‘I did have the dog,’ she says, though Davy hears uncertainty in her voice. ‘He must be mistaken.’
‘Why would you walk over a busy main road to Hinchingbrooke Park when there’s a nicer one at the end of your road, which is nearer?’ Kim asks.
‘I don’t think it’s nicer,’ says Mrs Cole. ‘I like Hinchingbrooke Park. I can let the dog off the lead and he can run around.’
‘It was pitch dark though,’ says Kim. ‘Seems a bit odd.’
‘Yes, it was dark, but it wasn’t late – only four-ish. Do you have a dog?’ Mrs Cole asks.
Kim and Davy are silent.
‘Well, you see, if you had a dog, you’d know that owning one means venturing out in snow, hail, darkness, you name it. A dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta—’
‘Davy?’ Harriet is at the door. ‘A word, please.’
He and Kim step outside.
‘CCTV from King’s Cross has come in. I’d like you to take a look.’
‘Right, so there’s Ross,’ Harriet says, pointing at the screen. They are standing around Colin’s computer, looking at the grainy images of King’s Cross station platform as people make their way to board the train.
Davy watches Ross put his ticket into the barrier and walk through it. He strides down the platform with confidence, coat well cut. He looks like a businessman on his way to a meeting that will not challenge him greatly. His face is unfazed, neither angry nor anxious. How little we know of what lies ahead.
‘Look at this fella,’ Harriet says.
‘Who?’
Harriet is leaning over Colin and tapping on his keyboard to set the tape back a few frames. ‘There.’
She points at a big man, bald with a black smudge at his ear, possibly an earpiece. He wears a bomber jacket and underneath it he is stocky and muscled, causing his arms to sit wide. The image quality is poor. He is coming through the ticket barriers shortly after Ross.
‘He’s looking at Ross like he’s dinner,’ Harriet says.
Even on grainy CCTV footage, they can all see the man’s focus is on his quarry, who is just ahead of him. He glances down briefly to get his ticket from the barrier, but then his eyes are back on Ross, hurrying to keep up with him and then boarding the same carriage.
‘Who is he? That’s what we need to find out,’ Harriet says.
They all straighten, away from the screen.
‘I’ve looked at the Huntingdon CCTV and this chap does not get off the train with Ross, so where does he get off? That’s question one,’ Harriet says. ‘And where does he go? It’s identifying him that’s going to be the problem.’
‘What’s the timing on that?’ Davy asks. ‘We need to get the information off that ticket machine.’
‘So, Ross goes through the barrier at 3.08 and forty seconds. The other guy is going through twenty seconds later, so at 3.09 p.m. exactly. We’re going to need the station staff to identify whether his ticket was bought with a card.’
‘Might’ve paid cash,’ says Davy. ‘We should also capture the rest of his journey at the London end, off station CCTV and underground, roads.’
‘We could email his picture to local forces, see if anyone recognises him,’ Kim suggests.
‘How about Crimewatch?’ Davy says. ‘Do you know this man?’
Everyone groans.
‘I don’t think we’re ready to be buried in a gazillion false leads just yet,’ says Harriet. ‘But he’s marking him, right? I mean, he’s definitely marking him.’
The others nod, Davy regretting he is not more reassuring in the face of her need for it. There is so much to do, so many tiny steps to complete in just this fragment of the case. He can feel himself getting into a state, a feeling of panic which renders him inactive when what he needs to do is hurry up. And forensics will be in tomorrow, which will present them with still more avenues for inspection. And he hasn’t even resolved the dog-no-dog question and the small matter of why Judith Cole is lying. Not to mention the fact he’s starving. And who, or what, is ‘Sass’?
‘Are you all right, Davy?’ Harriet asks.
He realises he has been rubbing his brow and frowning at the floor.
‘Yes boss, I’m fine. Just wondering where to begin,’ he says, with a weak smile. He wishes his face was more Jack Reacher, less Charlie Brown. ‘I’m still curious about what Ross was saying – the Sass thing.’
Harriet lifts her chin – a kind of worried nod – and Davy wonders if his display of anxiety will make her fearful she’s put the wrong man on the job. He needs inspiration – the kind of moment when the memory of a phrase in interview, an unconscious connection made, an imaginative idea of an avenue to try, all these coalesce into investigative brilliance. Combined with luck, you can sometimes crack them that way.
But not when you’re desperate, overloaded and vaguely panicking.
Kilburn, north London
Bernadette
—sting testing one two three.
Stop. Rewind. Record.
Right, my memo of evidence. Most people would record this on their phones but I can’t work mine. It’s an android and I’ve only just worked out how to find a number and dial it. Anyway, Sanjeev had one of these knock-off dictaphones on the market, so here we go. I am Birdie Fielding and this is a true and accurate account of everything that’s happened. I apologise now if I go off the point a bit.
I came out like anyone would – to see what all the tooting and commotion was about. I heaved out through the door of the Payless Food & Wine, could see them all gathering on the corner where Iceland is. I turned over the ‘Closed’ sign and locked up.
And out into the crowd – the rubberneckers eager for a glimpse of misfortune. Wheelie shoppers, niqabs, prams, hoop earrings. A whole mass on the pavement, spilling into the road. The air was soft outside Shoe Zone and Palace Amusements – this was back in November, ever so mild. I remember thinking, this is nice, should’ve got out sooner.
I pushed through to the centre. I’m not one to loiter at the back. I spotted Nasreen from the cash and carry, who smiled at me. Never liked Nasreen. Competitive. Always asking me how busy I am at Payless. I smiled back as if we were friends.
Now I saw what they were all staring at – a body on the ground, thrown there by a car I shouldn’t wonder, but she was coming round, squeezing her eyes as if she was in pain. Not dead then. And people were beginning to shuffle away with their disappointment at her being alive. She lay there, a mass of skirts like an upended toilet doll. Everything black: lace, broderie anglaise, in layers – and DM boots poking out. Her eyes were fluttering, black kohl pencil against porcelain skin, and she must’ve spotted the few remaining stragglers getting their mobiles out to call 999 because she shook her head saying, ‘No, no. I’m OK. I’ll get up in a minute.’ Then she opened her eyes fully – I could see it was a struggle – and her gaze fell upon me. I was bending right over her by this point. She signalled to me so I put my face next to hers. She didn’t smell how you expect Goths to smell – no cheapo joss sticks or Body Shop musk. She smelled expensive. Citrussy.