a simple question. You drop to your knees to cradle a dying man. Where’s the dog?’
‘Oh, right, well, I didn’t really notice. I suppose he was snouting around the verges somewhere, you know what dogs are like. Sniffing tree roots, that kind of thing.’
‘We didn’t see him at the crime scene. The dog. Did you lose track of him?’
‘No, no, I didn’t lose him. He’s back at home. My husband must’ve taken him – picked him up, I mean.’
She has flushed. She flaps at her cardigan to cool herself down. Is she of an age for a hot flush? Davy isn’t versed in such things.
‘I’m not under any suspicion, am I?’
‘Why d’you ask that?’ says Kim.
‘Only, you’re talking to me as if I were a suspect.’
‘No we’re not.’
‘Why are you asking me all these questions when I’m just an innocent bystander?’
‘You were the last person to see the victim alive,’ says Kim. ‘That makes you a significant witness.’
‘Time, everyone – time is of the essence,’ Davy says to the 8 a.m. briefing – a semi-circle of grey-faced detectives who haven’t been to bed. Priorities—’
Harriet coughs.
Davy looks at her, flushes; steps aside.
Harriet’s voice is loud and strong. ‘Jon-Oliver Ross,’ she informs the team. ‘Thirty-eight years old, of Holland Park, west London. Wealth manager to high-net-worth individuals at a private bank called Dunlop & Finch. This victim was well-to-do, probably well connected. First priority while we wait for forensics is his journey to Huntingdon. Did he come by car or train? I want CCTV off the stations including King’s Cross. Did he travel alone or did our perp mark him? There will be a lot of financial work on this one and yes, I’m looking at you Colin Brierley.’
Colin is MCU’s resident nerd – an expert in technology, the police investigations database HOLMES and the minutiae of financial records. Colin can tolerate vast panoramas of tedious detail, where others glaze over and lose not merely their thread but the will to live. Colin, though, has a childish excitement about the more inanimate side of police work. He doesn’t like to leave the office and so is handed laptops and iPads, phone records or reams of bank statements and he can sit and sit, drilling down into them with a kind of prurient glee. Colin is also the least politically correct man in East Anglia, and for this accolade he has seen off stiff competition.
Harriet has finished and the silence gives space for a discussion, so Davy says, ‘Who or what is Sass?’ Just to open it up, really.
‘Person who killed him?’ says Kim.
‘Judith Cole might have killed him,’ Davy says.
‘That’s a bit of a stretch – they didn’t know each other by all accounts,’ says Harriet.
‘Something about her isn’t right,’ Kim says. ‘Her husband told us he was unexpectedly working at home at four thirty-ish, the time she went to walk the dog’ – at this Kim makes large quotation marks in the air – ‘but he says the dog was lying on his feet the whole time.’
‘Should we question the dog?’ asks Colin.
‘Yeah, let’s ruff him up,’ says Kim, making a little barking sound.
‘Where were the children?’ Harriet asks.
‘At a sports club at the school,’ Kim says.
‘Ross’s next of kin,’ Harriet says to the room. ‘Gareth and Branwen Ross, mum and dad, from north Wales. I sent plod round this morning to notify them, so we should expect them sometime today or tomorrow. In their eighties. They’ll be knocked sideways, so respect and care, everyone, yes?’
In Davy’s periphery, Manon ambles in through the double doors carrying her usual paper bag of pastries and a coffee. She has a rolling gait these days, as well as a double chin, as if someone has attached a bicycle pump to her backside and inflated her. She hails team four across the room, saying, ‘Don’t mind me,’ and Davy can tell she’s wanting to sidle in on the briefing. She’ll perch on a desk and Harriet will be all ears, awaiting her pearls of investigative wisdom. Well, he’s not having it.
‘Boss,’ he whispers to Harriet, nodding in Manon’s direction, ‘shouldn’t we keep it confidential, it is a murder briefing …’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Davy, it’s only Manon. She’ll nod off in a minute.’
‘Who was he then?’ says Manon, breathless. She is smiling at Harriet and Davy can see the vicarious excitement on her face. ‘Your posh stiff,’ she says. ‘Got an ID yet?’
‘Jon-Oliver Ross,’ says Harriet, peering into Manon’s paper bag. ‘Have you got an apricot one of those? Rich banker type, from Lon—’
‘Fuck,’ says Manon.
‘What?’ says Harriet.
‘Fuck,’ Manon says again, feeling behind her for a surface on which to perch or steady herself. ‘He’s Solly’s dad. Jon-Oliver is Ellie’s ex.’
‘Only met him a couple of times, for like five minutes, but he’d started having contact in the last six months. Wanting to see Solly. That’ll be why he was here – in Huntingdon, I mean.’
Her mind is whirring, too full to listen to what Harriet is saying in reply. She must tell Ellie. Should she just blurt it out? Will Ellie be upset? Does some corner of her carry a residue of love for him, like a cupboard shelf that hasn’t been wiped? Does she harbour faint hopes of a reconciliation? Or will she not care? Perhaps she’ll be relieved that he’s out of her hair.
No, she thinks, Ellie had come round to the idea of Jon-Oliver playing a part in Solly’s life. Visits once a month had been accommodated, though Manon was usually either working or on her way out when they occurred. The thought of Solly brings tears to Manon’s eyes (tears come easily these days) – no chance of a father now. All the potential of that relationship cut down, before it could begin. It is a tragedy for Solly.
The sound of Harriet’s voice becomes louder and clearer as Manon rejoins the present. She becomes aware that the three of them – she, Harriet and Davy – have moved into Harriet’s office.
‘Where’s Ellie now?’ Harriet is saying, pacing behind her desk; coiled spring, hitching at her bra straps. Harriet’s body is sinewy, taut because she’s a ball of constrained movement – a rubber band at full stretch, wanting to ping. Physically, Manon thinks, we couldn’t be more different. I have no inner spring. I am
