the middle like you’d do if you just needed a scrap. It’s from a Basildon Bond writing pad — like this one,’ said Trave, taking an unused pad out of his drawer. ‘And look — each sheet comes off really easily from the top as you get to it in the pad. It’s more difficult to tear it than it is to pull it off whole. You try.’
Clayton had to agree. The perforation made it hard to tear a sheet — any pressure and the whole sheet came away in his hand. You could only get a torn sheet like the one the note was written on by covering the top of the sheet with one hand and then tearing with the other, and even then it was awkward.
‘What about if you tear out one of the sheets from the middle of the pad?’ Clayton asked, experimenting with one.
‘I’ve tried that — you can’t keep any of the very top of the page because of the sheets on top. It tears lower down. Look.’
Trave was right. The whole top edge of the sheet had stayed inside the pad.
‘All right, so either Ethan tore it from the top deliberately, which I agree is unlikely, or he used a piece of paper that had already been taken out of the pad. In fact, he must have done it that way,’ said Clayton, warming to his theme. ‘He wouldn’t have taken the note with him since he was hoping to find Swain at home, but then, when Swain didn’t answer, Ethan took this piece of paper that he already had out of his pocket and used it to write the note. That’s what happened,’ said Clayton, looking entirely satisfied with his explanation.
‘But why would he then tear a strip of paper off the top?’ asked Trave, unconvinced.
‘I don’t know. Maybe he started the note one way and then changed his mind.’
‘Or maybe someone else changed his mind for him,’ said Trave.
Clayton knitted his brows, thinking. He had to agree — the note was certainly odd. Like Trave had said before: Why would Ethan leave an urgent note for a person he didn’t know, a person who hated him, immediately after he’d just got back from a trip to Europe? But then again that was life: not everything was always going to make perfect sense, and the note didn’t change the fact that Swain had been caught almost red-handed standing over the body of the man whom, by his own admission, he hated above all others in the world. Just like he’d been in Katya’s bedroom with a gun two nights ago and she’d ended up with a bullet in her head. Clayton knew it was Swain they should be concentrating on, and yet they hadn’t talked about the hunt for him once since Trave had come in. Perhaps Trave was coming to that or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps Macrae was right — maybe Trave wasn’t the right person to be running this particular murder enquiry.
Clayton shuddered involuntarily, thinking of Macrae, and suddenly there Macrae was again, framed in the doorway with a smug smile drawn across his pale face.
‘Sorry to interrupt your little tete-a-tete, Bill,’ he said, not looking as if he was sorry at all. ‘But Creswell wants to see you in his office — now.’
‘Thanks, Hugh. Be right along,’ said Trave, raising his hand in friendly acknowledgement. ‘Toad,’ he added under his breath once Macrae had gone, as he put on his jacket and straightened his tie.
‘Did you know Inspector Macrae before he came here?’ asked Clayton curiously. Macrae’s earlier reference to Trave’s work methods had not escaped his attention.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Trave ambiguously. And he left the room before Clayton could ask him any more about the station’s new inspector.
Looking up for a moment, Detective Superintendent Creswell waved Trave to the seat opposite his desk and then went back to the letter he was writing. Trave wasn’t offended: he knew Creswell wasn’t intending to be rude; it was simply that the superintendent was a methodical, orderly man who liked to finish one task before he started another. As Creswell’s pen moved steadily across the page, Trave glanced around the room, taking in the hat and coat hanging on a stand behind the door; the framed certificates and awards charting Creswell’s steady rise up the ladder of promotion; a photograph of the superintendent in dress uniform standing next to the Queen Mother when she’d visited the station five years before; and, on the desk, a studio portrait of Mrs Creswell, a statuesque, philanthropic lady popularly known as ‘the dragon’, who insisted on having her husband home by six o’clock every night and 5.30 on Fridays. Creswell had been a thorough but unimaginative detective for most of his life, and now he was an excellent administrator who trusted his officers to get on with their work and didn’t interfere unless he had to. And when he thought about it, which wasn’t very often, Trave was sorry that Creswell would soon be retiring since it seemed highly unlikely that he would get a more decent, supportive boss than the one he had at present.
‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ said Creswell, looking up. ‘Endless paperwork — that’s all my life seems to be these days. Makes me nostalgic for my detective days — out on the job, asking awkward questions, making breakthroughs.’
Trave smiled. He thought it improbable that the superintendent had any wish to go back in time and start getting his hands dirty with criminals and lowlifes again, but he appreciated the friendly intent behind his boss’s words.
‘You wanted to see me about something?’ he asked.
‘Yes, this Osman case. You’d better fill me in on what’s been happening.’
‘No breakthroughs yet, I’m afraid. But we’re working hard. We’re following up every lead, and we’ve got Swain’s photograph out everywhere — it shouldn’t be too long before we pick him up.’
‘Where do you think he’s hiding?’
‘Well, he’s not with Earle because he was alone when he went to his mother’s. My guess is he’s not too far. We found his stepfather’s car at the railway station, but he already tried to trick us that he took the train to London on the morning after the murder, and I don’t see him running the risk of public transport now after all the press coverage. He’s not stupid.’
‘Maybe not, but he’s certainly dangerous, waving this gun of his around, threatening to shoot people. The switchboard’s jammed with terrified old ladies convinced he’s hiding in their garden sheds. It’s unbelievable that two of them could escape like that. I don’t know what kind of outfit the governor thinks he’s running over there — Oxford’s supposed to be a high-security prison.’
‘They had help, sir. How much I don’t know yet, but someone definitely threw rope ladders over the outside wall, and there was a getaway car. There are no descriptions because it was dark and they were too quick, but Earle had quite a few visits in the last month and there might be a connection. The prison says that Earle’s visitor was the same man each time. You have to show ID at the gate, and he gave them his driver’s licence. Had the name Macmillan on it apparently.’
‘What? Like the Prime Minister?’ asked Creswell, laughing.
‘Yes,’ said Trave with a smile, ‘although this was Robert Macmillan, not Harold. And there was an address in Headington. But surprise, surprise, it turns out that there’s no Robert Macmillan who’s ever lived there, let alone applied for a driving licence.’
‘What about what he looked like? Can’t they give you any help on that?’
‘Not much. They get a lot of people through there for visits. Best they can come up with is average height, average build, in his thirties or forties, with a black beard. They’re positive about the beard, but it may well be false, of course.’
‘Like the driver’s licence.’ Creswell paused, tapping his pen on his desk. He looked uncomfortable, as if he had something to say but was having difficulty finding the right words to say it. Trave was surprised. Creswell was usually direct, even outspoken — it was something Trave had always liked about his boss.
‘I wonder if it might be better if you had some help with this, Bill,’ he began eventually in a tentative voice, keeping his eyes on his pen. ‘Inspector Macrae…’
‘Hugh Macrae and I wouldn’t work well together, sir,’ said Trave, interrupting. ‘I don’t like his methods and he doesn’t like mine.’ Trave wasn’t surprised that Macrae was trying to interfere — he was ambitious, desperate to get his name linked with any big case that came along, and the best way to stop him was to head him off at the pass by taking a firm line with Creswell.
‘He came well recommended on his transfer,’ said the superintendent defensively. ‘The problem you had with him is a long time ago now. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.’
‘People don’t change,’ said Trave stolidly.
‘Well, they’ve got to be given the chance,’ said Creswell. ‘Hugh Macrae gets results. You can’t deny him that.’
‘That doesn’t mean they’re the right ones,’ said Trave. ‘Remember what happened before.’
