‘So you see why I need Rachel Parkes. Her aunt’s email and those photos are all I’ve got. If those bastards delete them, I’m toast.’
II
The policeman was uncommonly tall and thin, so that he looked disconcertingly like a marionette as he climbed out of his patrol car. And he kept dabbing at his septum with his index finger, as if tickled by allergies.
‘Thanks for getting here so quickly,’ said Walters, shaking him by his hand.
‘Sod all else going on,’ said the policeman. ‘Never is, round here.’ He folded his arms and leaned back against his car. ‘So you’re counterterrorism, right?’
‘We can’t discuss that, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve been thinking of getting a transfer myself, see if I can’t get some proper action. What’s it like with your mob?’
‘I’m sorry. We really can’t discuss it.’
He grunted and reached back inside his car for his cap. ‘So what do you need me for?’ he asked. ‘The governor only told me where to come.’
‘There’s a house we want to look inside. But we can’t have the locals complaining, so we need to show them we’re on the side of the angels.’
‘Mannequin duty, huh. Ah, well.’ He gave the house a gloomy look. ‘So this is part of the great terrorist nexus, eh? Should me and the boys be keeping an eye on it?’
Walters shook his head. ‘It’s information we’re after, not bad guys.’
‘If you say so.’
‘And not a word about this, right? Not to anyone. We’re talking national security here.’
‘So I was told.’
‘Good.’
Walters joined Kieran and Pete by Parkes’ front door. The locks put up little fight. They spread out inside, taking different rooms. The kitchen was clean but cramped, with shabby units and a noisy fridge. Walters peeled himself a satsuma as he flipped through a stack of bills.
‘Two bedrooms,’ said Kieran, appearing at the door. ‘One’s an old biddy’s; the landlady, I assume. The other is Parkes’. Her desk’s set up for a laptop, but there’s no laptop. She must have it with her.’
‘Any other devices?’
‘None that I can find.’
‘Shit. Then what do we do?’
‘They have broadband. I can put an intercept on the router. When she logs on, we’ll piggyback in with her, then hijack her ID and disrupt her connection. She’ll assume it’s a glitch with her router or her machine. By the time she’s turned everything off and on again, the email will be history. She’ll never even know it was there.’
‘How long to set up?’
‘Five minutes. Maybe ten.’
Walters nodded. ‘Then get to it,’ he said.
III
Noxious smells and unnerving clanking noises were coming from beneath the bonnet of Rachel’s Rover as she bunny-hopped along her street. She clutched the steering wheel tight and let out a heartfelt curse. Everything seemed to be going wrong today. The meeting at her brother’s care home had been a near disaster. When you had nothing with which to bargain, you made rash promises instead. Ten grand by the end of the month. How on earth was she to find that? She was already pushing her luck at both her jobs. Her room was as cheap as Cambridge could offer, she’d pared every surplus expense from her life, had nothing left to sell. She could ask Aunt Penelope for help, but her pride revolted at the thought. If Penny’s odious sons found out she’d given Bren any more money, they’d cut her off from her grandkids out of sheer spite. Rachel would never forgive herself if-
A police car was parked outside her house, a gangling officer leaning against it. And she could have sworn she saw movement in the front room, even though Betty was in Ireland for a fortnight. Her heart sank. They couldn’t have been burgled, could they? Not on top of everything else. She parked and hurried across. ‘What is it?’ she asked the policeman. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Do you live here, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why?’
The front door opened and three men came out; plain-clothes officers, presumably. They looked big and purposeful and more than a little mean.
‘This young lady lives here,’ the policeman told them.
The eldest of the three was blond-headed, about forty, wearing an expensive pale-grey suit. When he looked at her, he gave a little double blink that she found strangely unnerving. ‘Rachel Parkes?’ he asked, coming towards her.
‘That’s right. Why? Who are you? What’s going on? Has there been a break-in?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’ He nodded at her front door. ‘Perhaps we could talk inside.’
Something about him and his companions gave her the creeps. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with them. ‘What’s wrong with out here?’ she asked.
‘Very well.’ He touched her shoulder to turn her away from the policeman, then adopted the falsely sombre expression of one about to deliver tragic news.
Her heart plunged. Bren had done it, the thing she’d feared he’d do, too proud to be a burden. ‘My brother,’ she said.
The man shook his head. ‘Your aunt. Penelope Martyn.’
The relief was dizzying; she had to put a hand on the railing to steady herself. Then came a strange mix of grief and guilt and puzzlement. ‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘But why tell me? I’m not her next of kin.’
‘There was a fire,’ he said. ‘We have reason to believe it was set deliberately. Do you know a young man called Luke Hayward?’
‘Luke Hayward?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Why? Was it him?’
‘Let’s just say his name rang some rather loud bells. Let’s just say we’re
‘
‘You’ll appreciate I can’t tell you too much. This is an active murder investigation. But have you checked your email recently?’
The question took her by surprise. ‘No. Why?’
‘Your aunt sent you a message just before she died. It may be nothing. It may be everything. If so …’ He spread his hands to indicate how self-evidently valuable it could prove, then beckoned to one of his companions, a man with gold earrings, glossy black hair and a trimmed black beard. He stepped forwards and opened up a laptop for her, like a waiter with a humidor.
‘You want me to check? Out here?’
‘I did suggest we go inside.’
‘Do you guys have ID?’
The man shook his head. ‘We were off duty when the call came in. All hands to the pump.’
‘Leave me your details. I’ll forward you the email if I find it.’
‘This is a murder enquiry,’ he said. ‘Your aunt’s killer might be getting away
