But he’d quickly learned that there were unofficial routes to everything in a prison. The library had space; they ran a couple of book groups already. Maybe he could get something going. He’d have to think carefully what to call it. Admitting you couldn’t read or write was one of the handful of things that was still shaming. Because it was something that anybody could do, wasn’t it? Kids could do it. Fuckwits could do it. Screws could do it. And in prison, no one ever chose to look vulnerable.
It had to be something with no challenge in it. He couldn’t call it ‘How to be a dad’ because that would suggest they didn’t know how to be dads, which was tantamount to saying they didn’t know how to be men. ‘Reading with your kids’? Or maybe, ‘Books to share with your kids’? That was more like it. Suggestions rather than instructions.
Tony didn’t know much about teaching people to read. But he did have some experience of teaching. And if they started with basic alphabet books, how hard could it be? The prison library probably didn’t have anything like that. But he had a publisher. And he had a phone card.
And now he had a purpose.
37
In crime fiction, the culprit is generally the least likely person. In real life, the opposite holds true. Usually, it’s the most obvious person.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Because half past five would come round far too soon. Elinor had opted for the spare room, so Paula was able to privilege speed over stealth. Hand slapped on the phone to turn off the alarm, quick burst of a shower, towel dry and into today’s maroon polo neck under the grey suit from Hobbs’ sale. She was downstairs and ready to roll twenty minutes later, staring out of the window at the street, orange juice in hand, wishing she hadn’t given up smoking. Oh, for that first hit of the day, the blessed nicotine hitting the bloodstream and snapping the synapses to attention.
Right on cue, a black BMW nosed into sight and Karim double-parked outside her front door. Paula was down the path and in the passenger seat inside a minute. A bacon roll in a paper bag sat on the dashboard, a halo of condensation around it on the windscreen. A carton of coffee in the cupholder, a wisp of steam escaping from the slit in the lid. ‘Full marks for obeying one set of instructions,’ she said, reaching for the sandwich and checking for brown sauce. ‘But you’re not out of my personal doghouse yet. I was nearly worried about you.’
‘Worried?’ He pulled away.
‘Well, it turns out you’d been interviewing someone accused of a series of murders. And you were off the radar.’ She bit into the roll. ‘Mmm. That’s magnificent. You should have got one for yourself.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, the classic muzza breakfast. What, you thought he’d topped me?’
Chew. Swallow. ‘Not really. On reflection, I thought you were probably being a lazy git who wanted to get back to his sexy new girlfriend before she went off the boil.’
Karim scowled. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend right now.’
‘No excuse, then.’
‘So what did the lawnmower say?’
‘The lawnmower?’ For a moment, Paula was lost. Then the penny dropped with a clatter. ‘The groundsman.’ Between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of bread and crispy bacon, she ran through the interview with Jezza Martinu.
‘You believe him?’ Karim asked when she’d done.
‘I definitely believe it wasn’t Martinu who killed them. But I’m not a hundred per cent that he’s giving us the whole story. What’s he like, this priest?’
‘Irish. Looks like he hasn’t had a square meal in months. A bit full of himself. Not used to being questioned. Got really snippy when I suggested it was hard to believe he didn’t know what was going on with the nuns. And then he decided he’d had enough and he just walked out.’ He gave a sharp sigh. ‘What would you have done, boss?’
What would she have done? It wouldn’t help to say she wouldn’t have let it get to that point in the first place. ‘It’s a tough call but I’d probably have waited him out. He’d have to come back eventually.’
‘You’d just have sat there?’
‘Yes. Because my mindset is that it isn’t over till I say it’s over.’
They drove in glum silence for a few minutes. Then Karim said, ‘I’ve got a lot to learn, right?’
‘Yeah. But knowing that is half the battle.’
There was no sign of activity in the priest’s house. Upstairs and downstairs, in one room apiece, curtains were drawn. ‘Nice gaff,’ Paula said. ‘They do all right in spite of the theoretical poverty.’
She rang the bell, stepped back and waited. Nothing. Not even a twitch of the curtain. Another ring, more nothing. She nodded at Karim and indicated the knocker. He grinned and banged it as hard as he could three times. ‘I hope he hasn’t done one,’ Karim muttered, hammering the knocker again.
This time, the door opened on the chain. One bleary eye and a section of unshaven chin appeared in the gap. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning?’ Pissed off, rather than worried, Paula thought. She stepped forward. ‘And who are you?’
‘I am Detective Inspector McIntyre of the Regional Major Incident Team. Open the door, please, sir.’
‘Why should I? I said all I had to say to your . . . your colleague yesterday. This is outrageous. I was
