‘We now believe that the reason Sam Bowen was murdered is that he knew something, or suspected something about the death of Lieutenant Naylor on the USS Alexander Hamilton. Justin Opizzi told us that Naylor was his biological father, and that Naylor’s sister Vicky Wenzel was always suspicious about the death. Sam’s girlfriend said Sam was suspicious about it too, and although the murderer took his computer and his notebook, and seems to have hacked into his Cloud back-up and deleted his files, there is one note on his desk back at home which suggests he was following that line of inquiry.’
‘What was that?’ Toby asked, curious.
‘Craig Naylor’s name circled with an exclamation mark next to it on a pad of paper.’
‘That doesn’t sound conclusive,’ Toby said.
‘It isn’t. Which is why I need you to tell me what you know about Lieutenant Naylor’s death.’
What did Toby know? That Bill had claimed it was an accident. That Justin had suspected Bill of killing Naylor. That Lars had admitted to killing Naylor himself.
It was useful stuff. None of it seemed to him to point to Alice killing Sam. But, on the other hand, he didn’t know why she had met the historian that evening.
Best just to trust Alice’s solicitor.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Toby. ‘I can’t tell you.’
Frustrated, Atkinson terminated the interview and kicked Toby out of the interview room.
Bill was waiting for him at the entrance to the police station. But as he was leaving, Toby held the door for a small woman also on her way out. Her long hair was dyed blue, and her freckled cheeks were drawn firmly downwards on either side of her mouth. She was very thin, but Toby noticed there was a slight bump at her waist.
She hurried out of the police station and down the steps to the pavement.
‘Hang on, Bill,’ said Toby, and he rushed after her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said in as friendly a voice as he could muster.
The woman didn’t look at him.
‘Are you Jasmine, by any chance?’
The woman stopped to face him, a glimmer of curiosity in her dead eyes. ‘Maybe.’
‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Sam.’
‘Sam? Who are you? How do you know about Sam?’
‘Oh, he came to Thanksgiving at our house on Thursday. It was the first time I had met him, but I liked him.’ Toby hesitated. Nothing he could say would be satisfactory, but he couldn’t just say nothing. ‘I am really sorry for you. And his parents,’ he added.
‘So you are from the family of the woman who killed him?’
‘Yes. She’s my wife. And she didn’t kill him, I’m sure of it.’
‘Then why isn’t she talking to the police? Why isn’t she helping them like any decent citizen would do?’
A good question. ‘I don’t know,’ said Toby. ‘But I do know she can’t have killed him.’
The woman’s shoulders slumped. ‘Whoever she is, she’s innocent until proved guilty, I get that. And she’s your wife, so you think she’s innocent. I get that too. But I don’t care. If the police find she’s guilty I hope they lock her up and throw away the key. If she’s innocent, then they can let her go. I won’t want to see her then, and I don’t want to see you now. Do you understand me?’
Toby nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. Now let me get back to my shitty life. Goodbye.’
She turned and left Toby watching her forlornly.
‘Was that Sam’s girlfriend?’ Bill asked at Toby’s shoulder.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I suspected it might be. I thought it best to leave her alone.’
‘Good call,’ said Toby.
‘Did they ask you about Craig’s death?’ said Bill as he drove Toby back to Barnholt.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell them anything?’
‘No.’
‘Good man,’ said Bill.
Toby’s phone buzzed. It was Piet. Toby ignored it.
Toby stared out of the window at the industrial buildings guarding the northern outskirts of King’s Lynn, dismal beneath a layer of grey clouds that was gathering from the south.
He thought of his disastrous conversation with Sam Bowen’s girlfriend. He had just been thinking of himself, how he wanted to express his own sorrow and sympathy for her. He hadn’t been thinking of her. She clearly had no interest in him or his sympathy, and why should she?
She had a point about Alice. Lisa Beckwith’s strategy was all very well, but if Alice was innocent, surely the easiest way to get her off the hook was to prove it to the police? Or give them enough information so they could figure it out for themselves.
It was true that Alice knew what had happened on the submarine, she knew that was secret and she took that seriously. But if Sam had told the world that her father had saved it back in 1983, would that be such a bad thing? Would it be worth Alice killing Sam for?
The answer was clearly no.
Maybe defence solicitors had learned through experience that being helpful didn’t work as well as keeping quiet and being obstructive. That was probably because most of their clients were guilty.
Then it dawned on Toby.
He turned to Bill. ‘Does Alice’s solicitor think she killed Sam Bowen?’
Bill focused on the road ahead. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Then an even more troubling thought occurred to Toby. ‘Do you think Alice killed him?’
‘Of course not,’ said Bill.
But he didn’t take his eyes off the road; he didn’t look at Toby.
Toby wasn’t sure he believed him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When they returned to Barnholt, Toby went up to his bedroom and Bill scurried off to his study.
Toby had just flopped on to the bed, when there was a knock at the door. It was Megan. ‘Want to grab some lunch?’
‘Sure. There’s got to be some cold turkey left.’
‘I was thinking of going out. To the King Willie. I need to get away from this house.’
‘Won’t it still be cordoned off?’
‘It might be. If it is, we can go to Thurstead. There’s a good pub there, I think.’
‘All right.’ Toby pulled himself off the bed. ‘Shall we ask your dad?’
‘Let’s not ask my dad. With everything that’s going on, I bet he’s doing his needlepoint in his study. We wouldn’t want to disturb that.’
It had just started to rain, but the walk was only five minutes. The King William was now open, although there was a police car stationed at the entrance to the car park, an officer sheltering inside. Toby nodded to him as they entered the pub.
The pub was virtually empty, just two couples in their sixties eating lunch, and a man in painters’ overalls refreshing himself with a quick pint. A fire crackled in a large brick fireplace, its sweet smell tempering the sour odour of stale beer.
Toby ordered two pints of Wherry, a ploughman’s for him and a scampi and chips for Megan, from a middle-aged woman with bright-yellow hair in a ponytail. A disconcertingly large wart drooped from a sagging cheek.
‘When did the police let you open?’ Megan asked.
‘Just half an hour ago,’ said the woman. She glanced around the empty bar. ‘We should have more people here on a Saturday lunchtime.’
‘Do you think the murder will put them off?’ Megan asked.
‘I don’t know.’ The woman looked guilty. ‘But it’s not the kind of thing I should worry about, at least not yet. That poor man!’
‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ said Megan. ‘He was visiting us. He stayed for Thanksgiving dinner, just before he died.’
‘And I saw him when he got back here,’ said the woman. ‘He was full of good cheer. He told me he enjoyed your dinner.’
Her warm smile turned into a frown. She fingered the wart on her cheek.