‘I know. We will.’
Pete is momentarily distracted by the sight of the grey carpet being carried out. Then the head of the investigation team heads over and Pete winds down the window, letting in a blast of cold air. The technician holds up a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘Little bonus surprise for you, Pete.’
In the bag is a pen. A cheap, plastic biro, without its lid. Blue ink. The technician leans in, as though trying to soak up some of the warmth from the car.
‘Tucked between the edge of the carpet and the skirting board,’ he says. ‘Of course, it might be nothing to do with the last occupant. It could have been there for years. But pens tend to have fingerprints. Especially ones that have been forgotten about.’
Chapter 94
LATIMER NODS HIS head, his eyes on the neatly written notes in front of him. He points a pencil at Pete. ‘So, if I understand it correctly, we have a city the size of Bristol, not to mention Bath and their various suburbs, small towns and villages, and this woman homes in on a crucial piece of evidence on the strength of a hunch? Did Wolfe tell her where to look?’
‘Well, whoever rented and furnished the office in the first place would have a head start when it comes to finding it again,’ says Pete.
‘No fingerprints, hairs on the carpet? Anything to tie it to Wolfe?’
‘Not so far, sir,’ Liz tells him. ‘But the team are still looking.’
Latimer sighs, then spins his computer screen round so that Pete and Liz can see it. ‘Guys,’ he says. ‘Do you ever think there’s maybe something not quite right about this Maggie Rose character?’
Pete glances sideways at Liz as he pulls his chair closer. Latimer has been looking at Maggie’s website. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.
‘The whole blue hair business, for one thing. I mean, who dyes their hair blue?’
‘What women do with their hair is a mystery to me,’ says Pete. ‘I think it’s a mystery to most blokes, to be honest.’
‘Exactly. So you’re not asking the questions you should be asking. Liz, on the other hand, I would have expected more from.’
Liz opens her eyes a little wider. ‘OK, sir,’ she says. ‘What should we be asking?’
‘When people dye their hair unnatural colours, it’s for a reason, usually a desire to be noticed. I mean, everyone notices bright turquoise hair, don’t they?’
‘I guess.’ Pete can’t look at Liz any more.
‘And yet Maggie Rose is a recluse. She doesn’t do interviews, she never appears in court. No pictures on her website. Hardly anybody meets her unless she’s working directly with them. Why would someone who makes a point of avoiding attention dye her hair such a noticeable colour?’
‘I give up, sir,’ says Liz. ‘Why?’
In response, Latimer stands up and walks to the window. ‘When I was a kid, I was fascinated by magicians,’ he says. ‘Even the cheesy, crap ones you get at parties. I really wanted to know how they did their tricks and I could never spot it. And then, when I got older, I read books about magic. No real magician will reveal his secrets, but what they all seem to have in common is the use of distraction.’
A short silence.
‘Distraction is the magician’s way of diverting the audience’s attention from what he doesn’t want them to see,’ Liz says.
Latimer turns back to them. ‘Exactly. So, what I’m asking myself is, if the wacky hair and the sapphire eyes and the bright-coloured clothes are a distraction, what is it that she doesn’t want us to see?’
Liz and Pete look at each other. She gives him a small, almost imperceptible nod. He turns back to his boss.
‘Sir,’ he says, ‘we’ve got something to tell you.’
Chapter 95
PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.
Chapter 96
WOLFE IS RELAXING, lowering his heartbeat, settling his breathing, the way he once did before a difficult operation, before a long run, before taking the plane up. He has a towel around his neck, so anyone glancing in will think he’s just finished one of his exercise sessions. He glances at his watch, even though he’s told himself he mustn’t and swears that he won’t do it again. He knows exactly what the time is. Calm is what he needs to be right now.
A shadow blocks the doorway. One of the guards is looking in.
‘Guv.’ Wolfe nods his head, once. Just enough for politeness.
‘Dismantling the grotto are we, lads?’
The paper chains have all been taken down and lie in coiled heaps like copulating snakes on Phil’s bunk.
‘Twelfth night, Guv,’ Wolfe says. ‘Unlucky to keep them up any longer.’
‘Twelve what?’
‘Twelfth of January,’ Phil pipes up. ‘The date you’re supposed to take your Christmas decorations down or the bad pixies will come and get you. Or something like that.’