She sighs. ‘I still feel bad about it. But I’d never be able to forgive myself if it turned out to be him and I hadn’t said anything.’
‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she says quickly. And then, after a pause, ‘But do pop in if you’re passing the Iffley Road.’
When he puts down the phone a few moments later Asante is smiling.
* * *
‘OK,’ says Baxter, leaning back in his chair and looking up at Quinn. ‘I’ve done a sweep of all the CCTV around Walton Well bridge but I’ve got bugger all to show for it.’
Quinn frowns. ‘I don’t believe it – there must be something –’
Baxter makes a face. ‘Nope. The nearest cameras are on Walton Street. He could easily have got to the bridge and out without passing either of ’em.’
Quinn’s still frowning. ‘You’re absolutely sure there are no cameras on the actual bridge?’
Baxter takes a heavy breath. ‘I do know what I’m doing, you know.’
‘What about Shrivenham Close?’
Baxter shakes his head. ‘Nearest footage is from the ring-road roundabout. I gave up counting the number of dark saloons when I got past sixty. Without a make and model we’re sunk before we start. And that’s assuming he actually went in that direction. There are at least a dozen other ways he could have gone.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ mutters Quinn. ‘No need to rub it in.’
* * *
‘Mr Cleland?’
‘Yes, what do you want?’
The man on the step is wearing a pair of white tailored shorts and a bright-pink striped shirt. The shirt is untucked. Behind him, the building looms, florid, immaculately maintained, and rather larger than strictly necessary. If there was ever a contest for Owner Most Like His House, this bloke would walk it.
Asante holds out his warrant card. ‘DC Anthony Asante,’ he says in his best public-school voice, making sure to pronounce the ‘h’. He finds it helps, in OX2.
The man frowns. ‘Oh yes?’ He glances quickly down the drive and looks relieved to find the Range Rover is still there. ‘What is it?’
‘May I come in? It’s a little complicated.’
The man hesitates, looking Asante up and down, but evidently decides it’s safe to allow him on the premises. It’s probably the Burberry tie. That tends to help too.
The sitting room reminds Asante of his parents’ house in Holland Park. Expensive furniture, framed antique prints, coffee-table books. But there’s an ease about his parents’ place, a naturalness, that he doesn’t sense here. He looks around, trying to figure out why. Perhaps it’s the too-many decanters (Three perhaps, but five? Who needs five?) or the fact that all the prints seem to show people killing things; or perhaps it’s just that everything is a little too tidy, a little too arranged. He can’t picture a kid in here. Out in the garden, there’s a woman sitting under an umbrella on what Cleland no doubt refers to as the ‘terrace’.
‘Is that your wife?’
Cleland frowns again. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Perhaps she could join us? It would save me saying everything twice.’
Cleland’s frown deepens but he doesn’t say anything, just goes over to the French doors.
‘Marianne – come in here for a minute.’
The woman is wearing a turquoise bikini under a white wrap. She has the same prosperous, well-preserved look as her husband, but she’s insect-thin, and he senses a dry brittleness under the make-up and the expensively cut-and-coloured hair. Cleland is standing in the centre of the room now, hands in pockets, filling the space.
‘So what’s this about?’ he says.
‘I believe you’re a client of the council adoption service?’
The woman’s eyes widen and she slides a look at her husband.
‘That’s confidential,’ he says. ‘And none of your bloody business.’
‘I can assure you I know nothing at all about your application, Mr Cleland, or your circumstances. I just know that you were in their offices recently.’
Marianne Cleland sits forward; everything about her seems tentative. ‘If it’s about –’
‘Let me handle this,’ says Cleland. His chin lifts a little. ‘Yes, we were there a couple of weeks ago. Whole operation is a bloody shitshow. You’d think they’d be crying out for people like us, wouldn’t you?’
Asante keeps his expression neutral. ‘What sort of people would that be, sir?’
Cleland flings an arm round. ‘Well, look at this place. What kid in his right mind wouldn’t want what we’ve got to offer?’
Asante opts to take out his notebook by way of response. ‘I believe you saw Ms Smith, is that right?’
Cleland looks irritated. ‘Why bother asking when you clearly know the answer already?’
‘I just need to get things straight, sir. It was Ms Smith, yes?’
‘She was our case worker,’ says the woman. ‘She’s very nice –’
‘Effing incompetent, just like the rest of them,’ snaps Cleland. ‘Look, has there been some sort of complaint or what?’
Asante shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Ms Smith has made no complaint –’
‘Well then –’
‘Ms Smith has been killed.’
The woman gives a little gasp, but even in that moment, her eyes go first to her husband.
Cleland stares at Asante, his face flushing. ‘If you’re bloody suggesting –’
‘I’m suggesting nothing,’ says Asante. ‘I’m asking questions. It’s what happens in a murder inquiry.’
The word drops like an incendiary.
‘Look,’ says Cleland, ‘I don’t know what the hell happened to that woman but we had nothing to do with it. People like us – we don’t go around killing people. Even when –’ He stops, looks away, purses his mouth.
‘Even when?’ says Asante evenly.
Cleland takes a breath. ‘OK, look, you obviously know we had words. It’s why you’re here, right? Well, yes, we did. I don’t have a problem admitting that. She told us we’d been turned down. That we weren’t –’ he hooks his fingers in the air – ‘suitable. Probably didn’t tick enough bleeding-heart liberal boxes, did we. Too rich, too posh, too bloody white.’ He checks himself, reddens, then runs a hand through his hair. ‘I was upset, OK? Annoyed. Anyone would have been, in my position.’
Quite possibly, thinks Asante, but not everyone would have reacted the
