The man turned pale. His hands shook as he zipped himself up and, without even pausing to wash his hands, ran for the door. Templeton washed his hands with soap under hot water for thirty seconds exactly. He hated poofters, and as far as he was concerned they’d made a bloody big mistake when they made homosexuality legal all those years ago. Opened the floodgates, they did, just as they did with immigration. As far as he was concerned, the government should send all the poofters to jail and all foreigners back home – except Winsome, of course; she could stay.
Up in the restaurant, Templeton ordered a cup of tea and sausage, eggs and beans, figuring you can’t go wrong with something as basic as that, and carried his tray to the first empty table he saw, trying to ignore the smears of ketchup on the surface. The eggs were overcooked and the tea was stewed, but other than that the meal wasn’t too bad. Templeton tucked in with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
When he had finished, he went up to the counter and spoke to the young Asian lad who worked there. His name tag identified him as Ali.
“Were you working here last night about this time?”
“I was here,” said Ali. “Sometimes it feels like I’m always bloody here.”
“I’ll bet it does,” said Templeton, pulling the photo of Jennifer Clewes from his briefcase. “By the way, I’m DC Templeton, North Yorkshire Major Crimes. Did you happen to see this woman in here?”
“Bloody hell, is she dead?” Ali asked, paling. “I’ve never seen a dead person before.”
“The question is: Did you see her?”
“What happened to her?”
Templeton sighed theatrically. “Look, Ali, we’ll get along a lot better if I ask the questions and you answer them, all right?” he said.
“Yeah. All right. Let’s have a look, then.” Ali reached out his hand, but Templeton held on to the photograph, keeping it just within his field of vision. He didn’t want Ali’s greasy fingerprints all over it.
Ali screwed up his eyes and looked at the photo longer than Templeton thought he needed to, then said, “Yeah, she was in here last night. Sat over there.” He pointed to a table.
“What time?”
“Can’t remember. It’s all the same when you’re on nights.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yeah. I remember thinking what’s a good-looking bird like that doing all alone on a Friday night, like.”
“Did she seem upset or frightened in any way?”
“Come again?”
“How did she behave?”
“Just normal, like. She ate her sandwich – well, half of it, at any rate. I can’t say I blame her. Those ham-and-tomatoes do get a bit soggy when they’ve been sitting-”
“Did anyone approach her at all?”
“No.”
“Speak to her?”
“No. But the bloke at the table opposite was definitely giving her the eye. Looked like a bit of a pervert to me, too.”
“What do perverts look like?” Templeton asked.
“You know. Creepy, like.”
“Right. How long did she stay?”
“Dunno. Not more than ten, fifteen minutes, I suppose. Look, aren’t you going to tell me what happened to her? She was all right when she left here.”
“Anybody follow her?”
“The bloke opposite, the pervert, went out not long after her, but I wouldn’t say he was following her. I mean, he’d finished his sausage roll. Why would he want to hang around?”
Templeton gazed over the decor. “Why, indeed?” he said.
“Most people here, they’re usually in a hurry, see. Quick turnover.”
“And no one else took an interest in the woman?”
“No.”
“She make any phone calls?”
“Not that I saw.”
“This pervert, had you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“He was wearing a dark gray suit, like a businessman, wore glasses with black rims, and he had a long, jowly sort of face, with a long, thin nose. Short brown hair, light brown. Oh, yeah, and he had dandruff. Reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who. Not the dandruff, I mean, the face.”
“How old would you say he was?”
“Old. Maybe forty or so.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Don’t think so. Is this gonna be on Crimewatch?”
“Thanks for your help.” Templeton left Ali dreaming of TV stardom and walked back to his car. The rain had stopped and dark puddles reflected the lights. Before setting off back up the motorway, Templeton walked over to the garage and into the night manager’s office. There he found a sleepy young man behind the counter and showed his warrant card. The boy seemed to wake up a bit.
“I’m Geoff,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Were you working here last night?”
“Yeah.”
Templeton took out the photograph again. “Remember her?”
“She looks…” He frowned. “I don’t know.”
“She looks dead,” said Templeton. “Just as well, because she is. Do you remember her?”
“She was here. You don’t forget someone who looks like that in a hurry.”
“Do you remember what time?”
“I can’t say for certain, but her credit card receipt should tell us.”
“She used plastic?”
“Most people do. Petrol’s so bloody expensive and cards are convenient. Nowadays you can just swipe the card right by the pump. You don’t even have to come into the office. Not everyone likes to do it that way, mind you. Some still prefer the human touch.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve still got last night’s receipts?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Geoff, “I have. There’s no pickup till Monday morning.”
“What are we waiting for? Her name’s Jennifer Clewes.”
Geoff located the credit card receipts and sucked on his lower lip as he made his way through them. “Just give me a minute. Here, I think this is it.” He held the receipt up for Templeton to see: 12:35 A.M. Which meant she’d get to the junction with the A1 about two and a half hours later. It fit. Templeton thanked Geoff, and just on the off chance asked him about the “old” man Ali had described.
“The bloke with the dandruff? Old hatchet face?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah, he was here, too. Same time as her, now I come to think of it. I caught him giving her the eye when she was bending over with the pump. Can’t say I blame him, mind you. Like something out of FHM. Hey, you don’t think that-”
“Seen him before?”
“Not that I recall. But we get so much traffic.”
“I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance that he paid by plastic, too?”
Geoff grinned, flicking through the stack again. “I told you. Most of them do. Here you are, right after hers. A Mr. Roger Cropley.”
“Do you have CCTV?”
“As a matter of fact, we do,” said Geoff.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Geoff held up the slip and Templeton read the details. So there is a God, after all, he thought.
Back at Roy’s, Banks first checked the phone for messages. There was only one, and to his surprise it was from Annie Cabbot. Even more to his surprise, it was clearly intended for Roy because she addressed him as “Mr. Banks.” She had called around at the house earlier, she said, but he had been out. Would he please get in touch as soon as possible? Of course, Annie had no idea that Roy was missing. She sounded rather chilly and official, Banks thought, wondering what she was doing in London. Could it have something to do with the murder she was investigating in Eastvale? It was after eleven now, though, and he didn’t fancy getting into a complicated conversation with Annie so late. He’d give her a ring in the morning.
He brought the open bottle of Amarone upstairs and watched A Clockwork Orange on the plasma TV. Even with the surround sound turned low so as not to disturb the neighbors, it still filled the room. After that, he fell asleep on the sofa, the bottle still half full.