Ev frowns. ‘You didn’t confront her – tell her the truth?’
‘I was going to,’ says the girl, ‘but Seb said to forget it. That it would be embarrassing to admit I’d been eavesdropping and, in any case, I probably got the wrong end of the stick because kids his age just aren’t that good at lying.’ She makes a grim face. ‘Yeah, right.’
* * *
‘I’m glad I caught you before you left. Someone dropped this in for you earlier. I did call up at the time but you were engaged.’ The woman on the front desk smiles at Asante, not unkindly. ‘I think she was a bit upset to miss you.’
Asante registers the smile but doesn’t return it. He slits open the envelope and drops the contents on to the counter. A comps slip from the adoption service, with a couple of lines from Beth Monroe to say that the enclosed arrived at the office for Emma, and she didn’t know if it might be important. Asante picks it up. It’s a postcard of Verona, with a short message on the back in a big confident hand.
Asante’s detective antennae flare for a moment, only to sag again when he sees from the postmark that it was sent the same day Emma died. All the same, he should probably pass it on to Gallagher’s team. Just for completeness.
‘Thanks,’ he says absent-mindedly as he turns back towards the stairs. When he gets up to the Major Crimes office the only person there is Simon Farrow. Asante taps on the glass and Farrow looks up with a frown, then pushes back his chair and comes over.
‘Yeah, what is it?’ he says, wedging the door open with one foot.
Asante hands him the postcard. ‘This arrived at the adoption service for Emma Smith. It’s clearly personal, though given it was sent to her office, it doesn’t suggest anyone particularly close. But I guess you never know.’
Farrow scans it, then looks up. ‘Probably Amanda Haskell – she’s the woman Smith was seeing.’
Asante raises an eyebrow. ‘Woman? Sorry, I had no idea she was gay.’
Farrow glances up. ‘No, we only just found out too. Haskell came forward – she didn’t see the news before because she’d been away.’ He holds up the card. ‘Which this rather proves.’
‘Sorry – I just thought, you know.’
‘No, no, you were right. I’ll pass it on to DC Carroway. It’ll make a nice change from the assorted loonies, nosey parkers and nutters on the tip line.’
Asante grins. ‘Or forty-eight hours of CCTV.’
Farrow grimaces. ‘If only. If they’d put some sodding cameras on that bridge I wouldn’t be spending my Saturday going squared-eyed at traffic cams. There must be hundreds of bloody Mondeos in this town –’ He stops, flushes a little, realizes he’s said too much.
Asante frowns. ‘You’re looking for Fawley’s car? You’ve ruled out everyone else?’
Farrow looks a little embarrassed. ‘Pretty much. The boss ain’t interested in Hugh Cleland any more, that’s for sure.’
And the boss in question isn’t Gallagher. That’s pretty clear too.
Farrow lets the door go and it starts to close. ‘Thanks for this, anyway.’
‘No problem,’ says Asante. But when the door clicks shut he’s still standing there, his face thoughtful.
* * *
‘So what happened, Zoe? Why did you come all the way from London to talk to us?’
The girl takes a deep breath. She’s put the spoon down but the tea is still untouched.
‘It was that summer. She messaged Seb one Saturday morning saying there was some light bulb or other that needed changing, and she didn’t like going up stepladders, so could he pop round later and do it for her. I think she assumed he’d go on his own – she had a funny look on her face when she saw me on the doorstep and I hadn’t been there five minutes when she turns round and asks me to take Tobin to the pictures.’
Ev sighs. ‘She wanted you out of the house.’
She makes a bitter face. ‘It was Despicable Me. Ironic, huh? So anyway, off we go, leaving Seb there with her, and of course the light bulb is in her bedroom, isn’t it. So he gets up the ladder to change it and when he comes back down she’s standing there in the doorway behind him, all tarted up in stilettos and a red silk number that looked like Ann Summers, but knowing her was probably more like bloody Agent Provocateur.’ She bites her lip, looks away. ‘I mean, what a fucking cliché.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘He laughed.’
‘Ah,’ says Ev. ‘I don’t imagine she took that very well, did she?’
‘No, she bloody well didn’t.’ There’s a harshness in her voice now. ‘She told him he ought to think very carefully because he had precisely three minutes to make a decision and it had better be the right one. She was his supervisor – she could make him or break him. She could get him stuck in some shithole for the rest of his career.’
She picks up her spoon again, starts drawing circles in the droplets of water on the tablecloth.
‘She was going on about how she could offer him so much more than I could. That I was just a stupid little girl who was not only an also-ran in the brains department but probably didn’t have a bloody clue when it came to sex either. Whereas she –’ She stops, takes a breath that buckles into a sob.
‘It’s OK,’ says Ev gently. ‘Take your time.’
She reaches for a napkin, wipes her eyes. ‘Anyway, I’d taken Tobin to the bloody film but we’d only been there about ten minutes when he started screaming the place down and I had to take him home.’
Ev shakes her head. ‘I think I know what’s coming next.’
She gives a fierce nod. ‘Right. I could tell
