Chapter 59
Chris Hudson has his own office, a little bolt-hole where he can pretend to work.
There is a space on his desk where a family photograph might ordinarily sit, and he feels a prick of shame every time he notes its absence.
Perhaps he should have a photo of his niece.
How old was she now? Twelve? Or maybe fourteen? His brother would know.
So who killed Ventham? Chris was right there when it happened.
One way or another, he actually watched him being killed.
Whom had he seen? The Thursday Murder Club, they were all there, the priest. The attractive woman in the sweater and trainers.
Fifty-odd. Now, who was she? Was she single? Now’s not the time, Chris. Concentrate.
Had the same person murdered Ventham and Tony Curran? It made sense. Solve one, solve the other?
Who were the three calls to Tony Curran’s phone from?
Almost certainly someone trying to sell him life insurance, but you never knew.
Chris is sure that Tony Curran’s phone could tell all sorts of tales.
Human rights are all well and good, but he would love to tap the phone of every single person in Fairhaven who looked even a bit suspicious. Like they do in prison.
He remembers an armed robber in Parkhurst called Bernie Scullion, who ran out of money but wanted to buy himself a PlayStation, so he phoned his uncle and told him where he’d buried half a million pounds. The police had the money and the uncle within the hour, and Bernie never got his PlayStation.
There is a knock at the door, and Chris has the brief, disturbing realization that he hopes it’s Donna.
“Come.”
The door opens. It’s DI Terry Hallet. Terrifyingly efficient, handsome in that Royal Marine way that everyone seemed to like, but also, annoyingly, a nice guy.
Chris would never be able to wear a T-shirt that tight.
One day Terry will have this office. He has four kids and a happy marriage.
Imagine the photographs he will have on the desk.
Chris wishes he was Terry, but who really knew what went on at home?
Perhaps Terry had a hidden sadness; perhaps he cried himself to sleep.
Chris doubts it, but at least it’s something to cling to.
“I can come back?” says Terry, and Chris realizes he has been staring at him for a beat too long.
“No, no, sorry, Terry, miles away.”
“Thinking about Ian Ventham?”
“Yep,” lies Chris. “What have you got?”
“Sorry to drag you back to Tony Curran, but I’ve got something I think you’re going to like,” says Terry. “I’ve got a car that took twelve minutes to travel the half mile between the two speed cameras either side of Tony Curran’s house. Exactly the right time frame too.”
Chris looks at the details. “So it stopped somewhere between the two? Nice little ten-minute break for something or other?”
Terry Hallet nods.
“Anything else around there except Tony Curran’s house? Somewhere you’d stop?”
“There’s a lay-by. If you needed a piss. But . . .”
“Long piss,” agrees Chris. “We’ve all had them, but even so. And you’ve run the number plate?”
Terry nods again, then smiles.
“I like that smile, Terry. What have you got?”
“You won’t believe the registered owner, guv.”
Terry slides another piece of paper onto Chris’s desk. Chris takes it in.
“Well, this is very good news. Are you sure about these timings?”
Terry Hallet nods, drumming his fingers on Chris’s desk. “That’s our killer, surely?”
Chris has to agree. Time to go and have a chat.