alone? I doubt it. Same goes for West.”
“What makes them tick? Dear God. I was thinking about my grandson on the way back … kept seeing his face. Defies belief. What kind of woman is this, Simon?”
When he got home just after midnight, the light was flashing on his answerphone. One message was from the dry cleaner to say his suit was ready—otherwise three callers had not left any message.
He stood in the darkness in his long, cool drawing room. Beyond the windows there was a new moon with the evening star, reminding him of the genius Samuel Palmer, the artist he most revered.
Then he thought of Diana Mason. She had haunted him with silent calls the previous year but he had neither seen nor spoken to her for months. In all likelihood she had a new man and another life and he had been erased from her mind. Simon hoped so.
He went to bed exhausted, but his sleep was invaded by the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks and the zip of his car tyres down the motorway, and filled with visions of Edwina Sleightholme’s thin, secretive face and defiant eyes and of the yellow rescue helicopter, veering towards them and away, towards them and away, swaying nauseously through his dreams.
He heard the cathedral clock chime every hour until five, when he turned over to sleep heavily until after eight o’clock.
“Guv … we heard. You got a result?”
DS Nathan Coates was waiting for him.
“The Angus file’s on your desk. I thought—”
“I bet you did. Get some coffees from round the corner and I’ll have a bacon-and-egg bap.”
He went to his desk, which was heaped with papers. Nathan turned reluctantly and headed off to the nearby Greek Cypriot café, which had transformed the lives of Lafferton CID and earned the eternal wrath of the station canteen.
Serrailler flipped through his papers, opened up his computer and, by the time Nathan returned, had zipped through a couple of dozen emails. He lifted the lid of his espresso and sniffed the pungent, fresh coffee. He had brought himself quickly up to speed on the David Angus file. Nathan waited, bursting with suppressed questions and enthusiasm. Serrailler looked at him.
“I take it the place is a hive of rumour and speculation?”
“Yeah, too right. Only, before we get down to it, there’s something else, guv.” Nathan flushed.
“Nathan?”
Simon dreaded his DS telling him he was leaving Lafferton, had promotion to a DI in another force, would be gone by next week. Nathan was enthusiastic, ambitious and hard-working. He would rise fast. The DCI was loath to let him go but knew that he must. He waited.
“Thing is, I ent told anybody here … not yet. We wanted you to be the first.”
Where? The north? The Met?
“Me and Em’s having a sprog.”
Nathan was a brighter shade of tomato. Simon let out a cry of both relief and delight.
Just before lunch, Serrailler called in the core team who had worked on the Angus case.
“It’s not going to be easy,” he warned, looking around. He had to hit the right note—to dampen any over-optimism at the same time as indicating that hefelt fairly certain they had got the person responsible. “Sleightholme won’t confess—she’s barely said a word. They’ll nail her up north, of course, because Amy Sudden was in the boot of her car. But both forces are going to have to get good evidence for the two boys. It’ll take everything we can throw at it. We’re looking at hard slog. I’m pretty confident we’ll get there.”
“You could be wrong, guv … the woman might crumble and give us everything on a plate.”
“You haven’t met her.”
“Word is out that you’re a hero, guv … did a bit of SAS stuff.” A small cheer went up.
“Thanks, guys, that’ll be all. Now let’s get on with it.”
Sixteen
He had let her rest. She took a blanket and pillow and lay on the sofa in the sitting room, cramped and afraid but so exhausted that she managed twenty minutes of sleep a couple of times.
“What makes them tick? Dear God. I was thinking about my grandson on the way back … kept seeing his face. Defies belief. What kind of woman is this, Simon?”
When he got home just after midnight, the light was flashing on his answerphone. One message was from the dry cleaner to say his suit was ready—otherwise three callers had not left any message.
He stood in the darkness in his long, cool drawing room. Beyond the windows there was a new moon with the evening star, reminding him of the genius Samuel Palmer, the artist he most revered.
Then he thought of Diana Mason. She had haunted him with silent calls the previous year but he had neither seen nor spoken to her for months. In all likelihood she had a new man and another life and he had been erased from her mind. Simon hoped so.
He went to bed exhausted, but his sleep was invaded by the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks and the zip of his car tyres down the motorway, and filled with visions of Edwina Sleightholme’s thin, secretive face and defiant eyes and of the yellow rescue helicopter, veering towards them and away, towards them and away, swaying nauseously through his dreams.
He heard the cathedral clock chime every hour until five, when he turned over to sleep heavily until after eight o’clock.
“Guv … we heard. You got a result?”
DS Nathan Coates was waiting for him.
“The Angus file’s on your desk. I thought—”
“I bet you did. Get some coffees from round the corner and I’ll have a bacon-and-egg bap.”
He went to his desk, which was heaped with papers. Nathan turned reluctantly and headed off to the nearby Greek Cypriot café, which had transformed the lives of Lafferton CID and earned the eternal wrath of the station canteen.
Serrailler flipped through his papers, opened up his computer and, by the time Nathan returned, had zipped through a couple of dozen emails. He lifted the lid of his espresso and sniffed the pungent, fresh coffee. He had brought himself quickly up to speed on the David Angus file. Nathan waited, bursting with suppressed questions and enthusiasm. Serrailler looked at him.
“I take it the place is a hive of rumour and speculation?”
“Yeah, too right. Only, before we get down to it, there’s something else, guv.” Nathan flushed.
“Nathan?”
Simon dreaded his DS telling him he was leaving Lafferton, had promotion to a DI in another force, would be gone by next week. Nathan was enthusiastic, ambitious and hard-working. He would rise fast. The DCI was loath to let him go but knew that he must. He waited.
“Thing is, I ent told anybody here … not yet. We wanted you to be the first.”
Where? The north? The Met?
“Me and Em’s having a sprog.”
Nathan was a brighter shade of tomato. Simon let out a cry of both relief and delight.
Just before lunch, Serrailler called in the core team who had worked on the Angus case.
“It’s not going to be easy,” he warned, looking around. He had to hit the right note—to dampen any over-optimism at the same time as indicating that hefelt fairly certain they had got the person responsible. “Sleightholme won’t confess—she’s barely said a word. They’ll nail her up north, of course, because Amy Sudden was in the boot of her car. But both forces are going to have to get good evidence for the two boys. It’ll take everything we can throw at it. We’re looking at hard slog. I’m pretty confident we’ll get there.”
“You could be wrong, guv … the woman might crumble and give us everything on a plate.”
“You haven’t met her.”
“Word is out that you’re a hero, guv … did a bit of SAS stuff.” A small cheer went up.
“Thanks, guys, that’ll be all. Now let’s get on with it.”
Sixteen
He had let her rest. She took a blanket and pillow and lay on the sofa in the sitting room, cramped and afraid but so exhausted that she managed twenty minutes of sleep a couple of times.
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