She pours wine, the friendly gurgling softening the mood. He takes lids off food containers. They sit down and she feels a moment of regret that she and Pete Weston will never be friends.
‘Will you admit, though, that it’s possible?’ she says. ‘Let’s say his cleaning lady works with headphones, listening to music. If she’s upstairs, hoovering, there’s every chance someone could come in downstairs, find a spare set of keys, get them copied, and return them the following week.’
‘It’s also possible his mother, being a domineering, jealous type with serious control issues, decided he’d be easier to keep tabs on if he was behind bars. Possible, just not that likely.’
‘Tell me how the conversation between you and the pump attendant came up?’
He fixes her with a stare, just long enough to let her know he’s registered the abrupt change of direction, knows he’s being interrogated. ‘I use that place a lot. I usually exchange a few pleasantries with Ahmed. He asked me how the case was going, I told him we were pursuing several lines of enquiry. He said, Tell me sumfink, Pete, that girl what went missin’, was she wearing a blue coat, like? I said, Might have been, why? He said, Wait here a minute, and disappeared out back. Would you prefer beef or chicken? Or a bit of both?’
‘Both, I think. Thank you, this looks very nice. So, go on. The coat?’
‘He’d noticed the BMW with the oddly behaving driver and then, when Myrtle’s disappearance was on the news, he checked the CCTV footage. He was umming and aahing about whether to call it in or not, when I turned up for my tankful of unleaded.’
‘And that was the lead that took you straight to Hamish. The dog DNA and the carpet fibres established a link between him and Jessie. Case just about closed.’
He has a mouthful of food, but he nods his agreement.
‘Did it never strike you as being rather too much of a lucky break? I mean, the case is going nowhere – no offence – and then, out of the blue, the killer is caught on camera, in your favourite petrol station.’
He is hungrier than she, piling food into his mouth, talking between mouthfuls. ‘Pure luck caught the Yorkshire Ripper.’
‘There is no dedicated parking at Hamish Wolfe’s house. No drives, no garages along that whole road. Everyone parks in the street, but there’s a lot of competition for spaces. He regularly had to park some distance from his house.’
‘Yeah, he mentioned that.’
‘So, someone with a copy of his car keys could borrow the car for the night and fill the tyres up with air in a petrol station they’d already established was frequented by the lead detective on the case. You have no proof that the hooded figure seen on film is actually Hamish Wolfe.’
‘Other than that he was driving Hamish’s car, you’re right, we don’t. But we also don’t have anyone else who might have done it.’
‘You never found the computer that most of the Facebook postings were sent from, did you?’
Pete’s plate is empty. He picks up the beef carton. ‘No. Facebook were cooperative, but when we got on to BT to link the IP address to an actual location, we drew a blank.’
‘Because whoever owned that computer had put enough technical blocks in place to prevent it being traced?’
‘I seem to remember routing through Eastern Europe being mentioned at some point. It didn’t matter. We figured one posting from Wolfe’s own computer was enough.’
She pushes food around on her plate and sips at her wine. ‘So.’ She looks round her kitchen. ‘Find anything interesting today?’
He did. She can tell from the way the light leaps in his eyes. He found something in her house. Her fork clatters against her plate.
‘What did you find?’
He picks up his phone and turns it to show her a photograph. Wooden boards. Words, written in red ink, chalked angrily, in harsh capital letters.
HE LOVES ME.
It means nothing. This has nothing to do with her, with her house. Then.
‘Oh!’ She pushes back the chair and falls to her knees.
‘Can I assume it’s not your work?’ He’s crouched down, peering under the table at her.
She reaches up and rubs. The wood is rough on the underside, unsanded, and will fill her hands with splinters, but she spits on her fingers and tries again.
‘Hang on.’ Pete is moving closer.
She can scratch the offending words away, peel away the fibres of the wood with her nails.
‘Oh no, you don’t.’ Pete’s hands are under her shoulders, pulling her out. ‘There’s sandpaper in my coat pocket. I had a feeling you’d want to get rid of it. The crime scene guys have everything they need and I can do it before I go.’
‘Thank you.’ She lets him help her to her feet. ‘I’m OK, thank you. I’m sorry, finish your food.’
Pete sits and picks up his fork without taking his eyes from her.
‘What does it mean?’ he asks her.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re pretty upset for something that has no meaning.’