She left his office, Adams on her heels, and Zigic watched as he drew her next door into his, obviously planning on softening her up some more.
Or changing the story, he realised. Putting the responsibility and the blame on him for when the shit hit the fan.
Ferreira came into the office without knocking. Saw the look on his face and rapped on the frame. She was smiling. Grinning so wide it must have been painful.
‘I’ve found Nadia Baidoo.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
It was a housing development at the edge of Deeping St James, a couple of decades old, established enough for the trees planted around it to have grown and hints of neglect to emerge here and there. Large detached places at the front, neat rows of terraces designed to look like workers’ cottages further in, buff brick and slate roofs, peaked porches and short driveways edged with flower beds. A nice spot, quiet and self-contained. The kind of place where the neighbours would say hello in passing but not pry too far, Ferreira thought, hoping she was wrong.
The house they wanted was an end-of-terrace tucked away in a corner. There was no car in the driveway, the windows were all semi-shaded by wooden blinds, but the upstairs ones were open and she felt sure that Nadia Baidoo would be in.
Hoped Patrick Sutherland was too.
The desire to confront him was an almost physical thing now, a stirring of adrenaline and indignation through her blood. When she thought of how carefully he’d evaded her questions about Nadia – the pitch-perfect performance he’d given of a man conflicted, scared for his job, unwilling to fully believe the worst of his former colleague.
He’d duped her.
First at Long Fleet and then at Thorpe Wood Station.
She felt owed the pleasure of turning up unexpected at his door to expose him. Wanted to see his face drop.
‘How did he think we wouldn’t find out about Nadia?’ Zigic asked angrily.
Ferreira held her tongue, remembering how dismissive he’d been of her determination to track Nadia down. And maybe she hadn’t anticipated it playing out like this, more concerned for the young woman’s safety than anything else, but if she hadn’t pursued that instinct, they wouldn’t be here now and Patrick Sutherland would still be nothing more than a witness on the periphery of the investigation.
‘Surely someone from Long Fleet knew about them,’ Zigic said.
‘He told me he doesn’t have anything to do with any of them outside work. He lives miles away, so the likelihood of bumping into someone who’d recognise her is minimal.’
‘But still …’
‘I guess he knew he was safe as long as we never had a reason to turn up at his house.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘That’s why he put himself out coming to the station the other evening. He didn’t want us here. I should have seen it.’
‘Nobody could have seen that,’ Zigic said reassuringly.
She knocked on the front door, watching through its small glass panel for movement in the darkened hallway beyond. A figure came out of a room at the back of the house, and they could obviously see her more clearly than she could see them because she slowed and stopped near the foot of the stairs, as if wondering whether not answering was an option.
Ferreira cocked her head to listen for the back door slamming, primed to give chase if necessary.
But finally the figure moved again and the door opened.
Nadia Baidoo. Taller than Ferreira expected from her photograph, almost six foot and willowy despite the baggy T-shirt she was wearing over a pair of leggings. Younger-looking than she expected too. She could have passed for fourteen right then, with her hair wrapped up in a silk scarf and her eyes flicking nervously between them before she settled on Zigic.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’
Her accent was local, vaguely estuary, and Ferreira was momentarily surprised before catching herself. How many times had she snapped at someone for praising her ‘excellent English’ or being surprised by her accent? In her head Nadia had sounded Ghanaian. A stupid and lazy assumption she’d made despite knowing the young woman had come here as a child.
‘Detective Inspector Zigic,’ he said. ‘This is Sergeant Ferreira. Do you think we could come in, please?’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions,’ Ferreira said. ‘I’m sure you’d prefer to do that here rather than …’
Nadia caught her meaning and stepped back to let them in, closed the door and showed them into a large room that went right through the house, sofas at the front, dining table in the middle, kitchen tucked down the back overlooking the garden. There was an unmistakable smell of newness in the room, discernible even under the sharp scent of polish. A mingling of emulsion and new fabric and as they moved to the seating area, Ferreira noticed how plumply perfect the sofa cushions were, as if they had never been sat on before.
Zigic took one end of the sofa, Ferreira the other.
Nadia stood over them, hands clasped in front of her, one foot on top of the other, and she looked so absurdly girlish that Ferreira was glad Patrick Sutherland was out because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her hands off him. Even if they hadn’t met in Long Fleet, if that terrible unequal power dynamic didn’t exist, this relationship would look wrong.
Creepy, she mentally corrected herself.
There was twelve years between Nadia and Sutherland but it might as well have been twenty.
‘Do you want tea or something?’ Nadia asked.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ Ferreira said, showing her an open and neutral face, wanting her to feel like she could talk to them. ‘How are you, Nadia?’
‘I’m okay,’ she said warily, moving to a pale armchair that sat too low to the
