something unintelligible. What did they want now? He’d done what they’d asked him to do. It had been pretty straightforward, although the CSI guy had given him a penetrating look when he’d produced the burned credit card.
‘Where did you find it? We’ve been over that vehicle with the world’s finest-toothed comb. Literally.’
Collingworth had shrugged. ‘Easily missed. Almost missed it myself. All right if I pass it straight to the guv’nor?’
And if Collingworth’s new friend was to be believed, his little plant would stir up the mother of all crises for DCI Brendan Moran. The Irish connection. Collingworth allowed himself a quiet chuckle. Who’d have thought it? Brendan Moran, the paragon, with a dodgy background in the Irish troubles. Well, this would sink Moran once and for all, or so the smartly dressed young man had assured him. A poisoned connection to his chequered past. Collingworth was intrigued, eager to cut to the chase, see the thing to its conclusion.
He allowed his mind to fill with pleasant images. Moran’s swift and sudden removal. A replacement, someone who would recognise Collingworth’s potential. Promotion, and then…
Who knew? The world was his oyster, and with new friends in high, if secretive places, as far as Collingworth was concerned, there were no limits.
One o’clock sharp, then.
‘Mate, the sun’ll be up soon.’
‘When I’m sure we’ve got what we need, we’ll call it a day,’ George replied.
The Southampton storage facility was bleak and colourless, and Bola’s eyes were twin circles of grit.
‘Here we go.’ George tapped the file with a grubby stub of pencil. Bola leaned over the desk, poorly lit by a flickering misalignment of spiderweb-crusted strip lighting, and tried to concentrate.
George read aloud. ‘Zubaida Binti Ungu, native of Malaysia. Wanted by Malaysian authorities. Suspected of killing her uncle and absconding with worldly goods. Arrived in the UK 1990 or thereabouts. Wanted in connection with the unexplained death of a seventy-four-year-old man in Bursledon. Not enough evidence–’ George looked up. ‘This is it, the cold case Tess worked on. They never found her – look, assumed left country. Last known alias… Connie Chan, or Connie Chandra.’
‘Bingo. Game, set and match.’ Despite his fatigue, Bola felt a flutter of adrenaline kick in.
George snapped the file closed. Motes of dust puffed upwards and outwards.
Bola sneezed.
‘I’m taking this with me.’ George tucked the folder under his arm and they headed for the exit, thanking the weary uniform at the door on their way to the car.
The M3 set a new record for roadworks and fifty-mile-an-hour limits. George ground his teeth and feathered the accelerator. ‘Zubaida Binti Ungu,’ he said. ‘In Malaysian, Binti means daughter-of.’ He turned to his passenger. ‘Did you know that?’
Bola’s mouth was open, but his eyes and ears were closed.
George swung out of the contraflow and muttered a prayer of thanks at the welcome sight of an empty carriageway ahead. His foot hit the floor.