‘If you did find a tenant,’ he says, ‘I suppose the rent would be quite low.’
*
Tim comes back from the forensic data recovery company full of news. This is another private company, much used by the police and much resented by Sandy. After his last visit (when Sandy asked one of the analysts, ‘Do you do this because you can’t get a girlfriend?’) it has been tacitly agreed that Tim should handle communication with the outfit. Today’s visit seems to have been a success. Tim is not a demonstrative person but he is positively beaming as he looks round the door of his boss’s office.
‘Glad someone’s got something to smile about,’ says Sandy.
‘They’ve tracked down the University Pals website,’ says Tim. ‘You know, the emails that were sent to Ruth Galloway and Dan Golding.’
‘Well? Don’t keep us in suspense. Who sent them?’
‘Clayton Henry.’
Sandy whistles. ‘Did he now? Why, I wonder?’
‘Could just have been fishing in the dark,’ says Tim. ‘Pardon the pun.’ Sandy looks blank and Tim wonders if he has forgotten the whole phishing/fishing conversation. He hasn’t; he just thinks that Tim is being a tosser.
‘What I mean,’ says Tim hastily, ‘is that Clayton might have known that he would need Ruth Galloway’s identity at some later point, to find information about the bones. He could just have been trying to see what he could pick up.’
‘But how did he know that Golding had contacted Galloway in the first place?’
Tim shrugs. ‘He must known that they were at university together. It wouldn’t be difficult to work out if he knew where and when Golding was at university. And he would have known all that from the University Pals information.’
‘He must have known there was something unusual about the bones,’ says Sandy, ‘something Golding hadn’t told him.’
‘Do you think that Henry switched the bones?’ asks Tim. ‘With Terry Durkin’s help?’
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ muses Sandy. ‘Why get Dr Galloway up here if he’d removed the original bones? He must have known that she’d spot the switch. She’s the expert, after all. And without the bones he wouldn’t have his big story. No chance of making megabucks and getting himself out of shit creek.’
‘Then who did switch them?’ says Tim. ‘And where are they now?’
‘Don’t know,’ says Sandy. ‘But Clayton Henry’s afraid of someone, and if we find out who my guess is we’ve got our killer.’
‘You don’t think it’s Henry himself then?’
‘I had his wife in just now.’
‘Pippa? Really? What did she want?’
‘To tell me about her affair with Golding. How it wasn’t really her fault because she’s had a hard life.’
‘And has she had a hard life?’
‘Well her first husband turned out to be gay.’
Tim often wonders if Sandy thinks he’s gay because he wears aftershave and plays tennis. But his boss’s face is inscrutable.
‘That surprises me,’ he says.
‘Does it?’ says Sandy. ‘It doesn’t me. Do you remember when we looked at the ex-Pendle students arrested for racist or homophobic behaviour?’
‘Yes,’ says Tim, though he clearly doesn’t remember them as well as Sandy.
‘Do you remember the woman? Philippa Moore? Arrested for using offensive language at a gay rights march.’
‘Philippa … Pippa … do you think that was her?’
‘Oh, it was her, all right. I’ve been looking her up. She’s written a few letters to papers complaining about gay men who marry innocent young girls and then desert them.’
Tim doesn’t know what surprises him more. That Sandy has actually been using the internet to research the activities of Pippa Henry or that the stylish woman he remembers from the windmill obviously still holds a grudge about something that must have happened ten or fifteen years ago. And if she holds a grudge about that, what might she think about a lover who abandoned her, for example?
‘Was it serious between her and Golding?’ he asks. ‘She’s hardly mentioned in the diaries.’
‘She says she was in love with him. It was more mental than physical apparently.’
Tim, like Sandy before him, looks sceptical. ‘Do you think she could have killed Golding? Maybe he’d tried to finish the affair. We know she doesn’t take rejection well.’
‘It’s possible,’ says Sandy. ‘Her only alibi is her husband and there are all sorts of reasons why he might back her up. Maybe they were even in it together. I’ve seen stranger things. They could have planned it together to teach him a lesson. And there’s the next-door neighbour too.’
‘Elaine Morgan?’
‘According to Pippa, she was wild about Golding. Used to turn up on his doorstep offering him her body.’
‘Makes a change from double glazing.’
‘My thoughts exactly. We know that Elaine Morgan has a drink problem. She’s not exactly a stable personality.’
‘And her only alibi’s her housemate.’
‘Yes, and God knows what their relationship is. The whole lot of them seem to be at it like rabbits.’
There is a silence, during which Tim’s stomach gives a thunderous rumble. He looks at the clock over Sandy’s desk. It’s one o’clock. He was up at six to go to the gym and he’s starving.
‘Fancy some lunch, boss?’ he says. ‘They’ve got chips in the canteen.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ says Sandy. ‘I’m meeting someone.’
*
Nelson had been surprised when Sandy had suggested that they meet for lunch. The very word ‘lunch’ has a soft, southern sound that he doesn’t associate with Sandy. A pint, yes. Tea, perhaps. But lunch? No. Lunch is for city types in striped shirts or women with too much time on their hands, not for jaded policemen with murder cases to solve. But his surprise doesn’t stop him accepting Sandy’s invitation. He’s getting slightly bored with visiting garden centres and he’s keen to know more about the case. As far as he’s concerned, someone is threatening his child, which makes it his business.
Sandy named a pub near the station. ‘It’s about the only place these days where they don’t do bloody karaoke,’ he said on the phone. When Nelson arrives, Sandy is already there, nursing a pint. He can see why the boozer appeals to Sandy. It’s a dour little place, dedicated to drinking, with very few concessions to modern life. There’s a TV showing the racing, that’s it. No karaoke, no cappuccino, no gastro menu. Food choice consists of a butty or a pie. Nelson chooses a pie.
‘This your local?’ he asks.
Sandy grunts. ‘Don’t have locals any more. Pubs used to be places where men could escape. Now they’re full of children and hen parties.’
The clientele of this pub consists of three old men and a greyhound. The dog, who wags his tail at Nelson, might well be the only one who is still alive. Nelson sympathises with Sandy over the karaoke but he’s never really wanted to escape from women. He gets on well with men, he couldn’t survive in the force otherwise, but he likes the company of women. Maybe it comes from having two older sisters. Maybe it’s because, for the last nineteen years, he’s been outnumbered three-to-one in his own household.
‘When are you going back to Norfolk?’ asks Sandy.
‘Next week.’
‘Sorry to leave?’
Nelson pauses, looking into his pint. Will he be sorry to leave Blackpool? He’ll be glad to put some distance between himself and Maureen, much as he loves her. It’ll be grand to see the girls again. They’re both coming home for a few weeks before term starts in September. It’s not that he’s longing for Norfolk exactly. It’s just that, like it or not, it’s home. Jesus. How did that happen?
‘I’m always sorry to leave,’ he says at last. ‘But I’m not much cop at holidays.’
‘Me neither,’ says Sandy. ‘Went to Disneyland once. Shortened my life. I’m not a fan of heights. Dangling upside down in mid air isn’t my idea of fun.’