‘Purse, wallet and keys,’ she says after a moment. ‘But no phone.’
Quinn’s still working his way round the room. Picking things up, putting them down again.
‘Not very, you know, “girly”, is it?’
Ev gives him the side-eye. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’
But she knows what he means. There are books and the odd magazine, sponsor mailings from Barnardo’s and Save the Children, a charity envelope for UNICEF, but no trinkets, no ornaments; barely anything personal at all. Not even photographs.
Quinn stops and puts his hands on his hips. ‘There’s only one toothbrush so odds on she lives alone, but that’s about the only thing I get from this place. It’s like one of those short-term rentals.’
‘There’s that,’ says Ev, nodding at the copy of Women’s Running on the table. ‘And there are three pairs of trainers in the hall. So we know at least one thing she does in her spare time.’
‘Perhaps that’s it – something happened while she was out running?’
Ev frowns. ‘Having left the front door open when she left?’
‘Could have been mugged and had her keys stolen?’
Ev’s still frowning. ‘And the mugger came back here, decided not to bother nicking anything and put the keys back in her bag? And how did he know where she lived anyway?’
Quinn nods slowly. ‘Right. It doesn’t really add up.’
‘It doesn’t add up at all.’ She puts the handbag down. ‘Something’s wrong here, Quinn. I know it.’
* * *
* * *
‘So you don’t know her very well?’
The man shrugs and shakes his head, though Everett’s not sure whether that’s because he doesn’t actually know her or because he hasn’t really understood the question. The little girl holding on to his leg is chattering away in what sounds like Polish.
‘OK,’ she says, handing him her card. ‘Do give us a call if you think of anything.’
She goes back down the path and along to the next house. She can see Quinn two doors further on, and when he turns she catches his eye and shrugs. He shakes his head: seems he isn’t getting very far either.
This time the door is opened by a woman. Not much more than five feet high, in a bright-yellow sari.
Ev smiles. ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Constable Everett, Thames Valley Police. We’re making enquiries about the woman who lives in number 62a. Do you know her at all?’
The woman clasps her hands together. ‘Of course. A very nice lady. But I hope she is OK? Nothing bad has happened?’
Ev tries to look reassuring. ‘She hasn’t been seen since last night. We’re just trying to locate her. We’ve no reason to suspect anything untoward at present.’
The woman looks concerned. ‘I see. Oh dear.’
‘Did you happen to see her last night? Mrs –?’
‘Singh. I am Mrs Singh.’
‘So – did you see anything yesterday evening?’
She nods slowly. ‘Yes, I did. There was a man. At her door.’
Ev feels her heartrate quicken. She pulls her notebook out of her pocket. ‘And when was this?’
‘It must have been about nine o’clock. I was cooking and one of those people came to the door. Selling things, you know.’
Nottingham knocker, thinks Ev.
‘Could you describe the man – the one at 62a, I mean.’
She looks contrite. ‘I am sorry, I was not really concentrating. I was trying to make the salesman go away. My husband does not like those people. I wanted him to go before Rajesh came home.’
Ev doesn’t like them much either. It’s one of the unexpected benefits of living in a first-floor flat with an entryphone and no street door.
‘The man at 62a – was he tall? Young? White?’
The woman nods. ‘White, yes. And dark hair. Quite tall, but everyone looks tall to me.’ She smiles, then glances across at Quinn on the next-door step. ‘He looked a bit like your friend, perhaps? But I only saw his back. I do not think I would know him again.’
‘What was he wearing, do you remember?’
‘Oh yes. It was shorts. Shorts and a T-shirt. A white one. And training shoes. Like for running, you know?’
‘Do you remember the colour of the shorts?’
Mrs Singh’s face crumples a little. ‘Oh dear. Not really. Black, perhaps? I am sorry, I am not sure.’
‘And the conversation they were having – did that seem friendly to you?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure they knew each other. She let him in, after all.’
‘She let him in?’
The woman nods. ‘Yes, yes. I saw him go inside.’
Ev’s making frantic notes now. ‘Did you see him leave?’
‘No. I was cooking, and then Rajesh came home and it was fuss, fuss, fuss. Husbands – you know how it is.’ She gives a conspiratorial smile, which Ev tries to mirror, but never having been married it’s a bit of a fake.
‘You didn’t hear or see anything after that? No arguments, cars leaving suddenly, anything like that?’
Mrs Singh shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But there was a car outside I hadn’t seen before. When I pulled the front curtains later it had gone.’
‘And that would have been around –?’
‘The time? Ten thirty. I always go to bed at the same time.’
Ev nods. ‘And what sort of car was it? I know this is hard, but if you could remember the make –’
The woman shakes her head with a smile. ‘I do not know anything about cars. It was dark. Blue or grey? Something like that. An ordinary car.’
‘Ordinary?’
‘You know. Not one of these big ones that look like the army.’
‘Ah, I see. A saloon. Not an SUV.’
The woman holds up a finger. ‘Exactly! Exactly that. That is what I meant.’
When Quinn joins her on the pavement a couple of minutes later Ev’s still making notes.
‘Looks like you had more luck than me.’
She glances up. ‘There was a man at number 62a last night. About nine. Dark, tallish and possibly driving a dark-coloured car.’
Quinn exhales. ‘Blimey, that changes things a bit.’
Ev’s face is grim. ‘It wasn’t random, Quinn, and it wasn’t while she was out running. She let this predator in.’
* * *
‘OK, Baxter, can you get started on her social media, Ev, you’re on the parents, and Somer, I want you to go and see her colleagues, especially the one who called it in.’
Back at St Aldate’s and Quinn’s back in his stride. This is more like it. Real policework. He’s not dissing the assault case – well, not as such – but that whole area is a bloody bear trap and whatever you do is wrong. Quinn likes his crime clear-cut. No hidden snares, nothing that’ll come back to bite you on the arse. A chance to actually achieve something. And if he gets this sewn up before Gis gets back –
But an hour later his initial elation has rather cooled.
‘She’s not on Facebook? Come on, Baxter, everyone’s on Facebook.’
‘No,’ says Baxter stubbornly, ‘they’re not. And this woman’s one of them. There is an Instagram account, but it looks to me like she only set it up to post shots from when she was out running, but after half-a-dozen or so she must have lost interest. She’s not on Twitter at all, and the LinkedIn is just professional stuff to do with her work at the council. Whoever that bloke was she let in last night, I don’t rate your chances of finding him on there.’
Quinn frowns. ‘OK, OK, but keep looking, right? She lives alone so it’s a fair bet she’s on Match.com or Tinder or something.’
Baxter heaves a loud sigh, but he doesn’t argue.