be holding a master class for a group of trainees: talking about the ‘transient physical evidence’ and ‘maintaining the integrity of the crime scene’.
‘What exactly are we looking for, sir?’ a trainee asks.
‘Evidence, son, we’re looking for evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’
‘The past.’ He smooths his latex gloves across his palms. ‘It might only be five days old but it’s still history.’
Outside the light is fading and the temperature is dropping. DI Veronica Cray is standing in the main doorway to the garage, an archway of blackened bricks beneath the railway viaduct. A train rumbles above her head.
She lights a cigarette and inserts the dead match in the book behind the others. It creates a thoughtful pause as she issues instructions to her second in command.
‘I want to know how many people have touched this car since it was found. I want every one of them fingerprinted and discounted.’
The sergeant has steel-rimmed glasses and a flat-top haircut. ‘What exactly are we investigating, boss?’
‘A suspicious death. The Wheeler house is also a crime scene. I want it sealed off and guarded. You might also want to find a decent curry house.’
‘Are you hungry, boss?’
‘Not me, sergeant, but you’re going to be here all night.’
Ruiz is sitting in his Merc with the door open and his eyes closed. I wonder if he finds it hard stepping back from a case like this, now that he’s retired. Surely old instincts must come into play, the desire to solve the crime and restore order. He once told me that the trick with investigating violent crimes was to focus on a suspect, not the victim. I’m the opposite. By knowing the victim I know the suspect.
A murderer isn’t always uniform in his actions. Circumstances and events will alter what he says and does. So will the victim. How did she react under pressure? What did she say?
Christine Wheeler doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who was sexually provocative or likely to draw attention to herself through her appearance and mannerisms. She wore conservative clothes, rarely went out and tended to be self-effacing. Different women present different levels of vulnerability and risk. I need to know these things. By knowing Christine, I am a step closer to knowing whoever killed her.
DI Cray is beside me now, staring into the grease pit.
‘Tell me, Professor, do you always talk your way into police lockups and contaminate important evidence?’
‘No, DI.’
She blows smoke and sniffs twice, glancing across the forecourt to where Ruiz is dozing.
‘Who’s your dance partner?’
‘Vincent Ruiz.’
She blinks at me. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘I shit you not.’
‘How in glory’s name do you know Vincent Ruiz?’
‘He once arrested me.’
‘I can see how that might be tempting.’
She hasn’t taken her eyes off Ruiz.
‘You couldn’t leave this alone.’
‘It wasn’t suicide.’
‘We both saw her jump.’
‘She didn’t do it willingly.’
‘I didn’t see anyone holding a gun to her head. I didn’t see a hand reach out and push her.’
‘A woman like Christine Wheeler doesn’t suddenly decide to take off her clothes and walk out the door holding a sign that says, “HELP ME”.’
The DI stifles a belch as though something I’ve said has disagreed with her. ‘OK. Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. If Mrs Wheeler was being threatened, why didn’t she phone somebody or drive to the nearest police station?’
‘Perhaps she couldn’t.’
‘You think he was in the car with her?’
‘Not if she held up a sign.’
‘So he must have been listening.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I suppose he talked her to her death?’
I don’t answer. Ruiz has climbed out of the Merc and is stretching, rolling his shoulders in lazy circles. He wanders over. The two of them size each other up like roosters in a henhouse.
‘DI Cray, this is Vincent Ruiz.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she says, shaking his hand.
‘Don’t believe half of it.’
‘I don’t.’
He glances at her feet. ‘Are they men’s shoes?’
‘Yep. You got a problem with that?’
‘Not at all. What size you take?’
‘Why?’
‘I might be your size.’
‘You’re not big enough.’
‘Are we talking shoes or something else?’
She smiles. ‘Aren’t you just as cute as French knickers.’
Then she turns to me. ‘I want you in my office first thing in the morning.’
‘I’ve already given a statement.’
‘That’s just the beginning. You’re going to help me understand this because right now it’s beyond my fucking comprehension.’
16
‘What happened to you?’
‘I knelt down in the mud.’
‘Oh.’
Darcy is in the doorway, regarding me with a brief, disarming concern. I take off my shoes and leave them on the back step. Sugar and cinnamon scent the air. Emma is standing on a chair in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand and a chocolate goatee.
‘Don’t play in the mud, Daddy. You’ll get dirty,’ she says seriously, before announcing, ‘I’m making biscuits.’
‘I can see that.’
She’s wearing an oversized apron that reaches her ankles. A pyramid of unwashed dishes sits in the sink.
Darcy brushes past me and joins Emma. There is a bond between them. I almost feel like I’m intruding.
‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘Upstairs doing her homework.’
‘I’m sorry I took so long. Have you all eaten?’
‘I cooked spaghetti.’
Emma nods, pronouncing it ‘pagetti’.
‘You had a few phone calls,’ says Darcy. ‘I took messages. Mr Hamilton the kitchen fitter said he could come next Tuesday. And they’re going to deliver your firewood on Monday.’
