Oh, no, it isn’t!
Oh, yes, it is!
He bought an old farmhouse between Newark and Nottingham. Retired, more or less.
Malkin phoned Michaels that evening, wanting to make sure he was still on board; asked a few questions about Wayne’s friends. Something Wayne’s pal, Jermaine, had claimed at the trial, that they’d been out to Silver’s place before and he’d told them come back any time. Did Michaels think there was any truth in that?
Michaels had no bloody idea.
‘Besides,’ Michaels said, ‘what difference if there was?’
None, Malkin told him. None at all.
‘Too bloody right,’ Michaels said. ‘Dead is fucking dead.’
The phone rang and before Will could reach it, Helen had snatched it up. Coat buttoned up against the cold, she had just come in from outside.
‘Lorraine,’ she said, passing the phone swiftly across.
Will’s throat went dry and his stomach performed a double somersault, but all his wife wanted was to remind him to pick up an extra pint of milk on his way home if possible. Will assured her he’d do what he could.
‘No news?’ Helen asked, once he’d set down the phone.
‘No news.’
‘Well, I’ve got something.’
‘You’re not pregnant, too?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
Will stood back and looked her over. ‘You want to get pregnant?’
‘You’re offering?’
He grinned. It was a good grin, took maybe ten years off his age and he knew it. ‘Not today.’
‘Damn!’ Helen smiled back. She liked flirting with him; it was something they did. Somehow it helped them along; kept them, Helen sometimes thought, from ever getting close to the real thing.
‘You want to tell me your news?’ Will said.
‘You know that expanse of water the other side of Ely? Close to the railway line?’
‘I think so.’
‘These kids were out there the day Fraser was killed. Late morning. They’d taken a makeshift toboggan, thinking the water might have frozen over, but it hadn’t. Just a little at the edges maybe, but that’s all. Not worth taking any risks; near the centre it’s pretty deep.’
Will nodded, waiting, perched on the edge of a desk. She’d get to it in her own time.
‘While they were there, the Nottingham train went through. They didn’t know it was that, but I’ve checked. One of the boys swears he saw someone throwing an object from the window between the carriages. Just for a moment, he thought it looked like a gun.’
‘How old? This kid, how old is he?’
‘Nine? Ten?’
‘You think he’s any way reliable?’
‘According to his mother, he’s not the kind to make things up.’
‘Why’s he only come forward now?’
‘Mentioned it to his mum at the time. She didn’t think anything of it till she saw something about the investigation on the local news.’
‘You know what the boss is going to say. Divers don’t come cheap.’
‘Not even if they’re our divers?’
‘Not even then.’
‘Think you can persuade him?’
‘What else have we got?’
‘So far? Diddly-squat.’
‘Why don’t I tell him that?’
‘Instant Tanning’ read the sign in the window. ‘Manicure, Pedicure’ in similar lettering below. ‘Top Notch Beauty Salon’ above the door. Lisa was sitting on the step outside, pink tunic, sandals, tights, smoking a cigarette.
Malkin crossed towards her and as he came close she glanced up and then away.
‘Busy?’ Malkin said.
She looked at him through an arc of smoke. ‘Takin’ the piss, right?’
By appearance she was a mixture of African-Caribbean and Chinese, but her accent was East Midlands through and through, Notts rather than Derby.
‘Lisa?’
‘Yeah?’
Malkin squatted low on his haunches, face close to hers. ‘You used to know Wayne Michaels.’
‘So what if I did?’
‘I’m sorry. About what happened.’
‘Yeah, well. Been and gone now, i’n’t it?’
‘You’ve moved on.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Good.’
Something about his voice made her feel ill at ease. ‘Look, this place.’ She looked up at the sign. ‘It’s what it says it is, you know. Not one of them massage parlours, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Not at all. It’s just, if you’ve got the time, I thought we could talk a bit about Wayne? Maybe his mate, Jermaine? You were friendly with both of them, weren’t you?’
Lisa narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not the police, are you?’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Not some reporter?’
Malkin shook his head. ‘I used to know Wayne’s father a little, that’s what it is.’
‘Him told you ’bout me, I s’pose, were it?’
‘That’s right.’
Lisa lit a new cigarette from the butt of the last. ‘Got a good twenty minutes till my next, why not?’
There was a pair of divers, borrowed for the occasion from the Lincolnshire force, and they struck lucky within the first hour. Will grateful he could assure his boss there’d be no need for overtime. The weapon was a Glock 17, its bulky stock immediately recognisable. Any serial numbers had, of course, been removed. If they begged and pleaded with the technicians, another twenty-four hours should tell them if it was the gun responsible for Arthur Fraser’s death.
Will and Helen were both parked up at the side of the road, a lay-by off the A10, the Ely to Cambridge road. They were sitting in Will’s car, a faint mist beginning to steam up the insides of the windows.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ Will said.
‘Most probably.’ A hint of a smile on Helen’s face.
‘This shooting. Nothing to suggest any kind of fight or quarrel. Nothing personal. Every sign of careful planning: preparation. A single shot to the head with a weapon that’s almost certainly clean. A professional job. It has to be.’
‘Someone hired to make a hit on Fraser?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Then you have to ask why.’
‘And there’s only one answer,’Will said. ‘Sharon Peters.’
Helen nodded. ‘The family, the parents, we should go and talk to them?’
‘Let’s wait,’ Will said. ‘Till tomorrow. Make sure the ballistics match up.’
‘Okay.’
It was warm inside the car. Their arms close but not touching. An articulated lorry went past close enough to
