Now, he pursued them through the night streets, careful to keep well back. He smiled to himself. His caution was a waste of time, really. The stupid fools didn’t have a clue. When they turned into a gateway, he stopped in his tracks, pretending to tie his shoelace. Then he continued down the street, glancing to one side as he passed the house they’d gone into. He couldn’t help a spasm of jealous anger as he took in its elegant proportions. If he had his way, Kit Martin wouldn’t be enjoying his smug and cosy life for much longer. He had plans to make things much less comfortable for Mr. bloody Martin.
They arrived to find Fiona in the kitchen finishing the pen he puttanesca that Kit had left for her. “You’re back early,” she said.
“We thought we’d try and catch you with your secret lover,” Steve teased.
Fiona poked her tongue out at him. “Too late. She’s just left.”
“The Paddies invaded the pub,” Kit said. “You know how I hate that bloody bogus bogtrotter music.” He snagged two bottles of Sam Smith’s Organic Bitter from the drinks cupboard. “So we thought we’d come back and spoil your evening.”
“You’re too late for that as well. Salvador Berrocal called earlier to tell me there’s been another body in Toledo, so I’ve been ploughing through Spanish scene-of-crime reports and entering data on the computer instead of indulging myself with a long hot bath.”
Kit pulled a face. “Bummer,” he said.
“How was the gig?” Fiona asked.
“Not a bad turnout, considering I didn’t have a new book to promote. Sold a fair few books and signed every bit of stock I could lay hands on.”
“He’s being modest again, He had them in the palm of his hand. They loved him. All the women wanted to take him home and all the blokes wanted to take him for a pint,” Steve said as he sat down opposite her.
“And you two got to be the lucky ones,” Kit said. “Somewhere in your youth, or childhood…”
“We must have done something ferociously wicked,” Fiona responded. “How’s things with you, Steve?”
He made a gesture with the flat of his hand to indicate, so-so. “We got a lucky break on a serious racist attack down in Brick Lane, three lads in custody and one of them singing like a diva. That’s about the best of it. Blake hasn’t come back from Spain, but we’ve had a look through his finances and there’s nothing to indicate any blackmail proceeds. The only large payment into his account is the money he made from selling his story to the papers. He took a chunk of that out in cash, which is presumably what he’s spending in Spain.”
“Scumbag tabloids. Makes you sick,” Kit commented.
Fiona sighed. “He’s technically an innocent man. There’s nothing to stop them paying him.”
“He’s not innocent if he watched Susan Blanchard get killed and said nothing,” Kit protested.
“We don’t know that, though. It’s only my theory,” she reminded him.
Seeing she’d pushed her plate away, Steve took out a cigar and lit up. “I did take my own advice about a second trawl through the eyewitnesses, however.”
“Any joy?” Fiona asked.
“Well, it’s early days yet, but there might be something. I read through the original statements again, and I noticed that one person mentioned seeing a cyclist coming from that general direction. She was walking her dog, and she remembered this cyclist because he was going much faster than people on bikes generally do on the Heath. We didn’t follow it up at the time because Blake emerged as such a strong suspect so soon.”
Fiona frowned. “You know, I remember making a note of that when I was on the case officially. I think I might even have mentioned it in my preliminary report,” she said thoughtfully.
“So have you interviewed her again?” Kit asked.
“I went to see her personally,” Steve admitted. He held his hands up as if to stem a protest from Fiona. “I know it’s pathetic, a detective of my rank going out and taking witness statements, and I know I should be able to delegate, but if we screw up again and I’m left carrying the can, at least this time it’ll be my can.”
“What did she have to say?” Fiona asked.
“She didn’t have a lot to add. Her walk had already taken her past the shrubbery where the murder took place, and she’s still racked with guilt because she was wearing a Walkman. She’s convinced that if she hadn’t been listening to the Mozart Requiem, she’d have heard something and been able to raise the alarm. Anyway, about ten minutes later, a bike came up behind her and raced past. She took notice partly because cycling isn’t really permitted on that part of the Heath at that time of the day, although some people ignore the rules. But mostly she remembered him because of his speed. He was going like the clappers, she said.”
Fiona sighed. “Not much chance of a decent description, then.”
Steve shook his head. “I’m afraid not. She only saw him from behind and she doesn’t know anything about bikes so we don’t know whether it was a racing bike or a mountain bike. She remembers he was wearing a helmet and proper lycra cycling gear. Black trousers, she thinks, and a dark top. Maybe purple or dark-blue or even maroon.”
“Like that narrows it down,” Kit said.
“However…” Steve held up one finger and smiled. “She has agreed to be hypnotized to see if there’s anything else lurking in her subconscious about this cyclist. And, when we reinterviewed the other witnesses who came forward and asked specifically if they’d seen anyone cycling that morning, we got one other hit. A nanny was sitting on a bench at the bottom of the hill when he went past her. She said he was going so fast she thought he wouldn’t be able to make it round the bend, but he cleared it and headed for the exit on to Heath Road.”
“How come you didn’t pick that up first time round?” Kit asked, never reluctant to put Steve on the spot in spite of their friendship.
Steve looked embarrassed. “She’s Filipino. Her English is pretty good, but it isn’t her first language. When we spoke to her before, we didn’t have an interpreter. The DC who did the preliminary interview decided she had nothing useful to tell us, so he didn’t bother setting up a second interview with an interpreter. This time, we did it properly.”
“And did you get some useful product?” Fiona asked.
Steve took a long pull from his bottle of beer and nodded. “Sort of. She reckons he was wearing goggles and a helmet and a dark outfit. She thought it was a mountain bike. She reckoned it looked like the one her employer has. We’ve identified the make and model, though of course she might be wrong about that.”
“That’s pretty good recollection after all this time,” Fiona said thoughtfully. “How much prompting did it take?”
“Almost none,” Steve said with a hint of bitterness. “As soon as she was asked about a cyclist, she started nodding and got quite excited. She said she’d tried to tell the policeman who came before, but once he’d established she hadn’t seen Blake, he’d lost interest. In our defence, I have to say we didn’t get her on the first appeal for witnesses. It was about ten days or so later that she came forward. Her employers had been away the week of the murder and she was nervous about coming to the police without their permission. So by the time she made herself known to us, Blake was already our prime suspect.”
“Not much of a defence,” Kit commented. “And you have the nerve to get pissed off when I put the occasional dozy detective in my books. So where do you go from here?”