While Jaget was getting into position I called Nightingale and briefed him. We decided his best option would be to drive to Aylesbury nick where the Thames Valley Major Investigation Unit had its incident room and where he could swing his rank from side to side and persuade TVP to take us seriously.
While he was heading across the Chilterns I got out my tablet and Googled Geoffrey Toobin until I had the address of his solicitor’s firm and a confirmed picture of him. I risked a PNC check on his name and address—just because it’s a small town doesn’t mean there couldn’t be more than one Geoffrey Toobin. He didn’t have any previous, but he did have a driver’s licence and registered vehicle—the Red VW Golf I could see parked, ironically, down a nearby side road.
Then I called up Abigail and asked her to trace a route from Toobin’s solicitor’s office to Janusz Zdunowski’s Costa and/or his house.
“But without going anywhere near the house,” I said. “Or any Thames Valley Police that might be hanging about.”
Abigail told me not to worry.
I sent the picture of Geoffrey Toobin to Nightingale’s phone and asked if he could try and persuade the MIU to add him as a nominal to their investigation.
I called Jaget and updated him. He kept me amused by complaining for five minutes solid, but alas even that had to end and I settled into my seat and awaited developments.
Abigail reported back that the fastest route from Geoffrey Toobin’s office to his home ran past the Costa and then through the car park. I dutifully wrote this up in my notebook, but when I called Nightingale to update him his phone went straight to voicemail. Since with Nightingale this could signify anything from a loss of bars to full-on magical Armageddon I didn’t find it at all comforting.
Abigail phoned to say she was heading back to town but I was to call her as soon as anything interesting happened.
A woman from the Chinese restaurant came out and asked if I could move my car. When I explained why I was there, she popped back in and brought me a full meal in a bag—crab with ginger and spring onions plus sides. This is why it always pays to try and park outside Chinese takeaways.
I watched the house across the road, chomped my way through the prawn crackers and wondered about the basement. It definitely wasn’t big enough, but I hadn’t spotted a second staircase or trap door and I’d been really looking. The later period brick bond of the end wall suggested that a section had been walled off in the nineteenth century, but despite the whitewashing I’d swear it was bereft of convenient secret doors.
I wondered whether there was a spell for detecting life at a distance.
Think how useful that would be as a skill for rescue workers. No more mucking around with infrared cameras and listening devices.
Could genius loci do it? Could Bev? I’d have to ask her. But even if she could, it might not be a conscious thing. Bev often talked about some things being a function of the river, some things being Beverley Brook young woman about town, and that she didn’t always know which was which.
“Like when you kiss me,” she’d said. “Is it enjoyable because of the physical sensation or is it because you think it should be enjoyable?”
Good question, and we quickly developed experimental protocol which unfortunately left us too knackered to record our results properly and thus invalidated any conclusions. We have faith in the methodology, though, and continue to repeat the experiment on a regular basis.
And people say science is dull.
Someone rapped at my window and I started.
It was DS Transcombe—leering at me through the glass.
“Evening all,” he said and climbed into the passenger seat. “Any movement?”
I said no, and nothing from Jaget around the back neither.
“Your weirdo governor is going to be along in a minute, accompanied by my totally normal and not in any way peculiar governor,” said DS Transcombe. “And some bodies and a POLSA.”
I asked what had happened to the Polish barista.
“We like your guy better,” said DS Transcombe. “Especially now we have CCTV of him harassing Brené McClaren outside the Costa.”
“The day she vanished?”
“At least three incidents over the two weeks previous,” said DS Transcombe. “We think he tried to follow her home on the last occasion.”
Shit, I thought, classic stalker escalation.
“Here they come,” said DS Transcombe as a very dodgy-looking white Hyundai pulled up outside the parsonage with a couple of unmarked Astras in tow. Nightingale and another man got out of the back of the Hyundai. The second man was white, stocky, with brown hair in a buzz cut and a loosely cut black suit.
This was the SIO Detective Inspector Vincent Colombo, said DS Transcombe.
“He loves having people make jokes about his name,” said Transcombe. “So feel free to pile in when introduced.”
Nightingale and Colombo stood aside as an entry team formed up, a couple ambling round the back to join Jaget. I went to get out, but DS Transcombe told me to stay put.
“You’re the Falcon reserve, apparently,” he said.
They started with a bell ring, a police knock, then a fist bang accompanied by shouts of “we’re the police” which was then bellowed through the letterbox. I saw Colombo ask Nightingale something and when he answered they both turned to look back across at me.
Colombo called us on DS Transcombe’s airwave.
“Are you sure he’s still in there?” he asked.
I said as sure as I could be.
There was more discussion across the road and one of the uniforms donned a riot helmet and gloves before pulling the big red metal key from the boot of one of the Astras. There was a bit of a shuffle as they all lined up behind him before he swung the business end of the key into the door and it banged open as sweet as you could want.
They all trooped inside.
“Got any snacks?” asked DS Transcombe.
I was just about to hand him the emergency stakeout bag and let him take his chances, when his airwave squawked and a voice that identified itself as the DI gave the address and requested an ambulance.
“I have a male with life-threatening injuries, wounding to wrists, unconscious but still breathing.”
So, suicide attempt then.
“I have sufficient units on the scene at the moment—I will post a PC on the door to meet SCAS.”
SCAS to me was the serious crime analysis section of the National Crime Agency.
“SCAS?” I asked.
“South Central Ambulance Service,” said DS Transcombe.
The airwave squawked again.
“Grant,” said the DI. “Inspector Nightingale wants you in here now.”
5Note for Reynolds: Uni is short for University.[back]
6Note for Reynolds: Religious Education. [back]
Chapter 8:
THE MASTER'S
PALACE
Geoffrey Toobin died in the ambulance.
Later examination determined that he had slit his own wrists while lying fully clothed in a bath full of warm water. You can never be totally precise, but it was estimated that he must have run the bath as soon as I’d left the parsonage.
“He knew I knew,” I said.
“Yeah, but what did you know?” said DI Colombo.