‘Did you say Ben Western?’ The officer coughed out the name with a sneer. He glanced back in the direction of Cornish. ‘Are you winding me up?’
‘Sorry?’ Holm tried to be polite. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘You might say so.’ For a moment it looked as if the officer would snap at Holm again, but then he sighed. ‘I think you’d better go and have another word with Detective Chief Superintendent Cornish. Tell her your crime is the Western misper case.’
‘That’s it?’ Holm waited for some clarification but the officer managed barely a nod before he turned away.
‘Helpful, this lot,’ Javed said as the officer walked off.
Silva headed for London on Monday and, thanks to light traffic on the motorway, made the journey in a little under three and a half hours. Sean was staying in a large house bordering Wimbledon Common; with the security gates and cameras the place could have been the residence of a Russian oligarch. However, the man who let her in and showed her where to park in the subterranean garage spoke English with an American accent.
‘Got a flat of my own here,’ Sean said when he met her in the reception area and took her upstairs. He gave Silva a smile. ‘Saves on expensive hotel rooms.’
Sean pushed open the door to his flat and showed her through to a luxuriously furnished living room. A balcony with French windows offered a fine view over Wimbledon Common, but the place felt like the serviced apartment it was: anodyne pictures of sandy beaches and sunsets, a few knick-knacks, plain linen. Nice enough, but impersonal.
‘Don’t you get tired of this?’ Silva said. ‘Not having anywhere to call home?’
‘I’ve got a place back in Maine.’
‘It’s rented out.’
‘And you live on an old boat.’
‘The difference is it’s my boat with my things.’
‘Goes with the territory. I’ll settle down eventually. Couple of kids. Little League. Barbecues. Wash the car on the weekend. Not ready for that just yet though.’
‘Tonight,’ Silva said. ‘Why the secrecy?’
‘I’m a secret agent, remember? Besides, don’t you like surprises?’
Silva didn’t respond. Surprises were nice when they came packaged in paper and wrapped in ribbons. Handed over with love. Not when they were buried in a muddy track and ripped someone’s legs from their body. Not when they took away a loved one.
She dumped her panniers by the door and strolled over to where the French windows stood open. She looked out across the common, aware that just a few miles to the north east, Neil Milligan was probably sitting behind his desk at Third Eye News, while to the south of London, Matthew Fairchild was likely working in his office. She thought about Milligan’s slippery evasiveness and contrasted that with Fairchild’s steely resolve. Wondered what her next move should be.
‘Tea?’ Sean was across one side of the room by a small open-plan kitchen area. He’d made an effort, Silva could see. There was a plate of pastries, some fresh bread and a selection of cheeses. ‘There’s a buffet tonight, but I thought you might be hungry after the journey.’
‘Great,’ she said.
She moved from the window, determined to put Milligan, Fairchild, and Hope to the back of her mind for the rest of the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Cornish was standing near a white forensic shelter a good way across the heath, so Holm and Javed had to plough through the heather. As they approached, she looked up, her face quizzical.
‘You’re back,’ she said.
‘The Western missing person case,’ Holm said. ‘Our crime, apparently.’
‘What?’ Cornish scowled. ‘Ben Western’s got nothing to do with animal rights.’
‘You look as surprised as your officer did.’
‘What the hell’s going on here, Stephen?’ Cornish was spitting angry. Holm hadn’t remembered her as having a temper, but perhaps that was what you needed to get on these days. Perhaps that was why he was stuck in a cupboard back at JTAC, pushing sixty, with nothing much to look forward to but a meagre pension and a cold empty flat.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’d better fill us in on who this Western fellow is.’
‘Was – he’s dead.’ Cornish jabbed a finger at Holm, the anger back. ‘And yet you don’t know who the hell he is?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Holm felt a tingle on the back of his right hand. He balled his fist to conceal his excitement. ‘Maybe you could start at the beginning?’
‘No, let’s start in here.’ Cornish lifted the flap on the forensic tent. ‘I hope all that paper-pushing analysis work for JTAC hasn’t weakened your stomach. Mind you, it’s not as bad as the Teddington girl.’
Holm ducked at the entrance and followed Cornish inside.
‘Shit.’ He turned away for a moment and swallowed. ‘What did you say about this being no worse than the Teddington girl?’
The man lay on his side, his face towards them. There was a large area of scorched heather surrounding the head and upper torso. The fire had consumed the hair, and the face was seared like a rasher of bacon left too long in the frying pan. The lips had burned back revealing white teeth and blackened bone, and the eye sockets were dark holes surrounded by carbonised flesh. Farther down, where the fire hadn’t reached, the clothing hung loose. As Holm looked closer he could see a rippling as something moved beneath the material. Maggots, Holm thought, eating the parts of the body that hadn’t been fried to a hard crust.
Outside, Javed had been trying to peer into the tent and the fact he’d disappeared a few seconds later suggested to Holm the boy had seen more than he wanted to. Lightweight.
‘Is this Ben Western?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘What does the expert from London think?’
‘Very funny.’ Holm shook his head but moved closer. He bent and examined the heather. He’d seen this before. ‘There was an accelerant. He fell into the flames and burned alive.’
‘Could be.’ Cornish pulled something from her pocket. A phone. She flicked her fingers across the screen. ‘Here. This was the scene before
