‘Why. What do you want to know that I haven’t told you already?’
Woakes turned slowly towards the three refuse bags. ‘Crows can be a real menace, can’t they? I’ve seen them rip open bags all along a street looking for scraps or shiny things. One of your bags was open earlier this morning. Very interesting collection of cuttings you have, Doc.’
The colour drained from Hawley’s face. ‘You have no right—’
‘No, we don’t. So we could do all this back in Bristol, which would properly mess up your day off. Or you can let us in.’
Hawley stood aside.
It wasn’t a large bungalow. Two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room with an extension out into the garden. Hawley led them to the tiny living room dominated by a wall-mounted TV, an Ikea drawer set, a leather sofa and a small kitchen table and chairs in matching smoked glass. On top of the drawer set, a reed diffuser lent the room the aroma of fresh laundry. A gutted laptop sat on the tabletop, its casing open, electronic components scattered in what looked like a haphazard arrangement. A wire led from a small soldering tool to a main plug below.
‘Broken computer?’ Anna said.
‘It’s a hobby. I modify, dabble with the mother board, tweak here, add some memory there. Basically bugger up the manufacturer’s warranty, that sort of thing.’
‘Delicate work.’
Hawley shrugged.
Beyond was the small conservatory with white plastic panels to waist height and glass above showing a view of a postage stamp lawn beyond. In the corner of the lawn stood a sturdy tool shed. Padlocked.
‘Nice little bolthole,’ Woakes said.
‘I’m probably going to sell it.’
‘Yeah. I can see that this would be some old dear’s idea of heaven. Coffee would be nice.’
Hawley snorted softly. ‘Look, I’m happy to answer any questions but I didn’t ask you here. I don’t intend to make this a social visit.’
Anna watched him, happy to observe his reactions. He was skittish. Woakes was making him nervous. Was it simply that he didn’t like people crowding him? God knows she understood that. Her own flat was off limits for all but the inner sanctum of her friends and relatives.
Or are you nervous for another reason altogether, Dr Hawley?
‘OK,’ said Woakes. ‘Tell us about the cuttings.’
‘Old stuff,’ said Hawley. ‘Stuff I was getting rid of.’
‘Nothing to do with the fact that we’re sniffing around, then?’
‘I’m having a clear-out. I want to get this place ready for the market.’
‘Sure,’ nodded Woakes, his words dripping insincerity all over the beige rug. ‘If you’re throwing it all away, then you won’t mind if we take it?’
‘Yes, I would mind. There’s personal stuff there too.’
‘Yeah?’ Woakes asked. ‘Never heard of a shredder, Doc?’
‘It’s still on my property.’
‘But if you intended to abandon it, it isn’t theft,’ Anna said.
Hawley threw her a glance. He looked disappointed in her. She was surprised at how uncomfortable that made her feel.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Hawley asked.
‘Rosie Dawson,’ Woakes said. He was standing close to Hawley, the taller of the two, a mirthless smile on his lips that had nothing to do with being pleasant. ‘OK, perhaps you didn’t take her. But maybe you helped someone else. You had access to all her details. Maybe you flagged her up as a good fit for some pervert who sent you the photos afterwards.’ Woakes nodded at the table covered with electronic parts. ‘From the look of it, it’s obvious you know computers inside out. And we both know that’s how it works, don’t we, Doc?’
Colour suddenly returned to Hawley’s face, a dark stain spreading up from his neck, his eyes glassy, like an animal caught in a trap. ‘It’s not what happened,’ he said.
‘No? Then why all the cuttings, eh?’ Woakes closed the gap between him and Hawley by half a belligerent step.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Of course it’s my business.’
‘Dave, enough,’ Anna said.
Woakes looked at her as if he’d only that instant become aware of her presence. They were in the bungalow at Hawley’s invitation. They needed to be careful.
‘You’re right,’ Woakes said, holding up both hands. ‘Sorry. It’s this case. Kids, you know. Gets to me sometimes.’ He sighed. ‘Can I use your loo?’
Hawley frowned momentarily as the tension deflated. ‘Uh, yeah. In the hall, first left.’
Woakes left. Anna said, ‘How long had your aunt lived here?’
‘Fifteen years. She died eighteen months ago.’
‘You’re not in any hurry to sell, then?’
‘I thought about doing it up, but then I thought, what for? It’ll sell just as well as it is. Heat-efficient, low maintenance, there’s a market for that.’
Anna nodded. Though she didn’t feel any of it herself, she sensed the appeal. ‘It’s quiet here.’
Hawley nodded. ‘But the neighbours are close. Too close.’ He walked into the conservatory and pointed through a window at an identical-looking bungalow 4 metres away over a low fence. ‘I love the seaside, but if ever I buy something, it’ll be away from the crowds.’
She understood alright.
‘Maybe you could—’ Her words were cut off by a shout from Woakes.
‘Oy, oy! Look what I’ve found. Jackpot!’
Fifteen
Panic flared in Hawley’s face a second before he turned and bolted back into the living room and into the little hall beyond. Anna followed, wondering what Woakes was up to now.
Which bit of being careful does he really not understand?
The door to a neat bathroom stood open showing neutral oat-coloured tiles and a chrome shower unit next to the loo. But where all the other doors off the hall had been closed when she’d entered the property, they were open now, too. The nearest to the bathroom revealed a bedroom with a double bed, wardrobe and dressing table, a few clothes scattered untidily. But the next door along had Woakes framed in the doorway, his hunter’s eyes sparkling. ‘Look what I found,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t be in there.’ Hawley tried to push past him but Woakes put a hand on his chest.
‘Sorry, got a bit lost. And I think that the inspector should see this, don’t you?’
Hawley dropped his eyes and let out a juddering exhalation.
Anna moved past him into the bedroom. On one wall hung a large framed painting, at least four feet square. On the bed, a similarly sized wooden frame lay flat, it’s string dangling, this one face down. It was what had been stuck on the back of the painting that was of interest. A back covered with photographs and cuttings. She instantly recognised some of the names. They’d all appeared in newspapers and on TV over the last six or more years. All the subject of massive police operations and all, without exception, still missing. At the bottom was a photograph of Blair Smeaton.
‘You have been a busy boy,’ Woakes said.
Hawley protested. ‘I’m interested… I—’
Woakes rounded on him. ‘Just give us an email list of your special friends, Doc. On your computer maybe? How does it work? Do you meet up with these other nonces in some shithole once they’ve taken the kids? They got a lockup somewhere? A little cellar where you keep them?’
Something flickered behind Hawley’s eyes. A spark of something, horror or anger or both. He lunged at Woakes, pushing him backwards, driving him towards the bed, both falling, struggling, fists flailing towards each other. Anna moved quickly, grabbing Hawley’s arm, flexing his wrist into a classic gooseneck hold, pulling him up and mashing his face against a wall while Woakes got up and reached for some handcuffs.
‘What are you doing?’ Anna asked.
‘Restraining this bastard,’ Woakes grinned.
‘No, you are not. Get out of this room and cool down. Better still, sit in the car and wait for me.’
‘What?’
Anna glared at him. ‘Do it now, Dave. Don’t make me tell you twice.’