coffee, a paper, the dry-cleaning, a bunch of flowers or a loaf of bread. Everything to hand. Thursday night. I was deliberately a bit late and the evening shoppers were having a quick one before heading home or out to eat.
Tosca’s was the usual sort of place, trying to make up its mind whether it was Australian, European or American and getting everything wrong. The bottles in the wicker basketsclashed with the chrome tables that didn’t harmonise with the sports prints on the walls. But there were free nuts and olives on the bar, which was a welcome sign anywhere. Watson, still in his black jacket but without the tie, sat at a corner table with an inch of red wine in his glass and a cigarette in his hand. He gave me the briefest of nods. I scoffed some nuts, bought two glasses of red and joined him.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘We’re off to a good start.’
‘I wouldn’t say that necessarily.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, finished the wine in his glass and moved the other one closer. He looked tired, long hours and no result showing on his face. He glanced around, an automatic action, checking for anything he didn’t like, or anyone he didn’t want to see. He had all that sitting right in front of him and his attention switched back to me.
‘So. What’s this about Wilson Stafford?’
I drank some of the wine. Not bad, not great. A bit overpriced but I could always go back for some nuts and olives. ‘Sorry, Sarge. It’s a two-way street. How are you going with the investigation? Did you talk to Hampshire?’
‘He’s your client. Hasn’t he been in touch?’
I had another pull on the drink. Didn’t answer.
‘Okay, you want something. We’re not making progress—no witnesses, no sightings. Forensics are a zero. Hampshire showed us a copy of the record of telephone calls he made from where he was staying over the relevant time. He had two pizza deliveries and sent out for booze and an escort. He couldn’t have made it to Church Point. Somehow I don’t think he was in the country long enough to have had the time to organise a hit.’
‘Any sign of Ronny?’
‘Your turn, Hardy.’
‘Right. Was there any sign that Angela Pettigrew had a lover?’
‘No, not from interviews with neighbours and friends. Come on, what’ve you got?’
I told him that when the confrontation with Sarah and Ronny had happened, Sarah had called her mother a hypocritical bitch and Ronny had asked if I was the new bloke—implication obvious. I had a little more up my sleeve—Hampshire’s hint that Sarah wasn’t his daughter—but in these situations you don’t show your hand until you have to. I kept that in reserve.
Watson nodded. ‘That’s something. Okay, no, we haven’t found Ronny. What about Stafford?’
‘What’ve you got from Sarah?’
‘Bugger-all. The policewoman who’s met her says she’s a tough little nut under the posh school manners. Turns them on and off as it suits her. She’s got a tame shrink. Won’t say who he is but she reckons he says she’s too traumatised to be interviewed. We have to look at her, of course. I assume she inherits and the house must be worth a bit. It’s been known to happen.’
I remembered Ronny’s comment that Sarah was an actress. I’d have to keep in mind that she was likely to put on a performance.
‘Right,’ I said, ‘I need to talk to her about her brother and maybe I can get her to open up on what she meant about Angela’s hypocrisy. Nearest and dearest kill each other, don’t they? You have to be interested in that. You should be able to set it up for me to at least try to talk to her.’
‘Jesus. All right, I’ll think about it. Now what’s the fucking connection with Stafford?’
I didn’t give him the full rundown Templeton had given me, Hampshire was still my client after all, but I told him enough to indicate that Hampshire had played fast and loose with a dangerous man and possibly with others. Money was missing and people went
Tosca’s was the usual sort of place, trying to make up its mind whether it was Australian, European or American and getting everything wrong. The bottles in the wicker basketsclashed with the chrome tables that didn’t harmonise with the sports prints on the walls. But there were free nuts and olives on the bar, which was a welcome sign anywhere. Watson, still in his black jacket but without the tie, sat at a corner table with an inch of red wine in his glass and a cigarette in his hand. He gave me the briefest of nods. I scoffed some nuts, bought two glasses of red and joined him.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘We’re off to a good start.’
‘I wouldn’t say that necessarily.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, finished the wine in his glass and moved the other one closer. He looked tired, long hours and no result showing on his face. He glanced around, an automatic action, checking for anything he didn’t like, or anyone he didn’t want to see. He had all that sitting right in front of him and his attention switched back to me.
‘So. What’s this about Wilson Stafford?’
I drank some of the wine. Not bad, not great. A bit overpriced but I could always go back for some nuts and olives. ‘Sorry, Sarge. It’s a two-way street. How are you going with the investigation? Did you talk to Hampshire?’
‘He’s your client. Hasn’t he been in touch?’
I had another pull on the drink. Didn’t answer.
‘Okay, you want something. We’re not making progress—no witnesses, no sightings. Forensics are a zero. Hampshire showed us a copy of the record of telephone calls he made from where he was staying over the relevant time. He had two pizza deliveries and sent out for booze and an escort. He couldn’t have made it to Church Point. Somehow I don’t think he was in the country long enough to have had the time to organise a hit.’
‘Any sign of Ronny?’
‘Your turn, Hardy.’
‘Right. Was there any sign that Angela Pettigrew had a lover?’
‘No, not from interviews with neighbours and friends. Come on, what’ve you got?’
I told him that when the confrontation with Sarah and Ronny had happened, Sarah had called her mother a hypocritical bitch and Ronny had asked if I was the new bloke—implication obvious. I had a little more up my sleeve—Hampshire’s hint that Sarah wasn’t his daughter—but in these situations you don’t show your hand until you have to. I kept that in reserve.
Watson nodded. ‘That’s something. Okay, no, we haven’t found Ronny. What about Stafford?’
‘What’ve you got from Sarah?’
‘Bugger-all. The policewoman who’s met her says she’s a tough little nut under the posh school manners. Turns them on and off as it suits her. She’s got a tame shrink. Won’t say who he is but she reckons he says she’s too traumatised to be interviewed. We have to look at her, of course. I assume she inherits and the house must be worth a bit. It’s been known to happen.’
I remembered Ronny’s comment that Sarah was an actress. I’d have to keep in mind that she was likely to put on a performance.
‘Right,’ I said, ‘I need to talk to her about her brother and maybe I can get her to open up on what she meant about Angela’s hypocrisy. Nearest and dearest kill each other, don’t they? You have to be interested in that. You should be able to set it up for me to at least try to talk to her.’
‘Jesus. All right, I’ll think about it. Now what’s the fucking connection with Stafford?’
I didn’t give him the full rundown Templeton had given me, Hampshire was still my client after all, but I told him enough to indicate that Hampshire had played fast and loose with a dangerous man and possibly with others. Money was missing and people went
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