‘We decided to go and walk some of the food off.’ Damien shrugged as if it was the most natural combination of circumstances in the world. ‘It’s a pretty little village. We like to get away from this noise now and again.’
He was the one to watch, Zigic thought.
‘And there she was,’ Michaela said, some of the malice gone but desperation showing now as she tried to draw them away to another suspect. ‘Ruby Garrick coming out of the enemy’s house.’
‘I take it she’ll be getting a visit as well, will she?’ Damien asked, some defiance coming into his voice. ‘She was eager to get away from Long Fleet this morning. Asked us to give her a lift home.’
‘And she doesn’t have a job she needed to get back to.’ Michaela folded her arms. ‘She lives in that big block of flats near the sewage works. I’m sure she’ll be in.’
It was a desperate ploy, which said more about the Paggetts than the potential guilt of Ruby Garrick, but there was clearly little love lost between them – despite their generosity in giving her a lift – and Zigic wondered what the woman would have to say about these two.
‘Where were you two between 6 p.m. on Saturday August 4th and 1 a.m. Sunday August 5th?’ Ferreira asked.
Zigic hadn’t wanted to get to this just yet, would have preferred to wait until after the post-mortem when they had a more solid time of death, but watching the Paggetts share a momentary look of panic, he was glad Ferreira had put them on the spot.
She had her notebook open, waiting expectantly for them to provide their alibis.
‘We went to a barbecue at a friend’s house,’ Damien said.
‘You two are big fans of charred meat,’ Ferreira said sarcastically. ‘This friend have a name? And other friends who were also there? Just so we don’t think you’re lying.’
An unpleasant look crossed Michaela Paggett’s face and now she looked a harder, nastier woman than she had before. Easy to imagine her cutting her way through barbed-wire fences and slashing tyres and smashing the windows of people she considered enemies of progressive values.
In a reluctant monotone, she read out names and numbers from her phone as Ferreira wrote them down, a dozen people who she claimed could vouch for them from 6 p.m. until the early hours of the next morning. Zigic watched her husband as she spoke, seeing how hard he was working at keeping his face blank, hardly blinking even with the sweat running out of his hair and into his eyes, barely breathing until Ferreira snapped her notebook closed, and then one big breath heaved his chest and he tried to pass it off as a cough.
‘Dusty as hell in here.’
Michaela smiled at them. ‘If there’s anything else we can do …’
‘Oh, we’ll be in touch,’ Ferreira told her, matching the flint in her gaze.
CHAPTER NINE
‘You like them for it?’ Ferreira asked, as he pulled onto the slip road that took them over the motorway and back into the city centre.
‘They’re edgy,’ Zigic said. ‘But they could have a cannabis factory hidden in their barns and they’re worried we’ll be back with a search warrant.’
‘They’re not stoners,’ Ferreira said. ‘There’s not a single possession offence on either of their records. People like that, getting picked up for every other public order breach going, they’ll have had weed on them one time at least.’
‘Alibis seem too good not to be true. You might get a couple of people to lie for you in the first instance but not that many. Not when it’s murder.’
Ferreira murmured what sounded like agreement. ‘He’s the brains, we can agree that at least?’
‘Do you believe them about this Garrick woman and Ainsworth?’
‘He was with someone,’ Ferreira said. ‘But they were too desperate to pass the buck. We should definitely talk to her, right? If she was that eager to get away from Long Fleet just because Parr started nosing around.’
Zigic glanced at the time. Half past four. If they were quick and the traffic was kind to them, they could get to Ruby Garrick before he needed to be back at Thorpe Wood Station for the press statement. He put his foot down and overtook a long line of cars on the parkway, thinking about how often the Paggetts might have been hanging around on the village green and the huge coincidence that they happened to see Josh Ainsworth coming out of his house that one time.
Had they been watching him for a while? It would be easy enough to follow him home when he left work. Why would they do that? For a leaflet campaign or the sake of some nasty fliers? Just so they would know where he was if they ever wanted to get to him?
‘How many of the others knew where Ainsworth lived, do you think?’
‘It’s a small village,’ Ferreira said. ‘If the leaflet campaigns are general, maybe none of the others know but if it is targeted at him, then obviously some of them will.’
‘Unless the Paggetts are responsible for those fliers?’
‘Yeah. But it seems small-time for their records.’
They arrived at the block of flats where Ruby Garrick lived, a recent development overlooking the parkway, sat at the edge of the Eastern Industrial Estate. The view to the south was across the River Nene and to the west it was the greenery of the embankment. It was relatively upmarket, solidly aimed at young professionals when it had been built, and as they got out of the car, he saw suited men and women coming home, early knock-offs but they all looked slightly fried around the edges, one woman walking barefoot across the car park, her high heels in her hand, their day’s punishment suffered and survived.
Zigic wasn’t sure where he’d expected the Long Fleet protestors to live but so far he’d found himself vaguely surprised.
It was stupid to expect them all to live in off-grid eco houses
