the hem. I felt around it and it was a neat rectangle. I pushed my fingers around the seam but there was no way in. Perhaps it was just a weight, to keep the fabric hanging nicely. But I doubted it.
Fourth thing (come to think of it, there was precious little about this girl that did add up): she had what can only be described as a stalker’s dossier. It was a brown folder, the type that’s open on two edges, and slipped inside were all these newspaper clippings, lots of them from the FT and the City pages of other papers. Pictures of Chinese blokes circled, names in the text highlighted. Printouts from the Forbes China Rich List.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Ellie Bradshaw is saying.
They are in interview room one, Harriet and Davy across the table from Ellie, who is shaking her head, hair swaying. She’s got nice hair – hasn’t got Manon’s ringlets. Instead it is wavy, to her shoulders, in a sort of honey shade. And it looks almost impossibly soft, like advert hair. Davy thinks it probably smells nice, of chamomile or lemon.
‘So you were where, between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. last night?’ he asks.
‘Me? I was home with Solly, my son.’
She’s slim too, lovely dark eyes. Yes, Ellie is attractive; he can’t deny that. Strange to be sitting in an interview room with her because she is so like Manon – the very same voice and mannerisms. Yet at the same time, not similar at all. Like the same pudding in a different flavour – you can enjoy the orange, but find the mint tastes a bit like washing-up liquid.
‘Jon-Oliver was coming to see us – well, coming to see Solly. That’ll be why he was in Huntingdon. He was due to come over today. I guess he was booked into the George Hotel last night. It’s only, I dunno, the fifth or sixth time he’s seen our son.’
He frowns. ‘Can you think of a reason why he walked in the opposite direction to the George, along the Brampton Road towards the hospital?’
Ellie is thinking. Davy can’t take his eyes off her. Maybe she’d be worried about the age gap – Davy being ten years younger – but if it was good enough for Susan Sarandon …
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I mean, he knows where I work. Knew, I mean. Maybe he was coming to see me?’
‘Did he know someone called Judith Cole?’ Davy asks. ‘Ever mention that name?’
Ellie turns down the corners of her mouth. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells, but Jon-Oliver knew a lot of women.’
‘What about this person?’ Harriet asks, placing a four-by-six photograph on the table in front of Ellie. The picture is of a blonde woman, tanned and manicured. Sunglasses on her head. The sort of person who might frequent Cannes or appear in Hello!
Ellie leans forward to look at the photo without picking it up. ‘No,’ she says.
‘The photo was found on Jon-Oliver’s body,’ Harriet adds.
‘Well it’s probably his current girlfriend then,’ says Ellie simply. ‘She looks like his type.’
‘His type?’ says Harriet.
‘Yes – stunningly beautiful, young, probably very bendy. And keen on cold hard cash by the looks of her.’
Bit bitter, thinks Davy.
‘He didn’t mention any names to you, talk about his personal life?’ asks Harriet.
‘We weren’t really on those sort of terms,’ Ellie says. ‘I hadn’t seen him for two years, then he contacted me out of the blue last summer – July or August, I can’t remember – wanting to see Solly. I was having none of it. It took me ages to get over him, and having a baby on your own … Well, I keep telling Manon, it’s no picnic.’ The reference to Manon is jarring. She is trying to remind them they’re friends, Davy thinks with some irritation – all on the same side. Well, they’re not. ‘I had to agree to give him access. Jon-Oliver gives – gave – me money, you see.’
‘He supported you?’ Davy asks.
‘Well, I work, but nursing doesn’t make me rich. I need his maintenance payments, yes. Anyway, Jon-Oliver’s on the birth certificate, so I had no choice. Since then, he’s visited Solly once a month. The meetings have been awkward – Solly usually ends up crying because he doesn’t know what to do with a stranger in a suit crouching on the floor next to him. Doesn’t know what it means, y’know?’
‘So you disliked him? Your relationship with Jon-Oliver was strained, would you say?’ says Harriet.
Ellie nods. ‘Strained, yes, that’s fair. I didn’t trust him, and I wasn’t too keen on having him back on the scene. I didn’t want too much involvement with him, that’s how I felt – like I wanted to keep my distance. Maybe that’s what made Solly cry. Babies pick up on everything in the room. But,’ she gives a resigned shrug, ‘I’m not the first woman this has happened to and I won’t be the last. You do it for your child, even though every bit of you doesn’t want to. You do it to give them the possibility of having a father. So yes, it was strained but we were trying to make room for him.’
‘So you were at home the whole time, between four and five yesterday?’ Davy asks.
‘More or less,’ she says, distracted by the bleep of her phone. ‘Sorry, I just have to look at this in case it’s the childminder.’ She reads the text message, then punches something into her phone – a reply, presumably. Rude, and rather presumptuous, Davy thinks. She looks up, saying, ‘Sorry. Yes, you can ask Solly if you like. You won’t get much of an answer – he’s 2. Do 2-year-olds count as alibis?’
She is smiling as she says this and Davy struggles with how it might be intended – as a friendly joke?
He says, ‘Did anyone else see you at home, anyone else who can confirm your whereabouts?’
‘No,’ she says quietly. ‘Fly came home from school at about quarter to five, and I asked him to watch Solly so I could pop out. Listen, I’ve got to get back to my son. He’s been at the childminder too long as it is.’
‘Just a minute please – you had to pop out? Where to?’ asks Davy.
‘Oh, just into town. I had to pick up a couple of things.’
At that moment, when Davy wants to ask where and for how long, Gary Stanton enters the room. Davy cannot remember the last time the chief super came in on a key witness interview.
‘How are we getting on?’ Stanton asks.
Harriet’s face is awash with confusion. ‘Yes, all fine,’ she says.
‘I think if we’re all done here,’ Stanton says, ‘we should have a quick departmental review upstairs. Shall we go? Thank you, Miss Bradshaw, for helping us with our inquiries. We will contact you should we need further assistance from you.’
‘Why did he shut that down?’ Davy hisses, so the department can’t hear.
‘I
