She closed her eyes and conjured up the scene. ‘He folded it, carefully, and put it in his overalls’ pocket. Then he got on with his work… He seemed angry, he’d been less patient recently anyway. So I left him to it. That was the last time… the last time I…’
‘Yes.’ Stubbs closed his notebook. They smiled at her stupidly. ‘We must get on with the search. We’re confident he’s out there.’
She smiled for the first time. A travesty of hope dispelling certainty. She looked at Dryden with glazed eyes and a whisper of recognition clouded them further.
Camm showed them out and turned the sign on the glass front door to CLOSED.
Dryden fell in beside Stubbs, catching a brief whiff of Old Spice on the breeze.
Out of earshot Dryden asked the obvious question. ‘When are you going to let them identify the body?’
‘This afternoon. They only called us last night. We’ll finish a search, and check the bank account to make sure he isn’t a runner. No point putting them through it if he’s done a bunk with a dolly bird to Benidorm. But it’s him, got to be. He’s the Lark victim. Hair’s right, age – if he’s her generation – lifestyle, clothes. The lot.’
Stubbs nodded at Dryden’s wound. ‘And the ear?’
‘Details later.’
Stubbs stopped but Dryden continued to walk. ‘Withholding evidence is a criminal offence, Dryden. We could continue this conversation at the nick.’
Dryden turned. ‘I don’t think so. No photofit story. And you won’t get anything out of me until Friday, when
The day was stillborn, killed by the gloom of the snow-clouds.
Stubbs turned on him, the merest hint of a bead of sweat at his temple: ‘You’ve got no right shadowing a police investigation like this. Or for that matter withholding vital evidence.’
‘You’ve got no right expecting the press to print misleading statements about the progress of your inquiries.’
They walked in uncomfortable silence the mile along the quayside to the Cutter Inn. It was still only 9.30 and the riverside walk, a lively spot in summer, was deserted.
‘I thought this was out at Barham Dock.’
Dryden stopped pouring milk into coffee mugs. ‘How d’you know that…?’
Stubbs shrugged. They sat either side of the galley table. Dryden felt happier on home ground. ‘Where’s the file?’
The detective sergeant teased at the starched white collar of his shirt. ‘I want the story on the photofit in tomorrow’s paper, giving the clear impression that we have a decent ID of the driver of the car found in the Lark.’
Dryden nodded.
But Stubbs wanted more. ‘You can also mention that we are poised to make an arrest in the case. An arrest that will bring us close to finding the Lark killer.’
Dryden considered this unlikely development. ‘An arrest which will help impress the disciplinary tribunal even further?’
Stubbs studied a packet of extra-strong mints. ‘You don’t need to know any more.’
‘No details? Timing?’
‘You could speculate that it is a development linked to a painstaking forensic examination of the Nissan Spectre pulled out of the Lark. It could take place as early as this evening.’
Dryden didn’t believe for a moment that Stubbs was close to finding the killer. ‘I’ll print the story. And you can have everything I know about the Crossways – information which will get you very close to the real killer. But first I want the file. Have you got it?’
Dryden produced a paper bag from his pocket and sprinkled the remaining wine gums on the table top. Selecting one he sucked it noisily.
‘The file is classified. I’ve requested it. It takes time – twenty-four hours.’
Dryden would have to trust him. It meant he would have to print the story first, but he still had plenty to bargain with if Stubbs tried to welsh on the deal.
A river agency boat sped past, its wake rocking them. They listened in silence to the sound of its engines fading.
‘Talk to your father much?’
Stubbs stiffened and slipped a mint between dry lips. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning your father may have planted Tommy Shepherd’s prints. Which must have been a bit tricky when Tommy got in touch offering to shop the gang. Can’t have been a pleasant prospect, can it? Tommy Shepherd as star witness for the prosecution but claiming he was never at the scene of the crime.’
‘So how did he know who was there?’
‘My guess is he was asked to join them. May even have been in on the planning – but then something better turned up.’ He pictured Liz Barnett on a carefree beach and Tommy’s winning horses crossing the line at Newmarket.
Stubbs neatly folded the silver paper over the top of the tube of mints and returned it to his pocket. The
