Snapshot

24

Ellen sat in the CIU Falcon in the carpark behind the station, waiting for Challis to leave the building. She still felt buoyed by the events of the morning. She could have sworn that Challis was going to kiss her at one stage, before those Witsec goons arrived.

She saw the back door swing open and Challis appeared. He wore an overcoat at a time and in a place where men didn’t wear overcoats but brightly coloured jackets of padded down or polar fleece. He was very slightly daggy and she liked that about him. He glanced about the yard for her, and in the second or two it took for him to find the CIU car, and her, his face was in repose, showing the true man underneath: fatigued, a little sad and careworn, his narrow face and hooded eyes faintly prohibitive. Then he smiled and it transformed him.

‘All set?’ she asked, as he got into the passenger seat.

‘Waterloo Motors called as I was leaving,’ he said, buckling his seatbelt.

‘And?’

‘It will take a few days to get the parts they need.’

‘Buy yourself a new car, Hal.’

‘Nothing wrong with my car. The motor’s tired, that’s all,’ Challis said. ‘Like the owner.’

She checked him for a ribald meaning, but as usual Challis was unreadable. Without trying to make it sound too significant, she said, ‘I’m happy to take you to and from work until you get it back.’

He shook his head. ‘They’ll have a courtesy car for me later today.’

His lightness of mood was evaporating. To distract him, Ellen said, ‘Alan wanted to know why you didn’t get a cab to work,’ and watched for his reaction. For reasons that she hadn’t finished thinking through, she wanted Challis to know that her husband was jealous of him.

‘Huh,’ said Challis.

She gave up and they drove in silence to the hospital, Ellen feeling obscurely disappointed. At the hospital they walked into a close, dry heat: guaranteed to make you feel sicker, Ellen thought. A nurse directed them along a pastelly corridor, and they found the owner of 283 Lofty Ridge Road watching morning TV, her face registering a kind of fury. ‘Nothing on but rubbish,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, glaring at them both.

Challis told her. ‘Mrs Humphreys, I need to ask you some questions about your god-daughter.’

Mrs Humphreys aimed the remote at the TV set and the screen gulped and went blank. ‘I wasn’t much help to your man yesterday, and I don’t suppose I’ll be much help now.’

Challis smiled. ‘How are you feeling today?’

‘Sore, but brighter in the head.’

‘You told DC Sutton that Christina stayed with you for a while last April.’

‘That’s right. For about three weeks.’

‘Was it unusual for her to stay with you?’

‘Yes and no. I saw her often when she was little, before the family moved to Sydney, but haven’t seen much of her in recent years. Look, is she in trouble?’

Challis wondered how much to tell her. ‘Not with the police. She hasn’t done anything wrong.’

Mrs Humphreys glanced at him shrewdly, her veiny hands kneading her pale blue hospital blanket. ‘That woman who was shot at my house-do you think they were after Chris instead?’

‘We don’t know for sure. We have to look at all possibilities. Are you certain that Christina went to London?’

‘I got a postcard from her. I recognised the handwriting. Do you think she’ll be safe there?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Humphreys didn’t seem convinced.

‘How would you describe Christina’s mood?’

‘When she stayed with me? I’ve been going over that in my head all night. At the time, I thought she was nursing a broken heart-you know, some man had dumped her and she wanted to get away for a while. She was moody and sad. Wouldn’t leave the house. But now I’m thinking she might have been more scared than sad.’

‘Did she receive any unusual phone calls? Make any? Have any visitors?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘And she left suddenly?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did she seem when she said goodbye?’

‘Elated. Like a weight was off her mind. Bought me a brand-new TV set to say thank you, silly girl.’

‘So she must have left the house at some stage, in order to buy you the TV set and make travel arrangements.’

Mrs Humphreys shook her head. ‘Did it all by phone.’

‘You said she didn’t make any calls.’

‘No funny calls,’ Mrs Humphreys said.

They got no more from the old woman, and Challis asked for her house keys. ‘I’m afraid we need to search it for anything that Christina left behind, or anything that might involve you,’ he said.

‘You’re mad.’

Ellen perched on the bed and reached for a veiny wrist. ‘We won’t pry unnecessarily, or disturb anything. We can get a warrant, but if you gave us your permission…’

Mrs Humphreys gestured impatiently. She seemed tired now. ‘Suit yourselves, but you won’t find anything.’

They were in the hospital carpark, strapping on their seatbelts, when Tessa Kane appeared, tapping on Challis’s window. ‘Hal, Ellen,’ she said.

Ellen replied with a short nod, feeling a quickening of suspicion and resentment. She began to fiddle with her mobile phone, needing to occupy her hands while the other two talked.

‘What brings you here?’ Challis asked.

‘Work.’

‘Mrs Humphreys?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s just had an operation.’

‘I’ll go gently, Hal.’ A pause. ‘Well, mustn’t keep you. Stay in touch.’

That was Ellen’s cue to turn the ignition key abruptly and wheel them out of the carpark. Telling herself to grow up, she breathed in and out and said offhandedly, ‘Hal, do you ever find it hard, knowing what cap to wear?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the cop who’s a source, and the cop who’s involved personally.’

She couldn’t look at him but sensed that he was looking fully at her. Presently he said, ‘I was involved with Tessa Kane. I’m not any more.’

Said coolly, so she gestured with one hand, saying, ‘Sorry, don’t mean to pry.’

She thought he’d leave it, but he treated her question seriously, ‘It was complicated sometimes. There were issues of confidentiality, and I know half the station disapproved-but that’s not why we broke up.’

Broke up. He’d actually said it. ‘Hal, it’s okay, I had no right…’

‘Forget it,’ Challis said, making an effort. ‘Let’s turn the old girl’s place over.’

They reached the house on Lofty Ridge to find crime-scene technicians still at work, widening their search of the grounds, taking new photographs, making further sketches. ‘Oh hell,’ Challis said, darting out of the car and approaching one of the technicians, A moment later he was back, grinning at her ruefully. ‘See that oil stain? That’s where I parked the Triumph last night.’

Ellen gazed at him, experiencing a sudden insight into his solitariness. She found herself squeezing his hand. He laughed, and a kind of current sprang between them, opening them to possibilities. Ellen followed him into the house giddily.

He almost spoilt it then, saying, ‘If there’s anything here, you’ll find it.’

She was alarmed. What did he mean? Did he mean that he knew she had light fingers, or that he valued her ability to find hiding places? She tried to read him. After a while she told herself there were no undercurrents in his observation.

They began the search. A preliminary run through the house yielded nothing but a postcard under a fridge magnet. Postmarked London, it depicted Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and a barge on the River Thames. It was signed ‘Chris’ at the bottom of a couple of short sentences that said nothing about Christina Traynor’s state of mind, whereabouts or intentions.

Ellen was thorough, but also intensely aware of Challis. They seemed to perform a kind of dance, almost touching, colliding and glancing away from each other, only to be drawn together again. They were both aware of it but said nothing. It wouldn’t do. She tried to shake off the feelings even as she welcomed them. ‘Anything?’ he said at one point, his voice rasping. She didn’t trust her own voice. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

They parted again and she made a more thorough search, looking under framed pictures for wall safes, kicking skirting boards for tell-tale hiding places, checking cupboards, drawers, photo albums, wardrobes and the laundry basket. It was fruitless: there were no indications of where the old woman’s goddaughter was now, or that she’d been the intended victim, or even that she’d ever been in residence.

They met in the kitchen. By now Ellen was depressed by the house with its musty air and the faint grime of an old woman whose eyesight was failing. She turned to Challis. ‘Hal-’

‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered, glancing past her through the window.

She followed his gaze. Superintendent McQuarrie’s Mercedes had pulled up at the yellow tape. The super got out with Georgia McQuarrie, who held a small bouquet of flowers, and together they approached the tape, ducked under it and made for the chalked area where Janine had died. Ellen watched curiously. The officer in charge of the crime-scene technicians seemed to argue with McQuarrie, before shrugging and stepping back to allow Georgia to place the flowers on the ground. Then McQuarrie and his granddaughter ducked back under the tape again and stood watching for a while, Georgia absorbed by the technician who was sketching.

Suddenly Challis was leaving the kitchen. Ellen watched, hearing him call, ‘Sir, a moment?’

‘Not now, Inspector,’ McQuarrie said, bundling Georgia into the big Mercedes and driving away.

Ellen locked the house and joined Challis at the CIU car. The mood gone, the magic irretrievable, they travelled in silence. Then Challis’s mobile phone rang. He listened attentively, switched off and glanced at Ellen. ‘That was Scobie. A woman called Connie Rinehart from Upper Penzance just called the station. She had an appointment with Janine McQuarrie yesterday morning, nine-thirty, about the time that Janine was shot.’