‘We started to, but Vic walks over then, and she’s with this guy?’
‘Guy you knew?’
‘No.’
‘Joss know him?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘You know who he is now?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll be asking you to describe him in a minute, and it better not be like the description you gave of the non- existent fellers who followed the Marinescus out. But let’s not break the flow.’
‘Uh?’
‘Was there anybody else in East Street?’
‘No.’
‘What happens next?’
‘Vic… she puts on these gloves.’
‘Kind of gloves? Black suede? Woollen mittens?’
‘Rubber gloves. Long. That, like, unroll up your arm?’
‘And the guy? He put on gloves too?’
‘I din’t see, to be honest.’
Bliss glanced at Mr Ryan Nye, who was looking down into his hands. Not yet five o’clock, but the light seemed to be fading early today, as if something had sent the year into reverse. Up at the end of the table, Karen was watching the tape machine as if it was a lie detector.
Bliss said, ‘Go on, Carly.’
‘Vic catches up with the… you know, the women, and she’s talking to them? We couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then, it’s like one of them… she just trips? Like, stumbles over? And the bloke’s come out of, like, nowhere, and he catches her.’
‘What was Victoria doing?’
‘Laughing. Just starts laughing real loud, and going like oops, kind of thing. Like the woman was a bit pissed and she’d slipped. And then… they all, like, vanished. That’s all we seen.’
‘Vanished where?’
‘Into this… where people park?’
‘And what did you and Joss do then?’
Carly looked at Mr Nye. Mr Nye didn’t even look up.
‘I think, Inspector,’ he said, ‘that you can understand how intimidating my client must have found Victoria Buckland. Even though she had no reason to believe that Ms Buckland’s intentions extended beyond, shall we say, putting the fear of God into the Marinescu sisters.’
‘Apart from the gloves,’ Bliss said.
Mr Nye said nothing.
‘Carly,’ Bliss said, ‘didn’t you or Joss feel tempted to have a little peep at what – or who – was going down on the car park?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t wanner talk about this no more.’
‘Where were you, exactly?’
‘Just round the side of the building?’
‘And you saw nothing. But you surely heard-’
‘They weren’t even from here!’ Now Carly was jerking up and back like somebody had set light to her clothes. ‘They were bad bitches! They robbed Joss’s gran! The bitches robbed her handbag with all her personal stuff in it and she was so upset she died!’
‘Is that why you took their handbags, Carly?’
‘I never took nothing!’
‘With the pictures of their parents, and the little dog?’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Um, Carly,’ Mr Nye said. ‘You remember what we talked about.’
‘I wish I was dead. I wish I was fucking dead!’
Bliss shook his head, settling back in his chair, watching stupid little Carly Horne come slowly to pieces for the tape.
It was one of those country garages that didn’t sell petrol and didn’t have a shop, looked like a semi-derelict chapel of rest. A bloke in brown overalls seemed to recognize Cornel’s Porsche, came shambling round to his wound-down window.
‘Wannit again, chief?’
‘Same one as before?’
The bloke nodded. Cornel got out his wallet, turned to Jane.
‘This is where we leave the car.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it just is.’
Cornel drove the Porsche round to the back of the garage where an old grey van was parked. When he got out, the garage guy handed him a ring of keys with a wooden tag on the end. Cornel gave him a small fold of notes, then leaned into the Porsche.
‘For you, girlie, the luxury transport is history.’
The sun had gone in. Jane slid out of the Porsche, zipping up her jacket, beginning not to like this again. It had taken them a long time to get here, as if Cornel had been stalling. They’d walked around Leominster and he’d kept wanting to buy her things, like she was his girlfriend now, and she’d kept refusing, while feeling a bit sorry for him. And then they’d gone into a pub, where she’d had one cider and he’d swallowed two pints of bitter, which would probably put him over the limit. He didn’t appear to care.
Now he was around the back of the Porsche, opening up the boot, pulling out a leather bag and a bulked-out rucksack, lugging them back to the van.
‘Get in.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Just get in, eh, Jane? This is necessary.’
It was dark inside the van, which smelled of oil and rust. Cornel clanged the clutch pulling out into the lane. Jane fastened her seat belt. The strap was frayed and flaked with mud.
‘That guy seemed to know you.’
‘That’s because I’ve hired this heap a couple of times before.’
‘What for?’
‘Because a Porsche can be a bit obvious?’
‘Oh. Right.’
Jane supposed it would, at a cockfight.
‘So we’re going there now?’
‘Wait till dark.’
‘But…’ Oh God. ‘You mean we’re actually going to a…?’
‘That bother you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Thought you wanted evidence.’
‘Erm…’
OK, nailing Savitch would be the best thing she’d ever done in her life. And there might be a few other people there she could identify, maybe even sneak some pictures of them on the mobile, shot from the hip. But what if anybody recognized her? No secret in Ledwardine where she stood on these issues.
Jane watched Cornel wrestling with the steering. He was driving without a seat belt. She’d felt sorry for him a couple of times and, OK, she was grateful that he was actually going to help her, but that didn’t mean she could
