‘I thought he was an only son.’ Charlie looked up from his sandwich.
Vera gave a slow clap of her hands. ‘So you’re awake after all. And listening! I was wondering.’
‘There was another boy,’ Joe said. ‘Simon. He’d have been nineteen years older than Patrick. Apparently he committed suicide. When he was a student.’
‘Oh,’ Vera was moved almost to tears. ‘The poor woman.’
‘Patrick did his first degree in York and his Masters and his PhD in Exeter.’
‘Not one of the posh ones then?’
‘Posh enough,’ Joe said. ‘Apparently. I asked Sal. She’s already been reading up on unis. We’ve got high hopes for our Jess.’ There was a moment of silence and Joe looked up at Vera. ‘The mother would like to come up to view the body.’
‘Oh,’ Vera said again. She thought that would be a job for Joe. He was good at all the touchy-feely stuff and he’d know how to handle it. Though maybe Holly needed the practice. ‘Well, I suppose that saves us having to make the trek down to chat to her.’
Vera perched on a desk, her fat legs swinging. She was wearing square lace-up shoes and her feet banged against the table leg. She was aware that the team was waiting for her to speak. ‘So we’re starting to build up a picture of the youngest victim, but we still don’t know anything about the older man.’
Joe stood up. She realized he wanted them all to take notice of him, and that wasn’t like Joe. He waited until he had their full attention before he spoke. ‘We know where he was yesterday morning.’
Vera turned slowly to face him. She stopped her legs from swinging. ‘And where was that?’
‘Kimmerston Front Street. A BBC Look North reporter was canvassing opinion about immigration from the EU, and our second victim was one of the people stopped.’
‘And you know this how, Joe?’
‘I saw him on breakfast telly and called the BBC in Newcastle as soon as I got in. The reporter isn’t at his desk yet, but they could tell me where the film was made.’ Joe tried not to grin.
Vera began to chuckle. ‘You spawny git, Joe Ashworth. Better to be lucky than to be smart any time. I don’t suppose the reporter asked for his name?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll soon find out.’
Chapter Eight
Back at his desk, Joe called the BBC in Newcastle and was put through to the reporter, who sounded older and more experienced than he’d looked on the screen.
‘So you’re saying that one of the guys I interviewed was the victim in the Gilswick double-murder?’ In his head the man would be imagining a spot on the national television news. Fame at last.
‘That’s not information that we’d like to make public at this point. Not until we can be sure of his identification, and his family have been informed.’
‘Of course.’ So the man was responsible at least. He knew he’d still be able to use the clip, once they gave permission, and he’d get credited then.
Joe took a deep breath. ‘Did you take his name?’
‘I didn’t get a chance. I don’t like to hassle people and I wouldn’t have spoken to him, but he walked straight towards me on the pavement. I thought he must be interested in getting his face on the TV, and most of the punters I’d spoken to were younger, so he’d be a good contrast. Maybe bring a different perspective. That was why I pushed it, when he refused to engage.’
‘Why did he approach you then, if he didn’t want to be interviewed?’ Anyone in the street with a clipboard and Joe immediately crossed to the other side.
‘I don’t think he noticed me. He seemed completely preoccupied, wrapped up in thoughts of his own. I think he was startled when I spoke to him.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ Joe was starting to think that he wasn’t being so lucky after all.
‘He walked away up Front Street and I’m fairly sure that he went into an office on the corner.’
Joe shut his eyes and pictured the scene. Front Street had a row of traditional shops and then there was a newer place. Ugly. Glass and concrete, with the concrete disfigured with damp. Pale-green paint. It had a shop with cards in the window, and inside a row of computers that looked more like gaming machines. And perhaps getting work in Kimmerston was a bit of a lottery. ‘The Job Centre?’
‘Of course! That’s it. Yes, he went into the Job Centre.’
Joe thought his luck must have held out after all. If the man was a claimant, they’d have all his details on file. And if he’d made an appointment or spoken to an officer, it would be easy enough to get a name. Though it was more likely, Joe thought, remembering the grey suit and the old-fashioned specs, that their victim worked there. He looked like the stereotypical civil servant.
‘What time were you recording in Kimmerston?’
‘I started just after midday. We waited for the clock on the market square to finish chiming before we began. Finished about thirty minutes later. We didn’t need much to go with the news report.’
So their grey man could have been out of the office for his lunch-break. Joe pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and went out. The Job Centre was only five minutes away and Vera always said that face-to-face interviews were more valuable than the phone. He took with him the head-shot of the victim.
It was another sunny day. In the street a couple of young mothers sat at tables outside the coffee shop in the square, chatting as toddlers in buggies snoozed. Elderly women were taking their time shopping, stopping to greet friends and catch up on gossip.
In the Job Centre Joe waited in the short queue at reception. A woman scarcely looked away from her screen. ‘Yes?’
He held out his warrant card. ‘I’d like to speak to a manager.’
‘Oh.’ She scurried off. Joe looked around and thought the place was depressing. Lots of grey people. An overweight man studied one of the computer screens and walked out, apparently disappointed, letting the door slam behind him.
A woman with a baby in a buggy was having an argument with a member of staff. ‘So what am I supposed to do about childcare?’
‘I’m sorry.’ The officer was young and seemed close to tears. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
Not much of the joys of spring here.
A middle-aged woman appeared through the door that said Staff Only. ‘Come through.’ Brusque, no wasted words. Well-cut hair, a black pencil skirt and black jacket. A woman with ambition. She led him through a large open-plan office and into an interview room. ‘How can I help?’ The tone of her voice made it clear that her time was precious.
‘I wonder if you can tell me who this man is?’ He laid the photograph of the grey man on the desk in front of her.
He was so certain that the grey man had been a colleague that he expected an immediate response. But her only response was a question. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘We suspect that he might have been the victim of an incident last night, and we need to inform his family.’ Incident, he thought. A useful catch-all word.
‘I don’t recognize him.’ The woman was staring at the photo. ‘But I don’t spend much time on the floor. You’d need to ask the customer-service staff.’
‘He doesn’t work here?’
‘Oh no!’ As if it were impossible that someone working in the Job Centre could be involved in any sort of incident at all.
Downstairs the war of attrition between the young officer and the single mother was continuing, though it seemed to be reaching a climax. ‘I can’t be doing with all this now, you stupid cow – I need to get the bairn to the health visitor, or they’ll have the social onto me for neglect.’ The mother was screaming at the top of her voice, her face red with anger and embarrassment. Suddenly she stood up and walked out.