Malkin crossed towards her and as he came close she glanced up and then away.
‘Busy?’ Malkin said.
She looked at him through an arc of smoke. ‘Takin’ the piss, right?’
By appearance she was a mixture of African-Caribbean and Chinese, but her accent was East Midlands through and through, Notts rather than Derby.
‘Lisa?’
‘Yeah?’
Malkin squatted low on his haunches, face close to hers. ‘You used to know Wayne Michaels.’
‘So what if I did?’
‘I’m sorry. About what happened.’
‘Yeah, well. Been and gone now, i’n’t it?’
‘You’ve moved on.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Good.’
Something about his voice made her feel ill at ease. ‘Look, this place.’ She looked up at the sign. ‘It’s what it says it is, you know. Not one of them massage parlours, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Not at all. It’s just, if you’ve got the time, I thought we could talk a bit about Wayne? Maybe his mate, Jermaine? You were friendly with both of them, weren’t you?’
Lisa narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not the police, are you?’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Not some reporter?’
Malkin shook his head. ‘I used to know Wayne’s father a little, that’s what it is.’
‘Him told you ’bout me, I s’pose, were it?’
‘That’s right.’
Lisa lit a new cigarette from the butt of the last. ‘Got a good twenty minutes till my next, why not?’
There was a pair of divers, borrowed for the occasion from the Lincolnshire force, and they struck lucky within the first hour. Will grateful he could assure his boss there’d be no need for overtime. The weapon was a Glock 17, its bulky stock immediately recognisable. Any serial numbers had, of course, been removed. If they begged and pleaded with the technicians, another twenty-four hours should tell them if it was the gun responsible for Arthur Fraser’s death.
Will and Helen were both parked up at the side of the road, a lay-by off the A10, the Ely to Cambridge road. They were sitting in Will’s car, a faint mist beginning to steam up the insides of the windows.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ Will said.
‘Most probably.’ A hint of a smile on Helen’s face.
‘This shooting. Nothing to suggest any kind of fight or quarrel. Nothing personal. Every sign of careful planning: preparation. A single shot to the head with a weapon that’s almost certainly clean. A professional job. It has to be.’
‘Someone hired to make a hit on Fraser?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Then you have to ask why.’
‘And there’s only one answer,’Will said. ‘Sharon Peters.’
Helen nodded. ‘The family, the parents, we should go and talk to them?’
‘Let’s wait,’ Will said. ‘Till tomorrow. Make sure the ballistics match up.’
‘Okay.’
It was warm inside the car. Their arms close but not touching. An articulated lorry went past close enough to rock them in its slipstream. Still neither one of them made a move to go.
Finally, it was Helen who looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back?’
‘If anything had happened, Lorraine would have called on my mobile.’
‘Even so.’
He left her leaning against the roof of her VW, smoking a cigarette.
When Will arrived home, Lorraine was wandering from room to room, Cowboy Junkies on the stereo, singing quietly along. ‘A Common Disaster’ playing over and over, the track programmed to repeat. To Will, it wasn’t a good omen.
‘Lol?’
‘Huh?’
‘Can we change this?’
‘Change?’
‘The music. Can we…?’
‘I like it.’
Okay, Will thought, go with the flow.
A good few years back, when he and Lorraine had first started going together, she would fetch her little stash from where she kept it upstairs in the bedroom — her dowry, as she called it — and roll them both a joint. Now that he no longer smoked cigarettes and, Will supposed, with this latest promotion, if she ever suggested it, he passed.
Lorraine, he was sure, still partook from time to time, the sweet smell lingering in the corners of the house and in her hair. Maybe, looking at her slight, slow sway, she was stoned right now.
How would that be for the baby, he wondered, if it were so?
Would it make him a cool kid or slightly crazy?
There were some cans of beer in the fridge and he took one and went into the living room and switched on the TV. Lorraine had been vague about dinner, but he thought she was entitled, hormones all over the place like they were. Later he’d phone for a curry or, better still, a Chinese. It was ages since they’d eaten Chinese.
They were in bed before ten thirty, Lorraine set to read a chapter or so of whatever book she had on the go, Will rolling away from her and on to his side, arm raised to shield his eyes from the light.
He must have fallen asleep straight away, because the next thing he knew it was pitch dark and the bed beside him was empty. Lorraine was sitting on the toilet with her nightgown pulled high across her thighs.
‘You all right?’ Anxiety breaking in his voice.
‘Yes. Yes, just woke with this pain.’ She indicated low in her abdomen.
‘But you’re okay? I mean, nothing’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened.’
When he bent to kiss her forehead it was damp and seared with sweat. ‘Why don’t you let me get you something? A drink of water? Tea? How about some peppermint tea?’
‘Yes. Peppermint tea. That would be nice.’
He kissed her chastely on the lips and went downstairs.
Back in bed, he found it near impossible to get back to sleep, dozed fitfully and got up finally at five.
Jake was fast off, thumb in his mouth, surrounded by his favourite toys.
Will made coffee and toast and sat at the kitchen table staring out, willing it to get light. At six thirty he gave in and dialled Helen’s number. She answered on the second ring.
‘Not asleep then?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Yesterday,’ Will said, ‘you think I was being overcautious?’
‘In the car?’
‘What I said in the car, yes. About waiting to see if we had a match.’
‘You don’t think there’s any doubt?’
‘Has to be some. But, shit, not really, no.’
‘You want to go over there now? Sharon Peters’ parents?’
‘What do you reckon? A couple of hours’ drive? More?’
‘Coventry? This time of the morning maybe less.’
‘I’ll meet you by the Travelodge on the A14. This side of the turn-off for Hemingford Grey.’
‘It’s a deal.’ Will could hear the excitement rising in her voice.
The traffic moving into and out of the city was heavy and it was close to nine before they arrived at the house, a twenties semi-detached in a quiet street with trees, leafless still, at frequent intervals. Cars parked either side.
There was a van immediately outside the house with decorating paraphernalia in the rear, partly covered by a paint-splodged sheet. The man who came to the door was wearing off-white dungarees, speckled red, blue and green.
‘Mr Peters?’
He looked Will and Helen up and down, as if slowly making up his mind. Then he stepped back and held the door wide. ‘You’d best come in. Don’t want everyone knowing our business up and down the street.’
One wall of the room into which he led them was a virtual shrine to Sharon when she’d been alive, photographs almost floor to ceiling.
‘The wife’s out,’ Peters said. ‘Dropping off our other girl at school. Usually goes and does a bit of shopping after that.’
Our other girl, Will was thinking. Of course, to them she’s still alive.
‘You know why we’re here?’ Helen asked.
‘Something to do with that bastard getting shot, I imagine.’
‘You know about it, then?’
‘Not at first, no. One of neighbours come round and told us. Saw it, like, on TV.’