‘Oh, it’s terribly boring. I basically make the computer system work for a large pharmaceutical company – the sort of global conglomerate that Guardian readers hate.’
‘Where’s it based?’ asks Manon.
‘Outskirts of Cambridge, towards Newmarket. One of those charmless industrial estates. But I’ve been working from home this week – the office is deserted this time of year.’
‘Did you study English at university?’ asks Manon, glancing back at the bookshelves.
‘No, quite a few of those are for a course I’m doing. Open University. The others are for pleasure. I wasn’t … I didn’t go. To college, I mean.’
‘And you were walking your dog this morning?’ says Davy, pen poised.
‘Yes. My usual walk, to give Nana her run-around. Well, more of a hobble these days. We took the path along the river. Nana,’ he says, nodding at the dog, and her eyebrows move independently at this, like two caterpillars, though her head remains lowered in her basket, ‘started to scratch at some tree roots close to the bank. I kept calling her but she wouldn’t come away, so eventually I went to fetch her and that’s when I saw it. Just the back. It was face down in the water.’ He coughs. ‘I shouldn’t say “it” – I mean him.’
They are all silent for a moment, in reverence for the body.
‘Thanks, Mr Prenderghast,’ says Manon. ‘I don’t think we need to detain you any longer.’
Davy and Manon begin to gather their coats. It takes them a few moments to re-bury themselves in scarves and gloves.
‘Going out celebrating tomorrow night?’ asks Davy.
‘Ah yes, it’s New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?’ he says, smiling. ‘I’d forgotten. No, I’m afraid it’s not my thing. I’m not good with crowds.’
‘I love a New Year’s knees-up, myself,’ says Davy.
‘I’m with you, Mr Prenderghast,’ says Manon. ‘I can’t stand it.’
‘Call me Alan, please. I’ll be staying put. Watch a film maybe.’
‘What, by yourself?’ says Davy, appalled.
Manon casts Alan a conspiratorial look, as if they are Davy’s weary parents.
He laughs. ‘I do think there’s the most terrible fear of solitude these days – as if it’s some kind of disease. People can’t tolerate it. They want to be seen in a constant social whirl.’
‘I didn’t mean …’ says Davy.
‘No, no, I was only making a general point,’ he says, with one hand on the open door. ‘I can go on a bit, sorry. I’m probably defensive. Perhaps my unconscious wishes I’d go to a party, DC Walker. Well, thank you, officers. If I can help with anything else, then do call.’
Saturday
Davy
The cycle path – marvellously flat and open – takes him across the marshy flatlands of the Fens and though it’s bracing (he’d had to make himself brave the winter weather this morning), now he’s out in the air and going at an exhilarating speed, there’s nothing better. Davy has always kept himself active, though shift patterns sometimes intervene (especially during a whopper like the Hind case). Most mornings he runs at 6 a.m. or takes the bike out. He would never let himself slide, not after his mum and all that staying in bed or staring at the telly, shoving in chocolate bourbons like she was daring him to try and stop her.
This morning, Chloe had gone off to her job in Next on the high street – today being not just a Saturday, but New Year’s Eve, so a busy one – and he drove the car an hour out of Huntingdon, to Wisbech, so he could cycle some of the many excellent Fenland routes. He’s been yearning for time to think about how to have The Conversation with Chloe, and he’s been yearning also for a feeling of movement. There’s really nothing else like it, your body and your bike going at speed and the fresh scent of the countryside blowing into your lungs; big skies, in an enormous dome over the flatlands, and the river like a cool, grey road beside him.