“He took a souvenir.”
“What?”
“A nipple. The left one, to be precise.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Templeton. He looked at his prawn sandwich and felt sick. He sipped some Coke.
“Sorry,” said Susan. “Just thought we should get it all out in the open. I don’t suppose that happened with Jennifer Clewes, did it?”
“No,” said Templeton.
Susan had finished her meal. She pushed her plate aside. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Templeton thought of Sunday’s interview. “We did have a bloke looked likely. For Jennifer Clewes, that is.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Chap by the name of Cropley. Roger Cropley. Apparently he was paying her quite a bit of attention in the motorway café and at the petrol pumps, and he followed her back onto the motorway. Trouble is, he’s got an alibi.”
“Does it hold up?”
“Watertight. He was on the hard shoulder with a broken fan belt. Called the AA. They confirm the time. He couldn’t possibly have killed Jennifer Clewes.”
“Pity.”
“But it doesn’t mean he didn’t want to, does it? Thing is,” Templeton went on, “he’s a funny sort of chap. Thought it was all a bit of a game when we questioned him, then got really stroppy. Seems he works in London and commutes every week. Every Friday, as a matter of fact. And he usually stops for a break. Probably wears a dark suit. Drives a dark green Honda. Married. Wears a ring. Like I said, he’s on the M1 most Fridays. Not always that late, he told us, but sometimes. I was just thinking… you know.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to have another little chat with him, would it?” Susan said. “And if your suspicions continue, perhaps I could come up and have a word, too? I trust your SIO would okay it?”
“I should think so. It’s not a lot to go on, I admit,” said Templeton, “but there was something about him.”
“A hunch?”
“Call it that if you like. I happen to believe that hunches are made up of hundreds of little observations we’re not directly aware of. Body language. Tone of voice. Little things. They all add up to a hunch.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Susan, smiling. “In my case they usually call it women’s intuition.” She looked at her watch. Nice gold band, Templeton noticed. Her husband must have a bob or two. Probably not a policeman, then. “I’d better be off,” she said. “Thanks for the tip. You’ll keep me posted about Cropley?”
“Absolutely,” said Templeton.
“And do give my best to everyone at the station, and my condolences to Alan Banks.”
“Of course.”
Templeton watched her walk away. Her legs weren’t bad at all. If only she could trim down that waistline a bit she might be worth a crack, husband or no. He swatted a fly away from his half-eaten prawn sandwich and it buzzed him a few times before zigzagging off into the trees. Time to head back to Eastvale, he thought, and see if anything new had turned up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Late Monday afternoon the rain came down again, out of nowhere, splashing against the windscreen of Dave Brooke’s Citroën as he drove Annie through the rush-hour traffic to Tower Hamlets, not exactly the kind of place you’d find in a tourist’s guide to London. They were in Bow, and the house they wanted stood in a row of rundown terraced houses that had survived both bombing and slum clearance. Across the street lay a couple of acres of tarmacked waste ground with weeds growing through the cracks, surrounded by a six-foot wire-mesh fence with barbed wire on the top. Who was protecting it, and from what, Annie had no idea. She guessed it was earmarked for development. On the other side of the waste ground, through the slanting rain, stood more grimy houses, slate roofs dark, and beyond them tower blocks rose bleak as monoliths against an iron-gray sky.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” said DI Brooke, as if reading her mind.
Annie laughed. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“It’s a piece of history,” said Brooke. “Enjoy it while you can.
In a year or so it’ll probably be all new tower blocks or an entertainment complex.”
“You sound as if you’d be sorry to see it go.”
“Maybe I would. Here we are.” He pulled up at the curb and they looked at number forty-six. The front door, Annie thought, could definitely use another coat of paint to cover the cracks and gouges time and, perhaps, would-be burglars had inflicted.
Alf Seaton, a retired ships’ carpenter, had not only seen Wesley Hughes and Daryl Gooch drive away in the Mondeo, but he had also seen it arrive in the early hours of Sunday morning, and this was what interested Annie and Brooke. Annie was beginning to wonder if she would ever get home again, the way things were going. She had hoped to be off that afternoon after her visit to the Berger-Lennox Centre, when Brooke called. All roads seemed to lead to London.
Alf Seaton was expecting them, and Annie noticed the edge of the lace curtain twitch just a little when their car pulled up. Before they reached the door, it opened, and a plump, gray-haired man with a broken nose beckoned them in out of the rain.
“Miserable day, isn’t it?” he said, in an unmistakable Cockney accent. Well, Annie thought, he was in the right area, probably even within the sound of Bow Bells, come to think of it. “Make yourselves comfy. I’ll put the kettle on. Got some chocolate digestives, too, if you’re interested.”
Annie looked around the small living room while Alf Seaton busied himself in the kitchen. There was an old-fashioned look and feel to the place, she thought, visible in the ornate pipe rack, the dark wood bureau and the low bookcase under the window, filled mostly with nautical tales, she noticed: Alexander Kent, Douglas Reeman, Patrick O’Brian, some old Hornblower editions. On the wall above the fireplace was a romantic seascape depicting Lord Nelson’s fleet engaging the French in rough waters, cannons blazing. The armchairs were old but still firm, and there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. When Seaton came back in with the tea and biscuits, Annie complimented him on the house.
“I do my best,” he said. “Just because you’re poor doesn’t mean you have to be slovenly, does it? That’s what my mother always used to say.”
“Are you married?”
“Fran died a couple of years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No reason for you to be, love. Life goes on.” He looked around the room. “We had nearly fifty happy years, me and Fran. Moved here in 1954, our first home. Only one, as it turned out. Course, I was just a young lad then, still wet behind the ears. And things have changed a lot. Not all for the best, either.”
“I’m sure not,” said Annie.
“Still, you won’t be wanting to hear an old man’s reminiscences, will you?” he said, winking at Annie. “You’ll be wanting to know what it was I saw.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Seaton,” said Brooke.
“Alf, please.”
Alf was a name you didn’t hear much these days, Annie thought, and if you did you could guarantee it belonged to someone of Mr. Seaton’s generation.
“Alf, then.”
“I’m not sure I can tell you anything I didn’t already tell the uniformed bloke.”
“Let’s start with what you were doing.”
“Doing? I was sitting here in this very armchair reading. I don’t sleep very well, so I’ve taken to getting up, making myself a cup of tea and settling down for a good read. Beats lying there thinking about all your problems the way you do at that time of night.”
“Yes, it does,” said Annie. “So what was it that happened first? Did you see or hear the car?”
“Heard it first. I mean, we do get a bit of traffic down here throughout the night, but not that much. It’s not a main road, or even the quickest way to one. And as you can see, it doesn’t have a great deal of natural charm. Anyway, at three on a Sunday morning it does tend to be quiet apart from the odd group of kids stumbling home from a party.”