Carol stood up and nodded. ‘After all, sir, we’re none of us indispensable.’
Ambrose had dropped Tony back at the house so he could pick up his car. ‘You’re not planning on going back there tonight?’ Ambrose asked as he unloaded Tony’s overnight bag from the boot. ‘Because if you are, you need to tell the estate agent to call you before she brings more people round.’
‘I won’t be there. I promise you won’t have to bail me out again.’
‘That’s good news.’ Ambrose popped a piece of chewing gum in his mouth and shook his head in a more genial way. ‘Not the best way to start the day. So, what’s your plans now?’
‘I’m going to find a quiet pub where I can sit in a corner with my laptop and write up my profile. I should have it with you late this afternoon. Then I’ll have something to eat, so hopefully I’ll miss the rush hour in Birmingham when I drive back to Bradfield. If that’s all right with you. Obviously, if there are issues with the profile that you need me to resolve, then I’ll stick around. If there’s one thing I’m pretty sure about with this killer, it’s that he’s going to do it again. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you stop that happening.’
‘You really think so?’
Tony sighed. ‘Once they get the taste for it, guys like this need the buzz.’
‘But when we were talking about him dumping the body so fast, didn’t we talk about him maybe doing that because it freaked him out - doing it for real?’ Ambrose leaned against the car, arms folded across his chest, a physical manifestation of his reluctance to accept that they were only at the beginning.
‘That was your suggestion, Alvin. And it was a good thought because it makes sense of the evidence. But my experience says that’s not how it goes. Even if it did freak him out, he’s still going to want to try again. Only this time he’ll want to make it better. So we need to operate like we’re working against the clock.’
Ambrose looked disgusted. ‘I tell you what. I’m glad I’m inside my head and not yours. I wouldn’t want to have all that stuff swilling around all the time.’
Tony shrugged. ‘You know what they say. Find what you’re good at and stick to it.’
Ambrose shrugged himself upright and extended his hand. ‘It’s been an interesting experience, working with you. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed it all, but I’ve been very interested in what you have to say about the killer. I’m intrigued at the prospect of working with my first profile.’
Tony smiled. ‘I hope it doesn’t disappoint. You’ve not seen me at my sparkling social best, it’s true. But if I’m honest, I should tell you that life around me does tend towards the bizarre.’ He pointed to his leg. ‘You might have noticed the limp, for example. That was, literally, a mad axeman. One minute I was sitting in my office reading a Parole Board brief; next thing I know, I’m confronting a man with a fire axe who thinks he’s harvesting souls for God.’ His expression was pained. ‘My colleagues seem to avoid these extreme situations. Somehow, I don’t.’
Looking uneasy, Ambrose started to head for the driver’s door. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.
Tony waved, then tossed his bag in the car. He hadn’t been entirely truthful with Ambrose. There would be a pub where he was going, but that wasn’t his primary destination. He’d collected more than one set of keys from Blythe’s solicitor. He knew absolutely nothing about boats, but apparently he was now the owner of a fifty-foot steel narrowboat called Steeler which came with its own mooring at the Diglis Marina. ‘Used to be the Diglis Canal Basin,’ the solicitor had said with distaste. ‘Complete with warehouses and Royal Worcester Porcelain. Now it’s got waterside apartments and light industrial and commercial units. The march of time, and all that. All that’s left of the way it used to be is the lock-keeper’s cottage and the Anchor Inn. You’ll like that. It’s a proper, old-fashioned boozer. Arthur was a regular there. They’ve got a traditional wooden Worcestershire skittle alley. He was in one of their league teams. Pop in there and introduce yourself. They’ll be pleased to see you.’
He’d save the pub for another day, he thought as he consulted the map and figured out how to get to the marina. Today he wanted to settle down in a corner of Blythe’s boat and write his profile. Maybe mooch around the boat, see if Arthur had left any clues to himself tucked away there.
He parked as close as he could get to the moorings, then spent ten minutes wandering around looking for the boat. Eventually he found her, tucked away at the far end of a row of similar craft. Steeler was painted in traditional bright green and scarlet, her name picked out in flowing gold and black. Four solar panels were fixed to the roof, tribute to Blythe’s ingenuity. So power wouldn’t be an issue, if he could figure out how to work the bloody thing.
Tony clambered aboard, his feet clattering on the metal deck. The hatch was secured with a couple of sturdy padlocks, whose keys the solicitor had cheerfully handed over. ‘Be good to see the boat properly looked after,’ he’d said. ‘Lovely example of the type. Arthur was a stalwart of all the rallies round the Midlands. He loved messing about on the water.’ That obviously wasn’t something transmitted in the genes. Tony had no affinity whatsoever for water or boats. He didn’t anticipate keeping Steeler for long, but now he’d come this far down the trail, he wanted to experience what Arthur had made of his other environment.
The hatch slid back smoothly, allowing him to open the double doors that led below. Tony climbed cautiously down the high steps and found himself in a compact galley, complete with microwave, kettle and stove. Moving forward, he emerged into the saloon. A buttoned leather banquette sat against one bulkhead, a table before it. A big leather swivel chair sat on the other side, arranged so it could face either the table or the TV and DVD player. In one corner stood a squat wood-burning stove. There were nifty little cupboards and shelving everywhere, making the maximum use of every inch of space. A door at the end led to a cabin containing a double bed and a wardrobe. The final door at the end took him into a compact bathroom, complete with toilet, washbasin and shower cubicle, all gleaming white tile and chrome. To his amazement, it smelled fresh and clean.
He wandered back to the saloon. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this rigid functionality. There was no personality here. Everything was so regimented, so neat and tidy. The effect the house had had on him was completely absent. In a way, that was a relief. There would be nothing to distract him from the profile he had to write. And there would be nothing to deter him from selling it in due course.
In spite of his general cack-handedness, Tony found it pretty straightforward to work out how to access the electricity. Soon, he had the lights on, and power to his laptop. No question, it made a great little office. All it lacked was wireless. For a wild moment, he considered driving the boat through the canal network to Bradfield and using it as an office. Then he considered the books and realised it was impossible. Not to mention the sort of thing that would send the likes of Alvin Ambrose running for the hills. The thought of how many things could go wrong between Worcester and Bradfield was truly terrifying. He’d settle for an afternoon’s work and then send her off to the broker. Did narrowboats have brokers? Or was it an informal network where deals were done over a game of skittles?
‘Get a grip,’ Tony said aloud, booting up the laptop. He loaded his standard opening paragraphs:
The following offender profile is for guidance only and shouldn’t be regarded as an identikit portrait. The offender is unlikely to match the profile in every detail, though I would expect there to be a high degree of congruence between the characteristics outlined below and the reality. All of the statements in the profile express probabilities and possibilities, not hard facts.