‘We’re investigating a serious crime here, one the press are also very interested in. There’s reason to believe that Mr Dean, in his capacity as a sales rep for Protex, could help us. Now, I don’t want this turning into a matter for your PR department.’
Appleforth hesitated a moment longer before clicking his mouse. Sure enough, Gordon Dean’s details, including his address in Stoke, were already up on his desktop. ‘We’d appreciate being kept up to date with Mr Dean’s whereabouts.’
Jon sat back. ‘Of course.’
They were heading back out of Appleforth’s office when Jon paused in the doorway. ‘Does Mr Dean have a workstation in the building?’
‘Yes, office number five at the end of the corridor.’
‘May we take a quick look inside?’
Appleforth hesitated but, unable to think of a decent reason why not, nodded and got up. He led Jon and Rick along the silent corridor, past smoked-glass windows and shiny wooden doors. They stood back at number five, allowing him to open the door for them.
To Jon’s annoyance Appleforth used the opportunity to step in ahead of them and position himself in the corner by the window. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.
Jon shrugged. ‘Nothing specifically.’
The room was small, too small for three men. Jon tried to look around, but his view was obscured by Rick and Appleforth. Picking up on his look of annoyance, Rick stepped back and watched from the doorway. Immediately in front of Jon was a small desk with a computer monitor and keyboard taking up one half. A phone with a notepad occupied the opposite corner and between them sat a desk tidy. Jon looked at the three cylindrical tubes, noting each one held a different colour of biro, blue, red and black. The shallower tray at the front was filled with paperclips. Jon looked again; they were actually stacked in neat little piles of decreasing size.
He examined the rest of the room. A filing cabinet was next to Appleforth, each drawer clearly marked: A — F, G — L, M
— R, S — Z. Next to the cabinet was a bin. Jon craned forwards, it was spotlessly clean inside. His eyes wandered over the bare walls. No pictures, prints or photographs. He reached round the desk and tried the uppermost drawer. Locked. ‘Does he ever actually work here?’
Appleforth looked confused. ‘Yes. He’s on the road most of the time, but here about three times a week I’d say.’
‘And is he as neat in his personal appearance as his office suggests?’
Appleforth frowned briefly. ‘I suppose so. And we’d expect him to be, too. Protex is a medical supplies company. We need to be neat, organised, efficient.’
‘Clinical,’ Rick added from the doorway.
‘I’m sorry?’ Appleforth asked.
‘Nothing,’ Jon replied, glaring at Rick.
At that time of day the drive down to Stoke took just over an hour. Rush hour, and you could double that, Jon thought. Gordon Dean’s house was in a private development bordering agricultural land, cows dotting the fields alongside. The cluster of houses was large, all of them detached and with separate garages. They pulled to a halt outside Ravenscroft. Fake wooden timbers criss-crossed the front of the house, lattice windows adding another feeble period touch.
They’d phoned en route and Mrs Dean opened the door as they walked up the front path. She ushered them into a spacious living room dominated by pastel shades and the scent of polish. The pale pink carpet was covered in hoover marks and a yellow duster lay on the coffee table. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, removing it.
‘I need to be doing something.’ Her eyes searched theirs, seeking information from their expressions.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t anything to tell you as to your husband’s whereabouts as yet,’ Jon said, turning and gesturing to the large sofa and its plumped-up cushions.
‘Oh, sorry, please.’ She perched nervously on the edge of a matching armchair and her fingers started teasing the corners of the duster. As Jon sat down he realised the room had the same feeling of sterility as her husband’s office at Protex.
Jon took out his notebook. ‘When did you last speak to your husband, Mrs Dean?’
‘Yesterday morning, when he set off for Manchester. But he should have rung this morning. He always rings me between eight and nine if he’s staying in a hotel.’
‘And how often is that?’
‘Three or four times a month. Usually he stays in Manchester. Most of his big clients are around there, so he saves hours of driving by booking into a hotel.’
‘Does he stay in a particular one?’
‘Yes. They built a Novotel for the Commonwealth Games last summer. That’s his usual one nowadays.’
‘I see. Mrs Dean, this may sound silly, but have you looked in your husband’s wardrobe?’
‘Why?’ Voice defensive.
‘To see if any of his clothes are missing.’
‘Yes, I have,’ she replied with a stiff nod. ‘The hangers aren’t jangling.’
Jon wondered what she was holding back. ‘And you’ve been trying his mobile?’
‘Yes. It just rings through to answerphone.’
Thinking of the precise incisions that had been employed to remove the third victim’s face, Jon leaned forwards. ‘Mrs Dean, how did your husband come to work for a medical company? Does he have an interest in that area himself?’
‘Sorry, I don’t quite understand you.’
‘Did he read medicine or have ambitions to practise it?’
‘Oh no. He worked for a paper merchant’s before this job, a manufacturer of franking machines before that. According to Gordon, it’s all just sales at the end of the day.’
Jon glanced around. ‘Does your husband have an office here?’
She pointed through the archway into the adjoining dining room. ‘He plugs his laptop in there.’
Jon looked. On the table in the far corner of the room was a small printer. Two box files stood on a shelf unit beside it. ‘May we?’
Mrs Dean nodded.
As Jon crossed into the other room, he was aware of her trailing along behind. He said, ‘Could I be cheeky and ask for a cup of tea?’
‘Of course. I do apologise, I should have offered.’
Once she was out of the room Jon and Rick each took a file. They put them on the dining table, sat down, opened the lids and started flicking through. Jon’s contained plastic folders with information on Gordon Dean’s clients. Rick’s was used for receipts and literature about Protex products. Both men were so absorbed in their task, they didn’t hear Mrs Dean come back into the living room.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ She was standing by the coffee table, carrying a tray with a teapot, milk jug and three cups.
Jon shook his head. ‘Not really. We’re just trying to get an idea of his typical movements.’
She put the tray down and approached them. Rick was flicking through the receipts for that month. Mrs Dean watched him, fingers of one hand massaging the thumb of the other. Jon waited for her to come out with whatever it was she wanted to say.
Eventually she spoke. ‘I had a look through his suits earlier on. I found some statements there.’
Jon raised his chin. ‘What sort of statements?’
‘Credit card ones. The bills go direct to his office, but it’s not a company credit card. They’re old statements from the last two months.’
‘Do you still have them?’
She dropped her hands to her sides. ‘I’d never go through his pockets normally…’
Jon stood up. ‘I understand, Mrs Dean, but these are special circumstances.’
She nodded in agreement. ‘They’re here.’ She opened the drawer beneath the dining table but, rather than get them out, walked back into the living room. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘One, please.’ Jon’s eyes were on the sheets of paper as Rick shook his head politely at Mrs Dean. Jon put the statements on the table and sat down. The card had taken quite a hammering. ‘Piccolino’s. That’s the new Italian near the town hall,’ he murmured.
‘Twenty-six quid. Probably a meal for one,’ Rick whispered back.