“I’ve also double-checked her DVLA details,” he continues. “They confirm that Sophia Alyssa Ayling was a Duo born on 20 November 1970, in Bermuda. She obtained her driving license in August of 2013. But HM Revenue and Customs are adamant they do not have a Sophia Alyssa Ayling on their database. I’ve also drawn blanks as far as General Register Office, Home Office, and Electoral Registration Office records are concerned. That goes for the Ministry of Memory and the Department of Duos, too.”
“Keep digging, will you? Her name should eventually crop up in one database or another.”
“Okay,” he says with a nod. “I also ran checks on her vehicle registration number. She bought her car from a dealership in Camborne on 22 August 2013. A secondhand black Fiat for twenty-nine hundred pounds.”
I freeze.
“But I’m still unable to find her medical records,” he continues, flinging up his hands. “The NHS does not have a Sophia Alyssa Ayling on file. Neither does Addenbrooke’s Hospital. I’ve even gone back as far as ten years before her birth date, just to be sure. Nothing, I’m afraid.”
Sophia’s diary must have been even more delusional than I thought. Toby’s findings discredit its contents further. But I should perhaps obtain concrete confirmation of my suspicions.
“I need two more things from you,” I say. “One, the full particulars of Ayling’s financial records.”
Toby nods.
“Two: Could you find out if she was ever at a mental hospital named St. Augustine’s? I do not have much on this establishment apart from the possibility that it may be located somewhere in the Outer Hebrides.”
“The Outer Hebrides?” Toby narrows his eyes at me.
“A long shot, I know.” I shrug. “But off you go.”
Toby shakes his head before disappearing through the door. I pull out my Dictaphone, tap on the Sophia Ayling file, and recite “Born in Bermuda,” “20 November 1970,” and “secondhand black Fiat with tinted windows.” Fact: Every little seemingly insignificant detail helps when one is trying to solve a mystery.
I hit the Recall button to check that the device has correctly transcribed what I’ve said. Just then I hear a shuffling of feet yards away from my desk. It must be my deputy Hamish, still wearing his heavy boots. Damn. If only forensics had kept him in the nature reserve for several more hours. I could have done with a longer period of grace.
“If you still think she killed herself, I suggest you stick around for the postmortem report,” I say.
“I decided to visit the mortuary on my way back to Parkside. Marge and company had begun their external work on the body. I begged her for an informal prelim, saying that it’s necessary for our investigation. She obliged.”
Smugness expands on Hamish’s face.
“And?”
“They still can’t rule out suicide as a possibility. Not at this stage, at least. They haven’t yet found any signs of external injury.”
“Hmm…”
“I don’t understand why you remain so adamant that foul play was involved—”
“In case you didn’t notice, the trench coat she was wearing was massive.” Exasperation creeps into my voice. “It was way too large for her. It wasn’t her coat in the first place.”
“But—”
“Someone had put it on her. Someone who panicked. Someone who wanted to get rid of her body as quickly as possible. The stones in the coat’s pockets were merely a clumsy afterthought.”
“I don’t get you.”
“The facts say that the Cam has been flowing faster than usual this week. We’ve had lots of rain recently.”
“So?”
“The current must have dislodged some of the stones weighing her down. Her body surfaced and became entangled in those reeds.”
“Even so, she could have killed herself.” Hamish’s voice is mulish. “We shouldn’t read too much into an oversize coat. They're fashionable this season, it seems. I saw a few on the last train from Cambridge to Ely two evenings ago, swallowing up their owners. Even my wife has one. She wore it yesterday to the concert at the Corn Exchange.”
I sigh. Fact: Hamish can sometimes be more hindrance than help. This is partly attributable to his rigid self-importance, a common failing of most Duo detectives in the Cambridgeshire Constabulary. A problem exacerbated by his frequent inability to think outside the box, a critical element of detective work. But perhaps I should just feel sorry for my deputy: he has a tendency to miss the obvious. And if he did indeed pay a flying visit to Dr. Sheldon’s domain, I should get more details out of him.
“Did Marge find any external residues on the body?” I say.
“I didn’t ask.”
I’m tempted to groan. Any self-respecting detective would have asked the pathologist this basic question.
“Likely time of death?”
“She’s still working on it,” says Hamish. “But her preliminary assessment puts it somewhere between thirty-two and thirty-eight hours ago. Judging from the way rigor mortis has set in, she said.”
This means that Sophia Ayling was murdered sometime on Thursday evening.
The day before yesterday.
I hope it wasn’t a Mono who killed her. This would complicate my investigation in all sorts of undesirable ways. And if it was a Duo who did it, I ought to pin down the culprit before the end of the day. Because the Duo murderer will still remember what he or she did. This makes it easier for me to extract an honest confession.
“What else did Marge find?”
“The platinum’s fake. Ayling was a natural brunette. She’d also had lots of cosmetic surgery. Chin, nose, ears, and cheeks. Silicone boobs, Botox, and fillers.”
At least the woman wasn’t delusional about the amount of cosmetic surgery she’d paid for.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“That’s about it, I’m afraid. Marge hopes to get her report to us before the end of the day.”
I would give anything to know the precise cause of death. But I have little option but to wait for Dr. Sheldon’s report. In the meantime, I should stop Hamish from stifling my thoughts. I should give him something to do, to keep his hands occupied.
“I would like you to check something for me,” I say, pushing a black bishop on a short backwards diagonal and removing a white pawn from the board. “I believe that Mark Henry Evans is scheduled to give a noontime press conference at the Guildhall. I would like you to attend the event and report back on its outcome.”
“Mark Henry Evans?” I detect a note of astonishment in Hamish’s voice. “I saw a campaign poster on my way back here. Isn’t he running as an independent candidate for South Cambridgeshire?”
“Indeed. He’s a slippery one, dear Mr. Evans.”
“And how exactly is Sophia Ayling related to Mark Evans?”
“One said they fucked. The other says they didn’t.”
Before I go any further, I should reacquaint myself with the key facts about my present sorry situation. I fish out my own iDiary, place my right thumb on its fingerprint-recognition sensor, and tap my way to the entry I wrote two evenings ago. Its final section reads: