‘No. He’d want to keep every last thing he could. That way he can sit in his bedroom reading Chalmers’ texts and “stimulating” himself.’
‘—delighted to say that Jerry Whyte, CEO of Whytedug, is on the line with us now. Hello, Jerry!’
There were a lot of numbers with no contacts next to them. ‘Did you reverse look-up any of these?’
Jerry Whyte’s voice smugged out of the radio. ‘Hi, Tina, great to talk to you.’
‘Ah...’ Tufty pulled his chin in and his eyebrows up. ‘Sorry?’
‘What matters is making sure we get little Ellie Morton back. It’s—’
‘Then we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.’
‘—and I know, if we all pull together, we can—’
Logan clicked the radio off, pulled out his phone and dialled the last number on the list:
‘10:22 → 15 MINS → OUTGOING.’ The one to the Samaritans. It rang and rang and rang.
Then, ‘Hello, Samaritans, how can I help you?’ A friendly voice, like someone’s grandad.
‘Hi, this is the police. I need to talk to whoever answered a call at ten twenty-two on Friday night, from mobile number: zero seven eight—’
‘I’m sorry, but we can’t do that.’
Oh really?
‘I can get a warrant.’
Clumps of terraced housing sulked in the rain on the left, reaching away into deepest darkest Northfield. On the right: a wide expanse of featureless grass, shut away behind a high chain-link fence, trapped beneath the thick grey clouds. And still the angry Dalek loomed.
‘I know, but that probably won’t help. The volunteers who answer the phones don’t see the caller’s phone number. We don’t record calls. And unless the caller chooses to give us their details, it’s a hundred percent anonymous.’
‘The woman who called is dead.’
A disappointed sigh. ‘I’m sorry for her family’s loss. But we still can’t give you any details without a warrant, assuming we have any. Even after death.’
‘Oh.’ So much for that.
The car rocked its way through a set of speed humps.
‘Now, is there something I can help you with? I’m not trying to tout for business or anything, but it can’t be easy being a police officer these days. Must be very stressful.’
Logan blinked. ‘Me? No. Er... No, thank you.’
‘OK. If you’re sure...?’
He hung up and scribbled the words ‘SAMARITANS: WARRANT?!?’ next to the number he’d just rung.
Tufty frowned at him across the car. ‘No joy?’
‘No joy.’
Second last entry on the list was ‘BLOODY BRIAN’, so Logan skipped that one and moved on to the third last. Poked in the number.
It rang. On and on and on.
Maybe there was nobody—
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice: thin and nervous. Familiar, but not familiar enough to put a name to. The sound of a small dog, yapping in the background. A whining baby.
‘Hello? Who am I speaking to?’
‘Craig isn’t here.’
‘My name’s Inspector Logan McRae, I’m looking for...’ Oh. He put the phone down. ‘She hung up.’
He tried the number again. Only this time it went straight through to an automated voice. ‘THE NUMBER YOU ARE CALLING IS NOT AVAILABLE, PLEASE TRY LATER.’
Oh, don’t worry: he would.
Tufty pointed through the windscreen. ‘Nearly there.’
A small industrial estate appeared through a break in the hedges — little more than a row of big metal sheds in matching shades of grey.
The next number on the list was: ‘McRae: AVOID!!!’
Tufty took a right at the junction.
The number after that looked like... He pulled out Raymond Hacker’s business card again. Yup. It was the office number.
The pool car stopped at the junction with Quarry Road, waiting as a dirty big removals van rumbled by.
Logan dialled, listened to it ring.
‘AberRAD Investigation Services Limited?’ That sounded like the woman who was going to kick Rennie’s backside for him. Danielle? Something like that anyway. ‘Can I help you?’
The pool car nipped across the road once the van had passed, and into the industrial estate.
‘Hi. Is Raymond Hacker about?’
Tufty parked outside the AberRAD Investigations Portakabin.
‘Hold on, I’ll get him. Who’s talking?’
Logan leaned across the car and thumped his palm down on the horn. A harsh ‘Brrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’ blared out.
Danielle’s face appeared at the window, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.
He waved. ‘I am.’
Logan smiled across the desk. ‘How nice of you to cut your trip short for us.’
Hacker took another sip of coffee, face blank. ‘We like to be civic-minded.’
The fish tank gurgled and hissed. Tufty hovered in front of it, bent over, staring in at the multicoloured inhabitants with a big smile on his face. ‘Oooh...’
Other than that, the only noise was the rain, thumping down on the Portakabin roof.
Danielle appeared in the open doorway and knocked on the frame. Shoulders back, chin up. Like a particularly unhappy bouncer. She nodded at Hacker. ‘That thing? Just got a text: it’s tonight.’
‘Thanks, Danners. Do us a favour and tell Andy he can head off home soon as he’s finished that report on Mrs Floyd, OK? Want to make sure he’s nice and fresh.’
‘Guv.’ But she didn’t move. She stayed where she was. On guard.
Hacker turned a thin smile on Logan. ‘Not that it isn’t nice to see you again, Inspector... Mackay, wasn’t it?’
‘McRae.’
‘Sorry. Inspector McRae.’ The smile warmed a bit. ‘But we don’t usually work on a Monday. Had a long weekend photographing cheating spouses and insurance fraudsters. You know how it is: guy claims he’s got crippling whiplash from a rear-end shunt and next thing you know we’re snapping him having a threesome with a dinner lady and someone dressed as a kangaroo.’ A shrug. ‘And it all needs written up.’
The tank gurgled.
The rain thumped.
Logan opened the folder from the car and pulled out one of the phone logs. ‘When we spoke on Saturday, you didn’t tell me you’d already met with a colleague of mine.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘Detective Sergeant Lorna Chalmers. She was here on Friday. Twice.’
Hacker raised his eyebrows. ‘Was she?’ Look at me, I’m so innocent, I never done nuffink wrong, Officer.’
‘And she phoned your business number,’ he held up the printout, ‘at nine fifteen that evening.’
‘We close at six.’
‘The call lasted five minutes.’
No reply.
Logan had another go: ‘Why was she here?’
‘Danners, you remember a DS called Chalmers?’
Danielle made a big show of thinking about it. Then. ‘About yay tall with spaniel-perm hair? Yeah, she came past a couple of times looking for the boss.’ Shrug. ‘He was out. Told her to come back later.’
No one said anything.
No one moved.
‘I love tropical fish.’ Tufty shuffled closer to the tank. ‘Did you know the scientific name for Angelfish is Pterophyllum? It’s from the Greek for “winged leaf”.’
Logan returned the phone log to the folder. ‘And when Chalmers turned up again?’