By way of penance, and as a distraction to her Milk Thistle-induced headache, after breakfast Anna did all the chores she should have done the day before. This was the same flat Hector Shaw had somehow managed to show to the world. Most people would have ended up traumatised by such an event. Some might have wanted to leave the flat, the neighbourhood, the city even. Certainly, that would have been a normal reaction.
Normal. Not a word Anna considered applicable as she splashed water on her face and glanced up at her reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning. Other descriptors were available. Stubborn, hates crowds, mixes on her own terms, happy to be in her own head. She looked at her frown lines. Still there. A tad deeper if anything. The little muscles under her eyes still bunched in a way that made it look like she was smiling a lot of the time, even when she wasn’t. Her face seemed puffy from the previous evening’s alcohol, but her skin was good and she didn’t need to tie her hair back anymore. During her recovery from the attack, as the stab wounds on her breasts healed and the neck bruises faded, Kate convinced her to cut it short and go the full platinum-white.
‘On trend,’ Kate called it. ‘Very House of Cards. And when your roots start showing you’ll look dirty enough to mingle perfectly undercover with the addicts down in St Paul’s.’
Bruised and battered in her hospital bed, Anna had wondered, not for the first time, how this ebullient extrovert could possibly be her sister. Perhaps she’d been swapped at birth. Now, several weeks later, Anna still wasn’t sure about the hair. Kate called it unicorn-white. Who on earth would call a hair colour after a mythological horse?
Restless and always in work mode, when her work phone rang with Holder’s number as the caller, she answered right away, keen to see how yesterday had gone with Morton.
‘Morning, ma’am.’
She picked up on the downbeat tone right away.
‘What’s wrong, Justin?’
‘Don’t you know?’
It was a little after eleven thirty and she’d made herself a coffee and wandered into the garden. The Nespresso machine was a present from Kate and Rob and had become a three a day vice. Outside, the sun was blazing. She’d bought a cheap wooden bistro set from B&Q and put it in a sunny corner. No one else used the garden, and the landlord had wisely used Cotswold chippings and flagstones in lieu of a lawn. Anna had added a few pots and done some planting, which she watered religiously. But something in Holder’s voice made her stop, put the coffee down on the table and concentrate.
‘Know what?’
‘I thought Sergeant Woakes would have—’
‘What’s Dave got to do with it?’
‘He said you’d sanctioned it.’
‘Justin, you are making no sense at all. Did you have a rough night?’
‘No.’ Holder sounded angry. Not like him. He caught himself and said, in a more measured way, ‘No, ma’am. Just a very confused one.’
‘I’m listening.’
Holder sighed. ‘Me and Ryia were ready to take the sample yesterday. It all worked out fine. I followed Morton out, watched him have a smoke. I was about to nick the stub when Sergeant Woakes turns up in full golf gear and nabs it in an evidence bag.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No, I did not know. What’s more, I saw him last night and he never mentioned any of this.’
‘You were with Dave Woakes last night?’
‘I was with my sister,’ Anna said, very carefully, ‘and we bumped into him in a bar. He said nothing about it.’
‘This is doing my head in.’
‘Not half as much as it’s doing in mine. Did he say why he was at the golf club?’
‘He was togged up. Said he was meeting a friend there.’
Another friend?
‘Justin, I didn’t sanction anything. It is possible that Dave was indeed at the golf club and wanted to lend a hand. But I did not send him. I know you and Ryia are more than capable.’
‘Thanks for that, ma’am. That’s a relief. Ryia was well cheesed off.’
‘I’m sure she was. Still, you did get the evidence?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Good. Then no harm done. I’ll see you tomorrow, Justin. Enjoy the rest of your day.’
Anna picked up her coffee and sipped, but Holder didn’t ring off. Static crackled between them. Did he want to say something else?
‘Justin?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘It’s just… since he arrived… things aren’t the same. And the way he was dressed at the golf club, it wasn’t subtle. I was worried that…’ He tailed off.
‘Right. I’ll speak to Dave about this—’
Holder interrupted her. ‘So worried that I convinced Ryia we ought to follow Morton and get another sample. We did. He usually has a final cigarette when he gets out of his car at home. Uses an old bucket inside the front gate as his ashtray.’
Anna smiled. Holder had done his homework in this case.
‘And I know it’s technically theft, but I got a friend of mind in Forensics to run the DNA sample today. She’s been threatening to show me how she does DNA extraction and the new Rapidspot tech. Ninety minutes from loading the sample to accessing the NDNA database, she said. And she was right. It’s amazing. She’s always banging on about enzyme buffers and resins to stop DNA degradation and vortexing the elution and stuff…’ he paused, realising he was rabbiting. ‘Anyway, I got her to show me on Morton’s fag-end sample.’
Anna was shocked. If they’d taken evidence from Morton’s property, it would not be admissible. But it had never been meant for the courts. This was for elimination and she hadn’t heard Holder as anxious as this ever before.
‘And?’
‘The DNA on the cigarette from Morton’s garden is a familial match, but not the one found at the rape scene. So, it’s not the golfer we’re after, ma’am; it’s his brother, the paramedic.’
‘What?’
‘I know. So, Riya suggested we check in on Peter Morton and here’s the thing: his wife had just been on the phone with Trinity reporting him missing. He didn’t come home after his shift yesterday. She thought we’d called in to talk about that.’
Anna sat down at the little table. She kept quiet, giving Holder the floor.
‘We’ve just come back from visiting Dominick, the golfer whose DNA we now have. He has properties in Benidorm as you know. He spoke with his brother yesterday evening. Joked with him that someone at the golf club had been sniffing around nicking cigarette stubs. His golf partners thought it might be drugs related.’
‘So, someone saw Woakes pick up the cigarette butt?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And now our suspect has flown the nest?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Looks like it.’
Heat rose in Anna’s face.
Shit.
‘Right, first thing tomorrow, get on to the Border Agency, see if Peter Morton’s actually left the country. If he has, talk to the National Crime Agency. He’s no longer just a person of interest, he’s wanted on suspicion. That way they can get in touch with the Spanish Police’s Fugitive Unit and they can find him for us if that’s where he’s gone.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She heard the instant change in mood in Holder’s voice.
‘What a balls-up,’ Anna said.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She killed the call, exhaled loudly and immediately rang Woakes’ number. He didn’t pick up. She left a message for him to call her back and paced.
The call from Holder had left her confused. What was Woakes playing at? Was this a genuine helping hand, a question of being coincidentally in the right place at the right time, or was Woakes collecting badges in the hope of a gold bloody star?
Angry, Anna did what she always did when she needed to vent: put on some running gear, tied the laces of her trainers, slid on her backpack and left the flat.