Death's Door

Forty-eight

‘Maybe it’s Tuesday.’

‘What?’ Tarvil Singh exclaimed, gazing bewildered at Ray Wilding, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk as he gazed at the chart on the wall.

‘I’ve just noticed. Both murders were on Tuesday: the first Tuesday in March and the first Tuesday in May. Maybe that’s the real link between them and we’ve been missing it all along.’

‘In that case we’ve got a bit less than two months to catch this guy before he does it again.’

‘Bags of time.’ Wilding sighed. ‘Where does all that take us?’ he asked.

‘What?’ Singh grunted.

‘The information we got from Mrs Dell and her boy.’

‘Nowhere forward that I can see. Okay, there’s a new connection between all three victims, in that they all had the same agent, but we knew they were linked before we went up there. Okay, if you look at the three of them, Zrinka was very much the focal point, but we knew that too. For what it’s worth, I’m still looking at Padstow and, right now, I don’t think the DI will be handing out prizes for heading off in any other direction. . like your Tuesday theory, for example.’

‘No, he won’t. You’re spot on there; that’s one I will definitely leave on the back burner. What have you got on your desk?’

‘Calls while we were out. Two alleged sightings of the subject, and one. . Hey, this is interesting: one from the woman I spoke to yesterday at the passport agency.’

‘Why does everything have to be an agency these days?’ Wilding mused, idly.

‘So that the government can kid people on that the public sector is smaller than it really is.’

‘That’s a very profound analysis from a big lummox of a detective constable.’

‘And that’s more than a shade sarky from an idle dick of a detective sergeant. Actually, I’m quoting my old man; he’s so far to the right politically that he’d join the British National Party, if they allowed guys with turbans to be members.’

‘In that case he wouldn’t approve of public money being wasted in meaningless chatter. Are you going to answer those phone calls or not?’

‘If you’ll shut up and let me.’ Singh picked up his phone and dialled the passport service direct line number that had been left for him. He swore. ‘Got it wrong. Your fault for sidetracking me.’ He redialled and this time heard the ringing tone.

‘Roberta Savage,’ said a voice at the other end of the line, in an accent with West Indian overtones.

‘Hello, it’s Tarvil Singh here, up in Edinburgh. You rang when I was out. What is it? Have you found Dominic Padstow after all?’

She laughed. ‘No, don’t build your hopes up. Our database never lies, and it’s impossible to hide in it. No, something happened today that I thought you’d be interested in. Somebody else has been asking after the same non-existent person.’ She leaned on the second syllable of the last word. ‘He’s a popular chap, this Mr Padstow of yours.’

‘Let’s just say he’s much sought after. Who was it that rang you?’

‘He didn’t ring me. It was one of my team who took the call; I just happened to be close by and heard the name being mentioned. I waited until he was finished and then I quizzed him. The call came from a man called Dailey, Patrick Dailey, from the Home Office.’

‘You mean the security service?’

‘No, I don’t. This chap’s in the immigration division.’

‘How did your colleague deal with it?’

Roberta Savage laughed. ‘By the book. He told him that we were established as an agency to protect people from intrusion like this, and that he should go away and get legal authority.’

‘And did he?’

‘Actually he didn’t need to do that: my colleague hadn’t seen a newspaper this morning, so he had no idea that Padstow is a suspect in your investigation. But it seems that Dailey didn’t know that either: he tried to bully my man, “I’m from your Head Office” sort of thing, but when he found that he couldn’t, he gave up.

‘I was suspicious about the approach, and so I called him back myself, to verify that he was who he said he was. I asked him the reason for his enquiry. He got evasive, and told me he wasn’t at liberty to say, but that it didn’t really matter. In return, I told him to go away and read the Data Protection Act.’

‘Nice one.’ Singh chuckled. He imagined that crossing Ms Savage might be a mistake. In the background he heard another phone ring, but paid no attention.

‘Do you have any idea what this might have been about?’ she asked him. ‘Yours is clearly a Scottish investigation; it has nothing to do with the Home Office. I know this, for I worked there myself before transferring here.’

‘I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure that my boss is going to want me to find out. You didn’t run across this man in your time there, did you?’

‘No. He’s new. I checked with a chum: he moved there last year, on a sideways transfer from the DTI.’

‘Okay. Thanks for the information, Roberta. I’ll see how my DI wants me to play it.’

‘Keep my name out of it, please.’

‘Absolutely, Roger. That’ll be no problem.’ She laughed again, and hung up.

Singh did the same, then entered her number into his personal contact book. When he was finished, he turned to Wilding. ‘That was interesting, we’ve got competition from the Home Office. They’re asking about Padstow too. When’s the DI back?’

The sergeant was sitting upright, feet no longer on his desk, his face serious and more than a little anxious. ‘No time soon,’ he replied. ‘That was him. There’s been another death.’