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“Right,” Patsy said.
Time to move on, Charlie thought.
“Did you find anyone who saw Rico’s body being moved?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Patsy, hastily swallowing a mouthful of cake. “The front entrance to the workshop is only overlooked by a couple of windows in the main building. There is a back entrance, and the scenes of crime people think the lock might have been picked. Or not. It’s only a wooden door and the lock is ancient. The key was hanging up inside, so it could also have been borrowed and copied.” She stopped to take a swallow of tea, and Mags took up the story.
“Anyway, the point is that there's loads of room to get a van, or a small truck, right up to the back door and they, whoever they are, could have unloaded without anyone seeing anything. Violet — the woman who uses the workshop — has a van she uses to collect her… materials, and that’s how she brings them. A white Ford Transit.”
“When was she last there?” Charlie asked.
“Not since the middle of last week. Her father was ill, so she took a couple of days off.” Mags said. “He’s fine,” she added, as if they might be interested. Charlie was too busy thinking about the white Ford Transit crashed into the front of his car, in the yard behind the police station. Surely that would be a coincidence too far?
“No one would be surprised to see a white van being unloaded at the back of the workshop then?” he asked. “But did anyone see it while Violet was away?”
“One of the campus services officers thought he might have done, last night. But he couldn’t be sure. He said it might have been another day. But it’s all we’ve got.”
Charlie added “white Ford Transit van” and “Monday night?” to the whiteboard.
“Are we sure it wasn’t Violet’s own van last night?” Eddy asked.
Mags shook her head. “No, it’s the only vehicle she has. She used it to get to her Dad’s.”
“Where’s that?” Eddy said.
Patsy looked at her phone. “Somewhere called Denholm. It’s in Lancashire.”
Eddy began fiddling with his phone and held his hand up. “Denholm is less than five miles from Brocklehurst. Brocklehurst, ladies and gents, is where Kaylan Sully walked into the local police station, claiming to have lost his memory.” Eddy leaned back in his chair. “Fill your chart in, Sarge, we have a contender!”
Charlie added Violet’s name to the whiteboard, along with the words “Denholm, Brocklehurst, and white Transit van. He drew a line to Rico’s body.
“We have a possible connection,” he said. "But that’s all we’ve got. And it’s not like we haven’t got any others. I’ve met Violet. She’s not tiny, but she’s not big either. Shifting a dead body is hard work. I can’t believe she could have done it by herself. But we need to talk to her, and have the van looked at for signs of the body. I want to know who else in this town has a white Ford Transit.”
“We can’t ignore the Brocklehurst thing, Sarge,” Eddy said.
“I’m not ignoring it,” Charlie said. “I’m not ignoring it so much that I think you should go and visit Violet’s dad, and see if there’s anywhere Rico and Kaylan could have been hidden. See if anyone else on our list has a Brocklehurst connection. Find out if anyone could have borrowed Violet’s van. Bring the van in, get it looked at and ask the scenes of crime crew if there’s anything in the workshop that could have been used to transport the body.”
Eddy made notes. “Will do, Sarge. But we only have one working computer, and that’s in your office.”
“You don’t need a computer to visit Violet’s dad,” Charlie said. “You should all know that we don’t have much time. Ravensbourne made it clear that Harrington-Bowen and co. are itching to get back in here, and they’ve got a lot of friends. She didn’t give me a limit, but I’d say we’re already on borrowed time. I’d like us to do the interviews with Kaylan and the visit to Violet’s dad this evening, because the clock is ticking.”
“Just us four against the forces of evil, then,” Eddy said.
Patsy giggled and Mags looked scared. Charlie thought that if it all went pear-shaped, Eddy would be re-absorbed back into Ravensbourne’s team in Wrexham, and Patsy seemed to have an infinite capacity for doing the right thing and taking the consequences. He thought Mal Kent and Patsy probably had a lot in common. Mags worried him. She seemed the most fragile of the team, with emotions closer to the surface even than his own. Without her hi-vis jacket and equipment belt, she was curvaceous and softly rounded. Once again, she had only nibbled at half a cake, giving the rest to Eddy. He was no one to judge women, but he thought rather than try to lose weight, Mags should tell her cousin to buy her a bigger dress.
“Patsy and Mags. I want you to bring Kaylan in, and interview him formally. Try to get him to tell you where he was for the missing week, ask him if he knows Violet, or her workshop. Before you do, ask to see the paperwork to do with his admission—especially everything to do with money. How much are his fees, his accommodation, and how much of a donation did he give to the college. Find out if he was accepted into any other art colleges. Make it clear that he isn’t being arrested, but it’s a formal interview, under caution.”
18
Predecessors
Tuesday 6pm
Charlie should have asked Ravensbourne for another car. Llanfair was a small town, but Harrington-Bowen lived on the very outskirts. The sun was completing its descent behind the hills to the west of the town as he walked up a steep, narrow road lined with bungalows, all of which must have had magnificent views. It had been a long day, and showed no signs of ending anytime soon, and his legs ached at the effort of walking uphill. He passed a young man in a dark hoodie with some kind of pale logo who was almost jogging back down, and felt deep envy.
A couple of cul-de-sacs led off the road, with newer bungalows, until at the top of a rise, Charlie found the address he wanted. He was not surprised to find himself in front of a very large, newly built home, in a small close with three or four others. The windows were framed in fashionable dark grey with a matching front door, providing a pleasing contrast with the bright white render, and the green of the perfect lawn. A gleaming black Range Rover was parked outside on a gravel drive. Charlie made a bet with himself that when he rang the doorbell, a dog would bark, and it would be a cocker spaniel. He was right on both counts.
The dog was told firmly to go back to its basket, and Charlie looked at the man whose office he was occupying. Nigel Harrington-Bowen must have been very good-looking when he was younger, and despite his middle-aged spread he would probably still turn a few heads. His hair was thick, blond and shiny, his face lightly tanned and his eyes an attractive blue. He easily topped six feet, with broad shoulders and long legs clad in burgundy cord trousers and a black V-neck lambswool sweater. Charlie didn’t need to look down to know that Harrington-Bowen’s feet would be wearing loafers without socks.
