‘I’m completely, utterly lost,’ said Charlie.
‘Jones is the name. Jones: the most ordinary name in the world.’
‘Simon, you’re beginning to frighten me. Who’s Jones? The killer? The man Sally Thorning met in the hotel?’
‘No. Come on, we’ve got to get back to the briefing.’
‘I’ve got my own work to do! I can’t just leave Pam…’
Simon strode down the corridor. Charlie found herself running after him. As always, she wanted something from him that he was not making readily available. It wasn’t her case, it was nothing to do with her, but she needed to know what he meant.
They hadn’t got far when they saw Norman Grace from HTCU hurrying towards them. ‘I was on my way to find you,’ he said to Simon.
‘What have you got?’
‘You were wrong…’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘… but you were also right.’
‘ Norman, I’m in a hurry.’
‘The name’s Jones,’ said Norman, and Charlie’s skin turned cold.
‘I know.’ Simon broke into a run.
Not so much as a thank you. Charlie shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Norman. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet.’
‘Can you tell him I’m hanging on to the Bretherick hard disk for the time being? There’s more, but it’ll take me a while to get it into a presentable state.’
Charlie nodded, and was moving away when Norman touched her arm. ‘How are you, Charlie?’
‘Fine, as long as no one asks me how I am,’ she said, smiling.
‘You don’t really want that. You don’t want people not to care.’
Charlie ran down the corridor, hoping she hadn’t missed anything, wondering if Norman was right. Would she prefer everyone to forget about last year? To treat her exactly as they had before?
She found Simon round a corner, on his mobile phone. He was telling somebody that he needed them to come to Spilling, saying that as soon as possible would be great. He gave the address of the nick. Charlie had never heard him sound so eager or grateful. Jealousy wasn’t an issue; it was obvious he was speaking to a man. Simon never sounded so unguarded when he spoke to women.
‘Who was that?’ she said once they were on the move again.
‘Jonathan Hey.’
‘The Cambridge don? But… Simon, you can’t just invite your own expert to the party without checking with Sam first. What about Keith Harbard?’
‘Harbard knows nothing.’
When he was in this sort of mood, Charlie knew there was no point contradicting him. If he thought Hey was that much better than Harbard, he was probably right. It wouldn’t stop Proust from taking one look at the second sociology professor to land at his feet and despatching him back to Cambridge without refreshments or an explanation.
Poor Jonathan Hey. What a fool, saying yes to Simon Waterhouse.
‘“Change it back”?’ Proust surveyed Gibbs from across the room. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to us? Change what back? Change it back to what?’
‘The password,’ said Gibbs. ‘It must be. To get into Amy’s Hotmail I had to change it. Whoever set up the account must have tried to get in using the old password and failed.’
‘And worked out that you changed it? How would he have known?’ said Kombothekra.
‘Intelligent guess. I sent a message to Amy’s Hotmail address, so he knew I knew about it. He wants us to see how clever he is. Look at the new e-mail address he created, not more than a few minutes after I broke into his old one: amysbackfromspain@hotmail.com. He’s trying to be witty.’
‘Or she,’ said Keith Harbard. ‘Gibbs is right about the wit; to me that suggests a woman.’
‘Have you never read Oscar Wilde, Professor?’ Proust enquired.
‘He’s not that clever,’ said Sellers. It sounded as if he might have been talking about Harbard; Gibbs suppressed a smile. ‘ “Change it back.” How can we? We don’t know what the old password was.’
‘He knows that,’ said Gibbs impatiently. ‘It’s a threat, isn’t it? He knows he’s giving us an impossible order.’
Harbard nodded. ‘It’s part of the game. Either it’s a guarantee of punishment with a bit of psychological torture thrown in-she appears to be giving you a chance but it’s not a real one because you can’t possibly know her original password-or she’s inviting you to think about what the password might have been. Maybe it was her name.’
‘That’s a point,’ said Kombothekra. ‘Thanks, Keith. I’ll get on to Hotmail.’
‘In the meantime, reply to the message,’ said Harbard. ‘She’ll be flattered. Tell her you can’t think of a way forward, that you need her help with the task she’s assigned you.’
‘Psychological expertise as well as sociological,’ muttered Proust. ‘Buy one, get one free. Unlike you, Professor, I don’t care about our perpetrator’s inner demons or what makes him tick. Give me his name, tell me where I can find him and I’ll be happy. Let’s concentrate on information, not speculation. We’ve identified the two skeletons-that’s a good start.’
‘Harry Martineau and Angel Oliva have become top priority,’ Kombothekra told him. ‘Nobody at Culver Valley General Hospital can remember a heart surgeon called Angel Oliva, and their records suggest he never worked there. So either Martineau was lying or Oliva lied to Martineau.’
‘We’re still checking,’ said Sellers, ‘but it looks as if no child or teacher at St Swithun’s knows a William Markes. Cordy O’Hara’s new ride’s called Miles Parry.’
‘The nanny.’ Kombothekra nodded at Sellers.
‘Yeah, I’ve spoken to Amy Oliva’s former nanny. The number in the anonymous letter was the right one. She didn’t get back to us sooner because she’s in Corsica on her honeymoon, back tomorrow evening. But even before she told me that I recognised her voice on the phone.’ Sellers tried not to sound proud of his own achievement.
‘Have you knobbed her?’ asked Gibbs. Behind his hand, so only Sellers could hear, he began to whisper, ‘All right, love, wipe yourself, your taxi’s here…’
‘ Corsica?’ said Proust. ‘Why does that sound familiar?’
‘Her name’s Michelle Jones,’ Sellers told him. ‘I knew her voice from interviewing her after Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick’s bodies were found. She was in Corsica then too-I interviewed her on the phone. She was Michelle Greenwood before she got married.’
‘The Brethericks’ babysitter,’ said Proust. ‘The one who selfishly arranged a holiday with her boyfriend for the May half-term last year.’
‘That’s right,’ said Kombothekra. ‘She was also Amy Oliva’s part-time nanny, so that’s another connection between the two families.’
‘Unfortunately, when I spoke to Michelle I didn’t know we were going to draw a blank at Culver Valley General, so I didn’t ask about Mr Oliva,’ said Sellers. ‘I’ve left another message for her.’
‘What about this bank where Mrs Oliva worked?’ Proust asked.
‘I’m going today,’ said Kombothekra. ‘I’m hoping someone there can tell me about Patrick.’
‘Ask about William Markes too,’ said the Snowman. ‘And Angel Oliva. Why not? Let’s brandish all our names wherever we go and see what we get.’ Proust would be going nowhere apart from back to his office. Saying ‘we’ instead of ‘you’ was his concession to the idea of the team.
‘I spoke to the Brethericks’ postman this morning,’ said Kombothekra. ‘He says he saw someone in the garden of Corn Mill House last spring, and he remembers it was while the Brethericks were in Florida because Geraldine had told him they were going away. He went to try and get a closer look, but by the time he got to the part of the garden where he’d seen the person, he or she had gone. Postie had the rest of his round to do, so he didn’t look much beyond that spot. When the Brethericks got back, he told Geraldine he’d seen someone. She looked a bit puzzled, but said that whoever it was hadn’t done any harm-there’d been no break-in. But here’s the really interesting part. I asked him if he’d noticed anything else, anything at all that was unusual while the Brethericks were in Florida. At first he said no, but when I urged him to think hard, he did remember something: a red Alfa Romeo parked at the bottom of the lane outside Corn Mill House’s gate. He said the car was there on at least three occasions while the Brethericks were away.’