Morton dialledSoraya Benton’s mobile. She picked up straight away.
‘Hi, it’sMorton Farrier here.’
‘Oh hi,Morton. How are you?’
‘Fine thanks,’he answered, before quickly pushing on from the pleasantries. ‘I’ve gotsome questions about Peter’s family.’
‘Sure, fireaway,’ she answered.
‘I was justwondering if you knew anything about Peter’s mum’s death.’
There was ashort pause. ‘Well, it was way before my time. Peter said it was ahouse fire, I think. He was at school when it happened and his dad wasout somewhere. That’s about all I know.’
‘Do youremember what the cause was?’
‘I think it wasan electrical fault or gas maybe. Why do you ask?’
‘I was justwondering, that’s all. Trying to tie up loose ends. Explore allavenues, that sort of thing.’
‘You don’tsuspect foul play, do you?’ she said incredulously.
‘No,’ Mortonreplied, unconvinced by his own answer.
The front doorslammed shut and Juliette called out his name. She sounded worried. He covered the receiver and called down to her. ‘I’m on the phone. One second.’ Then back to Soraya. ‘I’m just looking under everyrock. I’ve got to go, thanks for your help. I’ll get back toyou.’ He ended the call just as Juliette bounded into the room, red-facedand slightly out of breath. Her damp hair was pulled up in a ponytailover a translucent-grey tide-line of sweat on her t-shirt. She was worried.
‘What’s thematter?’
She inhaledsharply. ‘We’re being watched.’
‘What?’
‘We’re beingwatched. There’s a guy at the top of St Mary’s Church with a pair ofbinoculars,’ she said, moving towards the lounge window. Morton followed andstared up through the nets to a dark blurred outline on top of the churchtower. ‘I’m going to call it in, get him picked up.’ Juliettepressed some buttons on her mobile.
‘Wait,’ Mortonsaid. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? He might be a lead.’
‘Well he’sgone, for one thing,’ Morton said. ‘For another thing, what would youhave him charged with exactly? Carrying a pair of binoculars?’
Juliette lookedup to the empty church tower and folded away her phone. ‘I don’t likethis, Morton.’ She had regained her breath and placed her hands on herhips the way she did when she wanted to exert her PCSO authority. ‘Youneed to start trusting the police. This is getting out of hand, Morton.’
‘How do youknow he’s not just another tourist?’ Morton asked. There were alwayspeople up there with cameras and binoculars taking advantage of the sweepingvista out to the coast. Maybe she was just being paranoid.
‘How manytourists with secret service style ear-pieces and top-of-the-range binocularstrained on our house have you encountered before?’ It wasn’t a rhetoricalquestion. ‘Hmm?’
None, he wasforced to admit.
Chapter Seven
Monday
The skies were ominously dark as Mortonwalked the short distance from his car to Ashford Library on Church Road. After discovering that he was being watched yesterday, Morton was on highalert. He had checked his rear-view mirrors like he hadn’t done since hehad taken his driving test aged seventeen. On his way to the library he’dtaken random and sudden turnings in an attempt to throw off any potentialchasers, though what good it would do him if someone really wanted to stalk himhe wasn’t sure. He was as confident as he could be that he hadn’t broughtany nefarious followers with him as he entered the library. If he hadbeen followed, then his pursuers would just have to take a book down to thebean-bag-thronged ‘Chillax Zone’ and wait for him, evidently a place favouredby the bizarre combination of foreign students and tramps. The new-looklibrary even boasted a Costa Coffee concession with the caveat that food anddrink could only be consumed within the Chillax Zone, so Morton resisted theurge to grab a large latte and instead took a vacant table in the ReadingRoom. He looked around the quiet tables: he was safe; his neighbours werea group of old men too tight to buy their own newspapers, grunting and makingcomment on the day’s headlines.
In the name ofreserving his seat in this surprising hive of activity, he placed his briefcasecontaining a notepad and pen down on the table and approached the customerservice desk. Behind the counter, a rotund teenaged girl was taking aninordinate amount of pleasure spinning a skinny purple-haired youth with tightblack jeans on a swivel chair. Neither were in any hurry to serve him.
‘Can I helpyou?’ the girl said acerbically, bringing the chair to an abrupt halt.
‘Only if youcan spare the time,’ Morton said, biting his tongue. ‘I’d like to see anynewspapers which cover the Tenterden area for 1987.’
‘KentishExpress, Kent Gazette, Sussex Express or TenterdenTimes?’ the girl said, rattling the titles off like she was on speed.
‘TenterdenTimes,’ Morton answered, plumping for what seemed the most likely. The other papers sounded too general.
‘You want thewhole year?’ she asked incredulously.
‘I’m not sure,’Morton said, ‘I’m looking for a particular story. Can I start withDecember and work my way backwards?’
‘Whatever,’ shesaid with a shrug. She waddled through a door behind the desk, leavingthe skinny lad staring at Morton like a wide-eyed baby. Moments later shereturned, struggling to squeeze herself and two string-bound parcels ofnewspapers through the door.
‘Gi's an hand,Zane,’ she asked, and he went to her rescue, taking one of the bundles anddumping it on the counter in front of Morton. The two packages werelabelled ‘November’ and ‘December’.
Mortonreluctantly muttered his thanks and carried the stacks over to his desk. He sat down, carefully removed the string wrapping and plucked the final TenterdenTimes of 1987 from the pile and began to skip through the paper. He wondered how much of
