‘What the hell does that mean?’
I held up the picture. ‘With the photograph.’
‘What about it?’
‘It must have been taken by someone Alex met after he disappeared, and the picture’s a Polaroid, which means that person probably handled it as it was develop—’
‘No.’
He’d second-guessed me.
‘I just need it checked for prints.’
‘Just need it? Just need it? You realize what you’re asking me to do? Get forensics involved, log it into the system, start a paper trail. What do you think would happen if people find out I’ve been pushing personal work through?’
‘I know it’s diff—’
‘I’m fucked, that’s what.’
‘Okay.’
‘No way. Forget it.’
‘I felt I should ask.’
‘No way,’ he said again.
But I could see the conflict in his face. The embers of Alex’s memory hadn’t died out yet. Something still burnt in him. And I still had a shot at getting the picture looked at.
12
As I travelled east, I could see sunlight up ahead, breaking through the clouds. But by the time I got to Mary’s, it was gone. Evening was moving in.
After she answered the door, I followed her through to the kitchen and then down a steep flight of stairs into the basement. It was huge, much bigger than I’d expected, but it was a mess as welclass="underline" boxes stacked ceiling-high like pillars in a foyer; pieces of wood and metal perched against the walls; an electrical box, covered in thick, opaque cobwebs.
‘I come down here sometimes,’ she said. ‘It’s quiet.’
I nodded that I understood.
‘Sorry about the mess.’
I smiled at her. ‘You want to see a mess, you should come to my place.’
Then, from upstairs: ‘Where am I?’
We looked at each other. It was Malcolm. Mary turned towards the stairs, then back to me. ‘I’m really sorry. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
After she was gone, I looked around the basement. On the other side, half-hidden behind boxes, was an old writing desk, an open photo album on it. Dusty. Worn. I walked over and turned some of the pages. A young Alex playing in the snow, paddling in the sea, eating ice cream on a pier. Later on, some of the pictures had fallen out, leaving only white blocks on faded yellow pages.
Right at the back was a photograph of Alex, Malcolm and Mary, and someone else. The guy was in his thirties, good-looking, smiling from ear to ear. He had one arm on Alex’s shoulder and one around Malcolm. Mary was out to the side of the shot, detached from the group. Most of the time you couldn’t read much into pictures: people put on smiles, put arms around those next to them, posed even if they didn’t want to. Pictures could paper over even the most significant of cracks. But this one said everything: Mary was the odd one out.
Quietly, she came down the stairs.
I turned to her and held up the photo. ‘Who’s this guy?’
‘Wow,’ she said, coming across the basement towards me. ‘I haven’t seen him in a while. I thought we’d managed to burn all the photographs of him.’ But she was smiling. She studied it for a while. ‘Al. Uncle Al. He was a friend of Malc’s.’
‘But not a friend of yours?’
She shrugged. ‘I think the feeling was mutual, to be honest. Al was a wealthy guy. We weren’t. He bought his way into their affection, and the only way I could counter that was by staying close to them. He wasn’t so keen to spend money on me.’
‘He wasn’t Alex’s real uncle?’
‘No. Malcolm used to work for him.’
‘So, is he still around?
‘No. He died in a car accident.’ She paused. ‘Just like Alex.’
I put the photo back into the album. ‘Did Alex ever go to church?’
‘Church?’ She frowned, as if the question had taken her by surprise. ‘Not at the end, no. But when he was younger he used to come to our church in town. He was part of the youth group there. He made some good friends.’
‘Anyone he kept in regular contact with?’
‘He was friendly with one guy there…’ She stopped. ‘I’m trying to remember his name. He used to lead worship, take the occasional service, that kind of thing. He went travelling for a while, and never came back to us. I think Alex still kept in touch with him though.’ She stopped a second time. ‘Gosh, I must be getting old.’
‘It’s probably worth following up, so if you remember him, drop me a line.’ I thought of the birthday card. ‘What about the name Angela Routledge — does that ring any bells?’
She thought about it, but it obviously didn’t. I hadn’t expected it to get me far. Angela Routledge was probably just an old woman raising funds for the church.
‘Well, I better be go—’
‘Mat,’ she said. ‘With one tee.’
I turned to look at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘I knew I’d remember it eventually.’ She smiled. ‘Alex’s friend from the church. His name was Mat.’
13
Before I went to sleep, I opened the case file containing the printouts Cary had given me and took out the DVD. I sat down, dropped it into the disc tray and pressed ‘Play’.
Taken with a hand-held video camera, the recording was shaky and disorientating to start with, but became steadier. The film began with some shots of the fields surrounding the crash site and the area the car had landed in. There was a dark, scarred trail left on the field. The grass was scorched. Something from the car — perhaps the exhaust box — was embedded in the mud. I was hoping whoever had taken the film might zoom in, but they didn’t.
Instead it cut to where the car had come off the road. There was petrol left on the tarmac. Smashed glass. The light wasn’t particularly good, and when I glanced at the timecode in the corner, I could see why. 17.42. Evening.
The film cut to the car itself.
The roof had collapsed. One door had come off, and the boot had disappeared, pushed into the back of the car. The engine was up inside the dashboard on the right-hand side. As the camera panned from left to right, I could see bits of windscreen glinting in the grass. The grille at the front of the Toyota had been tossed free and lay in front of the car, alongside shards of coloured plastic from the headlights. The film cut in closer and — with the aid of a light attachment — revealed the inside of the car. Everything was black, melted, burnt.
The film cut to a spot about twenty feet away. Scattered in the grass was debris that had been thrown free of the car: a burnt mobile phone; a shoe; a wallet, the tan leather charred. The wallet was open. Some of the contents had spilled out. Part of a blackened and melted driver’s licence, Alex’s face on it, sat in the grass.
Then the film finished.
I ejected the DVD and spread some of the paperwork out in front of me. The investigators were fairly certain the crash had been caused by Alex’s being drunk. There were some fuzzy photographs on one of the printouts, including a shot of the tyre marks on the road, and one of the lorry Alex’s car had hit. The lorry driver had escaped with only minor cuts and bruises. In his statement he said another car had overtaken Alex’s and then, about ten seconds later, the Toyota had drifted across to the wrong side of the road. A third photograph showed the Toyota from head on. The right side had sustained more damage than the left. It explained why, in the film, the engine seemed further back inside the car on the right. I skimmed through the crime scene analysis, and found a technician’s diagram of the crash trajectory.