time when knife crimes were headline news, with every attack splashed across the front pages providing further embarrassment to a Home Office already under considerable pressure to halt the rise in street crime.
Harry had rung Dempsey’s, the letting agent responsible for handling South Acres. When he came off the phone, he was even more confused.
‘South Acres is being renovated and is no longer on the market. The previous tenants checked out two days ago.’
Rik’s mouth curled. ‘I’ll say — and no forwarding address.’
‘The keys were dropped off and everything’s above board.’
‘No way. What about the bodies?’
Harry looked sombre. ‘I’m guessing there weren’t any. They’re probably buried in the woods somewhere. I smell men in suits.’
‘What do you mean?’ Joanne looked at him.
‘A professional is involved and the murders have been suppressed or downplayed — even Param’s, although I’d guess it was too public to cover up locally.’
‘We should check South Acres,’ Rik suggested. ‘Somebody’s telling porkies.’
‘It’s too late for that. The workmen are already in; any evidence will have been destroyed by now. It might be worth checking Blakeney and Battersea, though.’ Privately he didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything. If Matuq’s murder in Blakeney had been concealed, and Param’s hadn’t been allowed to hit the headlines, there was every likelihood that the Battersea flat was already empty.
‘But who could suppress that kind of thing?’ Joanne asked. ‘Who has that sort of influence?’
Rik said, ‘The kind of people we used to work for.’
Harry nodded. ‘OK. Joanne and I will see if we can track down Humphries’ sister. If we find her, she might be able to tell us something useful. It’s possible he let slip something about who he worked for.’
Rik nodded. ‘I’ll do Blakeney. The locals won’t have seen me before. Then I’ll check Joanne’s place in Battersea.’
Joanne looked from one man to the other. ‘Why are you two doing this?’ she asked quietly. ‘You’re not getting paid for it. You don’t owe me anything.’
‘Because,’ Rik replied, ‘if we’re right, whoever took Rafa’i also killed your friend. When they realize they screwed up, they’ll come looking for you.’
For a second Joanne looked bewildered. Harry added, ‘What Boy Wonder forgot to mention is that they’ll probably come after us, too. So we’re not so much noble as a bit short on options.’ He smiled to soften the words. ‘Never mind, if they come too close, we’ll let you use your gun.’
‘Thanks,’ she said faintly. ‘I’ll remember that.’
Now, after a fast drive from London, Rik was in Blakeney. He’d used the journey to ease the tension of the past couple of days out of his system, concentrating on driving the car as hard as conditions would allow. It was his means of relaxation, but one he could only truly accomplish without Harry in the car. Not that Harry was bothered by speed; he simply saw little point in using the full power of the car’s highly tuned engine when you didn’t need to.
He surveyed the ground as he walked up the lane towards the cottage, and was dismayed to see several sets of tyre tracks in the mud. Harry had mentioned only one, and clearly described the track ending among the trees, with no other houses. He had a feeling he was too late.
He rounded the bend at the top of the track and stopped. The cottage looked just as Harry had described: isolated, a little sad, even neglected. Except that the faded green door in the photo on Harry’s mobile was now painted a glossy, duck-egg blue.
He checked the trees and bushes on his left, and the reeds to his right. His nerves were jangling at this latest development. Who the hell would allow someone to decorate the front door of a murder scene?
He stepped forward and pressed the doorbell, heard it echo inside. The place sounded empty. He stepped over to the front window and peered in, and felt his nerves crank up even further.
The room, far from being the drab place Harry had mentioned, was now bright with freshly minted walls and a new carpet. None of the sad decor, no half-finished meal, no oddments of thrown-together furniture.
And no Matuq lying against the rear wall.
Somebody had been busy. And definitely not the police. He checked the side of the cottage. The lean-to was still there, but there was no sign of a Renault with slashed tyres.
He was about to take a look at the back garden when a voice spoke behind him.
‘Can I help you?’
He turned to see a youngish woman standing by the corner of the cottage. She wore green Wellingtons and a fleece, and had large, brown eyes. She was pretty, with glossy black hair and perfect teeth, and looked very country.
‘Uh. . yes — sorry.’ He smiled and felt wrong-footed.
The woman shook her head and smiled patiently, as if accustomed to dealing with lunatics wandering around the countryside looking for places to rent. ‘It’s not available.’
‘That’s a pity. It’s in a nice location. Are you the owner?’
‘No.’ The woman waved a vague hand towards the village. ‘I live along the road and sometimes take in the key. I was out walking my dog and noticed you here.’ She frowned slightly. ‘This isn’t really the best place to be looking at.’ She stood to one side, a clear indication that he should leave.
‘Why?’ Rik stood his ground. ‘You make it sound like somebody just died.’
The woman’s eyes flickered. It was a momentary thing and most people would have overlooked it. But Rik had spent long enough watching faces to spot it.
‘There’s been nothing like that,’ she replied eventually. ‘What a strange idea, Mr-?’
Rik ignored the opening and studied her. For a woman on her own she seemed very self-possessed, in spite of standing in an isolated spot with a stranger asking strange questions and making comments about death. Maybe they were bred tough around here.
He noticed she was carrying a mobile phone but no dog lead.
So where was the dog?
‘I’ve got a lively imagination,’ he replied, and stepped past her. It was time to go, and fast, before she summoned help. ‘Thanks for your time.’ As he walked back down the lane, he felt her eyes on him all the way. When he turned to look back, she had disappeared.
He drove into the village and stopped at a small supermarket. The woman on the till smiled, but shook her head when he asked about the cottage.
‘Stokes Cottage? No, dear, there’s been nobody there for a while. The last tenant skipped without paying the rent, they say.’ She rolled her eyes at the dishonesty of some people. ‘The owners must have decided to sell it. They’ve had workmen in, doing it up. It’ll go for a good price, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Does the owner live here?’
‘No, dear. London, I think. They’re all from London, aren’t they, these days? Why — you looking for a place to buy, are you?’
In Islington, north London, Harry was standing by the Saab, parked behind his flat, and beginning to wonder how stupid he’d been.
He had left Joanne sitting in the passenger seat less than three minutes ago, after returning from a wasted morning outside Jennings’ office. They had been waiting for the lawyer to show up, but by the time noon had come and gone, it seemed pointless wasting any more time. Discreet enquiries at adjacent businesses had been met with politely blank looks, and the two men they had spotted earlier had not returned, nor had the office opened. Checking out where Humphries’ sister lived might at least offer the feeling of progress of a sort, if only Joanne could recall the name of the village. He had tried not to pressure her to remember it, because these memory fragments usually returned in their own time.
He shouldn’t have left her alone down here while he went upstairs. She evidently didn’t trust anyone fully, and who could blame her after what she had been through? The temptation to cut and run once she was on her own must have been too great.
