After he stacked the dishes in the dishwasher – it only went on twice a week these days – he made a cup of tea and sat down in the lounge to watch the news. He wasn’t a great TV watcher, but he didn’t mind the odd documentary. True crime and forensics, material that Brenda was never able to stomach. When he’d finished his tea, he took his briefcase and walked out into the garden. The sun was still out, and thankfully the lawn had not grown too much due to the dry weather. He reached his shed – better known as his garden office – unlocked it with the key he left hanging behind the back door and entered.
He’d wired in electricity, and a Wi-Fi repeater meant that he had super-fast Broadband on tap, too. On one wall stood a bench with small items of electronic equipment, shelves of tools and a hobbyist’s headband with magnifying lenses. Starkey switched on a DAB radio and found a smooth jazz station. On the workbench were disassembled bits of electronic equipment. Sometimes, if he failed to do the repairs onsite, he’d bring pieces back and have a go so as not to have to send items back to the manufacturers. Especially if they were out of warranty. He had all sorts of equipment supplied by his employer, soldering irons, burrs and tiny saws, specialist glues and a huge illuminated magnifier on a reticulated arm. A fly-tying vice clamped to the bench edge meant that he could anchor delicate and small items to leave his hands free.
Someone had dropped a desk transformer at the job he’d been to that day and now it had stopped charging. He needed to strip it down, see if it was simply a broken connection or if head office would have to replace it. People never looked after their equipment. Still, it kept him in employment. He couldn’t complain.
He worked steadily. Removing tiny screws with jeweller’s instruments. Soldering, replacing some worn contacts. After half an hour, he replaced the housing, plugged the unit in and ran a diagnostic. Everything worked. He sat back from the bench, put both knuckles into the curve of his back and arched backwards. He needed to start exercising.
From under the bench he retrieved an old laptop. Old only in appearance, since he’d revamped speed and memory through additional hardware. Starkey switched it on. Logged on and opened up Firefox. A newsfeed on the customised page had Blair Smeaton in a headline.
Net widens in search for missing schoolgirl
That led his thoughts straight back to his conversation with the police and what had made them reopen Rosie Dawson’s case. Another missing girl. Good to know they felt he could contribute. He missed the uniform, of course he did. But he had given it up for good reasons. Even so, he was more than happy to help. More than happy.
Starkey smiled to himself. He wondered if they’d questioned other people. Other witnesses and perhaps the doctor, Hawley, too. God they’d sunk their teeth into him alright.
But it was all so long ago. He didn’t envy them. They’d have their work cut out.
Twenty-Eight
Blair had no idea how long she’d been in the cave. One of the torches had stopped working and she’d had to use the bucket. The whole place stank. She almost wished the dog man would come back again and empty it.
Almost.
Then she wished he’d never come back, ever, ever.
She wondered if it was tea-time at home. Spaghetti hoops on buttered toast. That was one of her favourites. Or burger and chips with peas. Or a fish supper with loads of vinegar and a Coke from Carlino’s.
Blair squeezed her eyes shut and felt darkness all around her, as if she’d never feel happiness any more, as if it were sucked like smoke from her mouth.
Her throat was sore, too, like it was when she got a cold. She pulled the duvet around her wishing she had Bernard to cuddle. The smell in the cave made her not want to eat any food so she drank some water instead. It helped.
A little.
* * *
Anna got home and went for a run knowing she’d feel 100% better afterwards. Always did. She showered, put one of her father’s old vinyls on the turntable and ate. The Average White Band were telling her to ‘walk on by’ when her work phone rang.
It wasn’t a number she recognised.
She accepted the call. ‘Anna Gwynne.’
‘Oh, hi. It’s Ben Hawley.’
Anna walked out of the kitchen and through the French doors into the tiny garden, away from the music, her mind suddenly fizzing. Hawley, of all people.
‘What can I do for you, Ben?’
‘I wasn’t sure who to ring—’
‘Everything OK? You sound distressed.’
‘That’s because I am. I got back to my digs in Bristol yesterday to find my room broken into and my iPad stolen.’
‘Have you reported it?’
She heard him snort. ‘What’s the point?’
‘Let me make a call—’
‘Oh please.’ His tone was curt. ‘We both know what this is, don’t we? I mean, if you’d asked I would have gladly let you search the place. There was no need to break the bloody lock and turn the place upside down.’
Suddenly, his brusqueness fell into place. ‘You think we did this?’
‘Yes, actually, I do.’
‘Dr Hawley, Ben, I—’ Anna’s words hit a wall in the shape of Woakes’ sullen face. No, no way, not even Woakes would be that stupid, would he?
Hawley didn’t wait for an answer.
‘I’d like to think you had nothing to do with it, Inspector, but you’re supposed to be the senior detective, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’ There were other things she could have, perhaps should have added along the lines of “None of my officers would ever contemplate such a thing”, but she held back because, damn it, she wasn’t sure.
‘Yeah well, I’d like my iPad back please, when you’ve finished with it. If you want the name of my ISP, you can have that too.’
She wanted to say that anything seized in an illegal search was inadmissible in a court of law, but it sounded too churlish. She should have been angry, raised her voice and shouted him down, but she couldn’t. Hawley had been cooperative. But there was one more thing she needed to know. ‘Ben, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be totally honest with me. Don’t judge me. This is too important for that sort of bullshit.’
‘OK.’ Hawley sounded completely nonplussed.
‘If we were to drive back to your aunt’s bungalow now and I made you open the garden shed, the one with the new locks, would we find something there?’
Hawley didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was subdued. ‘Yes, you would.’
‘What would we find, Ben?’
‘You’d find a locked box,’ he said, his voice croaky. ‘A tool box, except there’re no tools in it. There’s a syringe driver instead. From the old hospital in Didcot, before they abandoned it completely. They had a room full of crap equipment they were throwing out. I was there on the last day and there was no one around. I took a couple of broken syringe drivers.’
‘What else is in the box?’
‘A couple of bags of saline. Borrowed from another A and E. IV cannulas and two vials of potassium chloride.’ He paused and then said, ‘It’s amazing what you can find in some of these old places. And then there’s some stuff I’ve picked up from overdose patients. The paramedics or sometimes relatives bring stuff in with them. Temazepam, Diazepam, Xanax. On a busy night, you can build up quite a collection.’
Anna nodded, feeling a surge of something, unsure if it was relief or sympathy. ‘A suicide kit.’
‘Yes,’ said Hawley, his voice barely audible. ‘I’ve kept one. Ever since the last time I was questioned. I was in a very dark place. I’m not proud of it. But I stay away from the shed now. I don’t want to face what I collected.’
‘Understandable.’
‘I’m probably breaking all kinds of laws. God knows what the GMC would say. So, there it is. My confession.’
‘Thanks for being honest.’
Another beat of silence followed. Eventually, Hawley said, ‘I’d still like my iPad back.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ was all she managed before ringing off.
Woakes! Could Hawley be right? Arm’s length, Shipwright had said. She was beginning to think she might be better off with a cattle prod.