John Harvey - Cold Light

“As far as can be ascertained,” he continued, “there was no sexual attack, no evidence of semen inside or outside the body. There’s no recent evidence of sexual intercourse.”

“Bloody waste,” Divine said quietly.

“Thought you were one of those,” Cossall said, overhearing him, “didn’t give a toss if they were alive or dead.”

“The fact that she was buried where she was,” Resnick was saying, “makes examination of the body difficult. There were some samples of skin tissue found under her nails, however, and here and there particles of fertilizer-enriched soil which don’t seem appropriate to the ground she was buried in. Tests are continuing on all of these.”

“Time of death, Charlie,” Skelton prompted.

“Again, not easy, due in the main to unusually low temperatures. But the best guess as of now is that she’d been dead for four or five days, with the body only being transferred to the point where it was found as little as six hours or less beforehand.” Resnick looked around. “I don’t need to spell out for you what this means: she was almost certainly already dead when the attempt to follow the ransom instructions were carried out.”

Muted cheers and more than a few prayers answered. At least they didn’t have to take the blame for that.

“Not a lot else from here,” Resnick said, flipping over another page of his notebook. “As you know, there’s a partial print of a boot, composite rubber, Wellington or similar, size eight or nine. Tire marks are marginally more interesting, weight and spread suggests a medium to large saloon, but I think we’re being a bit hopeful going that far.”

“Hopeful isn’t sodding in it,” intoned an anonymous voice, miserably.

“What we still lack is anything positive to link whoever killed Nancy Phelan with the person who returned her clothes to the flat. Analysis of the skin tissue found under her nails might give us that, if we can find a match in our records.”

“And pigs might do the proverbial,” Cossall remarked sourly.

“Something to add, Reg?” asked Skelton.

Cossall smirked and shook his head. Resnick stood his ground. “What we might have, however, is a better suspect than any of us thought. Someone a few of us have actually seen.”

In the hubbub that followed, Resnick moved back towards his seat and now it was Helen Siddons’ turn. The level of conversation rose again as she stepped forward and she was careful to wait, eyes surveying the room, until it had died down and she was sure of everyone’s attention.

“Most of you will know something about the Susan Rogel investigation and will be aware there are certain basic similarities with this one. Woman disappears without trace, after a brief period a ransom demand is made, and when an attempt is made to make payment, the money is ignored. So far, so good. Here, though we have a body, in Susan Rogel’s case we’ve turned up nothing and it’s not outside the realms of possibility that she engineered her own disappearance. Except … listen to this.

“Thirty minutes after the time appointed for the ransom to be collected, a car pulled in at the pub where the money had been left near the outside toilet; the driver went inside and ordered a half of bitter and a ham roll, left ten minutes later, still finishing off the roll and went to the Gents’.”

“Must’ve pissed with his left hand,” Divine said.

“When he drove off, he was followed and detained. At first, he got a big shirty, thinking it was a random breath test, but as soon as he realized it was something else, he was as co-operative as you like. Ended up asking almost as many questions as we did. Claimed he’d started studying once for a law degree, but for some reason had dropped out. Still thought about going to university, reading criminology.

“He said he was currently working as a sales rep for a firm called Oliver and Chard, based in Gloucester. Specialized in work clothes, farms and factories, you know the kind of thing, overalls, protective clothing, reinforced boots. He was on his way to a dairy farm in Cheddar and after that had a call to make in Shepton Mallet. Car he was driving had been hired from Hertz that morning; normally he used his own, but he’d been experiencing difficulties getting it to start.”

Helen Siddons looked right to left around the room; not too many people were staring at their shoes.

“His name was Barrie McCain. Of course we checked him out with his employers, appointments log, car hire, everything. It all tallied. There was never any follow-up; there didn’t seem to be any reason. Not until Patrick Reverdy turned up at the Little Chef and fished the duffel bag of money out from the toilet.”

“This McCain,” Reg Cossall said, “I presume we wouldn’t be going through all this if he was still working for the same firm.”

“Gave in his notice,” Helen Siddons said, “the week after the noncollection of the ransom. Some story about his mother being ill Manchester way, Wilmslow, the personnel manager thinks she remembers. He’d been a good salesman, friendly, they’d been sad to let him go.”

“Photograph,” Cossall said, “too much to hope for.”

“Company policy is to keep one on file. McCain kept forgetting to bring one in. After a while, they got fed up asking. Figures were so far up in his area, they didn’t want to get the wrong side of him. However,” continuing among the moans and groans, “D.C. Divine described the man he saw close to in the Little Chef, the one calling himself Reverdy. According to the personnel manager, in outline it fitted him to a T. Similar height, five eight or nine, medium to slight build, sometimes she said he used to let his moustache grow a little but before it became established normally he shaved it off. McCain was seen at close quarters by two other officers-getting a photo-fit together is a priority, I think, as soon as this is through.”

“Thanks, Helen,” Skelton said. “Charlie. All right, the rest of you. Without shutting off other avenues, there’s a lot to work on here. I want every element of this Reverdy’s story checked forwards, backwards, then checked again. McCain, too. If we can clear connections between them, anything that’s more than circumstantial, for the first time we might be ahead of the game.”

Lynn was in the bath, lying back, listening to GEM-AM. She had been in there long enough for the condensation that had steamed over the glass front of the wall cabinet to begin clearing, the pine-scented bubbles to all but disappear; the water was starting to feel cold. She considered running some more hot, finally decided long as she’d been there, it wasn’t time enough for the tank to have properly heated through. Another few minutes and she would have to get out. On the radio, a commercial for quick-fit exhausts came to an end and back came the music. They seemed to have been playing Everly Brothers’ songs, off and on, all evening. Another one now: “Till I Kissed You.” Her mum used to love their stuff, sing it around the kitchen when Lynn was young. Days when she still had something to sing about. She’d even been to see them once, the Everlys, her mum. Yarmouth, it would have been. Phil and Don. Hadn’t there been something about one of them being ill? Not being able to appear. Drink or drugs. Don or Phil.

Lynn pushed herself up in the bath and the water splashed, chill, around her waist. Maybe it was some kind of Everlys anniversary. Perhaps one of them had died and what she was listening to was a tribute. She hoped not, one thing her mum didn’t need, another reason to be sad. For long enough for the picture to form, Lynn closed her eyes and saw Robin Hidden’s face.

That morning, when she’d told him about Nancy’s body, he had turned gray listening to the words. Right there as Lynn stood watching, Robin, face crumpling in like a balloon losing air, the life being sucked out of him. “Why don’t you sit down?” The words stale even as she said them, stale and inadequate. “Would you like me to make some tea?” But he had, and Lynn had negotiated her way between the unwashed pots and empty packets and found the PG Tips.