She picked it up and held it closer to her face. Can’t be much more than eighteen, Divine thought, eyesight should be better than that.
“I think so,” she said.
“He comes here?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, you’re pretty,” Divine said.
She gave him a look that would have stopped a ferret at fifty feet.
“What, then?” Divine carried on, undeterred. If you never gave it a go, you never knew. “He use the baths or what?”
“Swimming, yes, I’m pretty … I’m almost certain.” Leaning back in her chair, she called through to the inner office. “Les, this bloke’s a regular, isn’t he?”
Les came out with a bundle of towels in both arms, a well-built man in his fifties with graying hair. “Never seen him before,” he said, looking through the glass at Divine.
“No,” said the girl, “not him. Him.”
“Oh.” Les dumped the towels and took hold of the drawing. “Yes, him, two or three times a week. Main pool.”
“Any idea when he was here last?” Divine asked.
Les and the girl exchanged glances, both shook their heads.
“Sunday?”
Les reached for his towels. “Could’ve been Sunday.”
“You working then?”
“Me, not Sunday, no. One in four and that’s one too many.” He pointed at the book on the counter. “See who was on Sunday. Morning?” he said to Divine. “Or afternoon?”
“Afternoon.”
“Freda,” said the girl. “It was Freda.”
They found Freda in the women’s changing rooms, doing duty with a long-handled broom. “Get all kinds left in here, you know. Everything from Tesco’s chicken tikka sandwiches, still Cellophane-wrapped, untouched, to a pack of contraceptive pills with only six missing. There’s someone’ll be going white round the gills come the end of the month.”
Divine showed her the picture.
“Stephen,” she said. “Nice bloke. Always time for a bit of a chat. What about him?”
“Was he in Sunday?” Les asked. “Afternoon?”
“Not unless he’s been practicing limbo dancing. Wouldn’t get past me any other way. “Sides, like I say, liked to chat. No, he wasn’t in this weekend. If he was, I’d’ve seen him.”
“You’re sure of that?” Divine asked.
Freda leaned forward against her broom, fixed Divine with her eyes. “What do you think?” she said.
Patel and Naylor spent the best part of the day sorting through the responses to the artist’s impression, throwing out the too obviously false, the one who claimed it was his father-in-law, another who swore that it was the bastard of a manager who’d refused him a loan at the bank. Four pointed in the direction of Stephen Shepperd; one, a neighbor, mentioning the fact that he’d seen him running round Lenton Rec; a man who used to work with him identifying him by name.
Jogged by the fresh publicity, two people contacted the station about the unaccounted-for Ford Sierra. As a result Naylor delved into the phone book for the address of a Bernard Kilpatrick, owner of a sports shop out at Bulwell, currently living round the corner from the White Hart.
At the shop it appeared to be half-day closing and no one was picking up the home phone and answering, so Naylor was all for going round there, get him out to the police station, but Millington’s hand on his shoulder kept him where he was.
“You sit tight with that little lot. I’ll see if I can run Mr. Kilpatrick to ground. Never know, might sink a quick half in the White Hart while I’m about it.”
As it was, Millington never got his drink. Bernard Kilpatrick, engine oil on his arms and state-of-the-art tool kit spread over the pavement, was making some minor adjustments to the carburetor. He straightened up as Millington drew nearer and prepared to swap stories about the unpredictability of cars generally, engines in particular. Even something as normally reliable as a G registration Ford Sierra.
Thirty-five
“What I want to know, car’s that close Randall could hit it with a throw from cover point, how come none of our lot spotted it? Even if they weren’t using their eyes, what was wrong with questions? Ford Sierra owners, isn’t that what we’ve been looking for? Whatever happened to checking vehicle ownership through the damned national computer? God alone knows how many man hours, how much overtime’s gone into this already, and it takes some civilian to tip us off.
“Well, thanks very much to Joe Public, thanks indeed, but meanwhile, what in hell’s name’s been going on?”
Jack Skelton was not a happy man. He’d summoned his senior officers first thing and it wasn’t to pass out commendations. Skelton had dispensed with his normal shirt-sleeve order, brisk and businesslike yet approachable, and was standing there glowering at them from behind his desk in a suit sharp as battle armor, tie knotted so tight as to endanger his blood supply.
“All right, let’s make up for sloppy work with some hard graft, some application, a sight more diligence. Charlie, I want that lecturer in here this afternoon if you have to carry her in on your shoulders, let’s get Shepperd in an identification parade sharpish. Meantime, background on him and his wife; as many questions asked about this couple as we can. Neighbors, friends, colleagues, let’s pay particular attention to the people who responded to the Identikit. Bit of an odd set-up, from what Charlie’s said, sounds as if the wife might know more than she’s letting on. Let’s get her on her own, see if she’ll open up. Rattle her if you have to, rattle anyone and everyone. There’s one child on this patch dead, another missing. For Christ’s sake, let’s do what we’re paid for and do something about it.”
Millington intercepted Resnick on his way back to CID. “How’d it go?” he asked and, seeing Resnick’s face, wished he hadn’t. “That bad?” he said, sympathetically.
“Worse.”
Resnick pushed into his office, Millington following. “You,” he said, turning to prod the sergeant with his finger, “for now, Kilpatrick’s yours. By the end of the day you’re going to know everything about him from where he takes his holidays to if he flosses his teeth and how. Right?”
“Sir.” Millington was already on his way.
“And send Lynn in here.”
“Not sure if she’s back, sir.”
“Then get her back.”
According to Millington, Bernard Kilpatrick had been smooth as silk and about as slippery. Yes, as a matter of fact, he had parked his car on the crescent on Sunday. To be quite honest, he’d spent most of lunchtime in the Rose and Crown, anyone had breathalysed him, he’d have turned the thing the colors of the rainbow. Even so, he’d got in the car and started for home, turned into the crescent and before he knew what he was at, one of his wheels had been up on the curb. He hadn’t needed a second warning. Straight out of the driving seat and walked. Went back for the car later. Condition he was in, all he could do was pull off his shoes and collapse on the settee. No, he didn’t know when he woke up, nor when he went back to get the car, but he was pretty sure it was dark. Well, this time of the year, that’s mostly what it was.
The Rose and Crown was a biggish pub, Sundays it might well be pretty crowded, but if Kilpatrick had been there long enough to get good and drunk, someone should have noticed him.
“Graham,” Resnick called into the main office.
“Sir?”
“We have checked Kilpatrick’s lunchtime binge, I suppose?”
“Divine’s down there now, sir.”
God! thought Resnick. Like sending a kleptomaniac into Sainsbury’s in a power strike.
Eight o’clock, nine, ten o’clock, eleven. Whenever Stephen switched off the power, he could hear Joan moving around overhead, her footsteps filtered through the strings and muted brass of daytime easy listening. Once, she had called down the steps to inquire if he wanted coffee and he had failed to answer. Coffee meant more questions and they would come soon enough without his meeting them head on.
In the event, it was not so far short of twelve.