Spotting another little brown bottle sitting on a crowded shelf near the bath, next to an empty glass that had probably contained a toothbrush before Drew had packed up and left home, Ben reached across to pick the bottle up. It contained lots of tiny white tablets and bore a simple label that read NUX VOMICA 6X. Ben replaced it on the shelf, then as an afterthought picked it up again. As he did so, his sleeve caught the glass, which dropped off the shelf, hit the bottom of the bath and smashed.
‘Shit,’ Ben muttered.
He was picking up the bits of glass when he noticed the hair clogging up the bath’s plughole. He poked his fingers into the hole, pulled out a pinch of it and examined it. Drew Hunter was fair, like his son, and Ben had been told his hair was long and straggly. This was short and very dark, almost black. Definitely interesting. Ben carefully dropped some strands of it inside an evidence bag, sealed it and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Milk Thistle?’ the woman in the health food shop said some time later, peering through her thick spectacles at the bottle Ben was showing her. ‘Why yes, it’s very popular as a liver cleanser. A lot of customers come to buy it after Christmas and New Year, when they’ve been overindulging a little.’
‘You mean, in drink?’ Ben said, and the woman nodded. ‘Would it help for hangovers, things like that?’ he asked.
‘Also to help support internal organs after a period of abuse,’ she replied.
‘So an alcoholic might use it?’
‘If they were trying to detox themselves,’ she said. ‘Studies have been done that show how it can help regenerate the liver.
‘Sounds like I need some more of it for myself,’ he said dryly.
‘Or people on a crash diet, to help protect against the release of toxins.’
‘And what about this?’ He showed her the bottle of small white pills he’d found in Drew’s bathroom.
‘Nux Vom,’ she said, recognising it instantly. ‘Same idea, only this is homeopathic, not herbal.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Oh, it works, all right,’ she said. ‘Just ask my husband.’
Ben bought another lot of each by way of thanking her for her help, and left the shop thinking about what he’d learned. First, no booze anywhere to be found in Drew’s house. Now this. It looked as if the guy was pretty serious about cleaning himself up and purging the toxic effects of drink from his system.
As he walked up the street towards his car, checking the address for A Stitch in Time, Ben took out his phone and called Jessica at home. She answered on the second ring, as if she’d been hovering nearby waiting for a call.
‘What have you found out?’ she said breathlessly.
‘Was Drew seeing anyone recently?’ Ben asked.
Jessica sounded taken aback. ‘As in, a girlfriend?’
‘One with short hair, very dark brown or black.’
‘I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d have heard it through the grapevine. Who’d want him anyway, in the state he’s in half the time?’
‘What about friends who might have visited him?’
‘I really don’t know. Most of our friends stopped socialising with him when we broke up. Why are you asking?’
Ben told her about the hair in the bath. ‘But what does it mean?’ she said, sounding baffled.
‘I can’t be sure, of course. But I think he dyed his hair sometime not long before abducting Carl. And cut it, too. There were scissors in the bathroom cabinet. The blades were rusty, like they’d be if you used them to cut wet hair and put them away in a hurry.’
‘But his hair wasn’t short,’ she said. ‘It was long and straggly. I told you, I was shocked by his appearance. And you’ve seen the police sketch.’
‘My guess is that he’d already done the job on himself by then, to save time, and that he was wearing a wig,’ Ben said. ‘And I’d bet that he’s done the same for Carl, too, immediately after the snatch. Maybe at his place but more likely somewhere else, somewhere isolated and private, like a beach hut. Dyeing the boy’s hair wouldn’t have taken long, maybe forty minutes from start to finish.’
‘I can’t even imagine what he must look like with dark hair,’ Jessica said, sounding aghast.
‘Exactly. So it’s possible that they used the ferry after all. Drew’s hideout could have been somewhere en route from your house to the port, so they’d have had time to do the job and still make the last ferry, well before you and Mike got out of the cellar and raised the alarm. That’s how he managed to fool the cops when they reviewed the CCTV footage, because they only had your description of a fair-haired boy and a guy with straggly, sandy hair to go on.’
‘Oh, my god,’ she breathed. ‘That devious…’
‘I’ll drop by the house later and let you have the hair sample I collected, so you can pass it on to the cops for analysis. I won’t be surprised if it tests positive as Drew’s. He’s gone about this very cleverly, Jessica.’
A short drive across town, Ben found ‘A Stitch in Time’ down a little alleyway. The bell tinkled as he walked in. The shop was filled with racks and hangers of clothing. A dumpy woman scowled up from behind a sewing machine.
He handed her the little yellow ticket he’d found at Drew’s place. ‘Picking this up for my brother,’ he said.
She only had to look at the name on the ticket and put two and two together: Drew was all over the media and big talk on the island. But the blank look on her face told Ben that she’d either missed the news or didn’t care one way or the other. She browsed through a set of hangers, pulled one out and laid it on the counter. It was a navy blazer, alpaca wool, pricey-looking. The woman showed him where she’d replaced a button and fixed part of the lining, then stuffed the garment in a bag. Ben tumbled coins across the Formica.
‘I might need something repairing myself,’ he said casually. ‘Problem is, I’m going on holiday soon. How long does it take?’
She shrugged. ‘’Bout a week, normally, for a small job like this one.’
‘Great. Be seeing you, then.’
Back at the car, he slipped the blazer out of the bag and looked at it. It somehow didn’t look like the jacket of an overweight slob. Going by the description of Drew, it would have been impossibly tight on him.
Ben slipped off his own leather jacket and tried the blazer on for size. It wasn’t too baggy even on his lean frame. He felt in the pockets. In the left one he found a piece of fluff. In the right one, a crisp and new-looking business card.
The name on the card was Paul Finley, and he was co-partner in a private detective agency in Dover.
6
‘Finley and Reynolds Investigations.’
‘Can I speak to Mr Finley, please?’ Ben said to the agency receptionist as he drove. He was heading back to Jessica’s place, to give her the hair sample as he’d promised. The detective’s card lay next to him on the passenger seat.
There was a pause on the line. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ she replied. Ben noticed the edgy tone in her voice.
‘This is very important. When will he be available?’
‘He won’t. I’m afraid Mr Finley is no longer with us.’
‘I see. Do you have a number for him?’
‘He’s dead.’
Now it was Ben’s turn to pause at the unexpected news.
‘May I ask who’s calling?’ the receptionist asked.
‘My name’s Ben Hope. I was calling on behalf of a mutual client. Was Mr Finley ill?’
Her swallow was audible on the line. ‘Mr Finley was murdered.’
‘I’m extremely sorry to hear that. What happened?’
‘He was on his way back from London,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘Waiting for a train. These two thugs attacked him. Took his wallet, but obviously that wasn’t enough for them. It never is these days, is it?’ She sighed. ‘They stabbed him, twice in the chest. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived. Poor Mr Finley.’