‘You know as much as I do,’ Henry pointed out. ‘Photos on a computer of a woman wearing a necklace similar to one found on the body of a woman who was murdered. I’m sure there’s more than one woman with a necklace like that.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence, Henry.’
‘Me neither. And the necklace is supposed to be unique.’
‘So go on, hypothesize — or guess.’
He had been standing by the window, watching the rain that had started to lash mercilessly down. He moved to sit on the public side of the desk.
‘First assumption is that they are photos Eddie took and downloaded and that they were from a job he was working on.’
‘And the woman was subsequently murdered?’
Before following Angela to her office, Henry had taken a minute to jot down the dates on the computer. ‘According to the details on the PC, the website of the health centre was initially accessed three days before the dates the digital photos were taken — bearing in mind the dates on the photos could be manipulated.’ Angela nodded. ‘And the date that the body was discovered was one day after those photos were taken.’ Angela gave a twitchy gesture of her shoulders and hands, urging him to carry on. ‘So, if we suppose those computer dates are right, then it looks like Eddie may have had something to do with, or knew something about, her murder.’
‘Aren’t we jumping ahead of ourselves, slightly?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We don’t yet know if the woman in the photo is one and the same as the dead woman.’
‘True, and that needs to be established first, I’d say.’
‘How do you propose to do that?’
‘The Smoke.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Wouldn’t a phone call suffice?’
‘I like the personal touch.’
‘Damn!’
‘What?’
‘I can’t go — Police Authority meeting. Can’t get out of it.’
‘I’ll go alone,’ he said, never having even considered that she would have gone down to London with him. ‘I’ll get Graeme to cover the post-mortems of Jackie and Langmead. He’ll be fine with that.’
‘You think this could be connected with Eddie’s death?’
‘Who knows? What I need to do is capture all this and start making some policy decisions … the first one being to establish whether or not this Dr Ismat is alive and kicking. If she is, then it’s going nowhere and it all means nothing and everything swivels back to Darren Langmead, I guess.’
Angela leaned her chin on a hand and gazed at Henry. ‘You’re the first man I’ve been with since my divorce … it was lovely, and risky. Hell of a combination.’
She leaned back, reverting to business, not giving Henry a chance to respond. ‘If this woman in the photos turns out to be the dead one, Dave Anger will have to be informed, you know.’
‘Let’s establish facts, first. It would be quite nice to hand it on a platter to him.’
‘Last laugh?’
‘I’m morally above that sort of thing.’
‘But morally bankrupt in all other areas?’
‘Probably,’ he said dubiously, and the thought rocked him.
6.15 p.m.: Preston railway station, about halfway down the west coast line between Glasgow and London Euston. A bitter wind blew down the tracks and swept along platform 4, making Henry shudder. He checked his watch, then the departure screen — his train was due to leave at 6.45 p.m. and was expected to be on time — then looked towards the station entrance.
‘Come on, love,’ he urged. ‘Ahh!’
He had spotted Kate hurrying across the footbridge spanning the platforms at the northern side of the station. He dashed up the pedestrian incline to greet her. She was loaded down with luggage. He pecked her cheek.
Over her left arm she had a zip-up suit carrier and she was pulling along a wheeled holdall, which Henry recognized as belonging to his youngest daughter, Leanne. Perched on top of the holdall, resting against the retractable handle, was a plastic carrier bag.
‘Hiya, sweetheart. Traffic was horrendous,’ Kate said, clearly flustered. She had been put under pressure by Henry’s request to get him some gear together and get across from Blackpool to Preston in time for his train. She took a deep breath and handed him the suit carrier. ‘Fresh suit, shirt and tie.’
‘Thanks.’
He took it and the holdall.
‘In there is a change of clothes for now — or whenever: jeans, T-shirt, socks, trainers and undies. Obviously I had difficulty packing the undies cos they’re so huge.’ She laughed and then gave him the carrier bag. ‘In here is your leather jacket, wash bag and the book you’ve been reading, which I thought you might want for the train.’
‘Great,’ he said, swallowing back a bitter taste of guilt.
‘I’ve only got twenty mins on the car park for free,’ she told him.
‘In that case, I’ll get changed on the train. Fancy a quick coffee?’
He was travelling business class at the expense of the firm, guaranteeing him a decent seat, waiter service and a bit of comfort as the Pendolino train whistled through the countryside, leaning on the curves. He sat back and tried to enjoy the journey, but his mind was awash with thoughts and feelings.
His stupid escapade with Angela Cranlow was high on the agenda. Then the barefaced cheek at having phoned Kate to ask her to rush and bring his stuff over to Preston and realizing that she did it without a moment of hesitation, murmur of dissent or a moan. She just did it because she loved him and nothing was too much trouble. She would have travelled to the ends of the earth for him. Just because she loved him.
He tried to get his head into the book she had thoughtfully brought along for him, a Simon Clark novel, but he couldn’t hold his mind to it.
It might not have been one of the world’s greatest partings, but he was unable to snap the picture out of his mind of Kate waving from the platform as he boarded the train and leaned out of the window as it drew out of the station.
‘Bastard,’ he said to himself, knowing for certain that the liaison between him and Angela had gone as far as it was going. His problem was he always went back for more, always fell in love. This time had to be different.
He ordered another free scotch and lemonade from a passing steward. He had declined the meal, which had not sounded appetizing, but had decided to avail himself of the free alcohol instead.
By Crewe he was on his third whisky, feeling warm and comfortable.
He would find somewhere to eat in London. Maybe even get room service at the hotel he’d been booked into by Angela’s secretary. He closed the book, then closed his eyes, knowing that if he fell asleep it would be impossible to miss his station, which was at the end of the line.
The hotel, often used by cops visiting London on business and one which Henry had stayed at a few times before, was the Jolly St Ermin on Caxton Street, around the corner from New Scotland Yard. It was a big, old, comfortable place, now owned by an Italian chain but nonetheless good, though not particularly cheap.
By the time the taxi dropped him off, he was wide awake again. After registering and then dropping his luggage off in his room and getting changed, it was just after ten and although his appetite had now deserted him, his desire for drink had not; he decided on a short walk to a half-decent pub.
He left the hotel and sauntered up to Victoria Street, strolling along until he found something that took his fancy. He rolled into a pub called the Bag o’ Nails about ten minutes later and went straight for a pint of London Pride, which hardly touched the sides.
In a seat by the window he watched a bit of London life go by, which wasn’t all that much different to Blackpool life, he guessed. After another pint and a bag of crisps, he stepped out to find that the bad weather from the north had tracked him.
Hunching down into his leather jacket he hurried back along Victoria Street, the rain increasing from a heavy downpour to a torrential tropical storm, completely drenching him within seconds. It hammered down like rods of steel, even hurt his head, and he knew he was in for a first-class soaking.