rock them in its slipstream. Still neither one of them made a move to go.
Finally, it was Helen who looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back?’
‘If anything had happened, Lorraine would have called on my mobile.’
‘Even so.’
He left her leaning against the roof of her VW, smoking a cigarette.
When Will arrived home, Lorraine was wandering from room to room, Cowboy Junkies on the stereo, singing quietly along. ‘A Common Disaster’ playing over and over, the track programmed to repeat. To Will, it wasn’t a good omen.
‘Lol?’
‘Huh?’
‘Can we change this?’
‘Change?’
‘The music. Can we…?’
‘I like it.’
Okay, Will thought, go with the flow.
A good few years back, when he and Lorraine had first started going together, she would fetch her little stash from where she kept it upstairs in the bedroom — her dowry, as she called it — and roll them both a joint. Now that he no longer smoked cigarettes and, Will supposed, with this latest promotion, if she ever suggested it, he passed.
Lorraine, he was sure, still partook from time to time, the sweet smell lingering in the corners of the house and in her hair. Maybe, looking at her slight, slow sway, she was stoned right now.
How would that be for the baby, he wondered, if it were so?
Would it make him a cool kid or slightly crazy?
There were some cans of beer in the fridge and he took one and went into the living room and switched on the TV. Lorraine had been vague about dinner, but he thought she was entitled, hormones all over the place like they were. Later he’d phone for a curry or, better still, a Chinese. It was ages since they’d eaten Chinese.
They were in bed before ten thirty, Lorraine set to read a chapter or so of whatever book she had on the go, Will rolling away from her and on to his side, arm raised to shield his eyes from the light.
He must have fallen asleep straight away, because the next thing he knew it was pitch dark and the bed beside him was empty. Lorraine was sitting on the toilet with her nightgown pulled high across her thighs.
‘You all right?’ Anxiety breaking in his voice.
‘Yes. Yes, just woke with this pain.’ She indicated low in her abdomen.
‘But you’re okay? I mean, nothing’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened.’
When he bent to kiss her forehead it was damp and seared with sweat. ‘Why don’t you let me get you something? A drink of water? Tea? How about some peppermint tea?’
‘Yes. Peppermint tea. That would be nice.’
He kissed her chastely on the lips and went downstairs.
Back in bed, he found it near impossible to get back to sleep, dozed fitfully and got up finally at five.
Jake was fast off, thumb in his mouth, surrounded by his favourite toys.
Will made coffee and toast and sat at the kitchen table staring out, willing it to get light. At six thirty he gave in and dialled Helen’s number. She answered on the second ring.
‘Not asleep then?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Yesterday,’ Will said, ‘you think I was being overcautious?’
‘In the car?’
‘What I said in the car, yes. About waiting to see if we had a match.’
‘You don’t think there’s any doubt?’
‘Has to be some. But, shit, not really, no.’
‘You want to go over there now? Sharon Peters’ parents?’
‘What do you reckon? A couple of hours’ drive? More?’
‘Coventry? This time of the morning maybe less.’
‘I’ll meet you by the Travelodge on the A14. This side of the turn-off for Hemingford Grey.’
‘It’s a deal.’ Will could hear the excitement rising in her voice.
The traffic moving into and out of the city was heavy and it was close to nine before they arrived at the house, a twenties semi-detached in a quiet street with trees, leafless still, at frequent intervals. Cars parked either side.
There was a van immediately outside the house with decorating paraphernalia in the rear, partly covered by a paint-splodged sheet. The man who came to the door was wearing off-white dungarees, speckled red, blue and green.
‘Mr Peters?’
He looked Will and Helen up and down, as if slowly making up his mind. Then he stepped back and held the door wide. ‘You’d best come in. Don’t want everyone knowing our business up and down the street.’
One wall of the room into which he led them was a virtual shrine to Sharon when she’d been alive, photographs almost floor to ceiling.
‘The wife’s out,’ Peters said. ‘Dropping off our other girl at school. Usually goes and does a bit of shopping after that.’
Our other girl, Will was thinking. Of course, to them she’s still alive.
‘You know why we’re here?’ Helen asked.
‘Something to do with that bastard getting shot, I imagine.’
‘You know about it, then?’
‘Not at first, no. One of neighbours come round and told us. Saw it, like, on TV.’
‘And you didn’t know anything about it till then?’
‘Course not, what d’you think?’
‘To be frank, Mr Peters,’ Will said, ‘we think someone paid to have Fraser killed.’
‘You reckon?’ Peters laughed. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, if they’d come round here asking for a few quid toward it, I’d have shelled out double-quick. What he did to our Sharon, shooting’s too good for him.’ Looking at Will, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Quick was it?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘More’s the sodding pity.’
They talked to him for three-quarters of an hour, pushing and prodding, back and forth over the same ground, but if he had anything to give away, it never showed.
Just as they were on the point of leaving, a key turned in the front door and Mrs Peters stepped through into the hall, shopping bags in both hands. One look at her husband, another at Will and Helen and the bags dropped to the floor. ‘Oh Christ, they know, don’t they? They bloody know.’
Will contacted the local police station and arranged for an interview room to be placed at their disposal. Donald and Lydia Peters were questioned separately and together, always with a lawyer present. After her initial outburst, Lydia would say nothing; Donald, brazening it out, would not say a great deal more. Without an admission, without tangible evidence — letters, emails, recordings of phone calls — their involvement in Fraser’s murder would be difficult to prove. All they had was the wife’s slip of the tongue. They know, dont they? In a court of law, it could have meant anything.
Their one chance was a court order to examine the Peterses’ bank records, turn their finances inside out. If they had, indeed, paid to have Fraser killed, the money would have had to have come from somewhere. Unless they’d been especially careful. Unless it had come from other sources. Family. Friends.
Will knew full well that if he went to the Crown Prosecution Service with what they had now, they’d laugh in his face.
It had taken a little time for Malkin to gain Lisa’s confidence enough for her to take him to see Jermaine. Jermaine having served his time for attempted burglary and been released into the care of his probation officer, one
