Part 19 (1/2)

'Well, was was it?' it?'

'Of course,' he said evasively. 'And that's what Ralph's going to say. And Peter.'

'You know the s.h.i.+t load of trouble you're going to be in.'

'He's a mate,' he said fiercely, 'and mates look out for each other.'

Zoe shook her head. When would people learn? The desk sergeant was yawning now, scratching his chest as he talked. 'So, Nial,' she murmured, 'when they ask you where you really were that night, what're you going to say?'

'That I was at home.'

'With Ralph?'

'Well ...' Nial s.h.i.+fted uneasily.

'Well?'

He rubbed his nose and glanced at the open door, the sunlight coming down in the street outside. He gave it a hungry look, as if he was going to sign a pact with the devil and knew that might be the last daylight he ever saw.

'Nial?'

'No,' he admitted. 'Not with him. I don't know where he was. But I can promise you this.' He stared up at her. There were red patches on his face. 'I can promise you he wasn't out hurting Lorne Wood.'

4.

Zoe went back to her office, clenching her teeth so hard they hurt. She couldn't get Ralph's face out of her head, how he'd been so scared of his parents. She couldn't get Nial out of her head either He wasn't out hurting Lorne Wood He wasn't out hurting Lorne Wood. Nial knew knew what she only had a hunch about: that Ralph wasn't a killer. what she only had a hunch about: that Ralph wasn't a killer.

The door to the incident room stood open, the whiteboard covered with scribbles, Ralph's photo pinned up. She pa.s.sed it, went into her office and stared at the reams of paperwork among which there might might be a person who be a person who might might know something that know something that might might prove them all wrong. Something that would let Ralph off the hook. She sank into her chair, a sense of defeat creeping over her. A lot of 'mights' and no 'concretes'. Ralph didn't stand a chance. Didn't stand a sodding chance. prove them all wrong. Something that would let Ralph off the hook. She sank into her chair, a sense of defeat creeping over her. A lot of 'mights' and no 'concretes'. Ralph didn't stand a chance. Didn't stand a sodding chance.

Somewhere outside the office a door slammed. She didn't get up but used her toe to pull her door open a fraction. Ben was coming along the corridor. He was holding a folder under his arm, his gla.s.ses in the other hand, a strained look on his face, as if this case was really doing his head in. Behind him came Nial, slouching along uneasily, trying to act nonchalant and doing such a bad job of it that he only managed to look furtive. The two weren't exchanging a word.

Zoe was about to retreat when Ben's office door opened and Debbie came out. She was wearing a creamy lace dress feminine and innocent high green sandals on her tanned feet. There was a bit of a sway in her step, as if she was enjoying life. Her face changed when she saw Nial. She stopped in front of the door, crossed her arms and frowned at him as he pa.s.sed. Like a head-mistress who'd just come face to face with the biggest troublemaker in the whole school. He raised his eyes sullenly to her and, very, very slowly, Debbie shook her head. If the gesture had had words they'd have been: you silly, silly little boy you silly, silly little boy. Then, as if there was nothing more disappointing to her in the whole world, she turned on a heel and walked away in the opposite direction.

Before anyone could see her, Zoe kicked the door closed and turned her chair back to the computer. Her face was hot. She rolled up her right sleeve and studied the skin. Covered with marks and scabs. She found a piece of flesh that wasn't marked. It would be easy to dig her nails into it so easy. She closed her eyes. You don't have to, Zoe. Don't.

The computer beeped to let her know an email had arrived. She opened her eyes, blinked at the screen. It was from a DS in the targeting team. There was a paperclip next to the subject line. She rolled down her sleeve and clicked on the attachment. It was a PDF file with three main spreads: on Marc Rainer, Richard Rose and David Goldrab.

She clicked on Marc Rainer first. He was pictured leaving a cafe on a nondescript street with two black guys who wore tight trousers and Afro hair, as if they wanted to be in a blaxploitation movie. Rainer was thick-set and wearing a mustard turtle-neck under a brown leather jacket. He wasn't London Tarn. The second was a custody photograph. Richard Rose. An English name, but his heritage was from somewhere in the Levant: Turkey maybe, or Cyprus. She clicked on the third. And sat, hardly breathing, looking into his eyes.

London Tarn. Unmistakably, London Tarn. Years and years had pa.s.sed but she'd have known him anywhere.

His name was David Goldrab.

5.

'Have you ever heard of David Goldrab?' The uniformed inspector looked up from the overtime sheets he was signing off. Zoe stood in the doorway, her arms folded. 'David Goldrab. Apparently he's got connections on our patch.'

The inspector put down his pen and looked at her levelly. 'Ye-es,' he said cautiously. 'Why?'

'Oh, nothing. Just his name came up. I'm having a little look at him.' She broke off. The inspector's face was twisting unhappily. 'What is it?' she asked. 'What've I said?'

'Nothing. It's just that ...' He glanced at the telephone. 'David Goldrab?'

'That's the one.'

'I put down the phone to his brother about an hour ago. Nice piece of work calling from London. Called me a ”f.u.c.king woolly” and a few other things. Made a few allegations about my feelings towards sheep.'

'His brother?'

'Yup. Goldrab's not been heard from for nearly four days. He lives up near Hanging Hill, and usually he speaks to his mother in London every day, morning and night. But he hasn't answered his calls and now she's having epis right, left and centre, the brother's going ballistic and apparently we're supposed to get every officer in Avon and Somerset Constabulary out hunting for this jerk. So he's got form, has he? I didn't know.'

'He hasn't,' Zoe said distantly. She was thinking about Hanging Hill. North of the city. It faced north, looking out towards the Caterpillar. It was a weird place, damp and a little lonely. There was a bus stop there, on the same route that took in Beckford's Tower where Ralph claimed to have met Lorne on the night of her death and continued to the bus stop at the ca.n.a.l. 'Or, rather, he should have form but he flew under the radar. Clever man. Have you actioned anything yet?'

'Someone in Intelligence is going to look at his phone later, and his bank account but he's not exactly vulnerable. One of the cars'll swing by and do a welfare check.'

'Have they left?'

He stood up and craned his neck to look out of the window at the car park. 'Nope. They're taking the GP car. It's still there.'

'OK. Call down. Tell them not to bother. I've got to drive through Hanging Hill in about twenty minutes. I'll save them the ha.s.sle.'

'You're not getting all helpful on us, are you?'

'Helpful? Christ, no.' She patted her pockets, looking for her keys. 'Like I said, I just happen to be going that way.'

6.

The West Country got the first of the weather from the Atlantic. It got the first of the winds and the first of the Gulf Stream. Its job was to tame the systems for the rest of the country, to filter them out before they pa.s.sed over to the powerful cities in the east. But the west had got used to waiting until last for the sun. Dawn took its time over Russia, over the Continent, creeping across France and over the ferries and small boats of the Channel, moving inland over London with its gla.s.s towers and steel buildings grazing the underside of the sky. By the time daylight found Bath it was weary of the land and anxious for the blue of the Atlantic. Evenings in Peppercorn Cottage were like fiestas, flame-coloured and long, but mornings seemed tired, half-hearted and flat, as if the light was only there because it had nowhere better to be.

That Monday morning it was misty. Millie had gone to school and Sally and Steve had breakfast at the kitchen table, beside the window. Afterwards they sat there, not talking, just staring out at the garden and fields. On the table between them was an empty cafetiere and an untouched plate of croissants. Neither of them had much appet.i.te since Thursday they'd both felt tired, constantly tired. Sally had taken Friday off work and Steve had postponed his trip to Seattle. It seemed neither of them had the energy for anything.

A deer appeared outside, nosing the hedge at the bottom of the garden, its outline faint and blurred in the morning mist. Neither Sally nor Steve moved, but maybe it sensed them there or maybe it could smell the traces of David Goldrab, reduced to ten knotted, bulging carrier bags because, without warning, it startled, turned to look directly at the window, then bounded away.