‘Is there no other way you can find out? Use that system thingy at work.’
‘If I try, it’ll flag up as me, then I’ll need to explain why I’m after the information. I suppose I could say I was in the market... but then why didn’t I make an approach then?’
‘Surely Adam must have been staying somewhere else apart from the school?’
‘He was living there, Mags, unless... hang on.’ Jack picked up his mobile and began scrolling through the photos until he found the ones he’d taken of Adam’s Jeep. It was hard to read the number plate because of the mud, but eventually, after enlarging all three images, he pieced together the entire registration. He phoned the CID office and asked to speak with Laura, but she wasn’t there so Jack told the clerk he needed a vehicle registration check done for a car that may be connected to the street gangs operation. After giving her the number, he could hear her tapping the keyboard as he waited anxiously for the result. The clerk informed him the vehicle was owned and insured by Daniel Ferrato, with an address in Haslemere. Jack wrote the details down on a pad, thanked the clerk for her help and ended the call.
He typed the address into Google Earth and got a satellite image of a large, gated Tudor mansion house off a country lane, surrounded by woodland. A long driveway led up to the property, which had a double garage to one side, landscaped gardens, an enormous green-house and an outside pool. Jack switched from satellite to street view to see if he could get a better look at the front of the house, but it was too far up the drive from the lane. One thing was certain, though: if Daniel Ferrato owned the house, he was an incredibly wealthy man. Jack was about to switch the computer off when something on the wrought iron gates caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a ‘private property — keep out’ sign, but when he zoomed in, he could see it was a letting agent’s sign with their address and phone number. Jack found the property on the agent’s website, and his jaw dropped when he saw that the price for a week’s rental was over ten thousand pounds. More than Adam Border could afford, which is why he was living in the old school. So what was his connection to Mr Ferrato?
Jack looked at his watch, it was almost five. He hoped the letting agency would be open on a Saturday. Calling them, he hung on for what seemed like an age and was about to hang up when someone finally answered.
‘Firstly, my apologies for calling so late, but it’s regarding a property you rent out in Haslemere, Surrey. I believe it might belong to Mr Daniel Ferrato.’
‘I am sorry,’ said a posh woman’s voice, ‘but I am unable to give any details over the phone. If you care to come into the office, we open at ten o’clock on Monday.’
‘I am Detective Sergeant Jones from the Metropolitan Police,’ Jack continued. ‘Mr Ferrato’s vehicle was involved in a hit-and-run incident, it is a Mercedes, registration number XE...’
She interrupted, asking him to hold on for a moment while she looked at her computer. Jack shook his head, smiling. With no proof of his ID at all, she was about to give him what he wanted. Just the mention of the word ‘police’ was enough.
‘Mr Ferrato has been in Florida for six months, so I don’t think he could be the driver. I can give you his contact details.’ She handed over Ferrato’s address and a phone number in Florida, but Jack didn’t bother to write them down. He then read out the registered address of the vehicle owner and asked if Mr Ferrato owned the property.
‘Yes, and his vehicle is, I believe, allowed to be used by the occupiers, but the lease expires in two weeks.’
‘Could I have the names of the people currently staying there, please?’
‘I’m not sure I can give out our clients’ details,’ she faltered.
‘This is a serious matter,’ Jack persisted. ‘The pedestrian who was hit by Mr Ferrato’s vehicle is in a coma. She may not survive.’
Jack could hear the woman tut and then start frantically typing again before she told him that Mr Adam Jessop and his wife were staying at the address. She asked Jack for his name and rank again so she could inform her boss, which was when he put the phone down on her.
Jack went up to the nursery as Maggie was finishing feeding Charlie. ‘I have an address that Adam might be renting, so I’m going there tonight.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, very sure.’
Maggie smiled. She had her worries about Jack getting involved in Adam Border’s world, but loved that he was once again engaged and enthralled by being a detective, even if it was nothing to do with his actual job. He was smiling again, sleeping again and that was all that really mattered to her. ‘You be careful driving tonight. I’ll leave your dinner in the oven if you’re not back in time.’
As Jack drove, Waze estimated the journey to Haslemere would take an hour and a half. At first, he was uncertain whether to ask Laura to help him, but he reckoned she might be up for it. She could never resist a Miss Marple task.
He put his mobile on speaker as Laura answered and Jack explained that he needed her to do some sleuthing for him about the incident at the framer’s shop. ‘I’ve searched the Met Web and other websites but can’t find anything about it. The framer’s shop is on Fulham’s patch, and I know you used to work there, so maybe you could phone an old colleague and find out what’s going on?’
‘I was never at Fulham. I was in a relationship with Mark Morrison, the station DCI... well, he was DI back then. He dumped me, so thanks for opening that old wound. What’s your interest?’
‘You know me, I’m a nosey bugger. I was down the market to pick up some furniture but couldn’t because the area was sealed off with crime scene guys milling about, and I wondered when the roads might reopen.’
‘Wow,’ Laura laughed, ‘you must really want that furniture! You’re a terrible liar Jack, but you’re also hardly ever wrong... so if you’ve got a hunch about something or other, I’ll call that arse-hole Morrison. But he may not be very forthcoming. I’ll ring you back if I get anything.’
Jack laughed. ‘Thanks, Laura.’
The journey to Haslemere took longer than expected due to an accident on the A3. Jack drove down dimly-lit country lanes, passing expensive looking properties with high hedgerows and massive gates. He noticed virtually every property had an intercom system and CCTV security camera warnings on the gates. His phone rang, and Laura’s name showed on the screen. He pulled over onto the grass verge and answered it.
‘You owe me, Jack, big time. I had to listen to Morrison’s bullshit about how much he regretted dumping me, blah, blah, lovely arse, blah, blah, and if we could try again, blah, blah, blah. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I couldn’t because I had to get the info for you. I even had to agree to go for a drink with him!’
‘You didn’t mention my name, did you?’
‘No, course not, I just said I knew someone who’d been at the market and overheard something about a murder. I said I was being nosey, which he agreed with a bit too quickly for my liking! Anyway, Fulham’s working the case and Morrison’s the DCI on it. He was full of his own self-importance, but I reckon he’s shitting himself, the big baby...’
‘Can I please have the details, Laura?’ Jack asked, trying not to lose patience with her.
‘OK, they got the initial call from a stall-holder who leaves her trestle table inside this framer’s shop and only works Saturdays. The bloke who runs it normally opens the frame shop before she gets there, but this morning she found the front door still locked. She knocked but got no answer, then went round to the backyard and found the rear door open. She called out but didn’t get a reply and thought the framer might have gone to get a coffee, so she went in to get her trestle table.’ Laura paused and Jack could hear her sipping on a drink.