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  Freeman said, ‘Unfortunately, Chris is correct. But every bit of intelligence makes Fletcher’s tank a little smaller. Eventually he won’t have room to turn around. If the registration plate is a dead-end, move on. Serena, spoken to the clinic yet? Do that now. I’m going to call Ashley again and tell her she’s possibly only got today to get herself out of serious bother. Come on! The harder we push, the more likely something is to break.’

  She left as abruptly as she came. Terek was still on the same call, watching as the DCI left the incident room. Then the detective inspector said something inaudible to Wilson and raised the back of one hand to Waters, beckoning with a single finger.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The police station at Hunston is set back a little from the main road, where the traffic hurries by and barely notices it. The sign is a relic, the old blue light in a glass cover above the entrance, and just inside that door there is still a wooden counter, of the sort that was Charlie Hills’ domain for many years – just smaller and not made from oak. It’s a brick building, but the burnt clay mix was yellowish, and so it has never looked at home, never looked as if it quite belonged up here among the sandstones and flints. But the car park in front is spacious, with enough room for twenty vehicles, and it’s just a pity, thought uniform sergeant Eric Boyd, as he glanced out of the ground floor window, that these days you’ll never see more than the four cars now parked on it – underlining the fact that Hunston’s days are numbered. You could get half a dozen executive homes on that space alone, before you demolish the station itself.

  When he started here, there had been a dozen constables, three sergeants and an inspector; now Eric was in charge of the building and the shift whenever he was on duty, and the most men he ever had to deploy was six, including himself. That only happened on alternate weekdays, and at weekends; though most of the public hadn’t realised it yet, cover was often provided by Kings Lake Central. They were safe enough over there – talk of expansion, maybe even on a brand new, purpose-built site out of the town – and with eight years still to go before he could put in for retirement, Eric Boyd was as certain as he could be that he’d end up joining the queues of traffic into Lake every time he had a morning shift. Over the past twenty years, every two-man village police station had closed; in the past five years, the stations like this one in country towns had almost all gone; before long, the county would be trying to police itself from Norwich and two other centres.

  One of the vehicles he could see belonged to a couple of detectives from Lake. There had been six of them earlier, meeting up on the car park and then coming into the building, looking to use the facilities, asking if anyone was going to make them a coffee. The others had moved on but these two were still hanging around and beginning to get on his nerves. They were only DCs and soon he’d pull rank and send them on their way.

  His own three uniformed people had been sent down to Pinehills this morning, leaving him alone in the building apart from Peter, the civilian support worker. This is what it’s come to, he thought – twenty years’ service and I’m supervising a clerk on a six-month contract as he inputs data. The poor sod thinks this will turn into a permanent position if he does well enough, and no one has the heart or the honesty to tell him otherwise. We’ll have constables on zero-hours contracts before you know it, never mind civilians.

  Boyd could still hear the voices of the detectives down the corridor, and now he was sure he could smell cigarette smoke. It was time for them to bugger off. He stood up, and as he did so, Peter saw him and said, ‘Sergeant? Could you give me a hand with this?’

  Why not? What better use could there be of his forty-two thousand pounds a year salary? He went across to the desk where the middle-aged man who’d lost his job when the electronic instruments plant closed last year was sitting in front of a screen, smartly dressed, collar and tie, doing his absolute best to get his life back onto some sort of track.

  Peter said, ‘Thank you. I’ve put in most of these registrations. I’m not actually sure what it’s for, but…’

  Boyd leaned forward, looked at the paper on the desk and said, ‘That’s one of Mrs Peake’s lists.’

  ‘Oh, right. Is she an officer? I don’t think I’ve-’

  ‘Mrs Peake? No! She’s an old dear who lives in Wells. She’s been running a campaign about illegal parking outside her house for years. We started ignoring her monthly lists a while back and she wrote to County. Then we got Assistant Chief Constable Devine on our backs. So, we put it onto the hard drive as proof we take notice of concerned citizens. Then we ignore it. Don’t waste a lot of time on it, mate!’

  The man looked a little hurt and Boyd was annoyed with himself for belittling another’s efforts. He said, ‘Anyway, what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ve put in at least a dozen numbers without a problem but this one,’ pointing at the paper, ‘turns orange as soon as I press Enter. I’ve no idea why. I’ll try it again.’

  Sure enough, the numbers and letters turned amber, and they were underlined as well. Boyd picked up the paper – Mrs Peake posts them, second class, on the first of every month – told Peter to clear the last effort and then he read out the registration number as it was typed in again. Press Enter – it went orange.

  Boyd said, ‘She’s made a mistake. It’s just a wrong number. The system doesn’t recognise it.’

  Peter said, ‘We can check. She says at the end of the list that she now keeps a photographic record of all the vehicles that pull off onto the pavement in front of her house. She says she is surprised we’ve never asked to see this.’

  ‘Why would we? What does she think we’re going to do? We’re not traffic wardens!’

  Peter sat and waited, still looking hopeful.

  Boyd said, ‘I don’t know. What happens if you just go on to the next one?’

  ‘You can’t. Whatever this is, it freezes the database.’

  ‘I don’t know… Look, I need to sort out these two from Lake. You’ve got IT support’s number on your contact list. Give’em a call. It’ll probably be someone called Latif. I reckon he’s an eight-year-old who does it between lessons, but he’s usually spot-on. If he can’t fix it, just bin the list this time. No one will ever know or care.’

  The one with all the talk was called O’Leary. We’re just waiting for further instructions was the story, but there was a snide, superior look on his face, the old plain clothes contempt for uniform that Boyd hadn’t seen for a while, and he wasn’t having any of it. He’d told them that if they didn’t soon piss off out of his station, he’d be giving them further instructions with the toe of his boot. They were making moves towards the door when he turned his back and walked away.

  Back in the office, Peter was on the phone. When Boyd arrived at the desk, he heard ‘Right click is two fingers on the trackpad? I didn’t know that… Yes, that’s opened another box. It says “SPS 08.08.18”. So, that’s a date. What’s the SPS?’

  As Boyd watched, Peter wrote down the answer and showed it to him – Subject of Previous Search. Boyd shrugged and said, ‘Who was looking for it? Can we find out?’

  Peter asked the question but Boyd couldn’t make out the answer. He heard Peter’s response, which was ‘So, I press the pad harder and hold it down? That’s worked, we’ve got more info now. And after this I can input the rest, once I’ve acknowledged the highlighted item? That’s very helpful, thank you. Was it you who wrote… Oh, he’s gone. Problem solved, sergeant!’

  Peter went to clear the screen but Boyd’s hand stopped him. The little box contained a name that he recognised – DS C Waters KLC – and the date of the previous search was recent, made after the beginning of the investigation into the murder of the woman up at Pinehills. The detective sergeant whom Boyd had met there that Friday morning had looked for the number that Peter was trying to input. He hadn’t found it because it wasn’t there, but someone somewhere had written a line of code which recorded the search and matched it to subsequently inputted dat
a. Maybe. It had to be worth passing on, and if those two characters were still in the car park…

  ‘Oi!’

  O’Leary had the car moving towards the exit when Boyd came out of the building and shouted. The detective slowed down but didn’t bring it to a complete halt.

  ‘Alright, sarge! Keep your wig on! We’re leaving.’

  ‘Stop and listen. DS Waters is one of your lot, isn’t he?’

  O’Leary turned to the passenger, a young female officer Boyd hadn’t met before this morning, and grinned as he answered.

  ‘Yes and no. Wouldn’t say he’s one of us, if you know what I mean. University sort, got kicked off the advanced development scheme. Bit of a tosser.’

  The temptation to get hold of that scrawny neck and give it a good squeeze was almost overwhelming, but Eric Boyd had met them before and expected to meet them again before long. Instead, he reflected for a moment, thinking about the young detective sergeant who had done a decent job all day in the blistering heat, who hadn’t been afraid to ask for his help, and he came to his own conclusions about DS Waters.

  ‘Bit of a tosser, is he? Well, he’d have to go some to get ahead of you in that respect. Get out of your car and get back inside. My civvy’s got some information for him, which is more than you’re likely to come up with in a month of Sundays. You get to pass it on, and remember to say thank you.’

  Detective Inspector Terek handed Wilson’s mobile to Waters and said, ‘It’s O’Leary. It’s a bit garbled but it might be something. Your name has come up in Hunston.’

  Waters listened to the story as O’Leary told it and then asked to speak to Eric Boyd, who took him through what had occurred on the screen. What exactly had this woman said about having a photographic record? Boyd read the words back to him, and said he didn’t know any more than that, but he did know where Mrs Peake lived, if that was any help. Waters told him to go ahead, and Boyd said, ‘By the traffic lights before you reach the harbour in Wells. There’s a wide area of pavement, and cars sometimes pull onto it. They had a problem with taxis using it as an unofficial rank a few years back. Anyway, this all started when someone from her family got run over there, her grand-daughter, I think it was.’

  Waters thanked him and asked to speak to O’Leary again.

  ‘One more time, so there’s no mistake. Read the registration back to me.’

  Terek could see this was something – in fact, the incident room had fallen silent.

  Waters said, ‘Right. Get the woman’s contact details from Sergeant Boyd. Then get straight over there. Check she has photographs to match the numbers, especially the one you just read to me. If she does, get hold of the camera or whatever it is and bring it here. Call me as soon as you’re speaking to her. And O’Leary?’

  Waters had Wilson’s phone in his hand, he was speaking to Wilson’s detective constable and Wilson was watching and listening to every word, but he was going to say this anyway – ‘Don’t screw this up.’

  Laetitia Peake was seven years old when she stepped out from behind a Honda Civic and was knocked down by a Tesco’s delivery van. She suffered a broken tibia and spent a week in Lake General, but it was a simple fracture and young bones are quick to mend. For her tenth birthday, last April, she’d been given her own mobile phone, and three months ago she had shown her grandmother how to use the camera on such devices. Mrs Peake senior knew that these new phones had cameras but she had never discovered where it was on her own, until that Sunday afternoon. Nevertheless, she soon realised its potential as a weapon in her war against the motorists who continued to pull off onto the pavement in front of her terraced cottage at all hours of the day and night.

  Waters had put the image up onto the whiteboard, and seven pairs of eyes examined it. Taken from indoors through a window pane, at an angle of around forty-five degrees, and depending solely on the vehicle’s own light above the registration plate, there could still be no doubt about what they were looking at. One could read it clearly without any enhancement.

  Freeman said, ‘Would somebody indulge me and just run that through again?’

  Behind her, fingers tapped away at a keyboard. After a few more seconds, Richard Ford’s voice said, ‘It’s the Mercedes, ma’am.’

  Freeman stared some more and shook her head a little. Then she turned to O’Leary.

  ‘One more time, please. What else did she say?’

  Mrs Peake had not seen the man’s face – he never got out of the car. In all he must have been waiting there for a quarter of an hour. A few minutes after she’d taken the picture, the woman got into the car. Mrs Peake couldn’t describe her face either because it was getting dark by then, but she could give a description of what she was wearing.

  With her eyes back on the screen, Freeman said, ‘Serena, you were at the autopsy when the clothes were removed. Is it a match?’

  ‘Yes, it is, ma’am.’

  ‘Alright, then…’

  The waiting became unbearable, and it was Detective Sergeant John Wilson who broke first.

  ‘Ma’am, we need to bring him in. We’ve got enough now. We should get down there and-’

  ‘Agreed, John, we’ve got enough but it’s not organised yet. And I like more than enough, not enough. I don’t want to interview Fletcher until I know his shoe size and what toothpaste he uses.’

  She had turned to face them.

  ‘It’s late on Tuesday morning. We’ll interview on Thursday morning. That gives you just under forty-eight hours to find me everything you can on Graham Fletcher. For a start, I want to read the details of his past conviction – it didn’t matter before but it does now. Check Companies House and find out his history in business. Who are the directors of the business? Who’s his accountant? Get me more out of his bank. Simon – get the warrants drawn up for his business and home addresses, 07.00 Thursday, and liaise with DI Glover at Luton. A joint op gets us brownie points and saves on our fuel bill.

  ‘Serena, back to the fertility clinic, as soon as. Check all the details of what Michelle went through there. Was Fletcher involved or did he just pay for it? Why am I saying “just’? If he paid, he’s very involved. And I’d like someone to check again on the husband’s alibi, just in case Fletcher starts trying to drag in other people to save his own skin…

  ‘And talking of alibis, don’t forget we still have a signed statement saying Fletcher was in his receptionist’s flat when Mrs Peake took her snaps. When we disclose, what’s he going to say? Someone must have stolen his car, driven up there and back again? We’ve all heard more ridiculous stories believed by juries. Anybody found counting chickens will be shot at dawn.’

  But Waters could see behind the warnings that Freeman believed she had Fletcher now, and when he caught her eye he thought she almost winked at him. Voices were rising now she had let go of the meeting. There is a hum of excitement in these situations that few other jobs can produce, and it was probably in that moment his decision was made. It happens maybe once or twice a year when you’re on the major cases, but all the weeks and months of patient plodding are worth it. Had they been lucky? One could argue it was so, but it’s what you do with it that counts. Smith had said to them once, “When a gift horse wanders into the interview room, the last thing you do is go anywhere near its mouth. You say, good morning Mr Horse, how nice to see you! Tell us exactly what happened.”

  Freeman was talking to Terek when the door opened halfway and Priti from admin put her head around it. She said, ‘Ma’am?’ and waved to get the DCI’s attention.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but there’s a Detective Inspector Glover on the phone. He says it’s important.’

  Freeman told Priti she’d pick it up in her office. At the door, she turned back, looked at the rest of them, held up a hand with two fingers pointed like a pistol and said, ‘Not even one bloody chicken.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  There are many misapprehensions about the nature of the process and its purpose. Even the name most co
mmonly used to describe it is, in truth, inaccurate – “interrogation” is more accurate than “interview”. The latter implies some sense of balance, of equality and of potential gain to both sides, but, to be honest, the ‘interviews’ that take place after a suspect has been cautioned are one-sided affairs. They are not, as most of us naively imagine, about a search for truth and justice, and an experienced solicitor will make this very clear to you if given the opportunity. Such interviews have, as far as the police are concerned, one purpose only, and that is to establish whether there is enough evidence to convict you in a court of law, which isn’t the same thing at all. A popular and not entirely mistaken view among experienced criminals and law-breakers is that if the police are interviewing you, it’s a good sign; they are looking for more evidence because they don’t yet have enough. And the most stupid thing you can do is offer them any by answering their questions.

  Essentially, one has five choices at the beginning of such an interview. You can decide to answer all the questions, some of them or none of them, you can give a prepared statement and keep silent or you can give a prepared statement and then answer the questions. Options two and five are particularly poor ones. Selectively answering questions immediately draws attention to which areas you are trying to avoid, and a good interviewer will sense this and expose them on the DVD recording. Offering a prepared statement and then commenting further on its contents provides the interviewer with endless opportunities to trip you up. Option one – answering the questions fully – seems to be the wise choice if you are innocent, but you should remember what the sole purpose of the interview is as far as the police are concerned. Option four presents its own difficulties because you don’t know in the first crucial interview exactly what the police already have; unless the statement is as bland as possible, you might still be giving them something new. Which leaves option number three; you do answer the questions but with the same two words – “No comment.”