‘Bland, neat, tidy. My mum would love him. He’s got a cupboard full of DVDs and not a single porno that I could see. A lot of football, a lot of blockbuster action movies. Nothing that would make you go, “Hmm, that’s a bit shonky.”’ Karim swigged from his can of Coke. ‘There was one thing, though. One of the BMP guys told me about it.’
‘Don’t keep us in suspense, then,’ Steve cut in. ‘We’re not coming up to the ad break in a cop show, for fuck’s sake.’
Karim flushed. ‘There’s another car in the garage. Conway’s got a Porsche four-by-four, which he’s presumably driving around in. But there’s this other one—’
‘Is it a black Skoda Octavia estate?’ Stacey interrupted.
Karim was thunderstruck. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t. But I’ve been ANPR-tracking a black Skoda Octavia that’s registered to Jerome Martinu. What’s the index number?’
While Karim consulted his notebook, Paula said, ‘Why?’
Stacey shrugged. ‘I wondered whether Martinu might actually be the killer after all. And if so, he’d likely need another vehicle. So I checked the DVLA records and found the Skoda registered to him.’
‘More Martinu’s kind of wheels than Conway’s,’ Alvin said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe another attempt to throw sand in our eyes.’
Karim showed the number in his notebook to Stacey. ‘That it?’
She nodded. ‘The same.’
‘You said you’d been ANPR-tracking it. Has it done anything interesting?’ Paula asked.
Stacey nodded again. ‘Every few weeks, it shows up coming into the centre of Bradfield. It’s not coming in directly from the Bradesden direction. It’s the way you’d come in from Conway’s house, over the Harriestown bridge. It crosses town towards Temple Fields then parks in the Pay and Display behind Uniqlo. Then a couple of hours later, it heads back out of town the way it came.’
‘Any visuals?’
‘I’ve pulled some images but I’ve not had a chance to look at them yet. I could use another pair of eyes, there’s a lot of stuff.’
‘Karim, get stuck in as soon as we’re done here. Well done, picking up on the strange car. And brilliant work, Stacey.’ Paula grinned. ‘Next time, maybe give me a hint? Have forensics had a look at it yet, Karim? Can you chase that? We need to establish who’s been driving it. And if there’s any trace DNA that matches our victims.’
‘I’m on it, guv.’
‘This is all starting to look a lot stronger,’ Paula said. ‘But we’ve got a way to go before we can be confident about a result. The most important thing is to find Mark Conway. We got lucky with the relatively isolated nature of the house and the fact that we were able to tuck the vehicles out of sight round the back during the search. Amazingly there seems to be nothing so far on social media. And the one advantage in us not getting the warrant for the office is that they’ve not been alerted to our interest. Sophie, can you make some discreet inquiries? I presume you know people inside the organisation?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ It was a less than convincing response, but they were of equal rank, so Paula felt obliged not to call her on the lack of enthusiasm in front of the team.
She stood up, signalling they were done. ‘I’m heading back out to Conway’s place now. In case he comes back tonight, I want one of us there alongside the BMP team. Karim, Stacey – don’t stay too late working the ANPR images. Alvin, Steve – go home and get some sleep. I want you with me at Conway’s house by seven tomorrow.’ She raised an inquiring eyebrow at Sophie. ‘You’ll let us know if there’s anything we should know from the Incident Room? And Conway’s people?’
‘Of course.’ Sophie stood too, meeting Paula’s eyes. ‘I know where my loyalties lie.’
And that’s what makes me uneasy. Paula smiled and walked away. She was almost beginning to like Sophie. She really hoped that wasn’t going to prove a mistake.
61
We never work with certainties. It’s always ‘on the balance of probabilities’ with us . . .
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
The news of Carol’s discoveries would have kept till morning, but she wanted to keep herself clear next day in case Tony recovered consciousness and she could see him. So she texted Bronwen Scott from outside Cap Scarlett’s flat. Need to meet tonight. Have new info. Where and when?
The reply came when she was only a hundred metres further down the street. Mine. Soon as you like. Followed by an address less than ten minutes’ walk away. Bronwen Scott lived on the sixth floor of a converted Georgian mill that had once housed hundreds of looms producing miles of cotton and linen cloth. It had been converted to flats a dozen years before, establishing itself from the start as prime real estate in the city centre.
Carol stepped out of the faux-industrial lift into a hallway with brick walls and lustrous wide floorboards. Halfway down, Bronwen stood leaning casually in the doorway, dressed for an evening at home – bare feet, denim jeggings, a baggy pin-striped granddad shirt. ‘Thanks for coming over,’ she said as Carol approached. She moved in for a formal half-hug and air kiss. Taken aback, Carol stiffened momentarily then forced herself to respond.
‘I knew you’d want to hear what I’ve found out as soon as possible.’
Bronwen led the way into a living room like a feminine take on a gentlemen’s club. Leather and wood, but soft leather upholstery instead of the buttoned and stuffed kind. The wood was pale oak, rich grain buffed to a warm glow. Bookshelves lined one wall, their spines brightly coloured and modern rather than ancient leather-bound volumes. There were a couple of sculptures in bronze of women apparently in conversation on a bench. A low table in
