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‘Well, he’s dead obviously,’ says Martin, smirking as he plays for laughs.
Jennie shakes her head. She knows that dark humour is part of the deal in the police, but Rob’s death still feels raw. He’d been a friend once.
The DCI grimaces. No one says anything. The mood in the room remains serious.
Martin looks unusually self-conscious. ‘Sorry, it’s too soon, I guess.’
‘Anyone else, thoughts?’ asks Jennie. ‘We know his alibi was faked, and he was in a highly anxious state of mind before he died. What else?’
‘The note,’ says Zuri, her tone determined. ‘I still believe it was a confession to killing Hannah.’
At the back of the room, DCI Campbell is running his hand across his jaw. Jennie gets the impression her boss might be swaying more towards Zuri’s theory that Rob is their murderer.
Personally she’s not so sure. ‘If he killed Hannah, where did it happen? Elliott has said he was in the darkroom all along. If Rob and Hannah had been there, he would have seen them.’
Zuri nods, thoughtfully. ‘True. I think we should have another go at questioning Naylor. He knows more than he’s letting on, I’m sure of it.’
‘Agreed. Can you set that up?’ asks Jennie. Jennie looks at her DCs. ‘Naomi, Steve, follow up with all Duncan Edwards’ employers since he left White Cross. Find out if there’s been any complaints about his conduct with students or female colleagues. He might not be our prime suspect any more, but we need to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s on him.’
‘On it,’ says Naomi, making a note of the actions on the white board.
‘Fine,’ says Steve, looking up at the clock on the end wall.
Jennie glances at her watch. It’s almost six, but she isn’t ready to call it a day yet. At the moment, they have more questions than answers. Frustrated, she rubs her temples, trying to ease the tension headache that’s brewing behind her eyes. She needs a clear mind, has to be at her best.
It’s time to be reunited with the final surviving member of the darkroom crew.
Chapter 31
Simon Ackhurst’s narrowboat is moored a quarter of a mile along the tow path from the Flotilla pub and restaurant. Martin parks in the pub car park and they walk past the busy beer garden – the smell of pub grub making Jennie’s stomach growl – and out along the gravel path. It doesn’t take them long to find Ackhurst’s mooring. It’s a beautiful spot. The grassy bank is dotted with wildflowers and clover, and the willow trees that curve across the water from the other side of the canal provide some shade from the warm evening sun. She can hear the birds singing in the trees, and a little further along the canal a family of swans are gliding gracefully through the water.
‘This is all right, isn’t it?’ says Martin, echoing her thoughts. ‘Private spot, close to a pub. Perfect.’
‘Yeah,’ says Jennie. She looks at the navy narrowboat with gold-trimmed windows and a few tubs of white and red geraniums on the bow. ‘Nice boat.’
Stepping onto the boat, Martin goes down the steps and knocks on the wooden door.
It opens almost straightaway and a tanned, broad-shouldered man with thinning blond hair steps out wearing board shorts, a baggy pink T-shirt and sliders. ‘DS Wright?’
‘That’s me,’ says Martin. ‘Thanks for meeting with us at such short notice. This is my boss, DI Jennie Whitmore.’
‘Jennie?’ says Simon, putting his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘Bloody hell, you haven’t changed a bit.’
She knows he’s lying, but then he always was one to try to charm the girls. ‘Likewise.’ He probably knows she’s lying, too.
‘Come in, come in,’ says Ackhurst, moving into the boat and gesturing for them to follow. ‘It’s been forever, Jennie. Must be, what, at least thirty years?’
Jennie nods. ‘Thirty years, yeah. Since school.’
‘And now you’re a detective, that’s so cool,’ says Simon, enthusiastically. ‘I’m glad things have worked out well for you.’
Jennie just smiles. Life has worked out nothing like she thought it would. From what she’s read of Simon’s rap sheet she guesses the same for him. He was the school’s top athlete, and the guy all the fifth-formers and a lot of the sixth form were crushing on; destined for big things in the sporting world. But none of it happened after he went off the rails when Hannah disappeared. ‘As you know, Hannah Jennings’ remains were found buried in the basement of the old White Cross Academy. We’re investigating her murder, and as one of her close friends, we’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course, of course,’ says Simon, gesturing for them to sit down on the bench seat. Behind him on the stovetop a kettle starts to whistle. ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea, alcohol-free beer?’
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ says Jennie. Her tone is professional, firm; Simon needs to realise this isn’t a social call. She takes a seat. The boat is bigger than she’d expected – and more homely, with its pine-clad walls, paintings of local landscapes and check curtains. There’s an armchair next to the small log burner and bench seats either side of a narrow table.
As Martin sits beside her, Simon moves the armchair so it faces the bench and takes a seat. ‘So how can I help?’
