‘Not yet,’ said Rick. ‘We-I’ve only just got the information.’
McCloughlin obviously sensed Rick wasn’t being straight. He pushed his phone across the desk. ‘Make the call.’
Rick looked down. The only thing on his lap was Pete Gray’s record. Sheepishly he looked at Jon. ‘I think you have the company’s details?’
Jon whipped the sheet out from his notebook. From the corner of his eye he saw McCloughlin’s lip beginning to curl.
Rick called the number, introduced himself and asked to speak to the sales rep for the north-west. He started jotting information down. ‘Since when?…I see…And his name’s Gordon Dean?
… Where was he staying?…OK…No, if we hear anything we’ll call back.’ He hung up, looking baffled. ‘It appears he’s vanished. He was staying in Manchester, seeing clients around town yesterday. Since then they’ve been trying to contact him. He missed a big sales meeting this morning.’
Without lifting his forearm from his desk, McCloughlin pointed a finger at the door. ‘A blood-spattered glove is dropped at a murder scene and the area rep for that company goes missing the very next morning? I don’t need to tell you which lead to pursue, gentlemen.’
As they made for the door, McCloughlin called Jon back. Without looking up, he said, ‘Next time, don’t use your partner to front up information that you’ve sourced. Understood?’
‘Sir.’ Jon closed the door quietly behind him.
Chapter 7
The body in the bed didn’t move.
Sunlight slanted in through the open window, spilling across the crumpled white sheets and creating a lunar landscape of miniature ravines. Silence dominated the room, pierced at regular intervals by a thin whistle. It came from the bandages encasing the patient’s face.
Eventually a hand slid upwards. A forefinger and thumb picked delicately at the nostril holes and shoulders flinched as pain lanced outwards. After a few moments the patient tried again, this time successfully getting the tip of a varnished nail into a nostril that still throbbed from where the blows had landed. A large flake of dried blood was prised away and a sob of self-pity was released.
The hand fell back on to the sheet as a soft whirring came from the window. A robin had alighted on the metal arm holding the window open. Head cocked to one side, it surveyed the room with a keen eye.
From the bed, a pair of swollen and bloodshot eyes looked back, hungry for company of any kind. The patient tried to encourage the bird forward with a kissing sound, tears spilling over the layers of gauze.
Chapter 8
Immaculate grass borders flanked the entrance to the Europa Business Park. The spotless white gates were open and, as soon as they turned in, the car tyres seemed to start gliding over the smooth tarmac. A large sign stood at a fork in the road. Rick’s eyes moved over it. ‘Units ten to twenty. Right turn.’
Jon spun the wheel and they followed the gently curving avenue. Side roads branched off to low buildings made from a type of corrugated material that appeared to come in only three colours: blue, green and white. Protex Ltd had chosen white.
They parked in one of the spaces reserved for visitors directly in front of reception. Grey glass doors slid silently open as they approached them and they stepped into a foyer which was tidy to the point of being unwelcoming. A photo of a proudly beaming man was on their right. Directly below it a brass plaque: Keith Bradley founded this company in 1973.
And doesn’t his tie just show it, thought Jon, making an effort not to wince at the ugly splashes of colour jumping off the man’s chest.
Photos of various gloves lined the wall, each one bathed in coloured lighting to add interest to a totally lifeless product.
A young woman with a headset cutting into her wavy brown hair nodded to them from behind the reception desk. ‘Can I help you?’
They held up their warrant cards and her smile slipped.
‘Could we speak to your head of human resources, please?’ Jon asked.
‘One moment.’ She pressed a button on the switchboard.
‘Martin, I have two policemen wishing to speak with you.’ She listened for a second, then looked up. ‘Could I ask what it’s in relation to?’
Jon leaned closer and, for the benefit of the person on the other end of the line, said loudly, ‘Gordon Dean.’
The receptionist listened again. ‘He’ll be right down. Please take a seat.’
Jon glanced at the chairs. Like everything else, they were stiff and unused. He remained standing. A minute later footsteps could be heard on the stairs. A middle-aged man in shirt and tie walked over to them. ‘Martin Appleforth, head of HR.’ He hesitated, not knowing who to shake hands with first.
Jon stepped forward. ‘DI Spicer and DS Saville.’
Appleforth’s office was slightly too warm. The blinds on the end window were lowered, but sunlight cut through the gaps, one sliver dissecting the photo of a plain-looking woman trying to smile in some crowded beauty spot.
‘I hope Gordon’s all right? Has something happened?’ He positioned his pen in the exact midpoint of a Protex notepad.
‘We’re not sure at present,’ answered Jon, unbuttoning his jacket. ‘What sort of employee is he?’
Appleforth turned one palm upwards, as if the necessary information would drop into it. ‘Hard-working, reliable. He’s been with us for around eight years.’
‘And his sales patch is the whole of the north-west?’
‘The Manchester area and south into Cheshire. Another rep takes care of the Liverpool area and up into the Lake District as far as the Scottish border.’
‘So Mr Dean has a company car?’ asked Rick.
‘Yes, a silver Passat — same as me, in fact.’
‘Do you have his registration?’
Appleforth swivelled in his seat, consulted a sheet of paper pinned to his noticeboard and read out the registration.
Jon noted it down. ‘What sort of companies do you deal with?’
‘Hospitals and GP practices mainly, as you can imagine, but any sort of business in the health sector. Private surgeries, NHS clinics, even a few tattoo parlours and beauty salons, though I class them in the cosmetics sector.’
‘Tell me, do you have a contract with Stepping Hill hospital in Stockport?’ Jon asked, thinking of Pete Gray.
‘I’d have to phone the sales department.’
‘And it would be useful if we could have the list of clients Mr Dean saw in the last three days. Is that possible?’
‘Again, I’d have to ask the sales department.’
‘How old is Mr Dean?’
‘Late thirties, I’d have thought.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’ Appleforth looked down at his desk and rubbed a forefinger against his temple. ‘Angela, if I remember.’ Jon guessed he’d just been looking at Gordon Dean’s file.
‘Have you spoken to his wife today?’ Rick asked.
‘Yes.’ Appleforth admitted. ‘She rang earlier, very worried. When I said he hadn’t shown up for the meeting here, she said she was going to report him as missing.’ He looked at them as if they should already know this.
Rick nodded ambiguously. ‘Which station did she go to?’
‘Her local one in Stoke.’
‘I see. Mr Appleforth, we could do with speaking to her ourselves. Could you give us her phone number?’
He reached for the mouse, but his hand stayed hovering above it. ‘I’m not sure if I should give his personal details out. .’ His eyes were calculating. ‘She said the police told her that, although he’s missing, they couldn’t treat it as anything but low priority for a few more days. How come you’re here now?’
‘Mr Appleforth.’ Jon hunched forward in his seat, shoulders suddenly tight against his jacket. The desire to move the investigation forward was nagging away at him and there was no way an officious little prick like this was going to slow things down.