Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘With photos, so they could check they fancied them,’ said Gibbs. ‘Sick cunts.’

Simon nodded. ‘Sandy Freeguard’s website was designed by Pegasus. And another company did the one for Kelvey’s firm—I’ve just spoken to the MD’s assistant on the phone.’

‘How does the sarge fit into this?’ asked Sellers. His fingers combed his pocket for more change, but found none. Gibbs had finished his drink and had a small, foamy, brown moustache to prove it.

‘I’ll get to that in a minute,’ said Simon, keen to put off thinking about that side of things for as long as he could. ‘Naomi Jenkins got the card for Silver Brae Chalets from Yvon Cotchin. She had no idea there was any connection to Robert Haworth.’

Sellers and Gibbs looked at him sceptically.

‘Think about it. Cotchin’s worked with Graham Angilley, effectively. She’s helped him set up his business. He’d be bound to send her a bunch of cards, so she could give them to people. Naomi took one, and thought—as anyone would—that Silver Brae Chalets was just a holiday place that her mate had done a website for. She had no idea her married boyfriend’s brother was the owner and manager . . .’ Simon’s words tailed off.

‘Or that the same brother was the bloke who’d kidnapped and raped her,’ said Gibbs.

‘That’s right. There have been no coincidences in this case, not a single one. Every part of the answer to this mess is connected to every other part: Jenkins, Haworth, Angilley, Cotchin, the business card . . .’

‘And now our skipper.’ Sellers looked worried.

‘Yeah,’ said Simon, speaking on a long out-breath. His chest felt as if it was full of concrete. ‘Charlie got the chalets’ card from Naomi Jenkins. She didn’t know Graham Angilley was anything to do with Robert Haworth, not until you told her Haworth’s real name.’ He looked at Gibbs.

‘Fucking hell. As soon as I told her, she must have thought what you did: that there’s a strong chance Angilley’s the other rapist. And if she’s been screwing him . . .’

‘That’s why she took off in such a hurry,’ said Simon. ‘She must be in a right state.’

‘I feel like shit now,’ said Gibbs. ‘I’ve been giving her a hard time.’

‘Not only her.’ Sellers raised his eyebrows at Simon.

‘Yeah, well. You two deserve it. She doesn’t.’

‘Fuck off! I’ve done nothing,’ said Sellers.

Simon had an active—some might say overactive—conscience. He knew when he’d done something wrong. There were no sins with Chris Gibbs’ name on them, last time he looked. There was a big fat file under the name Charlie Zailer.

‘I’m getting married in June. You’re both invited. He ’s my best man.’ Gibbs jerked his head at Sellers. ‘And he’s off round the world with his secret shag the week before. I haven’t heard anything about a stag night. I’ll probably be sat in on my own the night before I sign my freedom away, watching Ant and fucking Dec, while he shakes the empty condom packets out of his suitcase . . .’

‘Give me a chance.’ Sellers looked sheepish. ‘I haven’t forgotten about your stag night. I’ve been busy, that’s all.’ Simon noticed his cheeks were slightly pink.

‘Yeah—busy thinking about your cock, as usual,’ Gibbs fired back.

‘This can wait,’ said Simon. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about than hiring strippers and tying you to a lamp post with no clothes on. We’re in deep shit here.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Sellers. ‘Where’s the sarge gone?’

‘Olivia says Charlie left a message on her voicemail telling her to go round later, so she’s obviously planning to be at home this evening, even if she isn’t there now. I’ll go round and talk to her. In the meantime . . .’ Simon braced himself. They might both tell him to fuck off. He wouldn’t blame them if they did. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but . . . any chance you could keep this well away from the Snowman?’

Sellers’ eyes widened. ‘Oh, shit. Proust’s going to go ballistic when he . . . Oh, shit. The skipper and the prime suspect . . .’

‘She’ll have to be taken off the case,’ said Simon. ‘I’m going to try and persuade her to tell Proust herself. Shouldn’t be hard. She’s not stupid.’ He said this more to reassure himself than anything else. ‘She’s probably in shock and needs to be on her own for a bit to get her head round it.’ He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Proust found out before Charlie told him.

‘How can we keep it quiet?’ asked Gibbs. ‘Proust asks for the sarge every five minutes. What do we say?’

‘You won’t need to say anything, because you’ll be on your way to Scotland.’ To Simon’s amazement, neither Sellers nor Gibbs questioned his authority. ‘Bring Graham Angilley back with you, and Stephanie, his wife. I’ll deal with Proust. I’ll tell him Charlie’s gone to Yorkshire to talk to Sandy Freeguard, now that we’ve got a possible ID for the man who raped her. Proust won’t question it. You know what he’s like—he does his most energetic fault-finding first thing in the morning.’ Seeing their faces, he said, ‘Have you got any better ideas? If we tell him Charlie’s gone awol, we’ll make things worse for her, and that’s the last thing she needs.’

‘What’ll you be doing?’ asked Gibbs suspiciously. ‘While we’re in haggis country chasing a pervert?’

‘I’m going to talk to Yvon Cotchin, and then Naomi Jenkins if I can find her.’

Sellers shook his head. ‘If the Snowman finds out about this, all three of us’ll be giving fire-safety talks in primary schools before the week’s out.’

‘Let’s not shit ourselves before we have to,’ said Simon. ‘Charlie must know she’s put us in an impossible situation. I bet she’s back here within the hour. Check the Brown Cow before you set off to the chalets, just in case she’s in there. If she is, ring me.’

‘Yes, guv,’ said Gibbs sarcastically.

‘This isn’t a joke.’ Simon stared at his shoes. The idea that Charlie had been romantically involved with Graham Angilley—a man who was very probably a monster, a sadistic rapist—bothered Simon more than he could understand or explain. He felt almost as if it had happened to him, as if he’d been assaulted by Angilley. And if that was how he felt, he didn’t like to think how much worse it must be for Charlie.

A uniformed constable was walking purposefully towards them along the corridor. The conversation ended abruptly, and Simon, Sellers and Gibbs felt the silent conspiracy hanging in the air around them as PC Meakin got closer.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Meakin said, though all he was interrupting was an atmosphere of mute awkwardness. He addressed Simon. ‘There’s an Yvon Cotchin here to see you or Sergeant Zailer. I’ve stuck her in interview room two.’

‘Another coincidence,’ said Gibbs. ‘Saves you a trip.’

‘Did she say what she wants?’ Simon asked Meakin. Behind him he heard Sellers insisting, ‘I was going to arrange a bloody stag night for you, all right? I am. ’

‘Her friend’s disappeared, she said. She’s worried about her because when she last saw her, the friend was pretty upset. That’s all I know.’

‘Cheers, Meakin,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

Once the young constable had gone, he turned to Sellers and Gibbs. ‘Upset, disappeared—ring any bells?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I don’t know.’ Simon’s first thought, on hearing what Meakin had to say, was too ludicrous and paranoid to be worth repeating. Sellers and Gibbs would think he was losing his grip. He decided to play it safe. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘But if I were a betting man, I’d put money on this being something else that isn’t a coincidence.’