‘A mistress,’ Wendy said, this time louder than the first. She had seen the distant look in her DCI’s face, realised what the problem was. Of all those in the department, she had known him longer than anyone else, even longer than Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard. Isaac had been in uniform when she had first met him, a lowly constable attempting to make his mark. Back then, he had been irresistible to the women in the station: over six feet tall, black complexion, always immaculately dressed, even in his police uniform. And now, many years later, the looks had not changed, only aged a little and become more distinguished, and now he wore a suit.
Isaac, embarrassed that he had drifted away for a few seconds, refocussed on the meeting. ‘Yes, of course. Do we know who?’
‘It’s another prepaid,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve found out where it was bought, although not a name.’
‘Local?’
‘Paddington.’
‘Wendy, Larry, focus on finding the owner of this phone. Any more you can give us, Bridget?’
‘Not so difficult now with the number. I can tell you where the phone calls to and from the jogger were made.’
‘And?’
‘The dates go back six days. The jogger phoned the number four times, the other end phoned him twice, plus a couple of messages.’
‘We’ll check where the other phone number’s SIM was purchased, and then it’s legwork,’ Larry said. ‘Any more you can give us, Bridget?’
‘The other mobile’s relatively static. I’ve got the SIM provider checking further, but we’re assuming Paddington, and we should be able to narrow it down to two to three streets, maybe a bit more.’
‘That’s still a lot of territory to cover. We’ll be looking forever. Any other phone calls made from the other number?’
‘Only to the jogger, which indicates that Wendy is right. Clandestine lovers indulging in subterfuge.’
‘It got the man killed,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s a good enough motive.’
***
‘Do you know how many SIMS we sell in a day?’ Brent Anderson said. He was standing behind a shop counter at Paddington Station. In front of him, a glass-fronted kiosk had an array of cheap mobile phones. Behind him, hanging on hooks, SIM cards for all of the major mobile phone networks.
‘The phones you’re selling? Fakes or stolen?’ Larry said.
‘I’ve got receipts for all of them. This is a respectable business.’
‘Respectable, I don’t think so,’ Wendy said. She didn’t like the look of the man. He had a great location in the railway station, a lot of passing traffic, yet he stood there with unkempt hair, a one-week beard growth.
‘If I have to close you down, get your stock checked out, I will,’ Larry said.
Anderson looked away, took a puff of a cigarette.
‘No smoking in here,’ Wendy said. ‘Can’t you see the signs.’
‘Is this your store, or are you just an employee?’ Larry asked.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘We came here in a civil manner, showed you our warrant cards. If you don’t want to help, then we’ll call in some people from the station to close you down, check your records.’
Wendy had got to know the previous station master well during another murder enquiry. She knew what he would have thought of the man selling phones. The station master had been a stickler for rules and regulations and for keeping the trains on time, the station modern and efficient. Although in his office it was like stepping back in time, the leather chair where Wendy had sat recovered from a carriage on the last steam train to leave Paddington. Now the trains were slick and fast and clean, Wendy was not nostalgic for their smelly and slow predecessors. She imagined that Anderson would have liked them. Back then everyone smoked, and there were no restrictions.
‘Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you to it,’ Wendy said. She didn’t want to indulge in a slanging match; she was there with Larry for information. Later on, she would make a phone call to the new station master, mention her friendship with the previous incumbent who had since retired. She’d make sure that a smart-arse like Anderson got his comeuppance.
‘How long ago?’ Anderson said with a resigned look on his face.
‘Eight to nine days ago.’
Larry handed over the phone number.
‘It depends whether the person paid cash or not. Male or female?’
‘We can’t be sure.’
Anderson ran through the records on his computer where he had activated the SIM, entering the information into Vodafone’s database. ‘Found it. Christine Hislop, 24 Talbot Square, Paddington. A two-minute walk from here.’
‘It’s also the Fitzroy Hotel,’ Larry said.
‘That’s the address the woman gave.’
‘Do you remember her?’
‘If she was a looker, I might have, but no.’
‘Bogus address?’ Wendy said, not appreciating Anderson’s derisory comment, not that she had expected more of the man.
‘That’s not my concern, is it?’ Anderson replied. ‘I gave you what you wanted. The woman paid cash. Now if you don’t mind.’
‘We do,’ Larry said. ‘If there’s anything more we’ll be back. You’ve got a driving licence, proof of address?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘We’re not saying you have, but if we find the woman, we may ask you to have a look at her photo, let us know if it rings any other bells.’
‘Have it your way,’ Anderson said as he handed over a driving licence, still valid, just, as well as a utility bill, overdue, good address.
‘Your parents’ place?’ Larry asked.
‘Mine and paid for. I got lucky with a
