found none. The first item in her email was the trace that had been run on Fuentecilla’s mobile. It was preliminary, covering the last forty-eight hours only.
The phone had taken the motorway south, stopped at Stone in Staffs, in the Luton car park, and then went on to Mayfair in central London, arriving yesterday in the early evening. Maria and Juan Pinzón Arias lived in Mayfair. Four hours later, through the night, the phone was tracked coming back up the M1, making its way to Scotland. It was a six hour drive each way to London. It was a long time to stay angry, thought Morrow, even for Roxanna. She didn’t look angry in the ATM photo.
Fuentecilla arrived in Glasgow and, avoiding her house, passed the airport and took the Erskine Bridge across the Clyde Estuary to Argyle. At five o’clock this morning she made a call from a hillside outside Helensburgh. The call was to the landline of a Mr Frank Delahunt out in Helensburgh. Then the phone went dark.
Morrow mapped the site of the phone call. It was from a bare field on the coast road, a mile outside the town.
The second email was from DS Saunders, warning her that the Met had been notified about the missing persons call. They’d been cc’d on Fuentecilla’s phone trace, had decided to handle the Arias angle themselves. She wasn’t getting a jolly to London.
Met officers would visit Maria Pinzón Arias and her husband in their Mayfair home this morning. Met officers would be offered fancy-dan tea and, doubtless, biscuits. Meanwhile, Morrow was charged with checking out the site of the phone call. She was to stand on a rainy hillside, wading through the rain and the cow shit, looking for bodies and/or bits of telephone, and then visit Frank Delahunt.
She phoned the farmer who owned the field. David Halliday sounded old and gruff. He lived next to the field, worked the farm alone, he said. And he’d heard something: he had woken up at five o’clock yesterday morning to his dogs barking. That meant someone was there, which was rare enough because the road was a dead end. He went back to sleep but they kept barking on and off. He’d seen headlights on his ceiling. Two cars, he thought. The dogs kept on barking though. Morrow asked what that meant and he said he didn’t know, the dogs never said. Mr Halliday sounded like a bit of a laugh. Going to visit him might take the tinge off the melancholy morning.
She hung up and went into the incident room to ask McGrain about his kid’s hospital appointment. She was feeling low enough without scheduling in a morning listening to Thankless talk shit. As she walked in the room she scanned for anyone else who had been fully briefed but Thankless was all there was. He looked up hopefully at her, not yet aware that he wasn’t being flown to London for the day. He watched with open-mouthed anticipation as she spoke to McGrain across the room.
McGrain said he had to be back here by two fifteen. She was only going to Helensburgh now, she could still take McGrain but it would be a tight turnaround.
‘There’s a call, ma’am.’ DC Kerrigan, a blond woman with very jaggy teeth, handed her the phone. ‘Mr Halliday from Lurbrax Farm calling you back.’
Mr Halliday sounded out of breath. Listen, pet, he said, he’d just been out and followed one of the dogs around the back of the big shed. He found a car. It was black and big and it wasn’t his and there was no one in it.
Roxanna’s car was black.
Morrow told him to touch nothing, please keep the dogs in and she’d be there in half an hour. Scene of Crime might be called if they found a body. McGrain was out of the question. She motioned to Thankless to come. He stood up, smirking, and pulled his passport out of a drawer.
‘No, we’re not flying to London,’ she called across to him, ‘we’re driving to Helensburgh.’
The incident room enjoyed that.
It took her fifteen minutes in the car to remember why she disliked him so much: Thankless was aggravatingly
The phone had taken the motorway south, stopped at Stone in Staffs, in the Luton car park, and then went on to Mayfair in central London, arriving yesterday in the early evening. Maria and Juan Pinzón Arias lived in Mayfair. Four hours later, through the night, the phone was tracked coming back up the M1, making its way to Scotland. It was a six hour drive each way to London. It was a long time to stay angry, thought Morrow, even for Roxanna. She didn’t look angry in the ATM photo.
Fuentecilla arrived in Glasgow and, avoiding her house, passed the airport and took the Erskine Bridge across the Clyde Estuary to Argyle. At five o’clock this morning she made a call from a hillside outside Helensburgh. The call was to the landline of a Mr Frank Delahunt out in Helensburgh. Then the phone went dark.
Morrow mapped the site of the phone call. It was from a bare field on the coast road, a mile outside the town.
The second email was from DS Saunders, warning her that the Met had been notified about the missing persons call. They’d been cc’d on Fuentecilla’s phone trace, had decided to handle the Arias angle themselves. She wasn’t getting a jolly to London.
Met officers would visit Maria Pinzón Arias and her husband in their Mayfair home this morning. Met officers would be offered fancy-dan tea and, doubtless, biscuits. Meanwhile, Morrow was charged with checking out the site of the phone call. She was to stand on a rainy hillside, wading through the rain and the cow shit, looking for bodies and/or bits of telephone, and then visit Frank Delahunt.
She phoned the farmer who owned the field. David Halliday sounded old and gruff. He lived next to the field, worked the farm alone, he said. And he’d heard something: he had woken up at five o’clock yesterday morning to his dogs barking. That meant someone was there, which was rare enough because the road was a dead end. He went back to sleep but they kept barking on and off. He’d seen headlights on his ceiling. Two cars, he thought. The dogs kept on barking though. Morrow asked what that meant and he said he didn’t know, the dogs never said. Mr Halliday sounded like a bit of a laugh. Going to visit him might take the tinge off the melancholy morning.
She hung up and went into the incident room to ask McGrain about his kid’s hospital appointment. She was feeling low enough without scheduling in a morning listening to Thankless talk shit. As she walked in the room she scanned for anyone else who had been fully briefed but Thankless was all there was. He looked up hopefully at her, not yet aware that he wasn’t being flown to London for the day. He watched with open-mouthed anticipation as she spoke to McGrain across the room.
McGrain said he had to be back here by two fifteen. She was only going to Helensburgh now, she could still take McGrain but it would be a tight turnaround.
‘There’s a call, ma’am.’ DC Kerrigan, a blond woman with very jaggy teeth, handed her the phone. ‘Mr Halliday from Lurbrax Farm calling you back.’
Mr Halliday sounded out of breath. Listen, pet, he said, he’d just been out and followed one of the dogs around the back of the big shed. He found a car. It was black and big and it wasn’t his and there was no one in it.
Roxanna’s car was black.
Morrow told him to touch nothing, please keep the dogs in and she’d be there in half an hour. Scene of Crime might be called if they found a body. McGrain was out of the question. She motioned to Thankless to come. He stood up, smirking, and pulled his passport out of a drawer.
‘No, we’re not flying to London,’ she called across to him, ‘we’re driving to Helensburgh.’
The incident room enjoyed that.
It took her fifteen minutes in the car to remember why she disliked him so much: Thankless was aggravatingly
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