Helen Hibbert’s eyes narrowed. Became beady, shrewd. She stared at Jessie as if her words were about to make her lose money. ‘What d’you mean? He had cancer.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Jessie. ‘But that didn’t kill him. He was murdered.’
She watched the woman, registering, recording her reactions. Helen Hibbert seemed genuinely shocked. Appalled, even. Jessie tried to read all the conflicting emotions that ran across the woman’s eyes. She couldn’t find empathy.
‘Did … What happened?’
‘An intruder, as far as we can see,’ said Deepak, leaning forward. ‘Perhaps he didn’t expect to find anyone in. Perhaps … ’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps they struggled. Jeff lost. We don’t know. Yet.’
‘Is there anything you can tell us, Mrs Hibbert?’
‘Like what?’
‘Did he have any enemies? Was he in debt? Did he owe money? Would someone have robbed him, killed him, over money?’
‘He was robbed?’
Deepak again. ‘We think robbery may have been the motive.’
‘What did they take?’
‘We’re not sure,’ said Jessie. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could give us an inventory of his belongings.’
‘I don’t know what he had.’
‘A laptop, for instance?’
Helen Hibbert’s eyes narrowed once more. Something was going on there, but Jessie couldn’t work out what.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I have no idea.’
Jessie and Deepak shared a look. Jessie tried again. ‘Did he … ’ They heard a sound from another room. Jessie looked quizzically at Helen Hibbert. ‘Someone else here?’
‘A friend,’ she said, eyes darting to the door. ‘Been staying over.’ She stood up. ‘I think I’ve answered enough questions for one day. This has been very traumatic for me. Please leave now.’
Jessie tried to talk to her again, but the shutters had come down.
Outside on the pavement, with gulls wheeling about in the fresh spring air, Jessie stared up at the flat.
‘I hate being lied to,’ she said. ‘And we were being lied to. Question is, about what, and why?’
Deepak nodded. ‘That’s two questions, technically.’
‘Pedant.’ She turned to him. ‘Anyway, I owe you lunch. Well done.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Non-prejudicial profiling. Works well.’
He walked towards the car, a smile emerging on his face. ‘And I saw a photo of her in his wallet.’
‘You bastard … ’ Jessie followed. Smiling.
33
Helen Hibbert stared out of the window, watching the two police officers walk away down the quay.
‘Oh shit … ’
She felt hands on her shoulders. Warm fingers circling, smoothing over her muscles.
‘Fuck off, Glen.’
The movement stopped abruptly.
‘Can’t I soothe you? Make it all better?’ asked a man’s voice in what he probably assumed was a low, sexy growl but which actually sounded more like inflamed tonsils.
‘Not now. I’ve got to … to think.’
She felt her bought-and-paid-for man stepping away from her. She kept her eyes on the two police officers as they reached their car and drove away.
So they got him, she thought. They actually did it. She knew what had happened. Jeff must have tried his blackmail scheme and it backfired. Terminally. She took another sip of her drink. Where did that leave her? She knew just as much as Jeff had about what the Sloanes had done. Would they come after her next? She took another drink. If they did, then that was it. She would end up just like Jeff. But if she pre-empted them … A plan began to form.
The two police officers had disappeared. Her glass was empty. Glen reappeared behind her. She turned. He really was good-looking, she’d give him that. Talented and endowed. But expendable. There were plenty more where he had come from.
‘I’ve got to go out, darling. Wait for me.’
He would. As long as she was paying him.
34
Michael Sloane stared at the laptop’s screen and willed its secrets to appear before him. He punched more keys. Waited. Nothing.
He stretched and looked round. Dee was silent, which wasn’t unusual. He knew where she would be, who with and what she would be trying to do. And he had a good idea how far she would get, too.
He didn’t mind her playing her games. Took part in them, even, encouraged them, like their psychiatrist had told him to do. It kept her grounded. Happy. And, if he was honest, he enjoyed them too.
Michael put it all out of his mind and concentrated on the laptop. His keyboard skills were good; usually his fingers just glided. But on this laptop, it wasn’t easy. The keyboard was old, the letters kept sticking. He made mistakes. And when he made mistakes, he got angry with himself. And that wouldn’t do at all.
So he controlled the anger, accepted that it wasn’t his fault and kept working. It was on here somewhere. It had to be. Locations, intentions, plans. How they were going to attack, when and where. Everything. All he had to do was find where Hibbert had hidden it.
He hit another key. It stuck. Blocked him entry to where he had been going.
He sat back, about to shout at the screen, but caught himself. No. This wasn’t working. He had to change his approach.
He closed his eyes.
What would I do, where would I hide something, if I was Jeff Hibbert?
He thought himself into Hibbert’s head. What did he like? What were his interests? His ex-wife. Everyone knew that. He could bore for England talking about her.
He opened his eyes. Photos. That was it. He checked the hard drive. And there they were. He opened them. Smiled. Helen Hibbert in various stages of undress, sometimes on her own, sometimes with various partners, often more than one. Sloane laughed.
Dirty bastard …
He scrutinised the photos, checked the files they were in. Kept scrolling through.
And found the folder he was looking for.
He sat back, reading. Once he had finished, he smiled. How obvious …
He reached for his phone. It was easier to phone rather than shout. Dee answered.
‘The Golem’s with you.’ A statement, not a question.
Dee said nothing.
‘Tell him I’ve got a job for him.’ He looked at the laptop. ‘Tell him he’s going hunting.’
35
Marina stood on the beach at Wrabness, reading the email. Now she knew why she had been sent here. And it wasn’t the reason she had first thought.
Stuart Sloane. Somehow this was all connected to Stuart Sloane.
She walked upriver along the beach, putting the dilapidated farmhouse behind her. The trees were thickening, blocking out the sunlight as she went. The beach huts were set back from what passed for sand, up on stilts, accessible only by wooden steps. Most of them looked occupied, people there for Easter. Some seemed to have permanent occupants. Marina thought it a curious place for a holiday, and certainly to live. But then the place was forever tainted for her.
This is everything you need to know, the email had said. Read it.
As she walked, she worked through in her mind what she had just read.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy called Stuart Milton. Stuart was different. He was special. He had learning difficulties. He was socially awkward, missed the cues other kids didn’t, was out of step with the other kids by at least one beat. But a good kid. A nice kid.
A harmless kid.
He had never known his father, who had left when Stuart was very young. His mother, Maureen Milton, had taken any job that came along, anything to feed herself and her son. She ended up working for the Sloanes, a local landowning family. They, as the brochure said, ‘had farming concerns, and were the producers and harvesters of most of the seafood from the area, particularly cockles, mussels and oysters’. Maureen worked in their house, cleaning and serving. She did work hard, we’ll give her that. And she made herself popular with most people. One in particular.