The Headhunters

ELEVEN

On their return to Chichester police station, Hen and Stella were met inside the entrance by DC Gary Pearce looking like the wildebeeste who couldn’t work out why the rest of the herd had bolted.

‘Something up, sunshine?’ Hen asked.

‘Don’t know, guv. The ACC was asking for you.’

‘The main man? What time is it? He’ll have left by now.’

‘I don’t think so. It sounded urgent,’ Gary said.

‘Got to be. I hope you told him I was out seeing a witness.’

‘I said you’d left the building, anyway.’

‘Oh, thanks a bunch.’

‘Not long after, he came downstairs.’

‘Got up from his chair to come looking for me? That’s a first.’

‘He asked me to call you.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘I tried. I kept trying.’ He shot her an apprehensive glance. ‘Is it possible your phone was switched off?’

‘When was this?’

‘Twenty minutes ago.’

‘Ten past six. It could have been. We were dealing with an incident, weren’t we, Stell? Did he say what the flap is about?’

‘No, but he wants to see you the minute you return.’

‘I’d better give him the pleasure, then.’

Stella waited until Hen was out of earshot and then told Gary, ‘The incident was a shortage of cigarillos. We had to find a pub that sold them. You did good, Gary.’

Just when she was resigned to not hearing anything, Jo’s mobile sounded and it was Jake. ‘Me again.’ His voice was strong. ‘I thought I’d better call.’

‘You sound okay,’ she said.

‘I am. It’s all right.’

‘It’s great to hear from you,’ she said. ‘I was spooked when I saw the police car. Are you at home?’

‘Actually, no. On the bus to Chichester. There was a message from Gemma about meeting in the Slug and Lettuce.’

That Gemma! Bloody nerve. ‘Was there indeed?’

‘You’re going to be there, aren’t you?’ Now the anxious note returned to his voice. ‘Gemma said you would.’

‘Em, of course. You bet I am.’

‘We don’t have to… ’

‘Spend the whole evening with them? No. That’s for sure.’

‘See you soon, then?’

‘Quick as I can make it.’

When Hen came back from the ACC’s office, something had changed. She seemed smaller, less jaunty, more thoughtful. ‘Going outside for a smoke,’ she said. ‘No one is to leave. Mother Hen will address you shortly.’

There were some puzzled looks. ‘Trouble?’ one of the newest detectives said.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Stella said.

Gary said, ‘Do you reckon she’ll be quick? I was hoping to go off duty. Pompey have an evening match.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

But in five minutes the boss was back and some nicotine-assisted bounce was back as well. ‘Listen up, people. Things have moved on. Eighteen days after Meredith Sentinel’s body was found, another woman drowned. Why the hell didn’t we find out? You may well ask. Two reasons. First, it looked like an accident. Second, it wasn’t on our patch. It was at Emsworth, over the county border. The woman was floating face down in the water in the Mill Pond, that big stretch where all the swans are. Why am I telling you this? Because the post mortem report is out and the pathologist noticed some pressure marks on the back of her neck and shoulders suggesting she was held under.’

Someone whistled.

‘Just like ours,’ Stella said.

‘Fainter than ours,’ Hen said. ‘The marks, I mean. The victim was wearing clothes, but you can still see bruising. Up to now the post mortem report hasn’t been made public. The incident hasn’t had much publicity, a paragraph on an inside page of the local paper. Our case, as you know, has had plenty of attention. Hampshire Police knew all about it and got in touch this afternoon. The assumption is that the two drownings are connected, that we have a double killing. Clearly it calls for cooperation across the county border. Seeing that our investigation is already under way, Hampshire have agreed to me being SIO in both cases. We’ll have two or three of their detectives on the team, but basically it’s our show. A double murder-unless it’s Sod’s Law that two similar drownings happened within twenty miles of each other.’

‘Sod’s Law?’ Gary Pearce queried softly.

‘Something that can go wrong will go wrong,’ the sergeant behind him said.

Hen had heard and said, ‘AKA Murphy’s law. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Murphy?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Paddy Murphy said, ‘but this should help us.’

‘Right. Good news and bad news,’ Hen said. ‘We’ve doubled our chance of learning something about the killer. But the bad news is that the pressure to make an arrest will more than double. The media will go bananas.’

‘A serial killer,’ Murphy said.

No one doubted this was how the press would portray the news, but Hen was a stickler for accuracy. ‘For my money, Paddy, a killer doesn’t rate as “serial” until he has at least three to his name. And before you tell me he could have killed in the past and no one spotted the signs, I’ve got a little job for you.’

DS Murphy gave a twisted grin, resigned to what was coming.

‘Check the drownings of all adult women in the past five years in Sussex, Hampshire, and adjacent counties. Accidental as well as homicidal. Get hold of the PM reports if you can. Anything remotely similar to these two cases, speak to the coroner.’

‘Do we change our focus now, guv?’ Stella asked.

‘In what way?’

‘I’ve spent a lot of time trying to establish if Dr Sentinel was in St Petersburg for the full three weeks he claimed. He’s unlikely to have killed this second woman as well.’

‘Let’s make no assumptions. How far have you got with the check?’

‘He definitely flew out on the day arranged and back three weeks later. The time between is less certain. He gave his lecture the first weekend. His hotel was paid for by the organisers. The hotel can’t or won’t tell me if his room was in use for the whole of his stay.’

‘Why not? The chambermaid must have noticed.’

‘I think they’re being cagey for their own reasons. If he was absent for some days they may not be entitled to claim full board from the conference people.’

‘God help us. It’s the same the world over-people on the make. Did you get the impression he wasn’t there?’

‘Something dodgy was going on. I’m not sure what.’

‘Keep at it, Stell. We need to know. Coming back to your question, we don’t change focus. Everyone in the frame remains there.’

Gary Pearce asked, ‘Do we know the identity of the Emsworth victim?’

‘Good question, and we do. She’s Fiona Halliday, aged twenty-four, and she couldn’t be more local. The house she rented faces onto the Mill Pond. She was found fifty yards from her front door. Everyone assumed it was an accident until the pathologist reported the marks.’

‘Who found her?’

‘Some old dear who feeds the swans. We can eliminate her as a suspect. Aged nearer to ninety than eighty, I’m told. The interesting thing about Fiona Halliday is that she went missing from work a week before she was found, and so did her boss, named Cartwright. I should explain that Fiona was divorced and had a four-year-old son.’

‘Poor kid.’

‘Yes. When the mother didn’t call in, some of the staff where she worked were worried that she’d collapsed or died and the boy was with her in the house. They’re a good bunch of people by the sound of things. They reported it and a patrol car was sent. The officers forced the door and took a look around. No sign of the child. It’s since been discovered that he was with the father by arrangement. His turn to have the boy for a week.’

‘Has Cartwright shown up yet?’

‘Not yet. Another mystery.’

‘Another victim, maybe?’ Stella said.

‘Or another suspect,’ Gary said.

‘What do we know about him?’ Stella asked.

‘Only what I’ve learned from the Emsworth police. He’s manager of the printing firm in Fishbourne where Fiona worked in accounts. The staff there had the impression he fancied Fiona. Last seen leaving the building with her mid-afternoon on the Friday. She was found six days later.’

‘We have to find this guy-and fast,’ Stella said. ‘Is he married?’

‘Divorced. Lives alone in Apuldram.’

‘Does he have form?’

‘Nothing known. But you’re right, and we’re putting out a description. We’ll need a warrant to search his house. That’s another job for you, Stell.’

‘Now, guv-at the weekend?’

‘You weren’t thinking of putting your feet up?’

‘It’s finding a magistrate to issue a warrant. Not easy on a Saturday night.’

‘Nonsense. They’ll be propping up the bar at the golf club. Droves of them. You need to be in Cartwright’s house tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll get onto it.’

Hen knew she would. She could depend on Stella.

‘And we visit the print works and question the people there. That can’t be done till Monday, I guess. Right now I’m off to Emsworth to look at the scene and inside Fiona’s house. Gary.’

‘Guv?’ He looked as if the whistle had blown for a penalty against Pompey.

‘You can come with me.’

The Slug and Lettuce, in South Street, gets crowded on a Saturday night. The noise level is pretty high. But there was no problem hearing Gemma from the far side. ‘Over here, amigo.’

Jo went over. Rick and Gemma were sitting close together on the banquette opposite Jake, upright on a chair as if he was asking the bank manager for an overdraft. Something about Rick and Gem had changed. They gave the strong impression they had just shared a secret.

‘Check that outfit,’ Gemma said. ‘Doesn’t she look fabulous, Jake?’

A quick change after the phonecall, shimmery silver top over white leather skirt and ankle boots. Yes, it was dressy, but Jo could have done without the fanfare from Gemma.

Jake gave his customary nod.

‘Well, I know you’re a man of few words,’ Gemma said to him, ‘but you could show your appreciation by drumming on the table. She didn’t dress like that to please me or Rick.’

Jo said, ‘Gem, I’m sure you mean well, but do us all a favour and put the stopper in it. Who wants another drink? Don’t get up, anyone. My round.’ A tip she’d got from her canny father: always get your round in early. Then you can leave when you want with a clear conscience.

When Jo came back with the drinks Gemma was holding forth about some weird website she’d discovered. ‘It’s a bit like those African water holes where they have a camera rigged up permanently and anything coming to drink gets on the screen. If you’re patient and you get lucky you might see a lion. Well, this is outside a nightclub in Bristol, and you get to clock all the glam and glitz as people arrive. Of course you also get the bouncers turning away the troublemakers and the drunks coming out and the druggies dealing and the fights. Nonstop action.’

‘Who’d want to look at that?’ Rick said.

‘Maybe,’ Jake started to say, and everyone waited, ‘… a lion.’

Bemused looks all round.

‘Nice one. Hey, I go for that,’ Rick said, and earned Jo’s approval. He’d remembered her appeal to be civil to Jake. ‘A lion with a computer.’

‘Surreal,’ Gemma said. ‘Comical, though, I must admit. I hope there isn’t a camera outside Jongleurs. I couldn’t get my hair right tonight. I wouldn’t want it on the world wide web.’

‘It looks fine to me,’ Jo said.

‘Liar. It’s like a cornfield a flock of sheep have been through. I can’t get anything right at the moment.’

‘Maybe you’re working too hard.’

‘Tell me about it!’

‘Any news of your boss coming back?’

‘Old Cartwright? He won’t be back.’

‘You sound very definite.’

‘I am. He’s history now.’

‘Wrong,’ Rick said. ‘He could be tomorrow’s news.’

‘I hope not,’ Gemma said. ‘That’s the last thing I want to hear. Ah!’ She started to giggle. ‘I get you. Tomorrow’s news. Wicked.’ She shook with laughter.

This was some kind of private joke between Gemma and Rick. Jake looked as mystified as Jo was.

‘Are you going to let us in on this?’ Jo said.

‘No chance,’ Rick said, so quickly that he almost cut her off.

‘Why not?’ Gemma said. ‘They were here when we first talked about it.’

‘They don’t need to know.’

‘Be like that. I think it was genius. Deserves to be appreciated.’

Rick didn’t want appreciation. He gave Gemma a look that could have drilled through concrete. ‘Let’s change the subject. Did you hear about the woman you found on the beach, Jo? She was American, married to some university lecturer.’

‘Yes, I heard on the radio.’

‘They’re London people. God knows what she was doing half-naked in Selsey.’

‘Being murdered,’ Gemma said.

‘Apart from that.’

‘Obviously she had a lover.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Get with it, Rick. The husband was away at some conference, wasn’t he? We all know what conferences are for-tax-deductible sex. She thought she’d get a bit for herself.’

‘Who with-one of the locals?’ Jo said.

As always, Gemma had a whole storyline worked out. ‘I doubt if he was a Selsey guy. Some old flame of hers who lived in one of the grander places inland, like Arundel or Petworth. They meet up-the first time in years-and have a couple of drinks and at her suggestion he drives her down to the coast to look at the sea by moonlight, all Mills and Boon, she thinks, but he’s humouring her for old time’s sake. What she doesn’t realise is that she’s lost all the sex appeal she had and he’s lost the desire. When they get to the beach she starts coming onto him, flinging off her clothes. Jo, you and I know what blokes are like about their libido. They go in the sea for a midnight dip and she makes a grab for his popsicle. He panics, gets in a strop and pushes her under, simple as that.’

Looks were exchanged around the table. Gemma’s ‘simple as that’ hadn’t convinced everyone.

‘Even if it happened like you say, she’d fight for her life, struggle like hell,’ Rick said. ‘You don’t drown straight away.’

‘And we know she must have fought because it said in the paper there were marks on her neck and shoulders where he held her down. All the time he’s thinking how am I going to deal with this if I let go? He’s attacked her, tried to murder her. If he stops now he’s going to get done for attempted murder and God knows what. Better to let her drown. Then at least he has a fighting chance of getting away scot free. And he has. He pulled it off.’

‘So far,’ Jake said.

‘You think they’ll find him? They don’t have any clues. It happened in the water, so the traces are minimal.’

‘Now you’re talking sense,’ Rick said to Gemma. ‘The fuzz have two ways of catching criminals. One is through informers. The other is DNA, and there ain’t none.’

Jake wasn’t so sure. ‘Someone will have seen them together.’

‘What, earlier, you mean?’ Rick was still on his best behaviour. He had the grace to give it a moment’s consideration. ‘Maybe. And you think they’ll come forward?’

‘When her picture gets in the papers.’

‘And on TV,’ Jo said, to support Jake. ‘I’m confident they’ll catch up with him.’

‘Personally,’ Rick said, ‘I hope not.’

‘Why?’ Jo said in disbelief. ‘He’s a killer.’

‘One of us, in other words.’

‘Rick, that’s bullshit.’ He’d just lost all the credit he’d been earning. ‘Just because we had a light-hearted fantasy trip the other day about Gem’s appalling boss you can’t lump us in with a real-life murderer.’

‘Can’t I?’ Rick said with a triumphant smile, as if she’d sprung the trap. ‘Face it, we all had ancestors who killed to survive. It’s in the genes, yours and mine and everyone else’s, kiddo.’

‘You’re talking about cavemen?’

‘Survivors. The ones who came out winners. Quit talking about killers as if they’re another species. You may not care to admit it, but you’d take another person’s life if you were driven to it.’ He was in earnest now. This wasn’t idle chat.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Jo said, matching him for seriousness. ‘Those ancestors you’re talking about are prehistoric. Haven’t you heard of civilization? Mankind has moved on. The great majority of us want a peaceful existence. Yes, there are horrible exceptions, but those who commit them are outcasts and should be treated as such. What do you say, Gem?’

‘I say he’s winding you up, sweetie.’

‘I meant every word,’ Rick said. ‘Look in any playground and you’ll see it in action, the little psychopaths bullying, stealing, lying, fighting. We call it antisocial behaviour as if it doesn’t apply to the rest of us, but when he hits me my instinct is to hit him back, not walk away.’

‘Rick, you made your point,’ Gemma said. ‘We’re not going to steal your toys, okay? If you and me are going to Portsmouth, isn’t it time we thought about leaving?’

At Hen’s request, the crime scene investigator who had supervised the search on behalf of Hampshire CID was at Fiona’s house. He was in a bandsman’s uniform, blue with gold epaulettes and a gold stripe down his trousers. ‘I’m a trombonist in the town band and we’ve got a concert tonight,’ he explained.

‘Good of you to come. I won’t keep you long. I gather this job was dusted and done some days ago?’ Hen said after introducing herself.

‘The day after the body was found in the Mill Pond.’

‘Did anything useful come out of it?’

‘Nothing obvious,’ he said. ‘If there was a struggle it didn’t take place in here.’

‘What have you taken away for analysis? Plenty of prints, hairs, and fibres?’

‘As many as we need. Some of her used clothing. I’ll give you the list. We’ve left enough to keep you interested. The computer, address book, phonepad, camera, handbag.’

‘Was she an organised person?’

‘She was an accountant, wasn’t she? The interior was cleaned regularly. Everything had its place. Even the boy’s room is tidy.’

‘Did you find out how long she’s lived here?’

‘Two years, I gather. The place is rented from a firm in Havant. Beautiful location. Probably cost her.’

‘Her life,’ Hen said.

‘Well, yes.’

‘Is there any sign she had a visitor before she was murdered? Cups, glasses, tinnies?’

He shook his head.

‘No break-in?’

‘Only where the plod forced the front door. They left plenty of traces, by the way. No help at all to my team.’

‘Not my plod,’ she said. ‘Emsworth’s. I’m from Chichester, where we flit through a scene like butterflies.’

‘I’d pay good money to see that.’

In fifteen minutes, she and Gary had the place to themselves. The CSI’s zinc dust was everywhere.

‘Talk about leaving traces,’ she said as they entered the living room. ‘Are you any good with computers?’

‘Reasonably,’ Gary said.

‘See what you can bring up. And I don’t mean football results. I’ll be poking around upstairs.’

The main bedroom said plenty about Fiona. A queen-size divan with pink chiffon draped in an inverted V above the bed head. Lace-edged pillows. Quilt in matching pink, with rosebud motif. Television, phone, radio, bowl of now-wrinkled white grapes. In the bedside drawer, a box of New Berry Fruits, two Danielle Steels, and a Rampant Rabbit vibrator. White laminate kidney-shaped dressing table with triple mirrors on which the SOCOs had excelled themselves. Enough La Prairie products for a month of makeovers, plus some perfumes Hen had never heard of. She was sure of one thing: not-from-your-local-supermarket was written all over them.

The clothes in the wardrobe had been chosen shrewdly for work and play. Several accountant-style suits, formal, sober and expensively lined. A dozen or so dresses that looked frolicsome even on hangers. There wasn’t much Hen would have called neutral. The shoes and boots, too, stored in hanging fabric compartments, could be rated as hot and cold, with nothing lukewarm.

She understood what the crime scene chief had meant about tidiness. Everything folded and stacked like a new boutique before the first customers walked in. Easy to use, and easy to examine. Yet Hen had a premonition, soon confirmed, that nothing like a letter or a diary would be tucked under the contents. The knicker drawer was precisely that, twenty or more pairs, sorted by colour. If Fiona had any secrets they wouldn’t be here.

She called downstairs to Gary, ‘How goes it?’

‘It doesn’t, guv. You have to know the password to get in. Most people don’t bother with one.’

‘This lady would,’ she said. ‘Leave it, then. We’ll get a computer geek to do the trick.’

‘Want me upstairs?’

She smiled to herself. ‘No. I’ll be down in a mo.’

Time to take a look at the boy’s room. To her credit, Fiona had decorated it with imagination, a ceiling of stars and a wall with spaceships zooming upwards. Another wall had Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper, and the bed itself was shaped as an engine. There were toys in boxes and some books on a shelf. None of the disorder you expected from a small boy. Hen’s guess was that, on the day the child went to stay with his father, Fiona had immediately tidied everything.

Downstairs again, she picked up the large brown leather handbag and emptied the contents onto the kitchen table. ‘These look like filing cabinet keys. See if any fit the one in the corner,’ she told Gary.

The purse had more than two hundred pounds in notes. She started checking the plastic.

‘First one I tried,’ Gary announced.

‘Good-and are the files nicely labelled, as I would expect?’

‘Alphabetical.’

‘See what there is under C for car.’ Meanwhile Hen was studying the driving licence-a first sight of the dead woman’s picture. The red hair looked spectacular even under the laminate. A pale, solemn face, with neat features.

‘There’s a brochure for a Xsara Picasso,’ Gary said.

‘A brochure? Nothing else?’

‘That’s all there is, guv.’

‘She had a licence. There must be some documentation. Look under R for registration.’

He wasn’t long in announcing, ‘Not here.’

At Hen’s suggestion he tried C for Citroen, P for Picasso, and X for Xsara, all without success.

‘Maybe she keeps all the docs in the car. Did you happen to notice if there was a Picasso in the road outside?’ she asked. ‘The house doesn’t have a garage, so she’d be bound to park it on the street.’

‘I didn’t see one, guv.’

‘Odd. Surely a woman like this would use a car for work. Check the vehicle index on the PNC, would you, Gary?’

Tucked among the credit cards was a photo of a small boy beside a sandcastle. He had red hair and gaps in his teeth. The smile rated high on the aaah-factor.

Gary soon had the information. ‘Just as we thought, she owns a Picasso. Silver, two-thousand-six reg.’

‘Owned,’ Hen said. ‘Why don’t you take a short walk along the street and see if we missed it somehow?’

While he was outside, she listened to the answerphone. Someone called Gemma from work had called twice asking Fiona to get in touch and enquiring if she was all right. There were various cold calls. Nothing from the ex. Presumably he hadn’t needed to call. He would have assumed all was well until he returned the son to the house.

Gary returned, and he had a he-man with him, a middle-aged skinhead with muscles and a confident manner. ‘This is Mr Bell, from next door.’

‘Francisco,’ Mr Bell said with a defiant stare suggesting he wasn’t wholly comfortable with the name. ‘My old lady is Italian. She always said I could call myself Francis if I didn’t like it, but I said that’s a girl’s name.’

‘Frank?’ Hen suggested.

‘Then the kids at school call you Frankenstein. No thanks. I’ll stick with what I was given.’

Gary said, ‘I was asking Mr Bell about the victim’s car.’

‘Nice motor,’ Francisco said. ‘Two-thousand-six reg. She used to park it out front.’

‘It isn’t there now,’ Hen said. ‘We were wondering where it might be.’

‘Can’t help you.’

‘She didn’t rent a garage, I suppose?’

‘No idea.’

‘The keys aren’t in the house and neither are the documents.’

‘You think someone nicked it? Was that what she was killed for?’

‘Too early to say,’ Hen said. ‘You’re from next door, are you, Francisco? Were you here on the day she died?’

‘Might have been. If you’re asking if I saw anything, I didn’t. I work as a security officer in Portsmouth most nights. Catch up on my sleep next day, so I miss a lot of what goes on.’

‘You met Fiona, I expect?’

‘A few times, yeah.’

‘A good neighbour, was she?’

‘I s’pose. There wasn’t no trouble, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Quiet, then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you notice any visitors?’

‘Her ex called once a week with the sprog.’

‘Their child, you mean? Did you meet him, the ex-husband?’

He shook his head. ‘No reason to.’

‘What about other callers? Anyone you noticed?’

‘What do you think I am, some old git with nothing to do but stare out the window?’

‘Perhaps you’d answer my question, Francisco.’

‘I didn’t see squat, okay?’

‘No, it isn’t okay,’ Hen said. ‘I’ve seen a report stating that you and a work colleague of Fiona’s called in to report her missing and you were both outside the house when the patrol car turned up.’

He didn’t even blink at that. ‘So?’

‘So you not only saw one of her callers, but you spoke to the woman and agreed to call nine-nine-nine. Don’t tell me you didn’t see squat when it’s on record that you did.’

He shrugged. ‘That babe woke me up, didn’t she? I’ve never seen her, before or since. What’s the big deal?’

‘Fiona was murdered a few yards from your front door, that’s the deal,’ Hen said, increasingly impatient with him. His size and looks didn’t intimidate her. ‘Waste any more of my time and you’ll get nicked.’

He held up both hands. ‘All right, lady. Stay cool.’

‘Do you have a key?’

‘Come again.’

‘Key-to this house?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Neighbours often do-neighbours who can be trusted.’

‘That’s below the belt.’

‘You say you’re a security man. Position of trust. You look like a bouncer to me. Is that what you do?’

‘What’s wrong with that? Look, I come here voluntary when your boy asked me. I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘Francisco, it looks as if someone stole Fiona’s car. Not only that, but they came inside the house and took the registration certificate and all the documentation relating to the car. They didn’t break in. They let themselves in with a key.’

‘Got to be the killer, hasn’t it?’ he said. ‘He dumps her in the Mill Pond and grabs her handbag and uses the key to let himself in here. Then he gets into the files, takes the paperwork for the car, and makes his getaway. He can flog the car later.’

‘Sounds good,’ Hen said, ‘but there’s a problem with it. If he leaves in her car, what did he do with his own?’

‘Didn’t have one.’

‘How did he get here, then?’

‘Dunno. Bus?’

‘In all the time I’ve been investigating crime I’ve never heard of a killer arriving at the scene by bus.’

‘He’s local, then.’

‘He still drove away in Fiona’s Picasso. Where to?’

Francisco scratched his cropped head. ‘You’ve got me there.’

‘Not to worry,’ Hen said with a smile that took Francisco by surprise. ‘Our problem, not yours. That’s where a homing device comes in useful.’

‘A what?’

‘A bug. You’d know all about them, being in security.’

‘The car was bugged?’

‘Apparently. You can get them on the internet, dinky little things you put out of sight under the dash or in the boot. Fiona must have been proud of that car.’

‘How do you know she bugged it?’

‘The leaflet is in the files under S for security. The pinpoint tracker. The signals are bounced off a satellite, I gather, and we can access them on her computer. Unfortunately, as Gary will tell you, there’s a firewall device on the computer so we have to wait for a whizz-kid to help us.’

‘So you don’t know where the car is?’

‘Tomorrow we will. Maybe later tonight. And of course when we find it we can test for traces of DNA. You can’t drive a car without leaving some. Thanks for coming in, Francisco. If we need you again we know where to find you.’

‘Right, yes.’ He didn’t sound enthusiastic. His thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Gary will see you out.’

After the door was closed and Gary returned, he said, ‘Is that true about the bug?’

‘Francisco thinks it is.’

‘You made it up?’

She nodded. ‘Let’s see what he does next.’