When Drexler reached the intersection he turned onto 89 but, instead of heading west for Sorenson’s house, he turned south towards the airport. An hour later he reached the gas station and parked. He took out his new camera and wandered up the path at the back of the station to take pictures of the saplings he’d noticed during his nocturnal search of the cabin.
He wasn’t the only visitor. Any car that passed the station made a point of stopping. Sometimes the people wouldn’t get out but just talk and point at the decaying slab of a building. Other times the occupants would get out for a few minutes to take pictures. They rarely moved too far from the car though, and never turned off their engines.
Half an hour later Drexler shook hands with Andy Dupree at the Police Department building in Markleeville.
‘Good to see you, Mike,’ said Dupree, holding onto Drexler’s hand long enough to keep his attention. ‘Vacation, you said? I sure hope this one’s not under your skin, amigo.’ Drexler just smiled in response. ‘Like the lady said, it’s squared away. Save your ulcers for the deserving.’
‘The Ashwell deaths are unsolved, Andy.’ Dupree shook his head, then gestured Drexler into the building. ‘Any trace of Ashwell’s brother yet?’
‘Not a one. Guess he knows what’s waiting if he puts his head above the trench.’
‘Any other developments?’
‘Nothing. ’Cept this one here.’
The wind had freshened by midmorning and officers were hunched against the spitting, driving rain. The streets around Drayfin weren’t nearly as full of police vehicles as they had been on previous days, but this morning the pavements were well lined with officers asking the questions about the North house that had been generated by inquiries so far.
Brook and Grant were coordinating visits on Mrs North’s side of the block while Hudson and Noble banged on doors on the Wallis/Ingham side. Noble and Hudson approached a house eight doors away from the Ingham house and Noble’s knock was greeted by a pretty young Asian girl in an orange sari. ‘Sorry to bother you, Miss…’
‘Dhoni. And it’s Mrs Dhoni as of two weeks ago,’ she said with an air of something close to disbelief. ‘Mrs Dhoni.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Hudson, smiling.
‘You’ve come about the pictures, have you, officers?’
Hudson and Noble looked at each other. ‘Er, yes,’ nodded Noble with more confidence than he felt. ‘The pictures.’
‘Well, we knew you’d be along for them sooner or later, as soon as you found out about the wedding. I would have brought them in myself but I’ve had quite a job collecting them from everyone. Now they’re digital, so would you like them on a memory stick or should I just email them somewhere?’
‘Depends how many there are, Miss…’
‘Mrs Dhoni,’ she giggled. ‘At least three hundred. Some are just family portraits but there are plenty of others that show the houses.’
‘Houses?’
‘Yes. The Ingham house and the Wallis house beyond. Where all those people were killed. Horrible people. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but to have a wedding reception and have to listen to the abuse from those … animals. But we have our duty to do. My grandparents would be livid if we didn’t help. They came to this country to be full citizens and … well, you know.’
‘Yes, we do know, Mrs Dhoni,’ beamed Inspector Hudson, ‘and a memory stick would be great if you can spare it.’
‘I’ll just go and get it.’ She returned and handed it to Noble. She hesitated for a second. ‘You know, I’ve got to say. Over the last two years, nine people have been murdered in houses that we can see from our back garden. But the funny thing is we’ve never felt safer than this last week. My husband and I have done our duty but, honestly,’ she paused over the words, ‘I hope you don’t catch him.’
Brook stood in Mrs North’s back bedroom looking out over the Ingham yard. The room was tiny, but still fussily furnished and the smell of damp was a background note that a pensioner with dwindling senses might not detect. The view over the killing ground was stunning, however, and details in several rooms of the Ingham household were easily visible.
Brook sat on the mattress, the sheets having been removed for fruitless tests, seeking a good viewing position. When he had settled on the best spot, he began to look around to see if anything had been missed. He was about to return to Grant in the kitchen when he spotted something on the floor, underneath the curtain. He kneeled down to pull the curtain aside then rubbed a finger over the carpet. There was a small indentation on the fabric, as though something had been placed there over a period of time. He pushed the bed back a few feet and stroked the carpet in wide sweeps with his hands. He found two other small indentations.
‘Say cheese.’
He returned the bed to its proper position and trotted back down to the kitchen. ‘I think they had some kind of tripod set up in the back bedroom.’
‘What for?’
‘Hard to tell. Binoculars maybe? Though my money would be on a camera. I think if I were The New Reaper I might want some souvenirs.’ Brook looked at his watch. ‘Must be nearly time.’
Grant nodded and stepped outside. Brook was about to follow when something began to nag at him. He looked around the kitchen, trying to draw it out, but failed and followed Grant to the front gate.
A few doors down, the postman was talking to a uniformed constable who pointed towards the two CID officers. The postman nodded and walked towards them, smiling. A few yards away, he put up a single digit and jogged down the path of a neighbouring house and out of sight.
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Grant. ‘We should have asked him down to the station.’
Brook smiled at her. ‘Patience, Laura. If he’s got anything for us he’ll remember it better on location.’
When he re-emerged, the postman jogged towards them, panting. He was about forty, thin with long bleached blond hair and an unnatural tan. He sported LOVE and HATE tattoos on each hand and wore frayed denim shorts, despite the winter bite. The ear studs augmented the impression of a self-appointed ladies’ man. ‘Sorry to keep you,’ he said. ‘Bad luck to retrace your steps.’
‘How unlucky is it to get arrested for wasting police time?’ asked Grant.
‘I said I was sorry. I’m here, aren’t I?’ the postman countered.
‘DS Grant’s just pulling your leg, Mr…’ said Brook.
‘Blake, but just call me Tommy,’ he grinned.
‘Tommy. You know why we’re here?’
‘Those murders obviously.’
‘Right.’
‘Terrible. Those Ingham boys were right rogues, no two ways, but they were good kids deep down. And their mother…’ A private grin invaded his features, in spite of his attempts to suppress it. ‘Well, enough said.’ Grant’s stony gaze wiped the grin from Tommy’s face. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Simple,’ said Brook. ‘We want to know if you’ve seen anyone in and around Mrs North’s house since she’s been away. That’s up to two weeks before the murders happened.’
‘Mrs N’s. No, I can’t say I have. I mean, I knew she was going away, she told me. I like to keep a lookout for people, you know, sift out all the flyers and junk, so callers don’t realise the house is empty. All part of the service, mind — though it don’t hurt round Christmas,’ he added with a wink. ‘But Mrs N had some people looking after the place so the mail didn’t pile up.’
‘People?’ repeated Grant. ‘Did you see any of these people?’
‘You know, not once.’
‘Okay, thanks anyway.’
‘She’s back in a few weeks. She can tell you herself. Six people.’ Blake shook his head. ‘She’s got a shock coming when she rolls up in that car.’
‘Car? What car?’
