‘What colour hat? Did it have a logo?’
Thompson gave a shrug.
Jeez, this was like speaking to a pile of bricks. Wayne took a deep breath. Thompson turned around and began arranging the boxes on the shelf behind the counter. Wayne raised his voice, trying to penetrate the man’s back.
‘Can you describe what he was wearing?’
Thompson shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Jeans, I guess.’
Barry ambled over from the display cabinet to join them at the counter. He pointed to one of the aeroplane kits in Sherman’s hand. ‘I made that very Lancaster when I was a kid. You could hardly see it for glue, the props wouldn’t even turn.’
Thompson turned from the shelves and said to Wayne, ‘A yellow Eagles windcheater.’ Then to Barry he said, ‘It’s a difficult model for a young kid. You should have got your dad to help.’
‘Didn’t have one.’ Barry never ceased to surprise Wayne. Only the other day he was complaining about his miserly arsehole of a father.
‘That’s too bad,’ Thompson said.
‘Maybe I’ll have another go at it.’ Barry took out his wallet and handed over a twenty.
Thompson gave him the box and some change. ‘There’s glue in the box. Come back when you’re done and I’ll fix you up with some paint,’ he said.
Barry beamed back; it was the kind of smile a twelve-year-old would use to wangle money from his unsuspecting grandmother.
When they began to discuss the differences between the old Airfix models and the newer equivalent, Wayne wandered off to inspect a model train set.
On a structure that looked like four joined ping-pong tables, a complicated system of rails carved their way through alpine scenery and bucolic European farmland. This is more like it, Wayne thought. Three red buttons he assumed were there to be pressed, controlled the model railway. He tried to work out which one would send the old steam loco across the bridge spanning the thick painted river. Lured by the middle button, his hand reached for it, only to be beaten to it by a cane held in the hand of an old man of eighty, if he was a day.
He watched as the model train nipped around the track like a zip fastener and he grew dizzy: so much for trying to keep his interests on terra firma. He nodded to the old man and swayed his way back to the counter just as Thompson was handing Barry a can of bronze spray paint.
‘Take this, too. It’s from the same batch I sold to the guy. And this is the kind of wooden dowel I sell.’ Thompson gave Barry a dowel and an affable grin; the change in the man was amazing. Wayne could only look at his younger partner and marvel.
‘Hey, you didn’t see what kind of car the bloke drove off in did you?’ Barry asked.
‘Yeah, I did. A new-looking blue Commodore. He parked it right outside the shop. Sorry but I didn’t get a look at the plate,’ Thompson said.
Barry handed him his card, said it was okay, that he was being a big help anyway. ‘If you think of anything else you can reach me on this number.’
Thompson called out as they were heading for the door.
‘Hey, I don’t know if it helps, but he bought a dozen each of gold and silver paint, too.’
***
The killer was going to strike again. Wayne broke the news to Monty from the car. There was no need for him to hold the phone out for Barry to hear the explosive reaction. When Monty had calmed down, he gave him the details of the Thompson interview and received, in turn, a list of further instructions. Wayne pocketed his phone and wiped his brow with a mustard-yellow handkerchief. ‘It’s going to be a long day,’ he said, ‘we’ll need inner strength to get through this.’
Soon they were pushing their way through the lunchtime crowd of their favourite watering hole. The pub in James Street was a popular soaking spot for a heavy cop clientele. Barry went to get their drinks and was still getting them by the time Wayne had completed two more phone calls. Given Barry’s propensity to stop and banter with every person at every table in passing, Wayne wondered just how cold the beer would be when it finally arrived.
Rule of thumb: a dead body will cool to the surrounding temperature at approximately one degree per hour. It stands to reason, therefore, that a cold beer will warm to its environment at the same rate. To kill time, Wayne reached for his pen and notebook and began scratching calculations.
‘Have you organised the artist for the composite sketch?’ Barry asked, interrupting Wayne’s train of thought. He sat down at the table and pushed a glass of beer towards his partner. Some of it slopped over the side and a pattern of foaming threads trickled onto the plastic table.
‘Yeah.’ Wayne slicked his fingers through the drips and made a point of rubbing them on his sleeve. ‘No wedges?’
‘They’re coming.’
Wayne took a gulp of beer and gazed around the room, checking out the patrons with the mug shots he’d lined up in his mind. This habit used to annoy the hell out of his wife, though her complaints about him never being off duty were usually accompanied by an understanding smile. The woman had put up with a lot.
Oh shit. A familiar face he did not wish to see. He slid further down his seat.
Noticing his reaction, Barry followed his gaze, squinting through the smoke haze. ‘Who’s that then?’
‘Tyrone Davis,’ Wayne said. ‘Before your time, probably. Stop staring. If he sees you he’ll see me, and be over here in a flash.’
‘What’s the problem?’
Wayne spoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Nothing, except the man’s a crystal-dicked fuckwit with about as much conscience as a box jellyfish.’
A pause. ‘You don’t like him?’
Wayne snorted.
‘Crossed swords, did you?’ Barry persisted.
‘No, not exactly, I just don’t like hanging out with bent coppers.’
‘Tye Davis, Tye Davis,’ Barry repeated. ‘The name’s familiar.’
‘He’s the guy who knocked Stevie up. They were shacked up for a while until she threw him out. She blew the whistle on him for taking bribes when he was in Vice. There was an enquiry, he was dismissed.’
Barry blew out his cheeks. ‘That would’ve taken guts.’
‘She’s a tough chick.’
‘Then how come you’re always stirring her pot?’ Barry took a long draught of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
Wayne sighed. ‘I stir the pot because she expects me to stir the pot. I don’t like to disappoint.’ He wagged a disapproving finger at Barry. ‘And you got too carried away today. Subtlety, son, you got to learn subtlety.’
‘You self-righteous prick.’
Wayne’s mouth twitched into his first smile in hours. ‘She’s a good cop, but she’d be even better if she’d let go of some of the energy she uses to hold that chip on her shoulder and put it into her work.’
A kick in the shin from Barry alerted him to Tye’s approach. Wayne’s first instinct was to leave, then his curiosity got the better of him; he’d hang around for a moment, see what Tye wanted.
Tye slopped a jug of beer onto their table. ‘I thought you boys looked thirsty,’ he said, even though Wayne and Barry’s glasses were still half full. He pulled up a chair and sat down. He was a cocky bastard, with looks that could have graced the cover of a romance novel—or so Wayne had been told. He wouldn’t know a romance novel if it bit him on the backside. People also said that Tye and Stevie had been a good-looking couple. Wayne had never put that much faith in appearances.
A barmaid placed a bowl of wedges in front of them. Tye gave her an appraising glance before turning back to Wayne. ‘So, how’re you doing? I thought you might’ve retired by now.’ He popped a steaming wedge into his mouth.