‘The guest towels are the least of your worries. It’s like happy hour at Wetherspoon’s.’
Jason stood for a moment, his legs in their skinny jeans doing a little panicked dance. He was drenched with cider. ‘Is it that bad?’ He put his hands up to his face, gave her a look like that Munch painting you saw everywhere. The Scream. Horrified. Truly horrified. ‘What am I going to do? I didn’t ask them. I didn’t.’
‘Do you want me to scatter them? Make them run away in twenty different directions?’
‘Can you?’
She shrugged. ‘Only if you want me to.’
‘Can I stay here? Can I put the lock on the door and stay here?’
‘If you want.’
‘Then yes. Do it.’
Zoë hoisted up her trousers, tightened the belt a notch and felt in her pocket for her warrant card. ‘Are you ready to close the door?’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Then here goes.’
God knew, Zoë had cleared enough rooms in her life, and on a scale of one to ten the bikers rated pretty low. They didn’t exactly scatter to the four winds, hands over their faces in shame, but at least they didn’t jump up and get in her face, poke fingers at her, like some people did. The bikers were old hands at this: they knew how far the craic could go and when to back off. So when she walked round the house unplugging lights and CD players, dropping the place into silence, yelling, ‘Police,’ at the top of her voice, the bikers did the right thing. They picked up their lids, gloves and tobacco tins and slouched, grumbling, to the door. She stood on the driveway and watched them, talking politely to them – even helped one to get his sluggish chopper going.
When she went back inside Jason was sitting on the stairs. He’d stripped off his wet jeans and was wrapped in a fluffy white bath sheet. With the goosebumps on his bare legs and the way the towel peaked in a cowl above his head, he looked as wretched as a refugee. His eyes were like holes in his face. She had to stop herself sitting down and putting an arm round his shoulders.
‘You OK?’
‘You never said you were police.’
‘Because I’m not. I’m a veterinary nurse.’
‘A veterinary …’ He shut his mouth hard with a clunk of his teeth. Frowned. ‘But how did you make them think you …’
‘Showed them my driver’s licence. Said it was police ID.’
‘What? And they believed it?’
‘Yup.’ She pulled her licence out of her wallet and waved it in front of his face so fast he couldn’t read the name. ‘You’d be amazed what people will fall for. Just got to style it right.’
Jason gulped and put his hands to his temples. ‘Christ. This is all going so fast.’
‘I know. Have you seen the mess?’
‘I am so not going to survive this. What’m I going to do?’
‘You’re going to have a cup of coffee. It won’t make you less drunk, but it might wake you up a bit. We’re going to clean the place up.’ She helped him down the stairs, one hand under his elbow. Once or twice he lost his balance and nearly dropped the towel. She got glimpses of his pale body, the sparse hair, underneath, his old-fashioned lilac underpants, with a damp patch on the crotch. She got him downstairs, wedged him upright on a chair just inside the kitchen doorway and switched the kettle on.
She went back past him to the hall and tried the door of the study. ‘No one been in here?’
‘Eh? I dunno. I hope not.’
‘I can’t tell. It’s locked.’
‘No. It’s just stiff. Give it a boot.’
She blinked at him, then let out a laugh. A slow, huffing laugh of disbelief.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. The door had been open all the time – she could have walked straight in this afternoon and not gone to all this trouble. ‘Believe me. It’s nothing.’
She put a shoulder against the door, turned the handle three hundred and sixty degrees, and hefted all her weight into it. The door gave a clunk, then swung open. Everything was there – the banker’s lamp on the desk, the leather armchair and footstool. The files. ‘You just about got away with that one. No casualties in there – or nothing serious.’ She came out and drew the door towards her, leaving it slightly ajar. ‘Tell you what – are you sure you want that coffee? You look like you should just lie down. I’ll do the rest. You helped me earlier.’
Jason nodded numbly. He let her lead him into the living room and settle him on the sofa. She found some coats hanging in the cloakroom and piled them on top of him. ‘And if you’re going to be sick, don’t make it any worse for yourself – at least get yourself to the toilet.’
‘I’m not going to be sick. I’m just tired.’
‘Then sleep.’ She stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the wall and watched him for a while. The french windows faced east, and before long the room was filled with pink first light. Like someone igniting a bonfire out in the garden. It didn’t disturb Jason. He closed his eyes and within seconds was breathing low and hard. ‘Suppose you won’t be needing the coffee, then.’ She waited another five minutes to be sure, then, very quietly, moved down the corridor, picking up a couple of beer cans as she went.
The study was the only place people hadn’t been smoking. She propped the door open, so the smell could permeate from the hallway, dropped a couple of the cans on the desk, pushed the armchair to one side and scuffed the rug so it would look as if the bikers had been in there. Then she began to sift through the files. There were whole boxes devoted to Jason’s schooling – he’d gone to St Paul’s and the invoices were eye-watering. She wondered if Julian was still paying Millie’s fees at Kingsmead. Report cards, sports-day cards, uniform lists and details of overseas school trips were all tucked together. Whatever unpleasantness Mooney had inflicted on the women of Priština, he did at least love his son. Or, rather, he had ambitions for him. In other boxes she found details of pension plans, with the MoD and a private company, mortgage papers, rental papers on a property the Mooneys seemed to own in Salamanca. There were medical reports and details of a legal case relating to a car accident Mrs Mooney had had in 2005. His bank statements were there. Zoë took them to the armchair and sat down with them, began to sift through them.
Over the impossibly expensive tiles of the next-door roof the sky was brightening by the minute, one or two clouds, still with their grey night pelts on them, hanging above the chimney pots. As she worked it grew lighter and lighter, until the sun found its way into the gap between the houses, and crept through the leaded window into the study. She searched the accounts for almost an hour and found nothing. Her heart was sinking. After all this, the answer wasn’t here. Zhang and Watling had been right: if Mooney had paid someone to drop Goldrab, he’d brushed the ground clean behind him with his tail. She rested her chin in her hands and stared blankly at the photos on the wall. Pictures of Mr and Mrs Mooney holding hands in front of the Taj Mahal. One of Mooney shaking hands with someone she thought was high up in the US government – Alan Greenspan or someone. Krugerrands, she wondered. Who the hell in the West Country would take Krugerrands and know what to do with them? You’d have to go to one of those bloody horrible streets in Bristol or Birmingham. Going round those with a warrant card in her hand would be a nightmare. Impossible—
Something in one of the photos struck her. She pushed the chair back and went to the picture. It showed Dominic Mooney, wearing a standard Barbour and green Hunters. A Holland and Holland shotgun, the breech cracked open, dangled from one hand. He was smiling into the camera. Behind him a snatch of horizon was visible, a distinctive shape black against the blue of the sky. The Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill. And in his hand, which was lifted to the camera, a brace of pheasants.